And then she found she was pregnant. She had no girlfriend to turn to who could be trusted not to say those things: he’ll go back where he comes from he’ll drop you when he’s had enough of what he wanted from you. After the second month she bought a kit from the pharmacy and tested her urine. Then she went to a doctor because that do-it-yourself thing might be mistaken.
—I thought you said you would be all right.—
That was all he said, after thinking for a moment, when she told him.
—Don’t worry, I’ll find something. I’ll do something about it. I’m sorry, Rad. Just forget it.—She was afraid he would stop loving her—her term for love-making.
When she went to him tentatively that night he caressed her more beautifully and earnestly than ever while possessing her.
She remembered reading in some women’s magazine that it was dangerous to do anything to get rid of ‘it’ (she gave her pregnancy no other identity) after three months. Through roundabout enquiries she found a doctor who did abortions, and booked an appointment, taking an advance on her holiday bonus to meet the fee asked.
—By the way, it’ll be all over next Saturday. I’ve found someone.—Timidly, that week, she brought up the subject she had avoided between them.
He looked at her as if thinking very carefully before he spoke, thinking apart from her, in his own language, as she was often sure he was doing. Perhaps he had forgotten—it was really her business, her fault, she knew. Then he pronounced what neither had:—The baby?—
—Well…—She waited, granting this.
He did not take her in his arms, he did not touch her.—You will have the baby. We will marry.—
It flew from her awkward, unbelieving, aghast with joy:—You want to marry me!—
—Yes, you’re going to be my wife.—
—Because of this?—a baby?—
He was gazing at her intensely, wandering over the sight of her.—Because I’ve chosen you.—
Of course, being a foreigner, he didn’t come out with things the way an English speaker would express them.
And I love you, she said, I love you, I love you—babbling through vows and tears. He put a hand on one of hers, as he had done in the kitchen of her mother’s house; once, and never since.
She saw a couple in a mini-series standing hand-in-hand, telling them; ‘We’re getting married’—hugs and laughter.
But she told her parents alone, without him there. It was safer that way, she thought, for him. And she phrased it in proof of his good intentions as a triumphant answer to her mother’s warnings, spoken and unspoken.—Rad’s going to marry me.—
—He wants to marry you?—Her mother corrected. The burst of a high-pitched cry. The father twitched an angry look at his wife.
Now it was time for the scene to conform to the TV family announcement.—We’re going to get married.—
Her father’s head flew up and sank slowly, he turned away.
—You want to be married to him?—Her mother’s palm spread on her breast to cover the blow.
The girl was brimming feeling, reaching for them.
Her father was shaking his head like a sick dog.
—And I’m pregnant and he’s glad.—
Her mother turned to her father but there was no help coming from him. She spoke impatiently flatly.—So that’s it.—
—No, that’s not it. It’s not it at all.—She would not say to them ‘I love him’, she would not let them spoil that by trying to make her feel ashamed.—It’s what I want.—
—It’s what she wants.—Her mother was addressing her father.
He had to speak. He gestured towards his daughter’s body, where there was no sign yet to show life growing there.—Nothing to be done then.—
When the girl had left the room he glared at his wife.—Bloody bastard.—
—Hush. Hush.—There was a baby to be born, poor innocent.
And it was, indeed, the new life the father had gestured at in Vera’s belly that changed everything. The foreigner, the lodger—had to think of him now as the future son-in-law, Vera’s intended—told Vera and her parents he was sending her to his home for his parents to meet her.—To your country?—
He answered with the gravity with which, they realized, marriage was regarded where he came from.—The bride must meet the parents. They must know her as I know hers.—
If anyone had doubted the seriousness of his intentions—well, they could be ashamed of those doubts, now; he was sending her home, openly and proudly, his foreigner, to be accepted by his parents.—But have you told them about the baby, Rad?—She didn’t express this embarrassment in front of her mother and father.—What do you think? That is why you are going.—He slowed, then spoke again.—It’s a child of our family.—
So she was going to travel at last! In addition to every other joy! In a state of continual excitement between desire for Rad—now openly sharing her room with her—and the pride of telling her work-mates why she was taking her annual leave just then, she went out of her way to encounter former friends whom she had avoided. To say she was travelling to meet her fiance’s family; she was getting married in a few months, she was having a baby—yes—proof of this now in the rounding under the flowered jumpsuit she wore to show it off. For her mother, too, a son-in-law who was not one of their kind became a distinction rather than a shame.—Our Vera’s a girl who’s always known her own mind. It’s a changing world, she’s not one just to go on repeating the same life as we’ve had.—The only thing that hadn’t changed in the world was joy over a little one coming. Vera was thrilled, they were all thrilled at the idea of a baby, a first grandchild. Oh that one was going to be spoilt all right! The prospective grandmother was knitting, although Vera laughed and said babies weren’t dressed in that sort of thing any more, hers was going to wear those little unisex frog suits in bright colours. There was a deposit down on a pram fit for an infant prince or princess.
It was understood that if the intended could afford to send his girl all the way home just to meet his parents before the wedding, he had advanced himself in the restaurant business, despite the disadvantages young men like him had in an unwelcoming country. Upstairs was pleased with the news; Upstairs came down one evening and brought a bottle of champagne as a gift to toast Vera, whom they’d known since she was a child, and her boy—much pleasant laughter when the prospective husband filled everyone’s glass and then served himself with orange juice. Even the commissionaire felt confident enough to tell one of his gentlemen at the club that his daughter was getting married, but first about to go abroad to meet the young man’s parents. His gentlemen’s children were always travelling; in his ears every day were overheard snatches of destinations— ‘by bicycle in China, can you believe it’… ‘two months in Peru, rather nice…’… ‘snorkeling on the Barrier Reef, last I heard’. Visiting her future parents-in-law where there is desert and palm trees; not bad!
The parents wanted to have a little party, before she left, a combined engagement party and farewell. Vera had in mind a few of her old friends brought together with those friends of his she’d been introduced to and with whom she knew he still spent some time—she didn’t expect to go along with him, it wasn’t their custom for women, and she couldn’t understand their language, anyway. But he didn’t seem to think a party would work. She had her holiday bonus (to remember what she had drawn it for, originally, was something that, feeling the baby tapping its presence softly inside her, she couldn’t believe of herself) and she kept asking him what she could buy as presents for his family—his parents, his sisters and brothers, she had learnt all their names. He said he would buy things, he knew what to get. As the day for her departure approached, he still had not done so.—But I want to pack! I want to know how much room to leave, Rad!—He brought some men’s clothing she couldn’t judge and some dresses and scarves she didn’t like but didn’t dare say so—she supposed the clothes his sisters liked were quite different from what she enjoyed w
earing—a good thing she hadn’t done the choosing.
She didn’t want her mother to come to the airport; they’d both be too emotional. Leaving Rad was strangely different; it was not leaving Rad but going, carrying his baby, to the mystery that was Rad, that was in Rad’s silences, his blind love-making, the way he watched her, thinking in his own language so that she could not follow anything in his eyes. It would all be revealed when she arrived where he came from.
He had to work, the day she left, until it was time to take her to the airport. Two of his friends, whom she could scarcely recognize from the others in the group she had met occasionally, came with him to fetch her in the taxi one of them drove. She held Rad’s hand, making a tight double fist on his thigh, while the men talked in their language. At the airport the others left him to go in alone with her. He gave her another, last-minute gift for home.—Oh Rad—where’m I going to put it? The ticket says one hand-baggage!—But she squeezed his arm in happy recognition of his thoughts for his family.—It can go in—easy, easy.— He unzipped her carryall as they stood in the queue at the check-in counter. She knelt with her knees spread to accommodate her belly, and helped him.—What is it, anyway—I hope not something that’s going to break?—He was making a bed for the package.—Just toys for my sister’s kid. Plastic.——I could have put them in the suitcase—oh Rad… what room’ll I have for duty-free!—In her excitement, she was addressing the queue for the American airline’s flight which would take her on the first leg of her journey. These fellow passengers were another kind of foreigner, Americans, but she felt she knew them all; they were going to be travelling in her happiness, she was taking them with her.
She held him with all her strength and he kept her pressed against his body; she could not see his face. He stood and watched her as she went through passport control and she stopped again and again to wave but she saw Rad could not wave, could not wave. Only watch her until he could not see her any longer. And she saw him in her mind, still looking at her, as she had done at the beginning when she had imagined herself as still under his eyes if she had gone to the pub on a Sunday morning.
Over the sea, the airliner blew up in midair. Everyone on board died. The black box was recovered from the bed of the sea and revealed that there had been an explosion in the tourist-class cabin followed by a fire; and there the messages ended; silence, the disintegration of the plane. No one knows if all were killed outright or if some survived to drown. An inquiry into the disaster continued for a year. The background of every passenger was traced, and the circumstances that led to the journey of each. There were some arrests; people detained for questioning and then released. They were innocent—but they were foreigners, of course. Then there was another disaster of the same nature, and a statement from a group with an apocalyptic name representing a faction of the world’s wronged, claiming the destruction of both planes in some complication of vengeance for holy wars, land annexation, invasions, imprisonments, cross-border raids, territorial disputes, bombings, sinkings, kidnappings no one outside the initiated could understand. A member of the group, a young man known as Rad among many other aliases, had placed in the hand-baggage of the daughter of the family with whom he lodged, and who was pregnant by him, an explosive device. Plastic. A bomb of a plastic type undetectable by the usual procedures of airport security.
Vera was chosen.
Vera had taken them all, taken the baby inside her; down, along with her happiness.
Comrades
As Mrs. Hattie Telford pressed the electronic gadget that deactivates the alarm device in her car a group of youngsters came up behind her. Black. But no need to be afraid; this was not a city street. This was a non-racial enclave of learning, a place where tended flowerbeds and trees bearing botanical identification plates civilized the wild reminder of campus guards and dogs. The youngsters, like her, were part of the crowd loosening into dispersion after a university conference on People’s Education. They were the people to be educated; she was one of the committee of white and black activists (convenient generic for revolutionaries, leftists secular and Christian, fellow-travellers and liberals) up on the platform.
—Comrade…—She was settling in the driver’s seat when one so slight and slim he seemed a figure in profile came up to her window. He drew courage from the friendly lift of the woman’s eyebrows above blue eyes, the tilt of her freckled white face:—Comrade, are you going to town?—
No, she was going in the opposite direction, home… but quickly, in the spirit of the hall where these young people had been somewhere, somehow present with her (ah no, she with them) stamping and singing Freedom songs, she would take them to the bus station their spokesman named.
—Climb aboard!—
The others got in the back, the spokesman beside her. She saw the nervous white of his eyes as he glanced at and away from her. She searched for talk to set them at ease. Questions, of course. Older people always start with questioning young ones. Did they come from Soweto?
They came from Harrismith, Phoneng Location.
She made the calculation: about two hundred kilometres distant. How did they get here? Who told them about the conference?
—We are Youth Congress in Phoneng.—
A delegation. They had come by bus; one of the groups and stragglers who kept arriving long after the conference had started. They had missed, then, the free lunch?
At the back, no one seemed even to be breathing. The spokesman must have had some silent communication with them, some obligation to speak for them created by the journey or by other shared experience in the mysterious bonds of the young—these young.—We are hungry.—And from the back seats was drawn an assent like the suction of air in a compressing silence.
She was silent in response, for the beat of a breath or two. These large gatherings both excited and left her overexposed, open and vulnerable to the rub and twitch of the mass shuffling across rows of seats and loping up the aisles, babies’ fudge-brown soft legs waving as their napkins are changed on mothers’ laps, little girls with plaited loops on their heads listening like old crones, heavy women swaying to chants, men with fierce, unreadably black faces breaking into harmony tender and deep as they sing to God for his protection of Umkhonto weSizwe, as people on both sides have always, everywhere, claimed divine protection for their soldiers, their wars. At the end of a day like this she wanted a drink, she wanted the depraved luxury of solitude and quiet in which she would be restored (enriched, oh yes! by the day) to the familiar limits of her own being.
Hungry. Not for iced whisky and feet up. It seemed she had scarcely hesitated:—Look, I live nearby, come back to my house and have something to eat. Then I’ll run you into town.—
—That will be very nice. We can be glad for that.—And at the back the tight vacuum relaxed.
They followed her in through the gate, shrinking away from the dog—she assured them he was harmless but he was large, with a fancy collar by which she held him. She trooped them in through the kitchen because that was the way she always entered her house, something she would not have done if they had been adult, her black friends whose sophistication might lead them to believe the choice of entrance was an unthinking historical slight. As she was going to feed them, she took them not into her living-room with its sofas and flowers but into her dining-room, so that they could sit at table right away. It was a room in confident taste that could afford to be spare: bare floorboards, matching golden wooden ceiling, antique brass chandelier, reed blinds instead of stuffy curtains. An African wooden sculpture represented a lion marvellously released from its matrix in the grain of a Mukwa tree-trunk. She pulled up the chairs and left the four young men while she went back to the kitchen to make coffee and see what there was in the refrigerator for sandwiches. They had greeted the maid, in the language she and they shared, on their way through the kitchen, but when the maid and the lady of the house had finished preparing cold meat and bread, and the coffee was ready, she suddenly did not want
them to see that the maid waited on her. She herself carried the heavy tray into the dining-room.
They are sitting round the table, silent, and there is no impression that they stopped an undertone exchange when they heard her approaching. She doles out plates, cups. They stare at the food but their eyes seem focused on something she can’t see; something that overwhelms. She urges them—Just cold meat, I’m afraid, but there’s chutney if you like it… milk everybody?… is the coffee too strong, I have a heavy hand, I know. Would anyone like to add some hot water?—
They eat. When she tries to talk to one of the others, he says Ekskuus? And she realizes he doesn’t understand English, of the white man’s languages knows perhaps only a little of that of the Afrikaners in the rural town he comes from. Another gives his name, as if in some delicate acknowledgement of the food.—I’m Shadrack Nsutsha.—She repeats the surname to get it right. But he does not speak again. There is an urgent exchange of eye-language, and the spokesman holds out the emptied sugar-bowl to her.—Please.—She hurries to the kitchen and brings it back refilled. They need carbohydrate, they are hungry, they are young, they need it, they burn it up. She is distressed at the inadequacy of the meal and then notices the fruit bowl, her big copper fruit bowl, filled with apples and bananas and perhaps there is a peach or two under the grape leaves with which she likes to complete an edible still life.—Have some fruit. Help yourselves.—
They are stacking their plates and cups, not knowing what they are expected to do with them in this room which is a room where apparently people only eat, do not cook, do not sleep. While they finish the bananas and apples (Shadrack Nsutsha had seen the single peach and quickly got there first) she talks to the spokesman, whose name she has asked for: Dumile.—Are you still at school, Dumile?—Of course he is not at school—they are not at school; youngsters their age have not been at school for several years, they are the children growing into young men and women for whom school is a battleground, a place of boycotts and demonstrations, the literacy of political rhetoric, the education of revolt against having to live the life their parents live. They have pompous titles of responsibility beyond childhood: he is chairman of his branch of the Youth Congress, he was expelled two years ago—for leading a boycott? Throwing stones at the police? Maybe burning the school down? He calls it all—quietly, abstractly, doesn’t know many ordinary, concrete words but knows these euphemisms—‘political activity’. No school for two years? No.—So what have you been able to do with yourself, all that time?—
Jump and Other Stories Page 7
