The Tomorrow-Tamer

by Margaret Laurence

  “Does she want to go with him?” Constance peered thoughtfully out the window. “Does she not want to? Impossible to tell. Does she mind walking behind him in that way? I certainly would.”

  “You’re not her,” Brooke said. “Think we should take Small Thomas to the beach this morning, Con?”

  On weekdays, while the bungalow was being cleaned by Ofei, Constance would put the baby in his pram and take him to the open front stoep. She would not leave him alone. Sometimes puff-adders were killed in the garden, and a scorpion was occasionally discovered on the bungalow’s ochre walls, veiled by the moonflower vines. Constance stayed beside Small Thomas, talked to him, scrutinized his face to see if he had yet mastered the art of smiling. When he slept, sometimes Constance would read. More frequently, she merely meditated in the opium sunshine watching the hibiscus petals sleazily disarrayed like garish satin petticoats in the slight wind, or the mud-wasps hovering like miniature helicopters, or the sleek grey lizard perched on his grey and camouflaging rock, waiting to flick his lariat tongue around the incautious flies.

  Since Love’s arrival, Constance had a new occupation in the mornings. Concealed by the stoep pillar, she watched Love work. She was not trying to check on the girl’s efficiency. She wanted, quite simply, to see Love’s face when the girl believed herself to be alone.

  Today Love was wearing her oldest cloth, a shabby salmon-pink, faded and hideously patterned in what appeared to be the keys for some giant prison door. Her bare broad feet, her least attractive feature, squelched in the damp earth of the garden as she carried the bucket to the flat stone beside the outdoor tap. She squatted and began to rub soap on Small Thomas’s soiled clothing. Her arms moved rhythmically, and soon her body swayed and bent to the same beat. Then she began to sing. Her song was neither gay nor sad. It was a voice chanting, repetitive as rain, and that was all. Her face was no different from the one she always wore.

  Love finished the washing and put the wet white pile in an enormous basin which she hoisted onto her head. She sauntered effortlessly over to the clothes-line as though the headpan had been weightless as a leaf. When everything was pegged on the line she returned, dumped the wash water, rinsed and cleaned the buckets. The soap frothed around her feet.

  “Love!”

  The girl’s head came up. “Madam?”

  “Would you stay with Small Thomas for a few minutes? I’m going next door. I shan’t be long.”

  With the unhurried calm which Constance had come to expect of her, Love walked over to the stoep and sat down beside the pram. Constance fussed a little over the baby, needlessly rearranging the coverlets. Then she walked briskly away, knowing her sense of momentary freedom was not a betrayal of her child, yet feeling it must be so.

  When Constance returned, the garden boy was chopping with his machete at the coarse grass in the uncultivated half-acre at the side of the house. Constance had told Love she could use this land for a tomato patch, which was the thing Love seemed to want above all else. The garden boy was nasally intoning a highlife tune. The girl on the stoep sat with her back to Constance and did not hear her approach.

  Love had Small Thomas in her arms. She was not crooning to him, or speaking. She made no sound at all. She was not even rocking him to and fro, as Constance herself might have done to stop his crying. Love was only holding him, lightly, almost loosely, and looking at him.

  Startled at her own intensity, Constance felt she must see Love’s face. She had to see it, to know what it contained now, this moment. She turned and walked around the other side of the bungalow, and when she approached again she walked with particular care so that her shoes would not scuff betrayingly against stones. Then, hardly knowing what to expect, she looked at Love.

  Nothing. Nothing to be seen. Perhaps a warning pebble had been dislodged after all, for everything had changed back, like the metamorphosis in a child’s fairy tale–when the spell is broken, all things return to their own forms and no one can believe it was ever otherwise. Small Thomas was in his pram, dozing. Love sat beside the pram, her cloth in neat folds around her.

  Constance felt cheated and at the same time disgusted at herself. She examined the baby’s pram and turned crossly to Love.

  “You picked him up, Love, didn’t you?”

  Love looked at her without blinking.

  “No, madam,” she said evenly. “I no do so.”

  “You did!” Constance cried. “I–”

  But of course she could not say why she knew. She lifted the baby and took him indoors. Did she imagine it or had she seen on Love’s bland mouth, just then, the merest trace of a smiling malice?

  Hunter & Peacock, Exporters-Importers, had offices in town close to the Club, so Brooke did not come home for lunch. Alone, Constance munched a slab of omelette. As Sunday brought the sweet, a blancmange of alarming solidity, she turned to look at him through the serving hatch. He was pushing the blancmange gingerly with one finger to a more properly central place on the plate. Everything must present a correct appearance. He disapproved entirely of Ofei, who sometimes forgetfully served plates from the wrong side. Sunday prided himself upon his precise knowledge, and he vehemently resisted any attempt to alter or abandon tradition. Constance, to save money, had tried to have fewer courses served at dinner, but it had not worked. Clearly, both soup and fish were necessary to Sunday’s peace of mind.

  “That looks good,” Constance said, with an approval she did not feel. Then, casually, “I meant to ask you, Sunday–how long have you been married to Love?”

  “Four year, madam.”

  “That long? She doesn’t look old enough–”

  His fleeting scowl told her that interest (permissible, even admirable) had once more become curiosity.

  “You no savvy, madam. African girl no be same–”

  “Oh, of course.” She nodded rapidly, in embarrassment. She wanted to stop, but was compelled on. “She–you haven’t had children?”

  “No, madam.” The voice was flat, unstressed.

  Now something else occurred to her. Was he polygamous? Plenty of men were, here. She wondered how Love would feel, sharing him, perhaps, with some irascible leather-skinned matron his own age.

  “Is Love–is she your only wife, Sunday?”

  Ought she, perhaps, not to have asked? But he was used to questions. He had worked in domestic service for twenty-five years.

  “Yes, madam,” he said, and his oddly patient voice distressed Constance more than if he had (inexcusably) shouted. “I got only dis one.”

  Now she wanted to make some restitution, to erase somehow her probing.

  “I’m so glad you brought her here,” she said impulsively. “She’s awfully nice.”

  “Yes, madam,” Sunday said.

  Late that afternoon Constance heard him beating Love.

  At first, when she heard the roaring out in the compound, she did not think much about it. Sunday was variable. His frequent bouts of irritation with Ofei usually amounted only to frowns and muttered insults. Occasionally, however, his temper would erupt like fireworks in a lightless sky, and he would rant dementedly at Ofei or the garden boy over a triviality which the day or even the hour before would scarcely have ruffled him at all. Usually Constance took no notice. But today, when the sound continued, she began to listen.

  Sunday’s bitter voice rose and rose until it was as piercing as a vindictive crone’s. It dropped, roughened, grew low and hoarse with threat. Then Love’s brief voice, as he hit her. Again and again. Afterwards, quiet everywhere, until the first cicadas of evening struck up their monotonous violins.

  Constance found Love at the side of the bungalow and knelt beside her. The blood on the girl’s face had dried, leaving dark rivers like cooled lava on her skin. She was not crying. Crouching, she had drawn the cover-cloth from her shoulders halfway around her head, as though to make herself invisible this way.

  “Let me–at least let me bathe your face, put something on it–”

 
“I beg you–” Love strained for the words. “You go, madam. I no need for notheen. I beg you go.”

  “I can’t leave you here like this. What will you do? You won’t stay with him now, after what he–”

  Only then did the girl look at her, and Constance saw the slight frown, the puzzled eyes.

  “I nevah go, madam.”

  “But–”

  The girl slipped her cover-cloth back around her shoulders and began to brush her fingers lightly across her face. Her tongue licked away the red crust around her mouth.

  “You t’ink my muddah greet me well?” Love said steadily, without inflection. “Where you t’ink I go, madam?”

  Constance knew it was not within her rights to speak to Sunday about the matter, but she took Love as her reason, although she was not certain whether she felt actual sympathy for the girl, who was now placidly hoeing the land the garden boy had cleared, or whether she was moved only by a sense of justice outraged.

  Sunday stood to attention. His eyes were wary but his face was still emboldened by the anger that had filled him like rum. But Constance was angry, too, so she faced him without hesitation.

  “Why, Sunday? Why did you do that to her?”

  “Madam?” As always when a touchy subject was broached, he pretended not to comprehend.

  “You know quite well what I mean.”

  Sunday did not speak at once. He pulled the edge of his cook’s apron through his tightly knotted hands like a handkerchief through a ring. She saw then that the sweat from his forehead was running down into his eyes like tears. He made no move to wipe his face. His hands continued to work the cloth. His features might have been those of a gold-weight figure, long ago cast in bronze and now time-darkened. Then he spoke–not to her, it seemed, but to whatever God or gods dwelt behind his eyes.

  “What I do for get dis trouble? What I nevah do, for get dis trouble? Love, she fine for all t’ing, but for dis one t’ing she nevah fine. Dis woman nevah make pickin. She no be propra woman for dis t’ing. Man he no got pickin, what he do? Who care for he? Nevah she make for me one small son–”

  The words clotted in his throat. He did not even look at Constance. Perhaps he had forgotten she was there. He turned and walked away, and his hands were over his eyes.

  Constance told Brooke that evening.

  “I can see that he feels badly, but it’s dreadful that he should take it out on her. As though it were something she could help. As usual, she has nothing to say. But how on earth must she feel? I don’t know what to do.”

  “Con,” Brooke said gently, “why don’t you just do nothing, my dear?”

  “Nothing?” Constance cried. “Brooke, she has nowhere to go. And she certainly can’t do anything for herself. She doesn’t know. You were right about the name, by the way. She’s never been to school in her life. Maybe I should take her to see Guy. He’s not a gynaecologist, but he might be able–there might be some quite simple thing that could be put right.”

  Brooke shrugged. “Well, I suppose it can’t do any actual harm.”

  “But you don’t think I should take her? Why not? What is it?”

  “I wonder,” Brooke said slowly, “if Love is really as helpless as you think?”

  Guy Bennington was a tiny man with a pallid moustache like stiffly bundled straw. He looked ineffectual, mild as porridge. In fact, however, he worked prodigiously and was in consequence irritable and impatient much of the time.

  Constance sat in the chair opposite his desk. Love stood, hesitantly, poised for flight, just inside the doorway. She had not wanted to come, even when Constance explained.

  “She bush girl–no savvy doctah palavah,” Sunday had said apologetically. “She will go. I tell she.”

  He had spoken to Love brusquely. She had nodded in her docile way and had followed Constance out to the car. But she had not said a word all the way to the doctor’s office.

  “You’re looking well, Constance,” Guy said. “How’s Thomas?”

  “Thriving, thanks. I didn’t come about myself. You know our cook–Sunday?”

  “Yes.” The doctor looked over at Love. “That his wife? Not bad. What’s the trouble?”

  Constance told him. Guy sighed.

  “I suppose you haven’t any idea how many children here die in the first year of their lives, from malaria and typhoid and such? Or how many grow up in the markets and gutters, like so many cockroaches? Our problem isn’t too few babies–it’s too many. We can’t look after those we’ve got.”

  Constance leaned her elbows on his desk and looked at him intently. “That’s–people. This is a person. It’s not the same thing.”

  “There must be an answer to that,” Guy said with a grudging smile. “Perhaps if I weren’t so busy I might think of it. All right. Leave her here. I’ll examine her and have the usual tests done.”

  The African nurse began to speak to Love in her own tongue. Love did not reply. She stood absolutely still, her face blank as water. Only when Constance, turning to go, glanced and smiled, did she see the tremor of fear in Love’s eyes.

  When Constance returned, the girl was waiting for her on the steps outside.

  “You all right, Love?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “It wasn’t too bad, then? I told you–I know Dr. Bennington well. He’s a very good man.”

  “A good man, madam.”

  Parroting, parroting. Nothing of her own. What did she think? Constance could not tell. She went inside to see Guy Bennington.

  “Well?”

  “I know you’d like to hear every single detail,” Guy said, “but I haven’t time for that. I’ve got fifty people waiting to see me, and how I’m going to cope with them, I wish I knew.”

  His voice was edgy and abrupt. He handed Constance a prescription slip.

  “Here. She can start with this. After a few months, we’ll see.”

  Constance felt she was being put off. “But what do you think, Guy? Was there anything definite?”

  “You expect everything to be plain as a wart on your finger. Well, it’s not. She can try that stuff or not, as she pleases. I don’t give a damn.”

  “Of course she will. I only wanted to know–”

  “What you wanted was a guarantee,” Guy said tiredly. “It’s what everyone wants. I’m afraid I can’t give it. I’m not God, although sometimes I think it would be an advantage if I were. Nothing like a miracle to boost one’s reputation.”

  Constance had the driver stop at Palm Chemists. The prescription proved to be a thick liquid of an interesting pale green hue. Love’s face, as she looked at the medicine, took on a faint animation. Gratified and heartened, Constance allowed her to hold the bottle on the way home.

  Now the administering of Love’s medicine became a ritual. Each morning Constance would go out to the kitchen, measure a spoonful of the murky green potion, and give it to the girl. Sunday, stern as a recording angel, stood by to ensure that his wife swallowed every drop.

  “She no savvy doctah befoah dis time,” he would say, with benevolent condescension, “but now she savvy small-small, madam.”

  Once or twice, opening her mouth like an infant bird, Love giggled. This in itself was progress, Constance felt. For the most part, Love’s face was as enclosed as ever, but perhaps she was beginning to relax. That might be important. The elimination of tension. Constance began to speculate–if it was a boy, he could play with Small Thomas. She wondered what they would call him. She would not mind being godmother, if they asked her. But the months went by, and the first bottle was replaced by a second and a third. Constance did not like to question Love directly, and Love did not volunteer any pertinent information.

  Love’s tomatoes were planted and grew and bore fruit in what seemed an incredibly short time to Constance. Love gave some of them to Constance, and the rest she sold in the town markets. Each week when Constance went into town to do her shopping, Love accompanied her with tomato-laden baskets. In the car, Constance attem
pted to talk, but Love only murmured her apathetic “yes” or “no” replies. Once, however, she displayed a pair of filigree ear-rings like golden spider-webs.

  “How pretty,” Constance said enthusiastically. “Where did you get them?”

  “Sunday, he give for me,” Love said. She lowered her eyes, then glanced at Constance almost slyly. “Palavah time, he give for me.”

  Sunday had given her the earrings after he beat her. Constance, confused and at a loss, tried to decipher a meaning from the girl’s face but once again she could find nothing there.

  When Constance had finished her shopping that morning, the driver did not head towards the market to pick up Love.

  “Madam ’gree we go for Tintown?” he asked casually. “Love go deah dis time.”

  Constance was surprised and a little annoyed, but she agreed. Tintown was one of the outskirts of the city, a collection of mud and wattle huts inhabited by the very poor, a puzzle of narrow convoluted streets roamed by goats and children, a confusion of tin-roof shanties and shops, broken-down tea houses where marijuana was sold, brothels where girls in flowered cloths lolled in dusty doorways.

  The driver kept one hand on the horn. Honking like a gander, the car bumped and skidded through the streets of Tintown. The driver drew up outside a decayed hut, leaned out and shouted, then settled down to wait. Constance smoked a cigarette and grew impatient. She started to open the car door. The driver swung around.

  “No, madam,” he said warningly. “You no go deah. Dis one no good for you.”

  “Why? What’s she doing? Does she have relatives here?”

  “No, madam.”

  “Well, tell me, then.”

  The driver shrugged. “Woman wey live deah, she sell some power t’ing, plenty different-different t’ing.”

  “What on earth do you mean, Kofi?”