by Lewis Desoto
“Thank you, Tembi,” he says courteously. “I have been hungry these past days.”
She smiles at him, and Märit sees that she is flattered by his courtesy. “What is happening out there? What have you seen?”
“There is war.”
“Where? What kind of war? Have you been near the town—Klipspring?”
He shrugs and avoids her eye. “Everywhere it’s the same. War.”
“Are there people in the town, on the farms?”
“There are no people. That is why I am coming here, Missus.” He looks up at Märit. “Because I am hungry and thirsty.” He says this with a kind of pleading in his voice, and she sees the boy in his face again, the boy masquerading as a man. When he looks at Märit there is something impudent in his grin, as if he knows that she cannot tell him to leave now.
His presence in the room is an affront to Märit. She does not want him here with her and Tembi. She does not trust him, because she remembers the way he looked around the room when he first came into the house, and she remembers the way he came in on silent feet, and the way he talked to her, almost with a threat in his voice. She does not want a stranger in her house.
When he has finished eating he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tilts his head back to drain the last of his tea. Both women watch the working of his smooth brown throat as he swallows.
Tembi glances quickly at Märit, then rises to gather the plates and cup and carry them to the sink.
“I can wash those,” Khoza says, jumping to his feet and taking the plate from her hands. He turns the taps on over the sink. The faucets gurgle.
Märit moves away slightly. “There is no water,” she says. “You have to use the water in the bucket.”
“Why don’t you have water?” he asks.
“We do. We bring it up from the river.”
“No, but you don’t have water in the taps.”
“Something is broken in the pump,” Tembi interjects. She points out the window. “There in the windmill. The pump isn’t working so the water doesn’t come out of the taps here.”
Khoza steps over to the window. “I can fix that. I know machines. I can fix that for you.” He turns back to them. “Then you won’t have to go to the river.”
“Don’t bother yourself,” Märit says. “It’s no trouble for us to go to the river for water.”
“No, but I can fix it for you. You have given me food and now I can do something for you.”
“Come on,” Tembi says to him. “I’ll show you where the pump is.” She glares at Märit, offended at her evident rudeness, and goes out with Khoza.
43
FROM THE WINDOW Märit watches the two figures at the base of the windmill.
The young man turns and points at the house and Tembi nods. Are they talking about her? Märit wonders. He puts his hand on Tembi’s shoulder for a moment. Märit can almost see his smile, the insolent smile when directed at her, but now charming when he turns to Tembi. He leans closer to Tembi and says something to her, and they both look up at the house. Märit scowls and steps back from the window.
When Tembi enters the kitchen, Märit turns her back, pretending to be busy with the dishes.
“He says he needs some tools. A wrench and a hammer.”
“Why?”
“He is going to fix the pump for us. Don’t you want that?”
Märit shrugs. “There are tools in the generator shed. On the bench by the door. And see if he can fix the generator too if he is such a genius.”
As Tembi turns to leave, Märit rushes over and grabs her arm. “I don’t want him here!”
“But why not?”
“Why is he here? What is he doing wandering the countryside on his own? You don’t know who he is. Or what he wants.”
“Does he want anything?”
“He’s probably on the run from some trouble that he’s got into.”
“If he is in trouble then we should help him.”
“I don’t trust him. I think he’s been watching the house the past few days. I’ve seen someone.”
Tembi looks at Märit disbelievingly. “Why do you say this now?”
“I didn’t want to worry you before. It was for your sake, Tembi.”
“And you said that the soldiers had been. Did you see any soldiers?”
“He cannot stay in this house, so don’t invite him.”
“Why not? There is room—that small room where the sewing machine is. You can put a bed in there.”
“No. If he wants to stay then he can sleep in the kraal.”
“Why are you like this, Märit? You were kind to Michael.”
“That was different. I don’t trust this Khoza.”
Tembi shakes her head and slams the door as she leaves.
Märit watches from the window, sees Tembi bringing him the tools, and the familiar way he puts his hand on her shoulder again. The girl standing there ready to hand the man the tools—patient, helpful. And when Tembi hands him the tools, Märit imagines the touching of their hands.
Oh, he is a sly one, she thinks. He knows exactly what he is doing. Of course Tembi will side with him, against her. Tembi will trust him, will treat him as a familiar.
She watches as he crouches at the machinery of the pump, and Tembi leans over him, resting her hand on his back as she peers forward.
Why should Tembi not trust him? After all, she only sees his smile, not the sly darting glances around the room when he first entered the house, not the silent way he sneaked in. Nor did she hear the veiled threat in his voice when he asked for food.
A sudden hissing sound behind her makes Märit jump. The taps above the sink give a splutter and gurgle, then water gushes out the faucet. From the pump house a shout of triumph sounds across the yard.
The stream of water from the tap is silty brown, with the faint smell of iron, but in a moment it runs clear, and Märit puts her hands into the flow, into the cool, earth-deep flow, and she scoops the water onto her face, glad to have the cool, sweet water again.
Despite her mistrust of Khoza she is glad to have the water again, glad not to have to carry buckets from the river and to boil the river water before drinking it. She is glad not to have to clean herself in the river, or wash her clothes in the river. But she resents him still, as she hears the laughter and the triumph in his voice as he returns to the house, laughing with Tembi. Even though he has brought the water back she resents him.
He walks in laughing, proud. “You see, Märit,” he exclaims, pointing to the flowing taps. “I can fix it. I told you.”
She resents his pride, his boasting, and she cannot bring herself to thank him. And when he moves towards the sink, she steps away from him.
Khoza plunges his hands into the flow of water. “See!” he exclaims. “Aren’t you happy now?”
Märit shrugs.
“You should be,” Tembi mutters. “You should be glad.”
“I am,” she answers grudgingly, then turns to Khoza. “Where did you learn your skills with machinery?”
“I have been to school. Technical apprentice.”
“And where was that?”
“In another place.” He laughs, reaching for a glass, which he holds under the tap before raising it to his mouth. When he drinks, tilting back his head, a thin stream of water trickles along his chin and down his smooth, upturned throat.
Märit looks away, offended by the vitality and the health that emanates from him, offended by the vigorous male life in him. She does not want to acknowledge him. She leaves the room.
Later, in the coolness of the dusk, she wanders aimlessly through the orchard, asking herself how things are going to change now, for she knows they will change. But she finds no answer and eventually walks back up to the house. She does not enter but sits in the wicker rocking chair on the veranda.
Night is coming, another day ending. Swallows dip and dart in the air like bits of shadow themselves, feeding on the insects hovering in the fadin
g light.
She senses rather than sees when Tembi comes to stand in the open doorway. After a while Märit turns and looks at her but cannot gauge Tembi’s expression in the fading light.
“Where is your friend?” Märit says.
“He is working again on the pump. It needs more fixing.”
“Did you ask him about the generator?”
“He looked at it. He will try to fix it tomorrow.”
“I suppose that means he is going to sleep here tonight.”
“And why not?” Tembi says.
“He can sleep in the kraal.”
“No, we have room enough here. Khoza can sleep in the house.”
“Tembi, I don’t trust him.”
“If it was one of your neighbors, would you turn them away? If it was one of your people from the town?”
“You know that’s not what I mean. It’s not about his color. I just don’t want any more trouble here. For us.”
“Then don’t make any trouble where there is none.” She swings away, and Märit slumps back into her chair with a sigh of defeat.
Dinner is maize porridge, carrots, and canned beef. Märit prepares the meal. She counts the few remaining cans on the shelf. Soon there will be none. And now another mouth to feed.
“Can I help you, Märit?” Tembi asks, poking her head through the door, her tone conciliatory.
“You can peel the carrots, please. Where is Khoza?”
“I think he is on the veranda.”
“You should call him in for dinner.”
“Märit?”
“Yes.”
“You mustn’t worry about him. He is not a bad person. He is here because he has nothing. He is like Michael, lost. It’s not so hard to be nice to him, is it?”
“I suppose you are right, Tembi.” She smiles wanly, resolving not to let her anxiety get the better of her. “It just makes me nervous to have someone else in the house. I’m not used to it. Go and call him to dinner now.”
“WHERE DID YOU GROW UP, Khoza?” Märit asks as they sit at the table. “What is your home language?”
“I speak Shona.”
“But your English is very good.”
“I have had some schooling. I have worked at many jobs. I have been to a lot of places. I know many things.”
“What sort of things?” Märit says, unable to keep an edge of sarcasm out of her voice.
“You ask me a lot of questions, Märit.” He pushes his chair back and carries his mug to the sink.
“I’m just curious.”
Later, before she retires to her room, Märit says to Tembi, “You can make up a bed for him in the sewing room. There is a folding cot in the cupboard.” She locks her door. Just before she blows out her candle she rises from the bed and presses her ear to the door, listening to the low murmur of Khoza’s voice and the soft laughter of Tembi. She makes sure the door is locked, then blows out the candle.
KHOZA IS AT THE STOVE, an apron tied around his waist, when Märit enters the kitchen.
“Good morning, Märit! You have slept well? Tea is ready.”
She nods at him, not particularly pleased at this image of domesticity, and leans over to see what he is cooking. Six eggs are jostling in a pot of boiling water.
“Eggs! Where were you able to get eggs?”
“I saw a chicken in the bushes, I followed her, I found her nest.” He points at the pot. “And I found eggs for you.”
“An ordinary chicken? Not something wild?”
“Just a hen like you find on any farm. But I see that you don’t keep any chickens on this farm.”
“We did have some. They were all killed by some kind of animal.” For a moment she looks at him suspiciously. Could he be responsible for killing the chickens? But then she dismisses the thought from her mind. It happened ages ago. If Khoza had been lurking around the farm back then he would have shown himself much sooner. Her suspicion brings back a memory of looking at the windmill pump and finding the workings loose, recently unscrewed. Could he have staged the whole thing, broken the pump, and then repaired it to ingratiate himself here?
Märit pours herself tea. “So cooking is another one of your talents?”
“There are many things I can do. You need a houseboy on this farm, Missus? I can do everything.”
“No, we don’t need a houseboy.”
Tembi appears in the doorway, bleary-eyed. “Good morning,” she mumbles, and yawns. When she reaches up to cover her mouth, her morning robe falls open, revealing a glimpse of smooth belly and the roundness of one breast.
Khoza’s eyes are quick to notice, Märit observes. How long, she wonders, did they stay up last night, talking together? How late did Tembi sit up flirting with this stranger who comes from nowhere?
“Can’t you dress before coming to breakfast, Tembi?” Märit remarks.
Tembi yawns again and looks at Märit uncomprehendingly. “Breakfast is ready,” Khoza says. “Sit down, Tembi, my sister. I have made you breakfast.”
Tembi looks pleased, and flattered, as he brings her a plate of rusks and eggs, then pours her a cup of tea. He sets a second plate in front of Märit.
They eat breakfast in silence, Khoza looking from Tembi to Märit with his eager glance. “The eggs are good?” he asks.
“Very good,” Tembi answers. Märit merely nods.
When she has finished, Märit gathers the plates and cups and carries them to the sink. Khoza springs up and take them from her hands. “I can wash these for you.”
“I’ll do it myself.” She is determined to resist him. “If you are so keen to do something then you can help us in the garden,” she tells him. “You did say you were looking for work, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Missus. I am looking for a job.”
“Now that the pump is running again we can make sure that the vegetable garden gets water. And the irrigation ditches have to be cleared again. We have to undo the damage that the locusts did. I’m sure you know how to do garden work. And our generator, it’s broken.”
“Of course, Märit. I can fix it. I can do everything.”
“You’d better get dressed now, Tembi. We all have to work.”
44
THERE IS ALWAYS work to be done on a farm, even a farm as diminished as this one. The land will not feed even three people without constant attention. The vegetable garden must be reconstituted, more seeds must be planted. The dried cattle manure in the fields has to be gathered as fertilizer; fallen branches must be collected for firewood; the mealies in the storage shed must be set out in the sun to dry so that the kernels can be ground into flour for porridge. And now that the water runs again from the pump, the irrigation ditches have to be maintained so that the water can feed the plants.
“Have you looked at the generator?” Märit asks Khoza when he appears later. “Can you fix it?”
“No. The alternator coil is burned out. It must be replaced. Something like that cannot be fixed. Even I cannot fix it.” He spreads his hands apologetically.
“Never mind, we don’t need it. There is lots of paraffin for the lamps. And we have candles. It’s more important to get the vegetables growing again.”
Khoza is adept with the spade and the hoe. He works quickly and methodically, faster than both women. Märit increases the tempo of her labors, determined not to be outdone.
The day progresses, the sun rises higher in a cloudless sky, the heat beats down on the three people with a steady, relentless intensity. Märit loses herself in the motions of her labor, in the repetitive actions, the growing heat, the sense of nothing else existing except this patch of land where she shovels and digs. The sweat trickles down her face, a white haze seems to surround her, the landscape disappears.
The sound of Khoza’s spade comes to her through the white haze, and she matches her own motions to his, trying to surpass him. If he works hard, she will work harder. She will not let him have even a small victory over her.
The sweat runs into her eyes
, stinging, and she shakes her head, rubbing her forehead across her upper arm. When she raises her eyes the sun is there, a white-hot disk beating down. Her throat is dry, aching. Dizziness suddenly overcomes her so that she drops her hoe and sinks to her knees. The earth seems to spin beneath her feet and she has to put her palms on the ground to still the motion.
She looks up and sees that Khoza has taken off his shirt and is leaning on his hoe looking into the distance. His face is lost in shadow.
Tembi stands some yards away, a slack, dazed look on her face, her mouth half open. The heat is unbearable.
Khoza seems unaffected by the heat, although the sweat shines on his skin. Everything centers on him now, Märit realizes. His presence is at the core of their awareness. He stands, seemingly unaware of them, in the heart of the white haze of heat. A gleam of perspiration shines in the narrow channel down the middle of his back, following the contour of his spine, and disappears beneath the waistband of his trousers.
Märit wipes the sweat away from her eyes and squints at the man standing in the sun. She sees him in the abstract, not as Khoza, but only as a man, his body bared, the thin gleam of moisture trickling down his spine, shining on the brown skin. She forgets who he is and sees only a man, and he is beautiful to her, a thing of beauty.
The sweat blurs her vision and stings her eyes, and she sees the dark shape of the young man standing in the center of the world with his skin shining. The same way that Dollar’s skin glistened when he came out of the pool, when she was a girl, when she touched his skin and he smelled of mimosa.
Märit wipes her dusty hand across her eyes, and she smells mimosa blossom in the air and she sees the naked man.
Turning her head slowly in the white haze that surrounds her, Märit looks at Tembi. Tembi too is gazing at Khoza as if mesmerized. Then she shifts her eyes and they meet Märit’s. Something unspoken passes between the two women—a knowledge of themselves as women, defined by their relation to the man. They see the knowledge of his nakedness in each other’s eyes.
