by Zoe Wicomb
She is drawn to the strange movements of a small turtle with yellow markings on its shell, the markings, she assumes, of youth. It swims in circles, apparently trying to gain the attention of a large, older turtle that clumsily turns away and moves off, only to find itself repeatedly confronted by the youth. With its left flipper it swipes in irritation at the stalker, whilst steering itself away. But the young turtle persists until it manages to face the elder squarely. It reaches out with its flippers—how like little hands they are, the bones between the webbing raised like fingers—as if to touch the face of the other, the splayed fingers quivering with excitement as they slowly shiver forward, but before they touch, the older turtle turns away, evidently repelled, and hurriedly makes off.
Mercia leans over to inspect more closely. The young one does not give up. It describes wide arcs around its quarry, then homes in. It earns a few clips around the ear, is rudely rebuffed, given the cold shoulder, but when the older turtle is lulled into dropping its guard the younger slips round and deftly confronts it once more, face-to-face. The prehistoric head turns away in distaste, and as its pursuer moves round to capture the eyes, the exasperated creature lifts its head out of the water. Give me a break, it seems to cry; give me space to breathe, but when the head drops back into the water the little face is right there, looking into the elder’s eyes, supplicating. There is language in the movement of those fingers, shivering with passion, as they reach out to touch the face of the other.
I am here! Please, oh please. It is I!
That is what it seems to say. The trembling digits are about to make contact when the older creature swipes at them, cruelly lashes out, then plunges deep into the water and manages to get away.
Phew, what a performance. What could the little chap be pleading for? What does it want? Perhaps, unlike its land cousin, the tortoise, who can walk away from its eggs, this lot left against nature in the same pond, thrown together in the same waters as their parents, will not be abandoned. Will keep on circling the elder in abject supplication. Will stutter through those quivering hands, Acknowledge me, it is I I I I . . .
No doubt exhausted, the little one with its bright yellow markings gives up. It swims slowly to an oversized stone turtle sprawled on the slant of an angled concrete slab with its head raised above the water. The young turtle scrambles onto the lifeless back and lays down its head wearily, its delicate hands still stretched out. It might as well whimper into the concrete carapace: I am here. Acknowledge me. It is I. Perhaps it is resting up, thinking whether it should try a different grown-up next time.
Mercia has a vague idea of turtles having something to do with feng shui. What, she wonders, does the little chap make of that responsibility?
When she finds her way out, she is on a road. A taxi cruises by and she raises her hand, finds herself hailing it. She feels foolish, standing in the road miming to the driver a ferry taking off. Hong Kong, she says repeatedly, then worries all the way about the success of her flailing movements until they are in sight of the ferry terminal. In the taxi she sends a text to say that unforeseeable circumstances prevent her from attending the interview. She will, of course, refund the ticket.
Mercia thinks of the drive from Kliprand to Cape Town and back. Is she—a mad menopausal woman who has been left—losing her marbles? At the airport she avoids looking in mirrors. Why has she, who has never indulged in erratic behavior, rushed off? She cannot blame a turtle.
Back home in Glasgow she tells everyone, except for Smithy, that she was not offered the post, that she in any case found the humidity too oppressive.
A few days before Mercia is due to fly back to Cape Town, there is a call from Sylvie in the early hours. Jake has died. She has just heard from the sanatorium. They say that someone must have smuggled in a bottle of brandy, which he has evidently drunk in one go. Sylvie assures Mercia that it had nothing to do with her, that she knows how dangerous that would have been after weeks of detoxification. Besides, Jake did not ask her for anything.
Sylvie’s voice is tired. From time to time she loses the thread. She says that she had been visiting, that it didn’t seem right to leave Jake on his own. Mostly he didn’t want to see her but she would take food for him all the same, nice warm roosterbrood, brawn, or curried tripe with beans, his favorite things, because in places like that the food is sure to be inedible. Funny how the previous day she took Nicky with her, and Jake looked so much better. He walked with them in the gardens and was quite nice, quite calm. He was good with Nicky, sat the boy on his knee, and he even spoke kindly to her. She thought he was definitely getting better.
Mercia says Sylvie should go ahead with funeral arrangements, that she will try for a flight that evening. But Sylvie is in no hurry to get off the phone. She says, as if speaking to someone who did not know him, that Jake had not always been bad and rude. He had been a good husband, and at the beginning a good father to Nicky. For a while it seemed as if one could put aside all the bad things of the past. She could not see anything wrong in that, but then the bad old things crept up on them. Jake suffered so much that she can’t help thinking that he is better off now, but still, it doesn’t mean she’s not responsible for his death. Everything has been her fault. AntieMa has been right all along. For a long time she’s had no truck with that kind of talk, but now she gives in. She, Sylvie, is shot through with sin.
That’s nonsense, Mercia says firmly. Don’t you believe anything of the kind. It is sad that Jake’s died, that he could not find anything to live for, but I know, I can assure you that it’s not your fault. If there is sin involved, it is you who have been sinned against. I’m sure that you need no reminder from me, but now it’s time to be strong for Nicky’s sake, and to banish all such foolish thoughts. There’s plenty to do, organizing the funeral.
Do you think, Sylvie says, that I should slaughter a sheep for the funeral dinner? That’s all I can do now for poor Jake. You know the whole of Kliprand will be there, wanting something decent to eat.
Mercia tries to banish the grotesque image of an animal on its back, its legs twitching and blood foaming from its broken neck.
Well, she says, yes, if that’s what you want to do, if you think that’s the right thing to do.
Mercia cannot cry for Jake; she is infused with loss, with the sadness of his ruined life. She finds the photographs of Jake as a child, the little boy in short trousers bunched around the middle with a snake belt. A laughing Jake restrained by Mercia, whose arm is around him. A young man with a huge Afro hairstyle to annoy his father. Jake in his businessman’s suit. Always with laughter in his eyes.
Before Mercia goes to bed she finds the file, Home, still on her desktop, and without opening it, drags it into the trash bin.
•••
Until the day before she is due to return to Glasgow, Mercia does not know what she will do about Nicky. They have spent much time together, reading the books she has brought along. She has answered as clearly as possible his questions about his father and death. The child seems attached to her, and as she sits down to a breakfast of roosterbrood and a boiled egg Mercia decides to bite the bullet. She’ll manage; things will work out, even if she does not quite know how. She must do it for Jake. She can see herself in a new, cheaper apartment in Glasgow, on the south side, with the bright little boy who is so like Jake. Mercia would, of course, send him back to spend summers with his mother, just a question of pulling in the belt, and if perhaps Sylvie would want to visit, well, she could handle that.
The child is still asleep and it is time to put Sylvie’s mind at rest. Mercia starts in medias res: So, if you want Nicky to come with me, I’d be happy to take—
Sylvie leaps to her feet. Her eyes flash. What do you mean? How can you take him? Where to? she barks.
Mercia is flustered, and before she manages to speak, Sylvie pounds her fists on the table, screams. Nicky is a Murray but he is also my child, my own child. He’s all I have. I’m a nobody, so you think you have to take
my child away? That I’m not good enough to bring him up? You can’t take him away. I won’t let anyone take him away.
Tears of shame stream down Mercia’s face. For a second she thinks of fudging, of rephrasing to cover up, but no, Sylvie deserves nothing but the truth.
No, of course I don’t think anything of the sort. He is your child. Of course I can’t take him away. It’s a misunderstanding, a mistake. I thought . . . Jake wrote to say that you wanted me to take Nicky, and then you asked me. Just as I left last time. Remember?
Sylvie stands with her arms flung out, ready to take on the world. She gesticulates wildly. I asked if you would help out. It was difficult; I’d rather not have help, but his education must come first. I meant help with his education. Her voice drops as she says, I’ll need money for that. Then she shouts, I’m his mother. Even a sheep screams when its lamb is taken, so how could I have asked you to take him away? What do you think I am? Jake was mad, poisoned by drink. How could you have believed him?
Mercia says please could they stop this conversation. She is sorry, deeply embarrassed. She should have known better. She would be very glad to help with Nicky’s education, but first, would Sylvie forgive her. At which point Nicky arrives, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
Why are they shouting? he asks. And his mother says no, they are not. That everything is sorted out. Everything is fine. That one day he will visit Auntie Mercy in England.
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