Jane was in a taxi. The taxi was a large American car past its prime, its pieces no longer absolutely fitting together. In spite of its size it gave little protection against glare and heat. Hot air and exhaust fumes came through the windows, and the sun struck through on the driver’s side, scorching the plastic seat cover.
The truck went past the turning that led, through young sugar cane, to the airport. The taxi continued to follow the truck: the airport was not Jane’s destination. Presently, a bare and dusty black arm signaling, the truck turned off into a factory yard. Some miles later, the traffic less regular, the area of factories left behind, the taxi turned off the highway. And Jane saw the landscape she thought she would never see again: the rough narrow road, broken here and there, overgrown at the edges, the flattened scorched areas, the rows of brick pillars, still looking new, but stripped of their timber superstructures and hung with dried-out creepers, the distant wall of bush.
The taxi stopped at the house. Bougainvillaea and hibiscus were bright in the burnt garden.
Jane said to the driver, “Can you wait? I won’t be long.”
“How long?”
“Fifteen minutes, half an hour.”
“Better you telephone the office when you ready.”
She paid him and went through the open gate. He turned in the gateway, the big car dislodging a light rubble of stray pebbles, the tires crushing to ocher powder little clods of dry earth blown there by the wind; and he went back the way they had come.
No one had appeared at the sound of the car. The car port was empty, the oil stains on the concrete floor dry and dusted over. The front door was closed; Jane had remembered it open. The shallow terrazzo steps and the porch, already slanted with sunlight, were gritty, unswept.
Before she could knock, Jimmy opened the door. He held it open, and for a second or so he appeared not to see her: he was looking over her shoulder. He was as she had first seen him that day at Thrushcross Grange, when, after walking bare-chested down the aisle between the iron beds, he had put on the drab-colored Mao shirt. He was wearing that shirt now; his plump cheeks were as coarse from close shaving as they had been then, his full mouth as seemingly clamped shut below the mustache, his eyes as blank and assessing.
He said, after that little silence, “Jane. You made it, then?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I’m not surprised.”
She passed into the room, and he locked the door behind her. The room felt airless, though the barred windows were open. And she saw disorder: she saw he had not prepared the house for her visit. Disorder emphasized the cheapness of the furniture, its impermanence in that room: it no longer gave delight. There were newspapers on the furry upholstered chairs, and cups and plates and tins and sticky marks on the dining table. The electric-blue carpet, loose on the terrazzo, curled at the edges: the floor could easily be imagined without it. There was dust on the glass-topped table, and a confusion of papers, writing pads and blue air-letters on the desk.
She sat down in the upholstered chair next to the glass-topped table. The synthetic furry fabric was warm. She remembered to stroke it: it was as tickling smooth as she had remembered.
Jimmy said, “Make yourself at home. Can I get you anything? No rum punch. That’s your drink, isn’t it?”
“It’s too hot for that. I’ll just have a glass of water.”
He went out to the kitchen, and from that room, which she had seen once, he said, “Supplies are running low, Jane.”
Hot air came through the windows. The sky was pale blue.
He came out and handed her a glass of water, without ice. The glass was wet on the outside; his hand was wet. He sat at the desk.
“Well, Jane. What can I do for you?”
She was taking the wet glass to her lips. But she saw that it was stained, with dark brown trickles, and she just held the glass a little way from her mouth. She said, “I’m leaving.”
“You told me on the telephone. You’re going back to London. And massa?”
“I suppose Peter’s leaving too.” She put the glass down on the glass-topped table. “But I don’t know about him.”
“So in a few days you’ll be back. In a few days you will be watching television. BBC and ITV. And listening to the radio in the mornings. Today.”
Don’t remind me. I can see it all so clearly. It makes my heart sink.”
“Does it?”
“Is there anything I can do for you? Is there something you want that I can get? Can I see anyone?”
“What will you tell them?”
“I will tell them that I’ve seen you.”
“Is that all you’ll tell them?”
She avoided his eyes. After a while she said, “Will you stay here?”
“Jane, do you know why you came?”
She didn’t answer.
“You came because you’re going away. That’s why you came. If you were staying you wouldn’t have come. You’ve caused me so much pain, Jane.”
“I don’t see how I’ve caused you pain.”
“I’m not asking for sympathy, Jane. You mustn’t think that. What would be the point? You know the score as well as anybody.”
She was unwilling to let the question go. “How have I caused you pain?”
He said, in another tone, “You’re wearing your Moroccan necklaces.”
She put her hand to them and then let them fall back on the overtanned, coarsened skin in the opening of the blouse.
Jimmy said, “The ones given you by a lover.”
She gave the smile with which she acknowledged her exaggerations, mischievousness, or untruths.
“He didn’t want money to come between you.”
“Jimmy, are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you? Isn’t there something you’d like me to take for your children?”
“You wouldn’t be welcome there. You’ve caused me a lot of pain, Jane. You mustn’t make it worse.”
He broke off, making a sign to her with his open hand, raised his head and turned it to one side. A breath of warm air made the curtains move and disturbed the dust in the room. Jane listened with him and heard, far away, the rustle of the bush, a sound so steady it was like part of the silence.
He said, “And now you’re leaving.” But he was still listening. Then, abruptly, he relaxed and looked at her. “I like those necklaces.”
She held the three pendants together between her thumb and forefinger, flicked them stiffly up, then down.
He said, “I remember them.”
She let the pendants fall again on that part of her skin that had aged from too much sun. She said, “They’re quite worthless.”
“That was what you said. I suppose I like them because I see them on you. Why did you wear them today?”
“I didn’t really think about it.”
“You didn’t think about it, Jane? But you were coming to see me. I remember them very well. I’ve remembered everything about you. And now you’re leaving. Does massa know you’re here?”
“I told Peter I was coming to see you.”
“Did he tell you to tell me anything?”
“Should he have?”
“He’s very worried about you, Jane. He’s coming here. Did you know that? He said there was something he wanted to see me about. That’s a good laugh for a hot day. Massa isn’t going to let you go, Jane. It will kill him to lose you. Did you know that?”
“Peter? Are you saying that Peter cares for me? Peter cares for nobody.”
“You’re his last chance.”
“I don’t believe anybody is anybody’s last chance.” She opened her bag and brought out her cigarettes and her lighter.
“I remember that.”
“What do you remember?”
“The way you’re looking now. Your eyes. Your mouth.”
She lit her cigarette and kept the lighter in her hand. He went to the shelves and took the heavy, round ash tray, bubbles in the blue-tinted glass, and p
ut it on the glass-topped table. He stood above her and she could see up the short sleeves of his loose Mao shirt to his armpits. Her eyes went moist. He sat on the furry arm of her chair; her smoking gestures became smaller, constricted.
He said, “I was frightened of what I saw.”
“Why were you frightened?” She touched the tip of her cigarette, as yet without ash, on the thick rim of the ash tray.
“It always happens like that. I knew I would be involved with you. I knew you were going to come back.” He whispered, “You told massa?”
She looked at him. Her moist eyes were full of irritation, alarm.
He looked at the lighter in her cigarette hand and said, “I remember that. From the Sahara.”
She held out the cigarette to the ash tray; she was about to swallow. He squeezed her hand hard over the ash tray; and her face moved to his, her mouth open, the cigarette falling from her fingers, the lighter hurting in her palm. Her mouth opened wide and pressed against his, and her lips and tongue began to work.
He took his mouth away and said, “Be calm. You’re too greedy. You give yourself away when you kiss like that. A woman’s whole life is in her kiss.”
He released her hand; the lighter fell on the glass-topped table. Her head remained thrown back on the chair; when he went to her mouth again he found her lips barely parted, her tongue withdrawn. He said, “That’s better.” Very lightly, he ran the tip of his tongue between her lips, then on the inside of her lower lip. Then, still lightly, he sucked her lower lip. He took his mouth away and looked at her. Her eyes were still closed. She said, “That was lovely.” He held her face between his hands, jammed the heels of his palms on the corners of her mouth, covering her almost vanished period spots, distending her lips. He covered her mouth with his; her lips widened and she made a strangled sound; and then he spat in her mouth. She swallowed and he let her face go. She opened her eyes and said, “That was lovely.” He put his hands below her wet armpits and began to lift her. But she stood up of her own accord.
She said, “Your eyes are shining.”
“Your eyes are screaming still.”
He touched her with the tips of his fingers in the small of her back, and casually, like old lovers, they walked into the bedroom.
She saw the bare ocher-washed walls, the shiny brown fitted wardrobe, and, through the high wide window, the pale sky. The bathroom door was ajar: she saw the low tiled wall around the shower area, the dry concrete floor. Standing separate from one another, they began, without haste, to undress. The bed was unmade, the mattress showing at the top, the middle of the rumpled sheet brushed smooth and brown from use and spotted with stiff stains. The yellow candlewick bedspread hung over the end of the bed and rested on the maroon carpet.
Jane, unbuttoning her blouse, smiled and said, “Your candle-wick bedspread.”
“So you remember it. You didn’t seem to care for it the last time.”
She nodded slowly, once, and gave her mischievous smile. She took off her blouse and threw it on the brown chest of drawers. Against the rest of her the red, aged skin below her neck looked like a rash; the little folds of flesh in her shaved armpits were wet. She let the Moroccan necklaces fall, with a little ripple of metallic sound, on the chest of drawers. She didn’t take off her brassiere: her breasts were small: he noted that shyness. She stepped out of her shoes and was at once small. She didn’t step out of her trousers, but lifted one leg after the other, in an athletic movement, and pulled the trousers off: a rough, masculine sound. Suddenly, then, her pants a shrunken, wrinkled roll on the carpet, she was on the unmade bed, sighing, smiling at him, her head on the oily pillow; and she looked big again. She opened her legs, put her hand there, and drew her fingers upward through moist flesh and hair. The wanton’s gesture: he noted it, and he seemed to say, “Hm.”
She said, “I hate that shirt.”
“I am taking it off.” His voice was soft.
When, looking very big, he moved toward her, she closed her eyes. She said, “Kiss me, Jimmy,” and waited with lips open, tongue withdrawn. Crouching beside her, he jammed his palms against the corners of her mouth. She made the strangled sound and he covered her mouth with his. He made her swallow, and she rested her hands on his back and said, “Love, love.”
She felt the pressure of his hands on her shoulders, and suddenly she was turned over on her belly and he was squatting on her, her hips and legs squeezed between his knees, thighs, and feet. He said, “It’s going to be different today, Jane. We’re doing it the other way.” She made as if to rise, but he held her down between the shoulder blades with his left hand, and opened her up with his right. She began to beat her hands on the bed. As soon as, moving down from the base of her spine he touched her where she was smaller, she cried out, “No!” And when he entered, squatting on her, driving in, his ankles pressed against her hips, she began to wail, a dry, scraping, deliberate sound. He said, as though speaking to a child, “But you’re a virgin, Jane. Isn’t it a good thing you came to see me today?” She shouted with real pain, “Take it out, take it out.” She began to wail again. He said, “A big girl like you, and a virgin, Jane? It’s hard. I know it’s hard. But you didn’t bring your Vaseline, you see. A big girl like you should always take her own Vaseline when she goes visiting.” She said, “Oh my God, oh my God.” He said, “It’s better like this, Jane. You didn’t know that? You mean they never told you it was better with your legs closed? Aren’t you glad you came? It’s always better with your legs closed, whatever way you do it.” He drove deeper and deeper, until he was almost sitting upright on her. He said, “We’re breaking you in today, Jane.” He began to withdraw; sweat from his face and chest dripped on her back; she sighed; but he drove in hard and she shrieked. Her hands stopped beating on the bed; her inflamed face was pressed on one side on the pillow. She stopped wailing; she took her right hand to her mouth and began to bite on her thumb; real tears came. Sobbing, biting her thumb, she began to plead, now with a suppressed scream, now with a whisper, “Take it out, take it out.” Her body went soft; she was sweating all over. He withdrew and said, “There now.” She said, “Have you taken it out?” He said, “Yes, Jane. You’ve lost your virginity.”
She remained just as he had left her, her face on the pillow, the tears running down her nose; her untanned buttocks together, spreading slightly, wet with sweat where he had been sitting on her, the fine hairs there flattened in the sweat and showing more clearly. She sobbed and snuffled.
When he was off her, and beside her, not touching her, she said, like a child, “You made me cry! You made me cry!” Her face was red and wet with tears; but she was oddly calm.
He said, “I knew this about you as soon as I saw you that day. As soon as I saw your eyes and the shape of your mouth.”
“My ‘bedroom eyes.’ ”
He said, very softly, “You are rotten meat.”
It was his tone, rather than the words, that alarmed her. When she turned over to look at him she saw that his eyes were very bright and appeared sightless, the pupils mere points of glitter. He was still erect and looked very big.
He put his hand lightly on her shoulder and said, “You look frightened, Jane.”
“I’m thinking I have to go back.”
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, he allowed his hand to slip off her shoulder, and she stood up.
“But I haven’t come, Jane.”
His eyes were on her. She bent down to pick up her pants, heedless of the hairiness and open flesh, her secret once again, that she was exposing. And, bending down, straightening up, she had in one movement pulled her pants on, covering herself where she was untanned and naked.
He said, “Your mouth, Jane. You have a sweet-mouth too. As soon as I saw you I knew you had a sweet-mouth. We must christen it.”
He continued to look at her. She pulled on her trousers; stepped into her shoes; buttoned her blouse, put on the Moroccan necklaces, and shook her hair into place.
She said, “I think I have to go.”
He sat on the edge of the bed; his erection was subsiding. He said, “You have to go. But you know what you are now. You’ll come again for more.”
“I’ll ring for a taxi.”
“You’ll be lucky if you get one to come here. But you don’t have anything to worry about. Massa is coming for you. Massa isn’t going to let you go.” He stood up; he had shrunken. “We’ll walk across to the Grange and meet massa.”
The telephone was on the chest of drawers but she didn’t lift it. She didn’t leave the room. She stood where she was, between the chest of drawers and the door, and waited for him to dress. The pillow was as she had left it, pressed down and damp; the stained sheet had patches of damp. He dressed slowly. When, lifting his chin, he did the top button of his Mao shirt, he said, “The shirt you don’t like.” She responded in no way.
When they went out into the living room, the cigarette in the blue-tinted ash tray had almost burnt itself out, a disintegrating cylinder of ash. The glass of water on the glass-topped table was where she had put it down. She picked up her lighter and bag and followed him out to the porch. The sunlight on the terrazzo was dazzling. He didn’t shut the front door.
They walked out into the heat and the openness. No trees grew between the house and the wall of bush. The road was lightly rubbled: stray pebbles, loosened bits of tarred gravel, clods of earth. The road ended abruptly, cracked asphalt giving way to a dirt path through a dried-up field, overgrown and then flattened by the drought. The path led to the wall of bush.
Jimmy said, “Massa will be waiting for you. A short walk. Ten minutes.”
She didn’t speak.
He said, “We’ll also meet Bryant. You remember Bryant?”
“I don’t want to see Bryant.”
“But he has something for you. Bryant has something for you.”
The green wall of bush, which from a distance had seemed solid, threaded with the slender white trunks and branches of softwood trees, became more pierced and open as they got closer to it.
Guerrillas Page 24
