by Katie Crouch
It was a surprise, how Miss Persephone acted when she was angry. Her face grew red. Her eyes grew wild. She was still nice in her heart, you could see it, but she was almost mad, the same way Frida’s sister Leona had grown mad when she was bitten by the pig farmer’s rabid dog. But Leona had been given antibiotics and gotten better, whereas Miss Persephone grew worse and worse. She was still kind to her girls and Frida, but, whereas she had once taken pride in looking like a fashion doll, in these last weeks she had become unkempt. Her hair was wild and pinned into a ball on her head that grew bigger as the days went by. Wine bottles were opened first thing in the morning, and dishes littered the house. Frida had to do twice as much as usual just to keep the place looking half as nice.
Another thing that happened on The Day was that Frida told Miss Persephone that she was leaving domestic service. Miss Persephone had cried and hugged Frida when she’d told her this. “I don’t know what we will do without you, Miss Frida,” she’d said. “You are our family.”
Frida had patted Miss Persephone’s shoulder kindly, but she had not replied. Frida was no liar. She was not sad. She never tricked herself into thinking she was Miss Persephone’s family—she was just around her family. She was not invited to their dinners, or to their parties, or to their meet-’n’-greet breakfasts and the rest of the what-what-what. Her white employers always acted as if she should cry when the job was over, because they usually did. One Boer lady had wept harder than Frida had when her own mother died. They assumed she was attached like a mother to their children. Yet she was never sorry to leave a household, no matter how long she had been there. It was unsettling, because it meant she would have less money. But it was not sad.
Yes, this was to be Frida’s last house. Her daughter, Tonata, was about to finish university, and Tonata did not want Frida doing domestic work anymore. She already had a good job at a bank, and she said she would rather give her mother money than have her be a maid. Frida relented, but she thought this was silly. She had been a maid for a long time. There were other things she’d rather have done, but they hadn’t happened, had they? Anyway, being a maid lately in the Wilder house was more than fine. It was better than the stories on the TV.
There was a crash in the bedroom. The children were at school, and Frida didn’t think Mr. Adam was in the house. If he was, that could be Miss Persephone, killing him.
“Miss Persephone?” Frida called. She crept toward the bedroom. To get around the house now, you had to weave in and out of a maze of boxes of Mr. Adam’s things. About three weeks ago, they had started extracting his things with a strict system Miss Persephone had used the other times she moved from country to country, involving candy-colored notes that stuck to the boxes and long lists. Cherry-red for suits. Grape-gum-purple for the books. But as the days had gone by, Miss Persephone cared less and less about the lists and notes, and lately she had been simply throwing objects into the boxes with various degrees of force as she passed.
Miss Persephone now refused to wear white. Instead, she wore colors that fought and struggled with each other before Frida’s eyes. Red flowers clashed with purple paisley. Yellow stripes battled brown plaid. The whites she threw out of her room at Frida in billowing trash bags, commanding her to take them home. Frida had obeyed, but mostly she sold the things to her friends and the clothing shops some women ran in the richer parts of Katutura. Frida did not like wearing white, no matter how fine the clothes. She was not a bride, and she had already been baptized. White, in a country of red dust, was disrespectful to the land.
“Miss Frida?” Miss Persephone called now. Frida made her way through the maze to the bedroom. Miss Persephone was wearing a formal dress covered in blue and yellow flowers and was sitting on the floor surrounded by piles of clothes and shoes. She was wearing bright pink lipstick, but no other makeup.
“Are you fine?” Frida asked.
Miss Persephone shook her head like a little girl. “I am totally not fine, Miss Frida. My husband has too many things. How did I not know all of these things in our house were his? I have been just pushing them over there. My side. His side.” Frida could see now that Miss Persephone had drawn a thick black line down the middle of the room with some sort of big black pen.
“Perhaps you can let Mr. Adam straighten these things and pack them up himself?”
“Mr. Adam is not allowed in.”
“I see.” Frida was impressed. Miss Persephone was much smaller than Mr. Adam. In her experience, when love ended, the person who was bigger got the house. “Must he really have all of his things?”
Miss Persephone looked at the mound of clothing and possessions and brightened. “No!”
“Then I can help you,” Frida said. “I will call Elifas to come with a bakkie.”
“Thank you, Miss Frida.”
Frida nodded. She really did want to help. Plus, she and Elifas would be able to sell Mr. Adam’s things for good money back at the Location.
“Perhaps you should shower,” Frida said. “Now-now. Before your children get home.”
“Perhaps,” Persephone said disinterestedly. She crawled over to the unmade bed and pushed some more clothes onto the floor. “I think I’ll sleep, Miss Frida.”
“All right,” Frida said. No. Miss Persephone was not doing well.
She heard the front door open, and braced herself for Mr. Adam, who might be coming in to pillage the kitchen. But to her relief it was Mila Shilongo, who still had a key. Mila had moved back to her own house, as her husband had been arrested for taking part in an international poaching ring. Everyone assumed that the minister of transportation took bribes for awarding government road construction contracts. What wasn’t known to anyone—including Mila—was that one of the Chinese construction executives opened up a spot for Josephat in a lucrative poaching operation. His first test of loyalty had been to offer up his one rhino, the famous one Miss Persephone called Mr. Sharp. However, the hired poachers hadn’t counted on Hector.
At first the police had suspected Mila as well, but after they investigated, it became clear that Mr. and Mrs. Shilongo, as of late, barely communicated at all. And the fact that she had invited guests to their farm, Osha, the poaching headquarters, pretty much proved Mila’s innocence.
Frida and Mila Shilongo had become great friends during Mila’s stay at Miss Persephone’s. It turned out they had met before, as Frida’s mother was originally from Onesi. Frida knew all about the Beautiful House. Once Mila told her she was really Esther, Frida had deferred to her as if she were a celebrity, which Mila appreciated greatly.
The women enjoyed speaking proper Oshiwambo to each other, so their greeting took a while.
“Hello,” Frida said.
“Hello,” Mila said.
“Have you spent the morning well?” Frida asked.
“Yes,” Mila answered.
“Really?” Frida asked.
“Yes,” Mila answered.
“That is fine,” Frida said.
“It is fine. And have you spent your morning well?” Mila asked.
“Yes,” Frida answered.
“Really?” Mila asked.
“Yes,” Frida answered.
“That is fine,” Mila said.
“And are you still fine?” Frida asked.
“I am more than fine,” Mila said. “I have received word today that I am being considered to fill Josephat’s role as the minister of transportation.”
“Ah!” Frida said. A woman minister. This was good. Wives often replaced their husbands in government roles. Over in Zimbabwe, Mrs. Mugabe was trying to do the same thing now that her husband was forced out. Now, a President Mrs. Mugabe was not a good plan. But Mila Shilongo as a minister, that was excellent.
“Where is Miss Persephone?” Mila asked.
“In her bedroom, sleeping in a party dress. She is doing very badly, Mila.”
“I see,” Mila said, frowning. “Though I do not know why. It is good to shed a bad husband. Who doesn’t want that
?”
“I don’t know. Every day is worse and worse. I’m trying to help move his things.”
“I will talk to her.” Mila Shilongo looked at Frida thoughtfully. “And you are leaving, I hear?”
“My daughter does not want me to do domestic work anymore. She has a good job now.” Frida was proud, but careful. She did not want to brag. Mila’s own daughter, Anna, was the same age as Tonata, and there had been some trouble about her taking Miss Amanda and Mr. Mark’s money.
“Can you do office work, Frida?” Mila asked. “Can you use the computer?”
Frida thought about it. She had a smartphone. A computer was just a phone, but bigger.
“Yes.”
“I will need an assistant. Someone who I can trust.”
“You do,” Frida said.
“I have been trying to get gossip about Persephone Wilder for two years now. I told Libertina to ask the domestics in Katutura. They all say you never talk. That you keep secrets.”
“I don’t keep secrets,” Frida said. “It is not my business, to tell about the lives of other people.”
“I can pay you one thousand per week.”
“Miss Persephone pays me two thousand per week.”
The women looked at each other. This was a lie, but God would permit it.
“Persephone pays you eight hundred per week. I know because she is not good at keeping secrets. But all right. I will pay fifteen hundred per week.”
Frida’s mind started working. This was even more than Tonata was making. After some months, she’d be able to add another room onto her house.
“All right,” Frida said. “When my time with Miss Persephone is over, I will work for you.”
“It’s settled,” Mila Shilongo said, satisfied. She kicked a box out of the way and marched down the hall to Miss Persephone’s room.
Frida looked around the massive kitchen and living room. She stared at the American clothes piled high on the government sofas, at the seven types of cereal boxes crowding the counters, at the cabinets full of chips and candy and washing-machine soap. Miss Persephone had tried very hard to understand Frida, but they were from different tribes. And while everyone said that tribes meant nothing in modern-day Africa—especially Tonata, with her big university opinions!—in Frida’s mind, they still meant very much, all over the world. It was important to love everyone, of course. God wanted his people to listen to each other and do their best. But in the end, your people were your people. Or at least that’s what Frida thought.
In fact, Mila Shilongo was trying some intertribal communication right now. Sho. It did not sound like she was getting very far.
“Get up!” Frida heard Mila Shilongo say. “Get up, Persephone! I am here to get you going.”
She heard Miss Persephone groan.
“No more wine in the morning. No more sleeping. You are not a hobo, klein baba. We are free from our bad husbands, and we are not old, and we are clever. Get up, Persephone. It’s time to maak ’n’ plan, my dear. Get up. Life is waiting for you.”
/ 36 /
The day before the Evanses’ departure, Mila and Amanda met for one last lunch at Stellenbosch.
There was much business to clear up, of course, before this meeting could happen. First, Mila had to explain the matter of Anna—who, the Evanses were relieved to find out, was not Mark’s child after all. She was in fact Mila’s niece. Saara, her sister, had given birth to her approximately nine months after their weekend in Swakopmund. But, as she was a cripple, she felt she couldn’t care for her.
“How sad,” Amanda said.
“Yes,” Mila said. “She died just a few years later in South Africa. Johannesburg is not a nice place for Black women with no money and a handicap.”
“I’m so sorry, Mila.”
Mila waved the sentiment away. She was so different from the girl Mark had described, Amanda thought.
“Did you … ever get another chance to catch up with Mark? Just to … set the record straight?”
“He didn’t tell you?” Mila raised her eyebrows.
“You know, I just felt, well…” Amanda took a sip of water. “It’s not my business.”
“We spoke briefly. A few days ago, at school.” Mila looked at Amanda steadily. “I could see that he was sorry. That he had paid by worrying about it most of his life.”
“So you forgive him?” Amanda asked. “He wasn’t totally without responsibility. He should have come earlier to make sure you were okay.”
“You know, Amanda, it’s strange.” Mila looked over Amanda’s shoulder at the cars and bakkies crawling down the street. “It’s been so long. I was holding on to all of this hate. Then I saw him, and heard his story … and I just didn’t care anymore.”
“He was still a bit of an irresponsible shithead.”
“Well, he’s your husband, not mine.” Mila smiled. “So you have to live with him.”
“True.”
“So everything ended up well.”
“Not for Saara,” Amanda said.
“Africa is real life, Amanda,” Mila said flatly. “Even more so than other places.”
Amanda bit her lip and looked away. For all her time here, for all that had happened, she would never really know Africa. She loved the place with all her heart, but would always just be a tourist.
Mila had insisted on sitting in their usual spot, and today the Afrikaans manager was being even more attentive than usual. He sent over champagne, and though Mila thanked him rather grandly, neither mentioned what the present was obviously for—to celebrate Mila’s new position as minister of transportation.
“And will he want a favor later for this?” Amanda looked at the wine dubiously.
“No more favors,” Mila said crisply. It was her motto. As soon as she was safely ensconced in her role, she had shaken up the administration by calling for complete transparency in the bidding process for road contracts. There would be no more corruption in the business of building Namibian roads, she’d said in her first press conference. Several columnists in The Namibian were wondering if she’d be the country’s first woman president.
For lunch today, Amanda had worn the very same outfit she’d worn to confront Mila in Headmaster Pierre’s office. It was her very best, and nothing else had seemed to do. She’d been nervous while getting ready—a factor that seemed unfair, since Mila was the one who’d fooled around with Amanda’s husband all those years ago and failed to tell her about it. Still. Mila was fucking intimidating. And this was the first time in a long while that they’d be alone together. But everything was fine as soon as Mila arrived and snapped her fingers for service.
“So shall we send back the wine, then?” Amanda asked. “If it’s supposed to be an exchange.”
“No,” Mila said. “That man’s parents and uncles did horrible things to my parents and uncles. The wine is the least he could do.”
Amanda sipped her champagne obediently and thought about how you could love a place deeply without understanding it at all. And she had, in fact, come to love Namibia. She loved the aching heat and the merciless sun and the way everyone said How beautiful! every time it rained. She’d been a tiny dot on the hugest landscape she’d ever seen, and what that told her was that she had power over absolutely nothing. At first it had scared the shit out of her, but in the end it was freeing. Amanda Evans didn’t have to hold everything together all the time. Not everyone was going to die on her in the grocery store.
Frida, as Mila’s assistant, had been the one to call to set up the lunch, breaking the radio silence at last. Amanda had been so excited, she’d cried as soon as she hung up the phone.
“I know you loved her back then, but I think I love her more,” Amanda had said to Mark. Her husband, who was now deep in the business of gem dealing, had chosen not to answer. As of late, Amanda noticed, Mark was getting very wise about when not to talk.
The girls had been allowed to come to lunch, though they’d abandoned the table after downing thei
r Cokes to run up and down the tiled stairs and visit the parrot that lived in the beauty salon upstairs. Now they were pitching coins into the fountain from the second-floor balcony. In the two months since the scandal, they’d been reveling in their celebrity status. Both had been immensely pleased with the attention they’d received, and as much as Amanda had wanted to discourage her daughter’s potential future life of crime, she couldn’t bring herself to rebuke her too harshly. They had, after all, raised a lot of money for orphans, and no one seemed to be asking them to give it back.
“Do you miss Josephat?” Amanda asked after the server brought their salads.
“I do,” Mila admitted. Josephat was in a holding cell, awaiting trial. The Namibian justice system was so backed up that one might wait years. The holding cell—jail—was better than prison, so he would be all right for a while. But if there is one thing Africans of all colors agree upon, it is justice for illegally slain animals. In Botswana, poachers are often sentenced to death. Luckily for Josephat and his partners, Namibians were more lenient, though they likely faced many years in prison.
“He’s my friend, and I love him. I wish he could have been more honest.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t be where you are,” Amanda blurted, then immediately felt sorry.
“I would have found a way,” Mila said. “And did things turn out so well for me, striking a bargain on a lie? No. In the end you cannot be who you are not. A cheetah cannot be a leopard.”
“Right,” Amanda said. “I mean, it sort of could, though. They’re similar, if you think about it. Both cats, both predators. The cheetah’s a lot faster, but—”
“I just wish he had not gotten so greedy,” Mila interrupted.
