The Boy Next Door (19 page)

Rosanna was the only one who helped me in those months. Mummy wouldn’t talk to me. Daddy was bewildered. Aunty Gertrude came
and said that I had disappointed everyone. It was Rosanna who made sure that I ate well, who took me to the clinic. And it
was Rosanna who was there when the time came, and I was so scared in that ward with the overworked, impatient nurses who looked
at me as if I was a loose girl.

“You can do it, Sisi,” she said. “Look, the head is already out. Push now. Push.”

And then, there he was, all at once, in my hands.

Daddy drove us home: me and the baby (my baby) at the back with my sister, half, and Rosanna up front.

Mummy wasn’t at home.

I started awake and there she was sitting on the armchair Daddy had moved to my room. She was holding the baby in her arms.
I didn’t see it at first, but the baby flopped its head back and I saw Mummy’s breast, her nipple glistening.

Mummy looked up at me. “He is hungry,” she said.

She gave him to me and I waited for her to leave the room.

The baby started to cry. His face pushed against my breast.

“Feed him,” said Mummy.

I unbuttoned my blouse and fed my baby.

Mummy stood over me all the while, and when I was finished, she took the baby from me and left the room.

And that’s how it was. How my baby became hers.

“Ma, Ma, Ma…”

At last Ian comes back. He yanks the door open and he sits in the car, his eyes closed, his head pushing against the headrest,
taking gasps of air.

I put my hand on his arm. “Ian, how is she?”

He looks at me and there is the shock of his glistening, red eyes.

“She’s not crazy, Lindiwe. They just put her there.”

He is about to say something else, but then the boy moves and he stops.

He starts the car and we leave.

We’ve just driven out of the city limits when I turn and see the boy curled up on the seat, his body quivering.

“Stop the car. Ian, please.”

He gives me a look and then swings over to the lay-by, gets out of the car, bangs his hands on the boot.

“David,” I say, twisting around. “It’s all right. We’re going on an adventure. The three of us. We’ll come back to Granny,
promise.”

I reach out my hand, touch him with my fingertips.

I don’t know how much of me he can take. If he’ll allow me to hold him. When we put him in the car and I tried to keep him
still in my arms, he kicked and punched and only calmed when I left him alone.

Ian gets back in the car, looks over at me then at the boy.

“Isn’t that right,” I say, looking over the boy to Ian. “This is an adventure.”

“That’s right,” says Ian. “We’re off on an adventure; lots of interesting things out there.”

“I don’t have my Bible,” the boy sniffs. “I want my Bible.”

I look at the boy, then at Ian.

“It’s all right,” I say. “We’ll get you a new one in Harare. One with pictures.”

That seems to calm him; I feel his body relax, his breathing change tempo.

“I’ll see Jesus,” he says.

“That’s right.”

“And Mary. And Joseph. And Peter.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And heaven. And hell, too. A very, very ugly picture. The devil will be there roasting and toasting sinners, like Grandpa.”

There is a quietness in the car. I look at the boy and then out the window. There is nothing there to get hold of.

“Because Grandpa did something very bad and God strike him down, and Grandpa was communing with Satan.”

Ian starts the car and I am grateful for the smell of diesel, the sound of the engine, distractions.

The boy sits there appeased.

We drive on and on.

I look out of the window and cling onto the passing of things.

Ian makes a wrong turn, drives right into Gweru city center.

Here we are, stuck at the robots, the early lunchtime crowd jostling by.

I watch a woman stop, tuck in better at the sides the fabric that is holding her baby on her back; two men walking, fingers
loosely laced, likely Shonas; a man rummaging in a plastic bag from OK Bazaars bump into a schoolboy.

There is the former Cecil Hotel owned by a ZUM opposition candidate, who got shot in his private parts by ZANU-PF thugs just
before elections and is now disabled.

I watch the Bata factory float away, and I think of the Bubblegummers in the drawer in my room on campus waiting for his spongy,
little feet. Now, sitting at the back, he is barefoot like a Rhodie kid would be.

“Are you a Christian?”

“A Christian?” I repeat, turning my head.

“Ma is a Christian. I am a Christian. We love God.”

“Are you hungry?” I ask him. “You haven’t had breakfast.”

“Ma makes me porridge with butter and milk.”

“If you’re hungry, we can stop and get something to eat.”

The boy doesn’t answer.

We drive on and on.

The boy doesn’t say anything else, all the way up to Kadoma where we stop. Two more hours left.

We sit outside in the garden of the Kadoma Ranch Motel and order three toasted chicken sandwiches, two Cokes, and a glass
of milk.

There are two peacocks sauntering on the lawn. I look at the boy to say something to him but his eyes are squeezed tight and
my words,
Look at those two show-offs, aren’t they beautiful,
disappear.

Ian says he’s going to the toilet. He asks the boy if he needs to. The boy doesn’t answer. Ian waits for a moment and then
leaves.

The boy sits cross-legged on the wire chair, his pyjamas, his bare feet, a rebuke. I see the sleep at the corners of his eyes.
I look at the reddish tinge in his hair and wonder once more of the Irish, Scottish stock that lies there. I look across the
other end of the garden where the passengers of the luxury bus company Tenda are lining up for their buffet lunch. A woman
in red plastic stilettos walked past us just now and almost fell into the pool because she couldn’t stop gawking at the sight
of the three of us. And here is Ian coming back with something in his hand. A giraffe. A wooden giraffe.
Oh, Ian.
He must have picked it up from the curio shop at the entrance. Did he even go to the toilet?

“
Look what I found,” he says sitting down, showing the boy the animal. “He’s yours.”

The boy does something that surprises me. A shy smile lights up his face; he reaches out his hand and then he remembers something,
collects himself, takes his hand away.

In my head I hear Mummy’s stern voice, “Thou Shall Not Covet.”

Ian doesn’t make a fuss.

He puts the giraffe gently on the table and says, “He’s all yours, my boy.”

“Lekker,” says Ian, wiping his mouth.

I see the boy wonder at that word,
lekker.

“He means ‘great,’” I say.

“Yes, your mother is the fundie around here.”

“He means ‘expert,’” I say.

“Maybe you should run a translation service,” Ian says and I catch the testiness in his voice.

The boy looks up at me, at Ian, over to the giraffe, and he must decide that the giraffe is the sanest, safest one of us three
because he doesn’t take his eyes off it until we leave.

As we’re walking away a waiter runs up to us.

“You forget this,” he says, holding out the giraffe and it is the boy who reaches out his hand and takes it.

“Thank you, very much,” he says slowly.

I go into the gift shop. I buy a pair of socks with frogs on them, an orange T-shirt with a giraffe and zimbabwe on it in
the rich colors of the flag and a pair of shorts. I show these to the boy and ask him if he wants to change.

“No, thank you.”

I put the bag next to him in the car.

Just as we reach Chegutu the boy falls asleep. Ian pulls over and lays him across the seat. The boy holds the giraffe tightly
to his chest.

Driving, Ian begins to talk.

“We can make it work,” he says. “We can do it.”

I don’t ask him what “it” is. I let him talk.

Ian looks at me; he wants me to say something but I can’t.

“He’ll grow used to us.”

“He’ll grow to love us,” is what Ian means.

“What are you going to do?” I ask him.

What I mean is, What are
we
going to do?

He looks at me.

“I’ll rent a place, something. For now I’ll get a bigger room at the Bronte and then, we’ll see, that’s all.”

I know at this moment he’s thinking about the Frenchie, how the Frenchie is going to get in the way, mess things up, I know
it.

I try to think of Jean but I can’t.

“I’ll find something,” he says.

I look outside, concentrate on the truckload of pigs in front of us, and I feel Ian’s eyes on me, waiting but I don’t know
what to say.

WELCOME TO HARARE
.

We drive all the way up Samora Machel Avenue, and as we are turning up Fourth Street, we hear the sirens.

“Pull over, Ian. It’s the president.”

Ian keeps on driving.

“Ian, someone got shot dead, last month.”

He stops.

“Shit.”

“You have to pull out of the road; you have to switch off the engine.”

“Jeez man, he’s coming down the
other
side.”

“Ian, they want all vehicles off the road. Just do it.”

I can hear the boy moving behind me.

Ian pulls over, off the road, but he keeps the engine running.

We watch the presidential motorcade zoom by. The road vibrates with the surge of police motorcycles, open-topped Jeeps packed
with heavily armed soldiers, unmarked cars, ambulance, Peugeots filled with intelligence operatives, presidential Mercedes
(or decoy vehicle with look-alike president, who knows), and behind that, more police motorcycles, more open-topped Jeeps,
this time carrying youths wearing ZANU T-shirts shaking their fists, more Peugeots until, finally, the road is clear.

“What a load of bullshit. Bob and the Wailers. One thing for sure, Ian Smith wasn’t so fricking para—”

“Ian,
David.
”

Ian looks over.

“You’re awake, my boy.”

We drive along Fourth Street until we reach Baines Avenue and there, at the corner, is the Bronte, nestled in immaculate gardens.

The boy keeps stopping and staring at the stone sculptures dotted among the jacaranda trees, along the path; mythic creatures
from a lost world. Ian strides ahead, onwards to reception.

“That looks like a hippo,” I say.

The boy stands there holding the giraffe close to his heart. He looks at the would-be hippo, which is about his height.

“Why don’t you feel him,” I say, and I watch him gingerly raise his right hand and put it gently on the stone. I imagine the
shock of the coldness of it going through his little fingers.

*    *    *

I find Ian at the patio with the key in his hand.

“It’s a garden suite. Two bedrooms, lounge, and bathroom, ideal for families, and a veranda.”

He says all this as if he has read the brochure and memorized it or he’s put to memory the receptionist’s spiel.

I don’t say, “I have to go. I have to go back to campus.”

I don’t know if he’s asking me to stay or if he has already made up his mind that I’m going to stay or if he’s just hoping
or maybe it’s not even about me; he needs space, room. I think of the money he’s spending. But he sits there seemingly unconcerned,
pleased with himself, the great provider. We both look out into the garden, at the boy, who is watching the mythic creatures,
introducing them to the giraffe.

“He needs to go to school,” I say.

I want Ian to see what he’s taking on, that it can’t be something he can do on a whim.

“We should take him back.”

“No ways, Lindiwe.”

“My mother…”

“Your mother’s feeding him a whole load of bull. I don’t want him to… Jeez, Lindiwe, he’s yours too…. Don’t tell me it doesn’t
cut you to see how wound up he is. Look at him over there. He’s starting to relax.”

I look out at the boy, watch him circle the stone and then gently stroke it with his free hand.

“I love this place,” I say and regret it once the words are out of my mouth. I think of Ian thinking, how does she know this
place so much that she loves it, who’s she been here with, oh, the Frenchie…

So maybe that’s why I add quickly, “I only have a tutorial in the afternoon tomorrow. I don’t need to get back till then.”

He nods.

“Let’s go and check out the digs. It’s that one over there in the corner.”

“David, come,” I call out.

The boy bids farewell and comes.

There is a double bed in the main room, a single bed in the other.

I look at the boy.

“This is your room, David.”

I feel his breathing change, his body tense, so I quickly add, “But if you want, in the beginning, until you’re comfortable,
you can sleep over there with us, or we can bring that bed over here.”

I look up at Ian.

“Or one of us can come over here and sleep with you. Whatever you like.”

The giraffe is pressed so tight against his chest that I’m sure it will leave marks on his skin.

At last I say, “Maybe you want to watch a cartoon.”

“Ma says TV is the work of Satan.”

Ian lets out a whistle and mutters, “Penga.”

I open all the bedside drawers and I can’t find the slim volume of the New Testament. It
has
to be here. There
must
be a copy. There’s always one in hotel rooms.
Somewhere.
Ian stands there watching me.

“Lindiwe, relax,” I hear. “We’ll get it tomorrow. You can tell him a story from the Bible.”

“I…”

And suddenly I’m just tired. I slump down on the bed. I listen for a sound coming from the bath.

“He’s so quiet in there.”

“He’s okay, Lindiwe.”

“We should telephone Bulawayo. We have to let her know that we’re, that he’s safe. She must be worried sick. Whatever she’s
done she loves him.”

“Phone her then. Don’t tell her where we are.”

I wish I could speak to Daddy. I dial the Bulawayo number and listen to the phone in the passageway ring on and on. I put
my phone down.