The Boy Next Door (29 page)

“Yah, I see. Well, some American wants to cart the whole set off for his private collection.”

“No.”

“Yes. Fifty thousand, and I’m talking U.S. dollars, not our bog roll.”

“N. O.”

“Yes. He told me hims—”

“No, Ian. I mean, you can’t sell them. No.”

“But Lindiwe, that’s what an exhibition is all about, to drum up interest, to…”

“Jerk off.”

“Language, my girl.”

“Ian, I’m naked.”

“Lindiwe, don’t be such a wuss. You’re part of the animal kingdom, nature…”

“Thanks.”

“Now, don’t get all worked up, what I mean is—”

“So I can take naked pictures of you and plaster them all over…”

“Be my guest.”

“Oh, get lost, Ian.”

“Language, language. Anyway, we can celebrate, Bob Style.”

“Mum! Dad!”

“Yes, my boy.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping, David.”

“Are you fighting?”

“No.”

“Just play fighting, my boy.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Okay. But can you play fight quietly? I can’t concentrate on sleeping.”

“Okay.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

Those first few days when Ian came back, we were, are still, so gentle with each other. Almost losing David jolted a fission
of sense into us, made us both grow up, both step back from ourselves and see the other “warts and all” as Ian says, and accept,
be kind, generous. We don’t say these things. But I feel them, know them to be true. I see them every time he looks at David,
every time his eyes find mine. And there is the hard evidence. The drinking has stopped. The camera has been picked up again,
used.

After sending out his portfolio, he’s been called in for assignments with the local
Independent
including a photo spread on nightlife in Harare’s streets, which inadvertently caught a senior government official accepting
favors from a lady of the night in the arcade of Karigamombe Centre. And the lady of the night turned out to be a transvestite.

He has recently signed up with Sygma, the biggest and most prestigious photo news agency in the world, based in, of all places,
Paris. Herbert introduced me to a friend of his who was visiting Zimbabwe and who just happened to know someone who worked
for Sygma. Ian swallowed his pride and showed Herbert’s friend his pictures; impressed, the friend took them with him to Paris,
and days later, Ian received a phone call.

He’s a great find for the international press as the government is making it very difficult for foreign journalists to get
accredited, accusing them of being spies and rabid colonialists. Mugabe’s recent rants against gays (accompanied by the destruction
of the GALZ stand at the book fair by ZANU-PF youth militia captured by Ian) and his “love story” with its excesses has piqued
interest in Zimbabwe. We have always been considered the success story of Africa, a stable, economically sound democracy ruled
by an intelligent Western-educated, soft-spoken liberator, until now.

The growing unrest brought on by ESAP, the liberalized economy demanded by the World Bank in exchange for loans, has left
large numbers of Zimbabweans unemployed, unable to afford basic commodities like bread whose prices used to be state controlled.
Government subsidies have been taken away from health and education, leaving everything to market forces. Children are being
withdrawn from schools, and people are left to die in their homes because they can’t afford the new clinic prices. Strikes
have been organized by the trade union, and there has been some small-scale rioting in the high-density areas, which are full
of young, unemployed men. Ian says he’s seen that kind of hopelessness before. South Africa. He has the pictures to prove
it.

He is fearless, scaring me with his tidbits from the battleground, but I see that he is happy: he is his own man, someone
he respects again, and I know that he can take care of himself.

The government doesn’t seem to know what to do with this highly visible white Zimbabwean male stalking about, snapping pictures.

*    *    *

And there was the surprise of the studio, Ilo’s gift, a few lines on a piece of paper, signed and dated, legally valid as
a last will and testament. The studio where Ian developed
my
pictures, in secret.

“This is so depressing. First the presidential elections, now this.”

“I’ll tell you what’s what: now that he’s got the young chick, no way he’s giving up power any time soon. You think she doesn’t
want to stretch out the First Lady production? Look at him, next to old Madiba there, he’s fresh fresh, ready for the next
round.”

“Ian, I haven’t forgotten or forgiven.”

“Come on, Lindiwe.”

“Come on, what?”

“Okay, if you really don’t like them, I’ll take them out.”

“Really?”

“Yah, yah.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like them, it’s just that I thought they were going to be private. It’s funny to think of them in some
stranger’s place. I don’t know, it feels kind of grubby.”

“Man, you’re tight. I thought you were the sophisticated fundie.”

“Maybe it’s a white-black thing; you don’t understand.”

“And now who’s being a racist? And anyway, don’t give me that bullshit. There’s lots of bums and tits in African sculpture.”

“Now who’s being the fundie?”

“Fifty thousand big ones, Lindiwe. Think what we can do with that.”

“We?”

“Yah,
we
.”

“It’s your money.”

“Jeez, soz, but think what
we
can do with
my
money then.”

I don’t say anything.

“Come on, think!”

“I… I don’t know, Ian.”

“We can buy a house, that’s what. Somewhere with a big yard for David to play in proper.”

He stands there looking at me.

“We can go upscale. Highlands, Borrowdale, Chisipite. Swimming pool. Tennis courts. Thatched gazebo for entertainment purposes.
Braais. The works. We can pay cash for it. No mortgage, nothing. One go, it’s ours.”

“It’s yours, Ian. Yours.”

“Why do you have to be so hard, Lindiwe? I’m doing this for us. I want to.”

The words leave him breathless. Then red.

“Lindiwe, what’s wrong?”

“I’m tired, that’s all.” This is too much, too soon, I could say to him.

He lets me get away with that. He lets me go to bed. He leaves me alone.

I’m lying in bed when I hear loud banging on the front door. I sit up. I hear Ian calling out, “Hey, hey, who is it? What’s
the matter…?” And then after a couple of seconds, I hear him open the door. “Jesus, Heather, what…?” And then I see her. “He
beat the shit out of her” is what they would say.

She stands there shaking by the door. Her face swollen, black and blue, a gash on her lip, eye; her right hand limp, hanging.
Ian is looking at her, mouth open. I go to her. “Heather…” She backs away. “Heather, it’s me, Lindiwe. I think you should
sit down. Come.” I don’t know where to touch her.

“I… I… I ran, he’s going to come, I…”

I steer her to the couch, and as we’re sitting down, what she fears happens. We can hear him. “Close the door, Ian. Ian, close
the door!”

“Mum…?” I look up and see David standing in the doorway. “It’s okay, David, there’s been an accident. Go back to sleep.” He
looks at me and then at Heather. “Did a car hit her?” he asks.

“Go to bed, David. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Where is she? Where is she? Where’s the bitch? I’ll teach her a—!”

“David, go to bed, it’s okay.”

“Duncan, calm down. Calm down, man. I’m coming. Step away from the door, I’m coming out. Yes, she’s here. Calm down. I’m coming
out.”

“Ian, no.”

He opens the door.

Duncan’s hand lunges inside. Ian struggles to keep him out. “Hang on, Duncan man, let’s talk outside.” The door closes again.
I don’t know if I should lock it. If I should call the police.

“He wants to kill me. He wants to kill me. He thinks I’m having an… oh, God…”

I don’t know where to start, what injury to attend to. The arm is probably broken. We need to go to the hospital. I try to
remember first aid, how to make a bandage, a sling.

“Heather, I’m going to look for a shirt or something. We need to support your arm.”

As I get up, she cries, “Don’t, please, don’t leave me alone. He’s going to come back; he wants to kill me. He thinks I’ve
been sleeping around, oh God…”

I sit down again, try to arrange her arm on the cushion. She whimpers.

“We should disinfect those cuts, Heather.” I think she’s going to need stitches, on the side of the eye for one.

The door opens. Heather jumps.

“He’s gone. Jesus, he’s plastered,” says Ian.

“We have to take her to the hospital. I think her arm’s broken, and the eye looks bad.”

“I’ll take her. Keep the door locked. Come on, Heather,” he says.

“I… I… he’s going to—”

“He’s gone, Heather.”

His voice has shards of irritation, impatience flicking off it.

“Heather, you need to go to the hospital,” I say.

I help her to her feet.

“Lock the door,” Ian says.

I lock the door. I go into David’s room and find him sitting bolt upright on his bed. “It’s all right, David. It was an accident.”

“It’s Granny,” he says.

And absurdly, I find myself looking around the room as though she might be somewhere here.

“What about Granny?”

“She… she said Dad did something bad.”

I hold my breath.

“She said he killed his mum.”

My breath comes out sharp and fast, so sharp and fast it hurts my chest.

“No, David. That’s not true.”

“Granny said.”

“Granny didn’t mean it. The woman in the house wasn’t your father’s real mother, and your dad didn’t do anything, okay?”

“She said he burnt—”

“It’s not true, David. It was a horrible accident.”

“But Granny—”

“Sometimes grown-ups say things when they’re upset with another person that are very hurtful and are not true.”

“She said Dad was going to hell.”

“Listen, David, your father would never, ever, not in a zillion, gazillion, bazillion years kill anyone, never, ever, ever.”

He’s trying to believe it. He wants to believe it.

“Granny doesn’t like him.”

“No, she doesn’t. Sometimes grown-ups don’t get along, just like you and other children. You don’t like everybody, do you?”

“Yes. I mean no. But he likes you.”

“Yes.”

“And you like him.”

“Yes. And we both love you very, very much. Now time for bed. School tomorrow.”

“Mum, where’s Dad’s mum, his real mum?”

“She’s… I… I don’t know David. She went away when he was a baby.”

“Oh.”

“Good night, David.”

“She didn’t love Dad.”

I don’t know what to say to this.

“Good night, David. You’ll be tired tomorrow if you don’t go to sleep now.”

“Good night, Mum.”

I stand looking down at him until he opens his eyes and says, “You can go now, Mum. I’m okay.”

Ever since Ian’s been back, he’s been telling me to relax about David.

“It’s been yonkers now, Lindiwe; he’s okay. Check how he’s all over the place.”

In the first weeks I kept asking Ian, “Do you notice anything different about him?” and what I meant was, “Do you think he
is… does he act brain damaged to you?”

And Ian’s reply: “Yah, he’s a heck of a lot more lively. The lightie got sick, that’s all. It happens, Lindiwe. Shit, I got
a burst appendicitis when I was nine; I was this close to… the bitch just let me, wouldn’t take me to the doc… but that’s
another story.”

“He almost died, Ian.”

And I don’t say, “
I
almost let him die.”

The doctor says he’s fully recovered. I can relax. I
should
relax. But I still awaken sometimes at night, and I have to rush to his bed to check that he’s there, breathing, whole.

It took me four days to get hold of Ian. He took the first flight out.

“How’s he?” I heard behind me.

“He’s sleeping,” I said turning around, and something in me gave in, some pressure collapsed as he drew close to me. He cupped
my face in his hands, kissed me.

And it was Ian who called Bridgette, unknown to me. He invited her over to lunch. And finally I could tell her what I had
been agonizing about, ask her to forgive me for my coldness towards her, my wish to apportion blame, how Daddy was always
doing just that and—

“Oh, shut up, Lins,” she said, breaking through my words, “this is not a fricking confessional,” and her eyes were moist with
tears.

Ian was busy showing off his braaing techniques, using a cutout steel drum, to David who was sitting on a deck chair, laughing
with his friend Titus.

I looked at Bridgette.

It had been over a month since I had last seen her.

She was wearing a pair of jeans that were bunched at the waist with a red shiny belt. The green tank top hung off her body.

“Are you on a diet?” I asked her.

“Diet?” she said. “Since when have we Africans gone on diets?”

She was drinking a Zambezi, not looking at me when she spoke. I wish I had stopped then.

“But you’re not a true African. You’re a British African, haven’t you been listening to Mugabe? You guys come back, your culture
forgotten, importing all kinds of retrograde ideas.”

Bridgette should have laughed here and come back with a good retort, but she just kept looking out to where Ian and the boys
were.

“Anyway,” I went on, “it’s just that you’re looking so slim… ,” and that’s when our eyes found each other, Bridgette just
looking at me. She put her drink down.

“I’ll go and see what’s taking your man so long. I’m starving,” she said and left me alone on the veranda.

It’s about four in the morning when Ian returns.

“Shit,” he mutters, throwing the keys on the table.

I’m shocked by how tired he looks. The only thing I can think of saying is “Do you want something to eat?”

He looks at me like I’m completely nuts. “No,” he says, slumping down on the couch. “He was there waiting for us at the clinic.”