When Hoopoes Go to Heaven (16 page)

He knew that Mama had sent him out because her customer was about to tell her something confidential that nobody else must hear. Sometimes she and Baba sent him out when they wanted to talk
about something that was too grown up for him, but that wasn’t the case now. He knew about Virgins, he’d seen them on TV, though not in real life: they never came to any airport
he’d been to. Glad that Queenie Zikalala had passed the test to get a job serving meals on an aeroplane – at least up until the time she married the king – he was proud that the
girl’s mother knew Mama was the best person to come to for a cake to celebrate it. But Mrs Zikalala didn’t look like the kind of person Mama could persuade to order a cake that was
expensive.

Unsure exactly where he felt like going, Benedict perched on the step outside the kitchen door, thinking that he might need to put on his shoes. Bits of what Mrs Zikalala was saying to Mama
drifted through the kitchen. ‘Wide open, Mrs Tungaraza, wide apart.’ His sisters had gone down to the other house to see Innocence, and his brothers were playing there with Fortune.
‘Of course there’s an audience in the stadium, Mrs Tungaraza, everybody must see, they must know.’ The afternoon was overcast and windy, so he didn’t feel like sitting in
the garden or going up to the dam. No, he wasn’t going to need his shoes. He stood up from the step. Perhaps it was one of those Friday afternoons when Uncle Enock could get away from the
clinic early.

But Uncle Enock’s bakkie wasn’t in the garage. Auntie Rachel was sitting on the lounge carpet, helping the youngest Mazibukos to build something out of Lego. Standing up and putting
an arm round Benedict, she moved to the couch to sit with him.

‘Auntie Rachel, have you read this?’ He showed her his book.

‘
Ag
no, man, Benedict, don’t tell me that’s what you’re reading!’

‘You know it?’

‘
Ja
, we did it at school. Centuries ago!’

‘I’ve been trying to read it but it’s too hard for me.’

‘
Ja.
’ She flipped through a few pages. ‘This would be too hard even for Vusi.’ Hearing that it was too difficult for such a big boy made Benedict feel better.
‘You’ll never manage this. I can tell you the story if you like.’

‘Really?’

‘Sure, there’s not much to it. A real boys’ adventure. These three white guys go in search of gold and diamonds – oh, and they’re also looking for the brother of
one of them who’s gone missing. On the way they kill some black people, including a black woman who’s a witch. I seem to remember there’s only one other woman in the story, a
nurse who’s also black. One of the white guys likes her, but it’s not allowed. Something about it not being natural for the sun and the darkness to get together. Can you believe it?
Anyway, the white guys have a lot of manly adventures, and eventually they come back with the treasure and the missing brother. And that’s it. The end.’

‘They followed a map to the treasure,’ said Benedict, taking the book from her and finding the right page.

Auntie Rachel looked at the map. ‘Hey, I remember this! We used to do this!’ She turned the book so that the map was upside down. ‘What’s it look like?’

Benedict examined it carefully. It looked like the map, only upside down. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘The map?’

‘
Ag
no, man. Forget it’s a map.’

Benedict tried again. After a few seconds he saw it. ‘
Eh!
It’s a face! These are the eyes,’ he pointed to the circles labelled
Sheba’s Breasts
, ‘and
this is the smile.’ His finger traced the semi-circle labelled
koppie.

Auntie Rachel laughed. ‘We used to see two breasts here,’ she indicated Sheba’s breasts, ‘and this little triangle of mountains down here was...
Ag
, never mind,
you too young for this!’

‘Is it in South Africa, Auntie Rachel?’

She gave him an odd look. ‘What?’

‘The mine. King Solomon’s mine.’

‘
Ag
, it’s not real, hey? It’s a made-up story.’

‘No, but it says here
koppie
and
kraal.
Those are words from South Africa.’

‘And it says here
Sheba’s Breasts.
’ She tapped at the map. ‘Sheba’s Breasts are just down the road, but there’s no treasure cave here! It’s a
made-up story.’

Benedict couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Sheba’s Breasts are down the road?’

‘
Ja
, didn’t you know?’ Benedict shook his head. ‘Just after the Malagwane Hill, down there on the right.’

‘
Eh!
’

‘
Ag
, don’t come with your
eh
, Benedict, it’s not real! Don’t you think a thousand men have gone looking for King Solomon’s mines since this book? And why do
you think Rider Haggard wrote it? Thousands had already gone looking.’

‘But a Portuguese somebody found it!’ Benedict tapped at the book. ‘He’s the one who drew the map. Baba says Portuguese people used to live next door to Swaziland in
Mozambique—’

‘
Ja
, they colonised it. And
ja
, some of them came here in the gold rush hoping to get rich. But no one has ever found the treasure in that book and no one ever will, because
it doesn’t exist!’

‘But—’

‘No buts!’ Auntie Rachel stood up, pulling him up with her. ‘Come down the hill with me and see if the chickens need feeding, then we’ll have some milk. Okay?’

Calling to Mavis to keep an eye on the little ones, she led him out through the side door, next to the big added-on room where Grace and Faith were listening to music with Innocence, and through
the garden where Moses and Daniel were playing a running and chasing game with Fortune. Benedict wasn’t sure Auntie Rachel was right about the treasure being just a made-up story. Things that
seemed just pretend could sometimes be real.

They fed the chickens together, Auntie Rachel laughing as she threw handfuls of seed close to Benedict’s bare feet, and Benedict squealing and giggling as he danced around the chickens,
trying to avoid being pecked by their beaks and tickled by their feathers. Then when one of the dairy workers came to her with a problem, Auntie Rachel sent Benedict back up to the house by himself
to ask Lungi to give him a glass of milk.

Walking up the driveway and waving to his brothers and Fortune as he passed the garden, he wondered what the dairy worker’s problem was. He hoped it wasn’t something about Petros
being sick and needing more medicine. It wasn’t nice to be sick, he knew that himself. He didn’t know what dementia was, but it must be something to do with a person’s throat or
chest. Petros had had his cough for so long! Auntie Rachel’s medicine didn’t seem to be helping him much.

Or maybe the dairy worker wanted to complain about Mrs Levine telling him what to do, even though it wasn’t her farm.

He found Mrs Levine in the narrow strip of garden that was near the Mazibukos’ front door, opposite the garage. She was on her knees with a spade, filling a large pot with soil. Benedict
had never seen a
Mzungu
doing gardening work before:
Wazungu
usually just watched while gardeners like Samson did the work for them. Perhaps he should offer to help her.

‘Hello, Mrs Levine.’

‘Hi there, Bennie.’ She looked up at him and smiled. Over her clothes she wore an apron that was messy with soil and mud.

He didn’t like the short cut she made with his name: it made him sound smaller than he was. But he didn’t say. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘
Ja
, just pass me the ice-cream, hey?’

Benedict looked around for an ice-cream, but couldn’t see one anywhere. Mrs Levine was now busy tipping soil from a bag into a long pot that was shaped like two shoeboxes end to end.

‘Um... What does it look like? The ice-cream.’

She didn’t look up from what she was doing. ‘
Ag
, the pink and green, little specks of white.’

Benedict knew that meant strawberry and peppermint, with a bit of vanilla. He looked again. He could see a box of cigarettes, a box of matches, a cell-phone, some plants growing in black
plastic... But there wasn’t any ice-cream anywhere. Wherever it was, it must surely be melting.

‘I can’t see it, Mrs Levine!’

She had stopped emptying soil into the long pot, and was levelling it off with her hands. She looked up now. ‘There! Just next to you!’ She pointed with a finger covered in dirt to
somewhere near Benedict’s feet.

But there really wasn’t any ice-cream there.

With a loud tutting sound, Mrs Levine walked on her knees to where Benedict stood, and lifted a small bush with its roots encased tightly in a black plastic bag. ‘
This
is an
ice-cream bush, hey?’

His face feeling suddenly hot at his mistake, Benedict helped her to tear the black plastic away from around the roots of the bush. She was planting it in the soil of the big pot, and Benedict
was admiring the different colours of its small, pretty leaves, when the cell-phone on the grass next to the box of cigarettes started ringing.

Mrs Levine looked at her hands, and then at Benedict’s, which he had wiped clean on his shorts even though Mama kept telling him not to.

‘Should I bring it?’ he asked.

‘
Ag
, just look who it is for me.’

Benedict squatted down and looked at the phone’s small screen. ‘It says Solly.’

‘
Hah!
’ she said angrily. ‘Solly can bloody
whistle!
’

The phone continued to ring. Ignoring it, Mrs Levine picked up the spade and used it as a pointer in the same way that Benedict had used his ruler with his bilharzia poster. ‘Those little
ones there, Bennie. And the other two smaller ones behind.’

Benedict picked up those plants and brought them to her. All the time, the phone continued to ring. Benedict felt uncomfortable. Mama would never not answer her phone! What if it was business?
What if somebody needed help?

He helped Mrs Levine to fill the long pot with the little plants, and at last the phone was quiet. When they were done, he helped her to put the pots of plants where she thought they’d be
best.

Then Mrs Levine reached into the large pocket on the front of the skirt part of her apron, and brought out a small sign painted on an oblong of wood. The sign had an ice-cream-stick stand, which
she pushed into the soil of the long pot.
Bees and butterflies welcome
, it said.

‘
Eh!
’ said Benedict, who had never seen anything like it. ‘Don’t they know they’re welcome?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Mrs Levine, dusting the soil off her hands and reaching for her cigarettes, ‘sometimes it’s nice to be told.’ She lit a cigarette, sucking hard on
it. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, exhaling, ‘people need to make it clear that you’re wanted.’

Her mouth settled into a tight, straight line.

Benedict and Titi went with Mama on Sunday afternoon, Titi so that she could spend time with Henry, Benedict so that Henry could show him Sheba’s Breasts.

Henry drove, on account of Mama not being supposed to have passengers until she got her licence, and they made their way slowly down the Malagwane Hill towards the tall distant mountains,
passing the beautiful green folds of the high hills on the left before they turned onto the old road through the Ezulwini Valley.

‘My friend!’ said Henry, eyeing Benedict in his rear-view mirror. ‘Your head is going to twist off your neck! I told you there’s no need to keep looking. The place
we’re going has the perfect view.’

‘You can sit still,’ said Titi from the seat beside him, patting his knee. ‘Henry will show us.’

‘Why don’t you sing for us, my friend? Your mother needs cheering.’

In the seat next to Henry, Mama said nothing.

‘Sorry Uncle went away, Auntie.’

‘The week will go fast, Angel. Pius will be back with you in no time at all.’

Mama sighed.

Benedict tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t. If he and his brothers and sisters hadn’t come to live with Mama and Baba, Baba would soon be retiring from his university
job in Dar es Salaam instead of having to work hard as a consultant in different countries on account of consultants being paid much more money. Mama and Baba would be relaxing at home together
over the weekend instead of Baba driving to Johannesburg after church and Mama staying behind with the children for the whole entire week.

But Mama was sad about more than just Baba being away, Benedict knew that. Just as he had expected, Mrs Zikalala had not ordered an expensive cake. A plain vanilla sponge baked in Mama’s
tin that had the shape of a heart, it had been boring for Mama to decorate, and it had ended up just plain ugly to look at. White. Pure white. And on top of the smooth white icing on the top, Mama
had had to pipe Queenie’s name in more white and surround it with a sprinkling of tiny white flowers.
Eh!
At least if there had been two layers, Mama could have put icing in a lovely
colour between them. But no, Mrs Zikalala had wanted one layer only.

When Mrs Zikalala had collected the cake on Saturday afternoon she had been very excited, opening her mouth and flashing her tongue from side to side, ululating loudly enough to make the cows
lift their heads from their drinking at the dam. Mama had tried hard to feel happy about that, and she had told anybody who would listen that the most important thing in any business was for the
customer to be happy. But that evening she had gone down to the other house to get a headache tablet from Auntie Rachel.

Henry adjusted his rear-view mirror to get a better look at Titi. ‘A song, Titi! Please!’

Titi looked down, smiling into her lap. Quietly, she began to hum one of the hymns they had sung at Mater Dolorosa that morning.

Two bars into the hymn, Henry readjusted his mirror, said a loud
eish!
and began to slow down and pull off the road. Two motorbikes then five, six, seven, eight big black cars with dark
windows sped past them, their lights flashing and sirens blaring.

‘
Eh!
Where is he going in such a hurry on a Sunday afternoon?’ asked Mama.

Henry laughed. ‘Anywhere he wants to go!’