S. Naudé - The Alphabet of Birds

So, over Christmas it was just them: she and Beauty and Nungi. They were in the Karoo, having rented a small cottage on a farm. The farmer and his wife cast each other furtive glances, trying to figure out the relationship between the three of them. Ondien cooked a goose that she had bought from the farmer’s wife, stroking the scar on her upper arm absent-mindedly as she stood in front of the stove.

‘You are now my family,’ Ondien said later, as they were eating, and lifted her glass.

A moment after she said it, she sensed that her tone had been misplaced. It was as if the false note reverberated for the rest of the evening, as if it made the air ebb and flow all night. One moment they were strangers to each other, the next sisters, then strangers again. Ondien kept rubbing the scar on her arm and smiling. She slipped out at one point and brought back some painkillers for Beauty. The evening did not stay still for a moment. One moment she was too close to Beauty, then too far away again. Nungi held out her greasy plate for more goose meat, then pulled it back, resentful that it was Ondien who was dishing it out. Her two companions drank so much wine that they fell asleep on the couches. From where Ondien was sitting on the rug, they looked like cadavers.

‘My sisters,’ she said out loud, and her voice was strange. The red wine had made her melancholy. She was alone in this morgue, and outside the Karoo sky was clear and merciless. She took the pain pills that Beauty had left on the coffee table.

‘You’re only the second white woman to stay in my guest house,’ Mrs Nyathi says on the veranda after dinner. The dachshunds, it turns out, have bladder-control problems. The two lie leaking on the chairs, leaving behind damp spots that filter through to the buttocks of unsuspecting sitters. While nodding at Mrs Nyathi, Ondien suddenly feels the damp warmth below her. She glares at the two dogs on Mrs Nyathi’s lap.

‘The other woman was a nurse who studied here at the college,’ Mrs Nyathi continues. She puffs on her cigar. ‘Things aren’t looking good for her. She lives near the lodge where you’re playing after your Lesotho gig.’

Gig falls strangely on Mrs Nyathi’s tongue, too youthful a word for her. Ondien cannot get her head around this woman. But she imagines the confusion is mutual.

‘Who is my predecessor and why aren’t things looking good for her?’

‘She’s gone back to Venterstad. She does things that white women don’t normally do. She cares for the sick and for orphans. Near that lodge. But that’s a different story.’

Mrs Nyathi lets the smoke hang between them. She says nothing more.

The dampness spreads across Ondien’s backside. The isolation in Vloedspruit and Mrs Nyathi’s hypnotic presence are making her want to stay. She is in no mood for the gig in Lesotho or the one following that. Somewhere in the godforsaken Eastern Cape, she told Mrs Nyathi last night, there is an extravagant private game reserve, Twilight Lodge, where VNLS has been invited to play in two weeks’ time. The Lesotho gig is a minor distraction along the way. One of Ondien’s former professors at the School of Oriental and African Studies was a middle-aged ex-South African who had, after years of exile, got stuck in London, but had long-standing, albeit fading, ANC connections. He had recommended her. A national soccer team staying at the lodge after the World Cup would apparently have to be entertained. And there would be plenty of VIPs, of that she was assured repeatedly and emphatically. Government people, industrialists, Black Economic Empowerment types, of course, and celebrities. The invitation impressed on her what an immense privilege it was to be performing at this historic occasion. A token white is required, she suspects, to put European soccer players at ease, but one picked by hand — someone with the right credentials, who embraces Africa with the appropriate conspicuousness. She smiles wryly. She does not think her hosts have the vaguest clue what is awaiting them.

Mrs Nyathi lifts Trixie, rubs her own nose back and forth over the dog’s muzzle.

‘Yes,’ she says and screws up her face, ‘you and Mixie are Mommy’s toys, hey? Here for me to play with.’

Trixie wriggles. Mrs Nyathi lets her settle in next to Mixie on the knee blanket.

Beauty joins Ondien and Mrs Nyathi. She sits down painfully, aware of each joint. Mixie jumps off Mrs Nyathi’s lap and stands up, paws against Beauty’s leg. She picks up the little body, presses it to her stomach. From Mrs Nyathi’s lap, Trixie licks the cigar balanced on the rim of the ashtray. She pulls her nose back sharply. Mrs Nyathi puckers her lips, lifts the dog so that it may lick her mouth.

Ondien leans over to Beauty in the half-dark and touches her hand. Beauty pulls back.

‘Shall I get some pills?’ Ondien whispers.

Beauty shakes her head.

Music becomes audible inside, spreading like light across the veranda. It is Nungi, playing one of Mrs Nyathi’s records. Youssou N’Dour, the little prince from Dakar. Nungi appears in the door, belting it out with the music. She tries to get Ondien to dance with her. Ondien first resists, then surrenders. She sees how Mrs Nyathi’s fingers and fat little toes start moving, sees how the older woman wishes it were she that Nungi was sweeping across the veranda like a lover.

At night, when she struggles to sleep, Ondien sits up in her bed for long periods. Tonight is such a night. The voice of Youssou N’Dour is still ringing in her head. She tries to bend it into something else, but it evades her attempts. Yet another storm is building up outside her bedroom window. She touches the satin draping. Their stay here feels so provisional — a trip that has failed to start properly, that cannot get going. On reflection, she realises it is in fact a trip that has lost momentum. There is almost nowhere left to go.

Ondien’s suitcases are being packed by the maids. Mrs Nyathi insisted. They are swift and able, their movements between cupboard and four-poster stirring the drapings. (‘A packing and unpacking service is part of what we offer,’ said Mrs Nyathi. Nobody offered to pack for Beauty and Nungi.)

Ondien walks through the house with her kwela whistle, abstractedly testing tunes. She sinks into the low-slung sofa on the veranda. The whistle drops from her mouth. Bones, small soft bones, crunch below her. She jumps up, picking up the little dog (is it Trixie or Mixie?). The eyes are open, but there is no sound.

‘Whimper, little dog, or at least move!’

Beauty is standing in the door, hand over her mouth. Ondien turns away. She holds the dog under its stomach, feeling the little bones one by one. An interrupted trickle of urine is dripping on the sofa. She gingerly puts the dachshund down on the floor. From the village the noise of soccer applause is rising. For a brief moment everything looks fine, but no — the hind body is dragging uselessly. Trixie whimpers softly once and then lies down.

Ondien wants to take Beauty inside, but Mrs Nyathi has appeared in the door. She looks at the little dog, lying in a puddle of urine.

‘Mrs Nyathi, I’m so sorry, I didn’t notice …’

Mrs Nyathi picks up the dachshund, looks it in the eye. ‘Trixie?’ she asks, as if the dog can answer.

Trixie is hanging limply, not reacting to anything. But there is still breath. A paw is quivering. Mrs Nyathi shrugs her shoulders. Ondien cannot gauge her expression.

‘To sing for her won’t help,’ Mrs Nyathi says, as if Ondien had offered. ‘I’ve seen death in that hospital where I used to work. This one won’t make it.’

Beauty wants to hold Trixie, but Mrs Nyathi keeps the dog out of her reach. She climbs down the steps to the veranda and disappears around the corner of the house.