Norman Rush - Whites

It might be a good idea to eat. He was getting that feeling of elevation in the top of his head, from the wine. The top of his head felt like it was made out of something lighter than bone, something like pumice. He went to the window. Christie was having dinner. His kitchen light was on.

What were Christie’s secrets? He was an elderly Brit, a bachelor or widower. It was no fun living next door to Christie, with only a wire fence between them and both houses on narrow plots. Frank thought of the time he and Ione had gotten into a mood, acting stupid, slamming doors on each other. One of them had slammed a door on the other by accident. Then the other had taken the next opportunity to slam a door back. It had escalated into slamming doors all over the house, a contest, and both of them laughing like crazy. So it had been slightly hysterical. It had been leading to sex. But then, naturally, the next thing they knew Christie had come out of his house to stand at the fence and stare in their direction, a gaze as blank and pitiless as the Sphinx, or as the sun, rather. Christie was left over from the days when Botswana was Bechuanaland. He was with the railway. He had applied for Botswana citizenship, which was tough to get these days. Probably Christie hated the idea of leaving the perfect medium for inflicting his religion on people to his last gasp. Christie’s religion was restriction: no drinking, no smoking, no sex, no dancing. That was the real business of the Scripture Union, which Christie was upper echelon in. Christie was at home too much, was part of the problem. He even held prayer meetings at home, endless events. Christie seemed to hate Ione and vice versa. There was serious bad blood there. Christie had his work cut out for him if he thought he was going to make a dent in whoring. Whoring was poor little bush babies coming to town to work as domestics and lining up outside the Holiday Inn at night to better themselves. It was upward mobility. Visiting Boers were good customers. Ione liked to use the stereo. When he’d mentioned lately that when she played it she seemed to be keeping it very low, they’d both realized it was an unconscious adaptation to Christie, their monitor.

Frank could eat or he could take aspirin and drink some more. He drifted toward the kitchen. Tomorrow was Saturday. The sound was back. There was really someone at the kitchen door. There was deliberate tapping, very soft. Sometimes Batswana came to the door selling soapstone carvings or asking for odd jobs, and their knock was so tentative you’d think it was your imagination.

Frank moved quietly through the dark kitchen. He lifted the curtain on the window over the sink. By leaning close to the glass he should be able to make out who it was on the back stoop, once his eyes adjusted.

It was a woman, a young woman. He could see the whole outline of her skull, so she was African. She stood out against the white mass of the big cistern at the corner of the house. Her breasts were developed. She was standing close to the door in a furtive way. He reached for the outdoor-light switch, but checked himself. What was happening?

The key to the kitchen door was in a saucer in the cupboard. If he put the outdoor light on it would advertise her presence to all and sundry. She didn’t want that, was his guess. This could turn out to be innocent. He was ashamed. There was no key. He calmed down. Was she still there? She must have seen his face at the window. He was feeling for the key on the wrong shelf. The keys should be kept on a hook so this would never happen again. He had the key. He set it down. He could still stop. He retied the sash of his bathrobe.

It was science the way he got the key into the lock in the dark and swung the door open silently, lifting it on its hinges. Before he could say anything, she had slipped into the kitchen, holding one hand open behind her to catch the screen door as it came shut. He closed the door. This was all so fast. He was having misgivings. They stood facing one another. He could hear that her breathing was agitated. He needed a good look at her. He pressed his hair down behind his ears. He was overheated. So was she. Somebody had to say something.

He turned the ceiling light on. For once, he was grateful that only one of the two fluorescent tubes was working. The less light and sound the better. She was beautiful. He studied her in the grayish light. She was beautiful.

She was looking down. Somebody had to talk. She was wearing a dark red wraparound skirt and a faded blue T-shirt open along one shoulder seam. She was barefoot. She would have some kind of pretext worked out. What do you want? was what he wanted to say, but he had to fight back his Spanish. He was almost saying Que quiere? He knew some Setswana, more than the average American expatriate. But his Spanish was welling up. She was still looking down. This was something that happened, but in bars and around bars … parking lots. How old was she? At fifteen you were a woman, or fourteen, or less. The crown of her head came about to his chin. She wasn’t small. She had to be at least sixteen.

She looked at him. She was familiar. He searched his memory. He had seen her around. Every property in the extension had a back house, for servants’ quarters. The back houses were meant for one family apiece, but the reality was that each house was like the Volkswagen with a thousand clowns coming out of it … endless children, relatives, transients. He associated her with the place three houses down. She lived in quarters. He had noticed her. She was a beauty. They were a family of daughters. The mother was a hawker. There were several daughters. This girl was the eldest.

She wasn’t saying anything. What was he supposed to do? He concentrated. He had to get her name. He thought, Asking a name must be O mang? because O kae? means “You are where?” and mang means “who.” People said O kae? when they met, all the time. The correct reply was ke teng , meaning “I am here.” He would try O mang?

“ O mang? ” he asked. His mouth was dry.

“ Dumela, rra ,” she said. He had forgotten to greet her.

“Ah, sorry,” he said. “ Dumela. O mang? ”

“ Ke Moitse ,” she answered, barely audibly, but clearly understanding him.

“ Ke Rra Napier ,” he said, pleased with himself. But where was her mother? He had overlooked something even more important than getting her name. What was the word for mother? Rra meant Mr. or man. Mother might be the same as the word for Mrs. or woman, which was mma . His bathrobe was embarrassing.

He said, “ O kae mma? ”

Now she looked baffled. “ Ke teng, rra ,” she answered uncertainly.

She didn’t get it. This was a mess. It was like knitting with oars. He would have to go pidgin.

He was urgent. “ Mma … is … kae? … your mma. ” He pointed at Moitse for emphasis. Still she didn’t understand.

Then he remembered: he had to say Mma Moitse to show who he meant. That was the way it was done. People identified themselves as the father or mother of so and so, their firstborns. He had to assume Moitse was the firstborn.

“ Mma Moitse o kae? ” he asked.

She understood. “ Ehé, rra. ” He was elated. Ehé meant “yes,” “O.K.,” “now I see,” and so on. She continued. “My mother is to hospital. She is coming this side Tuesday week.” She was full of surprises. She knew English. She probably liked it that he had tried Setswana. So far he was being a fool. But the coast was clear. It was a relief and a plus that she could speak English.

She had perfect skin. She was looking at him with a half-smile, her chin held high. She said, “It is just because the mistress is gone from you, and Dimakatso gone as well. So you must say I may cook these days.” But she was making no effort to convince him that this was a genuine proposition. She was trying to look brazen. Her expression was lascivious, but a child’s version of lasciviousness, her eyelids half-lowered, her smile studied. She was obviously a spy. She had watched for Ione to be away, and then Dimakatso. She had been watching the house like a little spy.