Norman Rush - Mortals

The increase in the guard dog population made walking out at night less tranquil. Many of the houses, maybe most of them, now had guard dogs and warning plaques on their front gates saying Tsaba Ntsa! Beware of the dog! Iris was trying to make herself heard above the howls of the dog they were currently irritating. She was saying something about South Africa.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it, how the South Africans cleverly got away with using the term unrest , as in unrest area —for a township that was actually going up in flames. All during apartheid an unrest area was a place that was actually in active revolt. There were lists of unrest areas in the paper.”

This nitpicking about the term unrest annoyed him, no doubt mainly because it was the sort of aperçu he was used to having her pick up from him. “There still are unrest areas,” Ray murmured blankly, caught in himself, in a grievance he could normally keep down. He was running through the panoply of ignorant experts he had to deal with on a regular basis, while he projected his deep interest in what they had to say, which was his lot. Usually he was fine with his lot. But there was a rub, if he let himself feel it. One of the tensions he was supposed to live with unflinchingly was knowing more than he could show, just in general. His lot was to play the intelligent but naive guy always ready to receive the wonderful opinionettes and insights and whathaveyou blowing in from the permanent passing parade of blowhards and parvenu commentators on everything. That was his role and gosiame, he accepted it. That was how it worked. That was what worked. While in point of fact he knew astonishing things, he knew genuine secrets. He possessed astonishing information. It was his. Just off the top of his head, there was the way, for example, the South African Defence Force had been selling field radios, hoppers, they were called, to every army south of the Sahara, that contained a secret feature that let the South Africans listen in to everything that got transmitted by every army in every action or maneuver undertaken over the last twenty years, radios sold specifically because they were guaranteed secure with their waveband-hopping capacity, which was why they were called hoppers. Every army was an open book to them and it would be interesting to see just how quickly the ANC would decide to let everybody in on this naughty little truth when they got control of the SADF, which would be soon.

He got sympathy over this recurrent experience now and then, but always when he needed it, from Iris. She knew what he was, who he was, and when he overdid his dumb act, she let him know it. He knew how much she would love it if he just once jumped out of his role and wiped up the floor with a member of the cretinate, just once.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

They had come to the point at which they often turned to go back home, at a crossroads, and outside a house Iris liked to consider mysterious. The property the house sat in was walled and gated, but the solid wooden gates were often left ajar, revealing a front drive flanked on one side by a tall, heeling hedge. The main house was small and gave only intermittent evidence of occupation. It was his lot to share in her puzzlement and speculation about the house, but in fact he knew all about it. This was a safe house paid for by the Libyans but used on a courtesy basis by an assortment of freelance thugs who did odd jobs for Zimbabwe and a couple of other countries. The house was wired. The groundsman was in the pay of the agency and provided service on the surveillance systems. There was an old story around regarding a body buried on the premises, which he doubted was true.

They had decided, without discussion, to prolong their stroll. They crossed the main road and turned north toward the embassy compounds.

They were being too silent. He didn’t know what to do. A thing Iris was afraid of, she had told him a number of times, was becoming part of one of the married couples you see in restaurants, saying nothing to each other the whole time they ate their dinners. The last time they had eaten out, at the Carat, he had pointed out to her that that particular fear was a good example of fearing a thing that had never shown the least sign of happening with them. They always had plenty to say. Although it was true he sort of mobilized himself when they went out to eat. In fact he would probably like to collapse into dull silence more than he was able to, in restaurants.

“Wait,” Iris said, and he thought he could detect a trace of relief in her voice at finding a topic.

“Wait, I bet I can tell you something amusing you don’t know about one of our neighbors. You don’t know everything. Want to bet?”

It was utterly clear to him. Right now the main effort of his life had to be to become again what he had been to her before, although before exactly what was still a question. But everything else on his plate had to be secondary. And that was what he had to do, and would do with all he had, so they could have their life again. And anything that stood in the way of that would be leveled. He felt clear.

She said, “A certain dispute? Heard anything about a certain dispute in a house one street up from us?”

“I’m glad I didn’t bet,” he said.

“A dispute between Hedda and what’s his name at DVS? I’m surprised if you don’t know about this, in certain circles it’s a famous incident. Among women, for example, if women are a circle. Are we?”

“Hedda and Maret,” he said. “Maret is the head of the Dutch Volunteer Service, he’s the director. Yes, Maret … so?”

“Maret, Maret, Maret . I know you disapprove of me when I forget names. Maret , yes. Anyway, Maret went to a DVS conference in Nairobi without Hedda. I think the Nordic volunteer services are rather strict about that, leaving the wives out of it on the theory evidently that the conferences shouldn’t be fun. They try to hold them in cheap hotels, too. But there was a mix-up about bookings and the conference was transferred to a very nice place on the Indian Ocean, Bamburi Beach Hotel, a very euro spot just above Mombasa, euro in that there is topless swimming going on and that sort of thing. I think there has been rather a plethora of conferences lately to which she has not been invited. So that’s the background. And while he’s away she gets a call from him informing her of his good luck about the change of venue to Bamburi Beach. He raves about the cuisine. They are having parrot fish for lunch that day. Apparently this is a true departure from the rough venues, the rundown convents out in the bush and so on, that he’s used to. So anyway while he was away she decided to do some renovating. She painted the breakfast nook or something. And Maret was always grumbling about the living room furniture, which dated back to the sixties and had probably been comfortable at one time but was becoming shall we say very ratty, so Hedda wanted to do something about that. It was regular overstuffed South African bourgeois seating. For some reason DVS doesn’t get staff furnishings from the government. They have to go out and buy it. But Hedda was in a bind because there was no money in the budget that year for amenities like decent furniture. But she got an idea. She decided to replace the living room suite with furniture made in a workshop that DVS sponsors, the one out in Mmadinare. I guess she was tired of the old furniture, too. She had to throw madras prints over the sofa and stuffed chairs, had to keep straightening them out incessantly and they still looked like hell, so she was tired of that. You know the furniture workshop they have in Mmadinare, where they teach people to make benches and refectory tables and other furniture, all out of wood? It’s very severe, very Lutheran. The sofas are more like pews than sofas but they do have these pads you can tie to them with straps, you know the place, right?”