Nadine Gordimer - Loot and Other Stories

— Can I walk round your farm? — She caught herself out in time and did not add the assumption: No mines? This was something not for flippancy brought about by a full stomach and whisky at an unaccustomed time of day.

— You don’t want some tea? — To compensate for the missing coffee. — I’ll take you. You know I have horses — of course, you come from England, all the English like horses.—

So together they passed the cattle sheds and the old stonewalled sheep pen (there must once have been another kind of farmer on this land, with his memories of the Cotswolds, and a white-verandahed farmstead she had had in mind). Neat pyramids of cow dung dried and cut in squares for fuel were milestones where small dogs of their own unnamed breed lifted jaunty legs as they panted along. He pointed to the field of chili peppers ready for harvesting; she was intrigued — They’re red earrings hanging! — A flung arm showed his cattle grazing far off; there was maize stretching away as a head-high forest. — Three thousand bags this year, that’s not bad … but this was many hectares planted, you have to have the land to get a commercial crop like that … This place was nothing. Weeds and rubbish. Like the other.—

This was the moment for her anecdote. My grandfather owned that mine he lived there —the present moment would grow over the past safely, organically, as the maize and blood-bright peppers and the russet and white pattern of the distant cattle repossessed the land that was colonial booty. But the moment had passed; they’d come to a paddock where three horses seemed, as horses do when they are approached, to be waiting. She said (of course) — They’re beautiful. — And added — Specially the bay.—

He sucked his lips in round his tongue, used to making decisions for others. — Would you like to ride. She’s a nice animal. The quiet one.—

— Oh I’d love to! Even one that isn’t too quiet! I used to ride a lot, no chance now.—

— You see. I know the English.—

— You ride?—

He called out and a young boy appeared, was given an instruction.

— I also used to, when I was a kid, on the back of the old horse that pulled my father’s cart. But now, no, I bought these for my son. He’s in the States. His saddle’s here.—

The boy saddled the bay and her host gave her a leg up to mount the tall horse. The forgotten sensation of co-operative power with the creature carrying her came immediately she set off, the old pleasure in the air swiftly parting against her face. Unexpectedly, he did not give any directions or instructions of where she might ride; she galloped, free, alongside the maize fields disturbing minute birds like clouds of insects, she rode over the open ground towards the cattle, waved at the herdboy squatting with them, she turned back towards the city-slicker house and swerved away to where she made out what must be him, although something about the figure was different, not only from the parliamentary-suited one but also from the one in mufti of sports shirt and pants. There was another man with him and as she neared she found they were bent over some sort of pump installation. Now, up on the horse, she was beside them. He was different; he had stripped off his shirt, hands stained with grease and dirt he rose bare-breasted. Nothing significant in a man naked to the waist, as there is when every magazine cover uses the evident evocation of bare-breasted females. But perhaps because this man was always so fully dressed in the abstract as well as the material sense, what was revealed couldn’t have been guessed at. This torso seemed to belong to someone other in the gleaming beauty, sweat-painted, of perfectly formed muscle, the double path below pectorals, left and right, of smooth ribbing beneath lithe skin. Black. Simply black. No mark, no hairy pelt. Who is this man?

— Every time I’m here, it’s some problem. Pump packed up.—

She laughed. (The problems of the maison secondaire .) She was sweating, too, her forehead gleamed hot and rosy.

— The ride was good?—

Wonderful, wonderful.

He took a shower. She was directed to what must be the wife’s bathroom; a pink comb and an empty bath-oil bottle on the shelf, a gown hanging in folds like a crestfallen face.

They were having a farewell whisky on the patio — in the itinerary of her day’s treat — about to leave for the long drive back when the woman in charge of the house burst out flustered. A rising tempo of exchange began between her and the host; he followed her into the house with a gesture of exasperation. But when he came back to the patio he was his composed self, distanced from whatever this problem was.

— The man’s been drinking. My driver. They’re having a big party there, all the time.—

— Drunk?—

— He can’t drive.—

Not a tragedy. She spread her hands and cocked her head cheerfully. She was used to all sorts of necessary changes of arrangements, in the course of working journeys with her Administrator. — We can drive — you and I.—

— In the dark, at night. It’s not safe.—

— Oh I don’t mind, we’ll be all right, sharing, I’ve often driven in rural areas at night.—

— Not the driving. It’s not safe.—

Not safe. Ah yes, the drunk’s not just a driver, he’s a bodyguard.

— He’ll be back in his head in the morning. We can go very early. Is that okay for you? Sunday tomorrow — you don’t have some appointment? I’m sorry.—

— Well I suppose … nothing else for it. I mean if there’s risk, for you. No, I don’t have anything particular planned … Nobody expects me. Nobody sits up for me. — She smiled to assuage his concern. — That’s freedom.—

— I appreciate your attitude. Many women …—

The woman in charge of the house produced a tray with cold meats and bread and they drank whisky, talking ‘development shop’ in an indiscreet way, criticising, analysing this individual and that as they had never done (he would never allow himself to?) without the whisky, anywhere but hidden safe in the house that must have been a lit-up fantasy in ancient total darkness surrounding them. Not only the driver-bodyguard had made his escape, that night, from the restraints of official duty.

When both began to yawn uncontrollably he found it appropriate (every situation has its protocol) to rise from the sofa’s fake leopard-skin velvet and decide — I’ll show you where you can sleep.—

In the rhythm of their progress along a passage she told him — What a lovely day, and the ride — and he put an arm up around her shoulder, rather the gesture of a man towards a male friend.

There was no sign of whose room it was she was left in: the character of the misplaced Californian house that there were rooms for purposes that did not match needs where it had been set down. It seemed to have been intended as some sort of spacious dressing-room, adjunct to other quarters behind a second door which was blocked by a bed. There were blankets and pillows, no sheets. But she had no provision of pyjamas, nightthings, either; she was sitting on the bed a moment, contemplating this, the door to the passage still open, when he looked in to see if she wanted anything. She stood up to reassure, no, no, I’m fine, moving a few steps towards him to demonstrate self-sufficiency. He met her and whether she presented herself first or his arms went around her first wasn’t clear; the embrace became long, as if occupying one of his silences. His mouth moved from hers over her face and neck and his hands took her breasts. When they were naked he left her briefly without a word from either and came back into the room with the condom concealed in his hand as he might carry a ballot paper in a parliamentary process. On the bed that seemed to belong to nobody the torso revealed beside the faulty irrigation pump came down on her fulfilling all its promise. Sometime between the pleasuring, this man of few words, in his new guise, spoke her name as a lover does. — Roberta … Like a boy’s name, why did they call you … — Because they’d wanted a boy. — And after a moment, a breathy half-laugh against his neck — Why’d they call you Gladwell. Same thing? Wanted you to be something else. Make you a white Englishman.—