Nadine Gordimer - None to Accompany Me

— It’s not closed down, then.—

She lifted her chin and blinked wearily. — In the process of. I didn’t see much sign of life.—

— Did anyone say what arrangements are made when inmates are released, who is it that brings them back here? Is it the government agencies who sent them to infiltrate — or are they just being abandoned, that sort of outfit wants to pretend it never existed, these days. They seem to get here anyway, ready to be used against us in other ways. Recycled … Well, we couldn’t think that far ahead; there were a lot of things we couldn’t think about in that place.—

— No one talked to me, I handed over what I had to. That was that.—

— It’s not like you to be satisfied to be a messenger. — He put plates in the sink, his back to her; turned his head.

She was yawning and yawning as if her jaw would dislocate with the force and she wandered out of the kitchen. Gone back to bed to sleep off the journey: but no, she appeared, dressed, eyes made-up, briefcase and keys in her hand, on her way to her office. He sat in his pyjamas over the mug of coffee he had reheated for himself. Ashamed, was that it? She was ashamed that he had ever been involved in that camp where the methods of extracting information by inflicting pain and humiliation learnt from white Security Police were adopted by those who had been its victims. Ashamed, even though he’d finally got himself out of the place, refused to carry on there. Refused, yet understood why others could do the terrible things they did; she was a woman, after all, she could understand revolution but she didn’t understand war.

He sat on in the kitchen aware of the irritating drizzle of the tap he had not fully closed but unable to distract himself by getting up to turn it off.

No. Not ashamed; wary of her political position, calculating that since his code name had not been listed in the public report, she was not tainted, through her connection with him, under the necessity of leadership to discipline and perhaps in some cases expel from the Movement anyone who was involved. Unspeakable: even the subject, for Sibongile. She does not want, even in private, any reminders, any familiarity with names, from him. She has her position to think of. He had the curious remembered image, alone in the kitchen, of her frantically and distastefully scraping from the sole of her shoe all traces of a dog’s mess she had stepped into.

She had made the bed and placed the walking-stick on the cover. Mpho had ear-rings and trinkets from her mother’s part in delegations to a number of countries; he had this. It’s to walk with. A present for a retired man, who should be content to pass time pleasantly taking exercise.

Sally Maqoma chose the restaurant and is known to the waiters. She orders sole. — You know how I like it, grilled, not swimming in butter or oil, and plenty of lemon, bring a whole lemon. — She and her old friend Vera Stark have tried many times to get together (as they term it) and for once Sally has a free hour to squeeze between morning appointments and a meeting in Pretoria at two-thirty for which a driver will pick her up. They talk politics on a level of shared references — Vera through her work and connections is privy to most of the negotiations which go on while the political rhetoric suggests that there can be no contact — but Sally rarely lets slip any political confidences. Vera is aware of this and knows how to respect evasions while yet interpreting them. As they eat, and drink mineral water Sally has been advised by her doctor to take copiously, Vera is both listening to her friend and piecing together rumours to fill lacunae in the spontaneity of the discourse. What Sally doesn’t say suggests or is meant to suggest that the delegation to Pretoria (Sally has spoken of ‘the three of us’ having hastily to go there) is to meet some Government minister on the education crisis, but it might well be that the meeting was one of those of the Movement rumoured to be taking place with right-wing groups at those groups’ request. Vera tried to superimpose the bearded and side-whiskered outline of a figure in commando outfit over the lively, sceptical black face so voluble opposite her. She could try a general question. — Is there anything in the newspaper speculation that the AWB and their kind want to talk?—

Sally raised eyebrows and poked her head forward comically. — Sounds unlikely. — She took a long draught and, as she put the glass down close to Vera Stark’s hand, let her touch nudge it. — Everything unlikely has become likely. That’s our politics these days.—

In their laughter the side-current of family lives surfaced, the intimacy of the times in one another’s four walls when they had pooled their children, danced to Didy’s records; the weeks when, on return from exile, the Maqomas had moved in with the Starks. — Did I tell you, some changes. Ivan’s divorced, and Ben’s father’s living with us now.—

— Oh naughty Ivan. Young people are not like us, no staying power. But I remember, she wasn’t much of a personality, you said …? It mustn’t be too good for you, having the old man in the house.—

— I’ve always got on all right with him but he needs time, from others. Us.—

— Get someone in to look after him, Vera, you can’t do it, you mustn’t. You’ve got more important things … I’m sure I can find someone for you, there’re always people coming round my office, out-of-work nurses, nice elderly mamas, long-lost cousins, God knows what — I’ll find someone who can live in, that’s what you need.—

— I don’t know. D’you know it’s going to be awful to be really old, no one wants to touch you any more, no one likes the smell of your skin, no one ever kisses you … And Ben’s never loved his father, it seems. Some sort of resentment from childhood, you know those mysteries no one but the one who was himself the child can understand.—

— Ben? Really? Ben’s such a darling, such an affectionate man.—

The limits of confidences between two people constantly shift, opening here, there closing off one from the other. Vera Stark could not speak what she was saying to herself, Bennet loved, Ben loves, only me; loves in Ivan only me, and what shall I do with that love— The thought rising like a wave of anxiety trapped in voices at a restaurant full of people; no place to deal with it. — I hear Didy’s commissioned to do a book. A history of the exile period, is it?—

— He’s supposed to be researching. Don’t ask me … Let’s order coffee— Sally had the alert shifting glance of a bird on a tree-top, surveying the comings and goings of waiters. When the coffee came she arranged the cups and poured, measuring out words with the flow. — Half the time he doesn’t even get up in the mornings. I go to work, I don’t know what time he gets round to shaving and so on. Always some pain or ache. When I say in the evening, how did it go today — I mean, Vera, I’m showing interest , I’m talking about whether he’s written letters to people who can give him material, whether he’s organizing his notes— then he’ll say something like, How did what go? To put me down. To imply I’m humouring him … Because of where I’ve been all day, at headquarters. Is what happened my fault? Can I help it? He’s got to stop this wallowing in self-pity. I can tell you (her eyes shifted focus, round the neighbouring tables, where other people’s talk and self-absorption made a wall of protection) I’m beginning to find it disgusting. He doesn’t realize that; it disgusts me.—

This confidence almost alarms; to meet it means it should be matched, and Vera does not know, does not yet understand, what it is exactly that she needs to confide, or if that impulse is any longer something to be heeded. Who can give answers? A bearded man in a preacher’s dog-collar stood in the doorway, How mean of you Vera. — He’s become history rather than a living man. How can anyone be expected to accept that about himself.—