Nadine Gordimer - A Sport of Nature

— I am not lonely. A dear girl to worry … I am alone, that’s different. Like the difference between the pink flamingo balanced on one leg and someone else wearing a pink skirt.—

She told him he was a stick-in-the-mud, coaxingly. Alone must be lonely. — To have another meaning for ‘alone’ there have to be two of you.—

— One can love one’s neighbours at a distance, but at close quarters it’s almost impossible. D’you know who said that true thing? Said it for me. A man named Ivan to his brother Alyosha, in a book called The Brothers Karamazov .—

Among all the possessions he had in that deep room with the frieze of live swallows, the African drums each with its ashtray and pipe beside each chair, the collection of Malian and Nigerian masks on the walls, the Fon hangings, the rugs from Khartoum with their counter-pattern of his pipe-burnings, the wall covered with shelves of damp books that gave the place its own bodysmell — there must have been that same novel. Again that novel. He didn’t have to explain about that! — I’ve read it, long ago. — She wouldn’t be expected to remember the whole of such a long book, even if she had.

— That’s why, although I believe all this (the room was kept dim against heat, the spines on the shelves shone titles of studies of revolutions, of colonialism, communism, social democratic theory) — all that Christa goes to prison for, I sit here in this chair … I can’t take part. That’s why I’m worried about this trade-union foundation thing … nearly as bad as politics. If only what Teacher — you know that’s what the people call him, our President? — says could be true: ‘People, not money’ make development. The trouble is, I’m stupid enough to believe in what is being attempted in this place since the British got out … and anyway… I can’t go away. And I can’t just sit here and approve out of books. So there you are … at this time in my life … It’s funny, some people open the bible to see what message a page has for them. I find my message any-old-where. Listen to this I’ve just read, here. ‘He avoided all the confusion and absurdity present in the efforts of those who say they are living for others’—now it goes on—‘but in fact are living on others — on their gratitude, their opinions, their recognition’. The first part of that sentence — that used to be me. The second half — that’s what I am now. The president invites me. The minister thanks me.—

— We all thank you. — She pulled a prim, pert face, her aubergine-coloured, shining eyes contradicting it. He saw that he amused her; she would not say ‘ I thank you for taking me off the beach, off the kitchen floor, using your influence with the immigration men to let me stay on in this town that has no place for me, where, if I have a reason to be, it is not the kind provided for on application forms!’ Impossible for this girl not to be flirtatiously elusive, even with someone as clearly out of the running as himself; it came naturally from her as the sweat that, with the rising humidity of midday, painted on her lip a little moustache of wet that must taste salty to her lovers.

Udi showed Hillela something of the country. Around about that time — just before she started working in the curio shop, — he drove her along the coast for the weekend. — I am going to take you to Bagamoyo, where Livingstone started out to cross Africa from east to west. — But when they got as far as the new hotel where he had intended they should return to spend the night on the near side of the historical destination he had in mind, she hung back irresistibly. She ran to marvel at it from all perspectives, from sand so hot she danced across it as a fakir over the white ash of a bed of coals, to the cool of palms, remnants of the oil plantation the site once had been, now reified by a Scandinavian landscape gardener into his idea of a tropical garden. Her benefactor took his first photograph of Hillela there; the shadow of a palm tree falling before her. It could be measured for progress, like notches on a doorpost, against that other souvenir image under a palm.

He didn’t insist on continuing the drive according to schedule; was content to study, as one standing back in a museum from a canvas whose conception he could not share but was fascinated by, her greedy pleasure in the post-colonial kitsch of the place — a Holiday Inn pervasion of piped music over poolside bars and buffets composed of a German-Swiss chef’s attempt at reproducing his kind of food out of unidentifiable flesh and fowl decked with hibiscus flowers — all housed within a facsimile, as Udi informed her, of the 13th-century palace of Sultan al-Hassam Ibn Sulaiman. She ate the food with appetite. She had seen there were boats for hire and did not want to waste time accompanying the Arabian Nights-garbed black boy who would show them to their rooms. Under the sun of two in the afternoon, that was not in the sky but was the sky, had consumed both sky and sea in a stare of pure and terrible light, the black boat with the thin black oarsman slid away into dazzling evanescence. They sat side by side in the stern. The only detail to cling to in this total blankness of light was the legs of the oarsman, dark and sparsely hairy as the dried skin of a mummy. But when they reached the limit of the reef, heard the ocean open the roar of its surf at them, and the boat turned back, he, Udi, saw in the distance the entrancing pleasure palace she had been able to see all along, a mirage of the coast’s past, shimmering there.

He took his hetaira to see something he could show her, even if she wasn’t interested in Bagamoyo. They drove along narrow parallel tracks with grass stroking the underside of the car and thick shrubs running screeching thumbnails along the windows. Wind-maimed trees closed over, and they left the car. He led the way. At first she saw only the butterflies, so many they softly pulsated the still, dense air. Small white flowers scented it. She buried her face where the butterflies did. The competitive selection of nature — shiny, thick-tongued trees that had starved scrub from beneath them to make a clearing for plants and grasses; creepers and lianas closing off arbors where other trees had made the mistake of flourishing too close together — had created what seemed a garden; or there was the pattern of a human rearrangement of nature, far back, still faintly discernible under the natural aesthetic of growth, as the outline of a lost city may be traced from the height of an aircraft. Then she saw the pieces of china among the green; who had lived here, once, and owned beautiful things that got broken and were thrown away? But these were not broken vessels — they were tiles? Their azure, their unfaded brilliant designs were not designs but fragments of Arabic script? She had seen it, in her adoptive city. Wait, wait; he took her hand. With his other, he pushed aside creepers, lianas and webs: gravestones were sunken there, leaning; they were faced with the tiles, ornately embellished by their scrolling colours, like the pages of an illuminated manuscript. What was written? But he did not know the language, he couldn’t tell her. — Nothing out of the ordinary, I’m sure. Christians have a line from the bible on their tombstones, these will be the same sort of quotation, consolation from the Koran. The only interesting thing to make out would be the dates, if there are dates. I’ve always meant to come with someone who could read Arabic … This cemetery is probably six hundred years old. Under the Imams of Muscat in the Persian Gulf, this whole coast from Mogadishu to Mozambique was ruled by the Sultan of Zanzibar.—

The butterflies mistook the ceramic colours for those of flowers, they touched at the hands of the two humans as the hands touched the stones. She tried to read the braille of the past: —They lived here, there was a real palace? A town? It must have been lovely!—