Nadine Gordimer - Life Times - Stories 1952-2007

‘But plenty of confidence,’ he said. ‘I’m looking into the possibilities of exporting my pills for men, to the States. I think the time’s just ripe for American Negroes to feel they can buy back a bit of old Africa in a bottle, eh?’

Xixo picked about his leg of duck as if his problem itself were laid cold before them on the table. ‘I mean, I’ve said again and again, show me anything on my record—’

The young journalist, Spuds Buthelezi, said in his heavy way, ‘It might be because you took over Samson Dumile’s show.’

Every time a new name was mentioned the corners of Ceretti’s eyes flickered narrow in attention.

‘Well, that’s the whole thing!’ Xixo complained to Ceretti. ‘The fellow I was working for, Dumile, was mixed up in a political trial and he got six years — I took over the bona fide clients, that’s all, my office isn’t in the same building, nothing to do with it — but that’s the whole thing!’

Frances suddenly thought of Sam Dumile, in this room of hers, three — two? — years ago, describing a police raid on his house the night before and roaring with laughter as he told how his little daughter said to the policeman, ‘My father gets very cross if you play with his papers.’

Jason picked up the wine bottle, making to pass it round — ‘Yes, please do, please do — what happened to the children?’ she said.

Jason knew whose she meant; made a polite attempt. ‘Where are Sam’s kids?’

But Edgar Xixo was nodding in satisfied confirmation as Ceretti said, ‘It’s a pretty awful story. My God. Seems you can never hope to be in the clear, no matter how careful you are. My God.’

Jason remarked, aside, ‘They must be around somewhere with relatives. He’s got a sister in Bloemfontein.’

The dessert was a compound of fresh mangoes and cream, an invention of the house: ‘Mangoes Frances’ said the American. ‘This is one of the African experiences I’d recommend.’ But Jason Madela told them he was allergic to mangoes and began on the cheese which was standing by. Another bottle of wine was opened to go with the cheese and there was laughter — which Robert Ceretti immediately turned on himself — when it emerged out of the cross-talk that Spuds Buthelezi thought Ceretti had something to do with an American foundation. In the sympathetic atmosphere of food, drink and sunshine marbled with cigarette smoke, the others listened as if they had not heard it all before while Buthelezi, reluctant to waste the speech he had primed himself with, pressed Ceretti with his claim to a study grant that would enable him to finish his play. They heard him again outlining the plot and inspiration of the play — ‘right out of township life’ as he always said, blinking with finality, convinced that this was the only necessary qualification for successful authorship. He had patiently put together and taken apart, many times, in his play, ingredients faithfully lifted from the work of African writers who got published, and he was himself African: what else could be needed but someone to take it up?

Foundation or no foundation, Robert Ceretti showed great interest. ‘Do you know the play at all, Frances? I mean,’ (he turned back to the round, wine-open face of the young man) ‘is it far enough along to show to anybody?’

And she said, finding herself smiling encouragingly, ‘Oh yes — an early draft, he’s worked on it a lot since then, haven’t you — and there’s been a reading. .?’

‘I’ll certainly get it to you,’ Buthelezi said, writing down the name of Ceretti’s hotel.

They moved back to the veranda for the coffee and brandy. It was well after three o’clock by the time they stood about, making their goodbyes. Ceretti’s face was gleaming. ‘Jason Madela’s offered to drop me back in town, so don’t you worry, Frances. I was just saying, people in America’ll find it difficult to believe it was possible for me to have a lunch like this, here. It’s been so very pleasant — pleasant indeed. We all had a good time. He was telling me that a few years ago a gathering like this would be quite common, but now there aren’t many white people who would want to risk asking Africans and there aren’t many Africans who would risk coming. I certainly enjoyed myself. . I hope we haven’t put you out, lingering so long. . it’s been a wonderful opportunity. .’ Frances saw them to the garden gate, talking and laughing; last remarks and goodbyes were called from under the trees of the suburban street.

When she came back alone the quiet veranda rang tense with vanished voices, like a bell tower after the hour has struck. She gave the cat the milk left over from coffee. Someone had left a half-empty packet of cigarettes; who was it who broke matches into little tents? As she carried the tray into the deserted kitchen, she saw a note written on the back of a bill taken from the spike. HOPE YOUR PARTY WENT WELL.

It was not signed, and was written with the kitchen ballpoint which hung on a string. But she knew who had written it; the vision from the past had come and gone again.

The servants Amos and Bettie had rooms behind a granadilla vine at the bottom of the yard. She called, and asked Bettie whether anyone had asked for her? No, no one at all.

He must have heard the voices in the quiet of the afternoon, or perhaps simply seen the cars outside, and gone away. She wondered if he knew who was there. Had he gone away out of consideration for her safety? They never spoke of it, of course, but he must know that the risks she took were carefully calculated, very carefully calculated. There was no way of disguising that from someone like him . Then she saw him smiling to himself at the sight of the collection of guests: Jason Madela, Edgar Xixo and Spuds Buthelezi — Spuds Buthelezi, as well. But probably she was wrong, and he would have come out among them without those feelings of reproach or contempt that she read into the idea of his gait, his face. HOPE YOUR PARTY WENT WELL. He may have meant just that.

Frances Taver knew Robert Ceretti was leaving soon, but she wasn’t quite sure when. Every day she thought, I’ll phone and say goodbye. Yet she had already taken leave of him, that afternoon of the lunch. Just telephone and say goodbye. On the Friday morning, when she was sure he would be gone, she rang up the hotel, and there it was, the soft, cautious American voice. The first few moments were awkward; he protested his pleasure at hearing from her, she kept repeating, ‘I thought you’d be gone. .’ Then she said, ‘I just wanted to say — about that lunch. You mustn’t be taken in—’

He was saying, ‘I’ve been so indebted to you, Frances, really you’ve been great.’

‘—not phonies, no, that’s not what I mean, on the contrary, they’re very real, you understand?’

‘Oh, your big good-looking friend, he’s been marvellous. Saturday night we were out on the town, you know.’ He was proud of the adventure but didn’t want to use the word ‘ shebeen ’ over the telephone.

She said, ‘You must understand. Because the corruption’s real. Even they’ve become what they are because things are the way they are. Being phony is being corrupted by the situation. . and that’s real enough. We’re made out of that .’

He thought maybe he was finding it difficult to follow her over the telephone, and seized upon the word: ‘Yes, the “situation” — he was able to slip me into what I gather is one of the livelier places.’

Frances Taver said, ‘I don’t want you to be taken in—’

The urgency of her voice stopped his mouth, was communicated to him even if what she said was not.

‘—by anyone,’ the woman was saying.

He understood, indeed, that something complicated was wrong, but he knew, too, that he wouldn’t be there long enough to find out, that perhaps you needed to live and die there, to find out. All she heard over the telephone was the voice assuring her, ‘Everyone’s been marvellous. . really marvellous. I just hope I can get back here some day — that is, if they ever let me in again. .’