“I worked in Brazil. For years. You’ll probably notice it in my accent.”
The proprietor nodded. “One can always tell.”
He asked for another glass of port, which he drank quickly, although it was still too warm and he should have been drinking vinho verde. Perhaps later.
He thanked the proprietor and went out into the square. It was now quite dark, and the lights were on in the gardens in the centre of the square, pools of yellow along the pathways. He crossed the road and went into the gardens, where there were benches. His heart was beating more quickly now, and his mouth felt dry. He never got used to it; never became brazen; never.
He picked a bench which had been placed directly above an elaborate mosaic – a picture of a ship on the waves with dolphins cavorting about the bow. There was an inscription too, a line of poetry, but some of the letters had gone missing, and he could not make sense of it. Something about the heart.
He sat there for fifteen minutes or so, watching. The square was becoming busier now, and there was the smell of cooking from doorways. There was music somewhere, snatches of it, and he felt calmer. He loved this city, with all its clutter and its beauty, and its handsome people. It was his favourite place for … for what I like to do, he said to himself. It’s not wrong. It’s tolerated here, just, even if at home the puritans would take a different view.
Somebody walked past his bench, went on a short distance, and then returned to sit down beside him.
“Do you have a light for my cigarette?” the other said, taking a packet of cheap cigarettes out of his coat pocket.
He shook his head.
“I’m sorry. I don’t smoke.”
“Ah well,” said the man. “It would do me good. It’s an effort to give up the things one enjoys, don’t you think?” He paused. “And the things you enjoy? Would you like to give them up?”
He looked down at the mosaic.
“No. I have no plans to give them up.”
The man took a cigarette out of the pack and then reached into his pocket for a lighter.
“Can I help you in some way?” he said. “You’re obviously a stranger. It’s a long way from Brazil, isn’t it?”
For a moment or two he said nothing, then he nodded.
The man drew on his cigarette. “I can arrange things for you. A boy?”
“No.”
“You just tell me what you want then. Then come back in half an hour. The other side of the square. You give the money to me.”
He told him, and the man nodded.
“I’ll fix you up. A nice little date. Nice. Willing.”
He watched for a minute or so before he crossed the square. The man had returned, but he was alone. That was just as it should be, so he walked across to join him.
“Follow me,” said the man. “We’re just going to go up that street over there.”
He hesitated, which brought an assurance: “You can trust me, don’t worry. There are plenty of people about. I’m not going to rob you.”
“All right. But I don’t want to go inside.”
“You don’t need to. She’ll be waiting. But you pay me before you go off, understand?”
He followed him, and they made their way up the street until suddenly the man stopped and stepped back into a doorway.
“This is your friend, right here. See her? All right?”
He hardly looked at her. “How old?”
“Fourteen,” said the man. “Just. She was still thirteen two weeks ago. It’s respectable. You could marry her if you want.”
The man laughed, watching his client’s expression. He’s a Protestant, he thought; the Americans are all Protestants and they feel guilt, even when they’re going with a woman. What about the ones who went with boys, how did they feel? He had had a client, a rich man from Austin, who had apologised to him when he asked for a boy. I’m not going to do anything to him, he said. I’m only going to ask him to … to … I like women too, you see. I only see boys now and then. There had been a whole litany of excuses.
He passed over the money, and the girl watched as the notes were counted.
“Good. That’s fine. She’ll go with you to your hotel. You can have her until tomorrow morning. If you want to give her some extra money, you can. She’ll find her own way back.”
They walked away, the girl beside him. He had still hardly glanced at her, but he noticed that she was smiling at him.
“Would you like something to eat? Would you like to go to a restaurant?”
It was an unusual idea, even dangerous, but he had missed his lunch and was hungry. And, after all, the other man, the procurer, had described this as a date. He would take his date, this delectable little honey-coloured creature, out for a meal. He would treat her like a woman. Candlelight; compliments.
She looked up at him.
“If you want to.”
“But would you like it? I’m asking you.”
She shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“You suppose so …” He stopped. Two weeks ago she had been thirteen; that’s how they spoke.
He chose the first restaurant they passed, a large fish restaurant with an art nouveau front. A waiter standing at the door ushered him and showed him to a table with a flourish. It was an expensive place; thick, freshly-starched white linen, and rows of glasses at each place.
“Would you care for wine, sir?” the waiter passed him the list and then looked at the girl. “And for your daughter …”
He sat impassive, but the words cut at him, and cut. She had not noticed; she was just looking at the knives and forks and the glittering plates.
He ordered both for himself and for her, as he knew it would take too long to find out what she really wanted. They would have a sea-food platter, he said, with salads. The waiter wrote down the order, and disappeared.
“You’re fourteen.”
The girl nodded.
“And you live in Lisbon? You come from Lisbon?”
She lowered her eyes.
“I come from somewhere else. A place in the country. Now I live in the city.”
“You live with that man? The one who … who introduced us?”
She shook her head. “I live with an aunt. She looks after me.”
He studied her face. She had that olive skin that he loved, but there was something odd, almost boyish, about her; she looked as if she could look after herself. This was not exploitation. She was tough enough. And they liked it, these kids. They were volunteers.
Suddenly the girl spoke.
“My aunt lived in Africa for years. In a place called Lourenço Marques. Do you know that place?”
He picked up a knife from the table and examined it. “Yes. I know that place. I’ve been there before.”
The girl seemed interested now. “I really want to go there one day. I want to see the house my aunt lived in. She had a bar there, a big one, with servants.”
“Yes, she would have had all that. I can imagine.”
“And she used to swim in the Indian Ocean. Every morning.”
“Dangerous. Sharks.”
The girl looked surprised. “In the ocean? Sharks?”
“Yes. There are sharks.”
She looked disappointed. An illusion had been shattered perhaps.
“But don’t worry about it. It’s only dangerous if you go out too far. The sharks wait out where the surf starts. You’d be safe near the beach.”
The conversation dried up, and he was glad that the waiter had returned.
“For you sir, here, and for your daughter … there. Bom appetito!”
Back at the hotel it was the same clerk on duty. He asked for his key, watching the cool eyes of the clerk move to the girl, and then come back to him. He reached forward and slipped the bank note over the desk.
“It’s cool outside now. Quite cool.”
The clerk took the note, tactfully, and smiled as he handed over the key.
“Good night, sir. Thank you. Yes it is
cool, quite cool.”
He crossed the room to close the blinds. As he did so he looked out over the trees, the trees they knew he liked. There was a slight breeze, and the tops of the trees moved in response. Where do the winds come from? The winds that come from somewhere … A line of poetry he had read, a long time ago, in some forgotten book, in another country.
He turned round. The girl was standing beside the bed now, looking at him, and he saw again her eyes, almond-shaped, and the smoothness of her skin. He crossed over to her and held her shoulders lightly.
“I’m going to take your clothes off,” he said. “All your clothes, starting with these.”
He slipped his hand under the band of her jeans, and he felt her tense up.
“Are you frightened?”
She said nothing, and so he continued, fumbling with the zip, which he released and brought down. Then he pulled at the denim, and the jeans were at her feet. She had long legs for a girl; for a girl …
“Take the rest off,” he said. “I’m going into the bathroom for a moment.”
When he returned she was lying face down upon the bed, naked. He noticed the tiny ridge of the spine, the blades of the shoulder, the olive skin like a map of temptation.
“Turn over,” he said. “Turn over.”
She turned over, and looked at him, afraid of his reaction, ashamed.
He said nothing for a moment; he could not speak. Then, quietly: “You’re a boy.”
The boy said nothing. He sat up, crouching his legs, his head sunk between his knees.
“He makes me,” he said. “It’s him. He takes all the money.” He looked up. “I promise you. He makes me go with men who want to go with boys. He also tricks men who want girls. They never dare complain.”
He stared down at the boy, silent with pity.
“But you do live with your aunt?” he asked at last. “The one who lived in Africa? That’s all true?”
The boy nodded. “Yes. She’s his friend.”
“I see.”
He looked down at the boy. He was too thin. He needed to put on weight.
“You need to eat more,” he said. “You should have proper meals. You’re not eating the right things.”
The boy looked up at him.
“How do you know?’ he asked.
“Because I’m a doctor,” he said.
Bulawayo
Southern Rhodesia 1959
There,” she said. “There it is. Over there. Can you see it now?”
He looked in the direction in which she was pointing. There was a patch of dark green and, intermixed with it, half-concealed by vegetation and distance, he could make out smudges of white, the buildings. Behind the green, a background turbulence of rounded granite boulders pushed up from the veldt.
“By the trees?” he asked. “By the gum trees?”
She nodded. “Yes. That’s it.”
He smiled. “It’s a good place for it to be. It looks as if there’s plenty of water.”
“It’s always been green here. When there was that awful drought – you remember, five, six years ago …”
“Six,” he interrupted. “The year I went overseas.”
“Yes, I suppose it was. Anyway, we had bags of water then. They were talking about water rationing in Bulawayo. All the gardens were bone dry. Dead.”
He swerved to avoid a rock which had somehow been exposed in the middle of the dirt road.
“Close shave,” he said. “I saw it just in time.”
“What?”
“That rock. I lost a sump once down near Gwanda on one of those. There was oil all over the place.”
She turned round in her seat and looked into the cloud of dust thrown up behind the car.
“I’ll get my father to flatten it out. He’s got one of those grading ploughs.”
He grunted. “Good idea. But you take out one rock and there’s another beneath it. A Landrover’s the only answer. Does your old man drive one?”
“Yes.”
They travelled in silence for a few minutes. Ahead of them, the road began to swing round towards the vlei where they had seen the green paddocks and the stand of trees. The farmhouse could now be made out – the white colonnades of a verandah, a thatched roof, a red flash of bougainvillaea. The road was smoother now and he accelerated for the last few miles of the journey. He liked to sweep up to houses and brake sharply in front of the verandah. Everybody did it out in the country, and it had always seemed to him to be a decisive way to arrive. And he needed to be decisive today, with this meeting ahead of him. A beer would go down well. Two or three perhaps. Dutch courage, that’s what they called it. And why not?
Now, with her parents on the verandah, slyly looking at one another, though affecting not to, he took in every detail. She looks older than he is, he thought. But that’s not unusual with farmers’ wives. Somehow the weather seems to get to their faces before it does to the men’s; they become pinched, leathery, like the faces of Australian women who have lived in the outback all their lives, but not so bad. Was it the children, the worry of running a home, childbirth, sex … Could there still be passion in that dried out frame, so primly dressed in its thin cotton print dress? And as for him, heavy-limbed and ponderous. Surely not.
“Michael?” He looked at her. She had asked him something.
“Would you like a cup of tea, then? Mother was wondering?”
He looked at her expectantly. “What about you?”
“Or a beer?” Her father spoke now, smiling. “It’s hot enough.”
He accepted with relief and sat down with her father as the two women went into the house. There was silence for a few moments. Yes, it was going to be awkward, although the beer would make it better.
“You’re a teacher, Anne tells me. Mathematics?”
The voice was unusual for a farmer – unaccented, quiet. It was more like his own father’s voice, a cautious, judicial voice. He remembered her telling him that he was a graduate of Cape Town, that he had studied something unlikely – archaeology?
“Yes. Mathematics, and a lot of physical education. I’ve been there two years now.”
The older man smiled and nodded his head, as if some suspicion had been confirmed.
“I was a governor of the school once.”
This came as a surprise. She had said nothing about that; but she had spoken very little about them. She had been interested in his family, and had quizzed him about his relatives, but it was as if there was nothing interesting about her own.
He reached for his beer and poured it into a tall glass.
“That was some years ago now. Our son, the one we lost, he was there, you know.”
He had been told about that. She had referred to her dead brother in a manner of fact way, just as her father now spoke of him. He had no close family any more, so he couldn’t tell, but he had always imagined that families stopped speaking of the dead, the intimate dead at least; that to do otherwise would resurrect the pain. He felt embarrassed by this. What could you say about another’s dead son?
But there was no need: “I liked that school the first time I saw it. It seemed to have a good atmosphere about it. Do you feel that too, working there?”
“I do.”
“What gives it that? What do you think?”
He had never really thought about it. He liked the place, but had never analysed why. He was happy there, and that was all there was to it.
“Good staff, I suppose.” As he spoke, he realised that he sounded trite. There was an intelligence in the older man which he instinctively felt he couldn’t match. He’s shrewd, he thought; this farmer sitting here in the middle of all his cattle is cleverer than I am.
“Of course,” her father said. “One or two people can set the tone for a place, can’t they?” He paused. “And tradition, too. That’s worth remembering, even these days.”
“Of course.”
“They tell me that it’s old-fashioned to talk about tradition. A tabu w
ord. What do you think of that?”
He felt irritated. What did he think? Did he think about that at all? His host was looking at him quizzically.
“I still believe in tradition,” said the older man. “To an extent. I know there’s a lot of nonsense in it, but without it, well, we’d just be adrift. It gives our lives a bit of … a bit of focus.”
He was expecting an answer, or at least some comment. Tradition?
“They believe in it, don’t they?” He pointed to the stables beyond the lawn. Two men were leading horses out into the paddocks; two men clad in patched blue overalls and wearing fragments of discarded hats, hardly hats any longer. Her father laughed.
“The Africans? Yes. It’s very important to them. Very important. They’re superstitious though, aren’t they. Do you think there’s a difference?”
He reached for the beer that had quietly been placed before him on the mukwa-wood table and then answered his own question: “Probably.”
The men who had been leading the horses into the paddock had stopped. One of them had run a hand down the foreleg of his horse and lifted the hoof to examine it. Then he loosened the halter and smacked the horse on the side of its neck. The other released his horse too and shouted. The horses shied away and cantered off.
“There they go,” he said. “The two best horses in the place.”
The young man watched the horses as they moved through the knee-high brown grass of the undergrazed paddock. It would be simpler, he thought, not to get involved in all this. He could remain unmarried and live in staff quarters for the rest of his life. Didn’t that seem more natural for him, anyway? Did he really want to get married? He looked sideways at her father, the words running through his mind – father-in-law, father-in-law. It sounded strange and inappropriate. He would never be able to call him that. Other people had fathers-in-law; other people had wives.
“He’s terribly good-looking. We like him. I could tell that your father liked him too. I sensed that immediately.”
Her mother glanced at her, and saw that she was blushing.
“I never thought that you’d bring back anybody unsuitable. I never thought that for a moment.”
There was a silence between them. The daughter looked down at the floor, absorbed in the pattern of the mat at her feet.