White Dog Fell From the Sky (28 page)

For two days now, there’d been no
porridge. The footsteps brought only water to his door. Isaac tried to speak to the man
in the cell next to his, but there was no answer.

His belly had stopped crying out. There is a
point when the body relinquishes its pain and waits dumbly. He was growing unable to
stand with any steadiness. He noticed that his mind had blurred like his body, his
thoughts increasingly muddled, his fear wilder. He imagined there would come a time when
fear too would go the way of hunger: the savage animal eating his heart would someday
grow weary.

The wall beside him had once been
whitewashed, but was now gray and smeared. Before darkness descended, a dim light fell
through the transom slats, and he peered at what looked like scratchings. A series of
lines. Sixty-seven of them. What had happened on the sixty-eighth day? He wanted to
believe the man who’d made those scratches was alive, but he’d never heard
of anyone being released from Number Four. Nelson Mandela, yes, but they’d taken
him to Robben Island and would never let him go.

He laid a finger on the sixty-seventh line.
His eyes strayed around the wall as the cell grew dark. He believed he could see marks
farther above his head, perhaps a word. He rose to his knees to see it better, but the
light was too dim.

From an early age, Isaac had been taught to
believe he’d been chosen for a life above the ordinary. He saw now that hubris had
crept into his soul, inhabited his thoughts. Perhaps he had been chosen not for the
extraordinary, but for this.

As dark overtook him, he heard a group of
prisoners singing in a distant cell block.

They were singing of Umkhonto, the spear of
the nation. Singing to bring death and destruction down upon the heads of the Boers.
Around him, down the block of the isolation wing, a voice joined them, here, there, and
his own lifted into the darkness.

At dawn, he heard the footsteps of two
guards. His heart pounded. The door of the cell next to his clanged open.

There were rough voices, a scuffling
sound.

“
Eish,
that gave me a
fright.”

“
Fokken klank.
”

“
Jou dronkie!
” You
drunkard. “
Ag man, get his legs.
”

This is how he’d go, with bickering
and swearing and a heave ho into a hole in the ground.

His sense of time was gone. How much time
passed before another door clanged down the row? And then the moans began: that terrible
labor. The screams would be coming. He knew this particular voice now and believed this
man would die. Afterward, they would come for him.
Amandla!
he whispered.
Ngawethu! Power! The power is ours!
Not today, not tomorrow,
but … it had almost ceased to matter whether he was here to see a world
transformed.

“You look terrible,” Lillian
said. “Here, give me that.” Alice dropped her bag. Her head swam, and her
knees shook. To her dazed eyes, the old Gaborone train station looked like a
daguerreotype, its surface painted in silver halide. People moving about hauling boxes
and trunks looked oddly still. “I tried to call you earlier,” she said.

“Gerald and I went away, a spur of the
moment thing. While you were gone, he came home and said he wanted to take me to
Victoria Falls for our thirtieth anniversary.”

“How was it?”

“The best holiday we’ve ever
taken.” She put Alice’s bag in the truck and opened the door for her.
“You poor thing. You look like hell warmed over.”

“Thanks, Lillian. Has there been any
rain?”

“I heard there was a shower while we
were gone. Nothing much.”

“It’s a dust bowl up
north.”

“Some bloke has been around your
place. A European.”

“I asked Will to let Isaac know
I’d be a few days late … Do you know if Itumeleng’s
back?”

“I saw her hanging out
laundry.”

As Lillian drove toward the Old Village,
Alice recognized a woman she’d seen before, knitting as she walked, carrying a
baby on her back. The bush stretched out on the left, a tangle of footpaths and low
scrub; on the right were houses thrown up so fast, she thought some of them hadn’t
been there when she left. Lillian turned right off the main road,
then
pulled into the driveway, maneuvering around White Dog. “You leave that bag. You
have no business carrying anything.”

Itumeleng greeted Alice as she stroked White
Dog.

“Take good care of her, okay?”
said Lillian. “She’s sick.” She handed the bag to Itumeleng and hugged
Alice good-bye. “I’ll bring by some food later. You go have a good sit on
the veranda, and a nap.”

“Thanks, Lillian.” She watched
her go and turned to Itumeleng. “Where’s Isaac?”

“
Ga ke itse, mma.
Only the
dog is here.”

“He wasn’t here when you got
back?”

“No,
mma.
I think he has
gone. Or maybe he is late.”

“Why would you say such a
thing?”

“If he is staying at the place where
there is the shooting, he is dead,
mma
. They come and kill the ANC people. Only
one little baby is still alive.”

“I don’t understand.”

“While you were away,
mma.
The South African police come over the border.”

“When was this?”

“After you leave,
mma.
”

“The South African police crossed the
border?”

“
Ee, mma.
”

“… But Isaac is not with the
ANC.”

“Then maybe he go home to see his
mother in South Africa.”

“He couldn’t go back even if he
wanted to. He left illegally.”

“I don’t know,
mma.
I
don’t know where he is gone. One cat, the Horse, is also missing.”

Alice went inside and slumped down in a
chair in the living room. A few minutes later Itumeleng brought her sweet tea. A pile of
mail sat next to her, and she picked up a couple of envelopes and set them back down
without opening them. Two were from home, one from her mother. A heap of soot sat at the
base of the hearth, gleaming in a ray of sun that sliced down the chimney. She wondered
where it had come from. And wondered how she could have lived in this house as long as
she had without noticing the way the sun fell through the darkness
of brick and dust and reappeared on the hearth.

The tea was lukewarm, and she drank it fast.
And then sat with the cup shaking in her lap, her legs still weak. She got to her feet
and tried to call Will, but the phone lines were down. Half an hour later, she tried
again and finally drove around to his and Greta’s house.

One of Will’s young sons had made a
bow and arrow and was shooting a stick into the air and running toward the falling
trajectory, trying to get the stick to hit him on the head. One of the family’s
large dogs walked out of the shade and came toward her with the end of her tail
wagging.

“Hey, beautiful,” said Alice,
leaning over to pat her head.

“You’re back!” Greta
yelled, yanking a pair of child’s socks off the line. What couldn’t Greta
do? Corral squirming boys for bath time, whip up dinner for a small village at the drop
of a hat. She stopped suddenly and studied Alice. “What’s wrong with
you?”

“I came down with tick bite
fever.” Alice bit her lip.

“Come here,” said Greta, folding
her into her arms.

Tears came, and Greta said, “Oh,
poppet, you’re exhausted. When was the last decent meal you had?”

“I’m all right. I came by to see
if Will had seen Isaac.”

“No. We have no idea where he went.
Will went round to the police station. One of the officers came down to your house.
There’s no trace of him.”

“He wouldn’t have left his
dog.”

“That’s what we
thought.”

“I don’t know what to
do.”

Greta grabbed a few more clothes off the
line and threw them over her shoulder. “I’d go back to the police. Come on
in, I’ll give you a cuppa.”

“I just had one.”

“Well, stay for dinner then.
We’ll eat in an hour or so.”

“Thanks, sweetie, not
today.”

At home, Itumeleng heated up a beef stew and
gave Alice a bowlful.
Alice looked at her fondly, thinking she was one
of the homeliest people she’d ever met. A thin scar began at the round of her
cheek and plunged toward her jaw. Her face was huge, her eyes large, her eyebrows a
jumble. One gold and one white front tooth sat side by side. The few times Alice had
seen her go out at night, a stain of pink lipstick blazed across the white and gold.

“I’ve decided to go to the
police,” Alice said.

“No, madam, you must not. It will make
trouble.”

“Are you afraid it will make trouble
for you?” Alice stood up and set her empty plate in the sink.

Itumeleng sloshed water into a dented pot.
“No, I am not afraid of them. I am not afraid of anyone.” The back of her
neck was moist with sweat. She wore a pink uniform, stained under the arms. Alice had
not wanted her to wear a uniform, but Itumeleng had wanted one. She had this pink one
and a green one.

“He would not have left his dog unless
something had happened to him.”

“Leave it, madam.” Itumeleng
banged the pot. “Last year you did not know him.”

“But I know him now.”

“Next year, again you will not know
him.”

“I hope to know him next
year.”

“If you have a child, then you are not
asking for trouble like this,” Itumeleng said. She kept her eyes on the ground and
walked out the backdoor.

Alice picked up the pot Itumeleng had set
down and slammed it against the table.

The deputy chief of police did not look
well. Mr. Tebape’s skin was tired and pitted, his shoulders sagged. The chief of
police was out of town. Mr. Tebape hadn’t wanted to see her, and his secretary had
tried to pawn her off on someone else. She sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair on the
opposite side of his desk. She explained that Will had seen another member of the police
force when Mr. Tebape was out of town.

“My mother was ill,” he said, as
though she’d accused him of something.

“I hope she’s better
now.”

“She is not better, she is
late,” he said with a slight quaver.

“I’m very sorry.”

“
Ke a leboga, mma,
” he
thanked her. He moved a cup from one place on his desk to another place and looked at
her for the first time.

She explained the circumstances surrounding
Isaac’s disappearance.

“Which town is he from?”

She hesitated. “He is from South
Africa. Pretoria.”

“Legal or illegal?”

“Will I get him in trouble if I say
illegal?”

A small twitch of a smile passed over his
lips. “No, madam.”

“Illegal. His name is Isaac
Muthethe.”

Mr. Tebape shifted in his seat. “I do
not know anything about this man,” he said.

“Is it possible that anyone on your
force would know anything?”

“I will make inquiries,” he
said. “Tell me his name again.”

She spelled it for him while he wrote it
down. “He was … is a very responsible, peace-loving person. He had been
a medical student before coming here. He needed to flee for political
reasons.”

Mr. Tebape nodded. “I will let you
know, madam, if I have discovered anything. If Mr. Muthethe returns, he must apply for
political asylum at that time.”

“Yes, of course.”

He stood. The interview was over. The heat
smacked her as she stood to leave.

She’d been deep into a dream when the
phone rang after midnight. She jumped up and ran from the bedroom in a panic, stubbing
her toe on a corner of the couch.

“Did I wake you?” he said.

“Yes. Where are you?”

“Maun. I’m sorry to call so
late. I just got in. No place to phone you from.”

“How are you?” she asked.

“I’ve missed you. Are you all
right?”

“Almost better, but a strange
thing’s happened. Isaac’s missing. He left his dog. I went to the deputy
chief of police today and got nowhere.”

“Maybe he took off.”

“He’s not that sort of
person.”

“Do you have an address for his
family?”

“No.”

“I don’t know what to
suggest.”

“I don’t know what to do,
either.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I were there
with you.” His voice sounded husky.

“Oh, god, that makes two of us. What
have you been doing?”

“Cutting fence. First at the southeast
corner of the Kuke fence, not far from where we were. I borrowed a wire cutter. I was
making fine progress but a red-necked rancher threw a spanner in the works. Had a bit of
a row, and he told me to get out—from the other end of a shotgun.”

“Jesus.”

“I thought of telling him to piss off
but it didn’t seem a good plan. He was a dodgy sort of fellow. So I moved on,
drove to another section of fence south of Sehitwa.”

She was quiet a moment. “It’s
hopeless, you know.”

“I know it.”

“Dangerous too. That rancher could
have blown you off the face of the Earth. Don’t do it anymore, darling. Write a
letter.”

“I’ve talked to them
already.”

“Talk to someone higher up.”

“And why would anyone listen to
me?”

“Write a letter to the minister, go
see the president.”

“It’s not how I operate.”
She pictured him sitting in Maun, the river beyond, a glass of beer nearby.

“You could learn a new
trick.”

“What you see is what you get.”
He went quiet. “Listen, if things don’t change … I can’t
work in a country where animals are dying like
this. You and I could
live in England for a bit, then perhaps I can get a grant to do some work in East
Africa.”