Whites (18 page)

He needed a condom. That was next. He thanked God Ione was a varietist who came up with fantasies that involved condoms. How many guys with postfertile wives would have condoms lying around for an emergency like this? So now he had whatever was left of the rainbow pack. And that would be the couple of red ones, a magenta and a blood red, the ones he hadn’t used because he felt they were subliminally frightening. They were in a hiding place in the linen closet, safe and sound. He needed a condom. There was no way he was going to find himself in the position of Peace Corps studs coming moping into the medical office saying they’d knocked up a local because there was no way they could resist when the women said condoms were insulting. Then there was the story he was trying to forget, about another Peace Corps character who had gone back to the U.S. leaving some village
girl behind, pregnant. A child had been born. Other volunteers heard about it and collected money for the mother. Later they’d found out part of the money went for a special ceremony by a witch doctor, with all-night chanting. And the point of the ritual had been to get the whiteness out of the baby, let it be black. He told Moitse to go into the bedroom. He went to get a condom. Red was what there was.

He had a moment of fake fear. He was afraid there were no condoms where they were supposed to be. Fake fear was a juvenile thing he indulged in now and then. He would let himself fear something he knew was fake, and then be reassured—like letting himself think the car was stolen when he couldn’t find it on the first try in the parking lot at the Paramus Mall. Maybe Ione had thrown out the red condoms. There had to be condoms because he was not a Boer or a fool and he wasn’t going to impregnate anyone or pick up a disease. Also he should eat something, some protein, for strength. He needed something quick. He took the magenta condom from its hiding place.

In the pantry he found a jar of
sprinkleneute
, nut fragments for use in baking, which he more nearly drank than ate. He chewed violently. Afrikaans names for things always made him laugh. In the Republic, menswear was
mansdrag
. Drinks were
drankies
. Moitse would be in the bedroom now. He was chewing his best.

The hall light would have to be adequate. He doubted that Moitse would care either way about light versus dark: she was young. Ione was a good sport about leaving the lights on during sex. He was wearing the condom.

He got a surprise. Moitse had straightened things up in the bedroom. She had picked up his shirts and hung them on a chair back. His shoes were lined up under the dresser. She had tightened the sheets on the bed and was lying there
dead center, a towel under her buttocks, a pillow on either side of her head, the blanket rolled down into a cylinder across the foot of the bed. She was still naked. Her clothes were in a bundle next to the door. She was lying with her knees raised, a little apart. With one hand she was lightly gripping her left breast, forcing the nipple up between her fingers. It was erotic. She seemed to be smiling. Her left hand was flat at her side, with something in it—a pad of toilet paper. The woman was a locomotive. This was not his style, but it was effective enough.

He got onto the bed, on her right. Some pleasantries would be good, but his mind was blank. He leaned on his fist and looked at her. The idea was to introduce the idea of taking it easy and appreciating things as they happened. But she let go of her breast and drove her hand under his hip, trying to lever him up and over her. His cheek slipped off his fist. Her strength was a shock again. She was using her nails. He rolled away from her, to think. In this format they were going to skip the kissing, apparently. At the movies, the Batswana laughed at kissing scenes. The stalls laughed and the whites in the balcony were serious. The good news was that she’d seen the magenta condom and hadn’t blinked.

Now it looked like she had a new idea. She was covering her breasts with her hands. She was going to make him fight for her breasts. He lay against her and kissed her shoulder and neck. She drew her shoulders in. Either she disliked what he was doing or she thought it was funny. He was going to keep on. He was burning.

They heard a voice. Both sat up. She was rigid, listening. The voice was just outside, near the bedroom window.

“
Tutututututu
,” came to them, trilled softly.

“What is this?” he asked Moitse, his voice hard. It was someone imitating a bird, but why? It could be a signal of some kind. He was in danger. He could feel danger. He repeated his question, but more roughly.

Moitse put her hand over his mouth and shook her head, commanding silence, while she concentrated.

“
Ninini … ninini … ninini
 … ” This was a second voice, different, more piping. There were two people outside.

Then both cries were uttered in unison, followed by muffled laughter and scuffling noises. Moitse hissed.

I have to escape, he thought. He could get in the car. But that was irrelevant. He told himself to start functioning.

“I must thrash them!” Moitse said. She was glancing wildly around, looking for something, probably for a weapon. She leapt up and started pulling the belt out of a pair of his slacks. She was pissing steam, to quote Egan. He went to her, to control her. He got her by the wrists. She dropped the belt.

“It is my sisters!” she said. All this had nothing to do with him. She pulled against him, jerking her wrists downward with all her strength. “They are just teasing after me,” she said.

The cries were repeated, more boldly.

“You’re
naked
, what can you do?” he said. Number one, she had to dress. That seemed right. They were near the door. He let go of one wrist in order to reach for her clothes. She broke away, down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Relax,” he said aloud. He felt his pocket.
The key was still in the back-door lock
. But she had to be kept in the house or Christie might see her running around naked if he was looking, if she got outside. Frank ran to the kitchen. This is why motels exist, he thought.

She was turning the key. He heard her say she was going to thrash them to hell. Then she was out in the night. He felt exhausted.

Outside, she was beating them. He could hear it. He turned out the kitchen light and waited. He stood in the open doorway, listening. He could lock her out, but he couldn’t,
because he would never see her again, and also he had her clothes. He wondered what Egan would do.

Someone small burst past him, knocking against his leg. He turned a stove burner on for light. There was a child under the kitchen table. She was badly frightened, judging by her breathing. She had to be gotten out, pronto. He crouched down to look at the huddled child. She was about six. She was shaking. She had bits of cloth in her pigtails. He stood up and patted the tabletop. “Relax,” he said, as a second child burst into the kitchen. Her sister under the table called to her. He tried to catch her, but now both children were under the table. The new one was a little older. They were more ragged than Moitse, even. Moitse strode in, closing the door victoriously. The air was full of furious breathing. He wished he could laugh. The house was full of company.

Moitse was hissing Setswana at her sisters. Something was making him weak, other than being a little tight. He wished she would stop or continue indefinitely, because there was something about the moment. It was hellish and the best at the same time, with the light from the burner the only light and shining on her naked skin, her back, the cusps of her spine, as she bent down cursing her sisters. What was the name of the bone like a beak at the base of the spine? The sacrum. He was having a certain kind of moment. It was a little like being alone in the woods when a log or rock looks like a living thing for a second.

Now she was using English. “If you go from under this table
moonmen
shall find you and eat you to dust and spit you down from their jaws.” She was terrifying them. He wasn’t certain, but she seemed to be spitting at them to make her point.

He could probably dress her by brute force if he had to. He was a realist. She had to dress. The adventure was over. Moitse stood up.

He had learned one thing tonight: he should lock the door and hang onto the key. He did it. He put the key in his pocket.

He confronted her. She touched his chest. The gesture enraged him. He backed away. He turned the stove burner off and the overhead light on. He had to get some normality going.

She said, “They are bad. They are punishing me.” Her eyes were moist.

“You have to get dressed
right now
,” he said. “You must be dressed, fast. And then you must take your sisters home. Listen to what I say.” He was speaking distinctly, he realized, like the Peace Corps schoolteachers he had met.

She pouted. She was going to be obstinate. The vamping look she’d used before was coming back. He couldn’t believe it. She was going to argue.

“This is insane,” he said.

“We can just go for that bed,
rra
,” she said. “They shall stay this side, as a promise. Because I shall thrash them.” She was pleading and defiant. She crossed her arms. She pushed her belly forward. That was seductive, he gathered.

He was desperate. He said, “You must dress very fast or I’ll hit you. Do you understand me?” She was still being inappropriate. Her expression meant that she doubted him.

He looked around the kitchen for something to threaten her with, so that she would believe he would hit her. There was nothing except a wooden ladle. A wooden ruler was what he wanted. They were used to rulers from being punished in school, probably. There was one in the living room. Ione had used a ruler to make her itinerary poster. He went to look for it.

He drew the curtains on one window to let in a little starlight. He found the ruler. As he was reclosing the curtain, something alarmed him. Christie’s yard light was on. That was unusual. There was also a light bobbing along
the fence. It was Christie’s flashlight. Frank was paralyzed.

He struck himself across the palm with the ruler, to make himself think. Christie might stop. He might stand around and see nothing and go back in. Or Christie might be on some errand that had nothing to do with him at all. He followed the light as it went out Christie’s front gate and then out of sight, as it would if Christie were coming around from the street side.

What would Christie do if Frank sat tight and didn’t answer? Christie was capable of standing outside the house until daybreak, when he could see Moitse and know everything. He was like a bulldog. There was no time. Or Christie was capable of calling the police, saying he was afraid something had happened if there was no answer. Or he could pound on the door, waking up the neighborhood. Frank was going to have to face Christie down and get rid of him.

He ran back to the kitchen. He took Moitse by the shoulders and told her there had to be silence, no talking, because someone was coming there. He shook her. Again he told her to dress. He told her he was ordering her to dress. It was hard not to shout. There was nothing else he could do. He had to get back to the living room and normalize.

He could weep at what he had gotten into. He was facing humiliation beyond belief. The living room looked acceptable. Something had to rescue him. Christie had to stop. Frank would be willing to do anything. He could lose Ione. He could lose everything. He was willing to pray, if Christie could be stopped. Christie could think twice and decide to go home. Agnostics could pray. God wanted belief in Himself, was the main thing—He wanted that more than vows to give up certain vices. If he could defeat Christie, he would be willing to say it was God’s help that did it. Just the act of praying in itself implied belief. That should be enough for anyone. He thought, God, please save me, amen, this will never happen again.

He was a little calmer. There was no sign of Christie’s flashlight. And then there was.

Delay would look bad. Christie was there, knocking politely but steadily. Frank opened the door.

Christie was no threat, physically. He was small, gray-haired, with a heavy, seamed face. He had pronounced lips. His dentures were primitive. Insects were swarming around the stoop light. Christie stood placidly in the storm of insects. Christie had a good baritone voice, an actorly voice. Frank felt a stab: he could have given Moitse the key and told her to get everyone out the back while he kept Christie busy at the front door. But instead the key was sitting in his pocket, reminding him of his stupidity. Christie was wearing black slacks, a dress shirt buttoned to the throat, and a gray foreman’s coat. The effect was clerical. He was wearing sandals and white socks.

Christie spoke. “Good evening, sir. Might I step inside?” His tone was friendly.

“What’s up?” Frank asked.

“Won’t you permit me in, Mr. Napier? There are matters.”

“You have a complaint?”

“Possibly so, yes.”

“Then what is it? Just tell me.”

“We’d best sit down over it, I think.” Christie was being mild. Frank felt his self-confidence pick up. Christie was coming closer, like someone hard of hearing. Frank was encouraged. It was his house. But he needed a good reason for saying no to Christie, who was coming across like a member of the family.

“What do you say to tomorrow, Mr. Christie? I’m pretty tired tonight. In fact, I was dozing.…”

What was Christie doing?
He was walking in, almost
. He had his foot on the stoop and was inside the screen door,
which had never had a lock. Where should Frank draw the line? Christie had his hand on the door and was pressing it, and Frank, slowly back—but smiling apologetically, it seemed to Frank, the whole time. Frank set his foot against the door, but the waxed floor betrayed him. Frank was divided. He was furious. But he was afraid that showing his fury would kill his last chance to manage Christie. He felt sick. The thing was to convert his resistance into the opposite. He opened the door to Christie. Christie was inside.

They stood facing one another in the dim coral light of the breezeway. Christie was upset too. This was costing him something. That meant there was hope. He was going to get out of this, thanks to God. He had to choose his words. He had to get Christie contained in one place, sitting down in one place in the living room. He wanted to batter Christie. But if he could get Christie sitting down, he could go to the kitchen for tea or Fanta or anything and get the key into the right hands and get his little friends out the back door. He had to let Christie see he was astonished at him but that he was honoring Christie’s emotions, whatever they were.