This Mournable Body

  Everyone is so satisfied with your colleague’s skills and character that the little beautician at the Queen of Africa Boutique and other young women begin to inquire tentatively how much it costs to go on holiday on the Stevensons’ farm. Pedzi promises to speak to Tracey about a Christmas special, when clientele from the north is slow, so that this season is tailor-made for the locals.

  “Hey, Pedzi!” your boss grins one day when the office lunch of samoosas and coleslaw, plus the sadza and stew that Pedzi has now taken to eating, are arranged on the small kitchen counter and you are offering each other portions.

  “You know what?” your boss promises. “As soon as you hit your thousandth client, you’ll get a raise. When you get your ten thousandth, we’ll see about that mortgage.”

  You become more restless and ponder how you too can bring in thousands of clients. With this on your mind, you take several more groups of tourists on tour. The year closes and another opens.

  “Everything’s bho! Everything’s bho!” Pedzi sings at the top of her voice one morning. You have returned from the Green Jacaranda camp and have not as yet discovered any additional idea for your own department.

  “It’s not bho,” you snap. “It’s beau. French.”

  The young men studying at your uncle’s mission used to speak French to each other both in delight and in order to show off their erudition, before the government declared that such erudition, and the Pan-African interaction it engendered, was unnecessary for natives and banished the language from their classrooms.

  You have become accustomed to mentioning fairly random facts to colleagues outside the tours because you wish, like the young Sister Mai Gamu, you have a secret. You wish, like the young men at the mission, to parade your learning. Now you mention how the mission education was damaged to Pedzi.

  “We have to go into the boardroom,” the young woman responds, her eyes glinting expectantly, unimpressed by your story.

  “It’s the Ghetto Getaway proposal’s first anniversary,” she goes on. “It’s amazing! What won’t I do next? Become the president of this country. The queen of England. Or the pope. We have to wait there for Ms. Stevenson. Everything’s bho! Everything’s bho!” she goes out singing.

  In the boardroom you bang your knees on the wrought iron. A speck of blood dots your skirt.

  Pedzi sits opposite, her eyes growing calmer and more inscrutable.

  The boss enters some minutes later.

  “I’m glad you’re already here,” she says. Delving into the bag she sets on the table, Tracey pulls out a carton of orange juice and a bottle of sparkling wine.

  “We’re toasting Pedzi,” Tracey says after she has placed the goods on the tabletop. With that, she sets about removing the gold foil from the wine bottle.

  You nod, aware of a sensation you last had many months ago, an emptying in the area of your womb.

  Pedzi goes out to the kitchen nook. She returns moments later with a tray of cups, glasses, and half a dozen Mediterranean Bakery chocolate croissants, cold from the fridge.

  “Thanks, Pedzi!”

  Tracey arranges the glasses on the table and pours. Her lips are pursed; there are little indentations, like cellulite, on her chin. Around her mouth a white line of tension creases.

  Pedzi maintains her position behind the boss.

  “What about my raise, ma’am?” she inquires, pretending the query is a joke.

  “Ah, yes,” recalls Tracey. She remains bent over the glasses. Wine froths out of one and drips onto the table. The tips of the boss’s ears redden. Finally she straightens up. “One thousand. When did he check in?”

  “She. Three weeks ago,” answers Pedzi.

  “A testament,” says your boss. She raises her glass. A gleam of satisfaction lights up her eyes as she surveys you and your companion before continuing, “to the fact that anyone can achieve anything, in principle, if they want it badly enough. To Pedzi! The queen of the Ghetto Getaway.”

  “To the queen of the ghetto! And the Ghetto Getaway,” you toast sarcastically. Between the words and your frustration, wine bubbles up and dribbles from your nostrils. You gasp and choke.

  Tracey’s smile slips into a smirk, then steadies.

  Pedzi distributes paper napkins.

  “Bho,” she repeats, bowing. “Are you going to say anything about Her Majesty’s reward?”

  “That will be discussed separately,” Tracey promises. “Don’t worry, I’ve already done the paperwork. I’m onto everything we agreed.”

  You lean back in your chair estimating percentages and calculating monthlies, speculating whether Pedzi’s earnings will now outstrip your income.

  Tracey pushes her glass away and sits up meaningfully.

  “Everything’s better than you think,” she says in a voice that carries too much conviction. As a result, her words fill you with dread.

  “It’s times like this when you have to keep your eye on the ball. This is when there’re opportunities everywhere. Tambu,” she goes on, facing you squarely. She doesn’t blink, while her voice keeps weighing you down. “Pedzi’s shown us the way,” Tracey nods. “That’s the direction we’ve got to go in.”

  Pedzi imitates Tracey’s nod.

  “She’s thinking outside the paradigm,” your boss explains. “That’s what we all have to do if we’re going to manage this time in this country.”

  She pauses and looks at you a little sadly.

  “You’ve had a great deal of time to come up with something,” she proceeds. “We have to add value to our programme. So I ended up thinking, building on what Pedzi’s done. I thought it would be a good idea for you to have your own brand as well, Tambu.”

  You nod cautiously.

  “Queen Tambu,” says Pedzi, crossing one arm across her chest, trapping the hand in her armpit, rapping the fingers of the other on the table. “Hmm! D’you think so? Anyway, of what?”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” says Tracey.

  You clasp your fingers together in your lap. Your armpits sweat. Your heart beats so loudly you can hardly hear anything. You dare not breathe in or out.

  “Actually, Pedzi, more like very different from what you’ve done, really,” your boss is explaining in a placatory manner when you succeed in making out the conversation again.

  “Any competition with the Ghetto Getaway is a nonstarter. I’m thinking out of town. Like the farm, but not the farm. Celebrating roots. Where people come from. I was thinking, out in the village,” your boss goes on.

  “Queen of the village,” says Pedzi. She pushes her chair back and laughs. Her navel ring jigs up and down under her T-shirt.

  Tracey takes a deep breath and tries to smile.

  Into the silence, as the thought comes to her, Pedzi exclaims, “Hey, but we don’t have a village. Why are you talking about a village for her, when there’s nothing like that?”

  Tracey’s hands curl into fists. She unclenches them with an effort. A moment later she clasps them together upon the table.

  “What’s the matter, Tracey?” Pedzi grumbles. “We have a farm. That’s where she takes the clients. It looked as if they all enjoyed it.”

  Tracey’s face blanches.

  “She’s been going all the time,” Pedzi shrugs. “That’s nothing new. How she can be queen of your farm?”

  “Green Jacaranda does not have a farm,” your boss says finally, her voice even.

  Involuntarily you and Pedzi glance at each other. Neither of you acknowledges the gesture. Turning away from each other, you both stare at the table.

  “We can’t go through this situation any other way.” Tracey pushes her chin forward. “Pedzi, basically, the farm isn’t mine. That’s the trouble with inheritance laws in this country. It’s all there on paper, in principle. But it can just be too bloody difficult!”

  “The clients went there. Just a month ago,” Pedzi protests.

  You remain quiet, anticipating imminent advancement.

  “I can’t go in
to details,” Tracey says, crumbling her croissant. “The farm is … well … Green Jacaranda does not own any of it. Nils … my brother and I had an agreement. Jah, what good is any agreement these days?”

  The boss raises her glass to her lips, does not drink, reaches for a carton, and mixes the wine with orange juice.

  “Well, there’s been trouble. Some of those … thugs … skellems who call themselves ex-combatants, or war vets … they’ve occupied the rondavels. They’re hunting the game. And they’re camping in our tourists’ village! It’s not like we’re not the only ones. There’s a whole lot of these … these invasions. I’ve been thinking how we can go on. Just the other day I realized, we’re safest in a real village. If we can get one.” Your boss grunts despondently. “That was their philosophy during the war too, wasn’t it? Being part of the village. For a safety strategy.”

  You swallow without answering. Your mouth dries, then bitter saliva floods your tongue. As an urbanite, Pedzi does not know the horrors each person lived through at your homestead during the war, the kind of violence that not even Mainini Lucia and Kiri have succeeded in running from, that leaps from their bowels onto their tongues again and again. You observe a leg spinning against the blue of the sky. A woman is falling onto sand and spiky grass. It is your sister who is injured. No, it is you.

  Tracey and Pedzi are discussing Green Jacaranda’s situation calmly, as your mind returns to the boardroom. You realize that although a hyena is laughing, the sound is only in your head.

  “Are you all right, Tambu?” Tracey asks.

  “Have those people done anything?” you whisper, trying to keep your voice even. Your skin tautens as though it will fall off your bones, but you are only smiling. “Has the army been called?”

  “Take it easy, Tahm-boo,” your boss says, her Rhodesian accent returning inexplicably. She lays a hand on your arm. “No, it’s unlikely they’ll be calling the army. After all, they’re all the same lot. Along with the guys I’ve been seeing about my permit. Still, it’s pretty all right, all things considered. Nils!” she sighs with some venom. “He’s finally got it into his head how things work here. He’s talking to them, not waving his rifle. Thank God he’s done with the Stevenson heroics.”

  Tracey pauses to put her thoughts in order.

  “And it seems they’ve asked around in the building,” she goes on. “About who we are and what we’re doing. Some people say that Lindiwe Ngwenya is their woman here. Or else the Moetsabi woman. You know how it is. People will say anything! But there’s no point in panicking. Everything’s fine so far. Basically, what we had wasn’t the best arrangement. We didn’t have the real control we need. It’s just that people like my brother don’t know how to talk to people. If I’d been there I’d have sorted it all out.”

  “You can’t. You can’t talk once they’ve decided what they want to do and they’re doing it,” you say listlessly, remembering too much that you do not wish to. You believe Tracey can do many things and she has proved this again and again, yet you know she cannot get the better of liberation war fighters when they say yes, we are coming.

  “Can’t what?” asks Pedzi, folding her arms more tightly and pressing her lips together, for this is in the days before war camps come to the city. “What d’you mean, can’t?”

  “Negotiate,” snaps Tracey. “Talk. Obviously that’s what she means. Taahmboodzahee, you’ve got to stop this. Pedzi’s right. In a way, you’re beginning to sound like my brother.”

  The boss steadies herself before she continues brusquely, “If Nils has enough sense to play his cards right, it might not come to the worst. I’m talking about the farm. But that’s got nothing to do with us now. The part that does affect us is that we have to find a new place. Quickly. In time for the next group of clients.”

  Pedzi puts her head in her hands, understanding before you do.

  “It’s fine,” says Tracey. “I’ve already discussed everything with the donors and they like what I’m suggesting. You have a rural background, Tambu. You embody it. That’s how you can, if you’re up to it, take on the brand we created up on the farm. This time in a village.”

  “Queen of the village!” snorts Pedzi.

  Tracey picks up her champagne glass in a toast to Green Jacaranda.

  “Green Jacaranda. Always green. Whatever happens!”

  “Green Jacaranda,” you answer.

  “And to the queen of the village,” says Pedzi.

  The meeting ends soon after this. While you all clear the things away, you screw up the nerve to tell your boss you cannot answer her at once. You inform her you need time to consider taking on this new responsibility. Tracey nods more emphatically than usual. There is relief in her voice when she cautions you that your contemplation should not take too long. When the boardroom is tidy, Tracey calls Pedzi into her office. Pedzi emerges looking smug. The expression on her face prods you toward your decision.

  The boss requests your presence as soon as Pedzi has left. She tells you that she hopes you have had sufficient time to consider and asks whether you have come to a decision.

  You do not answer.

  Your boss sighs impatiently.

  “I take it that means agreement,” she says.

  “We’ve got to find a name,” she presses on. “Open air, safari, land. That’s all the same. Be that as it may, though, the village isn’t going to be like the farm. Less glamour. We have to find a substitute pulling factor. This name’s got to be something … it’s got to sound like a move to more authenticity. Something to tell the clients they’re going deeper into Africa, into everything, but just as safely.”

  “Green,” you breathe.

  Your boss looks annoyed.

  You hardly notice. A moment later, your mind whizzing, you add, “Eco.”

  “Green and eco are tautological,” Tracey reprimands. “Anyway, we’ve got that already, everywhere. Everything’s Green Jacaranda eco! And you can’t say village,” she says. “That kind of promise doesn’t work these days either. It’s got to sound like fun, not under development, soil erosion and microfinance. That’s your assignment, then, Tambudzai,” she concludes, her accent improving. “You were always good at literature. No wonder you were the whiz kid copywriter.”

  You promise to present an idea by the next morning.

  “Good,” says Tracey. She picks up a folder.

  “This is the concept. I typed it up when I couldn’t get back to sleep last night. Go through it and we’ll discuss it. If you have any initial questions, ask now. Share your thoughts with me on your way out this evening.”

  “After lunch,” you promise, still nervous but determined to grasp tightly at this new possibility of victory.

  “Fine,” the boss nods. “We have to set it up for the next quarter.”

  You skim over the pages as you walk to the door. Entirely on its own initiative, as though it has a life of its own, a phrase forms in your mind. You consider it for three steps.

  “Transit,” you say at the door.

  “What?” your boss asks absentmindedly, opening her appointments diary.

  “Ah, transit,” she repeats, looking up for a moment. “Yes, transit. That sounds like what we’re looking for.”

  “Green Jacaranda Getaways, as usual. We’ll keep that bit for the branding,” you plunge on, growing more excited. “But this will be the Village Eco Transit! Chimanimani, Pungwe Falls, Honde Valley—the fruit, they’ll love it. And V-E-T, that’s too good! ‘Take all your pets to the VET!’ Imagine it on the brochures.”

  “Except it’ll be in German. Swedish. Danish and Italian,” your boss says. She considers the matter for a second before deciding, “Well, we can always keep the tagline in English.”

  The boss pages through her diary and switches the telephone to loudspeaker. You leave, overwhelmed by an emotion you have missed for too long, the astonishing joy of knowing you are good at the task before you.

  CHAPTER 19

  A few days later you
sit in your purple double cab, which you are entitled—according to your organization’s regulation—to buy at 10 percent of its current value in three years’ time. You relish the fact that with your promotion to village tour manager, Pedzi is now no longer your equal at number two in the company. Better still, it is you and not the former receptionist—as you still think of her privately—who has been given the vehicle.

  You admire yourself in the rearview mirror, looking forward to the splendid entrance you will make in the village. You belt along Samora Machel Avenue enjoying the looks on pedestrians’ faces, and the expressions of drivers below you in their third- and fourth-hand vehicles. It is a time when everything is on the move, from ex-combatants to capital, when momentum is dignity, when cars such as yours have automatic right of way over all creation except a more powerful, superior engine. Smaller vehicles, cyclists, and people scurry from the danger of your advance. Your heart smiles in a hard sort of way before you press your foot down, feeding the engine petrol.

  A trio of schoolchildren pull each other out of your path. They fling their hands to their mouths and hold them there. A man by the roadside steps from the pavement onto the roadside gravel. He stretches out too late and grasps nothing but air. The old woman he wishes to save is already leaping to safety. She springs up and down in the isle in the middle of the road, like a competitor warming up for an elderly citizens’ world championship contest. At the sound of your hooter, she hugs a traffic light post. Shaking your head at her stupidity, you hurtle over her headscarf, which had fallen onto the tarmac.

  Streams of traffic trickle off down side roads. The arm of your speedometer bobs across the dial. The Mutare road narrows into a single lane. Swaths of farmland sweep out toward the horizon. Anticipation drives your foot hard upon the accelerator with the abandon of an incautious new driver. You are in a race with your very existence. An hour later mountains heap up on both sides. In two instead of the usual three hours, you grind over the rocks and ruts that are the road to your homestead.