She said, “Well, I didn’t want to force you to go up and down at eight and twelve and so on, just because of me … I mean, you don’t have to keep office hours, do you …”
The house was cool, stuffy, dim, empty; Kalimo had drawn the curtains against the heat, thin and violently coloured as flags against the light. It was true; he didn’t have to keep office hours, his job was his own invention, he was responsible only to himself. Those were the conditions he had wanted, in order to make himself useful. The small clink of a cup replaced in a saucer and the faint screech of his knife accompanied him at table in the dim room. Well, there was no reason why anyone else should have to walk in the sun, just because he did not have to be back at the boma or anywhere else, at two; while he was having coffee he sent Kalimo over with a note and the Volkswagen key, telling the Edwards girl to use it. Kalimo said, “The Doña she very please, she say thank you, she must fetch children, thank you.”
He carried some work out under the fig tree; while compiling his own reports he had also sent to England for whatever literature on education systems in underdeveloped countries was available. A tome dealing with Latin America was among the stuff that had arrived while he was at the Bashi. He set himself to read and take notes; the unfamiliar Spanish names provided grist for the tread of his attention, gone smooth and glassy: he plodded on in heat thickening the atmosphere like gelatine setting a liquid. The garden was a bad place at that time of day. The white of the sun under cloud moved a welder’s flame along the outlines of branches and skinny leaves and thrust into the nerve that throbbed, a Cyclopean eye, between his eyes. Yet it was too much trouble to move indoors. At half — past four, since that was the time colonial officials had come home, Kalimo brought tea, and Bray asked for cold water as well. It hurt his teeth and seemed to touch the nerve achingly in that third eye. He left the books under the tree and went into the shrouded living-room, the calm decision coming to him matter — of-factly as he entered: he would go to the capital tomorrow. He lay down on the sofa, whose loose cover hitched up under his weight, and smoked a cheroot. His mind was blank of what he had read. He slept; and must have been asleep more than two hours.
He was waking up in a cooling, darkening room from which the day was withdrawing in a pinkish darkness reflected from one of those brilliant sunsets outside the veranda. The air was mottled with rose and dark like the inside of an eyelid. A shape moved in the room. She was putting the keys down on the table without a sound, keeping her eyes on him so as not to wake him. She stopped as a child does in the game of “statues,” as he saw her. There was a ringing in his ears — the ringing of crickets all round the house, from the garden. He put out the dark shape of his arm — to receive the keys; a gesture of apology.
And then, with a second’s hesitation, she turned with that sideways movement of the hips with which a woman moves between pieces of furniture, came over, and took the forearm — not the hand — in the strange grip of consolation, a kind of staying. As if he were falling asleep rather than waking, he saw with great awareness and clarity what he had scarcely taken in at the time: her hands drawn back, palm open, her breasts offered by the involuntary gesture of backing away, the first day he walked into her as he opened the office door and she was standing there behind it.
They were looking at each other but the faces were concentrations in the half — light, not to be made out as features. He said, “Sit down,” and turned his forearm in her grip to take her wrist and press it towards the sofa.
“The door was open,” she said, sitting there beside him. Darkness was running together all over the room. A mirror of lemon — coloured light hung in the doorway.
“I don’t know when I’ve had such a headache.”
“Oh did you? The humidity was terrible about three o’clock.”
“The Volksie behave itself?”
“It was a blessing. The children were way over the other side of town, at the Reillys’.”
He would get up, turn on the lamp, offer her a drink. While he thought this he was taken by such desire that his whole body felt swollen with it, the awful undifferentiated desire that he hadn’t felt since he was an overgrown youth.
In spite of this, he was not one; he kissed the mouth and caressed the flesh with the skill of experience, got up to make sure Kalimo was not in the house and to lock the doors, and stood there a moment, looking down at the glimmering shape of the body that he had unwrapped from its disguising clothes, the prototype at once familiar and a marvel. He remembered to ask her whether it was all right, and the voice said in the dark, “No,” trusting him. He began to make love to her, they began to make love to each other fiercely and while his body raced away from him — extraordinarily, he was thinking of Shinza. Shinza’s confident smile, Shinza’s strong bare feet, Shinza smoking cigars in the room that smelled of baby. Shinza. Shinza. He brought a small yell of triumph from her; and again.
She took up her clothes by feel and went to dress in the bathroom. For him, with the light, there sprang back the sofa, table of untidy papers, bookcase with its huddle of books tented on one shelf and its spike of invoices and spare light bulbs. A cockroach ran under the rug. He pulled on his trousers and shirt and went to the kitchen for water for drinks. But she came out and said softly, plainly, “What about your boy? I’d better go.” She meant that the servant might already have noticed the darkness and the locked door; if anyone saw her now he would put a face to the unusual circumstances.
She was gone before there was the necessity for some sort of show of tenderness, of a change in their acquaintance as strangers. She was gone down through the garden and, he supposed, across the empty scrub. He heard the dogs bark at her approach; she was home already. He realized that he had made love to her without seeing her face. He was alone again in the quiet house; and now remembered that it was Kalimo’s evening off to go to church; otherwise the old man could so easily have come battering at the door. The moon had come up and shone upon the books he had left in the garden as it does upon the stones in a graveyard.
He banged the Bashi dust out of his suitcase and put a few things in it again. He tried to put through a call to Roly Dando but after an hour the exchange rang back to say there was no reply. He took a lamp and changed a worn tyre on the car. Flying ants came to the light and shed their wings like soapflakes underfoot. There was the smell of his sweat, and, as he worked, very faintly, that other odour. He had a shower and at ten o’clock felt very hungry and put together a strange meal out of all the small souvenirs of past meals that Kalimo hoarded in the refrigerator. He left early, getting up before light. The trees of Gala had not yet come to life with birds, but the main street was not quite empty. An old man rested on the post office steps, his day’s journey already begun, patiently digging a jigger from his big toe.
Bray reached the capital by lunchtime next day and did not go to Dando; instead he went straight to the Silver Rhino and took a room there. “No difficulty about that,” Margot Wentz said dryly, and, keys in hand, flung open the doors of empty rooms and rondavels for him to choose from.
“Of course things’ll pick up again, it’ll pick up again now.” Hjalmar Wentz was awaiting their return to the office, watching their faces as they appeared. His wife ignored the remark. “Don’t go in for lunch, eat with us,” Hjalmar put in, and she said to Bray, “Of course, you remember where to come — just down the passage here, to the right. You don’t mind waiting till about two? I can’t get out of the kitchen before then.”