• • •
Carl lay on the cot, waiting. First, Ione had insisted on checking the cot for stability. Then she had insisted on dusting the cot off with some tissues she had. Then it had been O.K. to lie down. And now she had run out to the car to get him the pillow she’d brought. She was taking more of a hand in things than anybody else present liked. There had been trouble over the money, when she made Carl keep half of it until the procedure was over. And that had led to the sangoma’s first request that she consider waiting outside, which she had resented. Now he had the pillow, and there was a compromise: she would sit on a sack at a reasonable distance from the scene of the crime.
The thing began, at last. He wanted to tell Ione to relax, and to remind her that there were such things as trade secrets and that from his standpoint, the sangoma was already being pushed around. This man was an entrepreneur, when you came down to it. Also, it was Carl’s money, and so far he felt like he was getting his money’s worth — some dance steps and swaying as the sangoma circled around him, some business with bones in a pouch, some pouring of liquids into and out of the dog bowl. How could she expect to be allowed to scrutinize everything? They weren’t there to make a documentary. It was too dark for that, and this kind of thing was along the lines of a séance. He wanted to tell her that people didn’t take flashlights to séances and sit there shining them around. Besides, a good part of the ceremony was going on behind a screen made from sacking. Maybe the sangoma hadn’t liked Ione explaining at the beginning, over and over and over, in what would have to be called Basic English, what Carl’s problem was and what the ritual was supposed to be putting an end to. From what Carl had seen during the money imbroglio, the sangoma spoke perfectly good English, although maybe that was strange. Carl was satisfied, was the point. The sangoma was humming. For a moment, Carl felt he knew the tune, from South African radio. But that was impossible. He liked this thing. It went on.
Now the sangoma wanted him to turn onto his stomach. He complied. Ione materialized near them, enraging the sangoma. The old argument began again. Ione was interfering. This time the sangoma was obdurate. Ione would have to wait outside while he completed the ritual, which was almost at an end, and he would absolutely refuse to continue so long as she stayed. He appealed to Carl, saying “Rra, you must command this woman. She must wait some time on the outside, from this moment. She shall destroy my power.” He had a hoarse, grating voice. He sounded weak. Maybe this was hard work for him.
Carl asked Ione to wait outside. She was unhappy. He said he would tell her everything that happened — that was a promise. Something was bothering Ione which she wasn’t communicating, but there was no time for this. She wouldn’t budge.
He was having to keep her face in view from a painful angle. This business couldn’t be dragged out forever just because she didn’t like some detail or other. She had had her chance to be an observer. The sangoma had to be allowed to finish.
She said, “Then are you, yourself, asking me to leave you in here?”
“I think I am,” he said.
He had to shout at her, finally. It took his last strength. He tried to point out that they had paid their admission, that this wasn’t like going into a restaurant and walking out after you looked at the menu. That had been Elaine’s specialty. She loved doing it just a little less than sending food back to the kitchen, which would happen at any point in a meal, so that you were never safe. You were on tenterhooks every time you ate out. He shuddered.
The sangoma bent over him. “Thanks, that woman is gone. Now you must set this into your mouth.” The sangoma handed Carl a piece of cardboard folded in half. Carl didn’t like this, and now the sangoma was untucking Carl’s shirt and pushing it up to expose his back. Carl wanted to say something, but the sangoma was chanting again, and the thought of interrupting seemed wrong. The sangoma gestured for Carl to bite down on the cardboard, so he did.
The sangoma bent down to him again. “Now what I must do is cut you some places, just like this way …” He dragged a thumbnail lightly along the canvas near Carl’s face. “It is just your skin.”
Carl started to get up, but checked himself, overcome by a new sensation. It was the sensation of conviction. The ritual felt real to him for the first time. Someone whose motives were good was going to reach down and cut him while he was wide awake. It was remarkable. He relaxed.
The pain of the first cut startled him. He had to concentrate. He counted the cuts as they came. The first was the worst — the deepest, he guessed. There were six cuts all told, three on each side of his spine, all on his upper back. It was like being burned. He gathered that the instrument was a knife blade, not a razor. He was breathing too fast.
“Rra, I must put you some powders,” the sangoma said, tenderly. He patted Carl’s neck.
The powder made his cuts sting even more. Carl spat out the cardboard. The sangoma tamped the powder down. Carl smelled ashes.
The sangoma helped Carl sit up. “You must set your shirt right,” the sangoma said. Carl tried. His back was crawling with pain that had to stop if he was going to walk. The sangoma helped him with his shirt and then with finding which pocket the balance of the fee was in.
Carl got to his feet. He was all right. He could walk decently. The sangoma would keep the dog bowl, apparently. The sangoma said something about not worrying anymore about the dogs. It was over.
Outside, it was brilliant. He kept walking. The air was sweet, overwhelming. There was Ione, pacing and smoking near the car. Now she saw him. She flicked her cigarette butt into the donga, which he wanted to stop her from doing because of veld fires, but it was too late.
The thing now was to get to the car. There might be some bleeding. If Ione noticed something, she would start up again with the sangoma and they could never leave. He thought, I have to keep my back behind me.
Once they were moving, she wanted to talk. He put her off, pleading fatigue. A taxi passed them, going in the opposite direction — unusual, because taxis mostly stuck to the paved roads. Ione slowed, craned her head out the window: clearly, she was trying to catch the taxi’s plate number, but why? Something is eating her, he thought. He would hear all about it. He promised to be available at the office the next day for a leisurely phone call after lunch. That seemed to pacify her. She was concerned about him. He felt fine. He had done everything he could. There was nothing else. She was driving too fast. The jolts hurt his back. He was nearly faint.