It was science the way he got the key into the lock in the dark and swung the door open silently, lifting it on its hinges. Before he could say anything, she had slipped into the kitchen, holding one hand open behind her to catch the screen door as it came shut. He closed the door. This was all so fast. He was having misgivings. They stood facing one another. He could hear that her breathing was agitated. He needed a good look at her. He pressed his hair down behind his ears. He was overheated. So was she. Somebody had to say something.
He turned the ceiling light on. For once, he was grateful that only one of the two fluorescent tubes was working. The less light and sound the better. She was beautiful. He studied her in the grayish light. She was beautiful.
She was looking down. Somebody had to talk. She was wearing a dark red wraparound skirt and a faded blue T-shirt open along one shoulder seam. She was barefoot. She would have some kind of pretext worked out. What do you want? was what he wanted to say, but he had to fight back his Spanish. He was almost saying Que quiere? He knew some Setswana, more than the average American expatriate. But his Spanish was welling up. She was still looking down. This was something that happened, but in bars and around bars … parking lots. How old was she? At fifteen you were a woman, or fourteen, or less. The crown of her head came about to his chin. She wasn’t small. She had to be at least sixteen.
She looked at him. She was familiar. He searched his memory. He had seen her around. Every property in the extension had a back house, for servants’ quarters. The back houses were meant for one family apiece, but the reality was that each house was like the Volkswagen with a thousand clowns coming out of it … endless children, relatives, transients. He associated her with the place three houses down. She lived in quarters. He had noticed her. She was a beauty. They were a family of daughters. The mother was a hawker. There were several daughters. This girl was the eldest.
She wasn’t saying anything. What was he supposed to do? He concentrated. He had to get her name. He thought, Asking a name must be O mang? because O kae? means “You are where?” and mang means “who.” People said O kae? when they met, all the time. The correct reply was ke teng, meaning “I am here.” He would try O mang?
“O mang?” he asked. His mouth was dry.
“Dumela, rra,” she said. He had forgotten to greet her.
“Ah, sorry,” he said. “Dumela. O mang?”
“Ke Moitse,” she answered, barely audibly, but clearly understanding him.
“Ke Rra Napier,” he said, pleased with himself. But where was her mother? He had overlooked something even more important than getting her name. What was the word for mother? Rra meant Mr. or man. Mother might be the same as the word for Mrs. or woman, which was mma. His bathrobe was embarrassing.
He said, “O kae mma?”
Now she looked baffled. “Ke teng, rra,” she answered uncertainly.
She didn’t get it. This was a mess. It was like knitting with oars. He would have to go pidgin.
He was urgent. “Mma … is … kae? … your mma.” He pointed at Moitse for emphasis. Still she didn’t understand.
Then he remembered: he had to say Mma Moitse to show who he meant. That was the way it was done. People identified themselves as the father or mother of so and so, their firstborns. He had to assume Moitse was the firstborn.
“Mma Moitse o kae?” he asked.
She understood. “Ehé, rra.” He was elated. Ehé meant “yes,” “O.K.,” “now I see,” and so on. She continued. “My mother is to hospital. She is coming this side Tuesday week.” She was full of surprises. She knew English. She probably liked it that he had tried Setswana. So far he was being a fool. But the coast was clear. It was a relief and a plus that she could speak English.
She had perfect skin. She was looking at him with a half-smile, her chin held high. She said, “It is just because the mistress is gone from you, and Dimakatso gone as well. So you must say I may cook these days.” But she was making no effort to convince him that this was a genuine proposition. She was trying to look brazen. Her expression was lascivious, but a child’s version of lasciviousness, her eyelids half-lowered, her smile studied. She was obviously a spy. She had watched for Ione to be away, and then Dimakatso. She had been watching the house like a little spy.
He said, “So, you want to be my cook.”
“Ehé, rra. I can cook.”
Her hair was elaborately worked in tight, ridged plaits running straight back from her brow. It struck him that he had an obligation. She might be hungry. He knew what was going on. But he was not going to be put in the category of bastards who exploited somebody’s hunger. She had to be fed. He wasn’t going to be a bastard. She was here about sex and they both knew it. If she still felt like it when she had a full stomach, that would be one thing. They were both afraid.
He said, “Well, so, but are you hungry, to eat now? Dijo? Food? Do you want to eat, kopa dijo?” He knew he was showing off.
She nodded. She was hungry. He motioned her to sit at the table.
He liked having a task. It would steady him. Maybe it would end the whole thing. The shepherd’s pie was finished. He found a bowl of raw sugar peas in the refrigerator, waiting for somebody to do something with them other than himself. Canned soup was an idea. He found a can that looked appropriate. It felt heavy. According to the label picture, it was split pea with frankfurter slices. It should be nourishing. It was imported from West Germany. The instructions foiled him. Did he add water or not? He needed his glasses. He would add some milk. Did Moitse represent some kind of trap? He got the soup into a pot and filled a tea kettle. She could destroy him. But who would want to trap him? He had no enemies in Africa, just as he had no friends: he was passing through. He was in Africa to help. His presence would be reflected in people’s teeth for years to come, assuming AID Nairobi said yea instead of nay.
He stirred milk into the soup. He would prefer to know her age. But she would only lie if he asked, so he would forget it. He could have been made a fool of, trying to get her age in Setswana. He thought, Thank God I didn’t try. Numbers in Setswana were hopelessly complex. Ione made a joke about numbers in Setswana, which went How do you say ten thousand in Setswana? The answer was You say bobedi five thousand times. Bobedi meant two.
There could be some small talk about her cooking for him, while she ate. But beyond that, she had to make the first move. He had certain scruples. He hoped she realized that. Excitement was his enemy. So far, he was doing nothing wrong. He was making her something to eat because she was hungry, that was all.
The soup was swelling up. He had used a pot without a handle, something that looked like it came from a Boy Scout cooking kit. It was Dimakatso’s. She used it for boiling mealie. There was no potholder in sight. He stared at the foaming soup. Moitse ran to the stove and deftly shifted the pot to a cold burner with her bare hands. Bravo, he thought. She stood close to him, smiling. She was slightly unfresh. Her nipples showed like bolt heads through the T-shirt cloth. She went back to the table. She had the usual high rump. Her hem went up in back. There were traces of mud on her ankles and a few smears of mud on the floor tiles. He was eating too much lately. He was overweight. He regretted it.