African Rain
Pier Myburgh
Jessica knew that on her old suburban street corner the blood of two people was no longer there. It had stuck to the soles of hundreds of feet walking to work. It had been wiped off on the doormats of houses which stood behind six-foot-high walls to keep out just that sort of blood. It had been licked away by dogs. Straining at the leashes of the brave owners who still walked them, they picked up on the scent and licked and licked, hoping for a last salty taste. It had been diluted by the few drops of rain that fell during that awful year of drought in Johannesburg. It simply was gone.
She had not read about it in the newspapers. It was not the blood of important people, and they did not die harrowing, newsworthy deaths. They were not put in a car and driven to an open field where they were set alight. A man simply shot his wife, and then himself. They had three children. There was nothing more to say.
About a two-hour flight south of that terrible intersection, Jessica stuck her hands into the damp soil and crushed the clumps of earth. The mud stuck to her fingers and some of it fell onto her bare legs, where it dried. Her hair clung to her forehead and sweat ran into her eyes. With the back of her hand, she wiped off her legs and then, using the front of her shirt, she dried her face. She squinted as she looked at the sky. The clouds, empty of rain, had moved west, and the victorious sun clung to the horizon. Promised cool had turned hot and sticky. Her knees hurt, and she pushed down onto the garden fork to stand up. She did not see the figure walking toward her down the driveway. She loved the approach to her farm. From the vegetable garden, she could see the entrance beyond the orange grove. Under the pine trees that lined the dirt road, the agapanthuses she had planted four years ago were standing three deep. Like African beauties, their blue and white heads balanced proudly on long, thin necks.
Jessica softly gave three short whistles and started walking on her bare feet to close the gate. She almost never wore shoes anymore. The mud sucked each time she lifted her feet and it stuck to her soles. It oozed between her toes as she made her way past the orange trees. The dog brushed his huge body against her thigh to announce that he was there, as she knew he would. Two sets of footprints went to the gate every day at dusk, and two sets came back again. It was always the same.
But then one set stopped, while the other dug deeper, quickened, and lost its shape as Simba raced forward and circled around the stranger, barking madly. Jessica watched the woman step back to keep her balance as the heavy dog jumped up, front paws on her breast, his face close to hers. She saw the purple and green handmade smock, the orange and brown cloth tied around her hair, and her thin black sneakers. She did not see her face.
“Simba! Down!” She reached forward and grabbed hold of the dog’s collar. He had left muddy footprints on the woman’s dress, but Jessica did not apologize. “What do you want?” She really didn’t want to know. She looked past the woman to the gate to check whether there was anyone else. She had to be careful.
“Please help me, Madam.”
Only then did she look at the woman’s face. Her one eye was almost swollen shut, and the cheek that had been turned away from her bore a deep gash. White flesh showed vaguely through the blood that was caked against her black skin.
“My God! What happened to you?”
“My husband...”
“Well, what do you want from me? I don’t think I can help you. You need to go to a doctor.”
The woman just stood there, looking down and saying nothing.
“Okay then, come with me and I’ll clean you up. But then you must go. What’s your name? Don’t bother. I don’t want to know.”
She didn’t check whether the woman was following her, but marched back toward the house. She held onto Simba, not to restrain him, but to keep him close to her. She felt safer that way.
Jessica walked straight to the kitchen. The fan that was always on brushed her skin every time it passed over her body. The newspaper and a dirty plate still stood next to an empty avocado shell on the table. A man’s sweater was scrunched up beside it. An avocado pit had rolled off the table and settled under the chair, which had been pulled away from the table. She reached up onto the top shelf and took down an old Danish Butter Biscuits cookie tin. She heard the woman enter the kitchen, but did not ask her to sit down or talk to her at all. She took out the little scissors, cotton wool, the antiseptic, and some Band-Aids. She did not think to take out the pain killer. Then she fetched an old rag and wet it under the tap.
“Here,” she said, and gave it to the woman to clean her face.
She held a chipped enamel bowl with water under the woman’s chin and watched the water slowly turn red. Then she poured some antiseptic onto the cotton wool and started cleaning the wound. The woman’s head remained perfectly still. Jessica worked on the closed eye, but did not look into the open one. She did not want to see the face. She cleaned the cut but tried not to touch the cheek around it. She put on three Band-Aids crossways, although the cut clearly needed stitches.
“Well, you can go now,” Jessica said.
The woman thanked her by softly clapping her hands three times, as was their custom. “My name is Maggie,” she said quietly, but Jessica was already halfway down the passage to the bathroom, where she could wash her hands, and did not show that she had heard.
In the bathroom, she opened the tap and held her hands under the water. She had taken care not to get blood on her hands. She then looked up and studied her own face in the mirror. A brown mud stripe ran across her forehead and gray roots showed in her dark hair. Some dust had settled in the wrinkles on her upper lip. She used to think she was pretty. Now she thought she had gotten the face she deserved.
She heard Albert shout, “I’m home.” The TV went on, too loudly. She could hear him pour a drink. One. She thought how he never poured two, one for her, too. She knew Albert would sit in the middle of the two-seater couch with his feet up on a stack of magazines. It had been her idea to put the couch and the TV in the kitchen. They could spend more time together, she had thought. She loved being in the kitchen. She loved preparing the vegetables that she had grown in her garden. She had thought they could talk while she prepared supper, and perhaps watch a movie afterward. She could catch the big rugby games with him while she worked.
The bottle of Scotch stood with its cap off next to the bowl of bloody water on the counter. The half-empty ice tray was next to the soiled balls of cotton wool. But Albert did not mention them. Two blocks of ice had fallen out and lay melting on the floor. Jessica took the bowl and threw the water out the back door. She dropped the bowl into the sink and rinsed it. Then, covering her hands with a plastic bag, she scooped up the balls of cotton wool and threw them into the trash outside.
“So. Good day?” she said when she returned.
“Hm.”
On the TV they were showing highlights of a rugby match he had already watched twice before.
“How’s the picking going?”
“Fine.”
She gave up and started working on the peppers she had picked the day before. She would bottle them and sell them at the local farm stall. She cupped a pepper in her hands. Smooth, shiny, and cool. Perfect promises. She cut into the crisp flesh and yanked out the seeds. Then she grilled them in the oven until the skins were charred and blistered. When she peeled them, the black skins came off as easily as the skin on her sun burnt nose so many years ago—before she thought of the dangers of the African sun, before she knew of the dangers of Africa. The flesh of the peppers was red and slippery in her fingers. It looked bloody, but it tasted sweet.
“A woman came here today. Her face was all bashed up by her husband. I cleaned it for her.”
“You know you shouldn’t get involved. They were probably drunk. You’re just inviting trouble.”
“Well, I could hardly send her away like that.”
“You should. Let them sort out their own problems. You know how these people are. He’ll hit her again tomorrow, next week, next month. She’ll think she can run to you all the time. It’s beyond me why women stay in those relationships anyway.”
In Johannesburg, Jessica also didn’t get involved. Numsa came to work in her house every morning and left every evening. Jessica would leave her a list of things to do and, at the end of the month, an envelope with her wages. She did not know her last name. It would have been unpronounceable anyway. Jessica was a stockbroker and had more important things to do. She had to buy low and sell high, and make sure she turned in a profit at the end of the month, which would turn into a huge check for her, which would turn into a Chanel suit, Gucci loafers, and perhaps another Prada handbag.
When Numsa came to work one day with her face smashed up, Jessica gave her a lecture and sent her to the doctor. She did not drive her there. She had a client to meet. So she put money for public transport in Numsa’s hand and a sermon on domestic violence in her head, and sent her to wait for a bus, which would probably be late, to take her to the public hospital where she could wait for a doctor. The stock market climbed 150 points that day.
Jessica carefully put the peppers into the sterilized bottles. She added two whole cloves of garlic per bottle and some salt and covered them with equal parts olive and vegetable oils. Too much olive oil, and it would be too rich. She sealed the bottles, gently wiped them, and covered the tops with red and white fabric, which she had cut herself. Then she stuck on her label: Peace of Peppers. She smiled at her clever name. They were her jewels. Bottles of rubies.
“I think she works for Booysens. He got some new pickers in last week. Perhaps I should call him,” she tried again.
“I don’t know how the guys could give away the game like that.” Albert changed channels and got up to pour himself another drink.
“She said her name was Maggie. Maybe I can find out.”
“What’s for supper? I’m starving. God, are you still doing those goddamn peppers? I can’t stand the sight of them anymore.”
Albert opened the fridge door and closed it. He looked inside the oven, saw the trays of peppers waiting to be grilled, and slammed the door shut.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I sort of got tied up with the woman and all. There’s bread and still some of that nice cheese I bought.”
“Jesus, Jessica. When you worked you had an excuse. But you’re a goddamn housewife now. And guess what? Housewives cook supper.”
He grabbed his drink, sulked back into the sofa, kicked over the pile of magazines, and stared at the TV.
Jessica knelt down at his feet and started picking up the magazines. She picked up some Financial Mails, an Economist, a Farmer’s Weekly, some Elle magazines and the past four months’ editions of Food & Home. She stacked her past, her present, and her future neatly on the floor, and Albert put his feet on it.
That Friday, four years ago in Johannesburg, it had not rained for eight months and twenty-three days. Jessica came home just as Numsa was finishing the ironing. They did not chat.
“I’m all done. Have a good weekend,” Numsa finally said.
Jessica looked up from the mail that she was sorting, but did not answer. She saw Numsa’s green and blue frock, her red and white scarf tied around her hair, and wondered why her clothes never matched.
When Numsa opened the door, dust and dry leaves swirled into the house. Jessica scratched her dry arms. She went to the bathroom and covered her face and arms with sunscreen. She had to protect herself.
Ten minutes later, she heard two shots. They did not startle her. She often heard shots in Johannesburg. She always thought that it would be her problem only if the bullet was coming her way. There was no commotion. No sirens. No one screamed.
She was pouring a drink when the door bell rang. They were sorry to bother her, but could she identify a body? It wouldn’t take up much of her time. It was just around the corner. She followed the policeman past the houses with the electric fences. Dogs barked from behind their gates. Jessica saw Numsa’s black sneakers that could not run away. She did not look at the other body. She did not want to see more.
That was when she and Albert decided to leave the city. Someone she had known had died on her street corner from a gunshot that she had actually heard. It scared her. They would go south where it was safer, where people still cared about a life.
Simba followed her to the bathroom where she avoided the mirror. He licked at the wet shower curtain while she stood under the hot running water. She washed herself, but could still smell the peppers and garlic on her fingers. She wanted to cry, but could not. She put her hand through the shower curtain and held it under Simba’s nose. Water ran down her arm to her fingertips where he licked it. First he lapped at her fingers, then the palm of her hand. His tongue was slimy, and it felt good. After the shower, she put on her blue cotton dress, which hung loosely around her body. She covered her wet hair with a bright pink and purple scarf. She looked for her sneakers, but could not find them. So she put nothing on her feet. She softly whistled three times.
“Where are you going?” Albert shouted.
“I forgot to close the gate.”
Two sets of footprints walked down the driveway toward the gate. Then they walked out. They turned right, but not because Booysens’s farm was there; it was just a turn to take. She could smell the pine needles being crushed under her feet. In the moonlight, she could just make out Simba’s figure as he ran ahead, nose to the ground, in the middle of the road.
She heard the truck approaching on the dirt road. She did not hear the voices of the three pickers who sat on the back, even though there was room for them inside.
“Simba!”
The dog’s heavy body charged across the beam of light in the road. The truck swerved, slid on the mud, splattering her dress, and stopped sideways. The blinding headlights lit up the orchard of half-picked oranges behind her.
For a moment it was very quiet. She did not see Simba. But then she heard him galloping toward her from behind the truck, and she felt him jump up against her frock. She stepped back to keep her balance. Her mouth felt dry with fear, and sweat had formed on her upper lip.
“You are very lucky, Madam. God was with you tonight.” She thought she recognized Maggie’s voice. She gave a silly little giggle of relief. Then she laughed. Huge big belly laughs. She laughed at a farmer who would not let his workers sit inside the truck. She laughed at herself for not wanting to touch black skin. She laughed at Albert. She laughed at her peppers, all ridiculously dressed up on her counter.
On the back of the truck, they were silent. They watched the strange woman with the pink scarf laugh, although it sounded as though she were crying. The truck started up, straightened, and drove off.
Then she saw something fly off the back. “Oh!” a woman shouted. Hands grabbed at the darkness. Like a wish, it floated in the air and landed limply in the wet road. Hands banged onto the roof of the truck to stop.
Jessica ran forward. In the rear lights of the truck, she saw an orange and brown scarf lying at her feet. She picked it up, shook the mud off, and folded it carefully against her body. She smoothed the edges and felt the satin under her hands. Then she walked to where the truck was waiting and stretched her arm up. “Here you are, Maggie. I think this is yours.” She felt certain that their fingers touched.
When she walked back, she held Simba by the collar to keep him safe. She forgot to close the gate. Two sets of footprints walked down the driveway toward the house. A footprint in the mud did not tell the color of the foot that had made it. She smiled at the thought.
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