She was carrying one or two packages, and other things were piled on the side. There was a cloth near the cupboard.
What are you doing? I said. My voice sounded gravelly.
Everything’s gone bad, she said, and went out with an armful of cloth.
What happened, I groaned. I lifted myself on one arm and began to sit up. It was an operation. First I lifted the head. Then I propped myself on one hand. A certain amount of groaning while I straightened. Twinges in the back. And it was done.
She came back, insultingly upright, and squatted next to the cupboard. You’ve used too much phenyl, I said. The smell’s strong.
She looked up. We’ll need new clothes for the wedding, she said. These ones have rotted.
Clothes, I said. Who knows if I’ll even be well enough. In my mind I saw my niece’s face. We must go, I said.
She was looking in the cupboard. Things have been lying here for years, she said. No one looks. No one takes care of anything.
She turned to face me. I did know about you and that woman, she said. How stupid do you think we are? Everyone knew.
I remained frozen on the bed. I wanted to laugh. This is part of the illness, I told myself.
You started talking the other day, remember? Before we took you to the hospital.
I looked down. I don’t know what I said, I muttered.
Too much and not enough, she said. As usual.
So you’re just going to sneer at me, is that it? I said. You don’t understand. You don’t want to understand. We should both calm down, I added, remembering that I was ill and this wasn’t a good time to pick a fight. I longed for comfort.
She remained staring at me. Suddenly she sat on the floor.
Why are you sitting there? I said. Sit on the bed.
No, she said. After a moment she sighed and put her head on one hand, resting her elbow on her thigh.
Come on, I said. You’re making me get up, I added reprovingly. I went to sit opposite her. What is it? I said.
She shook her head. Sometimes I feel so sorry for her. She needs, probably not me, but someone, and there’s no one else. Still, I hold myself back, for I’m not getting what I need either. One of us has to grow up, I thought, and immediately began coming up with reasons why it shouldn’t have to be me.
After a time she wiped her face, thoroughly, one hand massaging around each eye. She stood.
Come, sit on the bed, I said.
No, she said. I haven’t finished my work.
I stood too. Oh, I said, ah. On my way to the outhouse I stopped at the kitchen door. It was years ago, I pointed out. I made a mistake, I added, not completely believing this.
She was herself again. Yes, she agreed. It was years ago.
I walked out and thought, how like her not to say anything. I imagined the life we might have led if I had not been so stupid or selfish, the relationship we might have had, some greater tenderness. I was trembling as I waited in the outhouse, without great result, though I managed to urinate a little. Maybe it’s getting better, I thought, shaking myself out. Maybe things will start flowing again. I had been confused, nothing but a child pretending to be a man. I’d thought no one had noticed.
Again I passed the old man in his handcart. He looked up and threw out something hoarse. I waved. But he beckoned me over.
What did you say? I enquired.
How’s yourself? he wheezed. I stared. Your health, he said.
I’m all right, I said, it’ll be all right. I’m going to be all right. How are you?
I held on to the side of the handcart.
His eyes, sharp and brown but so deeply sunken in the face, looked at me over spectacles. They said you were having trouble with your waterworks, he observed, loudly as though it was I, not he, who couldn’t hear. I see you coming and going a lot. He indicated the outhouse. I see you coming and going.
A fleck of spittle landed on my cheek.
I closed my eyes, opened them. The sun was hot on my head. Yes, I said. I have been coming and going more.
He nodded, eyes cunning. It happens, he said. He smiled, a thin smile, to indicate that the conversation had ended, and I went back to my house. Who has any privacy in this world? And yet somehow I’d remained unseen amid it.
I went to lie down, and turned on the radio. The familiar voice began, This is the Voi— but it dwindled and died. I shook the radio, switched it off and on.
The radio’s stopped working, I said. She carried on wiping things, lining the cupboard shelves with newsprint.
I realised what I’d been missing. Where’s Tuka? I said. I thought he’d come and sleep with me. I haven’t seen him all day. Was he there this morning?
She turned then. No, she said.
Where is he? I said. I lay down and felt uneasy. I started to sleep, but a wedding band passed, loudspeakers and cacophony, and a mosquito began to whine near my ear. I missed the radio, and worried about Tuka. He’s not young any more. What if a dog had caught him? Or he’d been run over? My imagination went out to him, wherever he was, injured, hungry, lost somewhere.