We shuffle to one side to make way for a pair of senior citizens who are squinting at their tickets and faffing with a plastic wallet. There’s a brief resurfacing of the early morning stupor among us, a hesitation, like we all just really want to lie down where we are and go back to sleep. The three suitcases are trundling off on the squeaky conveyor to be claimed by the black rubber flaps that are like the tentacles around the maw of some mechanical beast. I get a fleeting fancy that they’ll be digested in there and we’ll never see them again.
Gill makes the decision that we should be awake and bright and cheery.
“Coffee then? At that cafeteria? Come.”
There’s some doubt in Piet’s mind, judging from the grimace on his face.
“I wouldn’t risk it. I’ve had both tea and coffee from that place before and they taste exactly the same. I’m not even sure what they taste of. I’ll have a Coke, thanks.”
Outside of the cold barn that is the domestic terminal it’s as perfect a morning as can be expected for this time of year and a little on the cool side as late summer slides into winter. There’s an expanse of plate glass at the end furthest from the check-in bays and on the other side is our Viscount, its new livery colours flashing in the sun. Gone is the dull battleship grey the Air Rhodesia fleet got cloaked in after the two missile attacks. No more practically vertical take-offs and landings from civilian scheduled flights. One of these days, I guess, all that’ll be like part of a past life.
Now, for the present, you have your arm around my waist, guiding me in Gill’s wake. She’s still determined to have that coffee. Piet’s keeping pace with her and I get snatches of their conversation and his optimism about the outcome of the donors conference and the millions of dollars the World Bank has pledged to lend us.
This is how it’s going to be. I’m in love. I have an extended family who are also my friends. Zimbabwe will work. We agreed that in the car on the way here. We praised Mugabe’s unexpectedly sensible approach to governing this past year and his hope for moderate and evolutionary changes in society. Unity and hard work – that’s what he’s asking of us.
On the other side of the coin, my father insists the donor countries and organisations are being naïve if they think they’ll ever see their money again. He scoffs at Bernard Chidzero’s claims that our economy will boom with the promised foreign investment and he reckons of course they’ll bloody nationalise the mines and the commercial farms. He said anyone who believes they won’t do this is a fool. Well, I don’t think any of us here are fools. We know this could well happen. What we hope is that a workable solution will evolve, to the benefit of most, and the country as a whole.
I know I can tell Gill anything, right? And now I know I can tell this perfect partner of mine anything. But I haven’t yet managed to bring myself to reveal my parents’ plan to leave Zimbabwe. Since the day the decision was made, I’ve been compelled by some inner force to shut it out, to keep Great Aunty Julia, her estate and my father’s inheritance completely to myself. I can’t tell because I haven’t quite worked out my own plan. I’ll stay in Zimbabwe, but I have to figure out where I’ll live, how I’ll pay my way. There’s an obvious solution but I dare not bank on that just yet. For all I know, Dad might change his mind. Nothing will happen until he’s secured himself a job in England anyway, I’ve been assuring myself. So it might all go away.
Someone did tell me that ostriches are not actually prone to burying their heads in the sand (it was probably Charles) but ostrich-like or not, I’m burying my own head firmly and refusing to come out for now. I’m doing exactly what the folks did in Smith’s days. Silly cow. I used to criticise them. But it’s what us humans – all animals in fact – do; fight, flight or avoidance. If you can’t tackle it or run from it, you deny its existence with all your power. So I’ll just revel in what I’ve got for now.
*
The hostess who threw the plastic trays of cardboard sandwiches at us on the way up is coming around again to snatch them back now that we’re on the way down. She has that look in her eye that says, if you haven’t finished, tough shit.
“What, we going down already?” I cup my hand to the glass of the oval window and put my face against my palm. I get a slight sinking sensation that’s accompanied by a very subtle change in the engine note. The propeller blades form glittering circles with a yellowish edge. You lean across me.
“Yup. Look over there. Can you see the spray?”
The Viscount shudders in an air current, up, then sinks down again. Several passengers utter, “Ooh!”, then titter. Rising out of the trees on the northern horizon is a pale misty cloud, small and insignificant enough that I wouldn’t have noticed it without your prompt. If I had seen it, I may have thought it was a bush fire.
“Spray? You mean, that’s the Falls?”
You nod, and I consider asking you to get the camera from my duffel bag in the locker above us, but actually the cloud is too far away and the window isn’t exactly clean. It won’t make a good photo.
The runway’s completely encircled by virgin bush; Mother Nature is one short step away from claiming it back. We slide in over the top of the trees, bump onto the macadam strip, bounce once, wobble briefly as if all control has been lost and then the brakes are applied and we ease down to a crawl. Behind us, Piet mutters something about a good landing being one you walk away from and Gill tells him to shut up, she’s known worse.
*
The air here is humid – nothing like the dry crispness we left in Salisbury. We’re in second place in the convoy of three brash, touristy zebra-striped minibuses and the air con isn’t working; wedged in like traditional sardines we’re probably all starting to feel a bit moist. My duffel bag’s making the tops of my thighs sweat already and your body against mine is like a radiator. A very nice radiator though.
“How far?” I ask.
“Twenty kays? Other hotels are closer, but we’ve got the best. Nearest to the Falls.”
The buses disgorge passengers in turn at hotels and motels. Two of them vanish and only ours remains, with us four the only occupants for the Victoria Falls Hotel. The entrance is framed by columns, the foyer hushed, cool, opulent and we make an obtrusive clatter with our shoes and our cases. We get assigned with rooms – two – and I’m committed now. It feels good. Wickedly good. Anticipation and dread vie for priority.
A porter with a brass trolley bearing our luggage leads us across a paved courtyard, following pathways framed by ponds and flowering plants. The courtyard is bright with reflected sunlight; as we enter the lofty olive and white lounge on the far side my vision is momentarily dulled. Ahead of us, the lounge has wide doors that give access to a terrace as dazzling as the inner court we’ve just left and there, in the distance (through a squinted attempt to adjust light levels), is the iron bridge that spans the chasm downstream of the Falls and links us with Zambia. It’s ever so slightly hazy in a cloud of mist.
I’m going to walk into something if I’m not careful, my eyes fixed on this ethereal scene over my shoulder. The others have headed off into an adjacent corridor that probes deep into the structure, following the porter, the wheels of his trolley now silent on the thick pile carpet. The corridor is lined with a succession of paintings and Victorian photographs of the Zambezi in all its moods.
We arrive at Gill and Piet’s room first and you and I hover in the passage while their case and bags are off loaded.
“See you in a bit.” Gill waggles her fingers at us and closes the door.
“This is yours,” the porter says, indicating the adjacent door. He produces a key and ushers us in with ceremony, depositing the luggage on a wooden rack just inside the door. He takes the cash you offer in exchange for the key, claps his hands together with a slight bow and exits.
It’s cosy and plush, the two single beds covered in mottled pastel shades of pink, lilac, blue and turquoise. There are matching curtains and a rose coloured carpet. Curiosity drags me to the bathroom door where I get a minor rush at the thought of trying out all those potions and lotions in sachets and bottles and the pearly soap cakes in shell-shaped dishes.
“After all the respectable but merely functional hotel bathrooms my family and I have known, this is stupidly exciting. Look, what’s this?” I poke about in a small, flat basket. “Shower cap… nail file… a sewing kit? Good God.”
Your hands settle on my shoulders from behind and I raise them into the warmth of your touch.
“So you’re going to have fun then? Told you it was a nice hotel.”
“Nice? That’s got to be the understatement of the century.”
You turn me, guide me back into the centre of the room. “Which bed do you want, my kitten?”
Well, yours of course, I want to say. I don’t say it but I can’t suppress a silly little chuckle. I point to the one nearest the window. “Er, that one.”
I stare at it, spaced out, not quite on planet Earth, then look back at my suitcase on the rack. Unpacking is too much to think about.
“I’m not unpacking now. Let’s collect the others. I want to see this ’ere waterfall.”
*
It’s when we reach the thatched gatehouse to the National Park that a whisper of something brushes across my eardrums, registering in my sub-consciousness. It’s not a sound is it? Maybe it is. I hear it, then can’t hear it, then feel it again. Gill and Piet are involved in some sort of debate on the merits of hiring the plastic ponchos that a woman is trying to persuade them to take. Gill’s telling Piet she wants to keep her hair dry, and that I will too, and Piet’s laughing at her.
I move a little away to where I can sense the whisper again. It’s still there, but then it’s not. There’s too much interference – cars passing on the road to the bridge and the border post with Zambia, curio sellers calling from the gravel car park opposite where baboons are stalking around the assortment of passenger-carrying vehicles and private cars, tourists in conversation with the ticket officer. If it is a sound, I know what’s causing it, and my squirm of anticipation increases.
We set off along the path ahead. I want to visualise, in the time-warp of my imagination, a sweating nineteenth-century explorer and his native guides hacking their way through the bush, listening in wonder to the whisper that becomes a breath and finally a roar and then stumbling upon the unbelievable sight of a river plunging over a seventy-metre high cliff. We’re told that David Livingstone had already known for some time of the existence of Mosi oa tunya – The Smoke That Thunders – but now I need to pretend that I do not. That I’ve never seen the photographs or the films, that I cannot possibly guess what awaits me at the end of this path.
“Here we go. Watch your footing, Kitten,” you breathe into my right ear. I have a subtle dusting of spray droplets on my face, and a super-sized Livingstone up here on my left, on his rock plinth, is slick and shiny like the paving beneath my feet. I devote no more than two seconds of my time to the good Doctor. Ahead, through the spindly bushes, I can see rushing white foam. You’re tugging my hand, urging me on.
“Come.”
We are poised above Devil’s Cataract, where a part of the broad and hitherto peaceful Zambezi nearest to the south bank is compelled forward in a frenzy down an angled incline. It’s not particularly wide. Beyond it is a thickly vegetated island mass.
“This is actually the very head of the falls,” Gill shouts at me over the thunder of water. “That island there separates this section from the remainder of the river, and one almighty cliff. Come on, we can go down lower and get this stunning view along the whole gorge.”
Below the promontory on which Livingstone’s statue stands watch is a shelf, essentially just a ledge on the cliff opposite the creaming falls. It’s reached by a series of deeply cut, treacherous steps. In front of us, Gill is hanging onto Piet’s arm.
“We’re below the level of the river here,” Piet yells as we reach the bottom.
We’re all drenched now. The hoods of these hired ponchos aren’t going to prevent our hair from getting wet at all and Piet’s beard is all silvery round the edges. Devil’s Cataract is thundering and terrifying on our left and the main body of the Falls stretches out before us. The incessant roar of millions of gallons of water, the sound and sight of such enormous power, takes complete command of the senses. There’s a rainbow arching through the mist, its bright spectrum so intense that it appears solid enough to climb.
I’m asked what I think, how I feel, and ‘humbled’ is the only word I can dredge up after some scratching around.
We spend a few minutes being swamped by the magnitude of the sight and sound, then we have to leave as there’s a group of six tourists coming down on top of us. The ledge isn’t big enough to accommodate everyone.
It takes us nearly an hour to wander the meandering pathway through the rainforest, stopping at each viewing point, photographing, being awed. The path terminates amongst the black, glistening rocks of Danger Point. One step too far, a slip on the wet basalt, and the raging waters in the gorge below are the next stop.
“Some spectacle, huh?” There’s a pride in your voice as though Victoria Falls is one of your personal possessions. “Impressed?”
“That’s as good a word as any, I suppose, given that no words are really good enough. Yes, I’m impressed.”
You stand behind, your arms around my waist, and I allow myself to be mesmerised by the torrent below. A freight train dragging ten or so heavily laden, tarpaulin covered trucks behind it, is chugging across the landscape behind us, having crossed the bridge from Zambia. Piet’s turned his back on the Falls and is clicking away with his camera.
I’m aware that Gill’s been watching us like a proud parent – it’s like she can’t get over me and you – and now she’s gesticulating to us to follow her.
“Shall we head off? I’m in dire need of lunch. We can come back later for more photos and… train spotting. Piet! Why are you wasting film on a train, for God’s sake? Didn’t you notice the waterfall?”
I’ve used up a whole thirty-six exposure film already.
*
So the next phase in my life is going back to our shared room. Crowding into my head are thoughts of showering, getting undressed, all the mundane things you and I do, and have done all our lives, every day, but just not together. Like Mum and Dad do together. All through the tribal dance show, while my soul was absorbing the drum rhythms like a drug, we sat with our arms around each other and I focussed on enjoying being so close to your body while shutting my mind deliberately to what was to come. The immediate future will have to unfold in its own way – I have no plans or ideas on what I should or shouldn’t do. I wonder if you do. With this blank wall in front of me, we’re all planning tomorrow and the next day while sipping gin and tonic on the terrace. The spray is still visible, a ghostly white haze against the night sky.
Gill and Piet are tired, they both admit. They’re finishing up their drinks. This is completely normal for them now, to go to bed together, do the mundane things together. Did Gill feel like this the first time she spent a night with Tim Morrison, all those years ago? I never asked her.
“Crocodile ranch tour tomorrow then. What time?” Gill finished her sentence with a wide yawn.
“Nine-thirty,” says Piet. “Breakfast at eight, guys?”
“Have a good night,” says Gill. She smiles benignly as if I’ve been married to her cousin for years, but I can feel her prescience, and she’s very happy with it.
We take our showers demurely, respectfully even, each one undressing in the bathroom and then redressing before emerging, you in a T-shirt and pyjama shorts and me in a thigh-length plain pink night-shirt. I left the Minnie Mouse one at home.
“Did you actually tell your mother about this?” you ask as you click in the security chain on the main door. You turn to face me. “I kind of think you didn’t. Are you sure you’re okay? I am. I hope you are.”
You look quite as flummoxed as I feel and it’s very endearing.
I sit on my bed propped on one hand, legs crossed at the ankles, hoping I’m presenting an appealing picture. I deliberately didn’t wash my hair because wet hair doesn’t seem like a good idea in this situation. It didn’t look too bad when I examined it minutely in the mirror. I wasn’t sure whether to leave it loose or put it in a pony tail. I’ve left it loose.
“So she asked me at one point if I was happy I could afford this little trip, as she put it, and I said yes of course, I’m capable of looking after my own finances now thank you, the air fares aren’t really all that expensive and we’ve got a good dinner-bed-and-breakfast deal. She goes, ‘All right, all right,’ in like, surrender, and then ‘It’s just that I know they really sting you for a single room supplement.’ I still can’t make up my mind whether she was probing or being concerned about my bank balance. We never discussed it any further than that.”
I leave out the fact that her mind was most likely completely occupied with winding up life in Zimbabwe and emigrating.
You cross the room and sit opposite me on your bed in what appears to be a mixture of amazement and blatant apprehension.
“You look so pretty,” you say. “I can’t believe how lucky I am that I’ve finally got you.”
The state of limbo lifts away from my shoulders. I cross over and perch next to you, slide my left arm around your shoulders and take your right hand in my right. For a few moments we remain like that and I fiddle pointlessly with your signet ring.
“I thought I loved Danny,” I say, my eyes on the drawn curtains in front of me. The room service people closed them, turned down the bed coverlets and left a small box on each pillow. Chocolates probably. Odd that neither of us has thought to open them and find out.
“I’ve said this before, haven’t I? He was such a good friend and we had fun enjoying each other’s company. Going out, watching movies, eating ice creams. But then… Then he started to get… How do I put it? He started to get intense. Yes, intense. Not pushy and certainly not trying to force me into anything. It was nothing to do with sex. Or maybe it was ultimately, but he was careful and considerate. But he was full of promises and excited about ideas for our future. No, my future. He had ideas for my future. We would get married of course. And I didn’t want him to map out my life. In spite of what I thought of him, I couldn’t bear the thought of him deciding what was good for me and what I should be trying to achieve. He was only doing it because he cared about me. He wanted me to give up riding because I might get hurt. And how can I fault that? That was a good thing, surely? It proved he cherished me. But deep down I knew that one of the main reasons he didn’t want me hurt was because he wanted me to be a mother. A mother to his children.”
I feel you watching my face and I feel your calm and understanding. I’ve never voiced this to anyone, not even my mother or my sister. Not to Jess or to Gill. Or Danny. He’s the one I maybe should’ve confided in.
“I knew he was seeing me as his wife and a mother. So many of the girls I know dream of that alone. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that at all. But what was wrong, was that I didn’t want it from him. How I could know that, when we got on so well together, I have no idea, but I did.”
No, I could not have told Danny that. It would’ve hurt him so much.
You touch my face as though you’re blind, feeling every curve, each eyelid, my nose.
“I thought I was weird.” I take your hand away from me, not because I don’t like what you’re doing, but because it’s suddenly of vital importance that you hear me out and I can’t concentrate like this. “I thought I was some sort of freak. Why wasn’t I falling into bed with him and planning the wedding? My classmates were all wanting sex and marriage in whatever order, or so it seemed. But then when you and I started… When we… when we got together… It’s so different. We are us. Now I want to… You make me feel so… I want to…”
I can’t quite say it.
You wriggle back a little and nudge my left shoulder towards the window.
“Here, turn round so your back is to me. I want you to understand you don’t have to do anything to keep me. I’m yours if you want me and we have a whole lifetime ahead of us. Or at least, I hope you think we have a whole lifetime ahead of us?”
“Oh God, yes!” I’m laughing, but in a choked up sort of way.
I hook my right knee up onto the bed and you start to smooth your hands across my shoulders over the night shirt. You massage and knead for a while, then slowly slide your hands under the shirt and continue to do the same, your touch electric on my skin. I do nothing to resist as the massaging moves from the ridge of my shoulder line down to the tips of the scapulae. My eyes close; I succumb to the deep relaxation of it and I have no idea how long we stay like that. At some stage we swap roles with me lying beside you. You take the T-shirt off and I run my fingertips over the tanned skin of your back, down the undulations of your spine and then across your neck at the hairline. I tuck my fingers briefly under the waistband of your shorts occasionally. Your right side is uppermost and I run my fingers over the entry wound scar on the front and the corresponding exit wound on the back very lightly. I never even got to see Danny’s torso naked, did I? I can’t honestly remember.
We talk on and off. You tell me again how you told Sherrie you wanted to have a break from her after she began referring to Charles and Moira as the in-laws.
“So you see,” you murmur, sounding as sleepy as I feel, “it was the same for both of us. Our partners were trying to map out the future for each of us. Which as you say, is not the issue in itself. It’s that it wasn’t the right thing.”
“But this is.”
“Yes. For me, for sure.”
I grin all to myself into your back.
Entering new territory on the map of your life I probe a little about former girlfriends, but apart from Sherrie there’ve been none because you never wanted to get close to anyone, exactly as I’d thought. I dare myself to reveal the rumours Karen once spread about you and Joanna Coetzee, and your sole comment is, “What? That slut? I don’t think so.”
*
It’s half-past two when I awake with a start to find I’m resting against you with one arm limply over your waist. Your breathing is deep and regular and I watch your back moving fractionally in time with it for a few moments until sleep begins to wash back into my brain. I can’t get over how immensely pleased with life and myself I am. The bedside light is still on but I can’t find any reason to be bothered to turn it off.