The car came nearer. It stopped; a door banged. A disturbance of dirt clods and pebbles, and Roche appeared, with his short-sleeved white shirt, his light-colored khaki trousers narrow around his flat waist, and his dark glasses. He came into the building, took off the glasses and put the end of one temple in his mouth. His face was drawn and he looked impatient. He saw the tears in Mannie’s eyes.
He said, “Mannie.”
Mannie didn’t look up. He said, “Mr. Ahmed gone to wash his face.”
“You’ve been working?”
Mannie didn’t reply. And Roche, waiting, considered the table with the junked office equipment, the dusty stalled standard typewriter, the rusting duplicator; the timetable on the wall, the newspaper pinups above the beds; the Jimmy Ahmed poster with the crude portrait of Jimmy, all hair and mustache: I’m Nobody’s Slave or Stallion, I’m a Warrior and Torch Bearer. The concrete floor was dusty; the iron beds were stripped; and the bare mattresses gave off a smell of coconut fiber. Roche saw that the bed at the far end of the room was occupied.
He said, “Bryant.”
Bryant didn’t reply.
Jimmy appeared in the doorway. He was bare-chested, and his face was blank, the eyes assessing, his mustache masking his mouth.
He said, “Massa. We were giving you up. A tour of inspection? You’re still inspecting?”
Roche said, “You all seem to be in a state.”
“We’ve been working. Life has to go on. Bryant will take you out and show you. Mannie too.”
Bryant rose and sat on the edge of his bed, facing the wall.
Jimmy came down between the beds and stood a few feet away from Roche.
Jimmy said, “Mannie has come back, massa.”
Mannie half raised himself off the mattress and took out his handkerchief from his hip pocket.
Roche said, “Did Donaldson come?”
“We don’t have anything to do with Donaldson. All that’s gone with the wind.”
Jimmy’s chest, paler than his face and forearms, was moist with perspiration. Stiff little coils of hair, unexpectedly Negroid, were scattered between his purple-brown nipples, which were as large as a woman’s.
Roche sucked on the end of the temple of his dark glasses. He said, “Didn’t he come to see you about the tractor?”
“To take it back, you mean?”
“I don’t know about that. He didn’t come?”
“If he came we didn’t see him. We’ve been busy all afternoon. Bryant will show you.”
“Nobody came?”
“We didn’t see anybody.”
Roche looked at Mannie. Mannie’s eyes were still wet and he was still looking down. His loosened handkerchief, unused, remained in his right hand. In that same hand he was holding a cylindrical blue lighter and, absently, he was polishing the bronze-colored metal at the top with his thumb. Roche hesitated. He thought: Sahara gas. In his hesitation his eyes caught Jimmy’s — surprise there, and for an instant something like an appeal. And almost at the same time he saw Bryant standing at the far end of the room, looking at him.
Roche took the temple of his glasses out of his mouth and, swinging the glasses between his thumb and forefinger, took a half-step toward Mannie’s bed. Then he stopped and turned and, slowly, looking at the beds, mattresses, and the posters on the wall, he walked toward the bright door. He said, “Everybody at the office knows I’m here. I’m sure they told Donaldson. A wasted journey.” He was in the sunlight. He put on his glasses and said, “But never mind,” and stepped from the concrete floor onto the dry red earth.
And he was walking away — the land graded down to clay, baked hard, dusty on the surface — when he heard Jimmy call, but uncertainly, “Massa.”
He kept on walking.
He thought: This place has become a slaughterground. The words seemed, to have been given to him, and he thought: I’ve just done the bravest thing in my life. He concentrated on Jimmy and addressed him mentally: You wouldn’t do anything to me. You wouldn’t dare.
He came to the dry ditch and the bridge of tree trunks and packed earth. He got into the car. He didn’t look at the land he had just traversed or the building he had just left. He thought: If you try anything now, I’ll kill you.
He turned in the road — two movements, and still no one called out to him — and then he was driving into the sun, past the field with the broken-down tractor standing against the wall of bush, past the dry flattened ridges and the furrows choked with bright green weeds, past the blocks of old bush, the spiky wild palms, the red-and-black-striped barrier pointing at the sky, the Sablich’s sign, still new, announcing Thrushcross Grange, past the ruins of the abandoned industrial park, the overgrown pillars still standing in rows, the flat paved areas cracked open by grass and wild young trees, rusty reinforcing metal showing here and there through broken concrete.
And then he was on the highway, locked in the afternoon traffic, and he was being taken past all the stations of that familiar drive. The sun, already yellowing, picked out all the ridges and dips of the scorched hills, which smoked. Far away in the brown fields people were cutting grass. The junked cars beside the road; the country settlements; the burning rubbish dump, trucks and people amid the smoke and the miniature hills of confetti-like refuse, the big-breasted black corbeaux squatting on the fence posts or hopping about on the ground; the shantytown resettlements, their population spilling out of rows of identical tin-and-concrete huts, back to back and face to face down long red avenues that seemed regularly to open and close as he drove past; the bauxite pall; the hot, squalling afternoon city, melting tar, honking buses and taxis and enraged, sweating cyclists.
As he climbed to the cooler air of the Ridge, the more spacious gardens, the wider verges, Roche thought: I won’t be safe at home. They’ll come for me. I can’t watch all night. I’ll have to spend the night at the Prince Albert.
The afternoon light was mellow on the Ridge. Thin rainless clouds of pure white were building up high in the sky, for the sunset. He parked in the garage, but he didn’t go through the door into the kitchen. He walked back to the front lawn and went through the front door, bleached and mottled by the sun, into the hall, and down the parquet passage to Jane’s room. The flush plywood door was ajar.
He said, “Jane,” and lightly pushed the door open.
The louvers were open, the room was bright and warm. The bed was made up, but there was no bedspread; the white cotton nightdress could be seen below the pillow. On the bedside table there was the paperback of The Woodlanders, the cover and the opening pages raised and curling in the heat. The suitcase, on the floor of the fitted wardrobe, was half packed. Only the striped North African sacking dress was on a hanger. All the shelves except one were cleared. On this shelf, with a small jewelry box, some bottles and phials and tins, and a necklace of sandalwood beads, Roche saw Jane’s passport and her airline ticket folder. In the passport was the disembarkation card Jane had filled in months before but had not surrendered.
He took the ticket out of the folder and tore it up and put the pieces in his pocket. He tore up the disembarkation card. But the passport couldn’t be so easily destroyed. His mind, racing, rejected all the possibilities. The passport couldn’t be torn up and flushed down the toilet. It couldn’t be burned: there was no open fire in the house; there was only a metal contraption beside the porch for barbecues.
He went, the passport still in his hand, to the sitting room. It was very warm there, from the sun, the heat thrown out by the brown lawn, the fixed picture window.
He telephoned Harry de Tunja. Joseph answered.