Читать книгу The Caruso of Colleen Bawn and Other Short Writings - John Eppel - Страница 11

The Lunch Hour

Michelle heard that expression of Zimbabwean authority, the car hooter, going long before the hazardous crossing at Apricot Avenue. Come to think of it, all crossings in Bulawayo are hazardous: you might encounter a commuter minibus driven by a teenager with an armed tout in lieu of a driver’s licence; an army lorry driven by a soldier with no immune system; a Santana (Spanish equivalent of the Land Rover) driven by a policeman bulging out of his uniform, loaded with hind quarters, fatalistic chickens, and Castle lagers - with assorted ladies taking up the slack; a leaking water bowser on wheels going slower than a tractor; worse, an octogenarian with blue rinsed hair and a flame-lily brooch, her spectacles, thanks to osteoporosis, just clear of the dashboard of her 1950 Morris Minor; worst of all, you might encounter a Mercedes Benz, and Mercedes Benz drivers – don’t they know it – are above the law of the road.

Invoking her St Christopher (she wore it on a silver chain around her neck), and readying her hands to pull the brakes on both wheels of her Raleigh Bomber, Michelle crossed Apricot Avenue without so much as a bent spoke, and sighed with relief. It was lunch hour in suburbia. Little clusters of domestic workers could be seen on the verges next to the driveways of the houses where they worked. She knew each of them and gave each cluster a self-conscious wave as she pedalled by. They waved back with friendly stares.

Yes, it was Mrs Bangle, hooting away for the ‘boy’ to open the gate, her Mazda 626 station wagon loaded with groceries from Haddon & Sly, her dog, Nuisance, sitting on the passenger seat and staring straight ahead. Michelle had seen Misheck, barefoot in his blue overalls enjoying his lunch break with fellow domestic workers, in the partial shade of a late flowering Jacaranda, outside number 23 where the Van Deventers lived, which was more or less over the road from where Mrs Bangle lived. Misheck could hear the ‘madam’ parpparping away but he was no longer going to interrupt his lunch break to open the gate for her. This was the twenty first century not the nineteen fifties.

When she drew alongside the station wagon, Michelle slowed down and looked at Mrs Bangle and her dog through the rear windscreen. They had similar occiputs; for a brief moment Michelle wondered why the dog was behind the wheel; then she noticed the ears. She decided to help Mrs Bangle so she got off her bike, leant it against the nearest tree, and approached Mrs Bangle’s side window.

“Hi Mrs Bangle,” she said, “can I open the gate for you?”

“You can but you may not!” she followed every second syllable with a hoot.

“It’s not a problem, Mrs Bangle,” said Michelle with one hand on the gate latch.

“Young lady I’m warning you … do not open the gate.” Nuisance growled. “After all I’ve done for that ingrate… how dare he!”

Michelle decided to appeal to Misheck. She left her bike where it was and walked over to the Van Deventers’ driveway. She kept her head down until she was near enough to speak to Misheck.

“Yes, Michelle, uthini?”

“Ngiyaphila. Er, Misheck, aren’t you going to open the gate for Mrs Bangle? She’s -”

“What is the time Michelle?”

She looked at her wrist watch: “ It’s ten to two.”

“My lunch break ends at two; at two I will open the gate for Madam.”

“But Misheck…”

Languidly chewing on a stem of blonde grass, moving from a sitting position to a reclining position, using his elbows as struts so he could face Michelle, he said, “Go tell the madam that I will open the gate at two.” His tone was sardonic. Then he spoke to his companions in Sindebele, too quickly for Michelle to follow, and they all burst out laughing.