Part 15 (1/2)

'While I live you will stay there. You won't move in here, Peter. I don't want you to bank on that. If I die you will starve, Peter. You will go back to bush.'

'That is true, sir.'

'And you like me. I am good to you. But I haven't been good to you. In this room we've had people talking about exterminating you. Don't you remember?'

'I don't remember.'

'You're a liar.'

'I like you, sir.'

'What about the boy who was locked in the refrigerator?'

'That was somewhere else.'

'So you remember that.'

'I never talk about these things, sir.'

'The whippings? There was a lot of that. What about the crops you weren't allowed to grow? You remember that? You say you like me?'

'I hate you, sir.'

'Of course you hate me, and I know you hate me. Last week you killed that South African. Old, helpless. Didn't you? Lived here for twenty years. Married one of your women.'

'Thief kill him, sir.'

'That's what they always say, Peter. But we know who killed him. It was someone who hated him.'

'No, sir.'

'Do you remember when your woman was sick, Peter?'

'You know about that, sir.'

'Tell me again.'

Peter's staring eyes were inflamed, moist with tears of irritation. His half-open mouth was collapsed, the upper part of his face taut.

'It's a story you always tell,' the colonel said. 'People always listen.'

Timothy was leaning against one of the square pillars in the middle of the room, head back, slightly to one side, looking on.

'My wife was sick,' Peter said. He stopped, choked with irritation.

'You had three others. Go on.'

'She cry every night in the quarters.'

'Black with filth and stink.'

'One night she was very sick. I get car and take her to hospital. They say no. Hospital for Eu'peans only. Huts for natives. Indian doctor take her. Too late, sir. She die.'

'And you went out the next day and got other women and sent them to the forest to chop wood. And they loaded up the wood on their backs and came back to you in the evening. It's a good story, especially for visitors.'

'I never talk about these things, sir.'

'Who do you hate more? The Indian or me?'

'I hate the Indian.'

'You are ungrateful. Who do you hate more? The Indian or me?'

'I will always hate you, sir.'

'Don't you forget it. Your hate will keep me alive. One night, Peter, you will knock on my door '

'No, sir.'

'You will be wearing a raincoat or you will have a jacket. You will be holding your elbows close to your side '

'No, sir. No, sir.' Peter was closing and opening his eyes.

'I won't behave like the South African, Peter. When you say, ”Good evening, sir,” I won't say, ”Why, it's Peter, my own boy. Come in, Peter. Have some tea. How are you? How's your family?” There'll be no cups of tea. I won't behave like that. I'll be waiting. I'll say, ”It's Peter. Peter hates me.” And you won't come past that door. I'll kill you. I'll shoot you dead.'

Peter opened his eyes and looked at the top of the colonel's head.

'This is how I swear my oath,' the colonel said. 'Under these lights, in the open, before witnesses. Tell your friends.'

For some time Peter stood looking at the top of the colonel's head. His mouth closed, became firm again; there were no tears in his inflamed eyes. He put his hand in the pocket of his khaki trousers and took out a key-ring with two keys. He was going to place it on the table, but the colonel held out his hand and Peter put the keys in the colonel's palm. There was nothing more to keep him; and with a step as light and springy and athletic as before he walked through the dining-room to the kitchen.

The colonel didn't look at anyone in the room. He took up a gla.s.s of water, but his hands trembled and he put the gla.s.s down. His face went pale.

Timothy left the pillar and made himself busy.

When the colonel recovered, and colour came back to his face, he looked at Linda and said, 'It's their big night. They've been building up to it all week. Mister Peter was going to turn up in the hotel Volkswagen. A lot of them believe he's already taken over. Oh, out there he's quite a politician, Mister Peter. Well, that's his problem. Isn't it, Timothy?' He had stopped trembling; he smiled at Timothy.

Timothy smiled back, in relief.

There was chatter in the kitchen again. A high-pitched voice began to squeal, and there was laughter.

'Do you hear him?' the colonel said to Linda.

Taking a fork to her mouth, she nodded.

'That's Peter, although you wouldn't believe it. Do you know what they're saying? It sounds as though they're having the most fantastic argument, but they're saying nothing. They're like the birds when it comes to chattering. You should hear Timothy here when he gets going.'

Timothy, clearing away the Israelis' last plates, smiled at the compliment, but remained correct. He creased his forehead and pulled back the corners of his closed mouth.