White Dog Fell from the Sky - By Eleanor Morse Page 0,13
house, he knocked again. No one came, but he felt eyes looking at him from behind shiny, blank windows. Those eyes made the back of his neck prickle, and even though a lilac-breasted roller flew over his head in a flash of brilliant blue wings and turquoise head, he only half saw it.
When he finished walking Lippe’s Loop, he left that street and went down the next one that said “loop.” He could see the pattern—there were loops and a cul-de-sac in between. On this street, there was also nothing. Shame sat heavy on his head, that he should need to beg like this. He turned back to the main road. Everywhere, it was the same. The people living on the other side of the walls, with their courtyards spilling bougainvillea—red, fuchsia, white, purple—their servants hanging their sheets and pillowcases and shirts on the line, their gardeners laboring in the sun, what did those people know? Had they ever seen a police dog go after a child? Seen their mother dragged off to jail? He began to feel anger at the peace he found here and the complacency of the blue sky and quiet roads, the watchdogs that made sure nothing would change. It was peaceful, yes, but what was the measure of this peace? It seemed that just under the surface was a familiar order—a few people owned everything. Aristotle said that it was unbecoming for a young man to utter maxims. But how could you resist Aristotle’s maxims? In a democracy, Aristotle said, the poor will have more power than the rich because there are more of them, and the will of the majority is supreme. In time, Aristotle’s wisdom would be borne out. It was necessary to believe this. Otherwise, where was the hope?
He called White Dog and went back toward the main road and down another cul-de-sac with houses on either side. They looked unused. You wouldn’t want to enter them. The earth was scuffed and swept clean as concrete. Flowers were planted in tight little formations. He knew why people got rid of everything green. They were frightened of snakes. They wanted the ground clear so they could see a black mamba from a long way off.
He knocked on gates all day, eighty, a hundred, he lost count. At last, he turned toward Naledi. White Dog trailed, her tail down, ears back, as though she’d heard each “no” and needed to lie down and put her head between her paws. A truck passed on the road heading north, and a cloud of dust fell over their heads. Isaac left the road and sat on his haunches in the bush near where a footpath branched three ways. Flies buzzed around a pile of goat droppings. A Toyota truck passed on the road, and then a Peugeot. “What shall we do?” he asked White Dog. Small pouches of fatigue bagged under her eyes. She wagged her tail at the tip. Neither of them had had food or water all day.
When he reached Amen’s house, the sun had nearly set. He poured water for White Dog and drank from a tin cup. Khumo, Amen, and Lucky were away. Kagiso said they were working.
“When will they be back?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her face sorrowing.
“Where have they gone?”
“This also I don’t know.”
She dished up a plate of mealie meal and beans and gave Ontibile her breast while Isaac ate. When he’d finished half the plate, he gave the rest to White Dog. Music from the neighborhood shebeen floated through the air. A bat flitted here and there after mosquitoes. In the waning light, Kagiso’s nipples were erect and plump with milk. As Ontibile began to nurse, a small pool of darkness widened across Kagiso’s dress as her other breast leaked in sympathy.
She seemed very unhappy. “Are you frightened?” he asked softly.
“Of course. One day he won’t return, and then what will I do?”
You will marry me, he thought, and I’ll be Ontibile’s father. “I don’t know,” he said. The sky was almost completely dark now, and night was beginning: the sound of barking dogs, the relief of shadow, the earth giving off its faint moisture. “Where were you born?” he asked.
“Here in Botswana.”
“You have family in Gaborone?”
“In Mochudi. Sometimes I think of going back to them … But please,” she said hurriedly, “you won’t tell him.”
“No.” You are very beautiful, he thought. Her face was meant for joy.