Prudence Couldn't Swim (8 page)

It was mostly dralon stuff. Not my cup of tea. Some men have funny ways of expressing their affection.

“Do you want to look around the bedroom?” she asked. “I still haven't been in there.”

“Let's go,” I replied, though I had mixed emotions about finding out more of Prudence's “other life.”

Mandisa went straight to the clothes closet, which she opened with a key. Episodes of my times with Prudence dangled from the hangers.
Every slinky top, her black leather jacket, and the white Fila hi-tops with the red laces were all there. Why had she left my house without saying a word? How did I miss it? I was supposed to be the con man.

I opened the drawer of the nightstand. The biggest object was a cube, which held more pictures of the old woman and the girl whose photos I'd found under the mattress at my house. There was also a wedding party picture, taken somewhere in a park. A slightly younger, slightly less shapely Prudence was a bridesmaid in passionate pink. Her smile was innocent, a look I'd never seen.

“Who are these people?” I asked as I moved toward the closet with the cube in my hand. Mandisa was loading the clothes into black garbage bags. I handed her the cube.

“That's her mother,” said Mandisa, pointing to the older woman. “The young girl is Prudence's daughter. It's her sister's wedding.”

I never knew Prudence had a daughter. If truth be told, I didn't know much about her at all. But then some real husbands and wives don't know much about each other either. I never knew wife number two could slice someone in the neck while they slept. I was lucky to live through that one, though the memory didn't help me sleep soundly.

“Where does the daughter live?”

“Somewhere at home with relatives. Prudence was going to send for her, plus the sister's two children. I think the sister is late.”

“Late?”

“She passed away.”

“Sounds complicated,” I said.

“African families are complicated, my friend. We don't just live by ourselves with our big screen TVs like Americans.”

I went back to the nightstand. I hoped to find a lead somewhere, maybe a store of letters. Prudence seemed to live in a dark hole. She had no cell phone, no computer, not even an address book. Underneath a couple of
People
magazines I found two letters from Zimbabwe written by G. Mukombachoto. They weren't in envelopes but were “air letters” a curious thin blue paper that folded neatly into a rectangle and got glued shut for mailing.

G. Mukombachoto wrote in a language I couldn't understand beyond the greeting: “Dear Tarisai.” I went back to the closet to show
the letters to Mandisa. She was on her fourth garbage bag. The clothing rails were almost empty. She hadn't started on the shoes.

“Prudence used to go to church rummage sales for clothes,” said Mandisa. She held up a bright blue suit with matching hat and showed me the masking tape price tag. Two dollars.

“It's a Donna Vinci,” she added, “pure silk. Probably cost two hundred new. Worth a lot more in Africa. She and I were thinking of doing an import-export thing. Even with the kitchen appliances. It's big money back home.” Mandisa wasn't such a square after all. She was already calculating the profits from Prudence's little estate and hoping I wasn't interested. I wasn't. Legally it all belonged to the husband but my years of easy money were behind me. Something about selling off the property of dead friends pricked what conscience I had left.

“I found some letters from some G. something or other that starts with an “M.” I said, “Can you read them?”

“Let me see.” She took the letters.

“That's Mukombachoto,” she said, “Prudence's real last name.”

She unfolded the blue papers and stared for a few seconds.

“Was she a princess?” I asked. “She once told me she was Princess Tarisai. That's the name on the letter.”

“It's probably Shona,” said Mandisa. “That's what most Zimbabweans speak. I don't understand a word.”

“What do you speak?” I asked.

“English.”

“What else?”

“A few vernac languages.”

“What's vernac? Never heard of it.”

“Vernacular. Local African languages. Zulu, Sotho, Tswana, Venda, Xhosa.”

“You speak all of those?”

“Only about four, plus Afrikaans.”

“You speak six languages?” I asked. “Something like that.”

“That's impossible,” I said. “What was that last one again?”

“Xhosa,” she said pronouncing it with a click like you use to get a horse going.

“How did you learn them all?”

“It just happens. I don't know. Americans only know English. Shame.”

I thought maybe Mandisa would help me. Now I knew I couldn't trust her. No one could speak six languages. She was just like the guys in prison who tell you how many millions they made on the street and then bum a cigarette. If she could speak six languages, why couldn't she understand these letters?

“Do you know someone who can translate these things?” I asked.

“I don't know any Zimbabweans. Maybe there are some around. I keep to myself.”

“It has to be a Zimbabwean?”

“I could try writing to Mr. Mukombachoto in English. He probably understands. If not he can find someone who does.” She looked at the address on the air letter.

“He's in Harare,” she said. “That's the capital. Everyone can speak English there.”

“Maybe we can find the name in directory assistance and give him a call,” I said. “There can't be that many people there with this long name. Or he could be on the Internet.”

“You can try the phone,” she replied, “but I doubt you'll find anything. Please keep it short. A call to Africa costs a fortune.”

I picked up the receiver and dialed “0.” I guess “0” still meant something in phone language because I got a recording with some options. After hopping through several sets of choices, I got a woman with an Asian accent.

“How do I get directory assistance for Zimbabwe?” I asked.

“I'll put you through.”

The ring of the phone was different—two rings, then a pause. It rang about two dozen times. No one picked it up, no electronic voice came on to tell me which button to push.

“They don't answer before three rings like here,” said Mandisa. “Sometimes they don't answer at all. It's a different way of living. Phones don't rule our lives.”

I went back through the same series of digital Janes. This time I asked for the number so I could direct dial.

“The international code is 011,” said another Asian woman. “The country code is 263, then 4.”

“Are there 263 countries in the world?” I asked the operator.

“Have a wonderful day,” she said and hung up.

I tried directory assistance four more times. The first three times it just kept going: two rings and a pause, two rings and a pause. On the fourth call the rhythm changed. I let Mandisa listen.

“It's engaged,” she said, “I mean busy.”

I picked up the letters to Prudence again. The second one had a PS written in English that ran up the edge of the page.

“We look forward to seeing you,” it said. The postmark showed the letter had been sent a month before Prudence's death.

“What do you think this means?” I asked, pointing to the PS. Mandy's silver fingernail followed the writing up the page.

“Who knows?” she said. “Maybe Prudence was planning a trip home. She never mentioned it to me though.”

“What the hell was going on here?” I asked. “Why were all of Prudence's things at your place?”

“She wanted to move out but was afraid to tell you,” she said. “She was looking for an apartment. Half of this furniture belongs to her and most of the kitchen things.”

“I see.”

Mandisa had filled five garbage bags with Prudence's clothes. The closet was empty except for a pair of silver lamé flip-flops.

“What are you going to do with all this stuff?” I asked. Mandisa was about six inches shorter than Prudence and much rounder. No alterations would have made those dresses look good on her.

“I don't know,” she said, “sell them I guess. Have a yard sale. Isn't that what they do here? I don't know anyone her size, at least not someone who wears these kinds of things.”

“Let me have one last look through them before you let them go,” I said.

“No problem,” she replied, but she looked annoyed.

She started tying the tops of the bags together and promised to leave them there in the closet until I was ready. There was no garage sale in Mandisa's plans. I was sure she knew places in Africa where
people would pay big bucks for these high-class threads of Prudence's. An arranged-marriage husband could only get in the way.

Mandisa went into the kitchen for a couple of minutes. I looked under the mattress. No photos, only an old newspaper with an article about Zimbabwe. A picture showed some soldiers escorting an old white man, a Mr. McGuinn, and his wife out the front door of a farmhouse. The date was July 22, 2002.

“Evicted white farmers flee Zimbabwe,” read the headline, “Mugabe tightens the screws.”

As I read on I figured out that this Mugabe was the president of the country and he was taking farms away from whites. Crazy business, but what did it have to do with Prudence? I stuffed the article in my jacket pocket. Maybe if I read it later it would make more sense.

I smelled coffee and cinnamon. I peeked out into the kitchen.

“Come and have a coffee,” she said. “There's an apple tart there,” Sounded even better than silver dollar pancakes.

Mandisa had laid out her small kitchen table with two white cups and saucers, a matching little milk pitcher and a blue sugar bowl. The coffee plunger stood in the middle. She'd sliced the apple tart into eight precisely equal pieces and fanned them around on a yellow serving tray.

“How do you take your coffee?” she asked.

“A Cadillac. Two sugars.”

“What?”

“Cream and two sugars.”

She pushed the plunger down, picked up my cup and saucer and poured slowly. She added my sugar, shaking off the excess each time to give me a level teaspoon.

“It's Italian blend,” she said. “I hope it's all right.”

“As long as it's black and hot,” I told her, “I'm happy.” I took a sip, then realized she might think I was referring to something other than coffee when I said “black and hot.”

“It tastes fine,” I said. She didn't look offended.

She reached over and scooped a piece of apple tart onto my plate and set it down next to my saucer.

“Have more if you like,” she said. “I'll never eat all that.”

The apple tart, as she called it, was really a pie with a laced crust top. The apples were too sour, the bottom crust thick and soggy. I didn't ask if she made it. I heard my lips smack as I calculated how to break the silence.

“Prudence liked you a lot,” said Mandisa, “but she had so many things going on. She didn't want to cause trouble for you.”

“I can handle trouble,” I said.

“I was just trying to explain how her things got here, why she was moving out.”

“I understand. I appreciate that.”

I reached for a second piece of pie, just to make her feel better. I lifted it carefully off the serving dish but a few crumbs fell onto the table, prompting Mandisa to jump up and get a cloth from the counter to wipe them away. There was no place for crumbs in her world. I was meticulous like that in prison, mopped my cell floor every day, swept in the morning, afternoon, and night. On the streets I didn't worry about such things. I had Luisa. We didn't have Luisas in prison, none that interested me anyway.

I sprinkled a little sugar on the tart.

“Suit yourself,” she said. “I know how you Americans love your sugar.”

“Did Prudence have any enemies?” I asked.

Mandisa didn't flinch or answer. She went back to the sink, got a dishrag and wiped away a few phantom crumbs from the table.

“Why do you ask?” she said.

“I don't know. I just don't think Prudence jumped into that pool by herself.”

“What do the police think?” she asked. “You said there was no autopsy.”

“Filled in a few forms and left. It didn't hint of foul play to them.”

“Didn't you tell them you suspected something?”

“Not really. I was still in a state of shock.”

I didn't actually feel like going into it all. I sure wasn't going to mention the part with me on my belly for two hours. Besides, how could I explain to someone that even if a friend was murdered, my duty was to keep quiet, to “hold my mud,” as we say?

“To be honest,” I said, “I don't trust police. I don't like having them in my life. Whatever they do, they can't bring Prudence back.”

“I can appreciate that,” she said. “Police are never on the side of black women. Not here. Not in South Africa.”

“I don't know about all that,” I said. “I just don't trust them. I'm not trying to make a racial thing out of it. Cops are just haters.”

“So are you a jealous husband seeking revenge?” she asked.

“No. Why would I be jealous over someone who was moving out, who wasn't really my wife?”

“You tell me,” she said. She looked straight into my eyes. I tried not to blink. There was more than a little bit of jealous husband in me, but when you're state-raised you learn how to hide these things. Survival depends on it.

“Someone violated my space, my territory,” I said reverting to my prison voice. I hadn't talked like that in a long time. You don't need threatening undertones in Carltonville.

“I want to know who it was,” I added. “I think you can help.”

“I'm not so sure,” she said. “Let me think about it.”