Going Home. Doris Lessing

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СКАЧАТЬ they’re nothing but children, man! You must know that. Look how they live! It makes me just about sick to go into one of their locations. Besides, I don’t like their colour, I just don’t like it.’

      He paused, very serious, wrestling with himself. ‘You think I’ve just been brought up to be like that?’

      ‘Yes, I do.’

      ‘It’s no good, I don’t see it. Now look here’ – and he turned earnestly towards me – ‘would you let a black man marry your daughter?’

      ‘If my daughter wanted it.’

      He slowly went a dark red. ‘I don’t like to hear a woman talk like that. I just don’t like it.’ A pause. ‘Then I can see why they didn’t let you in, man. Women shouldn’t go around saying things like that. No, you mustn’t talk like that, I don’t like to hear it.’ His face slowly went back to normal. Then he said: ‘But I’ve enjoyed talking. I always want to know about these things. I’ve never been out of South Africa before. If I can leave my little pigeons and get up to the Copper Belt and earn some money, then I want to come to England. They say that Kaffirs are just like everybody else there?’

      ‘Just like everybody else.’

      ‘I don’t think I should like to see that. It wouldn’t seem right to me. But hell, man, that means they can go with the women? Sorry, talking like this, but it’s not personal. But you can’t have them going with the women. If I had a sister, I wouldn’t like …’

      This is the stock South African conversation; and it goes on just as if nothing had happened. But what is happening is that the poorer of the white people are becoming more and more like the poorer of the Africans.

      

      

      In the Lusaka airport there was a five-hour wait for the connection south to Salisbury.

      Sitting in the little garden were a group of white people, toasting themselves in the sun, carefully accumulating pigment under their precious white skins.

      The mystiques of sun-tanning are becoming as complicated and irrational as those of food and sex. What could be odder than to see people whose very existence depends on their paleness of skin deliberately darkening themselves on the preserved ‘white’ beaches of the coasts, or on the banks of ‘white’ swimming baths? But in a country where anyone who works in the open must become dark-skinned, and where it is impossible to distinguish between deep sunburn and the skin of a coloured person, one acquires a mysterious sixth sense that tells one immediately if a person is ‘white’ or not.

      Having been in Britain for so long, I had lost this sense; and, sitting in a café in Bulawayo, I was pleased to see a group of people come in who had dark brown skins. The spirit of Partnership, I thought, was really relaxing the colour bar. A few minutes later a man came in who I thought was indistinguishable from those already sitting there. He went to sit at a table by himself. At once the woman behind the counter came over and said: ‘You know you are not allowed to come in here.’ He got up and went out without a word. It seemed that the first group were Italians.

      

      

      In 1949, on the boat coming to Britain, where most of the passengers were elderly ladies playing bridge and knitting, were two attractive young women. They did not mix with the rest at all, were spoken of as ‘Durban society girls’. One was a tall, slim, pale creature with smooth, dark hair and intelligent, dark eyes kept deliberately languid. The other was a plump little yellow-head, not pretty, but as it were professionally vivacious. They were American in style, as most South African girls are: very well-kept, self-possessed, independent.

      I got to know the cheerful little one, who told me that her friend was called Camellia. ‘She’s done well for herself if you like. She was just an ordinary secretary, working in the office, but the boss’s son married her. Then he got killed in an air crash. She’s married into one of the oldest families in Durban. But she doesn’t care. She doesn’t give a damn for anybody.’ It seemed that this quality of not giving a damn was the bond between the girls; for Camellia had taken her typist friend Janet with her into society. Janet had consequently also done well for herself: she was engaged to a cousin in the same family. It seemed that the young widow had gone to Uncle Piet, executor of the estate, and said: ‘I’m fed up with life. I want a holiday in Europe.’

      Janet said: ‘That silly old bugger Uncle Piet said she had a duty to her position in society, and she should set an example, and she wasn’t to go for more than four months. But he gave her a thousand. So that’s how I came too. She’s generous, Camellia is. And it’s not that she’s got all the money she wants. Actually she hasn’t got any money. Her husband didn’t know he was going to be killed, and anyway he was under age. They both were. When they got married the papers called it “the wedding of the beautiful children”. Because he was good-looking. So Camellia doesn’t get any money except what Uncle Piet lets her have, because she hasn’t any money by will. But when Camellia said I must come with her, Uncle Piet didn’t like it. He said it was my duty to stay with my fi-ance. But see the world before you get tied down with kids, that’s what I say.’

      The two girls spent all day lying side by side in two deck chairs in the shade, refused to take part in the deck-sports, and at night did the few young men there were a favour by dancing with them. At least, this was Camellia’s attitude; though I think the little one would have liked to be less aloof.

      Two years later I saw them in Trafalgar Square, sitting on the edge of a fountain. Camellia was with a man who was probably a West Indian; and Janet was tagging along. This set-up intrigued me for some days. Had they gone home to collect more money from Uncle Piet and then come back to Britain again? What had happened to Janet’s eligible fi-ance? And above all, how could a Durban society girl, even if she didn’t give a damn, get herself involved with a Negro? As I was on a bus when I saw the group, unfortunately there was no chance of finding out.

      That was in 1951. In 1953 I was walking along the edge of the sea in the south of France, and there was the young man I had seen in Trafalgar Square with an extremely beautiful black girl. They were sitting side by side on a rock, arms and legs inextricably mixed, and on the sand watching them was Janet, who was her normal colour. Then I saw that the beautiful Negress was in fact Camellia. All that was visible of her – and she was wearing a minute red bikini – was burned a very dark bronze.

      I went up to Janet and asked her how she did.

      ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘You’ve been doing well for yourself since I saw you last.’

      ‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘And how goes it with you?’

      She looked at the couple on the rock. No doubt but that she was very upset. ‘It’s all very well,’ she said, ‘my mind is much broader since I came to Europe, but what am I to do? Tell me that?’

      ‘I can see your problem,’ I said. ‘But what happened to your fiancé?’

      ‘Which fiancé?’ she said, and giggled. ‘No, it’s not that. I can look after myself, but it’s Camellia. After we were here that time, we got a letter from Uncle Piet, asking when we were coming back. Camellia wrote and said she was still getting over her sad loss, so he sent her some more money. Actually, we were getting some culture. After all, you come to Europe to get some culture. South Africa has got everything, but it isn’t very cultured. So we got mixed up in artistic circles. I made Camellia do it, because at first she didn’t want to. There were СКАЧАТЬ