The Angels Weep - Smith Wilbur (чтение книг txt) 📗
Tungata Zebiwe reached out and touched the head of the central bird. His back was turned to his audience so that they could not see his lips move, and the applause drowned his whisper.
"Welcome home," he whispered. "Welcome home to Zimbabwe. Bird of my destiny." you do not want to go!" Janine was shaking "Now with fury. "After all the pains I have gone to, to arrange this meeting.
Now you simply do not want to go!" "Jan, it's a waste of time." "Thank you!" She put her face closer to his. "Thank you for that. Do you realize what it would cost me to face that monster again, but I was prepared to do it for you, and now it's a waste of time." "Jan, please-" "Damn you, Craig Mellow, it's you who are a waste of time, you and your endless cowardice." He gasped and drew away from her.
"Cowardice," she repeated deliberately. "I say that, and I mean it.
You were in too much of a blue funk to send that bloody book of yours to a publisher. I had literally to tear it away from you and send it off." She broke off, panting with anger, searching for words sharp enough to express her fury.
"You are afraid to face life, afraid to leave this cave you have built for yourself, afraid to take the chance of somebody rejecting your book, afraid to make any effort to float this thing you have built." With a wide, extravagant gesture she indicated the yacht. "I see it now, you don't really want to get onto the ocean, you prefer to hide here, swilling gin and covering yourself with dreams. You don't want to walk, you prefer to drag yourself around on your backside it's your excuse, your grand cast-iron excuse to dodge life." Again she had to stop for breath, and then she went on. "That's right, put that little-boy look on your face, make those big sad eyes, it works every time, doesn't it? Well, not this time, buster, not this time. They have offered me the job of curator at the South African Museum. I'm to see the collection safely installed in its new home, and I'm going to take it. Do you hear me, Craig Mellow? I'm going to leave you to crawl around on the floor because you're too damned scared to stand up." She flung herself out of the saloon and into the forward cabin.
She began to snatch her clothes out of the stowage and throw them onto the bunk.
"Jan,"he said behind her.
"What is it now? "She did not look around.
"If we are going to be there by three o'clock, then we'd better leave right away, "Craig said.
"You can drive," she said and pushed past him and went up in the cockpit, leaving him to follow at his best speed. They drove in silence until they reached the entrance to the long straight avenue of jacaranda trees. At the far end of it were the white gates of State House, and Janine stared straight ahead at them.
"I'm sorry, Craig. I said things that were hard to say and must have been harder to listen to. The truth is that I am as afraid as you are. I am going to face the man that destroyed me. If I can do it, then perhaps I can retrieve something of myself from the ruins. I lied when I said it was for you. It's for both of us." The police guard came to the driver's side of the maroon Land-Rover, and without a word Craig handed him the appointment card. The constable checked it against his visitors" book, and then made Craig fill in his name and address and the reason for his visit.
Craig wrote. "Visit to Comrade Minister Tungata Zebiwe', and the guard took the book back from him and saluted smartly.
The wrought-iron gates swung open and Craig drove through. They turned left towards the minister's annexe, with just a glimpse of the white gables and blue slate roof of the main residence between the trees.
Craig parked the Land-rover in the public car park, and slid into the wheelchair. Janine walked beside him to the steps that led up onto the veranda of the annexe, and there was an awkward moment while Craig negotiated them by the sheer strength of his arms. Then they followed the signs down the trestled veranda, beneath the blue wist aria and climbing purple bougainvillaea to the door of the antechamber. One of the minister's bodyguards searched Janine's handbag, frisked Craig quickly but expertly, and then stood aside to let them enter the light and airy room.
There were lighter square patches on the walls from where the portraits of previous white administrators and politicians had been removed. The only wall decoration now were two flags draped on either side of the inner double doors, the flags of ZIPRA and of the new Zimbabwe nation.
Craig and Janine waited for almost half an hour, and then the doors opened and another suited bodyguard came through.
"The Comrade Minister will see you now." Craig wheeled himself forward and into the inner room. On the facing wall were portraits of the nation's leaders, Robert Mugabe and Josiah Inkunzi. In the centre of the wall-to-wall carpeting stood a huge desk in the style of Louis XIV. Tungata Zebiwe sat behind his desk, and even its size could not belittle him.
Involuntarily Craig stopped halfway to the desk.
"Sam?" he whispered. "Samson Kumalo? I did not know I'm sorry-" The minister stood up abruptly. Craig's shock was reflected in his own face.
"Craig," he whispered, "what happened to you?" "The war," Craig answered, "I guess I was on the wrong side, Sam." Tungata recovered swiftly, and sat down again. "That name is best forgotten," he said quietly. "Just as what we were once to each other should also be forgotten. You made an appointment through Doctor Carpenter to see me.
What was it that you wished to discuss?" Tungata listened attentively while Craig spoke, and then he leaned back in his chair.
"From what you tell me, you have already made an application to the exchange control authority for a permit to export this vessel of yours. That permit was refused?" "That is correct, Comrade Minister, "Craig nodded.
"Then what made you think I would want to or even have the authority to countermand that decision?" Tungata asked.
