African Laughter - Doris May Lessing [141]
‘Anyway, you can breed aggression out of bees. I don’t see the problem.’
Mangoes…pineapples…strawberries…papayas…Some of these are grown to dry and crystallize: there is a good market for them abroad.
The new sheep…the new pigs…the new fish…
The whole world comes on to these verandahs when they are discussing how to find new crops, new ideas.
And then, which certainly could not have happened last time: ‘I don’t understand why the Africans don’t try this…try that.’ ‘I don’t see why in the Communal Areas they shouldn’t…’ ‘I’m going to have a word with the Minister next time he’s down and suggest…’
A GOVERNMENT OFFICE
In fact, on this trip, not much time was spent in the mountains.
Down the mountain road we go to Mutare where in a certain office we tackle Bureaucracy. Today we are three: the Coffee Farmer, a woman visitor from South Africa, and me. These days white people don’t just wander around villages whenever they feel like it: too much of a reminder of the old days. Besides, one is South African: the fact she does not admire her government is not written on her face. But the Coffee Farmer knows one of the officials well. During the War, the peaceable character sitting behind the desk was a well-known Commander, and he and the Coffee Farmer were enemies. Many a time had the Commander crossed the farm, at night…The two men enjoy the Ho-ho-ho type of male friendship. ‘You never knew how often I was back and forth across your farm.’ ‘Then it was probably you I was taking a pot shot at that night.’ Sometimes they go off to a bar and drink on it. My father used to visit a German smallworker not far from our farm. The two men were in the trenches opposite each other early in the First World War. In Harare I was told of a certain famous guerilla leader who regularly allowed a government security officer through his territory because he was taking medicines to villages; this mission of mercy completed, they resumed hostilities. The two men are now good friends. Clearly there are few closer bonds than having tried to kill each other.
This young man is thoroughly enjoying his position of being able to say yes or no. You can positively see him thinking that it will do the South African good to be petitioner to a black. The Coffee Farmer does not enjoy having to beg. Not for himself: as a conservation officer he can go where he likes. I am the worst problem: a really suspicious character, it seems. It is no good saying I have a journalist’s pass. The young man says, ‘That does not recommend you. We have given permission to journalists before, with bad results.’ ‘But she is a friend of Zimbabwe,’ says the Coffee Farmer. ‘There are friends and friends,’ says the official. With relish. With the robust enjoyment that goes with certain kinds of political debate. I say that I was a Prohibited Immigrant in this country for thirty years and it is a bit hard to be under suspicion again under this government. ‘Ah,’ ripostes the official, ‘then you are in that area, the political area, and we have to be cautious.’ ‘Surely not as cautious as all that?’ ‘And after all there were many Prohibited Immigrants.’ ‘True, but I have the honour to have been personally Prohibited by Lord Malvern himself.’ ‘And how do you happen to know a thing like that?’ ‘He told me so.’
We eye each other; seasoned politicos. His face is full of dramatic disbelief, eyebrows raised, chin forward, lips compressed. His hand is lifted, palm forward, as if to say, This far and no further. He slowly lowers his hand, places the palm judiciously on the desk, sits with eyes lowered, thinking. He says ‘Excuse me’ and goes out to make a telephone call from another office.
He comes back, smiles all round. Now he confides that he is a writer himself, and would like to be a novelist. We discuss the problems of literary creation. In his case, he has to spend too much time on administration. Shaking his head at his fate, office life, he sends us off with underlings into the bush.
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