Rage - Smith Wilbur (книги читать бесплатно без регистрации .TXT) 📗
'I can hear him say it,' she agreed. 'He hasn't changed much in twenty years,' and Moses stopped laughing.
'Your husband has become a powerful man. He has great wealth and influence." Tara shrugged. 'What good is power and wealth unless it is used with wisdom and compassion." 'You have compassion, Tara,' he said softly. 'Even if I did not know of the work that you do for my people, I would sense it in you." Tara lowered her eyes from his smouldering regard.
'Wisdom." His voice sank even lower. 'I think you have that also.
It was wise not to speak of our last meeting in front of others." Tara's head came up and she stared at him. In the evening's excitement she had almost forgotten their encounter in the forbidden corridors of parliament.
'Why?" she whispered. 'Why were you there?" 'One day I may tell you,' he replied. 'When we have become friends." 'We are friends,' she said, and he nodded.
'Yes, I think we are friends, but friendships have to be tried and proven. Now, tell me about your work, Tara." 'It's so very little that I am able to do ' and she told him about the clinic and the feeding scheme for the children and the old people, unconscious of her own enthusiasm and animation until he smiled again.
'I was right, you do have compassion, Tara, enormous compassion. I would like to see this work. Is it possible?" 'Oh, would you come - that would be marvelous!" Molly brought him out to the clinic the following afternoon.
The clinic was on the southern edge of the black township of Nyanga - the name meant 'dawn' in the Xhosa language, but was hardly apt. Like most black townships it comprised row upon row of identical brick cottages with asbestos sheet roofs separated by dusty lanes; although aesthetically ugly and uninspiring, the accommodation was adequate and offered reticulated water, mains sewerage and electricity.
However, beyond the township proper, in the bushy dune country of the Cape Flats, had sprung up a shanty town that housed the overflow of black migrants from the impoverished rural areas, and Tara's clinic found its main clientele amongst these wretches.
Proudly Tara led Moses and Molly around the small building.
'Being the weekend, none of our volunteer doctors are here today,' she explained and Moses stopped to chat with the black nurses and with some of the motKers waiting patiently with their small children in the yard.
Afterwards she made coffee for all three of them in her tiny office and when Moses asked how the clinic was financed, Tara told him vaguely.
'Oh, we get a grant from the local provincial government--' but Molly Blackhurst cut in.
'Don't let her fool you - most of the running costs come out of her own pocket." 'I cheat my husband on the housekeeping,' Tara laughed, dismissing it lightly.
'Would it be possible for us to drive around the squatter slums?
I'd like to see them." Moses looked at Molly, but she bit her lip and glanced at her wristwatch.
'Oh, damn, I have to get back,' and Tara intervened quickly.
'Don't worry, Molly. I can drive Moses around. You get on back and I will drop him off at your house later this evening." In the old Packard ,they bumped over the sandy tracks amongst the overgrown dunes, where the Port Jackson willow had been cleared to make way for hutments of rusty corrugated iron and cardboard and tattered plastic sheeting. Now and then they stopped and walked amongst the shanties. The south-easter was roaring in off the bay, filling the air with a mist of dust. They leaned against it as they walked.
The people knew Tara and smiled and called greetings to her as she passed, and the children ran to meet her and danced around her begging for the cheap boiled sweets she kept in her pocket.
'Where do they get water?" Moses asked, and she showed him how the older children had banded old oil drums with discarded car tyres.
They filled the drums at a communal water tap at the boundary of the official township a mile away, and rolled the drums back to their hovels.
'They cut the Port Jackson willow for fuel,' Tara told him. 'but in winter the children are always full of colds and flu and pneumonia.
You don't have to ask about about sewerage--' she sniffed at the thick odour of the shallow toilet pits, screened with strips of old burlap.
It was half dark when Tara parked the Packard at the back door of the clinic and switched off the engine. They sat quietly for a few minutes.
'What we have seen is no worse than a hundred other shanty towns, places where I have lived most of my life,' Moses said. 'I am sorry." 'Why do you apologize?" Moses asked.
'I don't know, I just feel guilty." She knew how inadequate it sounded and she opened the door of the Packard.
'There are some papers I must get from my office. I won't be a minute, and then I will drive you back to Molly's house." The clinic was deserted. The two nurses had locked up and gone home an hour before. Tara let herself in with her own key and went through the single consulting room to her own office. She glanced at herself in the mirror above the washstand in the corner as she washed her hands. She was flushed and her eyes sparkled. She was so accustomed to the squalor of the squatter camps that it had not depressed her as it once had; instead she felt tingling alive and strangely elated.
She stuffed the folder of correspondence and bills into her leather sling bag and locked the drawer of her desk, made sure the plug of the electric kettle was pulled out of the wall-socket and that the windows were closed, then switched off the lights and hurried out into the consulting room. She stopped with surprise. Moses Gama had followed her into the building and was sitting on the white draped examination bed against the far wall.
'Oh,' she recovered. 'Sorry I took so long--' He shook his head, then stood up and crossed the tiled floor. He stopped, facing her. She felt awkward and uncertain as he studied her face solemnly.
'You are a remarkable woman,' he said in a deep quiet voice that she had not heard him use before. 'I have never met another white woman like you." She could think of no reply, and he went on softly, 'You are rich and privileged. You are gifted with everything that your life can offer you, and yet you come here. To this poverty and misery." He reached out and touched her arm. His palm and the inside of his fingers were a pale rose colour, contrasting vividly with the back of his hand and his dark muscular forearm, and his skin felt cool.
She wondered if it were really so, or if her own skin was hot.
She felt hot, she felt a furnace glow deep within her. She looked down at his hand on her smooth pale arm. She had never been touched by a black man before, not deliberately, not lingeringly like this.
She let the strap of the sling bag slide off her shoulder and it fell to the tiled floor with a thud. She had been holding her own hands clasped in front of her hips in an instinctively defensive gesture but now she let them fall to her sides, and almost without conscious volition arched her back and pushed her lower body towards him.
At the same time she raised her head and looked squarely into his eyes. Her lips parted and her breathing quickened. She saw it reflected in his own eyes and she said, 'Yes." He stroked her arm, up from the elbow to the shoulder, and she shuddered and closed her eyes. He touched her left breast and she did not pull away. His hand closed around her, she felt it fill his grip, and her flesh hardened, her nipple swelled and thrust out into his palm and he squeezed her. The feeling was so intense it was almost painful and she gasped as it rippled down her spine spreading like wavelets when a stone is thrown into a quiet pool.
