Free The Sun Between Their Feet by Doris Lessing

Storm-trooper. If you want to waste your money on private detectives, go ahead. But don’t think I don’t know what
you
do when you’re in the bush. I don’t care what you do, but remember that I know it …’
    The Captain remembered her saying it. And there sat Michele on his packing-case, saying: ‘It’s a pleasure for the rich, my friend, detectives and the law. Even jealousy is a pleasure I don’t want any more. Ah, my friend, to be together with my wife again, and the children, that is all I ask of life. That and wine and food and singing in the evening.’ And the tears wetted his cheeks and splashed on to his shirt.
    That a man should cry, good Lord! thought the Captain. And without shame! He seized the bottle and drank.
    Three days before the great occasion, some high-ranking officers came strolling through the dust, and found Michele and the Captain sitting together on the packing-case, singing. The Captain’s shirt was open down the front, and there were stains on it.
    The Captain stood to attention with the bottle in his hand, and Michele stood to attention too, out of sympathy with his friend. Then the officers drew the Captain aside – they wereall cronies of his – and said, what the hell did he think he was doing? And why wasn’t the village finished? Then they went away.
    â€˜Tell them it is finished,’ said Michele. ‘Tell them I want to go.’
    â€˜No,’ said the Captain, ‘no. Michele, what would you do if your wife …’
    â€˜This world is a good place. We should be happy – that is all.’
    â€˜Michele …’
    â€˜I want to go. There is nothing to do. They paid me yesterday.’
    â€˜Sit down, Michele. Three more days and then it’s finished.’
    â€˜Then I shall paint the inside of the church as I painted the one in the camp.’
    The Captain laid himself down on some boards and went to sleep. When he woke, Michele was surrounded by the pots of paint he had used on the outside of the village. Just in front of the Captain was a picture of a black girl. She was young and plump. She wore a patterned blue dress and her shoulders came soft and bare out of it. On her back was a baby slung in a band of red stuff. Her face was turned towards the Captain and she was smiling.
    â€˜That’s Nadya,’ said the Captain. ‘Nadya …’ He groaned loudly. He looked at the black child and shut his eyes. He opened them, and mother and child were still there. Michele was very carefully drawing thin yellow circles around the heads of the black girl and her child.
    â€˜Good God,’ said the Captain, ‘you can’t do that.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜You can’t have a black Madonna.’
    â€˜She was a peasant. This is a peasant. Black peasant Madonna for black country.’
    â€˜This is a German village,’ said the Captain.
    â€˜This is my Madonna,’ said Michele angrily. ‘Your German village and my Madonna. I paint this picture as an offering to the Madonna. She is pleased – I feel it.’
    The Captain lay down again. He was feeling ill. He went back to sleep. When he woke for the second time, it was dark. Michele had brought in a flaring paraffin lamp, and by its light was working on the long wall. A bottle of brandy stood beside him. He painted until long after midnight, and the Captain lay on his side and watched, as passive as a man suffering a dream. Then they both went to sleep on the boards. The whole of the next day Michele stood painting black Madonnas, black saints, black angels. Outside, troops were practising in the sunlight, bands were blaring and motor cyclists roared up and down. But Michele painted on, drunk and oblivious. The Captain lay on his back, drinking and muttering about his wife. Then he would say ‘Nadya, Nadya’, and burst into sobs.
    Towards nightfall the troops went away. The officers came