Free The World Beneath by Janice Warman Page A

high and bright. Puddles stood on the driveway, torn fig branches lay on the paving, and the pool was full of leaves.
    Joshua stood, surveying the damage. Normally the pool was drained and covered in the winter; somehow, things had slipped this year. There were shutters that needed repairing; the upstairs veranda was leaking. The leaves should have been cleared away by now. The lawn, he saw, was long, and its edges weren’t as neat as usual. Goodman had had trouble getting in to work. There were bad days and good days in the townships; when there were riots, the buses didn’t run. And in any case, when the police were in Guguletu, Goodman didn’t like to leave his wife and children on their own. When he did come, he was preoccupied. He stood talking with Beauty, drinking his tea at the kitchen door, the rake propped carelessly against the back steps just where Mrs. Malherbe might fall over it.
    Joshua looked up at Table Mountain. Scraps of mist hung over its flat edge in wisps: the tablecloth of cloud it was named for. The north wind must be blowing hard up there; its raw edges were rattling the hedges and whipping the curtains at Mrs. Malherbe’s window.
    He should get back inside. He would leave the pool for later. There were fewer frogs now that the weather was colder. He had released his little frog on the common one evening by the pond, hoping it wouldn’t try to come back across the road and get squashed.
    Then there was a sound in the road that he knew. The horn sounded loud in the morning air as Mr. Malherbe’s car pulled up at the iron gates. He ran to open them.
    He looked up and saw Mrs. Malherbe’s face at the window, a white flash; then she was gone.
    Joshua ran for cover.
    The trouble didn’t start straightaway. Mr. Malherbe was tired. He dumped his suitcase in the hall, took a shower, and went to bed. He had had difficulty getting home from the airport. There were armored personnel carriers on the road (“tanks,” said Tsumalo), and a stone had clipped the Mercedes’s silver wing.
    No, it started later, when Mr. Malherbe woke for supper. Only it was eight o’clock already, and supper had been ready since seven.
    Mrs. Malherbe and Robert had eaten; Robert had gone out.
    Mr. Malherbe started by dumping his supper in the trash. Then he went rummaging in the fridge for bacon and eggs. Beauty was still washing up. She kept her head down and her hands in the sink.
    “Why is there no beer?” he asked.
    “I don’t know, Master,” she said, looking down and away. She knew the best thing was never to look at whites if you could help it. She had told Joshua this. Don’t meet their eyes, she had said. They don’t like it.
    “I said, why is there no beer?” He stepped closer.
    Beauty wasn’t in charge of buying the beer or storing the beer, and she certainly never drank any of it. She didn’t know what to do, so she kept washing up. She knew the beer had been drunk by Robert, and that he had given one or two to Tsumalo, but she had no intention of saying so.
    The next thing she knew, Mr. Malherbe had ripped the washcloth out of her hand, spun her around, and was holding her chin up so she had to look at him.
    “Look at me when I’m talking to you, damn you!” he shouted. “WHY — IS — THERE — NO — BEER?”
    Beauty continued to avoid looking at him, afraid of what he might see in her eyes. And that might make him even angrier.
    “The beers are finished, Master,” she said finally. After all, no one had known he was coming home. He wasn’t due back till Friday. Mrs. Malherbe would have gone shopping before then. In any case, they had all had their minds on other things. That was another thing she couldn’t tell him.
    “WHO — HAS — DRUNK — THEM, THEN?”
    Beauty stood by the sink, her chin held in his firm grip. She looked relieved to see Mrs. Malherbe come in.
    But this was a mistake too. Mr. Malherbe was not normally mollified by Mrs. Malherbe. If anything, she seemed to aggravate