The Flower Plantation (7 page)

7

The girl in the buddleia bush was troubling. I sat on the bed, held the jar of caterpillars in one hand and tickled Romeo's ear with the other. Had it not been for the girl in the bush I would have been quite content. But she worried me: her presence made me question whether even with Romeo and my newly hatched caterpillars there was still something missing in my life.

To calm myself I stared into the jam pot and remembered I needed something bigger and better for my new friends to live in. I'd need a container, a lid without ragged edges, some sticks and food. Caterpillars, I had learnt from
African Butterflies
, are very picky eaters. They will starve to death before eating the wrong thing. I left my bedroom and went to the pantry to see what I could find.

“Fabrice told me about your tooth,” said Mother as I rummaged about looking for something to fill with sticks and leaves. She held my chin and had a good look inside my mouth. “Where is it?” I produced it from my pocket.

“Your first tooth,” she said. I was surprised to see two big tears burst from her eyes, which she wiped away before taking a deep breath and placing the tooth in her own pocket. “And what are you doing?” I pointed to the jar that
I'd placed on the table. She gave a funny little smile and shook her head. “Just don't make a mess, whatever it is.” Then she disappeared with Monty following behind her. My tooth had distracted Mother from my missing coin and my Saturday clothes. I was glad about that.

Finding nothing for my caterpillars on the shelves, I opened the fridge, where I found a gallon-sized container of orange juice. It was perfect, but still a quarter full. I took off the lid, gulped down the contents and immediately felt sick. Romeo seemed to cast me a knowing eye – the previous night he'd eaten hot mashed potato from the dinner table and thrown up on the laundry-room floor. Celeste hadn't been pleased – she wasn't that keen on dogs at the best of times: she said they were only good for killing rats and didn't understand how Mother could have them in the house.

“Careful, Arthur – you be sick,” she said, coming in with a bucket of water.

I stumbled to the back door, jar and juice container in hand, and turned on the outside tap. The water shot into the container and out of the neck in a cold spray that splashed my face. Romeo jumped out of the way and watched from a distance, along with the chickens. I filled it to the very top, then let it slosh out in glugs. It was clean.

My body shook from the cold water and the quarter-gallon of orange juice churning in my belly. Bending over, I heaved the juice up, vomiting easily like Romeo. I examined the contents and turned on the tap, washing the sick away. It
was only after it had disappeared and my head had stopped spinning that I noticed, by the gate to Mother's side garden, two skinny black legs – the buddleia girl.

I tried not to feel embarrassed about the girl having watched me throw up. More importantly, I needed twigs for the caterpillars to pupate. “Pupate” – I liked that word: I'd learnt it from my book.

After picking up my things I walked, head down, towards the woodshed, with Romeo following behind. The girl inched her way towards the back door. I went into the resin-filled shed and moved towards the back. From there I could see her without her seeing me. Romeo hunkered down and snapped at flies, apparently uninterested in the girl, but I watched her every step. She was against the back of the house, clinging to the kitchen wall. Sliding her way along, arms by her sides, she looked like a capital A.

I collected a fistful of sticks from the floor, then emerged from the dark of the woodshed and sat in the opening next to Romeo. Now the girl could see me and I could see her. She looked startled, like a gecko when you turn on the light.

Keeping her in view, I held up the juice bottle and angled the twigs to see which ones I could use. They had to fit snugly so that the caterpillars had something solid to cling on to. The girl crept closer towards the back door. Her spindly dark body in a bright-red dress made me think of Mother's crocosmia flowers.

Between where she stood and the door I spotted a handsaw. “Just what I need” – I thought – “I can chop off the top of the container and cut the sticks down to size.” I laid the jar, juice bottle and twigs on the ground and picked up the saw. I'd never held one before, but I'd seen Joseph saw plenty of things. I placed my hand firmly on the bottle and set about it. The vibrations tickled my arm but it worked. As the plastic shavings gathered on the ground I could feel the girl watching – her bare feet creeping closer. Her toenails were like the shells on the shore of Lake Kivu.

Eventually the top of the bottle dropped to one side and I was left with a neat-edged tub. I pushed the sticks at angles until they fitted perfectly. I was pleased.

All I needed to complete the job was foliage and a cover. I didn't like to leave the yard with the girl clinging to the wall, but Fabrice was in the kitchen listening to the radio and Celeste was washing floors. The girl couldn't get into the house without them noticing. I shot her a warning look, picked up my things and ran to the buddleia in the garden.

The buddleia was a bendy bush, difficult to break. Its lolly-shaped flowers smelt sweet as I tugged at the branches, which sprang back in a shimmer of purple. I grabbed a small branch and twisted: it came away with a ragged green cut. I felt as if I'd wounded it. I took another, then another, inspecting them for spiders – I didn't want my caterpillars to be eaten by predators. I placed them among the twigs in the container. I was proud of my work – silvery
leaves and dark sticks – my very own caterpillar farm. It was good.

When I was done, I looked around to see where the girl might be. I glanced towards my bedroom window to check she wasn't there: she wasn't. Curiosity got the better of me and, after transferring the caterpillars from the jar to their new home, I went back to the house in search of a cheesecloth, an elastic band and – the girl.

“Eh, Arthur,” said Fabrice as I looked for a cloth in the pantry. “That's nice, very nice,” he said, admiring my farm. I secured a thick rubber band around a cheesecloth and the tub. He put his hands on his hips and smiled, saying: “Eh, I know someone who'd like that.” I gave him a wary look. Why did he think I'd want to share my caterpillar colony? “Come to the kitchen,” he said. “I show you how to clean it.” This, I was aware, was a bribe. I knew about those. Sometimes Mother had to bribe the gardeners with banana beer to work harder.

I was about to put my caterpillar farm on the kitchen table, when I saw the buddleia girl standing at the sink. I tugged at Fabrice's trousers and shot a look in her direction.

“Eh, Arthur,” he said, laughing, “it's OK. This is Benitha.” The girl turned towards me: water from her hands dripped onto the floor. “Beni is my granddaughter.”

We stared at each other – Fabrice busied himself, seeming not to notice our unease. I looked at Beni in her red dress, her skinny limbs, beaded hair and buddleia flower tucked
behind her ear. Her eyes, which were bright like her face, were the shape and colour of almonds and, as she smiled, I noticed her new front teeth formed an upside-down V.

“What is it?” she asked shyly, looking at my farm. Before I could stop myself I placed the farm on the table for her to see.

“It's his caterpillar farm,” said Fabrice.

I pointed to the leaf where my newly hatched caterpillars were clambering. She craned her neck and took a step away from the sink. I took a pace back.

“OK, Arthur,” said Fabrice. “OK.”

Beni knelt down and peered into the juice container. She tapped her finger against the side. I frowned. She started to turn the farm around. I reached out to stop her. She flinched. The flower behind her ear fell to the table.

“Eh,” said Fabrice, as he finished washing the dishes Beni had abandoned. “Caterpillars have one job. It is what?” he asked triumphantly. The answer was “eating”. I wondered if Beni knew too.

I wondered if she went to the school with the saggy-eyed teacher where Mother had taken me when I was five – and, if so, why she was here on Friday with Fabrice.

“To eat,” said Fabrice, wiping his hands on the tea towel that hung from his belt. “And when they eat, then what?” he asked.

Beni giggled, covering her mouth with her fingers.

“What?” smiled Fabrice. “What?”

Beni giggled again: too shy to answer.

“Waste,” said Fabrice. “Waste, waste, waste.”

I wanted to tell them that caterpillar poop was called frass. I knew that because I had read it in my book, but I couldn't think of how to communicate it to them, so I just listened instead.

“We must clean every day. Every day,” repeated Fabrice, stepping out of the kitchen. “Every day,” I heard him say again in the pantry.

I knew that mould could grow if I didn't keep the farm clean. Did Beni know too? Had the teacher taught her that in school? She giggled as I pretended to study the caterpillars, but really I was studying her. I looked up – she looked down. She looked up – I looked down. I slipped the buddleia flower from across the table and into my pocket: I thought it would be nice to press.

Fabrice returned with Father's old newspapers, which he'd brought back from the city.

“
Et voilà
,” he said, tearing off a sheet. “Put this on the bottom and change it every day. This will keep it clean. Now go and find a light space to keep them, but not in direct sunlight,” he warned. “Caterpillars can die from too much heat.”

* * *

Beni started to come to the house every Friday to help Fabrice. She'd wash dishes, peel potatoes and sift the rice
while I studied English grammar with Mother. As the weeks passed and the dry season turned to wet, I grew to accept Beni with her almond eyes, V-shaped front teeth and twig-like legs. I got used to her dripping water over the kitchen floor, leaving potato peel in the yard and sitting with her legs wide open when sifting rice, so that I could see her underwear.

Beni always smiled. She skipped and ran everywhere, her beaded cornrows bouncing from side to side. When she first arrived I'd listen to her talk with Fabrice, whom she called
Sogokuru
, from the safety of the living room. I spent more time with my cars on the rug than I'd ever done in the past. It drove Mother crazy. I made more frequent trips to the pantry in search of food I didn't need, so that I might see what Beni was doing. And when I was feeling brave I'd go as far as the kitchen and stand in the door and watch her wash dishes from behind, her head swaying as she hummed a tune and played with the bubbles.

Of course, as soon as she turned around I'd run to the safety of my bedroom, where I knew she was not allowed to go. Beni had to remain in the kitchen, pantry and back lobby: the rest of the house was out of bounds.

But one day when I ran to my bedroom Beni didn't remain in the kitchen, the pantry or the back lobby: Beni crept through the living room and up the red-concrete corridor to my bedroom door.

She stared at me sitting on the floor with my caterpillar farm. But she didn't stare at me the way most people did – as if I were a ghoul, as if they might catch something. Beni stared at me as if my pale skin and straight hair were something nice, not ugly.

“Can I help?” she asked. I was placing new host leaves into the farm. The caterpillars were now fully grown, plump and greedy eaters. I had to give them food twice a day – and sometimes even that was not enough. They had grown so big they'd shed their old skins and eaten them, just as they'd eaten their eggs when they'd first hatched.

It was important to have clean hands when handling them –
African Butterflies
said so: caterpillars could easily become ill and die. I couldn't risk that. I looked at Beni's hands. Her fingers were like prunes, so I knew they were clean – clean from all the washing-up liquid and scrubbing.

Reaching under my bed I found a paintbrush and held it up to her. She checked over her shoulder and crossed my bedroom, took the brush from me and sat cross-legged on the floor. I tried hard not to look at her pale-yellow underpants.

African Butterflies
was lying open at the page where I'd pressed the buddleia flower she'd been wearing the day we met. The page was stained with a sticky purple-and-yellow residue. She looked at the book and the flower. I closed it, avoiding her gaze.

I placed my paintbrush inside the farm and waited patiently for a caterpillar to move up and explore it. Beni watched what I did and copied me. She didn't ask questions, and I liked that. Silently we transferred all eleven caterpillars onto their new leaves. Then I removed the old leaves and placed them in the bin.

I'd turned my back on Beni for only a moment when she let out a squeal. She was squeezing the tip of her finger so hard it had turned purple. She reached it out to me, her eyes even wider than usual.

Beni had been pricked by a caterpillar spine. I knew it was harmless, but she didn't, so I took my tweezers from my bug kit and moved closer. I kept an arm's length away, but was close enough to smell her sweet milky breath, which reminded me of rice pudding. I took her pricked finger between my finger and thumb and brought it close to my face, examined the spine, clamped the tweezers around it and tugged. It came away effortlessly.

Beni examined her swollen finger, which wept a pinhead of blood. Our eyes met. I parted my lips, wanting to say something, but not sure what or how. For the first time in my life my fear of talking irked me. Before I could think of what to do she broke into a smile and left.

8

1988

Over a year passed before Beni and I managed to create the perfect environment for a caterpillar to change into a chrysalis. It wasn't until we'd found a sixth batch of eggs, waited almost two weeks for them to hatch and another three for them to shed their skins several times, that the final transformation eventually took place.

I was getting ready for bed one Friday evening when I noticed a caterpillar hanging from a twig, like a cone from a pine tree. I knew that particular caterpillar had already been through two instars – the phase between skin moults – and my book said there'd be a third. But when I looked the next morning, hanging from the twig wasn't a caterpillar but a shiny, speckled chrysalis. It was as glossy as one of Mother's silk scarves.

I was desperate to show it to Beni straight away, but I had to go through the morning routine: wait for Joseph to walk through the garden, eat my green bananas and feed the dogs.

At seven o'clock I washed and dressed – brown shorts and red T-shirt – with greater speed than usual. Then, very
carefully, I transferred the chrysalis into a jar and placed it in my rucksack, together with my book and a pillow, so that the jar wouldn't move about on the walk to Beni's house.

In the pantry I took down an old biscuit tin and filled it with cheese, cold chicken and four slices of bread. I took two bottles of soda from the crate on the floor and stashed everything into my bag, clapped for Romeo and sneaked out of the back door.

There was nobody around as I strode down the side of the house, with Romeo at my heels, through the front garden and out of the gate. Celeste wasn't out sweeping. The radio wasn't on. I remembered it was the last Saturday morning of the month and that everyone was busy with
umuganda
– community service. Father said that
umuganda
had been happening since his papa first arrived in Rwanda and that everyone, by law, had to take part. He said, “It's good for morale.”

I walked the short distance from home to Beni's house feeling quite brave and grown up, but also a little worried that someone might tell Mother. The ladies at the shop laughed and said, “
Bonjour
.” Their shop was closed for the morning – they were cleaning the road instead. Romeo gave the alley a wide berth – and on we went, round the bend and past the school.

Beni's mud shack, with its tin roof, neat rows of potatoes and a machete glimmering in the sun, looked inviting to me. I hadn't been to her house before, but Mother had pointed
it out on our trips to town. I sat down on a smooth stone by the curtained doorway and waited, careful to keep my rucksack upright and feeling the sharp ridge of my new tooth with my tongue.

“
Mwaramutse
,” said a voice from behind me. I looked up, my hand shielding my eyes from the morning sun. A woman as tall as the doorway smiled down at me. She had eyes the same shape as Beni's – though hers were not so bright – and her two front teeth were also in the shape of an upside-down V.

“Arthur?” she said, trying out my name for the first time. It sounded awkward for her to say. I nodded. The woman parted the curtain behind her and showed me in. I got up, lifted Romeo and took him inside.

The house had two rooms. In the first, which was very small, there were two large armchairs with swirly patterns, three white plastic seats and a low wooden table jammed in the middle. I sat on the armchair with Romeo, my rucksack still on, my legs pressed against the table. A second room led off the first, but the woman shut the door before I could see anything other than an old mattress. The floor was made of dirt; the walls were rough and grey. It was dark.

She disappeared out back, where I could hear her clattering pans and shooing bleating goats and calling “Beni! Beni!” After a few moments, Beni appeared. When she saw me, she broke into a huge smile, which seemed to make the dark room light.

“Arthur.” She giggled and sat down beside me on the same large chair. She tickled Romeo's ears. Her bare legs pressed against mine, but I didn't mind. I'd become used to Beni touching me: it felt different from everyone else.

“This is Mama,” said Beni when her mother returned, bringing
ikivuguto
, fermented milk. It was meant to be a treat, but I hated it. Beni looked pleased that her mama had brought me some, and Mother had told me that if I was ever offered it in someone's home I had to drink it – “all of it”. I smiled at Beni's mama and took a mouthful of the warm rich liquid. I tried to ignore the fact that it smelt just like the cow it had come from and forced a smile. It was thick and sour, fizzy and sweet – disgusting! Beni drank hers quickly and wound up with a funny milk moustache, which I pointed out to her. She rubbed it off and jumped up.

“Come,” she said.

We tore out through the back door, past the outside kitchen and toilet and into the field behind her house, in which were a few skinny cattle. Romeo nipped at the ankle of one: it kicked out its hoof with no more interest than if it were flicking its tail at an annoying fly.

When we were some distance from the house, we stopped to rest. I took off my rucksack to show Beni what was inside.

“Eh!” she said, and her eyes lit up. “We go to forest?”

I didn't want Beni to know I was afraid of the forest, or that it was strictly out of bounds, so I nodded, and off we went.

We ran through a maze of trails that skirted the edge of the plantation and led past small farms. We ran past people hacking grass with scythes, trimming bushes and repairing roads. Children ran after us – children with bows and arrows made from eucalyptus and bamboo – children spinning battered hubcaps on sticks – children with jerrycans full of water, wearing hats made out of maize bags. On and on we went, always climbing, until it felt as though we'd left the world behind.

My legs were heavy and my lungs burned when the forest began to rise above us. Behind it loomed Mount Visoke, home of the red-haired witch who still plagued my imagination.

“In here,” said Beni at the edge of the forest, where we stood catching our breath. I rubbed my knuckles together, plucking up my courage.

Beni showed me a different way in, one that didn't involve climbing through a slimy lava tunnel and through gnarly
hagenia
trees. I heard Father say once that “
hagenia
trees look like nice, scruffy old men” – but to me they resembled stooped witches. Even the name sounded like a cackle.

But Beni's route into the forest had no witch-like trees. It was more of a meadowy path with silver eucalyptus leaves shimmering above us. There were
hypericum
trees with bright-yellow flowers and veronicas too, in lavender and white. It felt like a magical glade – as if it was our secret – and that felt good.

“Over here,” she said, weaving deeper into the forest in her pink dress, a blaze of colour flickering through the darkening trees. The farther in we went the more it seemed like the home of the red-haired witch and the stampeding elephants.

Beni moved so fast I could barely keep up. She was nimble like a gazelle. I kept one eye on Romeo and scanned every inch of the forest floor for snares and traps and anything else that the witch might have put there. And I was trying to keep the jar in place. I wanted to call out to Beni to slow down – to tell her to stop and look – but, as always, nothing came out: nothing but the odd grunt that she couldn't hear as she kept running ahead.

“Arthur,” she said, laughing, when she eventually stopped to let me catch up. “Hurry.”

I pretended my rucksack was heavy and made my way towards her.

“Look,” she said, and pointed to a far corner of the forest, where Romeo was rooting about. “The cave.”

I squinted, but couldn't see a cave. I was glad of that. A cave in the forest sounded like the perfect place for a witch to lure someone like me and make sure he was never seen again.

“You see?” She got down on her knees and began to crawl through a tiny opening that looked to be no more than a burrow. Within seconds she had disappeared entirely, and Romeo had joined her. I rubbed my knuckles together, hard and fast.

“Arthur,” she beckoned, her face appearing in the opening. “Come on!”

I crouched down, looked at the hole and then at my rucksack, and shook my head. It wouldn't fit. But Beni had other ideas.

“Take it off,” she said, and I knew I had to do it. I handed her the rucksack with the greatest of care. Then it was my turn to go in.

On all fours I wriggled feet first through the opening. When my legs were part-way in, it became clear there was nothing beneath them. There was a drop. I lay down on my front and shimmied back until Beni told me to let go. I didn't want to. I didn't know how deep it was or how far I might fall. But for Beni I knew I had to be brave: I let go – I let myself fall. My feet hit the ground almost instantly.

I stood in the cave, adjusting my eyes to the dark. Romeo was busy sniffing around the bumpy floor. The entrance let in enough light for me to see that it was about the same size as the hut in the clearing. It was wide enough for two, not really for three, and about as deep as the log shed in the yard. When I reached up, I could feel hardened lava above my head. There was a warmth to the cave that surprised me – and a slight smell of ethanol too.

On one wall there was a ledge of volcanic rock that was just like a table. I laid out the contents of my rucksack – the chrysalis in the jar, my book and the picnic – and gave
Beni my pillow to sit on. She held up the jar to the light and admired the chrysalis, while I made sandwiches.

I gave Beni the bigger of the two sandwiches, which she savoured as if it was a special treat. Romeo snuffled the ground for crumbs. As I ate mine, I thought I heard the snap of a twig on the forest floor. A bubble of anxiety popped in my stomach – Romeo cocked an ear, then went back to searching the floor. I flipped the lid of a soda and handed it to Beni, who appeared not to have noticed the sound outside. She gulped down her soda and let out a burp.

I opened
African Butterflies
and began sketching the chrysalis next to the drawings I'd done of the egg and caterpillar. Then I drew a little map of the forest and marked the cave with a cross on the back inside cover.

“Witch lives there.” Beni pointed at Mount Visoke. We could see the summit through the cave opening. I nodded and tried hard not to show my concern. “She poisons people,” she said casually, as if it was an everyday occurrence.

This was new to me. I added poison to the mental list of other things I knew about the witch: snares, traps, caging and training wild animals, living alone, raging temper and wild red hair. In the dark of the cave the witch seemed even more real to me than in the safety of my bed. I put down my sandwich and swallowed hard.

“Mama say: witch shoot people near her house – once she killed man who try to free gorilla. She shoot him in leg
so he cannot run, then poisoned him. Mama say: witch put him in cage. He died, alone, after three months.”

Beni told the story with such conviction that I believed her. I believed anything of that witch after what she'd done to Monty. I felt a pool of hatred well in my belly, but it quickly disappeared when I heard another crack in the undergrowth. I darted a look at Beni. She darted one back. The quiet in the cave was unlike anything I had experienced before. I could hear blood whirring in my ears.

“Grrarghh…” A mighty roar sounded from outside the cave. Romeo yapped and yapped. I rubbed my knuckles together as hard as I could, but even that didn't suppress my fear.

“Grrarghh…” It sounded again, but this time something blocked the light of the opening. We were plunged into darkness. Romeo hunkered down. I fought hard not to be sick.

“Grrarghh…” It sounded one more time, and a creature bolted through the opening of the cave and landed in beside us. Beni let out a scream that ricocheted off the walls. The cry I wanted to release made me feel like my head might explode. Romeo cowered in the corner. In the confusion it took me a while to make out the features of a boy only a few years older than us, with bloodshot eyes and shark-like teeth.

Beni trembled like a snared animal. I stood my ground, but my heartbeat was as loud as a drum. Romeo edged forward, growling and baring his teeth.

“Eh,” said the boy, paying no attention to the dog. “
C'est le mzungu et son papillon
.” He ran a finger slowly under Beni's chin; she pulled away. He picked up
African Butterflies
, examined it – his dirty fingers left prints on the cover – and put it in his pocket. I grunted in frustration, wanting my book.

“
Quoi?
” he said, grabbing my soda from the ledge and drinking it in one greedy gulp. I took a step towards him, trying to find the courage to fight for my book.

“
Et qu'est-ce?
” He moved away, picked up the jar with the chrysalis and held it to the light. “
Un in-sec-te
.”

As I was trying to figure out how to get my book and chrysalis, the boy unscrewed the lid of the jar and shook out the contents. He then tugged the chrysalis from the twig. Romeo leapt and yapped, but the boy kicked him away. Anger poured out of me as he squeezed the chrysalis between his big fingers. The pressure inside me felt so huge I thought I might erupt like Nyiragongo.

“
Mange-la!
” he said suddenly, and clamped his big, dirty hand round my head, trying to shove the chrysalis into my mouth. Romeo tugged at his trouser leg, but the boy kicked him loose. I pressed my lips together, hard. I tried to pull away, but he was much stronger than me, and despite all my resistance I felt the chrysalis being squashed against my lips – its mushy, sticky insides smeared over my mouth.

“Stop!” yelled Beni.

She raised her soda bottle and brought it down on his head. The boy's grip loosened, and he slipped to the floor, where he fell in a heap.

“Run!” said Beni, retrieving my book from his pocket. Without collecting the rest of our things we flung ourselves out of the cave – Beni, Romeo and me – onto the forest floor, and ran faster towards home than any of us had ever run before.