Peripatetic philosopher shares a chapter from:

Devlin

 

A Novel

JAMES RAYMOND FISHER, Jr.

© November 11, 2016

NOTE: Several readers across the globe have registered an interest in the previous segment shared from this novel.  This is a second one.

JRF

 

TWENTY TWO

 THE GARDENER JOSIAH

Josiah Bruto preferred to be called “Joe,” but Devlin liked the ring of Josiah and refused to use the nickname.  Josiah’s given name was actually “Jifunza,” which means, “teach oneself.”  Nearly as tall as Devlin, he had the magnificent physique of his people, the Swahilis, who once roamed South Africa with fierce authority, but were now limited to a homeland, called, “Swaziland.”  It is surrounded by South Africa and Mozambique, largely mountainous and slightly smaller than the size of New Jersey in the United States.  In 1963, the territory was constituted a protectorate within the northeast borders of South Africa and scheduled to become an independent nation in September of the current year.

*     *     *

There are people you meet who you already know so there is little necessity for polite sparring.  Josiah was such a person.  Yet, it took Devlin’s third attempt at conversation before the gardener decided he was sincere.

On that occasion, he said, “You are interested to know where I come from.  I come from Mbabane, a quiet village nestled in the Diangeni Hills in the northwest corner of my country near the South African border.  It is our capital and has been since the Boer War of 1901 when the British took control of the country.  We are mainly farmers and craftsman with a profusion of wild flowers covering our hills and valleys.”

He often talked about the “wild flowers,” his face lighting up with the memory of delicate plants as if they were friends.  “Wild flowers,” he said, “are the most fragile creature’s alive but yet the most persevering.”  Devlin wondered if that described Josiah. 

“I was educated in a convent school in Swaziland.  You were educated at an American university, no?”  Devlin nodded.  He found it confusing that Devlin could know so much about things and so little about nature.  Devlin smiled at the boldness of his observation, which was however true.  To mollify his employer, the gardener added, “You shall be my teacher of philosophy and I yours of nature.” 

*     *     *

Josiah came to Rosen Haven Place in 1963 at the age of twenty-two serving the needs of the garden but indifferent to whom might be the occupant.  One of the previous occupants was the former mayor of Johannesburg, a woman, who had entertained Prime Minister Winston Churchill there during World War Two.

Watching Josiah work, it was apparent that the nomadic life suited him, living in a modest house off the garden, and to the back of the main house.  Devlin was curious to see this house and get more of a sense of his new friend.  After a month of casual conversations, one day he asked if he could see his place. 

Josiah dropped his trough into the dirt, his expression that between betrayal and deception.  “You wish to see my home?”

“Yes, if that is all right with you?”

“How long have you been in this country?”

“Several months now, why?”

“Several months,” he repeated.  “Plants grow by nature’s clock.  There is a nature to time’s clock as well.”

“Meaning?”

“Nature adds or subtracts what sustains life.  Sometimes winter flowers choose to grow in the spring, and spring flowers sometimes bloom in the fall.”

“Josiah, you’re talking in riddles.  I have no idea what you’re about.  Have I offended you by asking to see your home?”

He studied the American.  “I try to live by Nature’s clock in all its variations.”

“I think I get it.  You see me forcing nature by making such a request, right?”

“Where is your home in the United States?”

“You could say ‘everywhere,’ but I was born in northeastern Iowa, have lived in Chicago, Indianapolis and Louisville, which is in Kentucky, as well as in Europe and South America, for a spell on a US Navy ship in the Mediterranean, now in South Africa.”

“Kentucky is in the south?”

“Well, yes, more or less, at least it considers itself in the South, a border state is what they call it, but I see your point.”

“Yes, well, when people ask you where you come from in the white community, always tell them ‘Kentucky.’  It will be better.”

Devlin had read books by Alan Paton before coming to South Africa, also a “Very Strange Society” by Allen Drury, and so had a rough idea of apartheid.  He had also received propaganda from the “South African Embassy’s Consul of Information” getting the government’s side of the story. 

He was by nature curious, and by temperament direct.  It never occurred to him that it was necessary for his gardener to oblige him whatever the request.  He stood on individualism not on a class or cast system.  After all, he was the son of a brakeman.  That was how clueless Josiah was of this American.

*     *     *

So, the first time Devlin was in Josiah’s house the air was hot and humid like in a lion’s den.  Josiah didn’t seem to notice, but was differential to a fault.  It was clear he was most relieved when they prepared to leave.  As time passed, and they became friends, Devlin saw Josiah drop his guard without letting it down completely. 

The American could not bridge the gap to show the gardener how much they had in common, how much they were both outsiders.  The only difference was that Josiah’s cage was not of his making, while Devlin’s cage was of his.

*     *     *

The gardener’s house was a white stucco building of the same construction as the main house.  Inside, Josiah’s home was modest but extremely tidy.  It was a one-room combination kitchen and bedroom with a separate bathroom.  He had a small bed, which seemed too short for his long body.  It had a red homemade quilt over it, and was stacked high with pillows.  By the bed was a reading lamp and comfortable chair with a footstool.  The kitchen table was mahogany with two firm chairs, while the adjoining kitchen sink was polished to a shine with dishes stacked neatly on an open shelf above the kitchen table.  There was no stove but a small electric heating plate, and a similar sized space heater.

Against the side window that looked into the garden was a makeshift bookcase separated by red bricks and standing from the floor nearly to the ceiling.  The books were all paperbacks; most in English, but several in what Devlin did not recognize but would later learn was Swahili.

“Josiah,” he said, “I’m sincere.  I want to get to know you and your work.  I’m from a farm state but know nothing about agriculture and even less about flowers or exotic plants that I see everywhere here.”

“How could you be from a farm state and know nothing about farming?”

“Well, I grew up in a river town, which is on the Mississippi River, and it was also a factory town with most people working in factories or for the railroad.  My da worked on the railroad.”

“Your da?”

“Yes, my father.  I called him my da.” 

His eyes grew dreamy, then he turned away, “No other white man talks to me as you do.”

“Well, I’m not a white man.  I’m an American.  You’re from Swaziland and I’m from Iowa.  I suppose you are a lot like others from your hometown.” He nodded.  “I’m a Midwesterner, grew up in the Midwest, went to school in the Midwest, and have never left my roots.  Have you ever left yours?”  He nodded.

“We Midwesterners tend to be outspoken, earthy, straightforward and don’t suffer fools too well no matter what a big deal they think they are.”

“You are fortunate.  It is hard for me to perceive what you are saying.”  Then he grew pensive.  “But I read books about your country, and people of color don’t seem to have the same good fortune, is that not true?”

“Yes, it is.  There is much turmoil in America at the moment.” 

As we talked about the United States, it was evident that the South African press spared no detail to paint America with a broad brush of racial hypocrisy and social unrest.  However true that might be, it failed to capture the America Devlin knew and loved.  He decided to listen to his new friend without comment.

Josiah didn’t miss this.  He repressed his impossible glee, “You listen to me.”

“Yes?”

“I talk.  You listen.”  Then he grew worried.  “You don’t perceive the danger in this?”

“No.  Should I?”

“You could be deported.  It is a crime to be too familiar with the Bantu, do you not know that?”

“Yes, of course, I’ve been told that, but this is my home, on my property with a seven-foot stucco wall around the place, who is going to talk?”

“The walls have ears.”

“You’re not serious?  I’m sure there are no electronic bugs in the walls.”

“I’m talking about people.”

Devlin then knew exactly what he meant, the other servants, the housekeeper, the house manager, and his driver, whom he used only occasionally.  His own people!  They were the ears in the walls.  Neither the American nor the gardener knew how ominous this would prove to be.

*     *     *