Kalyna's Song

by Lisa Grekul

  Siya helps me settle Rosa into her seat on the bus before he gets into his car. I promise to call him when we get back to the college.

  Eventually, Rosa’s crying peters our and she starts hiccuping. On the ride back to the school, she says nothing. Not a word. This has been a hard day for her. I understand. First, I sang for the children, and they sang with me. Then, Ayanda was taken away from her. When we arrive back at the college, she heads straight for sick bay, electing to spend the rest of the day there. I let her go.

  After supper, as the sun sets, I go to the infirmary with Oreo cookies for Rosa. Rosa loves Oreos. She is sitting up on a bed with her back against the wall, her knees pressed up to her chest. I sit beside her on the cot. Her eyes are bloodshot, and her freckled lids are puffed up from crying. The place smells of ammonia and lemon soap.

  “That horrible woman,” she says, looking out the window, not touching the cookies.

  Tears well up in her eyes.

  “If it was anybody but her –”

  I hand her a tissue. She presses it to her eyes.

  “I could have adopted him.”

  I look away, toward the empty bed next to us.

  “I could have,” she says. “With Siya.”

  I nod, though I know – we both know – that she’s wrong.

  Then Rosa says that she’s tired. She doesn’t want to talk anymore but she doesn’t want to be alone. So I stay with her, and like a very small child, she curls herself up with her head on my lap, wetting my jeans with her tears as I rock her to sleep.

  Six

  At six o’clock in the morning, in the middle of November, my cubie is twenty-nine degrees Celsius. I know because one of Dad’s Christmas gifts to me was a keychain compass with a miniature thermometer attached to it. These days, I sleep naked – no sleeping bag, no blanket. Not even a top sheet to cover me. When I wake up, the bedsheets beneath me are damp, my pillowcase is damp. My hair is damp. By midday, the temperature approaches forty degrees. To class, I wear thin shorts and thin t-shirts, and during study period, I strip down to my underwear. I don’t care if one of the male teachers catches me like this. I’ve never been so hot.

  Someday, I think, some November when I’m back in Canada, back in Alberta, I’ll miss the warm weather. I’ll tell stories about it. “Twenty-nine degrees above zero,” I’ll say, “during the coolest part of the day. Imagine! November and no snow, no sleet, no ice.”

  No rain, either. No relief from the heat. Spring in Swaziland officially started two months ago, which usually means showers. The rainy season should begin in a few weeks. Only we haven’t had any rain yet and the college water reservoir is at its lowest level in fifteen years. The college pool has been drained; the gates to the swimming area have been closed and padlocked. Water trickles out of taps. Once a week, students are permitted a shower – one shower per student per week. Swazi officials are calling it a drought, college officials are rationing water.

  We’re supposed to feel fortunate that we can shower once a week, that we have water for sponge baths every other day of the week, that we have water to drink whenever we like. Several schools in Mbabane and Manzini have shut down – closed their doors indefinitely – because of the water shortage. Dozens of people from rural Swaziland are going to hospital, sick from the heat, sick from drinking bad water. But our sick bay is busy, too, with students stricken by heat exhaustion, dehydration – students with fair skin and fair hair, especially. Like Rosa. Since the heat wave started, she’s been to the infirmary three times.

  Each time Rosa goes to sick bay, I go with her. I stay with her as long as I can between classes, at lunchtime, before study period. She’s not at all herself while she’s in the infirmary, and it worries me. Her mind seems to wander when I’m talking to her. She’s always asking me to repeat myself. And I’m not sure if she even hears me the second time. Mostly, she just sits in bed with her sketchpad, drawing pictures of embryos. The embryos bear an unmistakable resemblance to Siya. One is resting on a green field surrounded by perfectly round black and white spheres – soccer balls, clearly. Another is superimposed on a map of Africa with the words Sawebona, Sisi – Hello, Sister – floating up from its mouth.

  The heat isn’t the only thing bothering Rosa. Siya has been away from Swaziland for the past two weeks, and he’s not coming back for another two months. Which means that Rosa won’t see him for a long time. He’s doing a course in London, for work, and then holidaying in Scotland and Ireland. By the time he gets back to Mbabane, Rosa will be living with her parents in Zambia. She’s going to try to apply to art school in Johannesburg – if her parents agree – but nothing is for sure. I think she’s worried that Siya is going to fall for someone else on his travels. They had a big fight before he left. I don’t know exactly what they fought about, but Rosa has been depressed ever since.

  I do my best to cheer her up, take her mind off Siya. Before he went away, Rosa and I started planning our own holiday, a two-week backpacking trip through South Africa. When I visit her in sick bay, I chat to her about our plans.

  Neither of us has much money for the holiday, so we’re going to hitchhike to Johannesburg and stay at a cheap youth hostel near Hillbrow, the artsy part of the city. Rosa’s been there before. She says that Hillbrow has all kinds of cafés, restaurants, and art galleries, plus a big, open-air market where artists sell paintings, ceramics, jewelry. You name it. Thandiwe has invited us to spend a day or two with her in Soweto, too. She’s going to show us around the township; show us where she grew up, and where she went to school before she came to Waterford. After Joburg, we’re planning to hitchhike to Cape Town. We’ll pass through Durban, East London, Port Elizabeth, and Mossel Baai. It should take us three days. Four at the most. Siya has some friends who go to the University of Cape Town. They have an extra room. We’ll stay with them for two or three days before we head east again.

  From Johannesburg, Rosa is flying to Zambia. I’m flying back to Canada.

  Of course now, sitting beside Rosa in the sick bay, I’m beginning to wonder if the trip will happen. If the heat wave continues, she won’t be able to go anywhere. Rosa seems to be getting worse. She doesn’t show much interest in our holiday. While I talk, she gets up from her bed to throw up. Three times.

  During Rosa’s fourth afternoon in sick bay, I leave her with a glass of orange juice and a damp facecloth. I’ve got my music lesson with Mrs. McBain, but I promise to return to sick bay as soon as I’ve finished.

  With the heat, my piano lessons have generally become shorter, and more informal. The music rooms are stifling hot – unbearably hot – so Mrs. McBain asks that we meet in her home. Of course, her house isn’t much cooler, really, so we end up running through one or two short pieces before Mrs. McBain declares that it’s iced tea time. Then, for the duration of the lesson, we chat about various things. My plans for after graduation, and whether I’m excited about going home. Sometimes Mr. McBain joins us. He talks about his work, the buildings he’s designing for the king. I ask about the McBains’ daughters, how their studies are going, if they’re planning to come for Christmas.

  Mrs. McBain is back to her old self. She’s like Sister Maria again. I’m going to miss her when I leave. Since my blacklisting ended, we’ve never talked about Rosa or Siya. I think we’ve reached a compromise without actually saying so. I’ve spent less time with Rosa – so that she could be with Siya – and more time with other girls, like Thandiwe and her friends. I’m happy, Mrs. McBain is happy, Rosa is happy. Everyone is happy.

  It doesn’t seem real, though, that my year in Swaziland is almost over. Living at home again is going to feel strange. Seeing Mom and Dad, and Sophie and Wes, and all my aunts and uncles. I haven’t told Mrs. McBain yet – or Mom and Dad, for that matter – but I’m thinking about applying to universities in South Africa. Wittswatersrand, maybe, or the University of Cape Town, if I like it there. I can’t imagine living in Edmonton again, going to university there. I want to stay in Africa.
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  Today, Mrs. McBain skips my lesson entirely, leading me, instead, straight to the sitting room where the iced tea is ready to serve in her Africa pitcher. She says that she has something to ask me. A favour, of sorts.

  In early December, at the local Rotary Club in downtown Mbabane, a concert is taking place. A concert featuring a number of Waterford music students. Mrs. McBain is organizing it, and she’d like me to perform. If I’m interested.

  As she pours our iced tea, Mrs. McBain gives me all of the details. She explains that three years ago, the Mbabane Rotarians donated a generous sum of money to the college’s Music Department. The money, in fact, made possible the construction of the new practice rooms, as well as the purchase of four new pianos, a complete stereo system, and a small library of classical recordings. Every year now, in return, Waterford sends a group of students to perform at the Rotary Club’s annual Christmas luncheon. The gesture is meant, in part, to show our appreciation for the Rotarians’ cash donation and also to demonstrate that their money has directly benefited students from around the world.

  I tell Mrs. McBain that I’d love to perform. How much time do I have on stage? I could do a couple of Debussy pieces, and a Schuman waltz. Or my Rachmaninoff concerto, if she’d prefer a longer piece.

  Mrs. McBain ignores my suggestions.

  “Colleen,” she says, “the annual Christmas luncheon is a complicated affair. We’ve got to be strategic with the Rotarians. You see, to be perfectly frank, these gentlemen would like to believe that their donation is bringing music to the – to the underprivileged, if you will.”

  I watch the ice cubes melting in my glass as I wait for Mrs. McBain to finish.

  “Ideally, we would like to bring a large group of African music students to them. Black Africans representing countries from the poorest countries on the continent. And we are doing our best to recruit pupils from the lower forms who fit the bill, so to speak.”

  She pauses again as she pours more iced tea into our glasses.

  “Of course, regardless of how many black Africans we find in the lower forms, we still need you there. We need you because you are one of our senior students, and we must put our best foot forward. So to speak.”

  “Katja won’t be performing?” I ask. Innocently.

  As Mrs. McBain shakes her head, I smile to myself. Naturally Katja isn’t performing. She isn’t half the performer that I am.

  “Actually, Katja doesn’t sing. And what I need is a vocal performance.”

  “You want me to sing?” I ask.

  I didn’t think that Mrs. McBain liked my singing. When I sing and play her my original songs – which isn’t very often – she’s never very excited.

  “I want you to sing in Ukrainian. One or two of the songs that you were going to write about in your Extended Essay. You could accompany yourself on the guitar. That would be a nice touch.”

  As Mrs. McBain mentions my Extended Essay, I shift in my seat. I haven’t told her the truth yet about my E2. That I’m still writing about Ukrainian folk songs.

  “You see,” she says, “it won’t do for you to perform a classical piano piece. There is nothing exceptional about a Canadian student playing a classical piano piece. A Ukrainian student, however, performing a Ukrainian folk song is altogether different. The Rotarians will be thrilled to see what we’ve done with a Ukrainian music student. I’d like you to represent the Ukraine at the luncheon.”

  I flinch when she says “the Ukraine.”

  “But I’m not –”

  “I know you’re not.” Mrs. McBain frowns as she interrupts me. “That isn’t the point. The point is that you can pass for one and not a single Rotarian soul will know the difference. Eastern Europe is widely recognized as a less-than-developed part of the world, Colleen, and it goes without saying that we haven’t any other Eastern European music students, in the lower forms or in the senior class, who can showcase their culture like you can. Katja isn’t able to sing or play Polish folk songs. It isn’t in her.”

  Mrs. McBain taps the side of her glass with her fingernail.

  “There is, of course,” she says, “the small matter of national dress. Which we shall have to quickly iron out, so to speak. Genuine Ukrainian attire would be best, I realize. With the time constraints we’re dealing with, though, it would be naive, really, to imagine that we could locate –”

  “I’ll call my mom. She’ll send my full Poltavsky costume. First thing tomorrow morning.”

  This is perfect. After I’ve performed at the luncheon, Mrs. McBain will have to approve my E2. She’ll owe it to me.

  “Your parents could send the costume. And certainly, by all means, they should try. Do we rely, however, on the Swazi postal services to deliver in time for the luncheon? No. We prepare a backup.”

  What does she mean backup?

  “In fact, the backup has already been prepared. I’ve taken it upon myself to organize a costume for you. Not genuine Ukrainian, mind you, but close enough. Katja Malanowski has been kind enough to lend us her national dress.”

  I nearly spit out my iced tea.

  “Forget it,” I say. “I won’t wear it. Does Katja even know what it will be used for? Because she won’t lend it to us if she knows why we need it. The cultural differences between Poles and Ukrainians are huge. She knows it, I know it. She knows that the Polish costume would never –”

  “Katja knows that I need her help. Which is all that she needs know. Come now, Colleen, you’re an intelligent young woman. Use that intelligence to set aside whatever cultural differences you may perceive. We’re talking, after all, about a donation to the college of a half-million rand, every cent of which you have enjoyed, are enjoying, and will continue to enjoy as long as you remain a student at Waterford. If members of the Rotary Club are favourably impressed by us at the luncheon, they could potentially double – even triple – that amount in future donations to the Music Department.”

  Mrs. McBain sets down her glass.

  “Under the circumstances,” she says, “I think that the Polish costume will do just fine.”

  “You’re assuming that I’ll agree to wear it.”

  “I’m not assuming. Trusting is the word. I’m trusting that you will wear it.”

  After I leave Mrs. McBain’s house, I march straight to the phone in the common room of the senior hostel. With the difference in time zones, my call is going to wake Mom and Dad, I know. When they hear the ringing of the phone at two o’clock in the morning they’re going to think that something has happened, that someone is in trouble – Sophie, Wes, or me. There has been an emergency. A car accident, a rape, an aneurysm. A death.

  Dad answers the phone, accepts the collect call. I say that I’m all right but that I need help.

  He says, “Tell me what to do. You need money?”

  In the background, I hear Mom getting out of bed, asking, “What’s going on? Is it Colleen? Is she all right?”

  The costume, they promise – relieved that all I need is a costume – will be on its way by eight o’clock the next day. Blouse, boots, headpiece. Slip, skirt, apron, socks. Beads, velvet vest. Everything.

  Dad talks to me for a few minutes, then Mom. I get letters from them all the time, but I hardly ever hear their voices. And talking to my parents is different than writing to them. I don’t want to hang up. There’s so much I want to ask them, so much I want to say.

  I ask about Sophie and Wes, about Ralphie, our dog. I wonder about the rest of the family – my aunts and uncles, my cousins, Baba and Gido. What’s the weather like? How’s school? Is there any news from home?

  As Mom and Dad answer my questions, I close my eyes. It doesn’t seem real that we’re talking to each other from across the globe. Their voices are so familiar to me, and they feel so close. But I feel as though I’m talking with ghosts from another world. They don’t belong here, in this world. Dad tells me that Sophie and Wes are fine. Wes scored two goals on Lloydminster last night; Sophie was home from Edmonton
for the game. The roads were bad. It’s been an especially cold winter. Mom says that she’s getting an early start on her Christmas shopping; that Dad has been out ice fishing, twice now.

  After we’ve said our goodbyes and I love you’s, I stand for a long time staring at the phone. Nothing has changed. And everything has changed. It’s as though I was talking to strangers I’ve known all my life. What will it be like when I go home again? Exactly the same. Completely different.

  For now, I have to focus on the Rotary Club luncheon. I tell myself that if the costume doesn’t arrive in time, I won’t go. Simple as that. I’ll feign sickness – the stomach flu, maybe, or sunstroke, even better.

  The closer the date of the luncheon and the longer I wait, the more I hope for no rain. Without rain, sunstroke is good and believable.

  Two days before the Rotary Club show, my Ukrainian costume is still in transit, and I’m getting nervous. We’ve had three rehearsals for the performance and none of the lower form acts is much good. The Form Three choir has a sort of song-and-dance routine worked out for “Puttin’ On the Ritz.” Their singing isn’t bad but their movements are clumsy, out-of-synch with each other. A Form One Nigerian soloist keeps forgetting the second verse to her rendition of a Mariah Carey ballad. There is a Somali flautist from Form Five whose act seems promising – she’s playing a piece from The Nutcracker Suite – provided she doesn’t faint from stage fright.

  My songs, “Tsyhanochka” and “Chervona rozha,” are the strongest of the group by far. The other students put no energy into their performances, and they have no stage presence. Their songs don’t engage the audience. When I sing, Mrs. McBain’s head bobs in time with the music. She taps her foot, too, and claps her hands periodically during the refrains.