If You Want to Make God Laugh

by Bianca Marais

He placed two large parcels of newspaper on the table. Unwrapping each one, he set about dishing up generous portions for us both, spooning out a chunky white sauce on top of each fillet of fish.

  “What’s that, Father?”

  “Tartar sauce. You’ve never had it before?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You’re going to love it. Here,” he said, dipping his finger in the sauce and then holding it out to me.

  When it became clear that he expected me to lick the sauce from his finger, I felt the heat gather at my collarbones and flare upward across my neck and into my cheeks.

  “Silly me,” Father Thomas said, embarrassed. “I spend too much time with the children at the orphanage and forget how to act around adults.” I laughed and then he joined in, shaking his head and looking sheepish. “Let’s try again. Here,” he said, dipping a spoon in the sauce and then holding it out to me.

  I took it from him, relieved but also flustered. The sauce was delicious, both tart and sweet at the same time. We both set about eating though my appetite had diminished. I didn’t know where to look but my eyes kept getting drawn back to his lips, which were shiny with grease. Every time he licked them, I squirmed. The room, already stiflingly hot, grew hotter with every passing moment.

  When he was done, he looked at the food that remained in the newspaper on my lap. “You’ve barely eaten. What’s wrong, Delilah? Please tell me I didn’t offend you just now. I meant nothing by it.”

  “Not at all, Father. I just hurt my neck earlier and it’s a bit painful.” It was easier to blame my discomfort on that instead of admitting how small the room suddenly felt and how his body seemed to fill up so much of it.

  “Oh no,” he said, looking concerned as he stood up and walked toward me. My breath caught. “A neck injury can be very painful and will only get worse if not treated straight away. Before I decided to become a priest, I started studying to become a doctor. Did you know that?”

  “No, Father. But honestly, I’m fine and—” I started to protest but he’d already taken my food from me and then knelt next to me on the bed. He positioned me at an angle facing away from him so that he could get a grip on my shoulders.

  “Take your robe off so I can see what I’m working with here.”

  “Father, I don’t think—”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake. It’s just me, Delilah. I’m a priest and you’re perfectly safe with me. You don’t think I mean you harm, do you?” His tone was both injured and annoyed.

  “No, Father. Of course not,” I said, shrugging the robe off.

  He leaned in, running his fingers over the bumps of my spine that led up into the base of my skull. As Father Thomas began to massage my shoulders, I felt his warm breath against my neck and an ache rose up in my belly. The heat that had previously enveloped my face now traveled down my stomach and into my core, making it tingle in response.

  “Father, I—” I tried to stand up but he pressed his hands down on my shoulders, pinning me to the bed.

  “Delilah.” His voice was suddenly different. More gravelly and hoarse. “My sweet Delilah. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

  Even as there was a part of me that knew how wrong the words were, still I couldn’t help but respond to them. “I’m not the beautiful one. Ruth is.”

  “No. She has no light inside of her. No purity at all. But you . . . you . . . are perfect.” He placed his lips against my neck and let his arms drop so that his hands were on my elbows, pinning them to my sides.

  His breath seemed to come in ragged gasps and mine sped up in response. How I’d yearned to be told that just once in my life. If it had come from anyone else, I wouldn’t have believed it, but I’d seen the way Ruth had looked at Father Thomas and I’d seen the way he’d spurned her. Not even Riaan, who I knew loved me, had ever told me I was more beautiful than my sister.

  I felt something moist and hot travel from my neck to my ear and realized that Father Thomas was mapping a trail across my skin with his tongue. All that existed then was the heat from his body pressed against mine and the glorious thrill of it.

  It was when Father Thomas cupped my breast over my nightgown that I recovered from my daze and returned to my senses. What we were doing was wrong.

  Matthew 26:41 leapt to mind. Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak. The molten feeling from earlier, the delicious warmth, was gone. Instead, I felt afraid.

  “No, Father, please.”

  “Don’t play games, Delilah. Don’t be coy now when you’re finally getting what you wanted.”

  “No, I don’t want—”

  “Don’t pretend this isn’t what you and your sister were whispering about earlier, and why you were so happy when I told you we had to spend the night here. This is what you wanted. You are true to your name, Delilah. You are the destroyer of men’s powers.”

  He stood and walked around the bed, pushing me backward as he climbed on top of me. His eyes were closed but mine were wide open, fixed on his face, which wore an expression I’d never seen before, one of such hunger and need that it made him look ferocious. It occurred to me then, and in the many sleepless nights that came afterward, that I had made him like that. I’d turned him from a devout man of God into a beast driven by animal urges. Just as I’d done the same thing to Riaan the previous night.

  When it was over, Father Thomas rose and got dressed.

  I couldn’t move. I just lay there in shock, feeling my heart thudding against my breastbone as the bruises began to develop across my body. He went to the bathroom to fetch a towel, which he then tossed over me. “Clean yourself up and get dressed.”

  I did as instructed.

  “Come, let us pray,” he said, making me kneel down beside him. “Our Lord, Jesus Christ, Redeemer and Savior, I ask that you forgive Delilah her sins. She came here today with the express purpose of seducing a man of God. She allowed Satan to take up residence in her heart and acted like a Jezebel. In the same way that you forgave Peter’s denial and those who crucified you, forgive Delilah her trespasses against one of your most faithful sons.” He stood then. “We’ll never speak of this again.”

  And he stayed true to his word. We never did.

  The next morning, without any further reference to a replacement part for the car, we set off for the convent.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Zodwa

  16 August 1995

  Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa

  The one and a half months since Zodwa starting working at the farm have passed swiftly. When she walks from the main house to her cottage, she notices how winter has released its stingy grip, frugality giving way to abundance, mirroring her own improved circumstances.

  Zodwa now earns more in a month than what she made at the shebeen in four. She doesn’t need to spend any of her earnings on food or toiletries because the sisters are generous, ensuring most of her physical needs are met. She’s sending more money home to her gogo, but also has enough to save toward a future that she now dares to dream about. Not that she’s there for the money. Even if they didn’t pay her a cent, she’d still do the job because it allows her access to her son.

  Zodwa’s matric exams are coming up. She fills every night with studying so that the hours after bidding Mandla farewell don’t stretch out longer than they need to. Through burying herself in her coursework, Zodwa is remembering the girl she was before the rape, the one who loved learning and who excelled in her studies. If she demeans herself by laboring for these women, then surely there’s dignity to be found in watching over her son. If she degrades herself by scrubbing their toilets and floors, then surely there’s pride to be felt in the fact that Mandla’s world is made brighter by her endeavors.

  That’s what she tells herself every day, which she begins by having breakfast w
ith the family. It’s a ritual that Delilah started a week or so after Zodwa’s arrival when she discovered Zodwa eating by herself on the veranda while the two sisters and Mandla ate together at the dining room table.

  “Why don’t you come inside and join us?” she’d asked.

  “I’m fine here, Madam Delilah.”

  “Please, call me Delilah. There’s no ‘madam’ necessary.”

  Zodwa was taken aback by the offer. While she thought of the sisters as merely Ruth and Delilah, Ruth had told her to call her Madam Ruth and she’d assumed the other sister would want to be addressed similarly. The new arrangement had clearly rankled Ruth at first. She’d looked annoyed as Zodwa struggled to use a knife and fork for things she would normally have just used her hands for, but Ruth soon seemed to get used to the idea since it meant Mandla was generally in a better mood. There’s something about Zodwa that engages him and he’s quicker to laugh in her company.

  Even if the boy didn’t have the Africa-shaped birthmark on his buttock and look so much like Dumisa, Zodwa’s certain she would have recognized him purely on the bond that exists between them. It’s as if Mandla knows that he spent the first nine months of his journey nestled in her womb, as if he recognizes the sound of her voice from before he came into the world. He’s a contemplative child who wears a frown more often than a smile, and Zodwa knows that his solemnity is her fault. She shaped her son’s skeptical view of the world. She remembers the first words she ever spoke directly to him, on the day the gogo had been denied the opportunity to vote.

  Now you know what to expect from this world.

  She strives to undo the harm of that warning by trying to make him laugh every day. Silly antics usually do the trick, but when they don’t, Zodwa resorts to singing Miriam Makeba’s “Qongqothwane,” or “The Click Song” as the whites call it. The explosive Xhosa sounds and rapid-fire lyrics hardly ever fail to elicit belly laughs from Mandla. It’s gotten to the point where Ruth will sometimes pass her the fussy child and say, “For God’s sake, click the child happy.”

  Zodwa’s days pass with the same rhythms. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are cleaning days where her focus is on washing dishes, vacuuming, dusting, and mopping. Tuesdays and Thursdays are days spent washing and ironing clothes and bed linen, as well as cleaning the windows and the outside areas. She eats her lunch by herself and always takes her supper to her room. Zodwa savors the time she gets to spend alone with Mandla, which only happens when Ruth is bathing or getting dressed.

  Ruth is mostly homebound. She never gets any visitors and hardly ever leaves the house, with or without the boy. She goes grocery shopping once a week and she takes Mandla with her. Ruth only leaves Mandla behind with Delilah once a month when she drives to Johannesburg to see her hairdresser.

  Ruth is nothing if not mercurial. Some days, the woman is overly effusive, insisting that Zodwa sit next to her and keep her company. Especially on days when she opens a bottle of wine in the afternoon. Other days, she’s so standoffish that it makes Zodwa wonder what she’s done to offend her. Ruth’s mood swings generally tend toward the darker side when Mandla is being especially affectionate to Zodwa or if he cries when Zodwa leaves.

  Zodwa has also noticed that Ruth’s general outlook is intricately tied to Mandla’s well-being. The woman fusses over the child constantly, treating him like a delicate object that could shatter at any moment rather than the robust boy he is. If he shows any signs of sickening, her doting becomes smothering.

  It’s surprising that Mandla ever gets sick considering the amount of umuthi the woman gives him daily. Zodwa’s tried to read the labels of all the bottles of syrups and formulas to see what they’re for, but Ruth keeps the medicine cupboard locked at all times. It’s the only thing she locks—she doesn’t even lock her purse or her jewelry away—and Zodwa can’t imagine why she feels the need to.

  There are many things that the whites do that confound Zodwa. They’re overly concerned with privacy and personal space yet are content to let the dog lick them in the face. Security is a big concern of theirs with bars on the windows and doors, and various panic buttons distributed throughout the house.

  Zodwa isn’t allowed to answer the phone or open the door; it’s as if they don’t deem her vigilant enough to guard against the threats that stalk them from outside the walls. Whatever it is, Zodwa is convinced it’s as imaginary as the perceived threat against Mandla’s health. Delilah constantly tells Ruth not to fuss over the child, but the woman doesn’t listen to her own sister, and so she’d definitely not listen to Zodwa even if she built up the courage to comment on it.

  The radio is constantly playing in the house because Ruth hates silence, and it’s on 702 Talk Radio that Zodwa finally hears more information about the rumored Truth and Reconciliation Commission that Archbishop Desmond Tutu is spearheading. She turns the sound up to listen to what they are saying, after which Delilah approaches her.

  “The commission’s an important first step toward reconciliation. Are you interested in general or on a personal level?”

  Zodwa surprises herself by answering honestly. “My brother went missing from Soweto in 1984.”

  “Was he a member of the Inkatha Freedom Party? Because he was a Zulu?”

  She’s impressed that Delilah would know that. “Yes, he belonged to their Youth Brigade. He disappeared while doing some work for them, but we never discovered the whole truth.”

  “I’m so sorry, Zodwa. I can’t imagine what it must be like for you. Not knowing what happened to him.”

  “My mother died last year and that was the hardest for her. Never being able to bury her son. I’m going to apply to the commission to see if they have any information about him. I know it’s something she would have done.”

  Zodwa writes away for the forms and once she submits them, there’s nothing left to do but to wait. If Dumisa’s name comes up in the thousands of interviews the TRC is conducting, they will notify her. She’s sure that Mama Beauty will know about the commission as well and that she’s done the same thing for her daughter.

  The days pass quickly and while Zodwa is lonely being so far removed from her people, it’s a sacrifice she’s willing to make. Going back to the township to visit on her days off would invite questions that she wouldn’t be able to answer. She’s also nervous about running into Ace and what he might say about her disappearance. It’s better for her to stay away completely so that she doesn’t see Thembeka either.

  She has her son and she tells herself it’s more than she could ever have hoped for.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Ruth

  22 August 1995

  Hartbeespoort Dam, Gauteng, South Africa

  We’re at the Spur, a restaurant that caters more to whippersnappers than their parents. While the adults sit outside under a thatched roof, sipping beers and tucking into racks of ribs as patio heaters warm them up, their children run amok on a playground in the winter sunshine.

  A futuristic-looking jungle gym, swings, and a seesaw take up one end of the playground, while sandboxes and a track with plastic motorbikes for toddlers takes up the other. It’s a good business model, judging by how busy the place is. There’s a birthday party in full swing at one of the tables, with all the kids wearing party hats that resemble Native American Indian headdresses.

  The only reason we’re here is because Mandla surprised us all by starting to walk a few days ago. Without any preamble, he apparently pulled himself straight up and took a few steps, chasing after Jezebel, sure-footed as a mountain goat.

  Or so I was told by Zodwa, who was the one to see it.

  I came into the room a minute later and saw her with her hands clamped over her mouth, tears in her eyes. When I followed her gaze, I spotted Mandla toddling off behind the dog.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Even as I clapped for Mandla, praising him for his achievement, I was an
noyed by Zodwa’s reaction. She treated my son’s milestone as if it was a private moment between the two of them.

  “Sorry, Madam Ruth,” she said, but I got the distinct impression that the apology was an empty one.

  Mandla’s been unstoppable ever since, and Dee talked me into taking him out so that he could walk freely without ricocheting off a wall or entering an area of the garden that’s likely to be snake infested.

  A woman comes up to our table now and reaches out to touch Mandla’s face. I tense, ready to snatch him away if necessary.

  “What a gorgeous child. Just look at those eyes.” She appears to be about thirty years old and could be a fashion model. Definitely not a local then. I relax and smile back. “What’s your name, cutie?” she asks him.

  “Mandla,” I answer because he obviously can’t speak for himself.

  “I have a friend who’s also looking into adoption. Are you his grandmother?”

  I bristle. “No, I’m his foster mother.”

  “Oh,” she squeaks. “Cool.” She clearly thinks I’m too old to be a baby’s mother, foster or otherwise, but has the good sense to keep her opinion to herself. “It’s my son’s second birthday and we’re having a little party over there. Bring Mandla over if you like. I’m Michelle, by the way.”

  “I’m Ruth. And thank you! That’s so nice of you.” I’m not normally this effusive, but I’m so relieved by her kindness that I’d happily hug her just then if she wasn’t already walking away.

  An all-too-familiar smell suddenly wafts up and I groan. The combination of Mandla’s immune booster and the weight-gain supplement he’s on makes his shit stink to high heaven.

  “Come on, big guy.” I pick him up and take him to the bathroom, where there’s a changing table.

  I’m ready to apologize to anyone unlucky enough to join us in there—seriously, the stench of it is enough to strip paint off the walls—but luck is on our side. It’s only once I’ve thrown the nappy away in a sealed bag that a woman walks in and disappears into one of the stalls. She flushes the toilet a few minutes later and comes out again, joining us at the basins just as I’m pulling up Mandla’s pants.