As if reading my thoughts, Michael’s face suddenly collapsed and his posture wilted. “Miriam,” he said, focusing on my forehead.
“Yes, Michael?”
He seemed to be having trouble getting the words out.
I waited as I’d been taught to do—“patient-centered listening.” Clearly he was wrestling with something. He finally began—clumsily, as if the speech had already started in his head.
“I have to tell you. I’ve wanted to for so long. I . . .” He was fidgeting with his watch clasp. Open, shut. Open, shut.
“What is it?” I was growing alarmed by his behavior. “Are you unwell?”
“No, no,” he said, carving a groove in the soft wooden table with his thumbnail. His eyes filled with tears.
I didn’t put a hand out to comfort him. Something held me back.
He pulled out a bulky brown envelope from under the table and slid it across to me. “You’ll need this if you’re planning to go back.”
I stared at the package. “What is it?”
“Your adoption papers, and the address of the people Celia went to work for after we left South Africa. They may be able to help you find her.”
“Celia,” I repeated. “My mother?”
He nodded.
“Oh, thank you, Michael!” I felt instantly alive and excited. “This means such a lot to me. I can’t tell you . . .” I planted a loud kiss on his head.
But Michael held on to a more earnest expression, his lips as tightly pursed as his clasped hands. He looked away, avoiding my questioning gaze.
“Is something the—”
“Open it,” he interrupted, pointing to the envelope.
I unpeeled the seal and put my hand inside, momentarily fingering the mysterious contents as if playing the game we used to play at school where we tried to identify objects in a velvet pouch by touch. I pulled them out. A sheet of paper with a pharmaceutical firm’s letterhead. Rita’s hallmark. She was always getting freebies from the drug reps—pens, writing pads, once even a trip to Sweden. Several names and addresses had been scribbled down. Another sheet of paper—limp and yellowed and almost split in two along a well-worn fold. The adoption of Miriam Lufuno Mphephu. Miriam Mphephu. That name again. My name? My hands trembled as they clasped the old document. Also a wad of pale blue air letters bound with fraying twine. Those letters. Impatiently I pulled at the knot, the string disintegrating in my fingers.
“Miriam, I’ve wanted to tell you for years,” Michael said, his voice strangled. “But Rita . . . Then you and David visiting the other night . . . I couldn’t keep it from you any longer. I just couldn’t.”
I barely heard his words as I rifled hungrily through the letters. Something slipped out from between them. A photograph. I’d seen it before—the picture of a black woman, her face obscured by a dark speckled stain.
“Your mother,” Michael whispered.
I drew the photograph up close, straining to see what lay beneath the smudge of my own blood. She looked beautiful. My mother looked so beautiful.
Then, as if there had been some delay in a long-distance telephone conversation, words Michael had uttered moments earlier now reached me.
“What? Kept what from me?” My voice was shaking.
“Your mother loved you. She never wanted to give you up.”
I felt as if I was falling down a steep ravine and the air was being sucked from my lungs in one silent scream.
Michael looked instantly different, as if relieved of some great burden.
I tried to speak, but nothing intelligible came out.
“Celia—your mother—loved you.”
My skin rose into a thousand goose bumps.
“She only gave you away because she thought you’d have a better life out of South Africa and away from the cruelties of apartheid.” He swallowed loudly.
I downed the rest of my wine.
“We desperately wanted a child of our own. You filled that void. Rita had suffered two miscarriages and then a stillbirth. She was devastated. Broken. We both were.”
He was staring into the distance, the painful scene once again unfolding before him.
“You brought warmth back into our home, a purpose, something that had been missing for so long. You gave our relationship a second chance. Rita seemed almost happy when you were around. I thought it would change everything—a child we could call our own.” He shook his head despairingly.
I couldn’t move. My joints had been set in concrete, my lungs squeezed thin.
“When your mother agreed to the adoption, Rita was so excited and made promises. Promises she couldn’t keep. She promised we’d visit at least once a year. She promised we’d write often.”
“Couldn’t keep?”
“Rita had a change of heart once we were here. I think she was scared she’d lose you, just as she’d lost her other babies. Sharing came at a price she wasn’t prepared to pay. So she, or rather we, made a decision to cease contact with your mother.”
I held my hand over my mouth, stifling the strange sounds coming from it. A kaleidoscope of emotion was twisting through me—disbelief, elation, horror, anger. My mind could find no starting point, nor any end. I started gasping as my heart and lungs escaped their straitjacket.
“Are you okay?” Michael put out a hand.
I pulled away.
“We kept the letters your mother sent when we first came to England, until Rita started returning them.”
Panicked, I looked down at the pile of letters. Some were missing? Some sent back? I’d had nothing for so long, yet now I was mourning the few I would never have.
“We wanted the best for you. Your mother. Rita. We all had a common goal, just different ideas on how to achieve it. We all loved you.”
“That’s a lie,” I hissed. “Rita never loved me.”
Michael straightened. “That’s not true. She just doesn’t have the tools to express it. Growing up she was never shown much affection. Do you know that once, as a child, she spent an entire midterm break at boarding school, because no one came to collect her.”
“I don’t care!”
Michael opened his mouth. Nothing more came out. At least he’d stopped talking. I couldn’t bear it any longer. I was addicted to his words, but repelled by them too.
I saw the envelope on the table was distorted by something else. I tipped it upside down and a small wooden figure rolled out. Michael caught it before it fell off the table and passed it to me.
“And this? What’s this?” I shouted, holding up the doll with large owl eyes and a beaked nose.
People at the next table turned.
“I think it’s a mythological character,” Michael whispered. “Meant to watch over you and keep you safe from harm. Your mother sent it.”
In a daze I put the doll back into the envelope, then the letters and the adoption papers. I stood up. My chair toppled over, but I left it lying on its side as I made my way blindly out of the pub, bumping into people and furniture as I went.
Michael didn’t follow.
I don’t remember how I got home, but I remember Dave’s warm neck and his comforting smell. I remember that.
24 January 1961
My dear Miriam,
I am lucky because as I speak this letter, Philemon writes it. He is knowing of all the rules to write a proper letter. He has standard eight in qualifications. You see it is very important to be at school.
You must be in England now and I am asking to myself if you see the queen yet and what she looks like from close. I hope she is wearing her crown when you meet. Everyone here is very jealous for you.
I am hoping you are happy with the photograph of me. To make it I must sit in a funny box with a curtain at my shoulder. When I put a coin in the machine, there is a bright light and the sound of a hungry lion. Then
my picture pops out. It is magic for sure. Please ask the Master to send me a picture of you. You must grow taller every day.
Philemon’s hand is now tired so I will end. I love you and miss you too much, but I am excited for your adventure. I wait for the Master and Madam to write soon.
Your Mme
One Celia Mphephu
13 March 1961
Dear Child,
I hope the Master holds this letter and reads for you. Soon you will be able to read it on your own. I am not yet getting your letter. Please it must be soon. Philemon waits to read to me.
Now I am living in Alexandra location, but the Master can write me at my work in Parkhurst. He is knowing the address.
How is England? Do you eat all your food? It is important to grow strong. I hope Tendani is liking her new house? Remember to cuddle her even if you are getting new toys. Philemon says it is very cold in England so I knit you a warm hat of many colors.
Yours honorably
Mme
(Celia Mphephu)
27 May 1961
Dear Mbila,
I could not find Philemon this week, so I must to pay one student where I am sleeping to write you. I am very anxious for your news. Please ask the Master or Madam to write straight away. I must to know my precious child is safe. I see Sipho at church on Sunday and he is very much missing his friend. Have you made new friends? What is their name? I am to be very excited when you visit which I hope comes soon.
Dearest child,
I am too worried . . .
I am loving you.
1 February 1962
Master Michael and Madam Rita,
When do you visit? You make promise . . .
I must to change my address for letters.
I snatched at pieces from the blue pile of words like a starving animal scavenging meat from a carcass. But instead of satisfying, they only tantalized and teased and made me hungry for more. I wanted to scream out my frustration, my desperation, my all-consuming guilt. I had allowed Rita to paint over the memories of my mother with lies.
I had to go back to Africa. I had to find her. But there was something I had to do first, before I left Britain. I had to cut myself loose from the Steiner name. I would change my name back to Miriam Mphephu by deed poll.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
January 1985
Miriam
“International Directory Enquiries, how may I help?” A friendly Glaswegian accent was on the end of the line.
“Yes. Uh . . .” My voice quivered. “I’d like to trace a number in South Africa.”
“Certainly, madam. What city?”
“Johannesburg.”
“Name and address?”
“P. and M. Rodrigues. Sixth Street, Parkhurst.”
“Please hold the line while I connect to the South African exchange.”
The line crackled, then there was ringing.
A strong Afrikaans accent. “Goeie môre, good morning. Directory Assistance.”
“Good morning, South Africa.” The Scottish voice again. “This is the United Kingdom. I’m trying to trace the telephone number for a P. and M. Rodrigues in Sixth Street, Parkhurst.”
“Is that M for maple?”
“It is.”
“In Second Street, Parkhurst,” repeated the slow, thick voice.
“No, not Second!” I interjected, unable to be a silent member of this triangle.
“That is Sixth Street, sir,” the Scottish lady corrected.
“Juz hold the line, please.”
The leisurely pace of the call was killing me. Even a two-minute delay seemed intolerable.
Dave was balanced on the arm of my chair, caressing my back. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. I didn’t respond.
“We have no listing for a P. and M. Rodrigues in Parkhurst—”
I should have known it wouldn’t be as easy as a simple phone call.
“—but we do have one listing for that name with those initials in Orange Grove.”
“Please hold, sir, while I speak with the caller. Caller, there is only one listing for a Rodrigues, and it’s in Orange Grove. Do you wish to try that number?”
“Yes! Yes, please.”
Silence, two beeps, then ringing.
A woman’s voice.
“Go ahead, caller.”
My mind went blank. “Uh . . . Hello . . . I’m calling from England. I’m not sure if I have the right number. Do Maria and Pedro Rodrigues live there?”
My hesitant voice echoed back at me. “Live there, live there, live there.”
“This is Madam Morela house,” said a native African voice.
“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number.”
A click and the line went dead.
Slowly I replaced the receiver.
“No luck?” David said, squeezing the back of my neck.
“I should have known it wouldn’t be easy,” I said, pulling away. “How stupid of me to think I’d get to speak to her today I mean, even if I had found the right people, it’s been twenty-five years. My mother will be long gone. What’s the likelihood of her working for them after all this time?”
I sank back into the chair, defeated.
Dave crouched down on his haunches and took my hands in his. “It just proves what we’ve known all along. You can’t do this from thousands of miles away. You need to go back. You need to be there.”
I almost resented his compliance and understanding. It would have been easier to make the decision to leave had he fought with me.
“I was speaking to a colleague at uni today,” he went on, “who has a friend in Johannesburg—a newspaper reporter for The Star. He’s offered to contact the guy and see if he’d be interested in following your story. Act as a sort of a guide. You can’t do this on your own.” He caressed my inner thigh. I shut my legs. “Miriam, Africa is waiting for you.”
“I’ve done the maths,” I said, standing up. “It’s not going to be possible. I can’t afford the fare. We’re both living on my student loan.”
His face broke into a broad grin. “You’re forgetting the lecturing post.”
I was annoyed. What was there to smile about? He hadn’t even started the job yet. He slid a hand into a pocket in his jeans and pulled out a crumpled, peach-colored envelope. “Michael came to the university today.”
I winced at the mention of Michael’s name, the pain of our meeting still raw.
“He dropped this off for you.”
I’d had enough of Michael’s surprises.
“It’s a check for two thousand pounds.”
—
Do you know where you are going?
The orange poster on the tube door hadn’t given up on me as I caught the Underground the following morning. This time, though, I smiled.
Yes. Yes, I do.
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
February 1985
“Please fasten your seat belt, do up your tray table, and place your chair in the upright position.” The air hostess moved on through the cabin.
I rubbed my eyes. My neck ached, my mouth was dry, and my skin felt stale and itchy.
“You were out for some time,” said the old lady next to me, as she touched up her foundation.
The plane’s wheels hit the runway, the cabin shuddered, then came the screeching of brakes and we were thrust back into our seats. As we taxied toward the terminal, I pulled up the oval of blind covering my window and in an instant was doused in a shower of warm, yellow light.
The queue of passengers filed slowly out of the aircraft. Too slowly! I was impatient to get out.
The cabin attendant, her lipstick freshly applied, smiled politely as I stepped out of the plane. “Thank you for flying British Airways.”
Above
me stretched an endless blue sky. A warm breeze carried smells to me, at once both foreign and strangely familiar. I inhaled deeply, feeling this new air seep into my body and filter to the ends of my fingers and toes. I hurried down the steep staircase, the moldy dampness of an English winter rising like steam as a dry, baking heat enveloped me. I stopped on the bottom step and teetered there for a moment before lowering first one foot, and then the other, to the ground.
Terra firma pushed back. This was the same soil I had walked on twenty-five years ago. It was overwhelming—the permanence of it. Humans were the transient ones—mere incidentals on this, nature’s grand stage.
I climbed aboard the shuttle bus and with a jolt we were headed for the terminal building. Once inside, I joined the queue in front of the sign that said Foreign Passports.
Eventually I found myself in front of a heavyset man with lines of perspiration tracking across his greasy brow. Two dark patches of dampness ballooned out from under the arms of his khaki shirt. A lone table fan had lost its battle and was simply stirring up the rancid smell of sweat. I peeled off my cardigan.
The man eyed me suspiciously. “What is the nature of your business?” he barked, his rough voice matching his dented and pockmarked complexion.
“I . . . I’m here to . . .” I was caught off guard by his guttural hostility. I handed him my permit to visit, which Dave, after numerous letters and phone calls, had finally managed to secure for me.
“Born in Elim Hospital, hey?” he said with a snigger, his thick, nicotine-stained fingers paging through my British passport.
“Yes.”
He gave me a long, contemptuous stare. “Where will you be residing?”
“With someone in Soweto,” I said nervously. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone or anything sabotaging my journey at this late stage.
“Fill in the details,” he said, shoving a sherbet-green form at me, then he stamped my passport with a thud. “Remember,” he said, rolling his r’s and wagging a stubby finger at me, “it is a punishable offense to enter any public place reserved for whites or use any whites-only amenities.”
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