Fly Away Home

by Vanessa Del Fabbro

  Many years later, when Monica was shot in a carjacking and left to die on the side of the road, life in the Brunetti household took an unexpected turn. It had started with the questions. All of a sudden, Monica wanted to know if Francina had a husband, why she didn’t have any children, where she was from. At first, Francina had been irritated because Monica hadn’t needed this information for more than twenty years, and could certainly live without it for another twenty. Monica had given her a television to replace her little black-and-white portable. She’d asked if they could have tea together, and all of a sudden she’d wanted Francina’s opinion on matters.

  While this change had been under way, Francina noticed Mirinda’s silent disapproval. Mirinda did not think it was appropriate for servants to eat with the family. She did not want Francina to sit on her sofa, set a teacup down on her coffee table. She did not want Francina leaning on the kitchen counter, laughing at something Monica said.

  Mirinda had grown up in a different time and place than Monica. When Mirinda was little, in the small Karoo town of Laingsburg, she and all her fair-haired friends had been told that they were superior to the dark people who scuttled about the periphery of their lives. Their future was assured. They didn’t even have to go to university if they wanted to get a good job, as they were owed a living by the sheer good fortune of their birthright.

  Monica’s childhood had been less certain. She and her brother had played in the garden, swum in the family’s pool and ridden their bikes in the street, but every night the television news reported on cross-border skirmishes, dawn raids on African townships, arrests of dissidents, threats issued by exiled freedom fighters, and the violent crushing of mass protest by the powerful South African military. Monica’s had been a childhood of privilege and lurking menace.

  Hercules and Zukisa shared none of Francina’s reserve about being hosted by Mirinda Brunetti, but Mrs. Shabalala, bless her heart, was a nervous wreck. She had lived her life surrounded by black neighbors, in one of the many square brick houses that had once belonged to whites who worked in the coal mines when Dundee was a boomtown. She’d shopped in areas of town where whites never ventured, and because her late husband had never wanted her to work outside of the home, she didn’t have any contact at all with white people. Her husband had worked for whites, but it had not mattered to Mrs. Shabalala where their weekly money came from as long as it was on time. Her mind didn’t conjure, as Francina’s did, the memory of a strict madam and maid relationship, because there was nothing similar in her past.

  Mirinda ushered them into the living room and invited them to sit. Francina had sat on this couch hundreds of times to watch television with Mandla or discuss the children with Monica, but not in Mirinda’s presence.

  “I hear you’re running for mayor,” said Mirinda, sitting down next to Francina. “I’m sure you’ll win.”

  Francina wondered what Mirinda really thought of her aspirations.

  “Is there anything I can do to help with your campaign? I’m afraid I don’t have as many talents as you do, what with your sewing and baking. You know me, I’m not much of a cook.”

  Francina had never heard Mirinda talk this way; she was immediately on guard. She would rather be subjected to blunt rudeness than patronizing kindness.

  “Did Francina tell you about the day I burned my son’s tenth birthday cake? Francina whipped up a new one and decorated it to look like a fire engine,” Mirinda said to Hercules.

  He smiled. “She’s good at helping people out of tight squeezes.”

  “She certainly is,” said Mirinda.

  Francina could tell from Mirinda’s expression that she was no longer thinking about the cake. Her former employer had endured more heartache than a mother should have to bear. Perhaps Francina was at fault here; she was the one who could not get over the past and change. Mirinda wasn’t being patronizing. This was just her way of reaching out.

  “Zukisa has come up with a new dress design that I think will be perfect for you,” said Francina, trying to sound as friendly as possible. If she managed to overcome her own reservations, she might find that the imbalance in her relationship with Mirinda was all in her own mind.

  Monica came in from the kitchen with a platter of olives and explained that Zak was outside with the children, cooking the sosaties on the braai. Francina saw the look on her daughter’s face. The skewered meat marinated in a spicy sauce was her favorite. Zukisa wandered outside to join Mandla and Yolanda.

  “Have you had any news from Yolanda’s mother?” asked Francina.

  “She’s not coming back,” said Monica.

  Mirinda shook her head in disapproval. “A mother who deserts her child doesn’t ever deserve to have that child back.”

  Francina caught Hercules’s eye and knew that they were both thinking of Lucy. Zukisa, she hoped, would not, in her excitement, blurt out Francina’s plan to Yolanda and Mandla.

  The front door opened and Monica’s father walked in, carrying a fishing rod and tackle box.

  “Paolo, you should leave all that outside,” said Mirinda.

  “Look who I found in the driveway,” said Paolo.

  Oscar appeared next to him. As soon as he saw Francina and Hercules, the grin slid from his face. “I didn’t know you had company,” he said.

  “The more the merrier,” said Monica. “Come and sit down. This is a nice surprise.”

  There was an empty spot beside Francina on the couch, but Hercules stood to offer his chair, and then sat down next to Francina.

  Ignoring his wife’s directive, Paolo trudged through the house with his fishing equipment, and returned to bring in the bucket that contained his catch of the day.

  “Snoek!” he exclaimed proudly. “A big one. Do you think it’s too late to put it on the braai?”

  Monica assured him that it was not, and he went to join his son-in-law, whom he adored, even though he had once told Monica that she shouldn’t marry an Afrikaner.

  Francina looked everywhere except in Oscar’s direction, while Hercules could not keep his eyes off the man. Monica must have been aware of the tension in the room because she tried to make a joke.

  “You two could have a dry run of your mayoral debate.”

  Everyone smiled except Oscar. “Actually, I came to see you,” he said to Monica. “I found something while I was out on a long hike today.”

  “What did you find?” asked Mirinda. “Come on now. It’s not fair if you keep it from the rest of us.”

  Oscar shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Francina felt sorry for him. He was probably wishing that he’d telephoned instead.

  “I found a grave on a small koppie north of the golf resort.” Oscar explained the exact location.

  “You walked almost as far as Velddrif,” said Mirinda.

  Oscar shrugged. “It’s what I like to do.”

  Francina saw Hercules studying Oscar’s face. Perhaps he was thinking about all the intellectual pursuits he could accomplish in the time Oscar spent tramping about the countryside.

  “Well, whose grave is it? A Bushman’s?” asked Mirinda.

  Oscar shook his head. “The tombstone was decorated by the San people—” he corrected Mirinda’s use of the pejorative name for the nomadic tribesmen who had roamed these parts many years ago “—but the grave belongs to a European woman.”

  “You found it? You found Lady Helen’s grave?” asked Monica in an excited voice.

  Oscar nodded. “The paintings on the tombstone are of a lady in a long dress with a parasol. It can only be Lady Helen. I started to dig, but when I found the first bone I lost my nerve. Those archeology professors who came to take pictures of the San paintings up in the cave can excavate her remains to check if my theory is correct.”

  “Do you think her husband killed her?” asked Monica.

  “No. I think that after her husband marched all the slaves she’d freed back to Cape Town, she continued to live here with the assistance of the nomadic San people.”r />
  “That’s incredible,” said Mirinda. “I don’t know if I would have made the same choice she did.”

  “She probably didn’t have a choice,” said Monica. “She must have run away as soon as she knew he was coming. If her husband had caught her, he would have killed her rather than return to Cape Town with the woman who had made a fool of him.”

  Zak put his head into the living room. “Hello, Francina. Hello, Hercules. Oh, I didn’t see you there, Oscar. How are things?”

  “Oscar’s staying for dinner,” said Monica. She turned to Oscar. “You will stay, won’t you?”

  “I was just about to tell you all to come and get it before it’s cold,” said Zak. “Come on, Oscar.”

  Oscar shook his head, but Monica would have none of it. “You’re not leaving after you’ve told us this exciting news. We have to celebrate.”

  Oscar’s expression was more fitting for a man who’d been told he had to walk over coals if he wanted to get home, but he graciously accepted and followed Francina and Hercules into the dining room, where dinner was to be served, since it had turned too cool to sit outside.

  As they passed around the bowl of homemade apricot jam that they had been instructed by Paolo to smear on their braaied snoek, Mirinda asked the two mayoral candidates if they would care to let the assembled group know the basic tenets of their campaigns.

  Francina did not know the meaning of the word tenets and hoped that Oscar would be given the chance to go first, but he insisted on being a gentleman and letting her start.

  “Francina believes we should not sacrifice the character of our town for commercial gain,” said Hercules.

  What a sweet husband, thought Francina, to understand my confusion and step in to help.

  “What does she propose?” asked Oscar.

  “Banning tour buses from Main Street,” replied Hercules. “They clog it up, they pollute the air. Francina believes they should have to park outside of town.”

  Francina remembered discussing this issue with Hercules, but she had never decided on a plan of action or considered it part of her campaign for mayor.

  “Shop and gallery owners on Main Street rely on tourists for a large part of their livelihood,” said Oscar, looking not at Francina but at Hercules. “If we make travel inconvenient for tourists, they’ll start going to other towns on the West Coast, and Lady Helen will suffer as it suffered before.”

  In the past, a group of Afrikaner farmers had moved into Lady Helen to breed ostriches and sell the feathers overseas, where they were highly prized in women’s fashions. But the cooperative lost business to the large-scale operation in Oudtshoorn, a small town southeast of Lady Helen in the Klein Karoo, and eventually the farmers turned to the ocean instead. For almost sixty years, Lady Helen was a successful fishing port, but then deepwater trawlers belonging to large corporations started appearing, and the local fishermen could not compete.

  “Art, scuba diving, shark watching—they all require outside interest,” added Oscar. “As does fashion.”

  “Francina does very well without having to rely on clients from Cape Town,” replied Hercules—a little too abruptly, she thought.

  The two men stared at each other.

  “More snoek, Hercules, Oscar?” said Monica, in an obvious attempt to dispel the tense atmosphere.

  Francina remembered the time, long ago, when Oscar and Hercules had gone for each other’s throats like wild dogs—in a figurative way of speaking. Hercules had just met Oscar and was not used to his straightforward way of talking. Now it seemed that Hercules had thrown off his usual cloak of decorum. And neither man seemed concerned to hear the tenets of Francina’s campaign from her own mouth. Why were they behaving this way, years after their first clash? Francina and Hercules had built their lives together; they had a daughter now. And while Oscar had never married or, as far as Francina knew, dated, he had gone on with his life, doing construction work in the town and looking for Lady Helen’s grave. After all these years, he could not possibly still be in love with Francina. Or could he?

  For the rest of the meal, Oscar and Hercules were mostly silent, and Monica, Zak and Mirinda tried hard to lighten the mood at the table. Paolo, who was oblivious of the friction, entertained the children with stories of improbable fishing adventures.

  Later that night, when they were alone together in their bedroom, Francina confronted Hercules over his behavior at Monica’s house.

  “What has gotten into you? You’ve managed to be civil to Oscar all these years and now this.”

  “I’ve been civil to him because we haven’t had much to do with each other. Now all of a sudden he enters the mayoral race mere minutes after you entered. Come on, Francina. Don’t you think it’s a little suspicious?”

  “Hercules, people don’t pine away for years for someone they once cared about.”

  “Sometimes they do,” he said softly.

  She should have thought before speaking. On her first visit to Hercules’s home in Dundee, long before they were married, Francina had discovered that Hercules had been sleeping with his late wife’s nightgown under his pillow ever since her death fifteen years before. His deep depression had needed the care of a psychiatrist.

  “That man is still in love with you.”

  “And if he is, what does it matter? I’m married to you. We have a family.”

  Hercules breathed out noisily through his mouth. “I just don’t like it. What’s he doing? Waiting for me to fall off a cliff, or to get sick?”

  Francina wished that she had never entered the race for mayor so that her encounters with Oscar would remain as they had been for years: rare and brief. Young girls thrived on drama like this, but she had orders to complete, a child to take care of, a family to bring to Lady Helen.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Oscar was not in church the morning after the disastrous evening with Francina and Hercules, and Monica thought she knew why. She caught up with him as he was leaving his house for a hike to the alleged grave of Lady Helen.

  “What was that all about last night?” she asked, employing his typical straightforwardness.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, shifting the weight of his pack on his back.

  “Oscar, you and I have known each other for a long time. I’m sorry you still feel so much for Francina.”

  Oscar looked her straight in the eye. “I’m not. I’m only sorry that Hercules knows. Don’t tell me it isn’t healthy that I haven’t gotten over her, because I know that. Don’t tell me I’m wasting my life, because I’m not. I haven’t met anyone who compares to her. I’ll wait for her until she’s free.”

  Monica could not hide the shock she felt. “But Oscar, she might never be free, or she could be an old lady by then.”

  He shrugged. “She’s worth it.”

  “If you didn’t want anyone to know how you feel, why have you entered the race for mayor?”

  “I didn’t know Francina had entered, too. I’m thinking of withdrawing my name.”

  Oscar was very invested in this town; its history was his passion. But if the race for mayor was going to stir up all his suppressed love for Francina, perhaps he was better off out of it.

  “That’s your decision,” she told him, knowing that he would be disappointed with her careful response.

  “I take it the Lady Helen Herald is not endorsing me?”

  Monica attempted a laugh. “You sound like a politician already. The paper is not endorsing anybody.”

  She left him to carry on with his hike, and returned home to find Yolanda cooking lunch. Monica told Zak what Oscar had said and that she thought he should drop out of the race—and perhaps leave Lady Helen, too.

  Zak disagreed. “His feelings don’t appear to be causing him any harm. If I thought he was suffering from depression, I’d tell him.”

  “It can’t be—”

  “I know you want to help, but I think you’d be making a mistake to prod him to foll
ow your suggested course of action. What you think is right might not be right for Oscar.”

  “But he’s—”

  “If this is the way he wants to live, then let him be.”

  Monica sighed.

  “If you think about it, you’ll agree.”

  Monica thought about it as she drifted off to sleep that night and as she readied Mandla and Yolanda for school the following morning. She still had not reached the same conclusion as Zak when she arrived at the office, but perhaps over a cup of Dudu’s hot tea, she would come to see his point of view. Her thoughts, however, were interrupted by a telephone call from her friend Miemps, who was out of breath.

  “The government finally processed our land claim, even though we missed the cutoff date. We’ve been informed that we can either go back or take the money.”

  Years ago, Miemps and Reginald had lived in District Six, a cosmopolitan neighborhood on the slopes of Table Mountain in Cape Town. In 1968, two years after the apartheid government invoked the Group Areas Act to declare Cape Town’s city center and surroundings a whites-only area, the government began forcing District Six’s “colored” or mixed race residents to move to low-cost housing provided by the state fifteen miles away, in a desolate, outlying area appropriately named the Cape Flats. By the early eighties, more than sixty thousand people had been relocated in a large-scale attempt at social engineering.

  Some said that District Six had been demolished not because it was a vision of how an integrated South Africa might be one day, but merely because the view of the ocean from the slopes of Table Mountain was too highly valued to waste on working-class people. Miemps and her brothers needed only to step onto the veranda of their house to watch ships from all over the world come into the harbor.