by Chris Abani
An overweight woman walked across the sand with one arm tucked close to her right side, body bent into a slightly angled sway. Sunil recognized the signs of a small shame, of a person used to an unkind gaze. The young woman sunbathing topless, spread to the glory of the sun with the abandon of the proud. Older women more modest with their bodies, but less with their envy, shot her disapproving glances.
An old white man slept in the sun: fully dressed and looking like an untidy pile of towels in the sand. A woman on her cell phone turned away from him, her muscled and uncovered back had a Ganesh tattoo spread like a rug across it. Kids of all colors and races clustered around an old black man selling ice cream from a blue-and-white cooler.
Returns are never what we expect them to be. The glory of old wins pales in the face of the reality of compromise. The Cape Town beach with whites, blacks, Indians, and coloreds fading into burnt sepia—the color of tolerance, a smudge over the sharp, angled pain that still struggled under the wash of it—was no different. There was no feeling of restitution in this. There should be more than giving back what was free and collective in the first place. He didn’t know what, but felt that there should be.
Near where he lay, a rock still held the rusting scar of a sign that used to declare THE DIVISION COUNCIL OF THE CAPE—WHITE AREA: BLANKE GEBIED. He’d stubbed his toe on it coming down to the sand. A Boer somewhere is smiling, he thought. Everyone on the beach seemed to be having a good time and he couldn’t understand at first why he was so angry. Then he realized what it was; the air was heavy with it—amnesia.
Restorative, isn’t it, a woman next to him said.
What is, he asked, always precise.
The water, she said, the water and the breeze.
They had water and a breeze on Robben Island, he said. I’m not sure how restorative that was.
She took off her sunglasses and looked at him, intrigued by his non sequitur. He returned her look, taking in details: she was of indeterminate race, probably colored, he thought, and young, maybe thirty, and attractive in an unusual way.
I like the way the breeze makes everything seem good, she said, choosing her words carefully, responding not to his statement but to something unsaid, something she sensed.
Like apartheid, he said, unable to help himself. I imagine all the whites lying here during apartheid, the breeze and the water making it possible for everything to seem good, he added.
Yes, she said. I suppose you are right. There was a smile behind her words.
You seemed amused by it, he said, offended.
Not by it, she said, stressing the syllables. I am amused by your tone.
Why?
You just came back, she said.
Yes, he said, wondering how she could tell. His accent?
Gone for a long time?
Ten years, he said.
She nodded. It is a long time, she said.
Yes, he said. Too long.
She bit down on her sunglasses and sighed. It is not just time, is it? That bothers you, I mean.
No, he said.
Lost people to the darkness?
He was simultaneously drawn to and repulsed by her description of that time. It was darkness—of the spirit, the heart—but why that word? Why was it always used in the negative? It had been whiteness, a lightness that made it hard for the perpetrators to see the limits of their souls, not blackness, that destroyed them all. He wanted to say that but was held back by his knowledge that it was only partially true. Mostly, but not completely, and as his mother used to say, quoting a Zulu proverb, You cannot eat meat you mostly caught, only meat you actually caught.
Yes, he said, instead. My mothers.
She nodded, eyes sad for him. If she noticed the plural and thought it odd, she didn’t say anything. Perhaps she knew that it took more than one mother to raise a child through those times.
Nobody could stop the sickness, she said. Not even Madiba. It had to run its course. There was no blame in the loss of those times.
It seemed to him that there was plenty of blame and he had a share in that. There is always blame, he said. There has to be. What is life without it?
She smiled and said: Good old South African guilt, shared by all races.
I shouldn’t have to feel guilty, he said. I didn’t do this.
If she wondered what he meant by “this,” she said nothing. Instead she said: I know, but we all do. It doesn’t help anything though.
He nodded and looked away, suddenly tearful.
Let the water restore you, the woman said, replacing her glasses and falling back onto her beach towel.
He closed his eyes and listened to the waves, feeling the spray on his face. It did feel good.
Without looking at him, the woman spoke: I know this seems wrong, not like justice, but here we take freedom day by day, moment by moment: What else is there?
She was right. What did he know? He’d been gone ten years. My name is Sunil, he said. It seemed important to state who he was.
She smiled, still not looking at him. Welcome home, Sunil, she said.
Thank you, he said.
What the fuck did you say, Salazar asked him.
Nothing. I was thinking about Cape Town, about the time I went back. I was having a coffee in this café and I saw Robben Island from the window. I said to the old waiter serving me, if the island was visible every day how come they pretended nothing was going on? He smiled and said, It was often quite foggy in those days, sir, the island was rarely visible.
It’s a skill, Salazar said. Like witnesses who can’t remember anything at a crime scene.
Selective blindness made Sunil think of White Alice.
White Alice got her name from the locals in Soweto when she moved there from Cape Town. Her name wasn’t a result of her complexion—she looked somewhere between colored and Indian, no different really from the thousands of biracial South Africans who were caught between apartheid’s denial of mixed unions and its fear of miscegenation. It wasn’t unusual for people to try to pass as white. Those who couldn’t pass settled for delusion: claiming to be white, which is what White Alice had done. She told anyone who would listen that she had been born white but had turned black after an illness. No one believed her, but no one minded either. This was Soweto.
White Alice was Dorothy’s best friend. The two women became inseparable, spending at least an hour or two a day over at each other’s house, drinking sweetened tea and eating biscuits, complaining about life and the difficulties of loss. White Alice talked about her three children in Cape Town, all white, whom she hadn’t seen since her husband took them away from her on account of her sudden and mysterious blackness. When Sunil asked his mother about White Alice’s condition, she told him White Alice was probably just a very light-skinned colored who had passed for white for much of her life, but, as Dorothy said, blackness will always exert its revenge, and Alice had just grown into her true shade. It made sense. Sunil found out in medical school that White Alice might have been telling the truth. He discovered a condition called hyperpigmentation, a result of Addison’s disease, which had been known to darken the skin of white sufferers enough to alter perception of their racial heritage. But by then, White Alice had betrayed him twice, and his discovery of her condition and the pain it must have caused her wasn’t enough to engender his sympathy or his forgiveness. Not even when, on his eighteenth birthday, a strange white man who identified himself as Colonel Bleek visited him with a generous scholarship package for college. What good would it have done to stare such a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak? He’d asked only one question: Why me?
Alice Coetzee spoke highly of you, Bleek said. She recommended you for this.
Oh, was all he said at the time. But Sunil had since lived with the regret of not asking more questions. Like what would the gift cost him? He thought it particularly
poignant that while taking German at college to better understand Freud, he found out that the word “gift,” in German, meant poison. In many ways, it seemed that the Germans had a real philosophical handle on life.
He wanted to tell Salazar all this. Instead he said: I’m sure you’re right.
Forty-four
A blue sky but not night. An eerie dusk, an unearthly light. A blue mist alternately obscures and reveals a field of blue grass in the shadow of a darkening sky. Alone, in the middle of the field, a dark tree spreads its black foliage across the frame.
Water walks toward the tree in the middle of the field, but no matter how fast he moves or how much he tries, he can’t reach the tree. It never moves but it is always just out of reach. The blue sky gets bluer and the blue grass waves through the blue mist like blue algae in water. Still, Water can’t reach the tree.
And the blue tree morphs, shifting in agony as its trunk twists to form a bristlecone pine, standing in the middle of an empty muddy field.
Twisting slowly from a branch bent so low it seems like it can’t hold its terrible burden is a young woman, eyes closed peacefully, something close to a smile on her face.
Selah, Water calls, softly at first, then louder, Selah, until it is a scream.
He wakes abruptly; alone, Fire fast asleep under his caul, sitting in the chair by the window. If anyone heard his scream, they don’t respond. Reaching out, Water touches the cold glass of the window.
Selah is a cloud, he says, a star cloud, constellation of the dog.
Forty-five
The moment’s awkwardness when Asia answered Sunil’s door to find Sheila was compounded by the fact that Asia was wearing lacy underpants, sporting a black eye and a shirt that could only have been Sunil’s, two buttons keeping it on.
I’m sorry, Sheila said, not knowing what else to say.
About what, Asia asked.
Is, er, Sunil home, Sheila asked.
No, Asia said, not stepping away from the door but not shutting it either.
Asia was curious about Sheila, but not unduly worried. She knew she was the only one Sunil was sleeping with, and he’d never mentioned this woman. Still, the day had been full of surprises.
I’m Sheila. I work with Sunil. He hasn’t been answering his cell. I was worried.
Hello, Sheila, Asia said. I’m Asia.
Hi.
Asia didn’t like that Sheila had been calling Sunil on his cell and felt comfortable enough to come over, clearly unannounced. I haven’t heard from him either, she said. I thought he was at work.
No, I checked, Sheila said.
He’s never mentioned you, Asia said.
This is the first time I’ve come over. I’m really embarassed. Look, I’ll go, just tell him I came round, Sheila said.
You should come in, Asia said, stepping back and holding the door open. That is, if you want to.
Are you sure, Sheila asked.
Asia wanted to say, I don’t want to be alone. Not right now, not today. She wanted to say, I’m confused and terrified, because I found out that not only have I been sleeping with my lover’s best friend, but he also tried to kill me. And my lover is not really my lover, but my client. And I love him. I do, but now I don’t know why because I really don’t know enough about him. Instead she said: I’m sure.
Sheila walked in and stopped in the hallway as Asia closed the door. She followed Asia into the living room, where she felt herself stiffen and draw a sharp breath even though she hadn’t meant to. Were you robbed, Sheila asked.
Asia took in the ruined living room, feeling good at the implication that Sheila assumed she lived with Sunil. I don’t live here, she said.
Oh, I’m sorry, I just assumed, Sheila said.
Assumed what, Asia asked.
I’m sorry, Sheila said.
About what?
I’m not sure, Sheila said, acutely uncomfortable. About coming unannounced.
Yeah, that is kind of forward, Asia said, checking Sheila out. Thinking: late thirties, fashion still caught in the ’80s, tight body, cute face. Still, she thought, no competition.
So what happened here?
None of your business, Asia said.
So this has nothing to do with that, Sheila said, pointing at Asia’s black eye.
Like I said, none of your business.
Sunil didn’t—Sheila began.
Fuck you, Asia said softly. I thought you said you knew him.
Right, Sheila said, I’m sorry.
So do you have a message for Sunil, Asia asked.
What?
A message you’d like to leave for Sunil?
I’m sorry, but I’ve known Sunil for six years, Sheila siad, and I’ve never heard about you, Sheila said.
Asia smiled, but her eyes were cold. I’ve known Sunil for six years too and he’s never mentioned you, either.
They stood there, side by side, in the room Eskia had trashed, not looking at each other.
Have you called the police, Sheila asked.
If you have no message for Sunil, I’ll just tell him you came around then, Asia said.
Yes, thank you, Sheila said, I should go.
Asia nodded and pushed the door closed firmly, ending the conversation. She walked back into the living room and sat on the floor. For a long time she just sat there, and then she gave in to the release of tears.
Forty-six
It was a full moon. Heavy in the frame of the car window.
Sunil was lost in the memory of Jan, of the last time he saw her alive at Vlakplaas.
There was Eugene, Sunil, Constable Mashile, and Jan. Jan in the light-blue skirt, white blouse with lacy detail, long tanned legs, and her long lean toned arms unadorned except for the ring that sat on her thumb, too big for any other finger. The one Sunil had given her so long ago. He wondered why she’d taken it off the chain.
She seemed out of place here, like a woman on her way to a picnic who had taken a wrong turn, casual in her smile as though the most dangerous thing she faced were whether ants would get into the jam or not. Incongruous in this place, this stark white room with bare cement floors. The paint here always smelled new, because fresh coats were applied frequently.
Eugene loved the pristine whiteness, the way it would show up blood from the more intense interrogations, the patterns on the wall forming a red puzzle. How much pain before that one capitulated. How much before this one informed on everyone—even the innocent. What was most effective on whom—teeth extracted with pliers; good old-fashioned fist work; the cut inner tube of a car tire pulled down over the face to suffocate in controlled measure. But of course, this was an imprecise science, lungs often filled with liquid and sometimes blood, and so on. The point no longer the information, no longer saving the state, but for nothing more than the hunger, the desire to know the body in all its savage beauty.
All of it happened in this room, Eugene’s favorite.
The windows opened onto a vista of hills and scrub and low scudding clouds that drew shadows across the stubby rise. Sometimes there were zebus lowing in the heat, driven by a boy trying to find pasture for them to graze before being driven off by gun-toting policemen for trespassing.
Not the usual view from an interrogation room.
Jan sat facing Eugene, a table between them, a slow-moving ceiling fan above them turning the heat over like a blanket drying on a stove, not cooling anyone, just moving the humidity around evenly.
Sunil sat on a stool between the windows trying not to look at Jan or Eugene. Instead he focused on the bowl of fruit that sat between them on the table, noticing the details: three pears, a knife, and an oddly shaped and heavily ornamented silver object, which could have been anything but looked decidedly Victorian.
Constable Mashile was staring intently at Eugene, trying to keep the look of discomf
ort from his face.
Would you care for a pear, Eugene asked Jan. No? Well then, I’m sure you won’t mind if I have one. He reached over and tested each one, finally selecting the one that met his standards. Pears are most delicious at the midpoint of ripeness, between too firm and too soft, he continued.
No one else spoke.
You know, before they get really ripe? The flesh has some bite to it and yet the juices are sweet, Eugene said to no one in particular. He rubbed the pear against his khaki bush shirt and picked up the knife, cutting slowly, deliberately, into the fruit. Everyone watched him pare it into quarters. He let them fall apart and lie there on the table like flower petals. He picked one up, held it to his nose, inhaled, and then with a smile, he placed it in his mouth and bit down on the grainy flesh, his smile widening. He chewed slowly, quietly, and then spoke: Perfect, just perfect. This should really have been the fruit to tempt Adam, don’t you think? The apple shows a singular lack of imagination on the part of that particular Bible author, whoever he was. I wonder if Moses was a composite, you know, like Shakespeare? He poked at the three quarters that were left with the tip of the knife, as though testing for the optimal one. He speared one on the tip of the knife and ate it with delight, smacking his lips and looking so lost in his pleasure that everyone else looked away in embarrassment from that particular intimacy. Eugene put the knife down and rubbed his hands together and said: That was good, reminds me of my childhood. My moeder would cut up pears for me, a rare pleasure on that farm so far inland where fruit rarely did well. Memories, eh?
Turning to Sunil, he said: Any luck with your psycho mumbo-jumbo on this suspect? Did the Lady Jan here speak to you?
Sunil glanced at Jan, caught her eye, and, looking away quickly, shook his head. No, he said.
Jan, Jan, Jan, Eugene said. You really should open up to Dr. Singh here. His methods have proven quite effective in turning people such as you. I hate to use violence, particularly on someone who can be reasoned with. It’s much better to become an askari without the violence.