“Oh,” said Sonella. “That would be amazing. Do you think—”
The intercom gave a preliminary crackle. “Could Gianetta Grobbelaar please come immediately to Mr Peterson’s office? Thank you.”
It took Gia a moment to realise that it was her name that had been announced. She sat staring at the little grey box.
“Well, Gia, up you get, and out you go,” said Mrs Kemp. “You’d better finish those sums for homework.”
“Oh,” said Gia getting to her feet. She stared at her bag, wondering if she should take it.
“Don’t worry, I’ll look after your bag,” said Sonella quickly. “If you’re not back before the bell. Go on.”
“Do you know where to go, Gia?” said Mrs Kemp.
“Yes, Miss,” Gia stepped over her schoolbag and sidled between the desks, aware that everyone was looking at her.
What on earth could this be about?
-oOo-
The headmaster’s secretary gave her a cursory look.
“Gianetta Grobbelaar?”
She glanced at a door behind her. There were two lights above it, one of which was glowing red.
“Headmaster’s still busy,” said the secretary. “Sit there.”
Gia sat where she indicated, her heart bouncing in her chest. She had to suppress the urge to jump up and pace.
Something’s happened. To Dad. Or Mom. Or maybe Nico. Or have I done something?
The secretary tapped away at her keyboard, uninterested in Gia. At last there was a click. The red light switched off, and the green light came on.
“You can go in now,” said the secretary, not lifting her eyes. “Just knock and go in.”
Gia stopped at the door. There was somebody talking beyond it.
“Knock. And go in,” said the secretary loudly and distinctly.
Gia knocked and turned the handle. She was so nervous by now that she did not take in anything about the room beyond the fact that there were two people in it.
Mr Peterson sat at a desk, and a woman stood facing him. They had clearly just finished some discussion.
“Ah!” said Mr Peterson. “Mrs Solomons, this is the girl I was telling you about. Gianetta, this is Mrs Solomons.”
“Hello, Gianetta,” said Mrs Solomons, holding out her hand. Gia shook it awkwardly, wondering a little. She’d never met a teacher who shook your hand before.
“Mrs Solomons is our social worker. Or should I say our school therapist?”
He seemed to think he’d made a joke, and Mrs Solomons smiled politely.
“Mrs Solomons is just going to ask you a few questions, Gianetta. Just routine.”
“I’ll need a room, Mr Peterson,” said Mrs Solomons.
“Ah! Of course. Next door, next door. Sonya will show you.”
“Well then. Afternoon, Mr Peterson.”
Mrs Solomons put a hand on Gia’s shoulder and steered her gently out of the office.
“We’re just quickly going to use this room,” she said to the secretary in passing. “Please don’t let anyone disturb us.”
Then they were in another office, a smaller one that seemed to be used mostly for storing files.
“Don’t worry, Gianetta,” said Mrs Solomons. “This really is just routine. There were a few things that should have been sorted when you joined the school, that seem to have been left out somehow. I’m going to ask you a few questions, just to check that we’ve got everything straight. I’ll sit here, and why don’t you draw up that chair and make yourself comfortable.”
Gia did as she was told.
Mrs Solomons leaned over and touched her arm.
“Don’t be nervous! You must have had a shock to be called out like that. Now you just relax while I get myself organised here.” She opened a folder and paged through it briskly, stopping occasionally to lick a finger.
She was a small woman, with neat, glossy black hair. Her movements were quick and precise and for a moment Gia could picture her as a make-up compact, a polished little box that could snap open to reveal a perfect row of office-appropriate colours.
“Ah. There we are. So. You are Gianetta Rozalia Grobbelaar, sixteen years old.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Your mother is Saraswati Grobbelaar, and your father is Karel. Or is it Carlo? We seem to have two names here.”
“His real name is Karel Grobbelaar, but the business name is Carlo Gotti. Lots of people call him Carlo.”
“Oh, I see.” Mrs Solomons made a note. “Gianetta, it says here that you are adopted?”
“That’s right, Ma’am.”
“Do you know anything about your, um, birth parents?”
Gia hesitated. Why is she asking about that? “I’m sorry— I’m not sure I understand the question.”
Mrs Solomons smiled. “Do you know who they were? When you were adopted and so on?”
“Oh. Their names were Jeanette and Benjamin de Koker. They died just after I was born. They were friends of my parents, so my parents adopted me.”
Mrs Solomons nodded sympathetically. “That was a generous thing to do. Your parents are special people.”
She made another note.
“You’ve been here at this school for more than a term now.” She looked up at Gia. “How’s that been, Gianetta? Are you settling in okay? Making friends?”
“Oh, yes,” said Gia. “It was a bit strange at first but I’m getting used to things.”
“That’s good. And I see you have a brother.” She pointed at the page. “Niccolo. Is he adopted too?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“What school does he go to? Is he here?”
“Nico’s just turned seven. But he does not go to school yet.”
Mrs Solomons looked interested. “Oh? He should be, at that age.”
“My parents are still trying to find a school that will work for him.”
Mrs Solomon’s eyebrows went up, and she looked at Gia expectantly.
“He does sort of go to school,” said Gia. “He has a therapist he sees almost every day. I think she’s working to get him ready so he can join a school. He— he doesn’t easily get on with strangers.”
Mrs Solomons nodded. “I see. He has special needs. And do you know this therapist’s name?”
Again, Gia hesitated, suddenly uneasy. Why is she asking this? For some reason, Miss Huisman’s warning came back to her.
“I must warn you not to trust— ”
Mrs Solomons looked at her, pen poised.
“I, um, I don’t know,” said Gia at last. “My mom takes him there, I’ve never actually met his therapist or anything.”
She felt a blush rise in her cheeks. Why was she lying to this woman?
But Mrs Solomons was smiling again. “I’m sorry, you must be wondering why I’m asking so much about your brother. I did my master’s thesis about children with special needs, especially autistic children. Is he autistic, your brother? I’m still fascinated by that whole area.”
“Oh, he’s not autistic,” said Gia. “The doctors thought so at first, but it turns out they don’t really know what’s going on with him.”
“Well, each child is special in their own way,” said Mrs Solomons. “I just wondered if I knew this therapist. Pity you can’t remember the name.”
She paused for a moment, as if waiting for Gia to answer. The silence stretched out between them, becoming awkward.
“Well then,” said Mrs Solomons brightly, closing her file. “I think that’s everything.”
Then she laughed as the bell rang. “Saved by the bell,” she said, getting up. She took out a card and handed it to Gia. “That’s my number, if you ever need to chat. Thank you, Gianetta. You’ve been very helpful.”
-oOo-
“And what’s that great big frown for?”
Gia started. “Sorry Mandy. Just thinking.”
She was in the kitchen, having a second lunch while Mandy ironed shirts. The room was full of the crisp scent of warm cotton. Soft, scra
tchy music played from Mandy’s radio, where it was perched on top of the fridge.
“Huh,” said Mandy. “Just thinking, are you? Anything worth sharing? And don’t eat with your fingers. There’s a fork there just right next to you.”
Gia obediently picked up the fork. “Mandy, how long have you been working for my parents?”
Mandy placed the iron with a soft thump, and manoeuvred it with expert care. “I don’t know. Many years. Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering, were you working for them before they got me? Or only afterwards?”
The iron went into its bracket with a clatter, and Mandy pulled out a chair and sat down across from Gia.
“So what’s brought this on?”
“Oh, it’s nothing really. Somebody said something today and I started thinking about it. Mom and Dad met in Italy, right? When Dad was studying there. And they came back here soon afterwards. In the nineties some time.”
“Ninety-eight,” said Mandy.
“Right. So they must have adopted me just then as well. Just when they got back.”
“Well, no.” Mandy took off her headscarf and ran her hands through her hair so that it stood up in a scruffy grey cloud. “Your mom and dad brought you with them. From Italy. I started working for them just after they arrived, and you were already part of the picture. I’m sure I’ve told you this before?”
“I guess so. But that does not makes sense, Mandy. I mean, my birth parents were South African, weren’t they? How could Mom and Dad have adopted me in Italy already?”
“Yes, they were South African. But your parents— I mean— your mom and dad—” Mandy snorted. “I mean Mr Karel and Madam Saraswati, they met your other parents when all of them were in Italy together.”
“Oh.”
Gia ate another mouthful.
“And you used to work for Ouma, before. Dad’s Mom.”
“That’s right.”
“And they all— I mean Dad’s family— they disowned him, for marrying Mom?”
“That’s right. I never understood that myself, but there you go.”
“And Mom’s family? Are they in Italy?”
Mandy frowned at her.
“That’s the thing,” said Gia. “I never thought about it before. Mom must have family somewhere. But she’s never said anything— I don’t think she’s ever said anything about her own mom, or brothers and sisters, or anything like that.”
“Your mother is a very private woman,” said Mandy.
She opened her headscarf on the table, absentmindedly smoothing it with both hands.
“I always thought,” she said, “and I don’t know why— but it always seemed to me that Madam had a very hard time growing up. Many people lost family at that time, in Europe, I mean.”
“You mean the tronadas?” said Gia.
Mandy nodded. “That’s right. That’s why I’ve never really asked Madam about it. Seems like something best left alone.”
Gia stared at her. She’d known about the tronadas all her life, the European anti-magic riots. But somehow she’d never thought of them as something that had really happened, something that could touch her own family.
“Of course,” she said slowly. “That was all happening then, right? In the nineties.”
It was not a comfortable thought.
“It’s just so odd that I’ve never noticed before, that Mom never speaks about her own family.” She tried to remember whether Saraswati had ever mentioned anything about her past, without success.
“When I was a little girl, I used to think that Mom was a princess. I even made up a story about a fairy-tale place where she’d grown up. A palace with lots of fountains and things.”
“She does have that air,” said Mandy.
They heard the front door close, then Nico came rushing into the kitchen. He scooted all around the room, making loud “vrooming” noises, and disappeared out the door again.
“What was that?” laughed Mandy.
Saraswati came in with Nico close behind. He made another lap, buzzing and hooting as he went.
“It is unbelievably windy out there,” said Saraswati and brushed her hair back with both hands. “Gia, I’m just going to change quickly, then we have to go. Could you get the wedding book? And the drawing books too, just in case. You know where they are?”
“Yes,” said Gia, getting up. “Thanks, Mandy.” She dumped her dishes in the sink, and went to find what she needed, her mind racing ahead to the meeting with Kavitha Pillay.
-oOo-
All Gia could see of the driver was the back of his head and shoulders. That was enough to make her wonder if he was human. His too-flat head sat on a neck so thick it was hard to tell where neck ended and head began. He was silent, too— he’d hardly said a word since he’d picked them up in the parking lot of the Gardens Centre.
All this secrecy was rather nerve-wracking.
Gia was sure that nobody had noticed her mother and herself waiting in the parking lot, or watched as they got into the car. The car was certainly eye-catching. Long, low and black, with deeply tinted windows. The dark glass made the view outside slightly unreal, as if there was an eclipse, or an approaching storm.
Gia was reminded of the time there had been a fire on the mountain, and the smoke had cast a twenty-four hour twilight over the city. She kept expecting to smell that ashy scent of a mountain fire, but all she could smell was leather and plastic.
Her mother was in the back seat with her, sitting as upright as ever, hands folded over her handbag. She seemed calm, but the occasional tap of a finger or nod of her head told Gia that Saraswati was going over her mental list of everything that had to be dealt with, checking and rechecking that she was prepared for the meeting.
Gia’s texter beeped and she automatically felt for her pocket, before she remembered that she was not wearing jeans. Saraswati had made her put on a blouse and skirt, and the skirt had no pockets.
She reached for the little shoulder bag her mother had lent her.
“Better switch that off,” said Saraswati. “Makes a bad impression if it beeps in the middle of the meeting.”
Gia nodded absently as she read the message. It was from Fatima.
coming out with me and B tonight? going jolling.
Gia responded, aware of her mother’s cool attention.
Where? Time?
The answer came quickly.
the playground - pick you up at 9? on bike :)
Gia answered quickly.
Will check if I can go. Can’t talk now.
The car slowed to turn into a driveway, then rolled to a stop at a pair of enormous wrought-iron gates. A guard spoke briefly to the driver, and the gates swung open to reveal yet more driveway.
This place must be enormous. Gia could see glimpses of the house through a screen of large trees and a tall clipped hedge.
“We’re going round the back,” said the driver. “Kitchen entrance.” He hesitated, and glanced at Saraswati in his rear-view mirror.
“Uh— no disrespect intended, Ma’am. Just less conspicuous that way.”
“Of course,” said Saraswati. “I completely understand. It’s kind of you to explain.”
The driver nodded, but said no more. The car slowed to a stop and the doors clicked as they unlocked.
Gia got out, but hardly had time to take in her surroundings before two men in suits hustled them through a door, and she found herself in a large, busy kitchen.
There were people everywhere, all bustling about with trays or pots. They were cutting, cleaning, or cooking, but none of them so much as glanced up as the two men walked Gia and her mother through the room.
In the passage beyond they passed several other people, all servants, Gia guessed from their black-and-white outfits, but nobody met her eye. It was unsettling, as though she and her mother were invisible and inaudible.
A door closed behind them and they were in the main part of the house.
Everything here was mu
ted. Soft white carpet underfoot, soft light filtering from recessed lamps. There was a faint scent of vanilla in the air.
Their escort opened a white panelled door and stood back, waiting for them to step inside.
The room was enormous, but seemed even larger than it was because the entire outside wall was made of glass. Through it was a view of a garden as perfect as a photograph in a magazine, with fountains, clipped hedges, and mossy borders. But Gia hardly noticed the view, her attention on the two people by the sofa.
One was a woman, in her fifties, Gia guessed. She stood as they entered, and made a welcoming gesture with her hands.
“Madame Saraswati. Welcome to my home.”
This must be Mrs Pillay, Gia realised, and looked at her with interest. Karel had called her a “dragon lady” and Gia could see why. Mrs Pillay wore rose-patterned linen, but she held herself like a major general.
“Please, sit down. Will you have tea? Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” said Saraswati. “We are fine. Good afternoon, Mrs Pillay. Miss Pillay.”
The girl on the sofa bent her head. “Good afternoon,” she said.
Kavitha Pillay was far more beautiful even than the flattering photographs Gia had seen.
This truly was a fairy-tale princess come to life. That pale golden skin, the perfect mouth, the enormous, coal-black eyes, hidden for the moment under lowered lashes. Kavitha sat on the edge of the sofa, her hands folded demurely in her lap, but she was far from relaxed.
Gia thought that she looked like a bird, listening for the approach of a hunting beast. For an instant Gia imagined her leaping, desperate, her cream-and-rose dress swirling around her as she flew up, up into the air and dashed herself against the plate-glass window that barred her escape, her perfect nails breaking as she scrabbled for purchase on the glass.
“Gia, could you hand me the wedding book? The first one, thank you.”
Saraswati’s voice pulled her back into reality, and Gia hurriedly handed her mother the book. Her eyes met Kavitha’s, and Gia was startled to see a direct and calculating intelligence that nevertheless seemed coolly amused. Gia wondered uncomfortably what Kavitha guessed about her thoughts.
Crooks and Straights Page 10