Tandia

by Bryce Courtenay

  Tandia had only gone a few yards down the alley when she heard the old woman screaming blue murder. 'Fire! Fire! My house is on fire! Come quick, she's burning down my house! Somebody, come quick!'

  'See ya later alligator!' Tandia shouted back to her. She knew the washing line was well away from anything and that there was no possible chance of the house or anything else other than her past life catching alight, and for "a moment she enjoyed the old woman's distress. But suddenly that petty victory tasted bitter in her mouth and she knew she had made a devastating mistake.

  The bus stop was no more than haH a mile from Booth Street but it took Tandia almost fifteen minutes to approach it. The large enamel basin was balanced precariously on her head and her neck and back hurt but she was too concerned with getting it to the bus stop to let the pain intrude. A hundred yards from the deserted stop she saw the -bus approaching. Tandia started to trot awkwardly towards it but soon realised that she would be unable to cover the distance in time. She stopped and freed one hand from the rim of the basin to signal the Indian driver to stop. Running late for school, she'd done the same thing a hundred times before and she recognised the driver as someone who had often stopped for her. But now he looked blankly back at the young black girl with a large basin on her head and the big Leyland bus roared past her in a cloud of dust.

  Dismayed, Tandia turned suddenly in the direction of the departing bus and the basin slipped and toppled to the road. Her books and belongings broke through the cheesecloth covering and scattered across the roadway. A bakkie following closely behind the bus caught the biscuit tin with all her precious bits and pieces and squashed it flat under its rear tyre; another wheel caught two of her textbooks. The driver gave a short impatient honk on his horn and accelerated away.

  Tandia was too spent for tears. She began to gather her things together. It seemed impossible to her that it was only just approaching nine o'clock in the morning. She was beyond thinking rationally, simply holding on to the single idea that she must take the bus to Clairwood and find somewhere to stay.

  On her haunches on the side of the road, she placed the last of her books back into the now chipped and slightly misshapen basin. Cocooned in her misery, she wasn't aware of an approaching vehicle until she heard the sudden scrunch of its front tyres. She looked up as the van slowed beside her and its passenger door swung open. A pair of black boots landed on the road even before the kwela-kwela had come to a complete stop.

  The policeman leaned down, and jerked Tandia sharply to her feet. Tandia cried out in pain as the black policeman gripped her lacerated wrists. 'What is your name?' he demanded. Tandia stared dumbly back at him, her mouth slightly open, unaware of the tears running down her face. The policeman must have felt a wetness in the palm of his right hand for he suddenly released his grip and looked down. The sight of the blood on his hand seemed to make him even more angry. With a look of contempt he reached out and wiped his hand on the front of her shift allowing it to come to rest between her small breasts. Whereupon he gave her a sharp, impatient push and swiped her across the top of her head, removing her -beret which fell onto the roadway. 'What is your name, umFazi?'

  The driver of the police van, a white officer, leaned across. 'Hey, you kaffir! Is your name Patel? Tandia Patel?'

  Tandia, her fear and confusion showing, nodded dumbly. The police officer glanced at his wristwatch. 'You don't look like a kaffir, more like a coloured. How come you got the same name as the complainant, she said you was a black person.' He didn't wait for her reply. 'Anyway, whatever you are, you under arrest, you hear?' He jerked his head, indicating the black policeman. 'Arrest her, but make quick, it's already long past nine o'clock, we supposed to knock off an hour ago, now I got to write up a fokking charge sheet.' For the second time that day Tandia felt a pair of cold handcuffs close around her wrists. The black man now seemed oblivious to the condition of her wrists and snapped the handcuffs firmly shut. He appeared not to notice as Tandia winced from the pain. Pointing to the back of the van he gave her a sharp shove between her shoulder blades. Despite her terror Tandia could think only of her books.

  'Bring my things, please,' she said in Zulu. The black policeman ignored her and hastily unlocked the padlock on the van door and swung the van doors open. He gave her a perfunctory push. Tandia, desperate for her books, resisted. 'My basin, you must bring my basin!' she begged. The black man pushed her harder this time and unable to grasp onto anything she fell over the tailgate.

  'Get in before I hurt you!' he hissed. 'Can't you see the baas is in a hurry?' Then he turned to retrieve the battered basin.

  'Fok! Make quick, jong!' the white officer shouted from the front of the van.

  The policeman hurriedly slid the heavy basin into the back of the van and slammed the two doors shut. The police van had already started to move when she heard the dunk as the passenger door dosed.

  At first the interior of the van seemed completely dark and Tandia lay on the floor until her eyes adjusted. Then she crawled awkwardly on her elbows and knees towards the basin. Her knees hurt and she began to feel the loss of circulation in her hands because of the handcuffs. A narrow bench ran the length of each side of the van and Tandia used the one nearest to the basin to pull herself up onto her haunches; then she pushed her back against the bench so that she could maintain her balance as the van jolted and picked its way along the rutted township road. A sudden jerk of the van sent her sprawling. She regained her balance with difficulty and managed to pull herself up onto the bench where she was able to look directly down into the basin. The cover had been tom from her Latin primer and her algebra textbook was broken in half, but her other books seemed intact. She looked to see if her brown school beret was in the basin but it wasn't. It had been left on the roadside together with the squashed biscuit tin. With her beret the last of Tandia's self-esteem was gone.

  Tandia's arrest had happened so unexpectedly she hadn't really connected it to a cause. Now she realised that Mrs Patel must have called the police. The stupid, ignorant old woman had accused her of trying to bum the house down. Tandia began to sob. Her small, sweet, innocent revenge was going to send her to prison where no one would find her and she was certain to die.

  As she sobbed she felt herself grow angry, stupidly angry at Natkin Patel for dropping dead without warning her. One minute he was there in all his shiny, dean self importance, the next he was gone before she got her proper chance in life.

  Tandia's ego was too fragile to carry her anger for Patel for long. Now her despair turned inwards onto herself. She had been stupid to bum her gym frock. Childishly stupid. She had allowed her emotions- to show, had put them on display and they had been used against her. Through her despair came the tremulous conviction that she would never again allow her emotions to be the mistress of her actions.

  By the time the police van drew up behind the Cato Manor police station Tandia had regained her composure somewhat. She waited in the back of the stationary van for what seemed like an age before she heard the bolt slide open and the double doors of the paddy wagon opened to reveal the black constable again.

  Tandia was led into the charge room to find the police officer who had driven the van seated at a small table opposite which stood a smaller chair. It reminded Tandia of a classroom chair, a thought which somehow increased her anxiety. Resting on the table was a typewriter, patches of wear showing through its black paint.

  The white policeman looked up from the report he appeared to be reading and followed Tandia with his eyes as the black man instructed her to stand beside the chair. Then he removed her handcuffs and quickly left the room. Tandia had never ached as much in her life and despite the intimidating chair and her sore bottom, she longed to sit down. The white officer dropped his gaze again and continued to read. She clasped her hands behind her back and surreptitiously attempted to rub the circulation back into them.

  Finally the white officer
glanced up at her and then back at the paper in his hand. 'Can you write your name?' he asked in Afrikaans.

  'Ja, meneer,' Tandia replied. The policeman looked up in surprise. He had probably expected her to call him 'baas', or even to deny any knowledge of the taal.

  He placed the document on the table facing Tandia, opened it and indicated a place at the bottom of the third page. Then he reached into the pocket of his khaki tunic and withdrew a blue Croxley fountain pen. 'Then sign,' he instructed, holding the pen out for Tandia. Tandia reached out to take the pen but the circulation had not yet fully returned to her hand and, unable to grasp it, she dropped it to the table. A momentary flash of anger showed in the white man's eyes but he quickly concealed it and gave a sigh of impatience. 'No funny buggers, you hear? Jus' sign the charge sheet.'

  Tandia felt a lump in her throat as she tried to speak.

  Finally in a small, frightened voice she managed to ask, 'What does it say, meneer? Can I read it please?'

  The police officer snatched the report 'from the table. Pushing his chair back he began to fan himself with it 'It's just an ordinary charge report, you sign it now, okay?' He kept his voice low as he half rose from the chair and leaned forward to place the report back on the table in front of her, but the threat in it was unmistakable.

  Tandia swallowed hard, moving her tongue across the roof of her mouth to get her saliva working. 'Please, meneer, I must read it,' she said in a barely audible voice.

  This time the policeman sprang from his chair and grabbing the report he thrust it at Tandia so that the paper was only inches from her face. 'What's that you saying, kaffir?' He pulled the paper back from her face and began to jab at it with his right index finger. 'We got all your paticklers here! You trying to be cheeky, hey? You charged with arson, you hear? You know what is arson? You tried to bum down the house of your employer! That's a very serious offence!' His hand opened suddenly and he smacked Tandia hard across the face. The small chair toppled as she staggered backwards trying to maintain her balance. 'Don't fok with me, kaffir! You sign, jong, or you in the deep shit, you hear?'

  He dropped the sheet of paper at her feet and lowered himself back onto his chair. 'Pick it up!' He pointed at the fallen chair. Sobbing Tandia righted the chair; she was still seeing stars from his blow. 'The paper also!' he shouted.

  She felt faint and could barely see it on the floor. Her hands shook so violently she had to make several attempts to grip the edge of the charge sheet. She held it out to the policeman who snatched it from her and dropped it onto the table. Then he picked up the pen. To Tandia's surprise he now spoke softly. 'C'mon, man, now sign. It's late, I want to go home, I'm already an hour and a half late, I want to go home and have my breakfast.'

  Tandia burst into tears. The police officer leapt from his chair and struck her a violent blow on the side of her face, knocking her over and sending her sprawling across the polished cement floor.

  Seemingly in an instant, he was at her side. 'Fok you, kaffir! Get up!' He bent down and grabbed her ann and pulled, but Tandia resisted and the white man released his grip on her bleeding wrist. 'Fok! Get up! I haven't got all day!' It was then that she noticed the dirt on his trousers, a soil mark just above his knees where she had kicked him in the cemetery. A moment later he drove his boot into her kidneys. Tandia screamed then gave a low moan and passed out.

  She came to as she was being dragged by two black policemen along a long corridor. Tandia tasted blood and she tasted the hate and she kept her eyes tightly closed. They came to a halt and she was lowered to the floor. Her face still stung from the violent slap she had received and the polished cement floor was cool on her bruised cheek. She heard the slight rattle of keys and the sigh of a heavy door opening, then she was picked up again and lowered to the floor of the cell.

  Long after she'd heard the clunk of the door closing and the rattle of the keys as she was locked in, Tandia continued to lie with her cheek pressed against the cool cement floor of the dark cell. She was like one of those stick insects that continues to play dead long after its attacker has lost interest in it. Eventually she opened her eyes, raised herself to a sitting position and looked around the small cell. It contained a bench which ran the length of one wall. A toilet bucket sat in one corner smelling sharply of disinfectant. On the floor beside the bucket lay a single scrap of newspaper. A light bulb, protected by a cover made of heavy wire mesh, was set into the ceiling at least twelve feet above her. The light was off and the only light coming into the cell was from a small barred window about ten feet from the floor. The effect was like being thrown into an empty well or a dark pit.

  Tandia rose and sat on the bench. The fact that she was alone and the shouting had stopped was an enormous relief, but she was too numbed to think. She vaguely sensed that it was a useless pursuit anyway. The act of thinking suggests there are choices and she was beginning to realise that for a black person the choices are almost non-existent.

  Tandia wondered briefly about the welfare of her basin, though now it seemed to represent a life which had been taken from her. The idea that she could educate herself in an environment where mere survival took all the energy she possessed suddenly seemed ridiculous. After the events of the past few hours Tandia was prepared to give up even before she got started.

  After a while, when she had become accustomed to the dark cell, Tandia lay down on the bench and gazed up at the square of light coming through the window. Beyond it she could see a patch of blue sky and, just cutting into the frame, the white crescent of a day moon.

  She must have dozed off for a while, for she was startled to hear the key in the door. It opened only slightly and she heard the 'Scrape of a tin plate as it was pushed into the cell. Tandia waited until the key had been turned and removed from the lock before moving to the doorway. Two hunks of white bread and a tin mug of cold black tea rested on the plate. The bread was stale but not too bad when she washed it down with the bitter-tasting tea.

  Having eaten for the first time since noon the previous day Tandia felt stronger. She looked up through the small window to find that the day moon had disappeared and the sky seemed a lighter blue. It was past noon, she thought. The bread and tea must have been lunch.

  But Tandia was wrong. She had slept most of the day and it was now five in the evening. She was not to know that the meal she had just eaten was all she was entitled to receive over a twenty-four hour period. A district police station is not equipped with cooking facilities and besides, any policeman will tell you, a hungry kaffir is a more cooperative one.

  The sleep had stiffened her and she became aware of just how badly she hurt. The pain seemed to have seeped into her bones and into her spirit and she felt utterly miserable. Now, having eaten, her bowels needed to work and she was forced to use the foul-smelling bucket in the corner. She used up the small square of newspaper, praying that she would not need to go again.

  Hitching. up her bloomers, she felt the small knotted square of cloth pinned inside them, which contained her money - the five one-pound notes which made up her lifetime savings. Tandia felt a sudden surge of hope,' she would offer to pay for the gym frock, to compensate Mrs Patel. Then maybe they would just give her a beating and not send her to gaol. After what she had been through she could take the sjambok. In the end it would be a small price to pay for her freedom and she knew that rather than go to gaol, she would take any punishment, no matter how severe.

  Hope is a flame that kindles new expectations by grasping at passing straws. The food and the sleep allowed Tandia to hope just a little. She had a chance if she could stay out of prison.

  The blue framed square of light above her head began to darken and the cell was in almost total darkness before the lone ceiling light came on. The weak bulb made the cell no brighter than it had been during the day, but the absence of the comforting square of sky at the window madE' Tandia's new-found optimism soon collapse. Her bruis
ed little body was hurting all over and no matter how she sat or lay she was in pain.

  There was a sudden rattle at the door followed by the sound of a woman swearing in a mixture of Zulu and English. Then followed a sharp expletive from a male voice. The cell door swung open and a black woman was pushed in and the door closed behind her. The woman appeared not to have seen Tandia, imagining herself alone in the cell. She leaned with her back against the heavy door, swaying slightly, obviously drunk, her chin resting on her large breast. She wore a half-smile and her nose was bleeding slightly. She sniffed and then wiped her nose by running the top of her index finger past both nostrils, across the back of her hand and back again pulling the blood and mucus back into her nose. Then she examined the blood on her hand, brought her hand to her mouth and slowly, like a cat licking its fur, she licked the blood clean, starting at the tip of her index finger and working back across her hand.

  The woman was perhaps in her mid twenties, broad hipped and with a bottom that protruded enormously in the short, tight knitted skirt she wore. Tandia, who had grown accustomed to the dim light, could see her quite clearly. She had a broad, almost flat face and she wore bright red lipstick which gave her thick lips an added fleshiness so they looked like raw meat. The trickle of blood had reappeared at both nostrils and added to her carnivorous appearance. To Tandia, she looked as though she was getting ready to eat somebody.

  The woman, bringing both her hands up to her mouth, suddenly retched. Half-stooped, she lurched over to the bucket in the corner and threw up. The sour smell of stomach-fermented kaffir beer filled the cell. The woman was sick three more times, the noise of her spitting and hawking filling the small cell. Finally she turned from the bucket and straightened up. She was panting from the effort of throwing up and her carnivorous lipstick was now smeared across her face. Steadying herself by placing her hand on the wall, she wiped her eyes with her free hand and looked about her. It was then that she saw a frightened Tandia hunched in the darkest corner of the cell.