Deceive and Defend

by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

  Her sigh of relief was cut short as the identity of the incoming call registered. She didn’t recognise the number but the +27 prefix clearly indicated it was from South Africa. No one in South Africa had her number. She’d made sure of that.

  She forced herself to relax against the overstuffed pillows on the old sofa she and Arno had found in the charity shop on the corner and closed her eyes. She was exhausted. Mattie seemed content lying snugly on her chest. She held her breath again. If she stood up and put him in his bassinette, he might wake. He snored. She exhaled as quietly as she could; she inhaled slowly; she exhaled again. Mattie snuffled. She breathed in, and out, and in, and out. Mattie slept. She didn’t care if she was spoiling him by holding him while he slept; all the childcare books and blogs were divided on the issue of sleeping discipline/routine for infants. If three months of motherhood had taught her anything, it was that anyone who said there were rules for newborns clearly didn’t have a newborn, had forgotten what it was like to have a newborn, or was a sadist with a penchant for tormenting new mothers with false promises that if they just did this, or that, baby would behave. After three months without more than three consecutive hours of sleep, she had come to the conclusion that Mattie van Zyl was unique. He didn’t give a damn what the experts said. He would sleep where and when and for how long he wanted. And when her son slept—if he slept—she had learned that was the time to snatch some precious sleep for herself.

  Silent Night shrilled again. Aviva resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. She switched it off instead. If Arno tried to call her and was concerned that it went directly to voicemail, well, that was too bloody bad. And whoever was trying to reach her could leave a message. She’d deal with it later. Perhaps. As far as she was concerned, she had put South Africa—everyone and everything there—out of her life. Permanently. She had allowed herself to become embroiled in the tangle of lies and deceit that had all but destroyed her before and look where it had got her.

  Her lips curled into an involuntary smile. Look where it had got her, indeed. A husband she adored and who doted on her, a beautiful baby son, a little flat in a nice London neighbourhood, everything any girl in her right mind would be, should be, grateful for. Starting over again, leaving the past where it belonged – in the past. South Africa—anything to do with South Africa—definitely fell into that category. Nothing good would come from allowing that past to intrude. Nothing. No matter what Arno said.

  How Arno could believe they would ever be able to return to South Africa was beyond her. That night, when he held the baby in his arms for the first time, he’d looked at her with tear-filled eyes and said: ‘You see? He’s perfect, absolutely perfect. I don’t care what anyone says, we belong together – you and me and little Matthys. And one day, we will take him to South Africa, to Steynspruit, and show him his roots.’

  ‘Matthys? His name is Matthys? When did we agree to that?’ she’d asked more sharply than she’d intended, but she needed to steer the conversation away from the taboo subject of their roots.

  Arno had had the grace to look a little shamefaced. ‘It’s tradition,’ he’d said. ‘The first-born son takes the paternal grandfather’s name. I’m Arno, like my... my father’s father.’

  Aviva pretended not to notice the slight hesitation when Arno referred to his father. ‘And, well, although he’s always been called Thys, my father,’ he’d paused again, and then hurriedly continued: ‘My father’s real name is Matthys. Would you really mind all that much if we call our son Matthys too?’

  Of course she minded. What was he thinking? They had cut all ties with their families. They hadn’t had a choice. But it had been so hard for Arno. She’d had years to come to terms with her parents’ betrayal, he’d had only a few months. He loved his parents and his brothers: it hadn’t been easy for him to walk away, to cut them out of his life, for her. She knew that. If it hadn’t been for her, if it hadn’t been for the baby... but he had made his choice and now he could never go home again. Because of her. Because he loved her.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t mind,’ she’d blurted before she could change her mind. ‘But Matthys? I don’t think Matthys would go down too well in England. Perhaps we should just call him Matt – everyone will think it is short for Matthew.’

  ‘Sounds good. And when we have a daughter, we’ll call her Brenda, after your mother. The Brits won’t have a problem with that.’

  ‘I hope you’ll give me time to recover from this little one’s birth! Anyway, what if we have another son?’ she’d asked, and wished she’d bitten her tongue because she knew exactly what his tradition would have dictated. And there was no way, absolutely no way, either of them would honour the memory of her... their ... her late, unlamented father by giving their child his name.

  ‘I think we’ll make our own tradition for any other sons we may be blessed with in the future,’ Arno had responded grimly.

  ***

  Aviva stirred. Something was tickling her chest. Her eyes fluttered, then widened as she saw Arno leaning over her attempting to button her blouse.

  ‘Mattie? Where’s Mattie?’

  ‘He’s fine. I put him in his cot. Looks like you both had a lovely nap. He’s still sleeping but Zaidah will be here at any minute and I don’t think he’d like an eyeful of your boobs – beautiful as they are.’

  Aviva giggled, sat up and straightened her clothes. ‘What’s the time? How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘I’ve no idea but it’s after six thirty. Zaidah said he’d be here at sevenish. He wants to see you and Mattie. Relax, he’s bringing supper with him because he really thinks he needs an excuse to come over without feeling he’s being a nuisance.’

  ‘He’ll never be a nuisance. He’s a darling and we are so lucky to have him in our lives.’

  ‘I’m the lucky one,’ Sir Benjamin Shapiro said as he stepped into the room, his portable oxygen machine resting on the seat of his walker. ‘The front door was unlocked so I just came in. I hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t wait to see my great-grandson. Where is he? And how’s my beautiful granddaughter today? You look wonderful, my dear, pretty as a picture, just like your mother.’

  The old man thrust a large brown packet at Arno, pecked Aviva’s cheek, shuffled quickly to the bassinette and gazed down. He stood there silently, as he always did, using the opportunity to catch his breath. Aviva and Arno exchanged a smiling glance. Ben would stand looking at the baby all day and night, if his nonagenarian legs and failing lungs would let him.

  ‘Zaidah, would you like something to drink before we eat? A schnapps? Some tea?’ Aviva asked.

  Ben turned reluctantly from the bassinette and wiped his eyes on a large, white handkerchief. ‘Just tea, I think, if it’s not too much trouble for you, my child. I won’t stay long. I just wanted to see you, and your little angel. I brought Nando’s, I hope that is okay? Just so that you don’t feel homesick for South Africa.’ The words and go back and leave me alone, as you did before so many years ago were not said, but Aviva heard them anyway.

  Ben rambled on: ‘I ordered lemon and herb for you, Avi – you must watch what you eat while you are still feeding the baby. That’s what Ruthie always said. Ah, my poor Ruthie. How she would have loved to have seen you, all grown up, a mother, with a beautiful baby, your own family. She would have been so proud, so proud. You do remember your old Bobba, don’t you? You were named after her, you know. Aviva Ruth. And Yair was named after me – Yair Benjamin. We were so proud that day, when you were named. I will always remember it. Always.’

  He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes again. ‘Ruthie would have been so happy for you now, you know. She adored you... you and Yair. She couldn’t have loved you more if you’d been our own grandchildren, all of you, our wonderful twins and little Zivah. And Brenda. How she loved your mother, Avi. Did you know that? Like the daughter she never had, she always said...’

  ‘Zaidah – please, sit. On the couch.’ Arno interru
pted Ben’s flood of tearful reminiscence that they had heard at least a dozen times since they’d arrived on his doorstep all those months ago, fearful of the reception they’d receive.

  ***

  ‘I hope this is the right place,’ Arno had said, rubbing his hand over his newly shaved head, as they approached the large Georgian house in Golders Green.

  Aviva stopped and stared at the imposing front door. It was so familiar – and not just because it bore a startling resemblance to the house she had grown up in, back in Johannesburg. She had been there before, she could feel it. There was something so welcoming, so safe in its solidity.

  ‘It’s the right house,’ she said, walking forward slowly and pressing the highly polished brass bell. She remembered it so well – how she and Yair had always fought to be the one to ring the bell, how proud she’d been when she’d eventually been able to reach the button all by herself, if she stood on her tippy toes and stretched as hard as she could. She listened intently for chimes she knew would sound down the hallway in the huge room with all the books and the soft carpet and the big doors that led out to the garden.

  She could hear faint Big Ben chimes through the door and shivered. She clutched Arno’s hand. And waited.

  ‘Perhaps no one is home,’ she said hopefully, just as the door opened slowly to reveal a short, frail-looking man, with a fringe of white hair framing a shining bald head and a thin plastic tube in his nose.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sir Benjamin Shapiro?’ Arno asked. Aviva couldn’t say a word. Her legs were trembling. She wanted to turn and run, but Arno was holding her hand tightly.

  ‘We’re sorry to arrive unannounced like this but we were unable to reach you on the telephone. I’m Arno van Zyl and this is Aviva ...’

  ‘I know who you are. I’d know you anywhere. You’re the spitting image of your mother,’ the old man said, and Aviva’s heart pounded. He was going to close the door in her face, she just knew it. And she’d deserve it, after everything her father had done.

  Fat tears slid down his soft cheeks and her heart sank. She should never have let Arno talk her into coming. But he had convinced her that it was the right thing to do.

  ‘Alan Silverman betrayed him. He stole millions from him and ran away,’ Arno had said. ‘And indirectly, you and I have both benefited from that – perhaps not emotionally, but certainly financially. We would not be able to afford to live in London, if it hadn’t been for Sir Ben’s money. We owe it to him to apologise; not only for the money, but for robbing him of the only family he had. We have to try and make amends, as best we can. He may not want money from us but we have to offer it.’

  Aviva tugged at Arno’s hand, urging him to leave. They’d made a terrible mistake. All they’d done was upset this poor old man. No wonder his secretary or assistant or caregiver or whoever she was would never put their calls through.

  Ben stepped gingerly through the door. He ignored Arno and walked unsteadily towards her. He folded her in his arms. ‘My little Avi. My little princess,’ he whispered hoarsely into her neck. ‘You’re all grown up. You’ve come back. Baruch Ha’Shem. Let me look at you, let me look at you properly.’ He stepped back and stared at Aviva’s face, so intently, she could feel herself starting to blush. Then his eyes travelled downwards, inspecting her, and she shifted uncomfortably under his intense scrutiny. ‘Oh my word, Baruch Ha’Shem, what’s this? A double blessing – a double blessing you are bringing your old Zaidah? Yes? You are having a baby? You are having a baby! It’s a miracle, Baruch Ha’Shem. Come in, come in – what must you think of me, letting you stand out here like you are a stranger. Welcome, welcome, come in.’

  ***

  ‘I’ll just put the kettle on and dish up, and then we’ll eat on our laps, unless you’d prefer to sit at the table, Zaidah?’ Aviva said. She delighted in calling him Zaidah, even if he wasn’t her real grandfather. But she had always called him Zaidah when she and Yair were little, and he had insisted that even after two decades, their bond was far stronger than blood.

  ‘No, no. No need for a table tonight. Hashem gave us laps for a reason,’ Ben smiled.

  ‘To eat Nando’s flame-grilled chicken in comfort,’ Arno said.

  They all laughed, quietly, wary of waking the baby.

  Aviva chewed on her chicken leg, which still carried a faint tang of peri-peri spices, despite Ben’s insistence that she really should eat only bland food. She looked at Arno as he licked the last taste of chicken from his fingers and her stomach curled. He really was the most incredibly sexy man, even with his shaved head and trim beard. He was the most amazing person she knew. And he loved her. Despite everything. She was so lucky. She really did have it all. And to think she had so nearly thrown it away.

  She looked up at the beautiful painting Arno had bought for her the day they moved into their flat and felt the familiar glow of contentment she always felt when she looked at it. It was the best gift Arno had ever bought for her – far better than the pizza she’d been expecting. She’d been hugely pregnant, uncomfortable and tired and all she wanted was to get everything straightened out as quickly as possible and go to bed. Arno had gone out to get some takeout food for supper and returned carrying a large, flat parcel.

  ‘What’s for supper?’ she’d asked.

  Arno looked surprised. ‘Oh shit – I forgot. I was walking past the little art gallery down on the corner and they were hanging this painting in the window. Look!’

  He tore off the brown paper wrapping and turned it towards her.

  She smiled. She couldn’t help it. The two dolphins leaping in the air with broad smiles on their beautiful faces exuded unadulterated joy.

  ‘The artist was there. She told me that she loves painting dolphins because they are a sign of birth and renewal. I’m so sorry, I couldn’t resist it. I’ll go out again and get the pizza.’

  Aviva took Arno’s hand and placed it on her enormous bump. ‘Birth and renewal – it’s absolutely perfect,’ she said.

  Chapter 11

  Aviva

  Aviva fought her way through the soft, enveloping clouds of sleep and reached for her ringing phone. What time was it? How long had she been sleeping? It seemed like only minutes since she had finally managed to settle Mattie, creep back into bed and close her eyes.

  ‘Hello?’ She glanced over at Arno’s side of the bed. He wasn’t there. He must have already left for work.

  ‘Aviva? Aviva is that you? Oh thank God, I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday.’

  Aviva’s stomach heaved. She recognised the voice – or at least she thought she did. She moved the phone away from her ear and stared, horrified, at the +27 prefix. Why, oh why, hadn’t she checked before answering. Her finger hovered over the red button.

  ‘It’s Carol Aronowitz here, from the Chevrah Kadisha. Aviva, can you hear me?’

  Aviva swallowed.

  ‘I know you said I wasn’t to contact you except in a dire emergency. Well, this is an emergency. Aviva?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, I can hear you. What’s wrong? How did you get my number? Is Zivah okay?’

  Her heart faltered. If something had happened to her little sister, she’d never forgive herself. She should never have abandoned her. She had always taken care of her; she had loved her and protected her from the first moment she had realised that her delicate little sister wasn’t like other children. She’d always felt a little like Jo March, ever since—in grade two, or perhaps it was grade three—she’d wept over the school library’s illustrated copy of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. Zivah was her poor, shy little Beth, except Zivah was healthy, at least physically. But Beth had died and Aviva had sworn to herself that she would never let anything like that happen to her sister. Dr Schwartz had never been able to understand her obsession with scarlet fever. She had constantly peppered him with questions and insisted he check to ensure Zivah wasn’t suffering from the disease every time the child had a slight sniffle or fever. She
hadn’t believed him when he had constantly reassured her that scarlet fever was easily treated with antibiotics, and no more dangerous than chicken pox to a healthy, well-nourished child like Zivah. But just as Jo March had selfishly let Beth go alone to the poor Hummel family and contract scarlet fever from which she had never fully recovered, so she, Aviva Silverman, had selfishly run away, leaving Zivah to the tender mercies of their drunken, drug-addicted mother and their... their father. And then she had abandoned her again and then again. She shouldn’t have. But after what Zivah had said, had intimated – not that Zivah knew what intimated meant...

  ‘Zivah? No Zivah’s fine – well sort of,’ Carol said.

  ‘What do you mean sort of? What’s happened?’ Aviva’s exhaustion evaporated. She swung her legs off the bed and clamped her phone to her ear.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure what to do if Yair...’

  ‘What about Yair? Don’t tell me he’s... He said he’d watch out for her. He promised.’

  Fury blurred her vision. Bloody Yair. You couldn’t trust him with anything. Much as she hated to admit it, their father had been right. Yair was useless, weak and selfish. Just like their mother. Guilt gripped her. She had no right to judge her mother so harshly; she wasn’t to blame for everything. Aviva hadn’t really needed all those therapists to tell her that her mother had also been a victim. She had tried hard, really hard to forgive her. But the fact remained that her mother had been pathetic and weak, seeking refuge in a drugged, drunken haze – and Yair had done the same. Well, not quite as bad but he had been well on his way. And to think she’d almost believed him when he’d said he had turned his life around. Arno had believed him. In fact, Arno was convinced Yair had really got it together. She’d even felt a tiny frisson of pride when Arno had told her how quickly—and how well—her twin brother had got to grips with the intricacies of Silver Properties.