‘He’s quite the businessman, your brother,’ Arno had said during the intense negotiations around the restructuring of their father’s business. ‘You mark my words, Avi: Yair is going to go places in the property arena. It’s obviously in his genes.’
But, when it came right down to it, she hadn’t succeeded in shaking off almost twenty-six years of conviction that her twin was a spineless loser. She should never have given him the benefit of the doubt when he’d promised to take care of Zivah. Not that she’d had much choice, not if Zivah had done what Aviva thought she had. Anyway, Zivah had made it quite clear that she hated her, despite the love and care Aviva had lavished on her all her life, until she had been forced to run away. But Zivah absolutely adored Yair. She always had. Bloody Yair.
‘Aviva – haven’t you heard the news?’ Carol asked.
‘What news?’
‘About Yair. Good heavens, are you living in a cave? It’s on the front page of every newspaper – it’s on television. So I want to know – must Zivah come back to The Lodge, or can she stay where she is? I think she’d be happier if we leave her; she’s become far more self-sufficient, you know and...’
‘Carol – what are you talking about? Where is Zivah? I thought she was at The Lodge. You were supposed to keep her there – we agreed it was the safest place for her! It’s your job to take care of her. You agreed, after my father died and everything. You said you’d keep her at The Lodge. Where she’d be safe.’
‘Didn’t Yair tell you? He insisted on taking her home. He said she didn’t belong in an institution, that it wasn’t good for her. He said she didn’t deserve to be punished and pushed aside. He said he could take care of her – and I was sure he could. He’s even built her her own suite in the house, really quite beautiful. He’s re-employed your old nanny and driver to watch her during the day. I’m sure they can take care of her very well even if Yair isn’t there. There’s probably no need for her to come back to The Lodge.’
Aviva switched on her iPad and tapped the News24 icon. She didn’t read the South African news site very often; in fact she couldn’t remember the last time she had opened it. The less she had to do with South Africa, the better. But Arno liked to keep abreast of what was happening and he’d often browse on her iPad in bed—much easier than booting up his laptop, he always said—and spend the next half hour fulminating at something else President Zuma had said or done; fuming or cheering at the performance of the Cheetahs; or searching for updates about the land reform process. She was certain he also searched for news about Steynspruit, his parents, his brothers—he followed De Wet’s cricket exploits closely—and even that black woman judge he’d grown up with but never spoke about.
The news site opened. The headline screamed at her.
‘Jesus Christ! Carol, what the hell is going on?’
‘I told you. Zivah moved back to the house last week. She loves it but now, with Yair and everything, I wasn’t sure what to do. I’m sorry to trouble you. I’ve probably over-reacted. As I said, I’m sure she will be fine at home but I needed to check with you...’
Carol’s strident voice faded to a background hum as Aviva read and reread the headline: ‘Yair Silverman a suspect in fiancée’s death?’
‘I have to go. I’ll phone you later,’ Aviva muttered, and ended the call.
***
‘It’s a mistake. It has to be a mistake,’ Arno said.
‘That’s what I thought, but it’s all over the place. It’s true!’ Aviva wailed.
She had spent the day—between feeding and changing Mattie who appeared to be less feverish than he’d been the night before—trawling every South African news site she could find. She’d even found a report on the BBC Africa news channel. The reporter, a pompous prat dressed in khaki cargo pants and a flak jacket more suited to a war zone than the leafy street outside her childhood home, held a microphone and intoned into the camera:
‘This case has all the makings of yet another Oscar Pistorius or Shrien Dewani scandal. Twenty-six-year-old Yair Silverman is one of the most eligible bachelors in Johannesburg, if not South Africa. But now he is being questioned about the suspicious death of his pregnant girlfriend, twenty-seven-year-old Tiffany Zaldain, widow of the sixty-five-year-old millionaire Cecil Zaldain who passed away two months ago while on their honeymoon in the United States.’ The reporter smirked, and then continued: ‘Mrs Zaldain was found lying on the marble floor in the foyer of the palatial Silverman mansion yesterday morning, the day after a party took place there to celebrate... um, we’re not quite sure what the celebration was about but there is speculation that it was intended as their engagement party.’
‘That’s rubbish!’ Aviva snapped. ‘My brother was not the sharpest tool in the box, but even he would not have got involved with Tiffany, of all people. That girl was a total slut at school, and really thick. And the entrance hall is not marble. Where do those people get that rubbish from?’
Arno leaned over and attempted to take the iPad out of her hands. ‘Switch it off, Avi. You’ve watched that clip at least ten times since I got home. There has to be some mistake.’
Aviva pulled the iPad away and glared at the screen.
The BBC reporter was still talking:
‘Mrs Zaldain was rushed to the local hospital but was pronounced dead on arrival. The cause of death is not yet clear. However, an employee at the Silverman mansion revealed overhearing a fierce argument between Mrs Zaldain and Mr Silverman after the party. Mrs Zaldain was a (another knowing smirk, and hand-signalled quote marks) house guest at the mansion.’
Arno finally succeeded in switching off the news report. Aviva glared at him.
‘None of the reports have said anything about Zivah,’ he said.
‘Thank heavens. The last thing we need is for her to be dragged into this. She’d never cope.’
‘So what did that social worker say when you phoned her back. You did call her, didn’t you?’
Aviva nodded. She’d agonised over what to do, what to say. But then she’d seen a news flash on the Daily Express website—written by Tracy Jacobs, of all people—which said Yair had been taken in for questioning, and was likely to be charged.
Aviva was confused. Tracy and Yair had seemed to have had a thing going when she and Arno and Yair were working together to sort out Alan Silverman’s estate. She was always at the house and Yair obviously trusted her. But her twin trusted everyone, the fool. Nevertheless, Tracy wasn’t likely to lie about Yair, so if she said Yair and Tiffany had been engaged, it was probably true. And if she said he might be charged, that was probably true too. But why would he be? No-one seemed to know how Tiffany had died. It could have been an accident; she could have fallen down the stairs in a drunken stupor. Yair had not been charged with anything – yet. And even if he was – which was crazy because he was such a gentle, good, kind man. But even if he was charged, as crazy as that seemed, he would obviously get bail. Oscar Pistorius had stayed out of jail on bail for ages and ages before and during the trial – and after the trial while appeal after appeal was heard. Once Yair was out on bail, he could go home and take care of Zivah. So things could just carry on as before. And it would be months before any trial – and Yair would be found ‘not guilty’. Aviva was absolutely certain about that. There was no way Yair—gentle Yair—would have hurt anyone, not even a bitch like Tiffany.
‘I told Carol Aronowitz that Zivah should stay where she is happiest. It’s going to be difficult for all of them – there’s no need to upset her. And anyway, he hasn’t been charged. He may not even be charged. We don’t know what is going to happen. Oh God, this is terrible! What the hell was Yair thinking?’
‘Don’t you think we should go home? See what we can do to help?’
‘No! Yair will be okay. He’s dealt with a lot worse in his life,’ Aviva said. We all have, she added silently. It was typical of Arno that his first instinct was to rush to the rescue. But she’d had time to think about it.
‘If you like, I could try and contact Beauty Maseko. I told you about her, didn’t I? We... we grew up together, on Steynspruit. We were pretty close once although I’ve sort of lost touch with her. I’m sure if I contact her and ask...’
‘No!’ Aviva yelped. ‘No, Arno no. We can’t risk it. She’s a judge – are you crazy? What would you tell her? How would you explain your interest in Yair Silverman? You’d have to tell her where we are and then... no, it’s too dangerous. No. We can’t risk it. Yair will be okay. I’m sure he’ll be fine. So will Zivah. Let’s just leave it. Okay?’
‘Okay. If you’re absolutely sure?’ Arno said
‘I’m sure,’ she answered, and prayed she was right.
Part 2
October 2016
Chapter 12
Yair
Yair slid down the navy-blue wall and squatted on the bare concrete floor. He wrapped his arms around his shins and looked up at the single light bulb trying valiantly to penetrate the decades of dust coating the thick, rusty iron grill that covered the entire ceiling of the Sandringham Police Station’s single holding cell. Although it was situated just behind the desk in the charge office, Yair had never noticed this cell in all the years he’d popped in to the charge office to have documents certified. He hadn’t noticed it last year when they’d hauled him in for questioning after Tiffany died – although he hadn’t stayed in the charge office long. The detective had taken him to a prefabricated office outside the main police station building. They’d grilled him for four hours – and then they’d let him go. Darryl had been confident they had no case against him and that everything would be okay.
The holding cell was not large. It had probably been used as a walk-in storage cupboard in years gone by. Now it was totally bare: four gloomy walls, a grimy, grey floor, a tiny hole in the wall serving as a window, and the ceiling grille. Yair wondered if the grille had been put up there to protect the light bulb from being stolen or, more likely, smashed and used as a weapon by the assortment of criminals who had stood where he stood now; or whether it was to prevent an attempted escape through the roof. Not that that would have been easy: even at six foot two in his socks, at full stretch and on tiptoe, Yair’s fingers couldn’t touch the filthy grille. He’d also barely been able to reach the heavily barred window that even the most agile snake would have had difficulty slithering through.
Yair counted the bars on the door, again. When he’d first been shoved unceremoniously into the cell and the door clanged closed, he had grasped those bars and held on for dear life, fearing that if he let go, his legs would collapse.
He moved back rapidly and cowered against the far wall when the charge office door opened and Red walked in, notebook in hand, and stared directly into his eyes from the other side of the charge office counter. It was the first time he’d seen her since... since that awful morning, and his heart lurched.
‘Yes, can I help you?’ the desk duty constable asked. He wasn’t a bad guy, really. He had escorted Yair to the toilet without too much fuss or verbal abuse, not like the other officer—the one Yair had immediately named Captain Corruption—who had chortled sadistically and wished him a comfortable stay after Yair had politely declined his offer of a blanket to sit on... for just 20 bucks.
‘No, no it’s fine. I wanted to ask... it’s okay. I have to go,’ Tracy said. From the back of the cell, his face burning and his heart breaking, Yair heard the charge office door bang shut and his shaking legs finally gave way.
Now it was real. Until then, until Red had arrived at the Sandringham Police Station in her ‘Tracy Jacobs, ace reporter’ mode and witnessed his humiliation, he had been drifting in a kind of hazy limbo. The hordes of cops forcing open the wrought iron driveway gate, bursting through the front door, pounding up the stairs and hauling him out of bed just as his cellphone started its daily 6am alert – all that had simply seemed like a continuation of the nightmare that had started, he now realised, when Tiffany had hijacked his life eleven months before. But now... now it was all too frighteningly, terrifyingly real.
Yair closed his eyes. Why had it all gone so horribly wrong? It was as if the gods were deliberately setting out to punish him – not that he believed in gods. He had certainly never believed in the single, all-powerful, and rather vengeful G-d of his father’s brand of hypocritical, ritualistic Judaism either. What had he done to deserve this? Had he become too self-satisfied, too comfortable, too puffed up with what everyone these days called ‘white privilege’ to acknowledge that he was just a fool? Was it all some kind of divine payback for not having done more to protect his mother? Or his sisters? Was it misplaced guilt that had propelled him to help Tiffany when he’d run in to her in New York? Or rather, when she’d run after him, almost a full block down Fifth Avenue.
‘Yair, Yair, oh my God, Yair, I can’t believe it, oh my God, oh my God,’ she’d panted as she draped herself around him and held on like a limpet.
He should have extricated himself from her clutches then. He should have politely commiserated with her about the untimely death of her husband, hailed the first cab that came along and left her standing there, in her too tight, too short, too overtly sexy dress. Instead, he’d allowed her to drag him into a Kaffe 1668 where, over two ridiculously-priced coffees—hers a decaf macchiato, his a flat white—she’d spun her tall tale of woe. He hadn’t believed her. He couldn’t believe her, not when she told him that she was penniless, and that Gilad had frozen all his father’s—her late husband’s—bank accounts, and that he’d cancelled her credit card. For heaven sake, he knew Gilad. Yes, he’d probably been really furious that Tiffany, a girl his own age, had married his father – who wouldn’t be? But Gilad—for all his bombastic arrogance—wasn’t a total prick. He’d been a real pain at school, always trying to bully or bribe his way into the ‘popular’ crowd, throwing his (considerable) weight and father’s (more considerable) money around. But he’d been a kid then. Now he was apparently managing one of his father’s businesses and doing quite well for himself, or so he’d heard.
Tiffany, of course, had never let facts interfere with her version of the truth. In high school, she’d spent days in detention for lying to teachers about everything, usually about why her homework wasn’t done. Yair would never forget the time she’d claimed her real father had come back, and was going to take her with him to Hollywood where he was making a fortune as a movie producer and he was going to turn her into the next Charlize Theron. Their class teacher, Mrs Katz, had believed her... and had prepared a special report for her to take to her new school in Los Angeles. When the truth emerged that it was all a large figment of Tiffany’s overactive imagination, she had spent a week in after-school detention, courtesy of an embarrassed Mrs Katz.
So why had Yair not listened to his screaming instincts that she was in typical Tiffany lying mode again? And that she was bad news.
Because he hadn’t had a choice, especially after she’d told him she was pregnant.
Yair opened his eyes, stared at the graffiti that someone had scratched into the navy paint, closed them again and breathed deeply, trying to remember the relaxation exercises he’d been taught in rehab all those years ago, trying to empty his mind of all thought.
But Red wouldn’t go away. He had tried, without much success, to shut her out of his thoughts, since Gilad—high, and/or badly hung over and in desperate need of the bathroom—had tripped over Tiffany lying at the foot of the stairs. His anger at Red because she’d believed Tiffany’s lies seemed so petty now. Tiffany was dead. In the greater scheme of things, that’s really all that mattered. All that should matter.
It was difficult to recall the rush of furious emotion that had engulfed him as Red had turned away from him and run from the party without giving him a chance to defend himself. He’d stewed through the next few hours, desperate to confront Tiffany and find out exactly what she’d said to Red, anxious to avoid a scene in front of all the guests. But afterwards, when all but the last few laggards had
said their farewells, and those unable to leave had passed out in the small lounge, Tiffany had sneered at him. She’d laughed, even as he raised his arm to wipe the gloating, gleaming grin off her face – and then he’d seen Zivah’s frightened eyes peering at them from around her bedroom door. That had startled him, shamed him. He’d never hit a girl in his life, not even when Aviva had goaded him and teased him and humiliated him throughout their tumultuous childhood. He’d dropped his arm and slammed his bedroom door behind him, fuming. He’d wanted to phone Red, to tell her that he hadn’t cheated—that he’d never cheat—that he loved her, that he wanted to marry her. But only a loser proposed over the telephone. He’d decided to call her in the morning and arrange for them to meet at Schaffler’s Nursery, in the Under the Trees tea garden, which was their special place. But in the morning, Tiffany was found lying at the bottom of the stairs – and then it was too late.
It needn’t have been. It shouldn’t have been. She should have trusted him. She should have realised that he’d never hurt anyone. But instead, she’d betrayed him. She’d betrayed them. Over and over and over again. How could she have published Tiffany’s lies without speaking to him? It was beyond betrayal. No one could blame him for refusing to answer her calls, her texts, her WhatsApps – not when it was obvious she only wanted to wring something out of him which she could twist for her next sensational story. And when she’d stood there, outside his house with all the other journalists as the cops drove him to the police station for questioning, he’d had no choice but to realise—finally—that she loved her career more than she had ever loved him. If she’d ever really loved him at all.
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