When Morning Comes

by Arushi Raina

  The Cravens had a much larger house than the Van Nierkerks. On one side was a thick-trunked tree. It had been clipped in places, but some of its leaves drooped low to touch the grass. Underneath was a small, rusted slide. This made me think there had been a child here once.

  Mama and I entered by the front gate, where the security guard let us in. They didn’t say anything to each other, which was strange.

  Mama’s room was behind the house. It smelled of orange-scented air freshener and had beige carpets and blank white walls.

  “No decorations,” I said.

  “No decorations.” Mama took off her coat.

  I took off Baba’s, and we put them on the bed. We walked through the back door and then the living room. The first thing I noticed were the eyes of the kudu on the wall. They were large and black and glittered, as if water was trapped inside them. The second thing I noticed was that the house smelled of varnish.

  Mrs Craven was in the kitchen. She was running her fingers over the shelves, checking for dust. We stood, waiting for her to finish like we had nothing better to do than to stare at her narrow back. Her dark hair was shiny, and she was wearing what were nice clothes for white people.

  Finally, she looked up. She saw me and stepped closer. She was so small that Mama and I stood head and shoulders above her.

  I wanted to say, “Come, Mrs Craven. Come closer. Touch my face and check for dirt.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Zanele.”

  “And how old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “You drink?”

  “No.”

  “No drinking here, understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have boyfriends?”

  Mama nudged me.

  “No.”

  “Boys are not allowed to come into the maid’s quarters. Under any conditions. You understand me?”

  I didn’t answer for a long time, long enough for Mrs Craven to understand what I thought of her. “Yes. No boyfriends. No alcohol,” I said. “And no stealing.”

  Mrs Craven turned to my mother. “Lillian, I am only hiring her this time. Make sure she behaves herself.”

  Mama looked from Mrs Craven to me. “Yes,” she said finally, wishing she had Mankwe with her instead, who knew to take orders quietly and took half the time to clean.

  “The chicken must be sautéed in olive oil before adding garlic. I want all the cocktail glasses properly cleaned. Mop all the floors, starting from the porch.” Mrs Craven left the kitchen. “And remember the koeksisters,” she called from the next room. “I’m trusting those to you, Lillian.”

  We took the mops out onto the patio and took turns sinking them into the bucket of water and wringing them out. I expected Mama to tell me not to speak to Mrs Craven like that, but she said nothing. There was only the sound of the cloth against the tiles and the spray of dirty water that hit me when Mama plunged her mop in the bucket too fast. It was better than I had expected, to work there alone with Mama—no sign of the family that lived in this house.

  Jack

  Mr and Mrs Van Roonen had heavy, round faces. Out on the patio, they chewed olives and cheese off toothpicks, and said nothing. My father kept laughing, as if one of them had just cracked a joke. No one seemed to find this strange.

  My father was trying to sell beer. Before that, he had sold car parts, but he said he “needed to diversify.” Mr Van Roonen worked in the Trade and Industry division for the Bantustans—exclusively black areas. A place, my father said, where alcohol flowed like water.

  Now he wanted Mr Van Roonen to help him get a permit to sell beer there. And if it meant pressing food on Van Roonen and laughing while he ate it, well, that was easy.

  Up until now, the Van Roonens hadn’t said much. My father continued laughing at nothing, and my mother joined in. Usually it was the other way around. I took another Castle out of the cooler box, avoiding the cans of Trident, the beer my dad was trying to sell. He had a warehouse twenty minutes away, with stacks of it.

  I’d probably inherit it when he died.

  “Mariaan and Johan, come inside for some dinner.” My mother waved them in. She was trying hard, and it showed.

  We sat at the dining table. The recent varnish made its surface feel greasy. Mother had tried to keep it simple, chicken and beans and sausages. The maid came in carrying a serving dish, and her helper came around with a jug of water. After filling Mrs Van Roonen’s glass, I saw her face.

  She turned to my father, offered him a glass. She was wearing an apron and there was a white cap on her head, but it was her. The singer from the shebeen.

  Everyone at the table suddenly became loud.

  “Yes, yes, Mr Craven, I agree that the black man likes to drink his beer. We are not contesting that.”

  “There would be handsome revenue for the government.”

  “Handsome?”

  “High profits for the government. It would create jobs,” my father said, leaning forward and flashing his smile.

  “White jobs or black jobs, Mr Craven?”

  “Johan, we wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t promising jobs for whites.”

  The singer hadn’t looked at me directly yet. Maybe she didn’t recognize me.

  But then she did.

  The first thing that showed on her face was surprise. Then her expression flashed to the one she’d had when she’d set all her friends on us outside the shebeen. She continued around the table slowly. When she came to me, she leaned down, holding the jug. For a moment we were close, this time no perfume, and she whispered, “Don’t worry, mlungu. I haven’t forgotten who you are.”

  Her voice in my ear, at my dinner table, shocked me.

  The maid walked in with another tray of food. The singer straightened and left with the jug.

  Mr Van Roonen started sounding more enthusiastic around dessert. The koeksisters cheered Mrs Van Roonen up, so maybe my mother’s attempt at serving something Afrikaans might have secured my father’s deal. As for me, I tried not to look at the singer for the rest of the meal.

  Koeksister or no, it wouldn’t be great for my father’s beer business if the Van Roonens learned that I liked to spend my spare time in shebeens. But she wouldn’t dare.

  Just as I was finishing off my first koeksister, the doorbell rang and Megan walked straight in.

  The Van Roonens turned from their sausages to look at her. My mother tensed.

  The singer walked in with an extra plate and cutlery. Megan sat down. I concentrated on my plate as the singer put a napkin next to Megan.

  “Thank you,” Megan said in a low, clear voice. The singer didn’t make any sign that she’d heard.

  As I kept chewing and swallowing, I was aware of the singer weaving around the table, her apron brushing its edges. In the background, my dad’s voice rose, offering to sell Trident at a lower starting price, to increase sales and tax revenue.

  Then the singer finally left. I didn’t see her for the rest of the meal.

  Megan pointed her fork at Van Roonen. “Do you really want to introduce even cheaper liquor to the Bantustans, when alcohol is breaking their families?”

  My mother got angry.

  My father smiled. “Megan, dear, you don’t understand. It all boils down to the bottom line—creating revenue where demand already exists. Revenue means bread on the table for the family. The black one and the white one.”

  “I don’t think that’s how it works,” Megan said. Her father was an editor at the Rand Daily Mail, so Megan thought she knew about these things.

  My father didn’t bring up Trident for the rest of the evening.

  Zanele

  It was the same mlungu from the shebeen, because he almost choked when he saw me.

  I sat on Mama’s bed, waiting for them to finish eating, so we cou
ld clean up. The boy’s mother told us to wait until she called us. That Afrikaans man ate a lot, and the boy’s family laughed at everything he said. The boy said very little, and smiled like he agreed with everything that was said.

  This meal was going to take some time.

  The door opened and the mlungu stood there. Because he was tall, he took up most of the doorway, blocking the light from the corridor. He had a neat haircut and expressionless eyes. You could tell he was very pale but spent time at the beach to hide it.

  He wasn’t in a hurry to say anything.

  I looked at his hands. He put them in the pockets of his trousers, stretching the fabric.

  “You’re not allowed to be here,” I said.

  “Sorry,” he said. His voice was more careful now than that time at the shebeen.

  “So why are you waiting here? Go finish your dessert. Those Boers are waiting.”

  “I will, don’t worry.” He smiled, stopped leaning against the doorway. “Look, we both know why I’m here.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you are here to show me the real colour of your face, in case I got confused at the shebeen.”

  “Look. That was just some face paint. It was just one of my friend’s stupid jokes, nothing more.”

  “My mother and I will come here next time with our faces painted white,” I said. Then, imitating his voice, “It will just be a stupid joke.”

  He said nothing for a while, his eyes fixed on my face. “Look, I’m sorry.” Then, in a more hesitant voice, a voice that I didn’t trust, he continued. “Anyway, it wouldn’t be a good idea to mention what happened.”

  “Why? Because the government people would like to know you go to shebeens in your spare time and paint your face.”

  “Look, there’s no reason to create a scene.” His voice had become soft and even. It was hard to tell what he really meant.

  I got up from the bed.

  “I’m sure I could also make it worth your while,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

  I pushed the door hard and it hit him.

  I should have taken the money from the mlungu. The problem was that I was too proud for Soweto, too proud for Johannesburg. The whole of Africa. That’s what Thabo said.

  Jack

  I fell, tripping over the metal strip of the door frame, just as the maid entered the corridor. She stopped in front of the door to the maid’s room, waiting for me to leave, her expression carefully neutral.

  I got up and walked back to dessert.

  It had been the wrong move to offer the singer money. The wrong move entirely.

  I only saw her once more that weekend. The maid’s cap was tight around her forehead, covering her hair and the tops of her ears. She was at the piano in the second living room. She had a duster under her arm, and was pressing down the keys, but she stopped right before they made a sound.

  No one usually came into this room. The sofas were high backed and uncomfortable. There was an old, dusty impala head on the wall. And there were souvenirs with the queen’s face, everywhere—my mother’s collection.

  “Know how to play?” I asked.

  Of course she didn’t reply. She wiped the piano keys with a rag and lowered the lid. As she left the room, she passed me with that same silence she had at dinner.

  Five

  Meena

  The black Mercedes came again to stop for cigarettes. As I waited for the car to park, I put down a larger order for Lucky Strikes for next week, since it looked like Pillay’s All Purpose had acquired another loyal customer. I had told Papa that police had come for cigarettes, and all he said was good, it would keep the tsotsi away. I brought a pack down from the shelf, but this time it wasn’t the policeman, but the driver, coming out of the car.

  He walked in and rubbed his hands as he entered, leaving the door propped open. Through the shop window I watched the blond man in the back seat lean out of the car, tap the ash of his cigarette onto the sidewalk. He met my eyes.

  The driver walked slowly to the counter, taking off his wool cap to reveal grey patches of hair. I held out a pack of Lucky Strikes. He smiled, and I wondered at what. His eyes were sunk in their sockets, but bright. He had a faint rash on his neck, with small distinct spots.

  “Please, two,” he said.

  I went to get another. Unlike the policeman, he didn’t seem in a hurry. I got a second pack and put them both on the counter. He got his wallet out of his pocket and started singing along to the radio, which was playing a James Brown song. His voice was deep and raspy, but musical.

  “This is good music you have here,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said, and before I could think about whether it was a good idea or not, I asked, “Your boss, he likes Lucky Strikes?”

  The man chuckled, then coughed. “Yes, he likes them, I like them too.” The policeman who chewed tobacco was the odd one out.

  He fingered through his wallet, then eased out two notes and put them on the counter. He took the packs, then dropped one, coughing. Picking it up, he took a hanky from his pocket and pressed it to his mouth.

  “Aye, Jonas. Come now, enough of the chatting,” the blond man called out from the car.

  The driver turned to leave. “Ja, baas, I’m coming.” As he left the shop he flashed a smile at me, leaving the door open.

  I went to close it and watched the car join the traffic.

  Thabo

  Last night, Professor asked to borrow some money. I hadn’t seen him borrow money from anyone, not even Sam Shenge, who often sat next to him in the bar. Professor came to the shebeen every night, and always ran through his money by eleven. But he was proud, for such a thin sad man. So I lent him the money. He was a teacher at my old school, which means, not that Zanele would agree, he was our baba. Professor told me the money was important, which made me think this time it wasn’t for umqombothi.

  But I realized I shouldn’t have lent the money, when Sizwe came to the shebeen to collect the earnings. I had expected him a week later, but still, it was stupid. Now, Sizwe sat opposite me on a barstool and licked his fingers as he counted what I handed to him from the locked drawer at the back of the bar. Mandla was with him, as usual. And this time, Lerato too. Sam stood at the other end of the room, pretending to adjust his tie, which looked like a stupid thing to do. If Sizwe guessed he was a police informant, and I was helping him, Lerato would moer both of us. I’d seen him do that too many times. Sizwe didn’t like people having two jobs. Especially not jobs helping abo gata.

  Sizwe didn’t say anything as he counted. I could hear his fat fingers leafing through the notes. Mandla and Lerato waited, Mandla tapping his fingers against the counter.

  Sizwe stopped counting and turned to him. “Mandla, stop doing that.”

  Mandla stopped. Sizwe counted again—even though we both knew the money was short. I offered him a whiskey. Sizwe looked up, said nothing.

  Mandla began picking his teeth. He stopped and looked at me. “You have a problem, umntwana?”

  “No problem, just looking at your nice teeth. So clean.” Mandla leaned across the bar, and I stepped back, just a small step. Mandla had been angry ever since Sizwe had chosen me over him to run the shebeen.

  Lerato watched us. He was getting irritated. I knew if I said anything else, he would throw me outside. Around here they called Lerato Sizwe’s butcher.

  I sat on the bartender’s stool. Finally, Sizwe put the money in a white envelope and put it in his pocket. He got up from his chair. Lerato didn’t move.

  “You’re short,” Sizwe said, “by a hundred rand.”

  “Sorry, sir, I was expecting you next week, and I will have it by then.”

  “It’s hundred less,” he repeated.

  “The police came in last week, on one of the big nights,” I lied. “They took a hundred fifty. That’s why.”

  Sizwe
had been admiring the rings on his fat fingers, but now he looked at me. He nodded at Lerato, who picked me up until my feet were kicking against the counter. Mandla looked up at me and laughed.

  “Thabo,” Sizwe said, “I like you. You are a good boy. But I don’t like excuses. I don’t like lies. I don’t want police in my shebeen, looking for mlungu. We have no fights with the police. And we never have mlungu. Understand?”

  “I understand,” I said. “Please, sir, I understand.”

  Lerato dropped me. For a few seconds I thought that was it. But then he hit me in the face. I got to my feet, fast. They left the shebeen, Lerato opening the car door for Sizwe. Mandla got in last.

  The only way Sizwe could have known about the mlungu was if one of my people told him. “Fok,” I said.

  Through all this, Sam had been standing in the corner, watching. “Voetsek,” I told him.

  Eish, what did I expect from a boy who earned money off abo gata?

  Zanele

  Mankwe and I sat next to each other on the stools against the wall, and ate paap. The wind blew cold clean air onto our faces. Mankwe had time before the show and hadn’t dressed up yet.

  “What are you going to sing today?” I asked her.

  “Maybe some Thandi Klaasen or Mama Makeba.”

  “Which one?”

  “Whatever Thabo says.” She was looking past me to the open door.

  “Whatever Thabo says?”

  “He’s the manager, Zani,” Mankwe said. “And he’s a good boy.”

  “Good boy that steals.”

  Mankwe looked at me. Her eyes were almost like mine, almost. But larger. “Whatever he needs to do to get money.”

  She took out her face mirror, oval-shaped with a pink plastic frame and handle. It looked like a child’s toy. Baba had found it in a rubbish dump years ago, and she’d kept it, along with a small picture of him that was tucked into the corner. The picture was old, Baba in a suit, hair pomaded, head back, microphone to his mouth. It had been taken at his brother’s wedding, I think.