by Arushi Raina
I turned to look behind me, at the empty road. No one would know if we disappeared.
“Not having the correct details in the passbook is a fine, not an arrest,” Meena interrupted. “That’s the law.”
“Get in the car,” the man repeated.
“No,” I said.
“What did you say?” The man leaned forward, his eyes waiting. Just waiting.
“I said no,” I repeated. I knew I’d regret it. The policeman closed his hand around my arm. It was clammy, the fingers thin and powerful. He could take us wherever he wanted.
Suddenly, there was a voice, and a car came into view. A red, shabby Mustang with the front light still broken. Jack Craven leaned out of the window and waved. “Zanele, my mother’s been expecting you three hours ago,” he said. He looked from me to Meena, then finally to the policeman.
The man’s hand pressed into my skin.
Jack stepped out of the car. He walked slowly over to the policeman until he was close enough to lean forward and read the name on his badge. “Officer Lourie?” Jack said.
“Who are you?” said the policeman.
“Jack Craven,” he said, like it was meant to mean something. He held out his hand.
I was between a spoiled white boy and a policeman, and I had to be quiet while they fought over me.
Jack sent me a careful warning glance. Like we’d done this many times.
“Come, Lourie. I would hate having to drag Superintendent Joubert all the way here to sort out this mess. Just left off having dinner with him now. Our place is a mess because the two of them are late.” Jack had a smile fixed on his face.
The policeman hesitated, let go.
Jack cocked his head in the direction of the car and turned back to the policeman. We walked over to the car. If we rushed, we’d give it away.
“Here, here’s my driving license.” Jack handed it to the policeman as if he were doing him a favour. “I completely understand, you must take my details.”
“I’m going to check on you, hey,” the policeman said.
“Please do,” Jack said.
Meena closed the car door. “How do you know this guy?”
“My mother cleans his house. That’s it.”
Jack turned back to the car, still smiling, hands in pockets. Then he got in, gave the policeman another wave, and started the car.
The police car followed. I watched it drive out of sight.
“Stop the car,” I said.
“I just got you out of an arrest,” Jack said.
“Stop the car.”
“That policeman was itching to break your wrist right there.”
“Stop the car.”
“Don’t be silly,” he replied, looking at me in the rear-view mirror. “I’ll drive you back home.”
Jack took a sharp left, toward Parktown, or maybe Soweto.
“I don’t believe we’ve met before,” he said, glancing at Meena in the mirror. “I’m Jack.”
There he was again. Making friends.
“He was the white guy who dropped you at the shop that time, wasn’t he?” Meena said.
I didn’t answer.
“I’m trying to help you. You should know that by now.” He braked. “If you want to leave, leave. Or I’ll drive you home. Last time you were in here you didn’t seem to mind so much.”
“I think we should let him take us away from here,” Meena said. “Drop us at Pillay’s All Purpose, on President Street, please.”
Jack started the car up again. He smiled at me in the rear-view mirror. I didn’t smile back.
Nine
Jack
I looked at Zanele in the mirror. She was sitting in the back seat next to her friend, an oversized, ugly blue jacket around her shoulders. Her hands were folded on her lap. When she sensed I was looking at her, she raised her eyes to meet mine in the mirror.
“So, how was the meeting?” I asked.
She didn’t reply.
“Fine,” the Indian girl said.
“What was the meeting about?” I asked, another question directed at Zanele. “There are so many things people protest about these days, I lose track.”
“How did you know there was a meeting?” the Indian girl asked me.
Zanele shot her a look.
“I read it,” I said. “From your friend’s collection.”
“He read it?” her voice rose, panicked.
“I’m not going to turn you in. Don’t worry.”
“How can we be sure?”
“I just got you out of that policeman situation.”
“That could have been staged,” the Indian girl said.
“You have a vivid imagination.”
She smiled.
“So what was that meeting about?” I asked again. “To get our friend Lourie so excited?”
“You tell me,” Zanele replied.
Up ahead, President Street was in sight, her friend’s stop. They opened the doors, got out.
I took the long way home. For some reason, I wanted the shebeen singer to trust me.
Chasing your maid’s daughter. A fine game, Jackie boy, Ricky would say if he knew.
When I got home, I poured myself a drink on the porch. There had been something satisfying about playing around with the Lourie guy.
I met Megan for lunch at the golf course the next day.
“The township’s on edge because of the new Afrikaans law.”
“Afrikaans?”
“They’re making all the children there switch from English to Afrikaans.”
“So that’s it?”
“Why all these questions, Jack?” She laughed. “You thinking about joining in?” She put on her cardigan and walked ahead of me, out of the restaurant and onto the golf course.
It was a crisp winter afternoon. The aloes had opened in streaks of orange in the flower bed next to the outside tables.
I used to like the way Megan laughed at me. I liked Megan, that was it. Back then there was no one else—and there was no reason not to take Megan to parties, to dinner, to weekends in Cape Town.
Meena
There was a reason why screwdrivers weren’t the best tool for cutting through to the heart. The tip was wide and blunt, forcing a slow entry into the rubbery fibres and fascia of the pectoral muscle over the heart.
The teacher in Soweto was stabbed five times—twice in the stomach, two superficial cuts on the chest, then the puncture of the heart.
None of the newspapers—The Drum, The World, Rand Daily Mail or The Times—mentioned in what order the wounds were made. Maybe whoever stabbed him didn’t know they were going to kill him. Maybe.
That guy at the PAC meeting had been annoyed when I’d brought up the murder. Zanele hadn’t been pleased either when I mentioned it. She said she knew the teacher, and what she really meant was that it was none of my business.
I took the newspapers with articles about the stabbing down from the shelf to read them again.
That’s when the white boy came in, the one from two nights ago. He walked straight to the counter and waited for me, staring at the chewing gum next to the register.
I saw now that he was one of those rugby tennis types from all-boys white schools like St Stithians or Jeppes. His eyes were cold.
“Can I help you?” I said.
“We met a few nights ago. I’m Jack. You’re—sorry, I’m terrible with names.” He held out his hand.
The shop bell rang.
And the tsotsi walked in, this time wearing a black army-style beret.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the white guy, “I—”
“We’ve met,” the white boy said, an edge of impatience coming into his voice. “We have.”
The tsotsi picked up a magazine and paged through it, looki
ng at us. His eyes were small, deep-set in his face. The beret gave him an even meaner look.
Zanele had told him not to come back, but here he was, waiting for the white boy to leave.
And then slowly, almost without realizing it, I slid my gaze from the tsotsi to the white boy. The tsotsi wanted money? Well there it was, in the white boy’s back pocket.
“Yes, okay,” I said to the white boy. “I know. So what kind do you want? Chappies?”
The tsotsi kept paging through Huisgenoot, waiting. For God’s sake.
The white boy smiled, like I’d said something funny. He reached into the plastic jar and took out a handful and dropped them on the counter. Then he took out another handful, and another.
The tsotsi put down the magazine, walked up to the counter next to the white boy and stared at the pile of Chappies. He slid over a tube of toothpaste and a coin.
“Really? Toothpaste?”
“Thula wena,” he answered.
I handed over his change. The tsotsi took the toothpaste and left without a word. He must have taken the white boy’s wallet while I picked out his change.
I smiled. “You want that many Chappies?”
“Not really.”
I picked up the newspaper and started reading.
“You’re one of those liberal types,” he said. “Rand Daily.”
“So what?”
“Nothing. A friend of mine—her dad’s the editor.”
“Okay.” I continued reading.
“You know Zanele pretty well, right?”
As if I didn’t know the whole time that was why he’d come to the shop. The other night he’d stared at her in the rear-view mirror like there was no tomorrow.
“Who’s Zanele?” I said.
“Come on,” he said. He leaned his elbow on the counter and waited. “I’d like you to pass on a message to her.”
“What is it?”
“Tell her to call me.” He tore off a piece of the newspaper, scribbled a number and passed it to me.
“Why don’t you pass on the message yourself?” I said, taking the piece of paper. “Avalon cemetery.”
“What?”
“Cemeteries usually have funerals,” I said, sliding over the obituary from The World. As he read it, I counted the Chappies and put them in a bag.
“Thanks for this,” he said, taking the newspaper and the bag of Chappies. “How much?”
“Seven cents.”
He dug into his back pocket. Frowned. “I could have sworn I . . .”
“On the house this time,” I said.
“I’ll pay you later,” he said. Still frowning.
“Sure,” I said.
He looked back once before leaving the shop. We knew he was about to do something he wasn’t supposed to do. That there were going to be consequences. And I was helping him.
Jack
“I’m thinking, for the hors d’oeuvres, green olives on toothpicks, and some of that smoked cheese Dad picked up from that shop in Parktown. No, no, that’s too simple for a farewell party.” My mother leaned back in her chair. “How about some Italian truffle cheese on a cracker. And then a sprinkling of caviar?”
I sat at the other end of the table, playing with my car keys. Lillian stood behind my mother’s chair.
I wondered whether Zanele would be called in to help.
Lillian’s hands were crossed over her apron, her eyes on the back of my mother’s chair.
“I’ll get what’s on this list, and we’ll just stick with that.” I took it from my mother and put it in my new wallet. “Anything you make will be great, Mom. Oliver, Ricky and the rest will love it. I don’t want you to stress about it.”
“It’s your last party, Jack. I want it to be perfect.”
“Sounds like a death sentence,” I said under my breath as I left the room.
I got out of the car and saw a line of police cars parked against the curb across the street. What they were doing at a funeral, I couldn’t say.
She was standing apart from the funeral procession, watching it. She was wearing that oversized blue jacket again, and carrying a large plastic Pick’nPay bag. Her arms were crossed, and her eyes followed the coffin’s progress through the crowd. The going was slow. There was a lot of shouting and singing.
“You’re not wearing black.”
Zanele looked at me, then turned back to the procession. She didn’t look surprised to see me.
All around us were swathes of open green-yellow land waiting for people to be buried. We watched as the casket was lowered into the ground. A tall woman leaned forward and threw in the first handful of dirt. The soil was dark, almost black.
Slowly, people dispersed except for a small cluster gathered around the grave—the tall woman, who was crying loudly, and two older women, holding her.
Zanele exhaled slowly, her eyes fixed on the stragglers.
“I think—”
“Be quiet, mlungu.”
“I see police cars,” I said, pointing at them.
I turned around and started to walk back to my car. I sensed her following me—but I didn’t look back to check. I knew not to.
Her hand caught the handle of the passenger door, and opened it. She got inside, silently. “Start the car,” she said, tapping me, her fingers on my arm, like we’d known each other a long time. “The police are waiting.”
I reversed, putting the car into a fast turn, and then straight along the dirt track that curved away from the cemetery. Through the rear mirror, I watched the police cars. It didn’t look like they moved.
I turned into Moroka Bypass and took the right lane.
“Stay left. And when you come to the next light, turn right.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see, mlungu. Be patient. You’re the one who follows me everywhere I go, now I’m letting you to drive me around.”
We stopped in front of a small ugly building.
“What’s this?” I said.
“A school.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“I know what day of the week it is.” She picked up her plastic bag. She opened the door, scanning the road and the building.
I took the key out of the car, shut the passenger door and followed.
When I walked inside the school, I saw she was scattering paper all over the dark smelly corridor.
I leaned down and picked up one of the sheets. “They’re just announcements. A debate. Nothing else.”
“Disappointed?”
“What’s the point of this?” I asked her, still fingering the paper.
“You tell me,” she said.
“How would I know?”
She didn’t reply. I stood there as the sheets of paper fell around me. Then I walked around and looked into the classrooms, with their crowded, lopsided seats. The sums on the blackboard were written in an unsteady hand.
“I’m done,” she said. She walked ahead of me to the car, saying nothing.
“How many schools are you going to do?”
“Are you bored already?” she asked. “You’re the one who volunteered.”
“I don’t get the point of it.”
“It’s better you don’t.”
“You knew I was coming. Meena must have told you. You brought this stuff along and planned to use me as your driver.”
“Is that what you think is happening?” She smiled.
We got back in the car.
At the seventh school, I got the feeling that we were being followed. I didn’t say anything for a while. But when we were about to turn onto the school grounds, I made a sharp right, away.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re being followed.”
The police car matched our pace.
&nbs
p; Zanele
We’d turned onto a small street, the car scraping against the shack walls. Jack’s eyes flicked from the rear-view mirror to the turning ahead. Then he turned left, out onto the road that led to the highway to Wynberg. The car behind us was closer now.
“Hold tight,” Jack said. He turned sharply, onto the island. The car swerved for one awful moment, and the tires scraped and shuddered as we went over. I heard swearing and honking, but now we were on the highway, heading in the opposite direction. Jack took the exit and accelerated.
He leaned back in his seat, taking one hand off the steering wheel. There was no sign of the police car.
“You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?” I said.
He smiled, said nothing.
Ahead, the view changed, from buildings to houses to koppies, to flat, empty land and short trees.
“You know this place?” he asked. He stopped, pulling the handbrake.
“My friend borrows a car sometimes.” All around us, the land rose. The veld grass was yellow and long. From the road, we couldn’t be seen. He opened the car door and got out. He looked up and smiled, his hands in his pockets.
He looked calm, like he was in the habit of running from police.
I stayed in the car, watching the mlungu.
That whole night after he’d dropped Meena and me at the store, I stayed awake, sure that Mama would get fired in the morning, and the police would show up with handcuffs at our shack.
He came to the window on my side. Close. His eyes were an unclear, watery colour, grey or black or blue, and there was something in them that was laughing at me. But the rest of his face looked like it belonged to an honest person. Someone you wanted to trust. The mlungu had looked like that when he’d come the first time to drop Mama at home, saying he was sorry for painting his face black. But I didn’t believe him. And he knew it too. Still he tried.
“Coming outside, for fresh air? They say it’s good for the nerves.”
“I’m fine. Maybe you are the nervous one. It’s hard for mlungus to run away from the police.”
“It is hard, I agree,” he said.
He looked up at the sky, squinting. His collared sleet-grey shirt blew out in the wind. He looked thin, but I knew he could run fast. The way he had looked at that policeman last night. Like it would be no problem to cuff the policeman and send him back in his own car. How little he knew.