I greet Nothando Ndlovu and introduce myself. “Molo. Igama lam ndinguBeauty.”
“Ndiyakwazi.” Nothando says she knows who I am. I reach out to take her hand so that I can hold it in my own, but she is clutching a piece of paper, which she hands across to me. I hold it up so the light from the window can fall on it; it is a photograph of a pretty girl of seventeen with a white birthmark seeping out from below her lips to her neck. She is smiling with her mouth closed as though she is embarrassed about her teeth, but her eyes are alive with laughter.
Before I can tell Nothando that her daughter is beautiful, and that I will not rest until we find her, an agonized moan tears through the room. All eyes turn to the corner where the darkness has gathered itself so tightly together that very little light penetrates. I peer into the gloom and can make out a shape lying on a mattress on the floor; it is covered by many blankets and yet it is shivering. The bundle groans again, louder than before, and I look to my host for an explanation.
“That is Sipho, the son of my friend Lungile. He was shot in the leg by the police.”
I go to the bed to pull back the blankets so I can look at the boy’s face. It is as I thought.
“He’s in a lot of pain.”
The voice startles me; I did not see the boy sitting on the other side of the bed leaning against the wall, still as a statue. His resemblance to the boy in the bed is striking. It is like looking at a reflection of the same person.
“You are his brother?”
He nods. “His twin.” The boys look to be about thirteen. They still have the cherubic faces of babies, but this boy’s voice sounds as though it is breaking into manhood.
“What is your name?”
“Asanda,” he replies. “I should have been there with him to protect him.”
“You got separated?”
“No, I didn’t attend the march. I thought it would be too dangerous, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He insisted on going after he was bullied into it.” He is quiet for a moment and then continues. “I just keep thinking that after he was shot, he was lying there in the street, bleeding for a long time. He was alone and a twin should never be alone.” His voice is heavy with pain and regret. “I should have been there,” he repeats.
“He was not alone.”
“How do you know?”
“I was there with him.” I recognized the boy immediately. He was one of the children I spoke to as he floated before me in the river of blood.
“You? You were there with him?” I am not offended by his skepticism. I still cannot believe that I was there. It feels like a dream.
“Yes, I was looking for my daughter who I could not find. I found him instead. He told me his name was Sipho, and I held his hand and stroked his forehead. He said that he had never met his father, and I told him that his mother loved him and would be there soon.”
At this, the boy begins silently weeping, and I turn my face to the room full of women. I can see he is proud and does not want me to witness his tears.
“The police have instructed the doctors at the hospitals to report anyone who comes in seeking treatment for a gunshot wound so they can arrest them for being involved in the protest,” Nothando says. “That is why they could not take him to the hospital. They brought him here because Lungile’s house is too far.”
“I have heard that the doctors are refusing to make these reports,” I say. I place my hand on the boy’s forehead. It holds the heat of a hundred fires. “He needs medical treatment.”
“You think the security police will not just walk into the hospitals and pull these children from their beds? You think white doctors can be trusted?”
She says the words that I, myself, thought when I first arrived in Soweto and we drove past Baragwanath Hospital.
The child cries out again, his eyes rolling back, and I stand up to face Nothando. “I think this child has an infection and he needs to see a doctor.”
“The nyanga has been here. He removed the bullet and prepared a poultice for the wound.”
“The poultice is not working. He has a fever.”
“We have brewed the nyanga’s herbs for that. We feed it to him every hour.”
“How much of the tea does he keep down?”
Nothando averts her eyes, confirming my suspicion.
“If you do not take this child to the hospital, he will be dead by nightfall,” I say. The words feel like sand in my mouth but I must speak the truth.
“And whose fault will that be?” A woman walks through the door and rushes over to the bed. I do not need an introduction to know that she is Lungile, the boys’ mother. “If he dies, it will be your daughter’s fault. She is the one who made our children do this. She is the one with blood on her hands and you, her mother, did not stop her. If he dies, you are just as much to blame as Nomsa is.”
Of course, she is right. If it is true that the sins of the father will be visited upon the child, then the sins of the child must be visited on the mother tenfold.
Eighteen
ROBIN
22 JUNE 1976
Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa
Edith handed me the freshly laundered T-shirt and jersey. “Go take that down to the Goldmans in 302, and say thank you to Morris and his mother for lending them to you.”
“Can’t you come with?”
“Nope, I’m planning to soak in the tub for an hour and read the latest Jackie Collins.”
“What’s it called?”
“The World Is Full of Divorced Women.”
“Can I read it after you?”
“You’re a bit young.”
“When will I be old enough?”
“We’ll talk again when you’re thirteen and I’m teaching you how to stuff your bra.”
I crinkled my nose. I’d never wear a bra! “Come on, Cat,” I called as I headed out.
“No, leave Cat behind.”
“Why?”
Edith sighed. “Robs, I’ve tried to be understanding, I really have, but aren’t you a bit old for an imaginary friend?”
“She’s not a friend, she’s my sister.”
“Fair enough, but aren’t you a bit old for an imaginary sister?”
I considered this and then, remembering an unkind remark my father had once made about Edith’s obsession with the rock legend, I asked, “Aren’t you a bit old for an imaginary boyfriend?”
“Ha! You got me there. Touché!” Edith laughed for a moment before growing serious again. “I just wonder why . . . I mean, where she came from. As I remember it, I was there one weekend visiting you and Cat wasn’t around, and then all of a sudden, there she was the next time I saw you. Did . . . did something happen to make her appear?”
I thought back to the conversation I’d overheard between Edith and my mother, the one that had forever changed the way I saw myself, and remembered the surprise on my mother’s face when Cat was born fully grown a week later. My mother had been spooked at first, then slightly amused; the annoyance only came later when Cat’s true nature showed itself.
“No,” I lied. “She just decided to come. Why can’t I take her with me now?”
“It’s important to limit the amount of crazy you show people the first time you meet them. First impressions are important. You can spring your sister on them once they know you better.”
I sighed and turned to Cat to explain. “I won’t be long, okay?”
Cat smiled and nodded. “I understand.” And that was the thing about Cat, she always did.
“Bye,” I said, and turned to go.
After waiting too long for the elevator, I took the stairs the eight floors down. I found a boy sitting in the stairwell on the third floor, staring dejectedly at the contents of a Tupperware container that was laid open on his lap. Peeking over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of diced b
rown stuff that didn’t look very appetizing. It didn’t smell appealing either. Crackers and a butter knife were spread out on a napkin to his right and a big, lumpy backpack sat on his left.
“What’s that?”
He jerked around at the sound of my voice, and I skirted him, careful not to step on any of his stuff. Heaving a sigh that was too weary for such a young soul, he said, “It’s my lunch.”
“Why are you eating it here?”
He shrugged in reply.
“What is it?”
“Chopped liver and onion.”
“It looks horrible.”
“It’s not as bad as pickled herring.”
I had no idea what pickled herring was, but it sounded just as awful. “Are you going to eat it?”
“I don’t know. I could throw it away, but I’m actually quite hungry.” He poked at it as though he was expecting it to magically turn into ice cream.
Before I could stop myself, I ventured, “I could get you a peanut butter and jam sandwich if you want.”
His face brightened. “You could?”
I sighed. “Well, I can’t let you starve, can I?”
I knew from what Edith had told me that Morris Goldman was eleven years old. That made him two years older than me even though he looked two years younger. Olive-skinned and gawky, he had an unruly mop of hair that was whipped up into a black meringue, which topped off a generally disheveled appearance. He was wearing full-length brown pants that looked like something formal you’d wear to church, and he’d paired them with a snow-white T-shirt (identical to the one I was returning) and leather sandals.
Besides being odd-looking, Morris spoke with a deep voice that was disarming. By the look of him, you expected him to chirp like a cricket; instead, sound boomed from his tiny chest so that whispered conversations with him would pretty much be impossible. Being able to whisper and keep secrets was high up on my list of traits I looked for in friends, as was being a girl. He failed miserably on all accounts, but I figured I couldn’t be too picky.
“Do you want to be my friend?” I asked.
He smiled and nodded. “I don’t have any friends so you’d be my first one.”
“You don’t have any friends?”
“Well, my mom’s my friend, so I guess I have one. My dad says he can’t be my friend, because he’s my dad and the disciplinarian in the family, so I need to respect him.”
“What about school? Don’t you have any friends there?”
“I don’t go to school. I’m homeschooled.”
“Why?”
“One of the kids in grade one called me a dirty Jew boy and a Jesus killer so my parents took me out. My dad says school in this country is an incubator for fascists.”
Most of the words that came out of Morris’s mouth confused me. “What’s a fascist?”
“I’m not sure. I think it’s a rat or something like that. My dad hates rats.”
I hadn’t seen any rats at school, but I wasn’t going to argue with his father. “What about family? Don’t you have cousins who can be your friends?”
“I have two cousins; they’re twelve and sixteen. They live in Cape Town and I only see them on holidays, but they don’t want to be friends with me either because they say I’m weird.”
“Good grief, I thought I had it bad.”
“Because your parents are dead?”
“Who told you that?”
He shrugged. “I heard my parents talking.” He held out his hand formally to shake mine. “My name’s Morris.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You can call me Morrie if you like.”
“I’m Robin.”
“Yes, that’s what I heard, but I thought it couldn’t be right.”
“Why?”
“Because Robin is a boy’s name.”
“No it’s not!”
“Yes it is. Robin Hood was a boy.”
“Who’s Robin Hood?”
“A guy who stole from the rich to give to the poor.”
“Why?”
Morrie scratched his head. “I’m not sure.”
“He sounds stupid. Stealing is wrong, everyone knows that. Is he a friend of yours?”
“No, he’s not a friend of mine. Didn’t I just tell you that I don’t have any friends?”
“Oh yes. Sorry.”
“Anyway, he has your stupid name.”
“It’s a girl’s name!”
“The goyim are weird.”
I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking him another question, so I pretended to agree. “Stupid goyim. So let’s go.”
Morrie bundled up all the food and slung the backpack over his shoulders. Whatever was in there must have weighed a ton because he tottered a bit before he regained his balance and followed me. Once we got back to the apartment, we called out greetings to Edith who was already in the bath. Cat was in the lounge and she smiled at me and I winked back. Once she could see I didn’t need her, she waved and disappeared into the bedroom.
Morrie upended the Tupperware over the bin and all the chopped liver came tumbling out. He stared at it for a moment—the brown mess settled on top of congealed white porridge that Edith had burnt on the stove that morning—and then reached for his backpack. He pulled out something big and bulky and started fiddling with it as he held it up to his face.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a Kodak EK6.”
“A what?”
“It’s an instant camera.”
I was impressed even though I didn’t show it. “Where did you get it?”
“My grandfather gave it to me at the end of December. He got Edith to bring it back from America.”
“For Christmas?”
“No, definitely not for Christmas! Just for the end of December.” He was very adamant about this and stopped fiddling with the thing just so he could glare at me to be sure I understood this point.
“Okay.”
“He’s a photographer and he’s been teaching me because he says genius should be cultivated from a young age.” Morrie clipped something onto the camera and then turned back to the bin and opened the lid again. He held the boxy silver camera up to his face and looked through the hole, pointing it down at the garbage.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to take a picture.”
“Of that horrible mess?”
“Yes.”
“But why? Why don’t you take a picture of something pretty instead?” My father had had a camera and he’d been very particular about the kinds of things he’d take pictures of: sunsets, misty mountain ranges and my mother when she was all dressed up. He said film was expensive and so you had to be a hundred percent sure you had a good shot of something beautiful before taking it; he’d sometimes make my mother and me pose for half an hour until our jaws got sore with smiling before he was satisfied enough to press the shutter.
“My zayde says—”
“Your who?”
“My grandfather. He says that the world is a cruel place and it’s our job to record its ugliness.”
I thought his grandfather was crazy, but Morrie was so fixated on taking his picture of the disgusting bin that I chose not to express my opinion about his relatives. A bright flash lit up the kitchen and then a square of something was ejected from the bottom of the camera. Morrie plucked it out and then waved it around before putting it gently on a clean surface. By then, I’d fanned a few slices of bread out in front of us and Morrie looked at them as if he’d died and gone to heaven.
“Do you keep a kosher kitchen?” he asked.
“Of course, doesn’t everyone?”
He seemed satisfied with that and then sat looking at me, expecting me to serve him. I wasn’t Edith’s niece for nothing; she’d taught me
a thing or two. “Make your own damn sandwich. I’m not your concubine, you know.”
“What’s a concubine?”
It was something I’d heard Edith say to my father on more than one occasion, but I wasn’t sure what it meant and didn’t want to admit it. Instead, I rolled my eyes and sighed. “It’s a small animal that shoots quills out at people. Everyone knows that.”
“Oh.” If Morrie wondered what a quill-shooting animal had to do with being self-sufficient, he didn’t say. Instead, he set about making his sandwich, using the same knife in the peanut butter and jam jars and making a gloppy mess.
Half an hour later when Morrie had finished the sandwiches and packed up to leave, he picked up the piece of thick paper he’d taken from the camera and held it up to the light to peer at it. He handled it like it was a holy object; there was reverence on his face.
“Look.” He held the photo out to me.
“It’s developed already? My dad’s pictures usually took two weeks.”
“I told you. This one is instant.”
I looked at the picture. “It’s garbage,” I said.
He sighed. “Everyone’s a critic.”
Nineteen
BEAUTY
23 JUNE 1976
Soweto, Johannesburg, South Africa
Today is Nomsa’s eighteenth birthday and instead of celebrating her birth, Andile and I are standing in line outside the South African Police morgue waiting to identify her body. We have been waiting outside the ugly face-brick building since 4 a.m., and despite the early hour, we were not the first to arrive; there are at least ten families ahead of us.
The temperature is just below freezing. I have two blankets draped over my head and wrapped around my shoulders, and still I tremble; it is as much from dread as it is from cold. Someone has built a fire in a metal drum, and the flames cast leaping shadows on the faces of the people around me. We look like poor, damned souls who have been sent to hell to suffer. Perhaps that is where we are.
Andile leaves my side to talk to a woman who is in front of us in the queue. I recognize her. Nothando Ndlovu is here looking for her daughter, Phumla. At least she and I have some hope, threadbare as the thinnest of blankets, but still something to cling to which is more than what Lungile has. I heard that her son Sipho died. Never have I wished so much that I would be wrong as when I looked upon that child and felt his life burning itself out. I cannot meet Nothando’s eyes. I cannot face the anguish in them and I turn away, waiting for Andile to return.
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