Hum If You Don't Know the Words

by Bianca Marais

  You must pay me with money because we cannot live on haircuts.

  Your friend with hair,

  Robin Conrad

  Edith stumbled out of her room once while we were clattering away, her hand raised to her forehead. “What is causing all that racket? It sounds like you’re remodeling in here.”

  I had to think quickly. “Cat and me are writing our own story so we can have something to read.”

  “Marvelous. I am overjoyed for the both of you. Could you please just keep it down a bit? I have a headache.”

  After Edith disappeared back into her bedroom, taking a bottle of wine and a bottle of pills with her, Cat and I decided that my job applications had to be delivered straightaway before other people could be considered for the positions. Forgoing takkies and jerseys, in case a trip to the bedroom for them made Edith suspicious of our intentions, we tiptoed to the door and then ventured out barefoot in our jeans and T-shirts.

  I regretted the decision almost immediately; it was much colder outside than it had been earlier and an icy wind swept down Raleigh Street. The chilled concrete pavement leached what little heat I’d retained and my nose started to run. I had nothing to wipe my nose with (no tissues, my shirt was short-sleeved and Cat wouldn’t oblige), so I did the best I could with the back of my hand.

  Edith had told me more than once that first impressions were the most important, which is why you had to be the best version of yourself when meeting people for the first time. Looking at my reflection in a shop window, I knew that my dirty bare feet, blue-tinged skin speckled with giant goose bumps and snot-encrusted upper lip wasn’t my best look, but I was too cold to care.

  I sprinted into each shop, threw my application on the counter and then dashed out again. If nothing else, I hoped that my first impression would be of someone who was quick and efficient. Once the letters were safely delivered, Cat and I dashed back to our building so I could thaw out while we worked on the rest of our plan.

  As we walked through the lobby door, we bumped into Morrie who was on his way out with his camera.

  “Hello,” he bellowed in that voice of his. “Where were you?”

  “Just out. Where are you going?”

  “To the shop to take pictures of the niggerballs. You want to come with?”

  “What’s a niggerball?”

  “It’s a round black sweet that turns white as you suck on it. If you put a few in your mouth, they make it bulge like this.” He puffed out his cheeks and bugged his eyes out in an attempt to entice me, but I didn’t quite see the charm of a sweet that made you look like that. “They’re in a bowl on the counter and sometimes the flies land on them. Want to come see?”

  “Yuck. No, thank you.” I walked around him to press the button for the lift and he turned and followed me.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “If you absolutely must know, we need to carry out a top-secret plan.”

  “We do? Cool!”

  “Not you!”

  “But you said ‘we.’”

  It was a slip of the tongue. I hadn’t meant to mention Cat, but now that he was pestering me, I realized that it was probably time to unleash the craziness that Edith had warned me about. If Morrie truly wanted to be my friend, he needed to know what he was getting himself into.

  “‘We’ as in me and my sister.”

  “I didn’t know you have a sister.”

  “She’s standing right next to you.”

  Morrie looked around, confused for a moment, and then he smiled. “Cool. An imaginary sister!”

  I smiled. He’d passed the first test.

  “I can help with the plan,” he said as he followed us back into the lift.

  “How?”

  “Well, you’ll need to tell me what the plan is first and then I’ll be able to say—”

  I clapped my hand over Morrie’s mouth. “Shh.”

  I could hear the banging before we’d even reached our floor and I knew that it couldn’t be anything good. With an overwhelming sense of foreboding, I crept out of the elevator and down the passage, indicating to Morrie that he should keep quiet as he followed. Once we got to the corner, I craned my neck to peer around into the corridor. The person standing at the door was short and squat. The face was in profile, which made the hook nose and sickle chin look even more pronounced. A gold pendant glinted at her neck.

  “It’s that horrible lady,” Cat said.

  She was right. It was Wilhelmina and she was pounding on our apartment door like the dickens.

  “Robin? Are you in there? Please open the door.” Bang, bang, bang. “Ms. Vaughn? You can’t go on avoiding me like this. I keep phoning but the line is constantly engaged so you’ve forced me to arrive unannounced.”

  Cat looked terrified. “What if Edith opens the door?”

  “I’m sure she isn’t that stupid,” I whispered back, though I wasn’t entirely sure of that.

  “She might do it just to shout at her.”

  “She won’t, don’t worry.”

  That’s when Morrie decided to join the hushed conversation between Cat and me. With his voice sounding like a foghorn. “What is your sister saying?”

  The social worker spun around at the sound of Morrie’s voice. “Robin?” She’d spotted us and was already striding in our direction.

  “Run,” I yelled at Cat but she was already ahead of me making a dash for the stairwell. I had to push Morrie so I didn’t fall over him.

  Twenty-six

  BEAUTY

  23 JULY 1976

  Houghton, Johannesburg, South Africa

  At first, there is nothing to hear except the sound of our own breathing. There is nowhere to hide, the tiny room itself is our only sanctuary, and so Kgomotso sits in Maggie’s chair. With a shrug, he invites me to sit across from him. There is nothing to do but wait, but I would rather pass the time on my feet.

  For the first time since I have been in here, the photographs and books do not interest me. I cannot bear to look at the happy faces in the framed pictures or the bound volumes of hope below. My thoughts are an army of red ants that are constantly in motion. They devour everything in their path; allowing them to turn inward would be dangerous.

  I want to ask Kgomotso about himself, learn his story about how he came to be in this room with me, but I am too afraid to speak. The “invisible household” has thus far been made up of seven of us, all of whom Maggie and Andrew are helping in one way or another. We are all in danger of being arrested, though I suspect that Kgomotso is in more danger than the rest of us.

  It is an unwritten rule that we do not divulge too much about ourselves. What we do not know cannot be used against others if we are tortured for information. Kgomotso has been here longer than we have and seems to serve some kind of security function. A young man, no older than his early twenties, he is ambitious and driven. He fights for what he believes in, just like Nomsa.

  I think back to the day she was born; to a time before my husband, Silumko, had to leave the village along with other able-bodied young men to work in the gold mines. He’d been away with the cattle for two days and I expected him back before nightfall. When my pains started, they did not last as long as the other women said they would. The baby struggled to leave the protection of my womb, and I didn’t have time to call for the midwife before Nomsa fought her way free onto the floor of clay and dung.

  Nomsa did not cry out, she made no noise at all, and I knew then that something was wrong. The cord of life was wrapped around her neck and she could not breathe, could not accept the gift of air that was waiting to fill her lungs. I reached for the panga and I freed my child from the noose that bound us together. I wonder if that cut of the cord that so decisively separates mother from child is nature’s way of reminding us that we are no longer of one body and must start learning the process
of letting go. If so, does any mother ever truly learn how?

  Thinking of Nomsa is like adding wood to a fire whose thirst can only be quenched by painful memories, but I cannot help myself, and thinking of Nomsa makes me think of her father. I wonder if his death two years ago is what fueled her anger and set the course of her life northeast. Did the magnetic field of his death draw her to Johannesburg so she could avenge his death?

  I think, too, of my remaining sons, Luxolo and Khwezi, who are being looked after by the elders in our tribe. I always said that I would not allow my children to be raised away from me, yet look at me now: one child in the ground, another on the run from the police and two more across the country without one parent to take care of them.

  Voices outside interrupt my thoughts and I instinctively switch off the lights. At first, the murmurs sound like the buzzing of a swarm of flies but then, as they get closer, we can hear the individual words in their muffled entirety.

  “As you can see, this is the library. Feel free to check behind the curtains if you think someone might be hiding there.” There is no trace of fear in Maggie’s voice.

  “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Feldman, but you won’t mind if we take a look at your reading material?” I am surprised to hear that the policeman is English.

  “Of course not. You won’t find anything undesirable. This is a law-abiding and God-fearing household.”

  “Officer Lourens, remove the books from the shelf, just so we can be sure nothing is being hidden behind them.”

  It is too dark to catch Kgomotso’s eye, but I wonder if he is as startled as I am. Do they know about the hidden office behind the bookshelves? Are they looking for a way in? Books crash to the floor.

  “Is that absolutely necessary? Some of these books are quite valuable. Isn’t it possible to take them down carefully?”

  The thudding stops. Another few minutes pass and I am sure that the whole world can hear the beating of my fearful heart.

  “There, you’ve now unpacked everything,” Maggie says. “As you can see, there are no hidden safes behind the books either, just like you didn’t find any behind any of the paintings. If you’d like, I can take you to the two we do have and I’ll open them up for you.”

  Voices confer and an agreement is reached to carry on the search downstairs. I am just starting to feel light-headed with relief when another voice speaks. “Wait, I want to look at those shelves again.”

  I am seized by trembling. I cannot imagine how Maggie is maintaining her composure under the scrutiny of those men. A loud bang startles me and I almost cry out. Kgomotso gets up from his chair and slowly walks over, feeling his way to where I am. He wraps his arms around me and allows me to bury my face in his chest. His heartbeat is a hammer knocking against his breastbone. There is another bang and then a few more as someone pounds against the shelves.

  “I do hope you won’t have a problem giving an account of the damage you are causing my property, as I’ll be making sure a full evaluation gets done before we submit the bill to your department.”

  Finally, the banging stops and the voices retreat. I cannot let go of Kgomotso. He is holding me up, and I am grateful for the support that my own legs can no longer give me. When my strength returns, I allow him to lead me to the chair, which I sink into.

  Hours later, I worry that I cannot hold my bladder any longer and wonder how I can relieve it without the humiliation of wetting myself in front of a young man. It brings back the memory of my commute to Johannesburg and the incident with the bathroom in Pietermaritzburg, but before I can relive the sting of that shame, the door to the office is opened. Maggie stands in the doorway; she is backlit and looks like an avenging angel. She switches on the light and I blink in the glare. Maggie is pale but smiling.

  “Luck has been on our side. Everyone got away before they arrived and they didn’t find anything that could implicate us. Come, we need to get you both out of here before they find an excuse to come back.”

  Twenty-seven

  ROBIN

  23 THROUGH 27 JULY 1976

  Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa

  Morrie, Cat and I raced up the stairs of the emergency exit, our footfalls echoing off the walls.

  “Who was that?” Morrie yelled.

  “Shut up and run,” I shouted back.

  We’d just made it up two flights when we heard the door slamming below.

  “Robin!” Wilhelmina called after us.

  We ducked out of the stairwell and raced across the corridor of the fourteenth floor. There were emergency stairs on both sides of the building, and I figured we could start a cat-and-mouse game running up and down both. Wilhelmina was overweight and unfit and had already been puffing when she called to us before. She wouldn’t be able to keep up the pursuit for very long even if she knew which direction we’d gone in.

  Over the next ten minutes, we ducked up and down and across seven floors, being careful to avoid our own apartment on the eleventh floor in case Wilhelmina had gone back there.

  “Why don’t we go hide in your flat?” I suggested to Morrie.

  “My father locked me out,” he confessed sheepishly. “He has an important meeting and said I would be distracting with the camera’s flash going off constantly. Maybe we should try leaving the building?”

  “What if she thinks we might do that and is waiting downstairs in the lobby?”

  “That’s a good point. Why don’t we go down to the basement? There’s nothing down there but storage rooms and no one ever goes there except George. It’s the perfect place to hide.”

  There wasn’t time to ask who George was and I couldn’t think of a better plan so we slowly made our way down, listening all the while for Wilhelmina. Once we got down there, we stood in the warren of rooms and caught our breath. Another twenty minutes passed, each minute marked by the jolt of Mickey Mouse’s hand on my wristwatch. I’d just decided that enough time had gone by to make it unlikely Wilhelmina was still looking for us, when the elevator started whirring. Someone was on their way down.

  There wasn’t time to think. I grabbed at the handle of the nearest door, and by some miracle, it opened. It was only after we’d rushed inside that I registered the other person’s presence. It was an old man, a brown one who was smoking a strange-smelling cigarette, and he looked just as surprised to see us as I was to see him.

  I glanced at his hands, the brown skin of them, and wondered if they’d ever held a knife to a white person’s throat. The thought sent an icy tingle down my spine. As I turned to escape, Morrie spoke.

  “George! Howzit? Quickly, lock the door.”

  The old man didn’t need to be told twice and he was sprightly for his age. He was up in a flash, sorting through a bunch of keys hanging off a chain attached to his belt. Only when the key turned in the lock did I stop holding my breath. The elevator dinged and the doors opened.

  “Shh,” I said, and he nodded, stubbing his sweet cigarette out on the floor.

  “Light,” he muttered, indicating the switch above my head. I nodded and flicked the switch. We were plunged into darkness.

  Any doubt that it was Wilhelmina was quickly dispelled when she began to call my name. “Robin? Are you down here? Robin, please come out. I’m here to help you.”

  In the darkness, sounds were heightened. We could hear footfalls and heavy breathing as she passed outside the door, still calling out to me. Another few minutes ticked by, shuffling and rattling noises punctuating the silence, as she tried all the doors along the corridor.

  My panic was rising.

  We haven’t had time to carry out our plan. If Wilhelmina finds us now, she’ll force us to open the apartment door and she’ll see the terrible state Edith is in.

  I looked awful as well, I knew, dirty and neglected like one of those street urchins I’d heard about in a radio story about a boy named Olive
r. Cat didn’t look much better.

  If Wilhelmina catches us looking like this and sees Edith drunk and passed out, she’ll take us away for sure. I can’t let that happen.

  Wilhelmina was getting closer. She was still huffing from the effort of chasing us and each small gasp sent shivers down my spine. I waited for her to reach our door and began to gnaw at the skin surrounding my nails.

  She’s going to find us. She’s almost here.

  Then, magically, the rasping sound of her breath died away. I listened harder but there was nothing. All was quiet outside.

  She’s gone! She’s left!

  And then the handle of our door was thrust down. I couldn’t see it in the dark, but it squeaked. I held my breath until Wilhelmina finally let go of it and moved on.

  I don’t know how much time passed then. The sweet, musky scent of the man’s cigarette permeated everything and my head felt heavy. I was tired and wanted to sleep, and I might have nodded off for a while until I was woken by a flash of light and then another. For a second, I thought it was lightning until I remembered that we were underground and there weren’t any windows.

  The light was switched back on and the old man was smiling a gap-toothed smile at me.

  “Yissus, Master Morrie and Little Miss saved King George,” he said. “If they found him here smoking boom, he would have been fired for sure.” He had a strange lisping accent, an odd mixture of English and Afrikaans, and he pronounced his s’s as z’s: Yizzus, Little Mizz. It was like talking to a mosquito that referenced itself in the third person.

  Too sleepy to explain that he’d actually saved me, I merely nodded and smiled back. Morrie was distracted by trying to dry the two photographs he’d just taken.

  “King George is pleased to make Little Miss’s acquaintance.” He held out his hand and I took it after only the briefest hesitation. “Any friend of Master Morrie’s is a friend of King George.”