• • •
Near the end of the night as the festivities wound down, Morrie had his camera out and was taking photos though none of the pictures were of the cake or my presents or even of me. Instead, he took pictures of cigarette butts in an ashtray, discarded wrapping paper on the floor and a deflated balloon. His morbid fascination with all things depressing had still not played itself out. I was just trying to convince him to take a photo of something more cheerful when Victor and Johan joined us.
Johan cleared his throat until Morrie raised the camera from a tear in the couch’s fabric. “Good evening, young man. I’m Johan. It’s lovely to meet you. May I ask what your intentions are with our lovely Robin over here?”
I groaned.
“Good evening, sir. I’m Morrie and I’m Robin’s boyfriend.” Morrie put the camera down, wiped his hands off on his pants and shook Johan’s hand.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” A flush of color crept up my neck.
“I’m not?” Morrie sounded hurt.
“No, you’re just my friend.”
Johan winced. “Eina, that’s got to hurt.”
“But we spend a lot of time together, we like the same things, and you’re always telling me what to do. That means we’re in a relationship,” Morrie insisted.
“It does?”
“Yes. Here, I even got you a present and I spent a lot of my pocket money on it. If you’re saying you’re not my girlfriend, then I’m not sure I’m going to give it to you.”
I looked at the gift he’d pulled out from his bag. It was a rectangular shape and quite thick; it had to be a book. I really wanted it. “Okay then, fine, I’m your girlfriend. Give me the present.”
“Glad we got that sorted out,” Victor said.
Morrie handed the gift over and I tore the wrapping off. I was right, it was a book! I read the cover: “The Hardy Boys Adventures.”
“They’re brothers who act like detectives. You’ll love it,” Morrie said.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t I get a kiss?”
“Don’t push it. I said I’d be your girlfriend, didn’t I?”
Coupledom didn’t fascinate me like it did other girls. From what I’d seen with my parents and then with Edith and Michael, being in a relationship wasn’t all that great. I liked Morrie and didn’t want to fight with him as I was sure to do if we went steady, but he seemed really adamant about it.
“It’s time for us to go, Morris,” Mr. Goldman said as he and Mrs. Goldman joined us at the table. He was wearing his usual green knitted cardigan, and even though Morrie had tried to convince me that his father owned seven identical cardigans, I told him I wasn’t born yesterday.
“Can’t we stay a bit longer?” Morrie asked.
“No, boychick,” Mrs. Goldman said. “You didn’t finish your schoolwork today while you were helping Beauty get ready for the party, and your father also has some work to do tonight.”
Mr. Goldman was always at home. I thought he didn’t have a job, but Morrie informed me that his father ran an accounting practice for various local businesses from their flat. I’d seen a lot of important-looking papers lying in a room he called his office, and his father had a huge calculator that spewed ribbons of coiled paper covered with numbers, so I believed the accountant story more than the one about the cloned cardigans.
“Say good-bye to everyone,” Mr. Goldman said.
“Bye, everyone. Good night, Robin.”
Once I’d said good night to the Goldmans and thanked them for coming, it was just the three of us left in the lounge sitting amongst the debris of the party. Maggie, Wilhelmina and Beauty were chatting off to the side in the dining room. Elvis had calmed down from his earlier excitement and was hopping from plate to plate nibbling at the leftover cake.
I reached out and touched Johan’s forehead. “Does it hurt?”
“No, it’s fine. And don’t you think I look butch now?” He was joking and trying to brush it off, but I remembered the fear and tears, and his head resting on my lap as we rushed to the hospital.
“Have the police found the person who did it?”
Victor sighed. “We never called the police, Robin.”
“Why not? Isn’t it a crime to hurt people and throw bricks through their windows?”
“Yes, it is, but getting the police involved will just make things that much more complicated, and that’s exactly what we don’t need.”
“Aren’t you scared it will happen again?”
Johan yelled, “Ha! Let them just try,” just as Victor said, “Yes.”
“But they’re bad people. Shouldn’t they be punished?”
“It’s not as simple as that,” Victor said.
“Why not?”
“Because the law thinks we’re the bad men and it would probably take their side.”
“So then why don’t you move?” I asked. “If you go live somewhere else, people won’t do that to you.”
“You can’t spend your life running away from bullies because bullies are everywhere. Sometimes you have to stand your ground and face your fears rather than trying to outrun them.”
“So they’re going to get away with it? Nothing will happen to them?”
“Not necessarily,” Johan said. “There’s always karma.”
“What’s karma?”
“It’s this belief system,” Victor explained, “that says when you do bad things to people and don’t get punished for it, justice will still prevail because bad things will then happen to you in return.”
I really wanted to believe that was true.
Thirty-nine
BEAUTY
14 JANUARY 1977
Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa
Robin is sitting with Victor and Johan, eating the last of the cake that Wilhelmina baked. Her eyes are shining, and she laughs as Johan licks his teaspoon and sticks it against his nose. It is good to see her happy and I am glad that the surprise party was a success. I turn back to Maggie who is still frowning. I have put her in a difficult position, and for that, I am sorry.
“It’s just that those MK guys make up a huge part of my network of intelligence, Beauty. I work very closely with them because we all want to achieve the same goals—”
“They have very different ways of achieving those goals than you do.”
“I know that, but at this point, we all have to stick together. And they’ve made it clear that they aren’t happy with your interfering. They say Nomsa has chosen to join Umkhonto we Sizwe and that she knows what she’s getting herself into. You need to accept that and stop stirring things up.”
“Why is it they cannot produce Nomsa? Why can they not show me my child so she, herself, can tell me she is happy and that she will not come home with me? If she tells me that nothing I say or do will make her change her mind, then I will respect that. But all these threats make me think that they are holding her against her will.”
“That’s not what they do. You can’t force a person to want military training or to be committed to a cause. All their operatives are motivated and believe in what they’re doing. The only reason they can’t produce her is because she’s in Rhodesia.”
“So they say.”
Maggie sighs. “Could you please just back off a bit? Just until I’m able to speak to some higher-ups in MK. I’m keeping tabs all the time, Beauty, and I know that the process is slow and that you’re getting impatient, but getting in their way won’t help anyone, neither us nor Nomsa.”
I do not commit to anything and Maggie does not notice my silence as she excuses herself to say good-bye to Robin and the last of the guests. Once she has left, I remain sitting with Wilhelmina who has been unusually quiet the whole evening. I realize that there is something different about her appearance, and it takes me a few moments to see what it is. She is
wearing lipstick and has styled her hair.
“You are looking lovely this evening,” I say and she blushes. “Is it for Robin’s party or for a man?” I tease gently.
She flushes even more. “A man, if you must know,” she whispers and then looks away in embarrassment. She catches sight of Victor and Johan who are talking to Robin, and I am surprised by the expression of dislike that forms on her face.
“Wilhelmina, I would have thought you, of all people, would be less bigoted than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your distaste for those two is very obvious. I would have thought you would believe that persecuting people because they are homosexual is as bad as persecuting them because they are black.”
“Ag, please, my brother is a homosexual and I have no problem with that. I just don’t like them because they’re such good friends with Edith. It shows bad judgment on their part. She’s not even here for the child’s first birthday since her parents died. Siestog! You would think she could’ve changed her schedule a bit so she could be home today.”
I merely smile. It does not help to defend Edith to Wilhelmina or vice versa. I am resigned to the two women hating each other. As long as they both have Robin’s best interests at heart, that is all I care about.
“Have you had any more calls about us?” I ask.
“Not since that last one a month ago from that man who calls anonymously.”
“Mr. Finlay,” I say. “I am sure it was him.”
“I told him that I’ve done multiple home visits, and that Edith has been home every time I was there, and that you don’t sleep in the flat.”
“Hopefully that will put a stop to his calls.”
“I also told him that if he continues to show an unhealthy interest in the little girl, we might need to come and investigate him because perverts are worse than blacks who sleep in white people’s flats. I think that’s probably what did the trick.” She laughs and I laugh with her. I am glad to have her on my side. I rest easier at night knowing that we have Wilhelmina looking out for us and keeping the police away.
“And you will keep an ear to the ground for me?”
Wilhelmina shifts in her seat. “You know I’m not comfortable with doing anything behind Maggie’s back.”
“We are not doing anything behind her back. All we are doing is gathering information, just like Maggie does.”
“But then why can’t you just wait to get information from her?”
“I have a feeling she is not telling me everything.”
Wilhelmina sighs, not meeting my eye. “Maggie looks out for you. You know she does.”
I reach out my hand to take hers. “I know that, but I also know that Maggie has to be careful of whose toes she steps on. She is thinking of this from a political angle, I understand that. But this is my daughter, Wilhelmina. She is first and foremost my child, and I need to be sure of her safety.”
She sighs again.
“Please, Wilhelmina. Just keep your eyes and ears open and come to me first before you go to Maggie. That is all I am asking you. As a friend.”
She does not say anything, but she squeezes my hand back.
Forty
BEAUTY
11 FEBRUARY 1977
Hillbrow, Johannesburg, South Africa
My wristwatch says it is 11:23 p.m. I have to tilt it at an angle to see where the hands are pointing because the neon sign from across the road casts a pink glow over the watch’s surface. There are seven minutes left before I am to leave this room to make my way across the street to where I will meet my contact.
The note was slipped under the door a week ago and gave the address of a place I was to go to in Hillbrow.
I have heard of your search for Nomsa. We must meet. Come on Friday, 11 February. Come alone. Get there at exactly 7 p.m. and go to flat #206 on the second floor. The door will be open. Lock it once you are inside. Stay there until 11:30 p.m. The security police will finish their curfew patrol by 11:00 and will not come back until after midnight. At 11:30 p.m., leave the flat and cross the street. There is a nightclub across the road. Do not try entering it from the main entrance. Walk around the alley to the back and go down the stairs. You will see a blue door next to the rubbish bins. Knock twice then pause and knock three more times. I will be waiting.
I have made so many inquiries and given my details to so many people in the past eight months that I cannot even guess which inquiry has led to this. I tell myself not to worry for my safety. If it was Shakes, he would not direct me to a busy part of Johannesburg on a Friday night to kill me.
Raindrops splatter against the glass. I have been looking out at the nightclub’s entrance since I got here and it has been raining almost the whole time. As the writer of the letter said, the police vans drove down the street at 10:45 p.m. checking for any blacks who were out after curfew. The only activity since then has been the many cars pulling up outside the club to drop people off.
Eleven thirty. It is time. I leave the flat and go downstairs, checking the area for any signs of danger before I exit the building. I pull the hood of my raincoat up over my lowered head as I step into the rain to cross the street. The pink neon of the club’s flashing sign is reflected in the puddles in the road, and as I near the entrance, loud disco music spills out into the night. I recognize the song as a popular tune that Robin has been listening to on the radio lately.
“Valentine’s Day special. Ladies get in free tonight,” a large man at the entrance to the club says to a group of white women who are queuing under an awning to get inside. “Drinks are half price until midnight.”
“Shit, we better get a move on then and buy as many as we can before twelve,” one of the women says.
They are all wearing short skirts and those high platform shoes like Robin has. At least I know Robin is safe while I am out; she is sleeping at the Goldmans’ tonight. I step onto the curb just as another car pulls up spilling even more girls onto the pavement.
“Check you chicks inside. I just gotta find a lekker pozzie for the wheels,” a man’s voice calls out after them. “Howzit, bru,” he says to the security man at the entrance. “Where’s a shweet place to park the ride?”
I keep my head down and head for the alley around the back of the building. The blue door is easy to find and I knock using the special code. Nothing happens. I stand for a minute or two and still no one answers. I try the handle but the door is locked. Something clatters nearby and my pulse leaps. I have no valid reason to be here after curfew, and if the police catch me, I will go to jail.
I knock again and this time the door swings open. I step through and am standing in a large, steamy kitchen. Crates of wine and beer glasses are piled up against the walls and dustbins overflow with paper plates and half-eaten food. The young black man who opened the door returns to a huge sink.
“You look like her,” he says, shouting to be heard over the music.
“And what is your name, bhuti?”
“No names. It is safer that way.”
He is a small man, slight but wiry like a lightweight boxer. His head is shaved, but he has a beard.
“It was you who sent me the note?”
“Yes. We do not have much time. I am only alone for half an hour before another cleaner joins me. It is best that he does not see you.”
The music from the nightclub overhead is so loud that the floor vibrates. Water runs from my raincoat creating puddles on the floor. I remove it and then cast my eyes around the room looking for a mop.
“In the corner,” the man says as if he is reading my mind. I go to fetch it.
I sense that he will tell me more if we are both otherwise engaged. If he is distracted by washing glasses and I am busy with mopping the floor, we do not have to look at one another. Sometimes that makes talking easier.
“How did you know where
to find me?” I ask as I mop over the puddle.
“You have been asking a lot of questions. Many people know where to find you.”
“And why did you contact me when all those people did not?”
“I admire your persistence. I wish my mother cared as much as you do.” He is silent and I sense there is more so I wait. He does not disappoint. “Nomsa spoke about you a lot. I was curious to see the woman who gave birth to such a great warrior.”
“And where did these conversations take place?”
“In the MK camps.”
“You were training there with her? As a soldier?”
“Yes.” He stops washing dishes and dries his hands off on his apron before reaching for a pack of cigarettes on the counter next to him. He lights a cigarette and then returns to washing the glasses, the filter hanging loosely between his lips.
“You are not a soldier anymore?”
“I am finished with my training. Now I wait for my orders.”
I want to ask what those orders might include, but as much as I want to know, I also do not want to know. “Is she well, my daughter?”
“She is.”
“She is unharmed?”
“What is ‘unharmed’? We are all harmed. All of us. That is why we fight.”
“But she is healthy and uninjured?”
“Your daughter is one of the strongest and bravest people I have ever met.” There is something in his voice that speaks of more than just admiration. I wonder if this young man is in love with Nomsa.
“Is she still with Shakes Ngubane?”
The sound of disgust that he makes in reply answers my question. “On and off. He comes and goes.” It is a line of questioning that will make him stop speaking and so I change the subject.
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