Hum If You Don't Know the Words

by Bianca Marais

  Beauty opened her modest pile of presents with a guarded smile, though the smile dissolved into tears when she unwrapped my gift. It was a drawing I’d made of Beauty and Nomsa holding hands; Edith had paid to have it framed. I drew Nomsa as a warrior princess because Beauty said she was the bravest person she’d ever known. I knew, though I never said, where Nomsa got her bravery from.

  Against all odds, we had become a family, the three of us, and though it was probably the most unusual family the country had ever seen, it was all I had and it was worth fighting for.

  Forty-seven

  BEAUTY

  16 JUNE 1977

  Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa

  It is 16 June 1977, the first anniversary of Robin’s parents’ deaths and a year since Nomsa disappeared. We are the ones who have been left behind, Robin and I, and the past year of our lives has been filled with grieving and waiting; how is it that invisible burdens and torments such as these are the heaviest to carry and the hardest to endure?

  Edith is off on a trip once again and so, when the evening’s darkness gathers, Robin and I gather with it in the lounge to build two small altars of memories. We each clear one of the side tables and carry them around to set in front of us so we can get to work.

  The first item Robin places on her altar is a black-and-white photograph of her parents taken on their wedding day. In it, they are standing next to a three-tiered cake that is topped off by a miniature plastic bride and groom. Robin’s father holds a knife in his one hand and, in the other, a slice of cake he is tenderly feeding to her mother. It is one of only five remaining photos from that day.

  Robin places her mother’s mascara tube next to the photo along with the locket I gave her for Christmas; she’s opened the clasp and her two heart-shaped parents stare back at us. She looks at her collection of three items critically and then goes to Edith’s record collection to search for albums that her parents liked. She adds two Beatles records and the Dolly Parton album with the “Jolene” song on it.

  “It still doesn’t look like very much, does it?” Robin asks, and before I can reply, she heads for Edith’s dressing table. When she returns, she is holding up a small bottle of Charlie perfume that Edith hasn’t worn since her sister died.

  “This was the perfume my mom used to wear.” She sniffs it, smiles sadly and then adds it to the collection.

  I have only one photograph of Nomsa. It is a group photo of fifteen of the schoolchildren and me gathered in front of the small room that served as the entire school in our village. A Russian sociology professor (who was doing a study of apartheid education in the Bantu homelands) took the picture one day, and it arrived in the mail a year later; he had sent it to me just as he had promised.

  Nomsa is one of the older children in the group and she stands in the back row. She looks too serious for a child of fourteen. Her face is slightly in the shadows and it is difficult to make out her features. I place the photo in the center of the table propped up against a glass.

  The next item I place on the altar is the last letter I received from Nomsa, written a month before the march. The letter is still in its slit envelope. I do not need to open it to remember what it says because I have memorized every word of it. Seeing her looping handwriting is always a shock. It is like catching sight of her across a busy street and it makes my heartbeat quicken. I also include the framed picture that Robin drew of Nomsa and me for my birthday, and a rag doll that Nomsa used to play with when she was just a child.

  “What else can I add?” Robin asks.

  “I do not think you need anything more. That is enough.”

  “No, wait. My mom liked apples.” With that, Robin runs to the kitchen where she plucks an apple from the fruit basket. “Here,” she says as she walks back, “she’ll like this.”

  As Robin places the apple on the altar, the bird suddenly swoops down from his perch and starts pecking at it.

  “Birdy num num. Birdy num num.”

  Robin swats him away. “Leave it, Elvis. That’s not for you! Leave it.”

  The parrot takes flight and alights on a chair for a moment before flying back. His flapping wings disturb the lighter mementos on the altars.

  “Take the apple away,” I say gently. “You have enough without it.”

  When Robin returns from the kitchen, she looks down at her table with a serious expression on her face. She is still worrying that she does not have enough and I am about to reassure her once again, when she says, “I wish I had something for Mabel too.”

  She does not often speak of Mabel, her old maid, and it is a reminder to me of how much this child lost in such a short space of time.

  “You do not need anything of hers,” I offer. “You can just think of her.”

  She nods but then her brow furrows again. “No, never mind.”

  “Really, it is fine. You do not need things, what is important is that you remember—”

  “No! Mabel wasn’t taken from me like my parents were. She chose to leave. It’s different. I don’t want to think about her now.”

  How wounded this child is. Will she ever truly heal?

  “Okay, what’s next?” Robin asks.

  I place a candlestick on each of the altars and light the white votive candles we bought for the occasion. They are scented and the smell of jasmine rises up to greet us.

  “Shall we hold hands?” I ask Robin and she nods. “Would you like to say a few words?”

  She shoots me a nervous look. “Like say a speech?”

  “Not a speech, no. Just a few words from the heart. Things you would like to say about your parents.”

  She thinks about it for a moment and then nods. “I’ll go after you.”

  “I will say a prayer for them then,” I say and she nods again, closing her eyes. I keep mine open so that I can be sure my words do not cause her distress.

  “Dear Heavenly Father,” I begin. “We pray for the souls of your dearly departed children, Keith and Jolene.”

  Robin flinches when I speak her parents’ names.

  “What is wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  “Something is wrong. You can tell me.”

  She is reluctant to speak and so I have to coax her. “Remember what we agreed about honesty, Robin? I promised to tell you the truth and so do you not think it is only fair that you do the same with me?”

  She swallows hard. “It was just a shock to hear you say their names, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “No black person ever called them by their first names before. It was always ‘baas’ or ‘madam.’ My dad wouldn’t have liked it if anyone did it. He would have called them ‘cheeky’ and told them they needed to learn some manners.”

  For the first time, I wonder what Robin’s parents would think of the arrangement I have made with Edith; how they would feel about their only child being raised almost solely by a black woman who uses the same toilet and cutlery and crockery as their daughter, and who doesn’t take orders from a white child like Mabel did.

  As if reading my mind, Robin says, “Do you think heaven changes people?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you think it makes them forget about skin color and invisible germs that only certain people have and who the boss is and what’s cheeky and what isn’t?”

  I know what Robin is really asking. She wants to know if heaven has made her parents grateful that she is being raised by a black woman who cares for her, or if my race is still an issue in their afterlife. She is wondering if heaven is also divided with a section for whites only and a section for blacks, and if prayers go up to God color coded so he knows which ones are more important and which ones should be ignored.

  “I think . . .” I trail off, careful to find the right words that will reassure her. This child is burdened with too muc
h worry and I want her to find solace in this. “I think that heaven makes people forget about the things that used to worry them when they were alive. And so the people in heaven are happy when we are happy. That is what is important to them. All your parents want is to see you happy and loved and taken care of. The rest doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Robin nods slowly, letting my words sink in.

  “Instead of my saying a prayer for them, why don’t you just go ahead and say something yourself?” I suggest.

  Robin clears her throat and then looks up to the ceiling. Finding no inspiration there, she turns her head instead to the altar where she sees her parents’ faces looking back at her.

  “Mommy and Daddy, I miss you very much. I wish I had more photos of you because some days it’s hard to remember what you looked like, and when I can’t remember, I feel bad.” Her voice catches and she swallows before continuing. “I hope you still remember what I look like and that you have photos of me in heaven.” The child turns to me for reassurance and I nod for her to continue. “I want you to know that I’m happy and I’m very well taken care of. So you should be happy too. I love you very much.” She is done.

  “Are you going to say a prayer for Nomsa?” Robin asks.

  “I am,” I say, “but I am going to say it quietly in my head.”

  “Okay, I’ll say something in my head too.”

  I bow my head then and think of my daughter. My feelings are so conflicted that I know whatever I say will contradict whatever else I say, but still, I forge ahead.

  Nomsa, I am so proud of you for standing up for your people and for fighting for what is right, and yet I am ashamed of you too for joining an army and plotting to cause harm to others. I love you so much for the warrior you are and for the fire that cannot be extinguished in your soul—the fire that so many of us have lost—and yet I am angry with you for your betrayal.

  I am angry with myself as well because I should have known what would happen when I allowed you to go to Soweto. I should have known my own flesh and blood well enough to know that you would not be able to resist a call to arms. And so I apologize for letting you down and for not seeing the danger you could not see. I ask for your forgiveness, my child. Please come home.

  I tell myself that at least I have hope. Robin knows that her parents will never come back to her and she is saying her last good-byes. I will not say good-bye, and I will never give up hope because that is all that remains. Hope is what fuels my broken heart.

  Forty-eight

  BEAUTY

  1 AUGUST 1977

  Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa

  The note was slipped under the door.

  Robin spotted it from where she was sitting on the couch and ran to grab it before opening the door to see who had dropped it off. No one was there.

  My name was on the blue envelope and so she passed it to me. I put my knitting down so I could open it.

  You do not learn. I thought you were clever.

  I saw you meet with Comrade Mashongwe in the park in Braamfontein last night. He will not be meeting with anyone ever again because of you. Are you happy now?

  This is your very last warning to stop asking questions and return to the Transkei.

  After this, not even Nomsa can save you.

  It chills me to think that it was probably Shakes who stood outside the door, mere steps away from Robin, a few minutes ago. If it is true what he has said about Edward Mashongwe who I did meet with last night, then my life is probably also in danger. These are not empty threats.

  I think of the man with the hat who took the letter from me in the park as he cast his eyes around nervously. He patted my hand before slipping the envelope inside his jacket pocket.

  “I will make sure to get this letter to Nomsa when I return to the camps,” he said. He would not offer me any further information nor tell me what camp Nomsa was at. “I am a loyal soldier and I will not put anyone at risk by confiding that.”

  “Then why are you helping me? Why take the letter at all?”

  “I am of a generation that does not believe a woman’s place is in an army. The female operatives are never as good as the men and they are a distraction. My motives are purely selfish. I hope whatever is in this letter will convince her to go home to where she belongs.”

  When we had parted ways and I was walking in the opposite direction as him, I felt the prickle of eyes upon my back. I spun around to see if Edward was following me, but he had already disappeared from the park. I turned slowly in a circle, searching for the person who was watching me, and after I saw nothing on the ground, I cast my eyes upward. There, in the lowest branch of a large oak tree, was an owl.

  It was smaller than the one I’d seen in Hillbrow and I could not make out its color in the darkness, but its eyes glowed orange in the moonlight. It launched itself into the night just as I turned to flee. I wonder now what has happened to Edward. I did not like the man, but I would never have wished him harm. I can be sure the letter will not find its way to my daughter.

  “Who’s it from?” Robin asks leaning over my shoulder. “What does it say?”

  “It is just a note from a friend to arrange a visit.”

  “Oh,” she says, returning to her book.

  I have been trying to ignore the threats, but I cannot any longer. The owls seem as much warnings, harbingers of death, as the notes and phone calls. All this time, I thought the owls were foretelling Nomsa’s death. Now I know they are warning me of my own.

  It is time for me to get my things in order in case something happens to me. I turn to one of the last pages of my journal and begin:

  My Dearest Robin . . .

  Forty-nine

  ROBIN

  17 THROUGH 28 AUGUST 1977

  Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa

  The spine of my book was wedged open under my porridge bowl, and I was careful not to splash milk onto the pages while I ate. Beauty usually didn’t let me read during meals, but she was in her and Edith’s room changing the linen. Edith was due home that morning after three weeks away, and I was hoping to see her before I left for school.

  I’d just stood up to take my bowl to the kitchen when the key turned in the lock. I raced to the kitchen to put the bowl down so I could free up my hands. I wanted to take Edith’s suitcase from her when she walked in but when I turned back, intending to meet her at the threshold, I was frozen in place by the sight of her. Edith was pale and looked like she was in shock.

  “Edith?” Her eyes focused when I uttered her name. She turned her head to look at me but she remained silent. “Edith, what’s wrong?”

  She blinked and then shook her head slowly in disbelief. “He’s dead.”

  “Who?”

  “Elvis.”

  I looked to the cage and Elvis was still there, exactly where I’d put him before I had my breakfast. He was squawking loudly as he always did when Edith came home.

  “No, he isn’t. He’s fine.”

  “He is?” Edith perked up. She looked so hopeful that I nodded vigorously and walked to the cage to let him out again.

  “Here he is, see? He’s not dead.”

  She turned to look at where the parrot was swooping around in circles and then her face crumpled. “Not him. The real Elvis. The King. I just heard it on the radio, but I was hoping it was a hoax like that time with Paul McCartney. They said it happened yesterday.”

  Beauty came through from the bedroom then. She must have heard enough to know that something was wrong, because she came rushing towards Edith and grasped her hand, leading her to the table. I closed the door and carried Edith’s suitcase inside before I went to sit next to her.

  “He was the only man I’ve ever truly loved,” Edith whispered.

  “Who are you speaking of?” Beauty asked.

  “Elvis,” I whispered.

>   Beauty looked to the parrot, who’d alighted on Edith’s chair and was nipping at her ear, and then she looked back at me questioningly. I shook my head and went to Edith’s record collection, pulling a few albums from their place and handing them to Beauty.

  Beauty looked from the pictures on the records to Edith. “This is the man who has died?”

  Edith nodded mournfully, a single tear running down her cheek. She stood to go pour herself a drink.

  “Did you know this man?” Beauty asked.

  Edith nodded again from the liquor cabinet. “Yes. I knew everything there was to know about Elvis. I was his biggest fan.”

  Beauty tried again. “But did you ever meet him?”

  Edith returned to the table and sat down, her glass of scotch clutched in her hand. She shook her head sadly. “And now I never will.”

  Beauty clucked and stood. “Hayibo. White people are mad.” She snatched the glass from Edith’s hand and took it to the kitchen. “Robin, go to school. You are going to be late. Edith, stop crying over a man you have never met and go wash your face. There are papers from the school I need you to sign and things we need to talk about before I go. And someone put that bird back in his cage.”

  • • •

  It was just over a week later that a cough jolted me from the adventures unfolding in my book and brought me back to the park. I was propped up against the oak tree, reading while I waited for Morrie.

  I looked up. A young black woman stood a few paces away. A raised purplish scar ran from her hairline to her left ear; it was as wide as a finger and bisected her left eyebrow. It almost stopped her from being pretty, almost, but not quite. She was very thin, almost to the point of starvation, but she looked strong and muscular. I knew she wasn’t a maid, because she was wearing a Western-style dress instead of a uniform and doek, and her hair was braided into cornrows.