Hum If You Don't Know the Words

by Bianca Marais

  “What are you reading?” Her voice was pitched low, almost a whisper.

  I held the book up and showed her the cover. “Anne of Green Gables. Have you read it?” I’d finally gotten around to checking it, and all the other orphan books, out of the library.

  She shook her head and didn’t say anything more. I rushed in to fill the silence.

  “She’s an orphan too and she also has lots of freckles that drive her crazy. It’s one of my favorite books because she’s just like me.”

  She didn’t say anything in response and the conversation was starting to feel a bit one-sided. “What’s your favorite book?” I asked.

  “They do not write books for people like me.”

  That was sad. Everyone should have books they could see themselves in.

  “Do black people have freckles?” I asked because I didn’t know what else to say. “Do you just not see them because the freckles are dark and your skin’s dark too? Wouldn’t it be funny if black people had white freckles?”

  She didn’t seem to want to talk about freckles so I tried another question. “What’s your name?”

  She glanced around and then uttered it, sharing a confidence. “Nomsa.”

  “Nomsa?” My heart started to jackhammer in my chest. “Are you Beauty’s daughter?”

  She nodded.

  I threw my book aside and scrambled up while dusting myself off. Beauty had told me so much about her that it was as if I knew her; she was like the real sister I’d never had. I stepped forward, wanting to hug her, but she thrust an arm out to ward me off. “No, do not touch me.”

  I looked at her hand as she withdrew it and saw that it was trembling. When I looked back to her face, she wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes were darting all around the park.

  “I’m Robin,” I clarified. “Beauty lives with—”

  She cut me off. “I know who you are. I have been watching.”

  This new development thrilled me. While I just read about detectives and played childish games, Nomsa was a real-life spy who had been following me. My fledgling admiration turned to hero worship.

  “Where is my mother? She is late today.”

  Beauty usually brought our lunch to the park, but I knew she wouldn’t be there that day. She’d told me before I left for school that morning that a friend of hers was in the Transkei to bury her child who’d died from a snakebite, and she needed Beauty’s help cleaning her employer’s house. Her friend, Dorothea, was worried she’d lose her job while she was off and hoped that sending a replacement maid would make her madam less annoyed with her for going home. Beauty expected to be home after 6 p.m. and had sent me to school with my lunch already made.

  When I told Nomsa this, I wasn’t expecting the look of absolute defeat that crossed her face. It looked like she might cry. Beauty had always described Nomsa as being so strong, and I didn’t think a warrior would crumple so easily at such a small disappointment.

  “It’s okay, don’t worry. You can just come to the flat and wait for her there. She’ll be back tonight and you can see her then.”

  Nomsa shook her head and clucked at my apparent stupidity. She cast furtive glances around the park once more. “I cannot wait.” I could see that her mind was reeling; she was talking to herself more than she was speaking to me.

  “Well, can’t you come back tomorrow? I’ll make sure she’s here then.”

  “Have you not heard me? I cannot just come again whenever it suits you.” Her voice was strangled, and I was beginning to get scared. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to help her because she looked so cornered and skittish, but her level of anxiety was rising and I didn’t want to say anything more to upset her.

  After a moment or two, she seemed to reach a decision. “I need a pen and paper. Quickly.” She pointed to my school case and snapped her fingers as I scrambled to open it.

  “I only have pencils. They don’t let us use pens yet—”

  “Quickly!”

  I handed her a pencil and one of my exercise books, and watched as she propped it up against the tree as she wrote. She looked up after every few words to glance around and then carried on scribbling. I used the time while her attention was diverted to get a proper look at her and noticed for the first time that her left foot was bandaged.

  “What happened to your foot?”

  She shushed me and I kept quiet until she finished. Her paranoia had by then rubbed off on me and I was looking around as well. I was relieved not to see any police cars go by and I told her so. I was hoping she would praise me for being helpful. Instead, she ripped the paper from the book, folded it up and thrust it at me. “Here, give this to my mother. Tell her I will come back to see her here on Sunday at two o’clock.” She looked around the park and then added, “Make sure you give that to her. It is very important. And she must not be late. Two o’clock on Sunday. And do not tell anyone else that you saw me. Not even that little boyfriend of yours.” With that, Nomsa turned and limped out of the park towards Rockey Street. She didn’t even say good-bye and I had to stop myself from calling out after her that Morrie wasn’t my boyfriend. There’d been an edge of menace to her tone; I knew not to mess with her.

  Looking around again, I couldn’t understand what had scared her because there definitely weren’t any policemen in the park, only a few people in normal clothes. A moment later, Morrie came ambling over.

  Speak of the devil.

  His camera was hung around his neck and he was shaking a photo to dry the ink.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “That lady?”

  “Oh her. She was just lost and asking for directions.”

  “What’s that?” Morrie said, pointing to my hand.

  “Nothing. It’s just a stupid letter from a girl at school,” I said. Then, in an attempt to change the subject, I asked, “What did you take a picture of?”

  “The two of you,” he said, handing the photo over. “She looked unhappy and I’m trying to capture negative emotion, because my grandfather says I’m ready to move on from inanimate objects.”

  I took the photo but didn’t look at it. “Have you got my lunch?”

  Morrie slapped his forehead. “I forgot. Wait here, I’ll be back now.” He turned and ran back in the direction he’d come from. As soon as he was out of sight, I checked around the park to make sure there weren’t any police nearby and then quickly looked at the photo. It was very clearly Nomsa and me. I couldn’t allow Morrie to hang on to the evidence, so I slipped the photo into my dress pocket before unfolding the letter. There were a few paragraphs of Xhosa written in a hurried looping script. I could only recognize a few of the words: “mother” and “I love you”; the rest of it may as well have been hieroglyphics.

  I carefully refolded the page, happy to have it and the photo as evidence of the encounter. The meeting had been so surreal, and Nomsa had behaved so strangely that if it weren’t for the proof, I would have thought it had all been a daydream.

  • • •

  Beauty arrived back at the flat just after six that night. I was sitting at the dining room table doing my homework and she joined me there, looking relieved to be off her feet for a few minutes. I was playing one of the kwela records Edith had brought back from America for Beauty. She’d been teaching me how to dance to her African music, and I’d begun to listen more to Beauty’s records than Edith’s, though Beauty warned me to play her music very softly so no one could overhear the banned albums.

  “Molo, makhulu,” I said. Hello, Granny.

  “Molo, mtwana,” Beauty replied. Hello, my child.

  “Thandiswa,” I reminded her. I’d asked Beauty to give me a Xhosa name and she chose “Thandiswa” because it means “the loved one.”

  “Molo, Thandiswa,” Beauty corrected herself.

  “Unjani, makh
ulu?” How are you, Granny?

  “Ewe, Thandiswa. Sikhona!” Yes, Thandiswa. I am well! Beauty then swapped over to English. “How was your day?”

  “It was fine.”

  “How was school?”

  “Also fine.”

  Beauty looked at me for a long moment. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were there any problems with my being away?”

  “No, everything was fine.”

  Beauty sighed. “Okay then. I am going to bathe,” she said, “and when I am done, I will make us dinner.”

  I nodded without looking up or meeting her eyes. “Okay.”

  Once the water had stopped running and I could be sure Beauty was in the bath, I slipped the letter and photo out from under my mattress and hid them both in my secret compartment under Edith’s dressing table. I told myself that it was only Thursday and I still had a few days to give them to Beauty along with Nomsa’s instructions, but the truth is I’d made my mind up as soon as the excitement had worn off and Nomsa’s intentions had dawned on me.

  She was obviously on the run from the security police and had been there to fetch Beauty. She planned for them to head back to the Transkei because Beauty had always said Nomsa would be safe there. There was no other explanation for Nomsa’s sudden reappearance, her crazy behavior and her desperate need to see Beauty after more than a year away.

  The decision came easier to me than I would’ve thought, and so 2 p.m. on that Sunday came and went. Beauty, oblivious to the significance of the afternoon and her prodigal daughter’s presence a mere block away, spent those hours watching over Morrie and me in the Goldmans’ apartment while Morrie’s parents went to a matinee at the Market Theatre in Newtown. I claimed to want to spent the afternoon there because the Goldmans had just bought a television set, but I actually wanted to make sure we weren’t in Edith’s flat if Nomsa came looking for Beauty.

  I waited all that next week for the knock at the door or the phone call that would take Beauty away, but none came. I stopped going to the park and pretended to be sick so I wouldn’t have to leave the house to go to school. All the while I was keeping watch over Beauty to make sure that Nomsa didn’t get to her, I allowed my relief to stifle my guilt.

  If Nomsa cares about Beauty as much as I do, if she truly wants to be with her, she would have found a way. She wouldn’t have given up so easily. The one who fights the hardest is the one who loves Beauty the most.

  Fifty

  BEAUTY

  10 THROUGH 20 SEPTEMBER 1977

  Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa

  Beauty, would you like some tea?” Robin asks.

  “No thank you, my child.”

  “Would you like to listen to one of your stories on my Bugs Bunny radio?”

  “I am happy just sitting here in silence, but thank you.”

  Robin goes to the kitchen and starts running water. “What are you doing?” I call.

  “I’m washing the dishes.”

  “Leave them. I will do them tomorrow.”

  “No, it’s fine. I like helping you,” she says.

  When she is done with the dishes, Robin disappears into the bedroom and returns with my slippers. “Why don’t you change out of those shoes and wear these instead?”

  I do not have the heart to tell her that the slippers are too hot on a night like this. Instead I let her put them on my feet and then I pat the couch next to me. When she sits down, I pull her in to my side and kiss the top of her head. “You are too good to me,” I say.

  She does not say anything. She just leans in closer and clings to me. I wonder what my boys are doing right now. I wonder if they miss me as much as I miss them.

  • • •

  The child has dark smudges under her eyes that look like bruises. She looks tired, and her nails are bitten down again like they were when I first met her. She says she is sick and I have kept her home from school, but she does not have a fever and shows no physical signs of illness, only sleeplessness and worry.

  “Is something wrong, my child? Is something troubling you?”

  She smiles. “No, I’m fine.”

  • • •

  There is a knock at the door and I stand to go answer it, but Robin pushes past me.

  “Ignore it. We’re not expecting anyone,” she says looking nervously between the door and me.

  “My child, let me see who it is.” Unexpected visitors make me nervous. Shakes has been here once before; he could come again.

  Whoever it is knocks once more.

  “No, really,” Robin says. “I have a bad feeling. Let’s just pretend we’re not home.”

  A voice calls out from behind the door. “Robin, open up. I know you’re in there.”

  It is Morrie, and when I open the door, he stands there scowling, looking both injured and angry at the same time. “Hello, Beauty.”

  He steps past me and addresses Robin. “Where have you been? Why don’t you come to the park anymore?”

  Robin shrugs. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Just things. I’m spending time with Beauty.” She looks at me with a guilty expression.

  “Okay then, I’ll join you.” Morrie walks towards the couch. “I have some new photos I want to show you.”

  Robin blocks his way. “Another time, okay?”

  Morrie throws his hands up in exasperation. “When?”

  “Maybe next week.”

  “You promise?”

  Robin nods. When Morrie has gone, she comes and sits next to me, resting her head on my shoulder.

  Fifty-one

  ROBIN

  29 SEPTEMBER 1977

  Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa

  They say bad things happen in threes, so I probably should’ve realized it was the beginning of the end after that first thing happened when Morrie convinced me to leave Beauty and the apartment.

  We spent the afternoon at the library stocking up on our supply of books.

  “Isn’t this a bit old for you?” The librarian frowned at one of the books I’d handed across to be checked out. “This is meant for adults.”

  I’d put the Agatha Christie book, A Murder Is Announced, in the middle of the pile of children’s books and hoped the librarian wouldn’t notice it.

  “It’s for her aunt,” Morrie chirped in. “She asked Robin to get it for her.” He was standing next to me with his own pile of books that he’d had processed at another counter.

  The librarian considered this for a moment and then stamped the checkout page. “I’ll let you do it this time, but tell your aunt to come in herself and get her own books next time.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” I kept a straight face until we were outside, and then I let out a theatrical sigh and laughed, thanking Morrie for his quick thinking.

  “No problem. It’s good to see you smiling for a change. I wish you would just tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I keep telling you,” I said. “Do you want me to kiss you to prove it?”

  “There! See, now I definitely know something’s wrong.”

  We boarded the bus and Morrie handed over our tickets. Once we were seated and I had my books on my lap, I reached for my pocket. It was an instinctive action by that time, almost as natural as breathing, and I was startled to find that there was nothing in there. I shifted in my seat and pulled the fabric of the pocket inside out to make sure it really was empty—it was. I patted my blouse’s pocket; there was nothing there either.

  Morrie frowned. “What’s wrong? What are you looking for?”

  I leaned out into the aisle, hoping to spot a glimpse of pink and green, but when I didn’t see anything, I got up to look under the chair.

  “What is it, Robin? What did you lose?”

>   “Her mascara.” That’s all I needed to say; no further explanation was required.

  “Come on,” he said. We hopped off the bus at the next stop and retraced our steps back up to the library’s entrance. Once inside, we split up and did a search of all the sections, even the ones we hadn’t been through, and then split up again to double-check. We didn’t find it. After an hour of frantic activity passed, the panic I’d been trying to control threatened to overwhelm me and I started to hyperventilate. The mascara was my last link to my mother and the life I’d lived before my parents died. It was irreplaceable and it was gone.

  I headed outside to get some air, walking quickly because running wasn’t allowed, but the air didn’t feel any less soupy there than it had inside. I sank down onto the steps and started to cry.

  Morrie shuffled up next to me and put his arm around me. “Here, rest your head on my shoulder.”

  I tried, but I got a crick in my neck from dropping my head so low. We gave up on that, and he patted my back instead, whispering words of comfort until my hiccupping breaths slowed and all the tears had dried. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a linen handkerchief and instructed me to blow my nose.

  • • •

  When I arrived home again, relieved to be back, I’d only just closed the door behind me when the phone rang. “Hello?”

  A moan that sounded like an animal in pain returned my greeting. My heartbeat quickened.

  “Hello? Who’s there?” Every missed call, every hang-up made me think of Nomsa. Was this her now?

  “Robin?” The voice was tremulous, but it was clearly a man’s.

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “It’s Johan.”

  “Johan? What’s wrong?”