Hum If You Don't Know the Words

by Bianca Marais

  He said something inaudible that was more of a gasp than a word, and I asked him to repeat himself.

  “Victor’s in hospital,” he managed to get out.

  “What happened? Did he have an accident?”

  “No . . . They beat him up.”

  “Who?” But, of course, I already knew.

  There was a shuddering intake of breath, and then Johan sniffed and exhaled to steady himself. “We don’t know. There were at least four of them. Probably the same people as on Christmas Day. He’s in a bad state, Robin. Very bad. They left him for dead in his driveway and then urinated all over him. Can you imagine that? What kind of animals do that to a person?”

  The kind who throw bricks through windows at people singing around a piano.

  He carried on. “I’m calling to see if you have a contact number for Edith so I can let her know.”

  I reached for Beauty’s notebook and read off the numbers to Johan, explaining that he would have to leave a message for Edith to call him back. I promised to pass on the message if Edith called us in the meantime. “What hospital is he in? Can I come visit?”

  “He’s at the Joburg Gen, but they won’t let children into the ICU.”

  “Please tell him . . . tell him . . .” But before I could think of the words to say, the line went dead.

  “What’s wrong?” Beauty was at the door holding a shopping bag.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I answered her with tears.

  “Come here, my child.” Beauty held out her arms and I rushed into them. “Has something happened to Edith?”

  “No,” I sobbed. “It’s Victor, he’s in hospital.”

  There was a knock at the door and Morrie’s face popped around the corner. “Robin? Edith wants to talk to you. She phoned my mom about something and I said I’d run up to call you.”

  I looked at Beauty.

  “Go, child. Run. Tell her about Victor.”

  “What about Victor?” Morrie asked.

  I was rooted to the spot. I didn’t want to leave Beauty.

  “Robin?” Morrie pressed.

  “Go, child.”

  And stupidly, I did.

  • • •

  Forty minutes later when I came back after speaking to Edith, Beauty wasn’t in the lounge or the kitchen.

  “Beauty?”

  There was no reply, and so I went to look for her in the bedroom. Beauty had her back to the door, but I could see in the reflection in Edith’s dressing table mirror that she was holding something. It looked like a piece of paper. My breath caught between my throat and lips. I looked down. The photo I’d hidden away was lying on the floor next to what looked like Beauty’s journal.

  She turned around slowly and I could see her hands were shaking. “Where did you get this?”

  I couldn’t look at her and I lowered my eyes.

  “Robin.” Her voice was raised. “Where did you get this?”

  I swallowed to try to wet my mouth. “Nomsa gave it to me.”

  “Is that when the photograph was taken?”

  I nodded.

  “When was this?”

  My lip started quivering, and I had to clear my throat a few times before I could speak. “She came to the park last month looking for you, and when you weren’t there—it was the day you were helping your friend, I don’t know if you remember—she asked me for that paper to write you a letter.”

  Beauty closed her eyes and I could see she was trying to make sense of what I was telling her. “But I do not understand. What is the letter doing hidden away? Why did you not tell me that you saw her?”

  “Nomsa was coming to take you away back to the Transkei. And I didn’t want to lose you. I wanted you to stay with me.”

  Beauty didn’t speak; she just continued to look at me in that puzzled way. Her hand had drifted to her chest and she was rubbing it slowly, making small circles over her breastbone.

  “I’m sorry, Beauty. I should have told you, but I knew if I did that you’d go back to the Transkei with her. And she doesn’t need you, not like I do. She’s grown up and she can look after herself. I need you. I love you.”

  Beauty was looking at me like she didn’t recognize me, her face a blank mask. She took a shallow breath and then another, deeper this time, and her shoulders rose and fell as she struggled to get enough air into her body. No matter how deeply she inhaled, she seemed unable to breathe and her eyes widened in panic. Her right hand had stopped circling around and around her chest, and she suddenly raised it to her throat, fingers closing around her Saint Christopher pendant. She tugged at it, trying to free her throat of any obstruction that might slow the air’s journey into her lungs. The chain snapped free of her neck, but she still gasped as she tried to suck oxygen down.

  “Beauty?” I was rooted to the spot, unsure of what to do to help her.

  I took a step towards her and her face suddenly contorted in pain, her eyes pinching closed. She groaned and crumpled in upon herself, a cry of pain dying on her lips as she hit the floor. I ran to her and tried to pick her up, linking my arms under her armpits and hefting with all my might, but she was a deadweight and I wasn’t able to budge her.

  “Beauty? Beauty,” I said, kneeling down and tapping the side of her face, her skin like tissue paper against my fingers. “Beauty, say something, please. I’m so sorry. Please be okay, Beauty. Please. I’m sorry.”

  Still she didn’t move or open her eyes; her mouth hung slack. I jolted upright and ran for the phone, dialing the number I’d been taught to use for emergencies. “Please, come quickly,” I said as soon as someone answered. “Beauty fell and she’s not waking up!”

  The calm voice asked me for an address and then asked me who Beauty was.

  I started to call her my makhulu, but stopped myself just in time. “She’s my granny,” I said. “Please hurry!” I put the receiver down and then ran back to Beauty. She was very still and her skin had taken on an odd gray pallor. “Please don’t die,” I whispered, kneeling down beside her and taking her hand. The Saint Christopher came free of her grasp and dropped into my palm. I squeezed her hand, the pendant trapped between our fingers, but there was no pressure in return. “Hold on, please. Help is on the way.”

  Beauty suddenly convulsed, and a stream of vomit gurgled out her mouth and down her cheek. She coughed and made a choking sound, and I quickly turned her face to the side to give the vomit somewhere to go. It pooled around her chin and soaked into the carpet. I leaned over to the bed, dropped the pendant, and tugged at a blanket, pulling it down to the floor so I could clean Beauty’s face. I wiped and wiped and whispered that I loved her and that everything was going to be okay. Some of the vomit had trickled down to her collarbone, and I dabbed it away before bending over and kissing her clammy forehead.

  I don’t know how long I sat there whispering to Beauty—it felt like hours—but there was finally a commotion outside the flat. I jumped up to open the door, getting there a split second after the first knock. There were two men standing outside, and I grabbed the hand of the closest one, pulling him into the bedroom. I was crying by then, sobbing with fear and regret and relief and guilt. I wasn’t able to speak, so I just pointed at Beauty, trusting that the man would know what to do.

  Instead of springing into action, he looked down at Beauty with his brow furrowed. He nudged her with his foot, his scuffed black shoe digging into her ribs. “Who’s this?”

  “Help her,” I cried. “Please help her.” It came out as a squeak.

  “But where’s your granny? The one you phoned about?”

  I took great big gulps of air so I could speak clearly. “This is her. This is Beauty.”

  The other man rushed into the room behind us; he’d been slowed down by a big, heavy bag he was carrying. I knew that whatever was in it could s
ave Beauty. “Hurry, please. Help her.”

  “But she’s black,” the first man said, still just standing there, doing nothing.

  “Is this the woman?” the second man asked, incredulous.

  “Do you see anyone else here?”

  The second man dropped the bag with a thunk and left the room. When he returned, all the urgency had gone out of him. “Come, there’s no one else here. Let’s go.”

  “What are you doing? Why aren’t you helping her? Do something,” I pleaded, lunging for the bag and tugging at the zip.

  “Leave that alone,” the first man swatted at me, grabbing the bag away.

  They turned to go and I jumped in their way, blocking the doorway of the bedroom. “No, you haven’t helped her. You have to help her.”

  “We don’t answer calls for kaffirs, girlie. Stop wasting our time.” And with that, they pried me loose of the doorway and left without looking back, leaving the flat door open behind them.

  Once I’d gotten over the shock of their leaving, I rushed back to Beauty and crouched over her. “Beauty?” She was so still that I couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

  I raised myself from my haunches and raced out the door to the stairwell, screaming all the way down the stairs to the Goldmans’ flat. “Help! Please help!”

  Mrs. Goldman opened the door before I got to it. “Robin? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Beauty,” I panted. “Come quickly.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  “Just come!” I turned and raced back the way I’d come.

  Mrs. Goldman’s voice rang out behind me. “Anthony! Come quickly, something’s happened.”

  I didn’t wait to see if they were following. I dashed up the stairs again, taking two at a time, and turned the corner. Mr. Finlay stood at the threshold to our flat, peering inside.

  “What’s all the racket about? What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “Nothing,” I panted, trying to brush past.

  “The hell with that! Something’s happened and you’d better tell me what it is.”

  I tried to duck under his arm that was obstructing the doorway, but he blocked my way with his knee.

  “Please, Mr. Finlay. Please get out of the way.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  “Mr. Finlay, could you please just—”

  “Has something happened to that kaffir bitch? I knew she was trouble from the moment I laid eyes on her, but no one would listen. What’s the spoonie gone and done? Should I call the police?”

  The anger welled up in me then, a cyclone of white-hot fury. “Kaffir bitch.” How could he call Beauty that? How dare the vile man speak of Beauty that way?

  “You know why God made them all brown, don’t you?” he continued. “So they’d look exactly like what they are. Worthless pieces of shit who—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, I was charging down at him, my head lowered like a rugby player preparing to scrum. The top of my skull connected with his stomach—a rock launched into a bowl of jelly—and he yelped in surprise. While he stood there swaying, winded and gaping at me, I disengaged and took a few steps back and then I tackled him again, knocking him to the floor. No sooner had he landed on the hallway carpet with an “Oof” than I jumped on top of him, pinning his abdomen to the floor. I took potshots at his stomach; my thumb was tucked tight against my fist, and not caught inside it, just as my father had taught me.

  “Help! Somebody get this maniac child off of me!”

  Mr. and Mrs. Goldman rounded the corner and stopped dead in their tracks, the shock of what they were seeing rendering them speechless.

  “Don’t. You. Dare. Speak. About. Beauty. That. Way.” I delivered each word along with a punch to the solar plexus. A hand at the scruff of my neck pulled me up, and frustrated to have the man out of arm’s reach, I started kicking out, lashing at Mr. Finlay as he lay on the floor, his arms raised up to protect his head.

  “What is going on here?” Mr. Goldman demanded, pulling me even farther out of reach.

  “That crazy little bitch attacked me, that’s what happened.”

  “Robin?”

  “He said . . . he said . . .” I was panting and it was only when I uttered Beauty’s name—one of the few fragmented words I could catch hold of to explain the situation—that I remembered that she was still inside lying on the floor. “Come.” I grabbed Mr. Goldman’s hand and pulled him inside, leaving Mrs. Goldman to help Mr. Finlay up.

  “She’s in here,” I said, and Mr. Goldman followed me into the bedroom.

  “What happened?” he said, and he crouched down next to Beauty, touching two fingers to her neck.

  “She was struggling to breathe and rubbing her chest and . . . there was pain . . . and she fell and the ambulance people wouldn’t take her . . . you have to do something.”

  There was a loud gasp behind me. “Anthony? Is she . . .” Mrs. Goldman’s voice trailed off.

  “She’s still alive. We need to get her to the hospital.”

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” Mrs. Goldman said, turning to head for the phone, but Mr. Goldman cut her off, relaying what I’d already told him.

  He bent down, extending one arm under Beauty’s thighs and the other under her back, and scooped her up. She flopped in his arms like a marionette whose strings had been cut. “Thank God she isn’t heavy,” Mr. Goldman puffed as he turned at an angle to get Beauty through the door without hurting her. “Get the car keys, Rachel, and meet me downstairs. I’m going to take her to Bara.”

  Mrs. Goldman used the stairs while we took the elevator to the basement parking. Mr. Goldman’s face was red with the strain of carrying Beauty, thick veins bulging in his neck and forehead, as he hefted her to his blue Rambler Hornet. The doors were unlocked, and I opened the rear left one and then stepped out of the way so that he could lean in and lay Beauty down. I rushed to the other door and got inside, using my lap for a pillow for Beauty to rest her head on.

  Mrs. Goldman had returned with the keys by the time Mr. Goldman had closed the doors.

  “You stay here and wait for Morrie to come back from the shops,” Mr. Goldman said to her.

  The engine roared to life and our tires squealed as we accelerated out the garage. I looked out the side window. Mrs. Goldman had her palms joined together, pressed up against her mouth, her eyes filled with tears.

  Fifty-two

  ROBIN

  2 OCTOBER 1977

  Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa

  Three days had passed since Beauty’s heart attack. She hadn’t regained consciousness after her surgery but she was alive.

  During the drive from Yeoville to Soweto, I’d cradled Beauty’s head in my lap and wrapped my arm over her body to prevent her from being jolted when Mr. Goldman made sharp turns. I couldn’t feel any movement at all, no gentle rising and falling of her ribcage as proof that she was still breathing, but I refused to believe that she might be dying. I spoke to her the whole way, telling her that everything was going to be okay and that I loved her and that she had to hold on.

  Once we arrived at Baragwanath Hospital, there was a flurry of activity as orderlies and nurses rushed to pull Beauty from the car and strap her to a gurney. I tried to follow her inside, but a security guard stopped me from charging through the doors that led to the inner sanctum.

  “Please let me through. Please! I need to go with her, please!”

  “Only medical personnel are allowed beyond this point.”

  I kicked a wall in frustration, stubbing my big toe in the process. Once I’d calmed down enough to take in my surroundings, I noticed a waiting room off to the side and I headed for that, intending to stay as close to Beauty as I could. No sooner had I sat down than Mr. Goldman came to take my hand.

  “Come, Robin. Let’s go.”


  “But I want to stay with Beauty.”

  “They won’t let us in to see her, and I think it will be quite a few hours until there’ll be any news.”

  “I want to wait here.”

  Mr. Goldman looked around the room. His gaze slid over the other occupants, making me notice them for the first time. We were the only white people in there, our paleness making us as conspicuous as a full moon in a dark sky. One man, who sat three chairs down, was holding up a rust-colored T-shirt to his forehead to try to stop the flow of blood. Another’s shirt was ripped open, displaying a jagged flap of skin across his side. Two men sat across from him talking in angry voices. One of the men, when he caught me looking, cracked his knuckles and glared back. A raving drunk was sitting off to the side, yelling obscenities.

  “This isn’t a safe place to wait. We’ll go home and phone for updates.”

  “But—”

  “Come, Robin.”

  There was no use protesting; I could see he’d made his mind up. When we finally got back to our building, I went directly to our flat telling Mr. Goldman that I was going to pack clothes and a few other things for the night. The first thing I did though, as soon as I was through the door, was to gather up Beauty’s journal, Nomsa’s letter, the photograph and Beauty’s necklace. I packed everything away in a kitbag, and then filled it with the clothes and toiletries I’d need. A niggling feeling plagued me, making me double-check that I had everything. I did, but still the feeling persisted.

  I ignored it and was just pulling the flat’s door closed when I realized what was bothering me. I needed to solve the mystery of how Beauty had found my hiding place. I went back inside to Edith’s dressing table and knelt down. My secret compartment was open and everything was gone. It didn’t make any sense; how had Beauty known where to look or what she might find? I crouched even lower and saw another cubby just above mine. A gentle nudge against the plywood revealed another compartment, one that was the perfect size to hold Beauty’s journal. She hadn’t been looking for my secret spot at all; she’d been meaning to return her own cherished object to a different hiding place.