Hum If You Don't Know the Words

by Bianca Marais

  I decided to take a chance and skirted up to the only window that faced out onto the street. I tried to peer inside but the room was pitch-black, and all I could see was my frightened face reflected back at me in the glass. A sudden flash gave me such a fright that I stumbled backwards, landing on my bum. A halo of light shone out above me, and I realized that the flare had been a match being struck to light a candle. I dared raise myself up on trembling legs and peeped inside again. Nomsa was a few feet away wearing a nightgown. Shakes wasn’t in the room with her.

  Once I was sure that he wasn’t just out of sight—once Nomsa sat on the couch with a book in hand and the candle balanced next to her—I tapped on the glass. Her head snapped up. Within two strides she was at the window looking out, her eyes wide with shock when she saw my face. I raised a finger to my lips and then beckoned her out, heading back to the car so she would follow me.

  After Nomsa had exited the yard and was looking around, I flashed the headlights. She jogged towards me, her nightgown flapping behind her, and when she reached the car, I unlatched the driver’s door for her.

  She peered into the back of the car and saw King George passed out. She must have decided that he wasn’t much of a threat because she slipped inside.

  “Robin? What are you doing here? Who is this man?”

  “He’s a friend and he brought me.”

  “How did you know where to find me? Were you followed?” I could see by the moonlight that her right eye was puffy. It looked like someone had recently hit her.

  “No one followed us and, believe me, it wasn’t easy finding you. It’s a very long story that I don’t have time to get into right now. I came to take you to Beauty.”

  “Beauty?”

  “Yes, she’s in Baragwanath Hospital. She had a heart attack.”

  Nomsa’s hands flew up to her mouth. “A heart attack? When?”

  “A few days ago. She’s still alive but she isn’t getting better. We don’t have time to waste.”

  My news didn’t galvanize Nomsa like I’d expected it to. She didn’t spring into action or agree that there wasn’t any time to waste. Instead, she simply hung her head and sighed. “My mother does not want to see me.”

  “What? Of course she does!”

  “No, she did not come to meet me after I wrote that letter. That was a choice she made and I need to respect that. Forcing her to see me now could just make her condition worse—”

  “I never gave her the letter,” I blurted.

  “What?”

  “I never gave it to her. I hid it away because I didn’t want you to take Beauty away from me back to the Transkei. But then she found where I’d hidden it, and after she read it, she had a heart attack. Here,” I said, reaching into my rucksack and pulling the letter out and giving it to her. “See? I still have it.”

  Nomsa took it from me, her eyes wide with hope. “She never got my letter? That is why she never came?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  She was silent for a moment. “You thought I came to take Beauty back to the Transkei?”

  “Yes, why else would you have wanted to meet with her?”

  “You do not know what the letter says?”

  “No, I’m learning to speak Xhosa, but I can’t read very much of it. Why? What did it say?” If Nomsa hadn’t come to take Beauty away, why had she come?

  Nomsa slowly unfolded the letter and began to read in her soft, oddly toneless voice:

  My Dearest Mother,

  I have to see you.

  I have been chosen to go to the Soviet Union to complete my training. It is a great honor to be selected as one of the elite, but I know that in order to be an effective soldier, I need to completely turn my back on you and everything you have ever taught me. There are things that need to be done, terrible things, and many people will be killed. The few acts I have already committed keep me awake at night, and make me question who I am and the person I am becoming. It is my greatest fear that one day I will wake up and be someone you would not recognize, or even worse, someone you could not love.

  Nomsa paused and I looked up to see why. Her eyes had filled with tears and she brushed them away impatiently with the heel of her palm before continuing.

  My own people have been watching me. They are suspicious and doubt my dedication, because I have been naive enough to voice my doubts. Traitors are killed because they are a threat to security, so we will need to be very careful when we meet.

  If you do not come, my mother, I will know you have given up on me and I will not blame you. I will then depart for Moscow without doubts because if you do not think I am able to be saved, then I know you are right and I will continue on this path I chose a year ago.

  I love you,

  Nomsa

  By the time Nomsa had finished reading, I was crying too. I’d been wrong all along. All the lying and the deceit in order to keep Beauty was all for nothing; Nomsa had never intended to take her away.

  “When she didn’t come, did you think it was because she didn’t love you anymore?” I asked.

  Nomsa’s sob answered my question. She couldn’t speak, she just nodded.

  “I’m so sorry, Nomsa. She would have been there if she’d known you were coming. If I gave her your letter and told her to meet you there, there was nothing that would have stopped her. Nothing. It’s all my fault.”

  She looked up at me with watery eyes and I could see how lost she was, how desperately confused, and how much she’d needed the anchor of her mother to keep her from drifting off in the riptide of her competing desires. It was obvious how conflicted she was; no matter how hard she’d searched, she could find no middle ground.

  “Do you really believe that?” she asked. “That she would have come?”

  “Yes, I know it!” I reached into my backpack again and pulled out Beauty’s journal. I suspected it documented her entire search for Nomsa, as well as her overwhelming love for the daughter she refused to give up on. I knew, too, what Beauty had written in her letter to me. She’d said she knew her daughter well enough to know that she’d question the morality of her actions and she’d been right.

  “Here, take this.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s your mother’s journal. That will tell you everything you need to know. All she cared about was finding you.”

  Nomsa looked at the journal as though too scared to open it. Perhaps she felt that while she didn’t know exactly what was inside, she could still believe it held all the affirmations she so achingly needed. Perhaps she believed the actual words would only lead to disappointment. She riffled through the pages without looking too closely at any of them. “It is a lot of writing.”

  “Yes. You can read it all later. We need to go now.”

  “Go?”

  “To the hospital. Don’t you see? It might not be too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You wanted to speak to your mother before you left and you haven’t left yet. If . . . if Beauty is still alive . . . if she’s woken up . . . then none of it is too late. You can go see her and speak to her and ask for her advice and she’ll tell you the right thing to do and . . .” My words trailed off. I’d been watching Nomsa’s face as I spoke and it wasn’t in any way affected by what I was saying. She still looked sad and defeated. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “It is too late,” she said.

  “No, no. It’s not. She’s alive, I know she is and—”

  “I married Shakes.”

  “What?”

  “When I did not hear from my mother, I thought she had turned her back on me. But Shakes was there even though she was not. And he has always taken care of me. On the day of the march, he got me away from the police and hid me in a secure place. He made sure I had medical attention and then he got Phumla out of jail. He is the one who has
been there for me the whole time and . . .” Her voice trailed away.

  “But . . . but . . . Shakes is a bad man. He made Phumla lie to your mother about where you were. And he blindfolded Beauty and took her away without taking her to you.”

  “He was trying to protect me. He said she was causing trouble looking for me and that the security police would take notice of her questions. He said that seeing her would bring the police to our door.”

  “But if you thought it would be dangerous to see her . . . then . . . then why did you come to the park that day to find her?”

  “I was desperate and willing to take the risk, because things had happened that made me question what we were doing. Shakes made me do—” She cut herself off and shook her head impatiently before carrying on. “I did things, terrible things, and I began to question if they were the right things. Shakes said they were the right things and that we had to do them, but I was not sure. I had to see my mother no matter the risk because I knew she would speak the truth.”

  Yes, Beauty always spoke the truth. “Did Shakes know you came to see Beauty that day?”

  Nomsa shook her head.

  “So that’s who you were scared of. Not the police, but Shakes. He hits you.”

  She shook her head but she didn’t contradict me. “I need to go back inside,” Nomsa said. “If he notices that I’m gone—”

  “No!” I grabbed her hand. “No. We have to go to the hospital now while he’s passed out.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  As she resisted, my stomach hollowed out with disappointment. “Nomsa, it’s a sign, don’t you see?”

  “What is a sign?”

  “You should’ve been gone by now. You should’ve been in Moscow. And I tried to keep the letter from Beauty, but she found it anyway. There were delays and things happened to stop you from going, and then you should have left tomorrow but I came tonight. If I came tomorrow, I wouldn’t have found you. I was meant to find you tonight. Don’t you see? You were meant to see your mother. Please, Nomsa. Please come with me.”

  Still she didn’t move. She just sat there looking at me, her face unreadable.

  Think, Robin. Think. You have to make her understand.

  I unclasped the chain I was wearing and held it out to her. The Saint Christopher pendant, given to her mother for her courage and bravery, had delivered Beauty to me; it had also safely carried me across the tempest of my fevered illness. I hoped it would give Nomsa strength. “This is Beauty’s. She’d want you to have it. Please don’t let her die without seeing you, Nomsa. Please.”

  She took it from me and regarded the silver pendant. “I—”

  Her reply was cut short by a cry that tore through the night. Our heads snapped up in unison. Shakes stood a hundred meters away just outside their house. He held something in his hand that he waved around as he yelled an angry tirade in Xhosa.

  Nomsa tensed next to me. “I should have hidden that away.”

  “Hidden what?” But then I saw it.

  It was a gun and Shakes was pointing it at us. He was unsteady on his feet but trying to find purchase.

  “Oh my God. He’s going to shoot at us, he’s—”

  I’d barely got the thought out when a blast of light flared from the gun and we heard a thwack nearby. The recoil unbalanced Shakes and he stumbled backwards but recovered quickly. With his feet planted apart, he took aim once more.

  “Nomsa! We have to—” I didn’t need to finish the sentence. The car roared to life as Nomsa turned the key in the ignition.

  Shakes got off another shot that barely missed us as Nomsa slammed the car into reverse. We shot backwards at a terrifying speed.

  “You can drive?” I asked stupidly. I’d never known a black woman who could.

  She didn’t reply. Instead, she spun us backwards into a ninety-degree turn, tires squealing as we barely avoided yet another bullet. King George snorted once from the backseat but didn’t wake up. Movement out the side window caught my eye. Shakes had started to run after us.

  “Quick! Let’s get out of here!”

  Nomsa put the car into first gear, but when she tried to accelerate, the car stalled. She cursed and turned the key again but the engine didn’t respond.

  Shakes was gaining on us. Even though he was staggering more than running, he was only fifty meters away.

  “He’s coming, Nomsa! Hurry!”

  She turned the key again. The car made a sickly sound and then fell silent. Shakes was close enough now for me to see the fury in his eyes and the sweat beading down his face. I started winding up the window I’d opened earlier for fresh air.

  “Bitch,” he screamed. “You bitch! Nomsa!”

  “Come on, come—”

  The engine finally took. It turned once, twice, and then the car roared to life.

  I gasped with relief. “Go, go, go.”

  Nomsa hit the accelerator and we lurched forward just as two hands suddenly reached out from the darkness. Shakes’s long fingers slipped through the gap of the window I hadn’t yet managed to fully close. They clung on, even as we started to pick up speed, and then pressed down hard so that the glass slid all the way back again.

  I screamed in terror and slapped at his knuckles. Still he hung on. I started punching instead, ramming my closed fists at him with all my might. Finally, he let go. I uttered a cry of triumph and Shakes grabbed at me, his fingers closing around the scruff of my jersey. My head slammed against the side of the car as Shakes yanked me towards him. I tried to scream but couldn’t breathe. I was being strangled by my own jersey. I punched out but didn’t connect with anything. Shakes’s grip was tightening and everything began to swim before my eyes, blackness closing in.

  And then a foot, appearing seemingly from thin air, struck out from inside the car and connected with Shakes’s head. He let go of me and air flooded my lungs.

  “You orright, Little Miss?” King George had finally woken up and come to my rescue.

  I nodded, my throat too tender to speak just yet.

  Nomsa reached out and patted my leg. “Hold on,” she said.

  And then we rocketed forward into the night, and for a wondrous moment as we shot over a bump, we were airborne, and I knew what it felt like to fly.

  Fifty-eight

  ROBIN

  4 OCTOBER 1977

  Soweto, Johannesburg, South Africa

  Dawn was holding its breath when I finally found the right window.

  When we’d arrived at Bara, Nomsa convinced the nurses to allow her to see her mother even though it would still be hours before the first official visiting time. They agreed to the visit in part because they were already doing their rounds and busy with that predawn flurry of activity to check in on patients before the doctors arrived. It was Nomsa’s desperation, though—and the fact that she was barefoot and in her nightgown—that swayed them; her need was that of a person who’d been swept far out to sea and the nurses recognized a drowning woman when they saw one.

  Before Nomsa was led through to Beauty’s ward, she came outside and told me that the room was on the ground floor of Ward C, and I’d be able to look inside if I wanted to. I’d spent half an hour since then skirting around the building from window to window while King George slept in the parking lot, and I was just beginning to doubt I’d ever find it when I spotted Nomsa standing next to Beauty’s bed. It was two beds down from the window on the left-hand side, and although I couldn’t make out much more of Beauty than her outline under the blankets, I could see Nomsa’s lips moving. My heart ballooned with joy knowing that Beauty was awake and aware that Nomsa was finally, finally there.

  As I watched them, there was a part of me that wished I was standing next to the bed with Nomsa because there was so much I needed to tell Beauty. I wanted to say that I was so sorry for the terrible things I’d done and that I loved her
so very much; I wanted her to know that she’d saved me with her love and brought me back to myself when I thought I’d be forever lost; and I wanted to tell her that I’d never, ever forgive myself for the hurt I’d caused her and Nomsa; but I needed to ask anyway if there was some tiny way that she might find it in her great big heart to forgive me. Even a little.

  I wanted to find the words to express that I thought I was coming close to understanding the nature of love; that love can’t be held captive, and it can’t be bestowed by a prisoner on their captor, even if the prisoner is in a glass cage and oblivious to its captivity. I wanted Beauty to know that I understood that love can only be given by one who is free to choose, and that I was forever freeing her of her obligation to me.

  More than anything, I wished Beauty could truly understand how much the past fifteen months I’d spent with her had changed me. In the darkness of my grief, she’d taken my hand and walked with me through the crucible. She’d brought love and life and color into my world, and I’d never see things in simple black and white again. She’d helped me realize that life wasn’t the kind of story that had a happy ending. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I’d come to believe that a story that ended happily was just a story that hadn’t ended yet.

  I’d been so terrified of Beauty leaving that I’d done everything in my power to prevent that from happening, and it was in trying to outrun my fears that I’d manifested them; it was in trying to keep Beauty that I’d lost her, and it was in trying to hold on that I was now forced to let go. I wished she could know all of that and more, but I knew that this was their moment, not mine, and I’d already intruded upon their lives too much.

  It was time for me to step back into the shadows so that they could write their own story, and I wished with all my heart that it would be different for them, and that they would have their happy ending, or at least one that wasn’t too sad. I took one last look at the mother who never gave up and the prodigal daughter who found her way home, and it gave me hope that we imperfect creatures can find other imperfect creatures through the power of the imperfect emotion we called love.