“Right,” said George. “Right. So I started researching South Africa. I finally found a Newsweek article explaining what Thola had meant by MK.”
“You were ten, reading about the MK?”
“Wild, huh? I read that they sent kids to Mozambique and Angola for military training, and I was hopeful, but I saw on my light-up globe that neither spot was near the Bay Area.”
“No,” said Nadine, laughing.
“I read that the MK were given guns and hand grenades, taught how to fight, and then sent back into South Africa. The idea of Thola as armed and dangerous only made her more attractive, of course.”
“Of course,” said Nadine, thinking of Sammy again, the biker whose tattoos and bad attitude had been his best characteristics.
“I went around singing the ANC anthem, which I’d found on a Time-Life cassette of world music. I still remember it. Nkosi Sikelel…”
Nadine winced at his off-key rendition. “I get the picture,” she said.
“At this point, my mother no longer thought my crush was so cute. She did not appreciate my singing African songs, and she threw away my FREE MANDELA T-shirt. She said it was the nanny, but I knew better.”
“What about Thola?” said Nadine. “Did she ever write back?”
“Not until I was in seventh grade.”
“What did the letter say?”
George put out his cigarette. “I have it,” he said. “You can see for yourself.” He went into his bedroom, returned with a timeworn piece of paper.
“You saved it, all these years?” Nadine asked.
George shrugged, gave the paper to her.
Hola George,
Thank you seven times for seven letters. I am very happy to have them. I am very busy with school and dance, of course, but I do think about you and about your nice mlungu home in America. My cousin (Albert) is home you will be glad to know. Things are not good and happy here, but we have faith. During the day there is fighting in the streets, nyaga nyaga, which means trouble, as I am sure you appreciate. The area around my house and in my house is safe for now. Two friends are dead, and I sing for them and I pray for them. They have not died for nothing.
In school, we are learning about white man history and also science. At ballet school I am becoming a master of the jeté and Albert teaches me the toyi-toyi. You should see me. Do not worry that I will fall in love with a Freedom Fighter, George. I told you before and tell you once more I do not have time for such things. When there is a free South Africa you will hear from me. You can write again and tell me more about this Alcatraz. Also, how did the San Francisco Ballet Gala Benefit of your mother go? I hope well. Send prayers for me and for you I will do the same. My sister Evelina says hello and she would like to come to America. Unfortunately, she is clumsy, and can never be a ballerina.
Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika,
THOLA
(The Lion)
“This was what—fifteen years ago?” said Nadine.
“Right,” said George, taking the letter back and folding it carefully.
Nadine leaned forward. “How did you reconnect?”
“I wrote to her all through high school; and then during college, I finally saved enough to come over. Kevin set me up with this apartment about a year ago. Maxim was headed to Bucharest, and wanted to make some extra money by renting out rooms.”
Nadine nodded and sipped her beer. “Go on,” she said.
Fourteen
George worked in the campus bar during his junior year in college, and by summer he had saved enough money to buy a ticket to South Africa. (His parents had refused to supplement the “African girlfriend fund,” as his father called it.) Though there had been other women for George, he still pined for Thola. When the plane landed in Johannesburg, George felt something in his gut. He looked out the window at the dusty, red earth. He thought, grandly, I am home.
He arrived in Cape Town four hours later, and called Kevin Holderman, whose number he had written on a square of notebook paper. Kevin, an energetic older man, drove him to the Nutthall Road house. “Okay,” he said, “here’s Thola’s address, and the keys to Maxim’s car. Ask around Site C in Sunshine township. Everyone knows Tholakele. But watch your back.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” said George as he walked outside with Kevin.
“Listen,” said Kevin. “You’ve got to be careful. It’s illegal for blacks and whites to mix.”
“I know,” said George. He muttered, “Fucking ridiculous.”
Kevin lit a cigarette and stared into space as he inhaled. The trees around them were vibrant. “It’s the way things are,” said Kevin, finally.
“That’s a stupid thing to say,” said George.
“Why don’t you soak it all in,” said Kevin, “before you start casting judgment.”
It was afternoon in Cape Town, but the middle of the night at home. George felt woozy from cigarettes and lack of sleep. He went outside and found the yellow Tercel parked in the middle of a pile of weeds.
There was a map on the passenger seat. Styrofoam cups and fast-food wrappers littered the car. One of the back windows had a bullet hole. It took a few tries, but finally the car started. George picked up the map, which was marked with red X’s. Cape Flats was a blank expanse, but Maxim had filled in some of the streets. He had noted Sunshine, so George started the engine and drove.
After about ten minutes, the streets of the city, lush and landscaped, ended, and then the townships began: tiny shacks and concrete blocks lining the road. George followed the signs to Sunshine, but found himself lost on a street filled with animals, people, and garbage. He passed brightly colored tin buildings. On one building, QUEENS’ HAIR SALON had been painted in red, followed by a list of services, including RELAX, S-CURL, BLOW, and HOT WATER. A few blocks away, he found Thola’s address.
As soon as he stepped from the car, George noticed how many people were watching him. From windows and yards, from the makeshift bar across the street, men and women stared openly. He had never felt so conspicuous. He was scared and guilty for being scared. He hadn’t even showered before coming to see Thola, he realized, pushing loose strands of hair back into his ponytail. He felt ashamed.
George walked past a row of concrete buildings. Laundry hung on a line, and a few empty plastic buckets had been overturned to make stools for women who sat and gazed at him. The buckets, George learned, were for human waste. There was no plumbing in Site C. There were no electric lines: there was no electricity.
Thola’s house, a corrugated-iron shack with horizontal windows, was surrounded by a dirt yard, which had been carefully swept. There was a spindly tree and a walkway made of stones. In the chilly afternoon, smoke curled from a fire in the backyard. George swallowed. The sky above him was closed in by smog. He approached the metal door and knocked.
An older woman with close-cropped hair opened the front door. She looked tired, her shoulders folded forward. “Hello,” said George, with way too much enthusiasm. “I’m here to see Thola! My name is George. I’m a friend of hers from America!” He grinned, and the woman looked at him levelly. She stepped back, indicating that George should come inside, and spoke to someone in the back room. George could not grasp what she was saying; he later learned she spoke only Xhosa.
On the wall, framed pictures and cutout newspaper articles had been hung. George recognized the girl in the photos: Thola. He smiled.
“Welcome,” said a woman in a green headdress, offering a tray with a teapot and a mug. “Thola is not here. Thola is at work.”
“She got a job?” said George. “I didn’t know. That’s great! That’s really great.”
A young girl at the kitchen table snickered. She wore a school uniform, plaid skirt with an oxford shirt. Her hair was pulled into two braided pigtails. When she looked up, George could see that one of her eyelids opened only partway. In front of her was a math textbook. “Where is she dancing?” said George.
“She is not dancing anymore,�
� said the girl, looking at George angrily. “She is a maid.”
“A maid?” said George.
The older woman pushed a mug of weak tea into George’s hands. The mug was very hot, its handle broken off. George switched it from hand to hand, trying to ignore his scalding fingers. The woman spoke in Xhosa. “She says it’s a good job,” said the girl, rolling her eyes.
“Well, that’s wonderful,” said George, trying to feign enthusiasm.
“We have heard many times about you,” said the woman in the green headdress. “I am Tholakele’s aunt, September. This is her mother, Fikile, and Evelina, her sister.” George looked long at Fikile. He could not believe the stooped, round-faced woman was Thola’s mother. He tried to catch her eye, to smile, but Fikile looked into her tea.
“Howdy, partner,” said Evelina. She was trouble, George could tell.
“Where does Thola work?” said George.
Fikile spoke, and George stared, trying to find Thola in her. September translated, “A fine home in the city. Twelve Serpentine Avenue.”
“Oranjezicht,” said Evelina, naming a suburb not far from George’s apartment.
George sipped from his mug. “I sure am glad to be here,” he said lamely. “Will you tell Thola I came by?”
Fikile giggled like a young girl—George was startled to hear such an innocent sound from Thola’s world-weary mother—and spoke softly to her sister. “She says that Thola was right. You are handsome, for an American,” said September. Fikile hid her smile with her pudgy hand.
“Thank you,” said George. He didn’t want to leave, but couldn’t think of anything else to say. “See you very soon, I hope,” he said, moving to the door.
Evelina followed George to his car and asked for a ride to a friend’s house. George agreed, and then saw two boys walking toward them. “Start the car, please,” said Evelina tensely.
“What’s the matter?” said George. The boys looked about ten years old.
“Please start the car at once,” said Evelina. “Tsotsis,” she said, after George had pulled away. “They are the hoodlums.” She added, without emotion, “They raped my friend.” George opened his mouth to ask questions, but could not decide where to begin.
Evelina directed him through the narrow, busy streets. Finally, she told him to stop outside a small house. “Studying?” said George as Evelina reached for the car door.
“Yes, studying,” said Evelina flatly.
“Well,” said George. “It was great to meet you.”
“I feel the same,” said Evelina, and she slammed the door, looked both ways, and ran to the house.
George couldn’t help himself. He drove out of the townships with relief and followed the handmade map to the leafy suburb of Oranjezicht. He was shocked by the contrast between the townships and the stunning suburbs a few miles away. As he drove, the road wound up the side of Table Mountain; some homes would have views of the sea.
Twelve Serpentine Avenue was a white house with an elaborate garden of frangipani and hibiscus. It was surrounded by a high metal gate, and signs warned of alarm systems and guard dogs. George sat in his car, and then he saw a figure outside the gates, underneath a blue gum tree. His heart beat quickly as he got out of the car. He approached the figure, who he knew, just knew, was his Thola.
Her eyes were closed, and she leaned against the trunk, smoking a cigarette. George watched her, the planes of her cheekbones, her lips. He had dreamed of her for years, and now here she was, more beautiful than he had imagined. She wore a gray uniform, and her hair was cut close to her head. Her ankles were crossed, her feet wrapped in ugly shoes. She wore a thick cardigan pulled over her chest.
Thola opened her eyes. Outside the gates of an opulent home, years later and on the opposite side of the world, they saw each other again. George knelt before her, and she smiled.
“Ah,” she said slyly. “My Prince Charming. At last, you have arrived.”
“Jesus,” said Nadine. “That’s quite a love story.”
“Have you ever been in love?” asked George.
“No,” said Nadine quietly.
“I’m sorry,” said George. He reached across the table, but before his hand touched Nadine’s the front door banged open. A blond man in his thirties entered the room. He was thin and unshaven, and wore jeans and a black T-shirt, three cameras around his neck. There was dirt smeared on one of his cheekbones, and with his wild blue eyes and bony frame, he looked a bit frightening. Nadine felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. His sweat smelled of spice. “Motherfucking Cape Flats,” he said.
“This,” said George, “is Maxim.”
Fifteen
Maxim: his muscular arms, unshaven cheeks stubbled with rough hair. A cigarette between his fingers even before he had climbed out of bed. On Nadine’s first morning at the house on Nutthall Road, he wandered into the kitchen as she was making a pot of coffee. His jeans hung low on his hips.
“That coffee’s crap,” he said.
Nadine wore pajama pants and a tank top. She turned. “What do you suggest?” she said.
“Come with me. For the day.”
“Where?”
“Yes or no,” said Maxim, walking toward Nadine, pinning her with his eyes.
“Yes,” said Nadine.
In the Bo-Kapp neighborhood, Maxim bought Nadine a syrupy coffee. She drank it too fast, and ended up with a mouthful of grounds. “Forgot to mention,” said Maxim. “Don’t drink the last sip.”
Nadine looked at him darkly.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he said.
Nadine blushed. She lined up her notebook and pencil on the table. “Where are we headed?” she asked.
“We drive around,” said Maxim waving his hand toward the city. “We look for trouble.”
“The townships,” said Nadine.
“Yes,” said Maxim. “It’s like the coffee,” he said. “Once you taste the real thing, the rest is shit.”
Nadine thought of her disappointing stories so far: a long interview with the man who monitored the penguins at Boulders Beach, the group of Germans on a wine tour. She had even stooped to writing an article about shopping for African handicrafts.
“I’m ready,” she told Maxim.
Maxim drove the Tercel out of town, onto the highway. He explained that the murder of Jason Irving had been just the tip of the iceberg. “These kids are tired of waiting for equality, so they’re turning to violence.” Quietly, he added, “One of the kids who killed the American was Evelina Malefane.”
“I remember the name. A little girl, right? With pigtails.”
“She’s Thola’s sister,” said Maxim. “She went to jail a month ago.”
“Thola? You mean George’s girlfriend?”
“She’s a lot more than George’s girlfriend,” said Maxim.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s complicated,” said Maxim. He put on his blinker and drove off the highway. The air was thick with the scents of urine and spoiled meat. The streets were riddled with potholes, and then the pavement stopped and mud tracks began. Morning sun glinted off streams of waste that ran along the road. Makeshift houses were crammed together: pieces of welded iron without plumbing or concrete floors. Trash was simply everywhere: wet rags, cardboard boxes, discarded food wrappers, newspapers.
“Don’t tell me it’s complicated and stop,” said Nadine. “I want to understand. That’s what I’m here for, damn it.”
Maxim raised an eyebrow. Children came running toward the car, banging on the windows and yelling in English and Xhosa. “Can I explain tonight,” said Maxim, “over dinner?”
“Okay,” said Nadine. There was no time to savor the invitation; Maxim rolled down the window.
“Hola,” he said, stopping.
“Hola,” said one skinny kid, opening the back door of the car and clambering in. Maxim explained later that the township thugs liked to pretend they were a real part of the resistance movement, and so adopted the Span
ish greetings that guerrilla fighters had brought home from training camps, where many teachers were Cuban. “You looking for bang bang?” said the boy, smiling too widely from the backseat. Nadine shot Maxim a nervous look.
“Anything happening?” asked Maxim, putting his hand on her knee to calm her.
“You have petrol, com?”
“I’m a journalist,” said Maxim. To Nadine, he said, “He wants the gas for Molotov cocktails.” Maxim’s hand was warm on her knee.
“You want the nyaga nyaga,” said the boy, “you give me something.”
“Here,” said Maxim, pulling a ten-rand note from his cigarette packet.
The boy took the money and a cigarette. Maxim lit the cigarette. The boy had long eyelashes and acne-pitted skin. He wore a white sweatshirt that said HOOK ’EM HORNS. He was very young, not yet a teenager.
From the backseat, the boy directed them down alleys and past a food stall, where piles of fatty meat lay glistening. A man in a blue shirt and a sleeveless argyle vest tended the coals of an enormous barbecue. Kids of varied sizes filled the streets; one girl in pink track pants sucked a lollipop provocatively, her hair poking in all directions. There was a heavy stench of blood, and the ground was wet: lunch had recently been slaughtered.
Finally, the boy extended a skinny arm, pointing to a long, concrete block in the distance. “The hostel,” he said. “There’s the bang bang for you, com.”
“Okay,” said Maxim, handing the boy another ten-rand note.
“I’m Mikey,” said the boy. “Ask for me if you need anything, okay?”
“You got it,” said Maxim.
“Watch yourself, white boy,” said Mikey, starting to laugh. He seemed drugged; Maxim later told Nadine that Mandrax, a banned tranquilizer, was heavily used in the townships. The kids mixed Mandrax and marijuana, smoking it out of a bottleneck. They called the concoction “white pipe.” Mikey jumped out of the car and ran back down the road.
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