Into the ensuite bathroom: a small bundle of clothing in the laundry basket, a brown and green towel hanging over the rail next to the shower, Colgate shampoo and a cake of blue soap in the shower, a half-empty tube of Aquafresh toothpaste in the mug on the basin along with a red toothbrush. In the cabinet, a razor, Gillette shaving cream, a packet of Panado tablets, some Band Aid plasters, a tube of Dettol antiseptic cream. And a green bottle of Brut aftershave. Her favourite. She’d bought Christo his first bottle for his fourteenth birthday, a joke really. He’d never understood why he used it up so much faster in the holidays when they were both home from school. He obviously continued to use it... had continued to use it.
She stumbled back into the bedroom, blew her nose on the ragged tissue clenched in her sweaty fist. The red pain tearing at the back of her throat reminded her that time didn’t heal anything. Perhaps she’d feel better if they caught the bloody terrorists – but that didn’t seem likely. And even if they did get them, what would it matter? They’d stopped hanging killers. They’d probably get a medal from Mandela.
With a trembling hand, she lifted the top book on the pile next to Christo’s bed: Francois Bloemhof’s Die nag het net een oog. He’d promised to lend it to her when he finished it. Underneath was Andre Brink’s Die Eerste Lewe van Adamastar –she didn’t like Brink, but Christo would read anything. And there, at the bottom of the pile, was Thys’ copy of Wilbur Smith’s Golden Fox. So that was where it had got to. Thys had thought they’d lost it in the confusion when they moved to Steynspruit after the murders. She hugged it. She wondered if Christo had enjoyed it. Or if he’d even had a chance to read it.
Enough.
Outside, tears seeped through her clenched lids. She drank in the warm air while the sun tried to thaw her frozen veins. Petrus and Pretty and the others – they could come and clear everything out. And paint the house. Nice bright colours.
‘Ma, Ma, I’m home.’ Arno, all gangly arms and legs, was rushing down the path from the main house towards her, Beauty hot on his heels.
They panted to a halt at the foot of the stairs.
‘So what do you think, Ma? Will Ma do it, what Pa said?’ Arno asked.
Beauty, beaming with joy, nodded vigorously.
Annamari looked down at the two pairs of bright blue eyes staring anxiously up at her, pleading. And she knew. In that instant, she knew exactly who Pretty’s... she knew who Beauty’s father was.
Chapter 10
Two years later: 1993
Annamari choked back the wail forcing its way past her clenched teeth. She felt his breath on her ear but the roar drowned his words. She was being bumped, shaken, as she hurtled towards certain death. A lurch liberated a tiny moan of terror from behind her clenched teeth. She could feel herself being forced down, paralysed as the high-pitched whine rose higher yet, protesting in unearthly rage. Her lungs were bursting; the tiny hairs in her inner ear were quivering like a piano tuner’s fork. She felt the unbearable whine die and braced herself for the shudder as gravity caught them and punished them for daring to presume they could fly.
‘You can open your eyes now,’ Thys said. ‘We’re up.’
She released his hand. The little boy in seat 34 D stared scornfully at her. In a resonating soprano, his unintelligible guttural words announced her shameful terror to the entire aircraft.
‘The first time is always the worst, you’ll see,’ Thys said.
She didn’t want to see. She wished she’d never agreed to leave Driespruitfontein, leave mother earth, on this crazy, crazy escapade. It was all Thys’ father’s fault. She knew Dominee van Zyl disliked her. That’s why he’d insisted, even after she told him she didn’t like flying, that she and Thys go and check everything out for him before he led his flock on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land later in the year.
‘You’ve never flown, Annamari – so how do you know that you don’t like it?’ he’d said, while the silver carving knife meticulously dissected the leg of lamb on Easter Sunday. ‘Anyway,’ he proclaimed to his admiring audience in the big pastorie dining room – Thys, her mother-in-law, the deacon, the ouderling and their primped wives – ‘it’s about time Annamari saw something more of the world than that farm. A visit to the Holy Land, to walk in the footsteps of our Lord – it will be good for her.’
Ma van Zyl pursed her lips.
Annamari knew that everyone in that room, with the exception of Thys, knew that the dominee meant it would be good for “a sinner like her”. She knew that the dominee had never forgiven her for “trapping” Thys into marriage. His disdain and dislike had deepened – something she hadn’t thought possible – when they decided to move to Steynspruit after the murders, thus depriving his only son and heir of the opportunity to either coach the Springboks or be appointed headmaster of Grey College. Probably both. How often had he sniped at her (out of Thys’ hearing, of course), that it was all her fault that Thys was languishing in educational and rugby exile, depriving South Africa of his considerable talents – and (although this was never actually said) his parents of their rightful reflected glory. Sometimes she wondered if Thys had any regrets. He never said anything, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask him. She just couldn’t.
Thys was so excited at the prospect of visiting the Holy Land that she hadn’t protested further. He made their reservations for the July school holidays, and he arranged for Arno and De Wet to go and stay with friends. Arno had protested that at fifteen, he was old enough to stay on Steynspruit alone. Petrus and Pretty would be there, and he wanted to spend time with Bootie. Annamari shuddered at the thought of Arno, all raging hormones, alone in the house with sixteen-year-old Beauty, who was truly starting to live up to her name.
Thys always laughed at her concern that Arno was far too fond of Beauty. She wasn’t sure how Beauty felt about Arno but she had her suspicions and it filled her with dread. She and Beauty watched Egoli together on TV, and spoke about her schoolwork, her dreams for the future, cooking, fashion... everything except anything even vaguely related to boys or sex. Annamari had tried to talk to her about what had happened with Stefan Smit. There was an article in Huisgenoot that said rape victims should talk about their experience. But whenever she tried to broach the topic, Beauty simply changed the subject or walked out.
‘Arno could do a whole lot worse,’ Thys always said. ‘Beauty’s a lovely girl, very bright and we’ll have to start getting used to – what do they call them? Inter-racial relationships – in the new South Africa. Anyway, I strongly suspect that Beauty’s father was white – not Coloured.’
Annamari gasped but Thys didn’t seem to notice. ‘Anyway,’ he went on reassuringly, ‘I really don’t think young Arno thinks of her like that at all – he still insists on calling her Bootie. I’m sure he regards her as a sister.’
She’d choked and Thys had patted her on the back.
So here she was, terrified anticipation gnawing at her stomach, squashed into a flimsy metal capsule and being catapulted through the air at forty thousand feet towards a country she knew absolutely nothing about except for what she could remember from Sunday School. And that there always seemed to be a war going on there – a real war. And that they didn’t keep the Sabbath like the rest of the civilised world.
‘The guidebook says everything’s open on Sundays,’ Thys said when she expressed her concern about arriving in Tel Aviv on a Sunday. ‘It’s not like Driespruitfontein, or Bloem. But we won’t have to shop for food. We can just order from room service or go to a restaurant.’
She was relieved Thys was so knowledgeable and sophisticated. She’d never stayed in a hotel with room service before. She’d never stayed in a hotel before. Her ma had always said it was a waste of money to stay in a hotel when they could stay in a nice, big beachfront flat with a full kitchen, three bedrooms and an incredible view from the twelfth floor when they went to Amanzimtoti for two weeks every Christmas. But Thys had stayed in big, fancy hotels in Johannesburg and Pretoria and Durban and Cap
e Town when he used to go on rugby tours.
***
Annamari looked out the window, the noise of the traffic roaring along the road eight floors below muted, the low hum of the air conditioner reassuringly cool. It looked like Durban, with all the high-rise hotels lining the Golden Mile. Except the street names and shop signs were written in a strange mess of funny lines and squiggles; all the cars and taxis and buses were driving on the wrong side of the road; and the sea looked remarkably calm, flat and blue – not a single white horse to be seen. And even though it was July, it was hot, probably even hotter than Amanzimtoti in December. It was also humid, horribly humid. Stepping out of the air conditioned taxi had been like stepping into a furnace. She’d caught her breath and hurried behind Thys into the hotel foyer, her pretty new pink blouse already sticking to her back.
The drive from the airport had passed in a blur of bewildered impressions: where were the camels, the donkeys – anything to indicate that this was the Holy Land? The busy highway rushed past some dusty, barren-looking fields and distant towns and then they were swallowed by high-rise buildings and chaotic, noisy traffic. Welcome to Tel Aviv.
Armed with the map provided – free of charge – by the man at the front desk, she and Thys ventured out. First across the road to the promenade, strolling along trying to catch the drips of her ice cream with her tongue before they stained her fresh, yellow blouse. Then into a cool little restaurant with red Formica tables and chairs.
They studied the indecipherable menu. ‘What do you recommend?’ Thys asked the pretty, red-haired waitress.
‘A toast?’ the waitress said. ‘Israeli salad? Cola?’
They chomped their way through a large bowl of finely diced tomato, onion, cucumber and some other unidentifiable vegetables, finished their Cokes and reluctantly left the air-conditioned cocoon. Turning left at the corner, they found themselves on a tree-lined boulevard and stopped to watch two old men playing a board game she had never seen before; then around the corner into a narrow street and right into another road that seemed to have nothing but fabric shops and then they were in a market with piles of fruit and fish and cheese and toys and souvenirs and people shouting and pushing and calling to them to come in, come see, come buy... Thys bought two oranges and two Cokes.
They were lost. A woman directed them back to the sea. They found their hotel. Annamari collapsed on the bed, exhausted, exhilarated. Her first day as a tourist in a strange – a very strange – land, and she’d handled it like a pro. Tomorrow, their guide would meet them and take them to the places from Sunday School: Jerusalem, the Sea of Galilee, Tiberius... She knew she’d never sleep. That night, after Steyn was conceived, she slept, curled up against her husband’s warm body, while the air conditioner hummed.
Chapter 11
1993
Thys was quiet. Too quiet. He’d been mulling over something since Yossi had taken them to – where was it? They had been to so many places in past few days it was all a bit of a blur.
As they’d driven on towards Jerusalem she had seen he was scheming. Dreaming up some impossible plan which would change their lives. Again. It was just like before. He’d gone all quiet for days, not hearing her when she spoke, not even paying attention to the children’s shrieks and fights and noise. And then he’d just come out with it. As she put out the light on her side of the bed, threw her excess pillow onto the floor and turned to him to kiss him goodnight, he’d said: ‘I think we should start a school for the farm workers’ children.’ Then he turned over and within seconds his deep, steady breathing told her he was fast asleep.
She’d wanted to kick him, to wake him to explain, to discuss. Instead, she tossed and turned all night. He’d explained the next day and it had all made sense, except... except he wanted to use Christo’s house. She hadn’t been able to bear the thought.
‘Think about it,’ Thys had said. ‘Think about what Christo would have wanted. Do you really think he’d want the house he built with his own hands to be some kind of an empty shrine – a practical guy like Christo?’
Her inspection of her brother’s house had been a formality really. She knew it made sense. She just had to force herself to let go, to face the future. Except the past wouldn’t release her.
Her husband, relaxed in the big armchair in front of the TV, a glass of orange juice at his elbow, had looked up as she’d stormed in that afternoon. Beauty’s father – it was so obvious. Why hadn’t she seen it before? But of course she had. Perhaps that was why she’d always felt drawn to the child. Beauty and Arno... it was so clear. But she really shouldn’t have been feeling hurt, and angry, and disgust and shame – a tumult of emotions that squirmed at the pit of her stomach and insinuated itself into her brain. She had no right to feel like that. Not after so, so long. But, may the Lord forgive her, she felt betrayed and she hated herself for it.
And Thys was right. It had been two years since the murders; she couldn’t leave Christo’s house locked up forever. He was right when he said that it would give girls like Pretty and Beauty hope. He was right when he said they wouldn’t be as vulnerable to predators like Stefan Smit, because if she did what he suggested, they’d have other options.
She berated herself for not thinking of it herself, especially after Petrus had told her how dangerous it was for the children to stay in Driespruitfontein township. They were her people. She had grown up with them, not Thys. But it was Thys who realised and gently pointed out that the workers wanted to keep the children at home, on Steynspruit, away from the so-called comrades who beat – and sometimes even killed – anyone in the lokshin who didn’t support them as they jostled for support while the democracy negotiations up in Johannesburg limped towards an impossible peace. So she agreed that the Steynspruit children could come home, despite her concern that they would distract Beauty from her lessons. She should have known better. Beauty – no longer a child – had been so determined to catch up with Arno and also get to high school, that she still appeared at the kitchen door for her lesson every day, ignoring the yells of the other children that drifted up from the farm workers’ khaya.
And once the children were home, he had come up with his next grand scheme. This time it had been harder but she had summoned all her will power, conquered her jealousy and churning emotions and blurted: ‘Ja, okay, let’s do it.’
Thys had unfolded himself from the chair and danced her around the lounge to Arno and Beauty’s whoops of joy.
‘But I’m not going to run it,’ she’d said when he stopped, breathless.
He stumbled. Bewilderment, disappointment flashed across his face. The children stopped dancing around and stared at her.
‘What do you mean you’re not going to run it? That’s the whole idea. You’ve done amazing things with Beauty. Now you can do it for all the others,’ Thys said.
‘No I can’t. I’m a nursery school teacher. Teaching Beauty in the kitchen is one thing. Teaching a bunch of noisy children who probably aren’t nearly as clever as Beauty is something else. They need a real teacher, a qualified teacher, someone with experience and knowledge and... they need you.’
The unbridled joy on his dear, strong, honest face unleashed a fresh wave of guilt and anger, and remorse that she had to deceive him, yet again.
He’d protested. Of course he’d protested. He had a job – at Driespruitfontein Hoër. Yes, it was a pain having to drive forwards and backwards between the farm and the town every day, especially now that both Arno and De Wet were perfectly happy as weekly borders at the high and primary schools. Eventually, however, she’d managed to persuade him. It was best for all of them – Thys, the children, herself – and especially Beauty who deserved the very best teacher, a teacher like Thys who would do the impossible and enable her to pass matric.
***
And now Thys was brimming with another bright idea. As the plane flew on towards South Africa, Annamari knew better than to push her husband to tell her what he was thinking this time. It wasn’t
that he was hiding anything from her, not consciously. He was always open and honest with her, just as he was with everyone. It was one of the things she loved about him. It was also one of the things she hated about him. Because she had to deceive him. All the time. Every single day. And she hated it.
She knew he’d tell her when he had thought it all through. It was just so hard to wait. She replayed everything they had seen since arriving in Israel, everything they’d discussed, searching for a clue to his thoughtful withdrawal.
It couldn’t have been because of that first day, could it? Yossi had been waiting for them as they’d dragged their cases down into the hotel foyer. A slight, bookish-looking man with neat grey hair and glasses, he’d apologised for his rusty Afrikaans and loaded their luggage into his car.
They drove north, along the coastal road to Caesarea. This was an important site in Christian history, Yossi said. Pontius Pilate governed there during the time of Jesus; this was where Simon Peter converted some Roman guy, Cornelius. Cornelius was apparently the first non-Jew to believe in Jesus. She’d never heard of Cornelius. Thys, of course, quickly found the reference in the bible Yossi carried with him. ‘There,’ Thys said. ‘In Acts 10.’
Yossi smiled and added: ‘Paul was also imprisoned for two years in Caesarea.’
‘Acts... um ... there it is,’ Thys said. ‘Acts 24.’
Yossi laughed. ‘Seems you’re going to keep me on my toes, young man. The bible – both the old and the new testament – is the best guide book when exploring Israel. I always use it – but not many of my clients know the good book as thoroughly as you.’
Annamari was so proud of Thys. She also felt a little better: at least she knew who Paul was. Yossi said many of his clients had never heard of Paul. She found that hard to believe.
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