The Theory of Flight

by Siphiwe Gloria Ndlovu

  ‘I can’t believe this. Mr …’ the son says.

  ‘Tanaka. Valentine Tanaka.’

  ‘Mr Tanaka, do you have any idea how difficult a time this is for us?’

  ‘Imogen Zula Nyoni was officially reported dead in 1987. Officially reported kidnapped in 1988. And now you want to report that same person missing. Surely you can see how this presents The Organisation with a problem.’

  MARCUS

  ‘Please tell me they have found her,’ Minenhle says opening the door, with a hopeful smile on her face. Upon seeing Marcus and Thandi, hope leaves Minenhle’s face, but the smile does not. It remains frozen in a grotesque mockery of what it should be. ‘Thandi. Marcus. Please do come in,’ she finally says, opening the door wider and, almost reluctantly, letting them in.

  Marcus has never seen his mother look uneasy. She is definitely uneasy now. She shifts in her chair, fidgets with the cushion, tries to sit back, and sits back up again. ‘The reason we are here is because in 1987 you reported Genie dead.’ His mother’s words come out sounding like an accusation.

  Marcus feels that there is a lamentable lack of ceremony in the way his mother has handled the situation. He says nothing, but he feels that, at a time like this, what is needed most is the civilisation and care of ceremony.

  Many different emotions sweep over Minenhle’s face. She reins them in before she says: ‘I don’t see the connection between 1987 and now.’

  ‘Well, we would like to file form DS 8044 Z. We need to report her missing. We need to know where Vida moved her to.’

  ‘Vida? You think he moved her someplace?’ Minenhle asks.

  ‘We believe that he has secretly put Genie in a hospice so that she can die naturally,’ Marcus explains. ‘Of course, we cannot allow that to happen. We would like you to go to The Organisation with Genie’s death certificate as proof that she did not die in 1987.’

  Just then they hear the front door open.

  ‘The crows are back at City Hall,’ Mordechai’s sing-song voice says from the hallway.

  ‘Good. It’s where they belong. Where had they gone to? Crows don’t migrate, do they?’ Minenhle says to the living-room door, anticipating Mordechai’s entry. ‘And they wouldn’t come back in the winter, would they?’

  ‘No,’ Mordechai says, still not having entered the room. ‘At least I don’t think so. We really need to start learning more about birds.’

  ‘We have company. The Masukus. Thandi and Marcus,’ Minenhle says, warning Mordechai in advance.

  Mordechai enters the room. ‘We’ve just been out for our evening constitutional,’ he says by way of explanation to Marcus and Thandi. In his right hand is a very colourful bird, eating from his palm.

  There is something in the leisurely way Minenhle leans her head back and looks up at Mordechai as he makes his way towards her that Marcus likes.

  ‘I think she wants to make friends with the crows,’ Mordechai says as the bird gingerly hops from his palm onto Minenhle’s.

  ‘I like crows, but I think being friends with them is a little too much. You can’t fully trust crows. They are scavengers,’ Minenhle says to the bird. ‘You know what crows are called collectively? A murder. A murder of crows. I strongly suggest you think twice about associating with them. I don’t think the association will end well for you.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a bird,’ Marcus says.

  ‘Some days ago she flew into the window. Broke her wing. I’ve been looking after her. We didn’t think she would make it, but here we are.’

  Mordechai places some birdseed into Marcus’ palm. The bird hops from Minenhle’s palm onto Marcus’, where it cocks its head and looks at him curiously.

  ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, hey?’ Minenhle says with a smile.

  ‘Krystle had a run-in with a bird recently. Although I don’t think hers came to such a happy ending.’

  ‘Happy endings are so very rare,’ Minenhle says, tenderly stroking the bird’s colourful feathers.

  ‘Which makes this a very rare bird indeed,’ Mordechai says in that voice of his that sounds like it’s the beginning of a song.

  A song about a bird.

  The bird in the palm of Marcus’ hand flutters and begins to twitter. Suddenly something occurs to Marcus. ‘I think … I think there was a bird like this on the Beauford Farm and Estate.’

  ‘Was there? I don’t remember such a bird,’ his mother says dismissively.

  ‘Yes, I think there was such a bird,’ Marcus says.

  Mordechai sits on the armrest of Minenhle’s chair between her and the Masukus, as though protecting her. ‘Police still have no news,’ he says to Minenhle. ‘She is definitely not in any of the mortuaries. So we can take comfort in that.’

  ‘Of course she is not in a mortuary. She is in a hospice. We just need to find which one Vida has put her in,’ his mother says.

  ‘The Masukus would like for me to go to The Tower and tell them that Genie did not die in 1987.’

  ‘What does 1987 have to do with now?’

  ‘A lot, apparently.’

  Mordechai and Minenhle exchange a look before he says, ‘Okay. We’ll help you.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll help you?’ His mother’s unease has given way to anger. ‘Okay. We’ll help you?’ she repeats as she hurries down the stairs at neck-breaking speed. ‘You should have let me handle it, Marcus. “Okay. We’ll help you.” Helping us? They are helping Genie. She needs to be found. They should be doing this for Genie. I know you think they are nice people because she’s Genie’s aunt and Genie had an … attachment to them. Has an attachment to them. But those two are definitely not nice people. Without even looking for her niece, Minenhle declared her dead. Couldn’t wait to wash her hands of her. And now, now they are already talking about mortuaries!’ his mother screams above the clickety-clack of her high heels on the stairs.

  ‘Well, at least they’ve agreed to help us.’

  ‘Help us? Helping us would have been answering your poor father’s phone calls all this time. Instead of making us come here. But of course, they don’t talk to us. And all because of flowers.’

  ‘Flowers?’

  ‘The flower shop. The one I bought. Remember that Minenhle used to be a florist there – worked there for years? Well, she claims she wanted to buy it too. That I knew that. And that that is why I bought it. To spite her.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Did I what?’

  ‘Know she wanted to buy it?’

  ‘She couldn’t afford it. They’ve been living in this dilapidated apartment complex, in that four-room apartment, for over thirty years, for heaven’s sake. Everything in those four rooms is old – even the magazines. I hate to say it, but they are poor.’

  ‘So you knew that she wanted to buy it?’ Marcus says, stopping in his tracks.

  ‘No. No. No. You’re not allowed to feel sympathy for those two at all. At all. They claim that your father and I stole Genie. Bribed the judge. But can you imagine Genie growing up in those four rooms?’ his mother says, grabbing hold of his hand and leading him down the stairs.

  Marcus is thinking of Genie growing up in those four rooms with Minenhle and Mordechai and their simplicity, comfort and domestic routine. Without him. The idea makes him feel lonely enough to cry.

  VALENTINE

  This is definitely no way to treat a lady, Valentine thinks as he looks at Minenhle Tikiti sitting across from him.

  The gentleman outside, the one waiting for her – he definitely knows how to treat a lady. Valentine had watched them as they had waited in the crowded courtyard. They shared everything – their banana, their orange, their piece of cake, their newspaper, their bottle of water. Together they were patient. Content with simply waiting.

  She had leaned heavily on the gentleman’s arm as they entered the courtyard. He had removed his suit jacket to cushion the spot on the ground on which she had chosen to sit. They had not held each other after that. They had simply and
comfortably sat close and shared everything. In all things, the gentleman had been gentle, even in letting her go through the door alone. He had simply opened the rather heavy door for her and held it as she passed through, quietly accepting her decision to go through whatever came next on her own.

  That is how you treat a lady, Valentine had thought, as though you have all the time in the world right in the palm of your hand.

  People believed that because of his job he did not understand the beauty of gentleness – of patience – of calm. But Valentine has long known that in order to do a job well you need to take time to be patient, to be calm, to have clear objectives, to know exactly what it is that you want to achieve, to have a clear course of action. Whatever job you do, you do it with finesse and precision.

  Most people did not understand or know this. Like whoever had done this to Minenhle Tikiti – sister of Golide Gumede; aunt of Imogen Zula Nyoni; florist, living with, but not married to, Mordechai Gatiro; interrogated by The Organisation in 1978. Her interrogator had butchered her face, burnt her body, crushed her spine – without finesse or precision. Her interrogator, the infamous C10, had not understood what he was doing and why. He had simply received a directive and carried it out. Had he understood why he was doing what he was doing, he would not have simply hacked at her. He would have understood that he was trying to get at something precious in her, and that he therefore needed to be careful, or that precious thing would be lost to him for ever.

  ‘And how may I be of assistance to you this morning?’ Valentine asks.

  ‘I am here to report an un-death.’

  ‘An un-death?’

  ‘Yes,’ Minenhle says, handing him an original death certificate.

  ‘Who is un-dead?’

  ‘My niece. Imogen Zula Nyoni. In 1987 I reported her dead. She was not dead.’

  ‘So you lied?’

  ‘No. At the time I thought that she was dead. But it turned out she was only missing.’

  ‘When did you find her?’

  ‘I did not. Someone else did. In 1988.’

  ‘And you’re only reporting this now. Why?’

  ‘Because she has gone missing from Mater Dei Hospital and a form DS 8044 Z is needed and apparently the only way you will issue it is if I declare her un-dead.’

  Those Masukus! That is not at all what he had said to them. Not at all. They had ordered this woman to come here and did not even think to offer her a ride.

  ‘I’ve reported Imogen Zula Nyoni un-dead. I’ve done my part. Now please go ahead and do as you see fit,’ Minenhle says, getting up with difficulty. ‘However, this is something I must say: Vida de Villiers is not behind Imogen’s disappearance. I know the Masukus want him, no, need him to be. I know that is what your investigation will find because, of course, money has exchanged hands and the Masukus will get their way, as they always do. But I want you to know that someone out there knows the truth. Vida is not responsible for Imogen’s disappearance.’

  ‘I can assure you that no money has exchanged hands,’ Valentine says.

  ‘It is too intimate, this interference, this role the state chooses to play in our lives,’ Minenhle says, looking him in the eye. ‘Too intimate.’

  ‘I can assure you that no money has exchanged hands,’ Valentine says again, even though he knows that she heard him the first time. He feels that he has to say this, otherwise he will say what he really wants to say: ‘Yes, I agree with you. It is too intimate, this interference, this role the state chooses to play in our lives.’

  At first Valentine had not seen any resemblance, except of course for that gap between the front teeth, but looking at Minenhle now he sees something familiar – something that is not physical. Something else entirely. Something unbroken. He realises that Minenhle is in possession of a most precious thing. So he was right: her interrogator was never able to get at her most precious thing. He broke her physically, but left her intact.

  You cannot break me. You see, I know for certain that my parents were capable of flight. It is Imogen’s voice he hears as he watches Minenhle pull at the heavy door, which creaks open and then bangs shut, as she walks into the blinding sunlight.

  Again, Valentine finds himself watching Minenhle and her gentleman in the courtyard. She is leaning heavily on the gentleman’s arm as they slowly leave. He cannot see from this distance whether or not they say anything to each other. They probably do not need to. The gentleman holds up an umbrella, shielding her damaged face from the sun. Now, that is definitely how you treat a lady – with gentleness, patience and calm.

  Minenhle holds up her left hand and cups it. A very colourful bird flies down from a tree and settles in the palm of her hand. Just like that. The bird hops onto her shoulder and perches there easy as you please.

  He is surprisingly sad when they finally turn the corner and carry on with their journey out of his sight. He hopes to cross paths with them again – Minenhle and her gentle man, her Mordechai.

  VALENTINE

  ‘Who is it?’ a voice inquires. He cannot tell if it belongs to the mother or the daughter.

  ‘Valentine Tanaka,’ he says, straining his head out of the car window as he tries to get as close to the intercom box as he can.

  No response.

  ‘From The Organisation, Registrar’s Office,’ he adds.

  There is no response, but the electric gate slowly rolls open. He drives through. Before him is the longest and windiest driveway he has ever seen. At the end of it is the grandest house he has ever seen. Majestic. He has always appreciated the great colonial architecture of the City of Kings. The buildings had obviously been conceived and built by people who had clear objectives, knew exactly what it was that they wanted to achieve and precisely how to best execute their vision; people who understood the importance of finesse, precision and patience; people who had the time and took the time to do a good job. The postcolonial monstrosities being built today by the nouveau riche just do not compare to the great colonial architecture. They are grand without having a sense of unifying aesthetics, built by people who live in a volatile time that makes them feel too uncertain and unsettled to do a good job.

  A series of sprinklers are busy trying to resuscitate the dried-up yard. Valentine finds it rather odd that in such a big yard there should only be one tree: a flaming flamboyant. He feels there is a story to be told there.

  ‘You should have seen this place in the eighties,’ Lawrence Tafara says from the passenger seat. ‘I was just a sergeant then. We came here almost every weekend. Noise complaints from the neighbours. Man, did these folks know how to throw a party.’

  Valentine struggles a little to negotiate the curves and the increasingly uphill gradient of the driveway.

  ‘It was hard, you know, not to feel envy back then when you saw people living like this,’ Lawrence continues. ‘They seemed to have it all figured out, to have picked the right chain of events to follow. There I was – I had worked for the BSAP, I had fought on the side of the RF, and what did I have to show for it? Two rooms in the townships that I called a house. These people, on the other hand, had not formed any allegiances, had not actively fought for our freedom. They had simply gone overseas at the right time and chosen the perfect moment to return as “been-tos”. Somehow they spoke the language of the new country, understood its customs and mores. They got the highest-paying jobs, they fearlessly moved to the suburbs, they sent their children to the Group A schools – all without batting an eyelash. It was really hard not to envy them. They had come out on the right side of history with seemingly such little effort on their part.’

  Valentine is proud of himself. He has successfully negotiated his way up the driveway and has safely parked the car. He moves to get out. He sees Lawrence hesitate. ‘Intimidated?’ he asks, amused.

  ‘We could have done this via phone,’ Lawrence says, getting out of the car.

  ‘Under the circumstances I think they deserve at least a home visit.’

  ‘Yo
u know what your problem is, Valentine?’

  ‘That I’m certifiably ugly?’

  ‘No. Your problem is that you have a heart of gold.’

  A heart of gold. Him? Valentine stops in his tracks. He is suddenly uncertain. He finds his right hand in his pocket seeking the comforting jingle-jangle of his keys.

  It is Lawrence who ends up having to ring the doorbell.

  The daughter opens the door. She looks at both of them suspiciously. Probably just her way of looking at people who visit the house. She makes no move to let them in.

  ‘May we come in?’ Valentine asks.

  She opens the door wider and walks away, leaving them to follow behind.

  Valentine must admit that it is a little intimidating being stared at so intently and intensely by five pairs of eyes – father, mother, son, daughter and grandmother. Here, in their home, their beauty looks menacing. It is difficult to look elsewhere when ten eyes are on you. Is that why all eyes are on him, so that he does not look elsewhere in the house … or at them too closely? What are they afraid that he will see?

  Poor Lawrence is having a difficult time of it. The teacup and saucer rattle uncontrollably in his shaky hands. Tea spills onto the saucer, where it soaks the two custard creams perched precariously there, and onto the floor, where it stains the Masukus’ Persian rug. Valentine has given Lawrence a few pointed looks, hoping he will take the hint and place the teacup and saucer back on the coffee table, but Lawrence only has eyes for the family sitting beautifully, in a semicircle, opposite him. For his part, Valentine Tanaka takes refuge in the faraway, unfocused and vacant stare of the grandmother. It is to her that he says:

  ‘We are now in receipt of Imogen Zula Nyoni’s death certificate. We received it from Minenhle Tikiti.’

  The silence relaxes.

  ‘Some days ago, however, a woman’s body was reported found on the Beauford Farm and Estate.’