by Shamim Sarif
Anyway, no amount of shouting could make him unhappy to be working for these people. Although his wage was small, his mistress would often send him home with leftover food, or bits of material for his mother to use in sewing clothes, and she treated him well. She trusted him with the children. He knew about children—he himself was the second of seven surviving brothers and sisters. Robert’s eldest brother was in Johannesburg, working in the mines. His family had celebrated when his brother had left for the city, for they were hungry for income, and Johannesburg was where the jobs were. But his brother lived in rough conditions, and worked in even worse ones. Robert had been there once to visit him, and had had to share with his brother a tiny bed in a concrete building that housed more than one hundred men. The beds were so crammed together that Robert felt the raw breath of the man in the next bunk upon his face for most of the night. His brother was thinner than he had been at home, and his face was worn and creased with dust. He coughed almost all the time that he was awake. The mines were dark and cramped and the air was bad, his brother said, and the hours so very long. Robert had left after three days, sorrowful at having to leave his brother there, but unable to contain his own relief at the realisation that if that was how life was in the city, he would be happy to remain in the countryside.
The kettle began its high-pitched whine, and Miriam spooned two heaps of the crushed dried tea leaves into the pot, then carried a cup in to her husband.
“Thank you,” he said, but he did not look up.
For a short while they went about their little tasks, and though neither one spoke, Miriam sang softly to herself, a tune that had begun as an old standard but which was being improvised into something longer and sweeter. Omar glanced narrowly at her, being careful not to move his head, or she would see him and stop singing, assuming that she was irritating him. This singing of hers was another thing that he remembered from that balcony in Bombay. He frowned at himself. He was not a man given to sentimentality or nostalgia, but today these memories kept pushing back into his mind. He had gone out on the balcony on the second day to smoke and she had been above him again, singing quietly, unaware that below her someone was listening intently. With a sudden burst of decision, and with the soft tones of her voice still lingering in his head, he had gone back into the apartment and had demanded to know who that girl was.
His aunt had raised her eyes from her sewing. “What girl?”
“The one that lives above us,” he had said. “The one that sings and hangs the washing.”
His aunt had shaken her head. “She is a very pretty girl. But she is not for you.”
He had waited, with impatience, for her to explain herself.
“Her family is very humble,” she had added at last.
“Humility is a good thing.”
“Very poor,” she had emphasised.
And Omar had waved his cigarillo dismissively. “Are they our people?”
“Yes.”
“Then I want her.”
When eventually they heard the approaching rumble of the first truck, they looked up at each other and Miriam moved with the practice of routine out across the shop floor to prop open the door with a small bag of flour.
The truck was driven by Mr Wessels, the foreman of the Van Wingen farm, and he ground the pick-up slowly up the track to the shop. The back of the truck was fully weighed down by his worker. There were perhaps twenty or thirty men crowded onto the back—sitting piled high and hanging over each of the sides, draped over the back like banners, their bodies moving like fluid with the rough movements of the truck. They jumped off lightly when it stopped, a slow overflowing of bodies, mostly clad in worn trousers and shirts. Mr Wessels was already in the shop, shaking hands with Omar, tipping his hat to “the missus”, and telling them it was “hot as the breath of hell out there,” before handing over his own list of groceries to be boxed up. Miriam set to work on these, while the foreman bounded out to the porch and beckoned his men inside.
In they poured, moving slowly, filling every corner, while Robert watched them, a mixture of welcome and warning on his face. He had been told by Omar to watch carefully for anyone who might shop-lift, and he took his duty seriously. The men milled about the shop, selecting their purchases and then stepping up to the counter to have them rung up on the huge metal cash register. A few bought only cold drinks and sat outside on the steps, talking and watching the dust from the truck settle around them.
Omar spoke to Mr. Wessels occasionally throughout, but rarely to any of the Africans, except to give a price or clarify a request, although few of the workers asked him anything—often they looked more easily to Miriam to help them. One asked the price of some cloth for a dress for his daughter. When she told him, he shook his head and said it was too much, and could she bring the price down? She lowered it by two pennies as she knew she could, but he held out his poor salary in one roughened hand, and asked her how could he pay so much? She looked at the money in his palm and could not answer him. Miriam glanced at Omar to ask if she might take the price lower, but he looked across at her as he rang up the till and shook his head. She looked helplessly to the man, but he too had seen her husband’s response and was already gone.
Robert also helped serve behind the counter, and he chatted now and then with the workers, greeting one or two, and laughing. As she watched him, Miriam felt the prickle of a gaze upon her, and her eyes went to the front of the shop where one of the workers stood apart, drinking from a bottle of Coke, and watching her. He looked her up and down, slowly, and she felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rise.
“Don’t trust the kaffirs,” her bhabhi had once told her. “They want only one thing—from their own women, and from white women and Indian women too. They do. And they are strong,” she had added. “If they attack you, there is nothing you can do. And then there is the syphilis. And god knows what else.” It was only then that Miriam had her first inkling of what had caused her sister-in-law’s illness. But when she had asked about Jehan, Farah just laughed and said that Omar and Sadru only preferred to think that Jehan had been raped.
“Your sister-in-law had a boyfriend,” Farah had laughed. “Almost as retarded as she is, for god’s sake, but he loved her.”
“Why didn’t they get married?” Miriam had wanted to know. “Because he was a kaffir,” Farah told her impatiently. “He hung around for weeks, until the men in the family caught him and almost beat the life out of him. He had to stay away in the end.”
When she looked up again, the African worker was gone, replaced in her mind by a brutal vision of kicking and beating, the cold imaginings which had come to her so often after hearing Farah’s flippant story. Outside, Mr. Wessels was shouting for everyone to get back on the truck. He spoke in English, for Afrikaans was the White language. Omar spoke it—he had learnt it at school here, but the Africans usually only knew enough to comprehend their masters and, if they worked domestically, their white mistresses. Mr. Wessels moved among the men, grasping a stick in his hand which he never used, only leaned on, or twirled about, using it as a prop, rather as other men might keep their hands busy with a cigarette. He shooed the workers back onto the truck as though they were so many huge birds, and one by one, they arranged themselves into the back, the last few perched on the sharp edges, keeping alight with a practiced sense of balance.
They were relieved when the last truckload had left, and it was still only one o’clock. This payday had fallen on a Wednesday, and that meant that they would receive a visit from the sons of their landlord. George and David Kaplan often stopped by the shop “on their way through” to somewhere, for a pack of cigarettes, or some small item. But in addition they always came by on the last Wednesday afternoon of each month for a social visit that softened the collection of the rent money with talk of politics and weather, and often they brought their wives.
The two Mrs Kaplans held a fascination for Miriam that she could not explain. It seemed to her that they always floate
d into the shop, bringing with them the slow whisper of a chiffon dress, the soft pastel of their low-heeled pumps, a shimmer of blonde hair and the lingering scent of expensive French perfume. Their voices were high and laughing, filled with delight at greeting Miriam, as though she were the one and only thing they could have wished to see upon entering the shop. While their husbands talked business with Omar around the table in the back room, the wives stayed in the shop with Miriam, sipping tea and chatting.
They arrived today at two o’clock, the usual hour, by which time Robert had helped Miriam to set the tea-tray with a fresh cloth, embroidered by her own hand, and three cups and saucers from their best set of dishes. The milk was poured into a china jug that had once belonged to Omar’s mother, the white sugar was brought out to replace the everyday brown, and then a replica of the whole tea-tray was set upon a white cloth on the back room table for the men, to whom Robert would serve tea, while Miriam took care of the wives herself. In the kitchen, Robert kept a careful eye on the sponge cakes that were rising gently in the great range oven.
The car pulled up smoothly, and all they had heard of its approach was the slow crunch of the dust and stones beneath the solid tyres—a delicate advance, far removed from the rumble and grind of the farmers’ trucks. Miriam sipped from a glass of soda water, trying quickly to overcome the light-headedness and nausea that she had felt in passing waves throughout the day. She looked out at the car, long and black and gleaming. She had no idea what make of car it was—Omar had told her once, as they watched it pull away, but she had forgotten. It was beautiful, though, redolent of a world which Miriam could hardly fathom, and she could only imagine what it must be like to sit ensconced in that shiny casing, sinking into the leather seats, and listening to dance music on the little radio that was fitted into the wooden dashboard.
The men jumped out with alacrity, relieved to stretch their legs, and looked around smiling, content, shrugging on well-fitted jackets before they held open the back doors for the women. The driver remained in the car, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and the windows rolled down, where in due course he would receive his own mug of tea and slice of cake from Robert. The women alighted, stockinged legs emerging first, followed by the swirling dresses of light flowery prints, and Miriam felt nervous suddenly as she stood at the top of the porch steps with her husband. Omar had donned a tie for the occasion, because the Kaplan brothers always wore one. They called hello, and came bounding up the porch stairs, followed by their wives—well-dressed, cologned and glamorous, like four players in a Hollywood musical.
They all shook hands, and exchanged pleasantries about the weather, the drive, the shop. From habit, the men gravitated towards the back room, and Miriam watched her husband lead them through—he was tall, Omar, taller than either of the others, and his clothes, though not tailored like theirs, looked smart. She felt a brief flicker of pride, pride that he held his own amongst them, and then she turned her full attention to the ladies who rattled on, their conversation as light and frothy as a milkshake.
“And the children?” Martha Kaplan asked, as she sat down. “How are your gorgeous children? Such beautiful eyes they have—and so well-behaved.”
“They are fine, both fine,” said Miriam. “Getting to be more of a handful every day.”
“How old are they now?”
“Sam is five and Alisha is nearly four.”
Martha Kaplan looked delighted. “So she’s here?” she asked, looking about, but Miriam shook her head.
“She goes with Sam to Springs. They have a playgroup attached to the school. It’s good for her. I think she needs to see and do different things everyday. She is so curious; she’s into everything.”
“Oh, I know, don’t even talk to me about it!” This came from Joyce, always the more dramatic of the two.
Martha Kaplan looked at her sister-in-law, amused. “Joyce, you know you dote on those children of yours.” She looked at Miriam. “She can’t wait to be occupied with them—I think she wakes up earlier than they do. I, on the other hand, am more than happy to let Jennifer dress them and feed them in the mornings—it’s always such a rush before school. I’m not fit to be seen before noon most days.”
They continued in this way for some time, and Miriam looked with genuine interest at the photographs of their children which they produced from their handbags. They had, between them, three boys and a girl; the boys stood together, casual and blond and confident, laughing at the camera; the girl darker-haired and pretty, posed in her school uniform.
“David Junior is the image of his father, I think,” said Martha. “I know he’s only ten, but he has such a grown-up air to him sometimes. This morning he came downstairs and asked me to dance with him . . .”
“They’re taking lessons,” interjected Joyce.
“. . . and it reminded me exactly,” continued Martha, “of when David first asked me to dance one night at a party. That was when he proposed to me.” She shook her head. “Those were the days. Romance and love letters and excitement! It feels like another lifetime.”
Miriam smiled, and busied herself refreshing the tea cups. Romance, love letters, excitement. She knew nothing of any of these things. Omar’s proposal had been conveyed to her through her mother and grandfather, and she had not had to make a choice, for they had already accepted on her behalf. Perplexed and worried, she had followed her family into the front room of his uncle’s house, demure and well-covered, and as she entered, Miriam had caught the faint remnants of his cigar smoke, and it had occurred to her at once that she had been aware of this smell for many weeks now, curling up from the balcony beneath. She had not, during all that time, comprehended it as a single, new aroma. Rather, she had been only dimly aware of it, and had accepted it as a new addition to the mingled, familiar scents of spice and sweat and heat. She had breathed it into her body, unwittingly accepting the insidious invasion of the curling smoke. Her eyes had remained downcast, as was expected of her, throughout the short interview that was held to begin the wedding arrangements, but as she had followed with her eyes the pattern of the brush strokes on the newly swept floor, she had tried to comfort herself with the idea that, because of the intrusion of his cigar smoke, she had actually known this man longer than she had realised and that this tall, handsome stranger, whose eyes she had never yet looked into, was therefore already somehow a part of her.
“Anyway, the romance is always the first thing to go,” sighed Martha. She handed the children’s photographs to Miriam who smiled admiringly, although what occurred to her now was that Sam would now never be able to be at school or even in the same part of a public park as these boys with blond hair. Had he ever even seen a blond- haired child, she wondered? She decided that he must have, in Springs, around town, but she couldn’t be sure.
“Are you all right, dear?” asked Joyce Kaplan, and Miriam looked up and smiled.
“Will you have some more tea?” Miriam asked, and picked up the pot.
Her bouts of nausea were short, but were becoming more and more frequent as the afternoon wore on, and she felt herself begin to perspire slightly with the effort of entertaining. She felt that the women had been sitting there for an age, and took surreptitious, deep breaths to try to calm her stomach. When she felt almost certain that she could fight it no more, she heard the sound of the men’s voices becoming more distinct—a loud laugh and some banter between the Kaplan brothers as they emerged with Omar from the other room.
“Come, my dears, we must be going. We have troubled these good people long enough,” said George Kaplan, extending his arm towards the ladies. They placed their cups carefully back on the tray, picked up their handbags, straightened their dresses—all the little movements required before a leave-taking.
“My dear—your cake . . .” commented George to Miriam. “Out of this world, as always.”
“It was very nice, thank you,” added David, placing his hat upon his head.
She smiled, by way of accepting th
e compliment, and waited as the couples made their way to the door, chatting idly, winding down the visit, reluctant to leave and to be in the heat of the car. She felt her stomach turn once more, and pursed her lips against the feeling. So slow the Kaplans were to get into their beautiful vehicle, so slowly the driver turned over the smooth engine. She stood there, fighting the rising bile in her stomach, and she waved as they pulled away, but as soon as they had stirred up enough dust clouds down the track, she turned and ran towards the outhouse, banging through the door and thrusting her aching head over the bowl. She vomited violently, but there was little in her stomach, and she could produce nothing more than a few spits of saliva. She waited, leaning her hand against the wall for support. At the door, Omar was knocking tentatively.