by Gerda Pearce
Viv puts her cup down hard. It clatters on the saucer. “What?”
“Yes,” says Nick, “they were getting divorced.”
13. VIVIENNE
Simon’s wife, Retief tells Viv, had sued for divorce some months before his death. “It was her decision. She had an affair with one of her partners in her law firm. They were due to be married once the divorce went through. It’s by all accounts a successful firm, a very lucrative business. She has no need for money,” he continues.
Viv is insistent. “People have killed for less. Perhaps she wanted it all, perhaps Simon was causing trouble, contesting the divorce. Perhaps, despite her own infidelity, she was furious at his. You know, the scorned woman…”
Her voice trails off seeing Nick’s placid gaze. It had all been progressing quite amicably, Nick tells her. In truth, even to Viv, it sounds wild, implausible. She can scarcely believe anyone would want to hurt Gin, let alone possibly kill her. They finish their coffee in silence.
Nick is paying for the meal when Viv suddenly grabs his arm, startling both him and the restaurateur. “It’s a good thing then, that Gin’s gone back to England.”
He looks at her briefly, thanks the manager, turns back to her. “Come,” he says calmly, taking her arm, “I’ll drive you home.”
The night is quiet, and she notices it is later than she thought. He will bring her car out to her tomorrow, he promises. Viv thinks perhaps he has had as much wine as she, but she does not argue. She feels tired, and it is pleasurable to sit back for once and let someone else drive. The lights of the city sweep by. Neither of them speaks. The night’s conversation has made her feel sad, bringing back moments in her life best left buried.
Gabe shifted in his sleep, moaned. Viv lay awake. Every sound in the night frightened her. She imagined military police already looking for him, already outside their window, ready to storm the quiet cosiness of the farmhouse. She was afraid for him more than for herself. What were they going to do? He had arrived, exhausted, dirty from travel, but clear-headed and calm. Calm when he said he was quitting, leaving the Army. Calm when he said he was leaving the country.
“I can’t do it anymore, Viv,” he had said, watching her reaction with a steady blue gaze. “It’s hell. We kill people. We drive into the townships and we shoot people. Our own people.”
She had lit another cigarette. Her whole world was about to change, and she knew it. Whatever he decided to do now, it would affect her. And still he did not know. “Gabe,” she had said quietly, “I’m pregnant.”
He had been stunned. She had tried to explain their contraception must have failed, but he wasn’t listening. In his expression, she saw confusion replaced by a hesitant joy, then doubt. He had turned his back on her.
“And is it mine?” he had asked, in a voice she hardly recognised, “Or Michael’s?”
He could not have hurt her more had he hit her. As if he had cause to doubt her. Or Michael. As if she, Viv, had no cause herself to doubt him. As if she had forgotten the times that Hannah’s name fell from his lips.
They had argued, coldly, acidly.
“Gabe,” she had screamed eventually, frustrated, “Are you mad? Even if you doubt me, how can you doubt Michael? He’s your best friend!”
Gabe’s back was to her but at that, she saw something soften in his stance. He had turned to her, put his arms around her, and held her closely. “I know. I’m so sorry, Viv.”
Over and over he’d whispered he was sorry. And then, instead of talking of what they’d do, or where he’d go, or planning the future of their child, they’d fallen into bed, made love urgently. And then she lay awake, unable to sleep, while he slept, restlessly. He was on the run from the might of the South African Army. Who would not fail to hunt him. And there, at the farmhouse, was where they were likely to start.
“Are you okay?” Nick’s voice sounds through the darkness of the car.
They are almost home. “I’m fine,” she says, but she feels as if she could cry.
He turns into her road, slides the car easily alongside the kerb. They sit quietly for a moment, both contemplating the empty street, dimly lit. Somewhere a neighbour shouts for his dog. A light in the next house flicks on, then off again. Viv looks blankly at the red wooden gate. It is pulling at its hinges. The sea air has done its damage, she thinks, and it will soon need painting. The blocks of cement leading to her front door are under siege from the tough kikuyu grass. But the house looks good; its walls gleam softly in the light of the streetlamps. Inside, she remembers, will still be the mess she left, the girls’ clothes and schoolbooks scattered in the haste of their departure. Viv’s own files lay strewn across the table. But the lounge will be warm and welcoming. She had drawn the curtains before she had left, and the warmth will not have slipped through the tall French doors. And the grate is freshly packed with pine cones gathered from the side of the mountain. She likes her home, Viv realises, suddenly aware of her life through outside eyes. She had gathered it together through pain, and loss, and heartache, and made it hers. And more than anything, she longs to be inside it now.
“I’m sorry about all the questions,” he says gently.
“Well, now you know everything I know, everything I ever knew about Gin. And Simon Gold for that matter.” Her voice is angry. She is feeling used.
“I’ll bring your car back to you tomorrow,” he says. She is about to tell him not to bother when he adds, “I have a dog. I take her for a run on Muizenberg beach on the weekends when I can. Would you like to come with me?”
She shifts in her seat to look at him. He is leaning back against the window, turned towards her, his hands playing with the car keys. “Nick…” She thinks she ought to tell him it is best perhaps if she does not see him again, but stops. It is not his fault the evening’s talk has brought back unhappy memories. And she had enjoyed his company.
“Of course, you’d have to drive me home tomorrow. If that’s all right,” he adds.
As earlier that evening, the uncertainty in his voice touches her. Suddenly her mood lifts. She can think of nothing more pleasant than walking along the beach the following morning. “That’d be nice, yes,” she says. “What’s her name?”
“Who?” he asks.
“Your wife,” she says, and then, seeing his look, laughs. “Your dog. Unless, of course, you do have a wife.”
He laughs also. “Manyanga.”
“Manyanga,” repeats Viv. The name folds itself around her lips. “What does it mean?”
“It’s Swahili,” he says, smiling. “It means beautiful girl.” His eyes are on her, intent.
“And is she?” she asks, for something to say.
His smile, his look, unnerves her.
“Yes,” he answers. “You’ll like her,” he adds, “she’s loyal, trusting. Faithful.”
“Good qualities in a dog.”
“Good qualities in a companion. You see, no wife.” Then, suddenly serious, he adds, “Vivienne, I am sorry about making you talk about things from your past that may have been uncomfortable for you. I know that it’s your story too.”
Viv is too surprised to speak.
“And that,” he continues, almost inaudibly, “I’d really like to know more about.”
She digests this.
“Of course,” he says, and she can hear the smile return to his voice, “I could always interrogate your neighbours about you.”
She laughs again, and his smile broadens, and then he gets out of the car, opens the car door for her, and walks her up the cement path to the entrance of her house. For a long moment, she looks at him looking at her. He lifts his hand to touch her cheek. In that gesture, momentarily, beneath the half-light of the street, he has a look so like Gabe it takes her breath. Viv’s mouth goes dry, and she turns from him, fumbling for her keys, half-blind with tears.
He is immediately formal. “Thank you for a very pleasant evening, Vivienne. I’ll see you tomorrow, about nine.”
Viv pushes
the heavy door open, steps inside the hall and switches on the light. Its brightness is blinding after the tepid streetlight. She turns to look out after him.
But Nick Retief has already disappeared into the darkness.
14. MICHAEL
The door opens slowly, pushing against delivered mail. Michael picks up the pile of post, puts it on the table in the hall. Gin moves past him, shaking the rain off her mac. She hangs it on the rail, and fluffs raindrops out of her hair. It has grown long in the last month, notices Michael, hanging his own coat next to hers. She files through the assorted envelopes.
“Michael, there’s one here for you.”
“For me?” His voice comes out thin with surprise.
The stamp is Danish. Gin hands it to him without meeting his eyes, and walks past him into the kitchen. It can only be from his wife. They both know this.
He stands in the hall, turning the envelope over in his hands for a while. Then he walks slowly to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. Gin turns on the gas, and flicks the switch to ignite the blue flame. She reaches for the kettle and turns to look at him. He shifts his gaze past her to the window. Rain courses down the clear length of it, distorting the view of the garden beyond into a surrealist blur. Gin turns back to the stove, puts the kettle over the flame.
“What does she say?” she asks, her back to him.
He has been here only a month but he has started to feel as if he might stay forever. Kristina and Denmark feel like a part of some nagging leftover dream. Michael leans against the doorjamb, arms folded. Gin turns around to face him again.
He looks away from her, to the blur of roses outside, the apricot yellow, pinks, and ruby that seep across the kitchen window. Then his eyes meet hers squarely. “I don’t know. I haven’t opened it.” He cannot tell her he does not intend to; he can barely admit it to himself.
She gives him a dark look.
Michael smiles wearily at her. “I know you don’t like her.”
She looks at him sharply. “I didn’t mean –,” but her sentence dies unfinished.
He knows he is right; she had never liked Kristina. She finds it hard to lie to him, he realises. Politeness has never had a place between them. “It’s all right, Gin,” he says, “she never liked you either.”
Gin does not react. He is slightly bemused by his own confession of it. Kristina, jealous of everyone he knew, but especially Gin. With no cause, he reflects. Checks himself; least cause, then. His two affairs had been remarkable only for their endings. Recrimination, regret, reconciliation. But Kristina’s insecurities, her constant need, had meant the geographical distance between him and Gin had hardened into an emotional one. Banished finally by that phone call. Michael moves across the kitchen, the unopened letter crinkles in his pocket. He wants to go to her, hug her and apologise, but instead he sits heavily at the table. He looks at Gin, staring ahead into space, notices the lines around her eyes. We have grown old, he thinks, without noticing. Waiting for life to take on meaning or purpose. We, marking time. And time, marking us.
He rubs his eyes, looks up at her. The kettle whistles impatiently and she turns it off, opens the cupboard and takes down two mugs.
“You know, I never liked Simon either,” he says suddenly.
Gin turns to stare at him. Her mouth opens but no words form. She brings a hand up to her mouth, as if astonished at her own lack of speech.
“Neither did Gabe,” he continues, relentless now. He does not know why he feels the need to shock her. Perhaps it is her listlessness, her disassociation that ignites a hard, sudden flash of anger in him. He wants to shake her out of her disinterest, bring her back to life. To the Gin he once knew. Rarely has he glimpsed the Gin he knows, the healthy tomboy he grew up with, the pretty teenager, the attractive woman with a wide smile, emotive blue eyes, and a ready laugh.
She seems to him a sepia remnant of herself. She has said nothing, is still standing there, eyes fixed, her fingers still raised to her impotent lips.
He has no right to bring up Gabe in this manner, thinks Michael, or Gabe’s feelings about Simon. Both men are dead, and there can be no resolution for her. Again, he wants to hold her, say he is sorry, sit her down, make her tea, comfort her. He wants to push back the too-long hair, push away the hand still held to her mouth.
Now he is angry with himself for hurting her. It is not fair on her. She is pregnant, and has lost yet another person whom she loved. His hand slams on the table, harder than he meant. She makes a small sound and jumps. Michael is immediately contrite, the violent expression contrary to his nature. He stands and walks over to her, but she flinches away from him.
“I’m sorry, Gin,” he says sincerely. He runs his hand through his short hair, rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he says again, his hands falling to his sides.
Gin nods mutely, but he knows she was alarmed by his outburst and confused at his confession. On some level, he feels glad her state of stasis has been assaulted. Gin turns back, busies herself with making tea. She hands him his mug. As she does so, the sleeve on her arm rides up.
“Your arm’s healed nicely,” notes Michael, trying to change the stilted atmosphere that has formed between them. He leans against the sideboard.
Gin’s right hand reaches involuntarily to touch her left arm, where the burn has smoothed the skin unnaturally. She nods again, a brief movement of her head.
Michael wants to ask her if she has remembered more about the accident, but he is wary now. He wants to ask her also about her nightmares. He has heard her cry out during the night and thought to go to her room to wake her, but somehow he has desisted, afraid it might distress her further.
How happy she had made him when he’d first heard her voice on the phone those few months ago, soon to be replaced by worry. And fear, he realises. Gin seems beyond his reach at times, and he cannot fail to think of Gabe, and the course her brother chose to take. He shudders at the thought. Gabe’s death had brought him here initially, to England, Gabe’s death the catalyst for his desertion of his homeland; he could not contemplate army service after what had happened to his best friend. They had been like brothers. He finds himself thinking yet again about Gabe’s final months. Those months on the run, hiding from the Army, from the military police, surviving where and how they would never really now know.
The crack of the farmhouse’s splintering door. The sound of heavy boots racing up the stairs. Shouted commands in Afrikaans. Viv’s scream brought Michael running, half-dressed, onto the landing between their rooms. Viv was being hauled out of her room, a soldier pulling her by the arm, slinging her towards the stairs.
Gin touches his hand, forgiveness implicit in the gesture. He looks at her gratefully. She leans into him and hugs him. His arms reach around her fiercely, although he is mindful of the bump of her belly. She is not totally lost to him, he thinks. She cannot be.
“At least you look pregnant now,” he says, when he eventually lets go of her.
She smiles wanly at him. Her health, he thinks, has improved somewhat, and her skin has lost the sallow look he had noted on his arrival.
“I have to have another scan,” she says quietly. “It – they said the baby was a bit small. Maybe… maybe not growing properly.”
Oh, Christ, he thinks. He worries what it will do to her if she loses this baby. On some level he thinks she has barely acknowledged the pregnancy. When he arrived, he had been appalled by her lack of preparation for it. He forced her to go shopping, to buy a cot, clothes, nappies. But he knows her reluctance is also due to fear. A fear of losing Simon’s child again.
“Mikey,” she says, when they are seated with their tea at the high wooden table in the centre of the kitchen, and then pauses pensively.
He feels his shoulders tense involuntarily, waiting for her to ask why he and Gabe had disliked Simon.
Instead she asks, “What happened that Easter?”
“What do you mean?” The question throws him.
She t
akes a gingerly sip from her mug. “Was something wrong?”
His brow furrows. “Wrong?”
She exhales, a long breath, blowing at the steam off her tea. “Well, just, I don’t know… it seemed,” again she pauses, as if searching for the right phrase. “It seemed as if there was something wrong between you and Gabe.”
Michael is quiet, remembering.
Gabe shouted at him. “What’s it to you, Michael? Where I go, who I see?” Turned on his heel. “Or is Hannah your business too? Like Viv?” Strode out the farmhouse. “Stop trying to control me, Michael.” The engine ignited, wheels spinning dust. “Fuck you, Michael.”
He has never forgotten. It had been their last, their only, argument.
“I thought there was some tension between the two of you, some anger even.” Her gaze goes past him as she focuses on some memory of her own. Then she looks at him, blue eyes direct. “Was it something to do with Viv?”
“Viv?” Her astuteness astounds him. “No, well, yes. There was some stuff with Viv. But not then, not that Easter.” He stops. “That Easter was more about Hannah.”
“Hannah?” Gin’s tone is shrill.
Michael takes a long sip of his own tea. It sears the roof of his mouth. He breathes in deeply, deciding.
And then he tells her.
15. MICHAEL
“Something was wrong,” he admits. He feels fractionally guilty. This will be Hannah’s story also. But Hannah is across the other side of the world now, and out of their lives.
Hannah stood at the university bookstore window on High Street. Her bag was slung forlornly at her feet. Michael’s first impulse was to call to her, but something in her stance stopped him. He checked himself. Was it Hannah? The young woman’s long hair draped forward, partially obscuring her face. And she looked thinner than Hannah. He stood for a moment unsure, watching her. She continued to stare into the stacked display of books. He found this odd. Only boring tomes on science and statistics lined the window. Then she raised a hand to her face, made as if to wipe at her eyes. Was she crying? His instinct was to move forward, comfort her. But then, he had not seen Hannah for over a year. Not since school had ended. Not since Hannah had gone to Israel. Would she want him to interfere with her obvious sadness? And if it weren’t Hannah, what stranger would want him intruding, offering solace? So he stood back, immobile with indecision. Then the young woman sniffed and tucked a thick rope of hair behind one ear. Hannah. Unmistakeably Hannah.