Soul Sisters

by Lesley Lokko

  ‘Kemi,’ he interrupted her, and it was as though she’d known his voice forever.

  44

  She wasn’t one of those women whose sparkle becomes diminished with alcohol. He’d known many of those. In her, it had the opposite effect. She only burned brighter, the blood rising to her cheeks, giving her a dusky glow beneath the smooth, dark skin. Her eyes were liquid pools of aubergine-tinted darkness. She had a way of listening with her head tilted slightly to one side, her forefinger pushed gently into the soft pad of her cheek with her chin resting lightly on her hand . . . it made him want to reach out and stroke that cheek, an odd gesture of endearment coming from him.

  ‘What’s it like?’ he asked, more to cover his confusion than anything else. ‘The hospital, I mean.’

  She laced her fingers together. ‘Different. It’s much more chaotic. Everything’s in short supply. Drugs, equipment, nurses . . . you name it. Yet somehow we manage, don’t ask me how.’

  ‘When did you decide to do it?’

  She looked at him quickly, catching him out. ‘I’d been meaning to for a long time,’ she said, smiling slightly. ‘Long before I met you. But after we spoke . . . I don’t know, it seemed like the thing to do. I didn’t want to be one of those people who say “I’m going home” forever and never go.’

  ‘And is it home?’

  She pulled a face. ‘It’s too early to tell. Yes, there are some things you never forget. The sounds . . . language, the way people walk and stop and talk . . . that sort of thing. But could I live here forever? I don’t know.’ She fiddled with the stem of her wine glass. ‘What about you? What made you decide to come back?’

  She was testing him, he realized. She was no pushover. He’d never before considered whether he liked it in a woman. He’d simply never met one like her. He smiled. ‘You asked me that last time.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Same answer. Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘But you’ve changed jobs. I overheard your mother telling mine. You’re with International Relations . . . something like that.’

  He laughed uneasily. He had the feeling she could see right into him. ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  ‘What does it entail?’

  He shot her a quick glance. His heart missed a beat. What if she’d guessed what he’d been up to in the past few weeks? But she was looking at him with what seemed to be genuine interest. He felt again the conflicting tug of emotion. There was something about her that made him feel he could unburden himself of everything – yet he could not. There was no way to explain to her the confusion in his own head. She would see through that, too. ‘Nothing much, to be honest. I go where I’m told.’ He remembered his mother’s phrase. ‘It’s six months here, a year or two there . . . they try you out in different posts.’

  ‘And where d’you want to end up?’ she asked, smiling at him. It was as if no one had ever asked him the question. He felt a quickening of his pulse, the thrilling, insistent pull of his own ambition.

  ‘At the top,’ he said slowly. ‘Where else is there?’

  45

  Jen stirred her coffee and tried not to take another bite of red velvet cake. It was ironic that the gallery was located next to a cafe named Salvation. With its gorgeous cakes and desserts, it was her downfall, not salvation. Opposite her, in the way of all thin girls, Kellyanne polished off a brownie with ice cream and whipped cream.

  ‘I love it here,’ Jen said after a moment. ‘Everyone’s been so friendly and welcoming . . . I don’t know why Kemi didn’t come home sooner, to be honest. It’s an amazing place.’

  ‘You’ve only been here a few weeks!’ Kellyanne laughed. ‘And you’ve probably only seen the nice bits.’

  Jen shook her head. ‘No, I’ve been to Soweto and one other place . . . I can’t remember the name. We drove through it. It looked a bit like Beirut. Not that I’ve ever been to Beirut,’ she added quickly.

  ‘Probably Hillbrow,’ Kellyanne nodded. ‘It’s hard to imagine what it was like before.’

  ‘Before?’

  ‘Well, before everyone left. It used to be just like London or New York.’

  ‘It looked pretty full to me,’ she said, wondering what Kellyanne meant. ‘The streets were packed.’

  ‘Oh, I meant whites. Yes, of course it’s full of Africans. But that’s different.’

  Jen stared at her. ‘How?’

  Kellyanne shrugged. ‘Well, I wouldn’t live there, would you?’

  ‘Don’t you have any . . . er, African friends?’ Jen asked, as delicately as she could.

  Kellyanne looked genuinely surprised. ‘No, of course not. We don’t really mix, you see. And there’s our . . . history.’

  Jen was quiet for a moment. ‘It’s hard for someone like me to understand,’ she said slowly. ‘Kemi’s my closest friend, closer than a sister.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s different,’ Kellyanne said hurriedly, clearly worried that Jen had misunderstood her.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, she grew up overseas. She’s just different. She doesn’t come with baggage.’

  Jen didn’t know how to respond. Was that how Kellyanne saw it? Baggage? ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you come with baggage?’

  ‘Oh, God yes . . . that’s the problem, you see. We’ve all got so much baggage. I don’t think we’ll ever be free of the past. Not people like us. Most of my friends left after ’94. They were terrified.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Revenge. They all thought a war was coming. They’ve all gone to Australia or Britain.’ She hesitated and looked at Jen almost shyly. ‘Is it really better over there?’

  Jen shook her head. ‘It’s funny. Everyone thinks somewhere else is better. But it’s not. Things are pretty much the same everywhere. Everywhere has problems.’

  ‘But not like ours, surely?’

  Jen shrugged. ‘I don’t know . . . I’ve only been here a couple of weeks but there’s a kind of energy here that’s different. It feels as though you’re all trying to build something. Back home . . . well, all we do is plaster over the cracks and pretend everything’s fine. There’s something honest about this place. You can’t plaster over anything. It’s all here . . . it’s all in your face.’

  Kellyanne nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I’d love to go overseas. That’s the thing about us whites. We’re not really from here, but we’re not from anywhere else, either. Our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents came from Europe, but most of us have never been there. People say, “oh, you Europeans,” but most of us have never set foot in Europe. But we’re not African, either. We’re stuck in the middle. We can’t go back, but we don’t know how to go forward. Especially now.’

  ‘Well, not talking to each other can’t help,’ Jen said carefully. ‘I mean, I can’t help noticing . . . just look around. There aren’t any black customers. The only black people here are the waiters.’

  ‘That’s why I love the gallery. I just love working with young artists. They’re all trying to figure it out . . . just like we are. They’re not afraid to say what they think, what they feel . . . I . . . I envy them, you know. They know how to be . . . free.’

  Jen didn’t know what to say. She’d learned more about the complex history of South Africa in a fortnight than she had in the past ten years. ‘To be free takes guts,’ she said slowly. ‘Kemi taught me that. She’s got guts in spades. Me, I’m too scared to take risks.’

  ‘But you came here,’ Kellyanne pointed out.

  Jen shrugged. ‘Only for three months.’

  Kellyanne smiled. ‘You know, that’s what everyone says when they arrive. “I’m only here for a holiday,” or “I’m only here for a couple of months.” You wait, it’ll get under your skin. You won’t ever leave.’

  Jen shook her head firmly. ‘Not me. I’m just here keeping Kemi company. As soon as she’s ready to go home, I’m gone.’

  ‘Florence said you might be looking for a part-time
job, though?’

  Jen’s eyes widened. ‘How? I don’t have a work permit or anything.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I’d pay you cash under the table. I’ve been looking for someone to help me out, two or three days a week if you can spare the time?’

  ‘Of course I can,’ Jen said, smiling widely. ‘When?’

  ‘How about starting next Monday?’

  ‘Deal.’

  46

  The plane banked sharply to the right, dipping just below the thin cloud cover. The whole majestic coastline suddenly came into view. Kemi put a hand to her mouth. It was stunningly beautiful. The jagged lavender-blue mountains rose almost directly out of the peacock sea, white-crested waves rolling lazily towards the shore. The pilot righted them, and the mountains gracefully sank away. The seatbelt signs came on and she fastened hers, fingers trembling with happy anticipation. It was a public holiday and she was on her way to meet Solam. It was her first proper holiday in years. The night before she’d been too excited to sleep. She and Jen had sat up half the night, talking. She’d never seen Jen so happy. Her part-time job seemed to suit her down to the ground. She was making friends – there was always some barbecue to go to, someone’s housewarming to attend, or a gallery opening someone had heard about. They’d been in South Africa for a month and already it felt like home to both of them, to their immense surprise.

  After landing, she collected her small overnight bag and made her way to the car rental desk. Solam had booked a room at one of the new boutique hotels that were beginning to spring up in the city centre. The Grand Daddy. She’d laughed out loud when he told her the name. It was on Long Street, he’d said, right in the heart of things. They would spend a night there, then drive down the coast to a small town called Betty’s Bay. It sounded almost too perfect to be true. Three nights, four days . . . and then it was back to work. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so excited.

  Twenty minutes later, she was on her way into the city. She took the N1 freeway towards the centre, struck by the sheer beauty of the mountains. No one had told her Cape Town was so beautiful. As she joined the morning traffic trickling slowly into town, her attention was momentarily distracted by a vast collection of scrap metal, corrugated tin and tattered plastic sheeting that lined the freeway – a shanty town, she realized, right up against some of the wealthiest real estate in the country. Then the freeway curved towards the left and the steel-and-glass silhouette of downtown and the harbour replaced it. She tried to concentrate on the road, careful not to miss the turn-off towards the city. The desperation of the shanty town was made all the more tragic by the stunning beauty of the landscape all around.

  She found the hotel easily enough and handed over the keys to the valet. It was an old Victorian building with a beautiful, plush lobby, all dark wood panelling and thick Persian carpets. Solam knew a thing or two about luxury, she thought to herself as she waited to check in. It was just before noon. He would be at a meeting at Parliament until 3 p.m., he’d told her. Just enough time for her to settle in, take a shower, and spend a delightful hour or so in anticipation of his arrival.

  He was late. She waited in the suite until just after half past three, but the anticipation was unbearable. She picked up her bag and headed down to the bar. A quick drink would take the edge off her nerves.

  The stiff gin stole about her body, finding its way through her like a torchlight in the darkness. She looked around her. It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon and the hotel bar was practically empty. From the street outside came the sounds of traffic, car horns hooting every once in a while, snatches of conversation, the odd shout from one side of the road to the other. It was peaceful inside. The barman methodically polished the glasses one after the other, hanging them carefully on the rack above his head. Her mobile rang suddenly. She glanced at it. It was Solam. Her heart missed a beat as she picked it up.

  ‘I’m running late. I’ll be there in half an hour. What’re you doing?’

  ‘I’m in the bar,’ she said guiltily.

  ‘Good for you. Make mine a whisky sour. I’ll see you soon.’ He hung up before she could say anything else.

  47

  The drive down to Betty’s Bay took them through meandering cliff passes, down a sheer drop to the cobalt sea, then back up again through pine forests that brought Switzerland to mind. Every now and then Kemi stole a look at Solam’s profile, the beautifully curved nose and square, determined chin, the gentle swell of his Adam’s apple and the faint darkness that was his mid-morning stubble. He drove fast, concentrating on the road, his eyes flickering to the rear-view mirror, occasionally catching hers. They were both quiet, enjoying the sensation of being together without the distractions of work or family. It was a month since their first date in Johannesburg, almost four months since they’d first met. They hadn’t yet slept together – out of an old-fashioned sense of courtesy, he hadn’t pushed her for more than she was prepared to give. She was ready now, and the touch of his hand on her thigh as he changed gear or slowed down was enough to let her know that he was, too.

  The guesthouse was everything a guesthouse in the countryside should be. Charming, beautifully furnished, tucked away into the hillside with sweeping views over the ocean. He parked in the empty car park at the front of the house and took their bags up to the front door. It was an old farmhouse with a beautifully landscaped garden and a modern wing overlooking the pool. The craggy mountain rose dramatically behind it, all dark greens and greys, with a thundery-looking sky.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Kemi breathed, looking up. The wind rushed down the mountain pass, skimming over the surface of the sea, sending frothy waves hurtling towards the shore.

  ‘Come on,’ Solam nudged her. ‘Water’s usually cold here, no matter what time of year it is.’

  The owner was on hand to meet them; a tall, elegant blonde, just divorced. ‘I got the house; he got his secretary. I think I had the better deal,’ she said, laughing, as she showed them to their room.

  She was right, Solam remarked as soon as she’d closed the door behind her. It was a spectacular house. He put the bags down beside the enormous antique bed and for a second, they stood looking at one another. A wave of shyness flowed over her.

  ‘Come here,’ Solam said, sinking into the bed and patting the space beside him. She dutifully walked over to the bed. He took hold of her arm and pulled her towards him impatiently. He gave her no time for surprise or shyness. His warm, soft mouth covered hers, and any instinct in her to resist simply melted away. She became aware of an extraordinary sensation of longing, rising from her breasts through her neck into her mouth. When he drew back to draw breath, her mouth followed his, nuzzling at him like a child for milk. He laughed deep in his chest, and the sound reverberated through her body, her nerve endings alive with pleasure.

  He was an experienced lover, bold but not aggressive, taking what he wanted from her in a frank, uncomplicated way but sensitive to her needs and mood. She felt herself released in some way, very different from the lovers she’d had before, with whom there was always the need to hold something back, some essential part of herself that she kept hidden, protected, preserved. There was none of that with Solam. When he came at last, his groan of release exploding close to her ear, she thought she might actually cry. It was what she’d been waiting for without knowing it. He was what she’d been waiting for, all along.

  ‘Are you OK?’ His voice broke the tender silence in which they were both held.

  She nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. They were both still half clothed, sweaters and jackets strewn across the bedcovers. He pulled the thick eiderdown over them both, folding her into his embrace. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, sinking into his warm, faintly scented body. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re quite something, Dr Mashabane,’ he said softly, tracing a line down the small of her back. ‘Quite something.’

  She didn’t know how to respond, offering something else instead . .
. the willingness and assurance of her kiss.

  PART SIX

  1998

  Two months later

  • • •

  Love is the master key that opens the gates of happiness, of hatred, of jealousy, and most easily of all, the gate of fear.

  OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, SR

  48

  He came out of Parliament and ran down the steps, two at a time. He’d nearly reached the bottom when someone called out his name. He stopped and turned round impatiently. It was a young woman, dark-skinned, long braids . . . he frowned. Where had he seen her before? She hurried down to meet him.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ she apologized, reaching him. ‘I’ve been asked to give you something.’ She held out a white envelope. He looked at it suspiciously. In the upper right-hand corner were the words ‘Hélène van Roux’ in a scrawl. He frowned. Hélène van Roux was the no-nonsense, straight-talking leader of the ANC’s opposition, the Democratic Party. She was in her late fifties, the daughter of an Afrikaans minister who’d gone into politics very young as the wife of a city councillor, who’d later been killed. She struck Solam as a South African Margaret Thatcher, a combination of schoolteacher and autocrat.

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, taking the envelope from her. He turned and rushed to his car, tearing the envelope open. It was a handwritten note on her personal notepaper.

  Dear Solam (if I may)

  Forgive the presumption, but I’ve followed your career since your return with keen interest. I would like to discuss something which may be of mutual benefit. If you are willing, I’d like to propose a meeting. I will be at my country home in Wemmershoek until Sunday. Please let me know if I may expect you. I would prefer to meet there.

  Sincerely,

  Hélène

  There was a telephone number listed and an address. He got into his car, still frowning. What on earth could she possibly want with him? The Democratic Party, whilst certainly the largest opposition party, had grown out of the now-defunct National Party, the government responsible for apartheid. Through a complex series of mergers and splits, it had finally broken away from the old National Party and reformed under a new name, hoping to erase the past. But in South Africa, Solam knew, history was hard to erase. No matter how hard they tried, the Democratic Party had about as much hope of winning a national election as the Green Party. Not a hope in hell, in other words. Still, he was intrigued. Wemmershoek? It was about an hour outside Cape Town. He was due to leave the following morning for Johannesburg, but he could slip away for a couple of hours. He hesitated before starting the engine; he needed time to think. There was a reason she’d asked to meet him away from Parliament, behind the scenes. He just didn’t know what it was.