Soul Sisters

by Lesley Lokko

  49

  ‘Won’t you have a cup of tea? And some cake? It’s an old family recipe. I don’t bake myself – no time, sadly – but Dora does it beautifully.’ She beamed at him as if she were one of his aunts, offering a treat. He took both a slice and a cup from her, wondering what she was up to. Why had she invited him? They sat in the living room, tastefully furnished with antiques, comfortable chairs, rugs, and the kind of artwork that brought his teenage friendship with Charlie de Cadanet to mind. He looked at her closely, trying to work it out, but she revealed little. It was as if he was the one who had come to ask something of her, not the other way around. He felt the skin at the nape of his neck prickle, as though someone had run a hand down his back. She popped a piece of cake in her mouth with a monkey-ish, almost naughty gesture. She was a handsome woman, with a short, feathered cap of silver-grey hair and piercing blue eyes. Like many middle-aged women, that long, lovely stretch between breasts and stomach had shortened, but her legs were still slender, encased in black trousers and smart high-heeled shoes. A capable-looking woman able to withstand the rough-and-tumble sucking mud of politics, she’d weathered more political storms than most.

  At last, she turned to him. She cleared her throat and began to speak. He listened intently, not interrupting, until she was finished.

  ‘What sort of time frame are we looking at?’ he asked carefully, standing up. He needed to stretch his legs.

  She smiled. He saw that by saying ‘we’, he’d inadvertently communicated his assent. It was a small slip on his part, but she didn’t react. ‘A few years. Maybe five at the most, until we’re confident enough of a win at the polls. That’s the long play. So, there’s time. Not too much, but enough.’

  He walked over to the window. He was thirty-two years old. In five years’ time, he would be right where he needed to be. ‘And what guarantee do I have that you’ll keep your word?’

  ‘What guarantee do I have that you’ll keep yours?’

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘So, we’ll have to trust one another. And wait and see. But you know this makes sense. On your own, you’ll wait decades, maybe more. Maybe never. The inner circle is growing each year. What makes you think you’ll ever be let in?’

  Solam said nothing. He tapped his forefinger against his mouth gently, reflectively. He knew what it was she’d seen in him that caused her to risk an approach. It was exactly what Dirk Coetzee had seen in him. Someone who was willing to risk it all to move ahead.

  ‘There’s one more thing,’ she said, leaning forward slightly. ‘And before you tell me to mind my own business, I think you should hear me out. It’s about your girlfriend. I hear she might even one day become your wife. Before you make any kind of move in that direction, here’s what I’ve been thinking about.’

  Solam turned around, surprised. She motioned for him to sit down, and over the next few minutes, told him exactly what she thought he should do.

  50

  It was the middle of June. Jen woke with her teeth chattering every morning. The houses simply weren’t designed to cope with cold. No heating, no insulation, no double windows. ‘It’s only another month or so,’ everyone cried. ‘There’s no point!’ It would have to be the three months that she and Kemi were visiting, she thought to herself crossly every morning when she got dressed. But, in a couple of weeks, they’d be gone. She was dreading their return. In the three short months they’d been in Johannesburg, she’d almost come to think of it as home. She couldn’t imagine going back to work as a temporary secretary in an office somewhere in the City, waking up at six o’clock and standing cheek by jowl, hanging on to a strap as the Tube clanked and jerked its way towards Liverpool Street with millions of other miserable commuters. No more sunlight, no more weekends filled with pool parties and barbecues – braais, she corrected herself – no more gallery and the thrill of putting an exhibition together. And Kemi . . . she’d never seen her so happy, so fulfilled. She rarely saw her and Solam together. Both worked long, unsociable hours and any spare time they had, they seemed to prefer spending it away from Johannesburg. Kemi had been to places Jen hadn’t even heard of – Franschhoek, Betty’s Bay, Durban, Pietermaritzburg. Solam seemed determined to show her the whole country. Aside from the odd evening after work when she and Kemi bumped into one another on their way in or out of the guesthouse, she’d hardly seen her for weeks. She didn’t begrudge them their happiness . . . far from it. Kemi’s joy was infectious. She seemed almost a different person to the reserved character she’d known for half their lives. Solam had managed to bring out something in her – a lightness, a sunniness – that Jen saw now might actually have been her true character all along. He’d done the impossible: he’d brought her back to herself, brought her home.

  She began tidying the gallery, picking up the few paper napkins and paper cups that had been discarded at the opening that evening of their latest show. It was another thing she loved about Johannesburg. The art ‘scene’, if you could call it that, was so different from the staid complacency of London. Their latest offering was more installation than art. Two young black women had set themselves up as though they were in a salon, inviting passers-by to assist with the de-braiding of their hair. Like Rapunzel, the two beauties sat immobile in the window as people queued up, either to take part or to watch the spectacle unfolding. Jen wasn’t always sure she understood the concepts behind the avant-garde work, but Christ, it was a lot more interesting than trying to sell a stripe of blue paint on a black canvas.

  She smiled faintly at the memory of her last London show. How embarrassed and terrified she’d been! One of those artworks would have sold for enough to cover the cost of her current gallery, all its holdings and their salaries for a year. But she wouldn’t have traded in one for the other, not at any price. No, she didn’t want to go back to London, that was the truth. And yet she had to. This was Kemi’s country, not hers. As painful as it was to admit to, their time in Johannesburg had brought home a truth that they’d both avoided. They were different. Jen was enjoying her time in someone else’s country, whilst Kemi had found a way to return home.

  She put the cups in the bin, hauled out the trash bag and switched off the lights. There was a municipal dump just around the corner. She would deposit the bag and then call Derrick, the driver who’d somehow become her personal chauffeur, and head back to the guesthouse. She locked the door carefully behind her – it wasn’t a mistake she’d ever make again – and turned to walk up the street.

  At the corner she almost collided with someone in the dark. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she apologized quickly. ‘My fault.’

  ‘Jen?’

  She looked up in surprise. It was Solam. ‘Hi,’ she said, taken aback. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He looked down at her and smiled. ‘Me? I live here. What are you doing here?’

  ‘You live here?’

  ‘Yeah, right up there.’ He pointed to the building on the corner. ‘Didn’t Kemi tell you?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. But I thought you were in Zambia or Zimbabwe or something like that.’

  He laughed. ‘Ah, so you do talk about me.’

  Jen blushed. ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that . . . I just meant . . . oh, never mind.’

  ‘But what are you doing here?’ he repeated.

  ‘I work here.’

  ‘Where?’ It was his turn to look surprised.

  ‘In that gallery.’ She pointed to the brightly painted yellow door. ‘That one. The art gallery. Didn’t Kemi tell you?’

  He shook his head and smiled, his perfect white teeth gleaming in the dark. It was six thirty but the street lights hadn’t worked for months. ‘Well, I suppose that makes two of us she doesn’t tell anything to,’ he added, still laughing. ‘So, are you on your way home?’

  She nodded. She indicated the bin bag. ‘Just going to drop this off and call my ride.’

  ‘You must be the only white person in Braamfontein who disposes of her own trash,’ he
said dryly. ‘I bet the domestic workers around here have never seen the like.’

  She blushed again. ‘Well, I do it in London . . . why wouldn’t I do it here?’

  ‘Quite right.’ He looked at his watch. ‘So, are you in a hurry?’ he asked.

  Jen hesitated. ‘Well, no, not really . . . but I don’t know when—’

  ‘She’s in ER tonight,’ he interrupted, reading her thoughts. ‘She probably won’t be back until much later. If you’re free, would you like to go for a drink? I know you’re probably leaving soon and we’ve never had the chance to meet properly.’

  Jen hesitated again. He was only being polite, she was sure, but she hated to think he felt obliged to entertain her. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘I’m quite happy to call the driver and just go back . . . you don’t have to.’

  ‘I know that. But if you’d like to have a drink, I’d be delighted if you’d join me,’ he said with a mock bow.

  Jen had to laugh. ‘OK, well . . . in that case, since you asked so nicely.’

  ‘There you go. Come on then. The Metro Bar it is.’ He pointed to the bar across the road.

  ‘I’ve always been too terrified to come in here,’ Jen said as they walked in. ‘I only ever see it on the weekends and it’s absolutely packed with students.’

  ‘That’s the weekends. During the week it’s perfectly respectable. You can even get a decent bottle of wine.’ He led the way to the raised dais at the rear of the bar. ‘It’s quieter up here. Students are mostly at the door or on the street. I don’t know how they stay warm.’

  Jen smiled as she sat down. ‘It seems like decades ago when we were students,’ she murmured.

  ‘Only a decade,’ he said with a grin. ‘Not decades. So, what’ll you have? Red or white? Or something stronger, maybe?’

  Jen drew in her lower lip, catching it with her teeth, caught in the moment of indecision. Why not? It was only six thirty. A couple of drinks . . . she’d be home by nine. From the sound of it, he and Kemi would probably meet up when her shift was over, whenever that was. ‘All right,’ she heard herself say. ‘I’ll have a whisky sour.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Good choice. I’ll join you.’ He sauntered off to the bar. She couldn’t help but stare at him as he went. He was wearing a tan sweater. The stomach beneath the sweater was washboard-flat. She quickly averted her gaze. He was Kemi’s boyfriend!

  He came back with two tumblers. ‘Cheers,’ he said, lifting his glass.

  ‘Cheers!’ They clinked glasses lightly. The whisky burned its way down her throat, sending a pleasurable rush of warmth through her. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, she remembered suddenly. Better to take it slowly.

  ‘Kemi says you’ve enjoyed being here,’ he said, more of a statement than a question.

  She nodded. ‘I’m loving it. I can’t bear to think about leaving.’

  ‘When do you go?’

  She sighed. ‘I only managed to get a three-month visa, so I’ve only got a couple more weeks.’

  ‘And what do you go back to? Job? Boyfriend?’

  She laughed. ‘Neither, sadly. I was just doing secretarial work. I screwed up the gallery job I had.’ She pulled a face. ‘But I’d rather not talk about that!’

  ‘Fair enough. So, tell me about you.’

  She glanced at him uncertainly. ‘Me? Oh, there’s nothing much to tell.’

  He looked at her curiously. She felt herself go warm under his gaze. ‘I doubt that,’ he said evenly. ‘I think there’s probably rather a lot.’

  The warmth spread slowly upwards through her neck and throat. She took a gulp of whisky to steady her nerves. He was the most disconcerting person to be around. The knowledge that he was Kemi’s lay between them but it did nothing to stop the secret heat that rose from another part of her body, a different kind of wetness from the taste of whisky in her mouth.

  ‘One more?’ he asked. Jen’s eyes went to her watch. It was nearly eleven. Her head was spinning. How many had she had?

  ‘I . . . I think I’d probably better go. Kemi’ll be wondering where I am.’

  ‘Oh, she texted about an hour ago. Looks like they’ll be there overnight. Some pile-up on one of the freeways. Sounded horrendous.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So . . . one more for the road? Then I’ll run you back.’

  ‘No, no . . . I’ll call Derrick. It’s fine. You’ve also been drinking,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll be fine. He’s completely reliable.’

  ‘No, I insist. I’ve only had two. I’ve been drinking soda water. Not that you’d notice,’ he chuckled. ‘You sure you don’t want another?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’m actually starving. I didn’t have lunch.’

  He made a small ‘tsk’ sound, pulling down the corners of his lovely mouth. ‘Silly girl. Come on. There’s nothing open at this time. I’ll make you a sandwich at mine then I’ll run you home. I’m only across the road.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, getting up unsteadily. ‘But only if you’re sure? I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘You’re not. Come on. Let’s get you fed.’

  She allowed him to take her arm and shepherd her out of the door, following dutifully, like a child.

  The cold air and the short walk across the street did little to steady her. By the time she followed him into the large, empty apartment, the whole world was spinning. She felt sick. ‘I . . . I think I’d better sit down,’ she said shakily. ‘I . . . I don’t feel so good.’

  ‘Here.’ He quickly helped her to one of the chairs. ‘Take a seat for a moment. I’ll get you some water.’

  She sat down abruptly. The room swam in front of her. She could feel her stomach heaving. She looked around her . . . there was a door at the far end of the room . . . probably the toilet. She was going to be sick. She stood up, swaying a little, and began to walk towards it. ‘I need . . . I’d better . . . the toilet,’ she mumbled. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him standing by the kitchen sink. He seemed to be pouring water into a glass but his movements were slow and unhurried. She put a foot out in front of her, then another, and then she felt herself beginning to fall. She opened her mouth to cry out but it was too late. She crumpled, her legs giving way underneath her. As she fell, she looked helplessly across the room at him . . . but Solam didn’t move a muscle. She watched him watching her fall. That was the last thing she thought she remembered – Solam standing by the sink, watching her fall.

  51

  Kemi looked around, drinking in the view of the city spreading out to the north. She and Ayanda were sitting at the bar at the Tsogo Sun Hotel, at the top of the Sandton City tower, drinking expensive cocktails. Although they’d come to know one another well, at least in a professional context, she was only just beginning to see beneath the rather formal, offhand mask she wore, and sensed that there was an opportunity for a real friendship to develop, despite the fourteen-year age gap between them. She was both funny and wry, an odd but winning combination. She didn’t suffer fools gladly. There wasn’t a nurse or doctor in the entire hospital who hadn’t felt the sharp end of her tongue at some point, but she was also capable of great generosity and empathy. The story of how she’d come to be so successful was more remarkable than Kemi could have guessed. Her mother had been a domestic worker and she’d never known her father.

  ‘It’s a familiar story,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Happens all the time. I was lucky, though.’ Her mother’s employers had taken a shine to Ayanda, sending her to a private school in Johannesburg along with their two daughters. She’d been one of only five black girls at the school. ‘It taught me a thing or two about resilience,’ she said, in the same dry tone of voice she used to admonish nursing students for failing to do things right. It was one of the qualities Kemi most liked about her. She had an utter disregard for hardship: ‘Hardship’s what made me.’

  ‘Don’t you ever want to get married?’ Kemi asked curiously.

  ‘Been ther
e, done that. Twice.’ Ayanda was brusque. ‘No kids, thank God.’ She refused to elaborate. ‘And you? Do you have a boyfriend?’

  Kemi traced the rim of her wine glass. ‘Yes, actually. It’s quite recent. In a strange way, he’s the reason I came back.’

  ‘Is he South African?’

  ‘Yes, but he grew up in England, like me. His parents are friends of mine. His father and mine were in prison together.’

  ‘Don’t tell me . . . it’s Solam Rhoyi!’ Ayanda’s eyes widened. ‘I should have guessed!’

  Kemi looked at her in surprise. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Put it this way: he’s hard to miss if you’re in our circles!’ Ayanda chuckled. ‘Solam Rhoyi. Well, well, well. Good-looking devil, mmnh?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Kemi tried to sound disinterested.

  ‘Oh, don’t give me that look. Is it serious?’

  Kemi hesitated. ‘I think so. I mean, we’ve only been dating a couple of months. But . . . yes, we’re pretty serious.’

  ‘Tread carefully, my girl. Don’t rush into anything. Guys like Solam are rare. I should know. I married two of them. They’re called “black diamonds” here, and not just because they have expensive tastes. They’re rare beasts. Everyone wants a black diamond in their pocket. Corporations, government, big business and women, too. Black and white. They’ve got it all. I don’t know him personally, but I know the type. Just be careful. Don’t lose your head too soon.’