by Lesley Lokko
Solam nodded. They looked at each other. She looked as though she wanted to hug him but physical contact had never been their way – there was too much space, time and distance between them. She picked up her handbag instead.
‘Thanks, Ma,’ he said softly as she opened the door.
He let the driver take the wheel. He was so tired he could barely move. Jen and the baby were being kept in hospital for a few days. ‘Routine,’ the doctor said briskly. ‘After a C-section we normally keep them in for a couple of days, but especially in her case with the fall and everything. She’s doing fine. First one, is it?’
He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was nearly 8 a.m. He’d go home, grab a couple of hours’ sleep and then go into the office. Everyone would understand. It was unlikely it would make the news, but with the announcement of South Africa’s winning bid the day before, his ministry would come under more attention than usual; perhaps some keen journalist would pick it up. It would be better to hold off on a press statement until Jen was in better shape. It wouldn’t look good. All those bruises and that ugly gash above her eye. Someone might misconstrue it. He suddenly remembered. The pictures. He slipped a hand into his pocket; the memory card was still there. He relaxed, settling himself more comfortably in the plush leather seat. He closed his eyes.
The house was silent apart from the occasional sound Dora made downstairs as she went about her daily cleaning routine. The chink of the dishwasher; the ‘beep-beep’ of the washing machine, the greedy suctioning gasp of the vacuum cleaner . . . the sounds drifted in and out of his consciousness as he studied the photographs on his laptop. They were all there. Mvusi. Mthembu. Lahoud. Petersen. Dlulane. He flicked through the images, one after the other. Then he closed the file, ensuring it hadn’t been copied anywhere on his hard drive. He got up and walked to the closet. At the back was his safe. He put the envelope in and slid it to the back. He closed the door, changed the code, just to be sure, and shut the wardrobe door. He walked into the shower and quickly disrobed. Time to move on with his day.
72
It’ll get easier. I just have to wait. That’s what the doctor said. It will get easier. She repeated the words to herself every morning as she walked to the cot where Euan lay. He was sleeping now. She stared down at him, wondering where the euphoria that she’d felt only weeks before at the very sight of him had gone. In the first few days, she’d been unable to do anything other than stare at him. His perfect features; tiny flared nostrils, dark black eyes just like Solam’s, tiny pursed lips already set in an obstinate line. He had her father’s wide cheekbones and his slender, elegant fingers, even as a month-old baby. She couldn’t see anything of herself in him but perhaps that was because he was male? No one said, ‘Oh, he looks so much like you!’ It was all ‘Solam this’ and ‘Solam that’. Even naming him had been a battle. Iketleng seemed to think he’d be given a Xhosa name by automatic right.
‘Lebohang,’ she’d said firmly. ‘It means “gift” in our language.’ She’d looked to Solam for confirmation.
‘I’m not naming him that,’ Jen said, clutching him to her as though Iketleng might take him away from her by force.
She’d seen the look that passed between mother and son. ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ Solam said, stepping in to stall an argument.
‘No, we won’t. I’m giving him a normal name.’ It was the wrong thing to say, of course. She saw from the look Iketleng threw her that it had come out wrong. ‘I mean, a Christian name.’
‘And what makes you think Lebohang isn’t a Christian name?’ Iketleng could be terrifying when she went all quiet.
‘I’m sure it is, but I’d rather have a Scottish name.’
‘Scottish?’ Iketleng pronounced the word as if it were blasphemous.
‘Let’s talk about this later,’ Solam interjected again. ‘We don’t have to decide now.’
‘Why do you never stand up for me?’ Jen said to him later when Iketleng had finally gone home. ‘You always do what she says; you go along with every goddam thing she suggests. He’s my baby!’
‘Jen, you’re being irrational. It’s only normal that she wants a say.’
‘Normal? By whose standards? It’s not normal at all! He’s our child – we should be the ones to name him, not her!’
‘And I want to name him Lebohang,’ Solam said, his voice suddenly going cold.
‘Well, you can’t!’ She stared at him. ‘You can’t!’ She could feel herself getting hysterical. ‘I won’t let you!’
‘Stop it, Jen.’
‘No, I won’t! I won’t be told what to do like some naughty child! You’re not naming him . . . wh-what are you doing? Get off me. You can’t—’
‘Give him to me.’ Solam was standing over her. ‘You need to take a nap. Give him to me. You’ll make him cry.’
‘I won’t. Solam, no . . . please . . . no, don’t.’ She tried to stop him prising the baby out of her arms but she was afraid she’d hurt him so she handed him over. ‘I’ll stop . . . I promise, I’m—’
‘Auntie Gladys?’ Solam strode to the bedroom door with the baby in his arms, flinging it open. The baby started to cry.
‘Yêbo.’ Auntie Gladys must have been practically at the door. She took the child from him and disappeared. ‘Hai, hai . . . wena, wena,’ she cooed at him in Xhosa. ‘Shhh. Stop crying.’
‘Pull yourself together, Jen,’ Solam said, his hand on the door. ‘For God’s sake.’
She sat down on the edge of the bed, too drained to speak. She had to speak to someone, anyone. As much as she hated to admit it, Kemi was the only person she could turn to. She picked up the phone.
73
‘I . . . I don’t feel anything,’ Jen sniffed. ‘That’s the whole problem. I’m just numb. I look at him . . . there’s nothing. I don’t seem to have any feelings for him at all.’
Kemi nodded. Jen needed more than a shoulder to cry on. She needed medication. Citalopram or Prozac. And fast. ‘How long have you been feeling like this?’ she asked gently.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, beginning to cry again. ‘It feels as though it’s always been this way.’
‘Are you breastfeeding?’ Kemi asked.
‘I tried, but he wouldn’t latch on properly. Auntie Gladys said I’d better stop.’
‘Who’s Auntie Gladys?’
‘She’s a relative of Solam’s. His mother sent her to help with the baby as soon as he was born. She’s with him now. She won’t let him out of her sight.’
Which was surely part of the problem, Kemi thought to herself. ‘Jen, I’m going to prescribe something for you. You won’t have to take it for long . . . six months, probably not longer. But it’s important you do, d’you understand?’
‘Pills?’ she said slowly, almost disbelievingly. ‘You’re going to make me take pills? I’m not taking them! I won’t!’ She sounded on the verge of hysteria.
Kemi gripped the phone. ‘Jen . . . it’s fine. It’s going to be fine. You’re not well. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You are not your mother. The circumstances are just not the same, d’you hear me? You are not your mother. There’s no danger of you becoming addicted or going mad, or whatever it is you’re afraid of. You’re in more danger if you don’t get help.’
‘Wh-what if I can’t stop?’ Jen asked, her teeth chattering. ‘What if . . . what if I—’
‘You will stop,’ she said, cutting her off quickly. ‘Just as soon as you start to get stronger. Trust me, Jen. You know I’d never do anything to hurt you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I’m the one who hurt you, Kemi. I’m so sorry. I think about it all the time. I think about what I did and I don’t know what to say.’
Kemi was quiet for a moment. ‘Where’s Solam?’ she asked carefully.
‘I don’t know,’ Jen said weakly. ‘I never know where he is.’
And that, too, was another part of the problem, Kemi thought. Dear God, don’t let Ayanda be ri
ght.
She phoned the prescription through to the pharmacy and then quickly called Ayanda. ‘I prescribed Citalopram. I don’t think she’s strong enough to get over this without it.’
‘Yes, sounds right. What does the husband say? Or doesn’t he notice?’
‘We didn’t really talk about it,’ Kemi said, trying not to sound evasive. ‘I know he’s busy. There seems to be so much noise around the World Cup lately.’ She trailed off. It was true. Every day seemed to bring forth new allegations of bribes and pay-offs, backroom deals and contracts that couldn’t be explained.
‘Well, you know what they say,’ Ayanda commented dryly. ‘Follow the money.’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ Kemi said hurriedly. ‘Solam’s never been mentioned in that way. It’s just his office. Besides, he doesn’t need the money. They have plenty.’
‘If you say so. Well, I think you’ve done the right thing. Where did you send the script?’
‘Dis-Chem in Rosebank. I’ll ask Julian to pick it up and I’ll take it to her myself. Now, when are you coming over? We’re only here for another week.’
‘Friday? I’ll leave work early.’
‘Perfect. Julian wants to cook for you.’
Ayanda chuckled. ‘A husband who wants to cook? Never heard of such a thing.’
Kemi hung up the phone just as Julian walked into the kitchen. They were staying in a guesthouse in Parkhurst for a month whilst they moved ahead with plans for the clinic. She pulled a quick, sympathetic face. ‘That was Jen,’ she said, turning up her cheek for a kiss. ‘She’s having such a rough time of it.’
‘What’s wrong? Baby blues or something more serious?’ He opened the fridge door and pulled out a beer.
‘I think it’s serious. She seems done in. From the sound of it, Solam’s too busy to pay much attention.’
Julian shrugged. ‘He’s certainly a busy man. Have you been following the news since we got here?’
‘It’ll die down. My mother said it’s what always happens after that sort of announcement.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Oh, you know, the minute oil’s discovered, or a new mineral’s been found, everyone gets over-excited. People start seeing dollars where there aren’t any. The World Cup’s the same. Everyone thinks they’re going to get rich all of a sudden.’
‘From a football tournament?’ Julian smiled faintly. ‘They’d do well to look at history. I don’t think there’s a single city that made any money after one of those sporting events. Beats me why they even bother.’
Kemi pulled a face. ‘Prestige. Glory. Tourism. It’ll be the first time Africa’s ever hosted one of those. I think it’s good news.’
‘Yeah, well, good job you’re not looking to boost your pension. Speaking of which, we’re close to finishing the first phase. And that, my dear,’ he said, pointing at her with his half-empty bottle, ‘means you and I have to go on a charm offensive.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘More money?’
‘Clinics cost money,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry. We’ll get what we need.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I’m yet to meet an investor who can resist you, my darling. Never mind your qualities as a surgeon, you’re one hell of a fundraiser. And d’you know why that is?’
She shook her head. ‘Go on, tell me,’ she said dryly.
‘Lust. Best fundraising tool there is. Trust me, they’re all lusting after you.’
‘You’re full of shit,’ she laughed, smacking away his hand. ‘Seriously, though, she sounds almost hopeless.’
‘Isn’t that just Jen?’ Julian asked carefully. ‘You’ve said it yourself. She just seems to go from crisis to crisis.’
Kemi sighed. ‘I know. But I suppose I feel responsible.’
‘How?’
‘Well, if it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have met Solam.’
‘That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard you say. She betrayed you, remember? You’re not responsible for her choices. She is. She’s an adult. She needs to behave like one.’
Kemi looked at him in surprise. ‘I thought you liked Jen?’
‘I do. But she’s managed to get away with some pretty questionable behaviour over the years. The whole “silly old me” routine, it was fine when you were in your twenties, but it just doesn’t cut it now.’
‘Julian,’ Kemi said carefully, ‘that’s not fair. Jen’s . . . she’s different, that’s all.’
‘Sure. But I still don’t see why you feel the need to take responsibility for her, that’s all I’m saying.’
Kemi was quiet for a second. She bit her lip. ‘It’s complicated,’ she said finally. ‘She’ll be all right. I’ll get her started on Citalopram for now . . . when she’s a bit more stable, we might recommend counselling. Sounds as though things are a bit rocky at home.’
Julian grunted. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ he said.
Kemi sighed. ‘No one’s pointing a finger at him, though. It’s people around him.’
‘That’s how these things always start, Kem. Bit of smoke, a few sparks, and next thing you know there’s a raging inferno and everyone goes down. Where there’s money to be made, corruption follows. It’s human nature.’
Kemi gave a short laugh. ‘Funny, that’s exactly what Ayanda said. “Follow the money.”’
‘Well, she’s right. It’s simple enough. If you follow drugs, you’ll find a dealer. If you follow crime, you’ll find a criminal. Trouble with money, though, is you’ve no idea where the fuck it’ll lead.’
Kemi laughed. It was so unlike Julian to swear. She put her hand out to catch his. ‘I love you the most when you swear,’ she said, giggling.
He brought her hand up to his lips. ‘And I love you the most when you’re worried,’ he replied. He brought his other hand to her face, smoothing the line that had appeared between her eyes. ‘You get this little indentation, right here. I just want to keep on stroking it away.’
She closed her eyes. His touch was light, almost feathery. He cupped her face in his hands and began to kiss her. It had been a while since they’d made love. His hands slid down her body, her own already busy unfastening the belt that held his trousers. It was quick and urgent and all the more pleasurable for it. He was uncharacteristically forceful, entering her roughly, and she could feel his excitement mounting with every stroke. He came with a short, strangled gasp, his whole body shuddering in delight. They lay in the tangled heap of clothing like two teenagers, panting for breath.
The faint buzzing of a phone dragged them both out of their late afternoon sleep. Kemi struggled to open her eyes and focus. The room was dark. She’d left the phone on the kitchen counter. She got up groggily and walked through to grab it before it woke Julian. It was the pharmacy. The prescription was ready.
‘Who was that?’ Julian mumbled, coming awake.
‘It’s Dis-Chem in Rosebank. I’ll go over and pick it up.’
Julian shook his head. ‘No, let me do it. You get ready for dinner. I’ll book somewhere nice.’
‘OK, I’ll be ready when you get back.’ She blew him a kiss and rolled off the bed. He stretched out a hand to grab her as she passed but she was already gone.
He pulled into the parking lot on Cradock Avenue, a block away from the mall. He fancied a short walk. His body felt supple and he was completely at ease in himself. He pulled out the note she’d scribbled. Dis-Chem, 1st floor. Ask for Busewe. He tucked it into his jacket pocket and reached for the door handle. It happened so fast he didn’t even have time to react. A hand appeared in the window and grabbed his collar.
‘Phone. Gimme the phone.’
‘What the—?’
‘Give it.’ The hand holding him by the throat gave him a sharp shove.
‘Phone? What phone?’ He was genuinely confused. His phone was in his pocket.
‘You was looking at it. Get out.’
There was another man standing behind him. Everything he’d ever rea
d about how to behave in a mugging went out the window. His brain went into overdrive. Stay calm? Shout? Threaten? Obey? He simply couldn’t remember.
‘Get out!’ The man holding him seemed as though he would drag him out through the window by force. He yanked the door open from the inside.
‘I’m getting out, I’m getting out.’ He put up his hands and did so. The night air was cool and sharp. His heart was thudding with fear. ‘Just . . . just take it easy,’ he said to the man still holding him. A sour smell came off him, sweat mixed with something else . . . weed. He swallowed. They were young. The man was jumpy, nervous. The street lights were off and the parking lot was shrouded in darkness. He should have noticed as he drove in. Idiot, idiot! He turned his head quickly to look at the booth where the attendant usually sat: it was empty.
‘Don’t look! Give the fokken phone!’ The man spat the word forcefully, tightening his grip. His accomplice behind him said something in their language; his voice was panicked.
Julian put a hand in his trouser pocket to retrieve the phone and then he heard a shout behind him. He felt his knees go weak. A passer-by had noticed the tussle.
‘Hey! Hey you!’ Another man’s voice. He shouted again, a stream of unintelligible words in the same language as his attackers. There was a sudden flurry of movement. He felt his phone being snatched out of his hand and they bumped him, hard. He heard the scuffle of feet, footsteps running towards him as well as away. He turned in relief. His saviour ran towards him. It was a security guard from across the road. ‘Ekskees mynheer,’ he began in Afrikaans. Julian recognized the words, if not their meaning.
He waved him away. ‘No, I’m English. I don’t . . .’ He stopped. There was a dreadful shortness of breath in his chest, as though the air was slowly going out of him. He clutched a hand to his heart. He felt the stickiness and looked down in horror. Blood was seeping from his shirt.
‘You hurt?’ The security guard looked at him in alarm.
‘I . . . I think . . . I’ve been stabbed,’ Julian gasped. He felt his knees giving way, properly this time. He fell against the open car door, shutting it with his body, sliding down slowly towards the ground. ‘Get me . . . help.’ He forced the words out, even as he knew. The blade had penetrated his abdominal aorta. He knew what was happening to him. ‘I need . . . help.’