The Water Man's Daughter (10 page)

“I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty tomorrow? To go to the station. Captain Afrika will be expecting you.”

“Yes.” Claire hesitates. Then she smiles at Nomsulwa, revealing white teeth too small for her mouth. “Thank you.”

That is enough. Nomsulwa escapes, already dreading the morning and a repeat performance.

N
OMSULWA CALLS
C
LAIRE’S HOTEL ROOM AT NINE THE
next morning to make sure she is awake and ready to go. The phone rings three times and then a thick voice answers.

“Hello?”

“This is Nomsulwa. I am leaving now to come pick you up.”

“Yes.” Nomsulwa can hear Claire cough and then put the phone back up to her ear. The sheets rustle into the
receiver muffling everything. Nomsulwa waits until there is silence again.

“I should be there in half an hour.”

“Sure.” Claire gives Nomsulwa her cellphone number and hangs up before Nomsulwa can say goodbye.

She turns to the outfit that she laid on the bed just minutes before the call. The grey slacks and dark-blue shirt look too conservative now, so she replaces them with white pants and a green sweater. When she has finished – twisting her hair and smoothing the crinkled pants with a quickly heated iron, she takes a cold doughnut from the counter and runs out the door. She hasn’t had her tea yet this morning and hopes that Zembe will have some brewing when they arrive. She can wait outside the door and enjoy a peaceful moment while the police and Claire have their meeting.

The drive to the hotel goes smoothly. As the hissing water towers fade into the distance behind her car, Nomsulwa watches the morning taxis bringing the day’s workforce into the city. She would likely see many men she knows crammed inside the bursting vans, if only their jostled bodies weren’t so obscured. Her car easily passes the slow taxi vans, but as she steps on the gas, the engine begins to knock in protest. She needs to get her car fixed. At this rate, she’ll be lucky if she gets Claire to the Phiri police station at all.

The car is practically smoking when Nomsulwa arrives at the hotel. She leaves it, engine off, in the driveway to cool and passes the doorman ten rand to turn a blind eye to her
intrusion. She enters the revolving front door and is stunned by the gold trim, the marble floor reflecting gold light, and the lavish chandelier with gold pendants hanging from its many branches.

It is breathtaking, but Nomsulwa has very little chance to take it in before a concierge sweeps down upon her.

“May I help you?” he asks with a British accent affected to cover the harder Afrikaans. The man blocks Nomsulwa’s path, keeping her close to the door.

“I am here to pick up one of your guests. Claire Matthews.”

“Perhaps you would prefer to wait outside. I will have her sent for.” The man never loses his perfect smile, but Nomsulwa’s jaw tightens. These same men are trained to let in black girls – done up and looking for clients – after dark. But in the daytime, they are quick to escort you back out onto the street.

“I would rather call her myself.”

“It is hotel policy to have the front desk contact all guests when visitors arrive. Are you sure you would not rather wait by the door?”

“Just give me a second.” Nomsulwa stands still, despite the man’s efforts to push her into a corner of the room, finds Claire’s number in her phone and punches
CALL
. It rings too many times and then moves through to voice-mail. The man cocks his head and purses his lips. Nomsulwa hits redial. Finally, there is a fumble on the other end of the line.

“Hello.”

“Hi Claire, it’s Nomsulwa. I’m downstairs in the lobby. Are you ready?”

“Umm …” There is a pause. “I’m not sure I’m ready.”

“Okay, how much time do you need?”

“I’m not sure I’m going to make it today. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

“I’m here already. Captain Afrika is waiting for you. It will only be a short meeting.”

“I can’t do it. I’m sorry.” The phone goes dead and the concierge whips back around from the conversation he was having with one of his cronies farther into the golden hall.

“Not today, then?” he asks in a clipped tone.

Nomsulwa ignores him, turns around, and walks slowly, purposefully, out of the hotel. Her car starts on the second try and she almost intentionally mows down the hotel greeter stationed at the end of the driveway.

Spoiled fucking brat.

The highways are packed with morning traffic. It’s a little after the work rush, but all those who were up late are still inching their way into the city centre.

It takes half an hour to get from Claire Matthews’s hotel to the police station in Phiri.

Nomsulwa is in a rage by the time she throws open the screen door and confronts the two women pushing paper behind the reception desk.

“Where is Zembe?”

“Sawubona, sisi. What is it you would like?”

“I want to see Zembe.”

Nomsulwa can hear Zembe’s voice coming from a room close to the front. She looks beyond the cheerful reception she’s negotiating and catches sight of a thick arm resting on the edge of a dark desk.

“Why do you wish to speak with Captain Afrika?” Nomsulwa doesn’t answer the girl’s inquiry; she simply sidesteps the long table and walks through to the main area of the station.

“Ima wena!”
Just wait!

“Zembe!”

Zembe is on the phone. She holds up one finger and continues her conversation. Nomsulwa taps her fingers on the desk in a hard pattern, volume increasing with each repetition.

“Hold on, I’ll have to call you back.” She hangs up the phone and turns to Nomsulwa. “What happened? Is the Matthews girl okay? Why are you alone?”

“The Matthews girl decided not to leave the hotel today.”

“Ahhh, poor thing was probably tired.” Zembe’s eyes fill with sympathy.

Nomsulwa is incredulous. “Poor thing? She made me drive all the way into the business district for nothing. Then, once the concierge had finished grilling me, she politely informed me that her highness didn’t wish to be disturbed at this time. Bullshit. Sengidelile.”
Enough
. “I came here to tell you in person that I am done with this job. I picked her up, that’s enough.”

“Nomsulwa, the girl lost her father. She’s shaken up. Give her time.”

“Voetsek.”

“Hey now. We don’t have a choice. The company insists we take care of this child. The police, right now, have to do what the company asks, orders from the national office. I need someone to watch her, make sure she doesn’t get into trouble while she’s here. If she wants to hide out in a hotel the whole time, all the better for us. Leave her. Call tonight and see if she wants to try again tomorrow.”

Nomsulwa can see that Zembe is managing her, playing a part to quiet her down.
Don’t coddle me
, she thinks, and gives her a warning stare.
Don’t pretend that you understand this any better than I do
.

“Don’t make me do this.”

“This is not negotiable. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the same time, but bring her to police headquarters. The Commissioner wants to speak to her himself.”

Zembe is firm in the face of Nomsulwa’s angry frown. She waves her away as she lifts the receiver back up to her ear. Nomsulwa leaves, stomping her feet on the dusty station floor as she walks.

She can’t return home. The competition between the smug face of the hotel concierge and the dismissive wave Zembe threw at her without a moment’s concern over her troubles – she’ll be too furious and take it out on Mira. He will be at her house for sure, slouched on the couch, beer in hand, watching the football game.

There was a time when Mira was invincible; now he is a man half-disappeared. More often than not his eyes are
bloodshot when he comes to visit. He eats all her food and takes money from her purse. She would give up on him completely, but he still attends meetings, fires up the crowd like the old Mira, back again. And he is family, still there for Nomsulwa when she needs him most. He would give his life for her. He already has in so many ways.

She needs a drink, something familiar and bitter to help her forget the day.

H
ALF AN HOUR LATER
, N
OMSULWA ARRIVES AT
Legends, in the club district. She walks past the doorman and through an imposing gate. Beyond the harsh exterior is a pebbled patio with picnic tables and umbrellas. The outdoor café is populated with people in casual summer sweats and peaked caps. The waitress, short and busty, gets to Nomsulwa’s table almost before she does.

“What’choo’avin?” One word, with an expectant expression on her face.

“Black Label, in the bottle,” Nomsulwa answers as she clambers over the bench and sits down. The couples around her turn to check her out, seated alone in her now wrinkled white pants. She recognizes a few faces and nods in their direction – Zandi and Susan, Christine and Mabusi. They are like cooing pigeons fawning over each other here in one of the few places where two women can intertwine legs while enjoying a cold drink. From the street, you would not know that Legends houses the largest lesbian bar in Johannesburg. It is well disguised with a big male bouncer and pictures of
straight couples dancing on the exterior wall. The club itself is located near the end of the strip, where the space between buildings is a little too far to walk. Women know to drive directly here, but a group of men strolling in search of the next big night would rarely bother to make their way this far.

The security is necessary. This time last year, the most popular
DJ
at Legends got into a scuffle with some boys outside the club. Nomsulwa had been away that night, visiting her mother. It wasn’t until the next morning that she heard about it. How everyone had assumed the fight was no big deal. How her friend was found the next day raped, beaten, and stabbed twenty-five times. They even put holes in the bottoms of her feet.

“Someone needed to make her a girl,” the men arrested told the police, in the same breath denying participation in the murder.

The men were released six months later.

That was the last time Nomsulwa trusted the police to get anything right.

The waitress returns with the drink. She winks as she places it on the table. Nomsulwa hands her seven rand and takes a swig. The cool liquid and bitter taste calm her immediately. She relaxes into her seat, takes a moment to survey the crowd. Most of the women are clustered in larger groups, laughing and enjoying the shade provided by large white umbrellas. The picnic tables underneath are scattered with bottles. In this place, Nomsulwa feels like she is among family even when most of the faces belong to strangers.

A tall women peels off from one of the larger groups and walks over to Nomsulwa.

“Hey, girl.” She is skinny with short hair relaxed so that it sticks to her head. Her smile is huge. She is wearing a pair of jeans and a baggy tank top displaying the logo for Loxion Kulca – advertising her ability to afford the nicest clothes in the South Gate Mall.

“Hi, Lindi.” Nomsulwa positions herself to invite Lindi to sit next to her without seeming too eager.

“What you up to?”

“Nothing, ngizipholele. You know. I needed a break.”

“All that toyi toying tiring you out?” Lindi jokes. She gives Nomsulwa a friendly nudge. Nomsulwa reaches for her hand before she can pull it away.

“Just needed a little distraction.”

Lindi smiles.

It’s too easy to be entertained. Lindi’s thin body and deep black skin are beautiful. She moves like a girl who knows what it means to be wanted. And Nomsulwa has wanted her, watched her dance on many nights. But today her head needs more than a little flirtation to keep it off harder topics.

“I think I can help with that.” Lindi waves over the waitress. “Can we get two vodkas? And throw in some oranges.”

Lindi takes her hand back, but doesn’t convince Nomsulwa that she wanted to.

“How’s life?” Nomsulwa asks.

“The usual. I’m working in Durban, telemarketing. Making good money. Plus the surfing is nothing to scoff at.”

“You surf?” Nomsulwa fiddles with her beer label.

“For sure, sisi. Better than you, I reckon.”

“We will have to test that theory.”

“Any time. You name it, I’ll be there.”

“Well,” Nomsulwa fakes it, takes her chance to erase the day, “I don’t want you going anywhere right now.” She takes Lindi’s hand back. Her skin is hot and dry. The vodkas arrive and Nomsulwa takes a big gulp of hers.

“Ach, slow down, sisi,” Lindi chides her. “I need a chance to catch up.”

“It’s not going to be easy.” Nomsulwa drains her glass and places the orange wedge in her mouth. The juice soothes the burn of the alcohol. Lindi laughs at her as she tries to extricate the peel from her lips. They kiss, both mouths wet with juice and vodka.

“Want to get out of here?” Lindi whispers.

On another day, Nomsulwa would have mocked the line. Today, she takes Lindi’s hand and drops fifty rand on the table before walking off the patio into the parking lot.

T
HAT NIGHT
, N
OMSULWA DOESN’T SLEEP ENOUGH
to dream and wakes up fuzzy and disoriented. Despite herself, her thoughts are full of Claire Matthews; Lindi’s face has faded already from memory. The particular curve of dark hair on white skin that betrayed the girl in the car is all she can focus on. She waits for 7:30 to come. Finally, she dials. This time, the Matthews girl picks up after only two rings. Her voice sounds stronger.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Nomsulwa.”

“Right. Hi.”

“I was wondering if you feel up to going to the station today.” Nomsulwa tries not to sound too sarcastic in her polite inquiry.

“Yeah. I mean, yes. Definitely. Yesterday was just a …” Claire’s voice trails off and the thick sound of sleepiness seeps through. “Yesterday was a hard day. But I’m ready.”

“I will be waiting outside at eight-thirty. Will you meet me out front?”

“Sure. I’ll see you soon, then.”

Her drive to the hotel is slower this time. She will arrive, pick up the girl, and drop her at the station, just as Zembe requested. Then she will leave. Next time, when Zembe calls for another favour, another tour for the water man’s daughter, Nomsulwa will do what she should have done in the first place and refuse to help. She has discharged her obligation. Zembe has to see that.