The Water Man's Daughter (18 page)

The door opens easily and the chickens begin their protests before she even crosses the threshold. The room is dark and filled with the chalky, putrid smell of chicken shit. Feathers float in the stuffy air. Nomsulwa can feel them brush against her bare arms as she walks forward, closing the door behind her. Her shoe hits solid metal and she turns to the task at hand.

Nomsulwa uncovers the steel and begins to shift each pipe, counting as she goes: one, two, three, she reaches to the left side to feel underneath, four, five, six, then the right, seven, eight, nine, ten. She walks to the very back wall where the last three pipes were laid under thick canvas cloth, lifts a corner, and feels underneath. She stops. Feels again. Closes the cloth, looks around, opens it again, feels the two pipes nestled in the soft floor of the shed. Just two. Nomsulwa’s joints freeze up. She looks around frantically, as if someone could have misplaced three metres of solid steel. Immediately she imagines police investigators confiscating the missing pipe, comparing the steel with that of the Phiri water line, and showing up ready to arrest Nomsulwa’s mother. She imagines tsotsis stumbling across the stash and stealing away some for themselves. She almost wishes these scenarios were true. What really happened, what she knows must have happened, is worse. Four men lifting the steel pipe in the dead of night and a pickup truck delivering it to the black corners of the Saturday market. Mira.

—

N
OMSULWA SPEEDS ALONG THE HIGHWAY BACK TO
P
HIRI
. She drives into the community centre parking lot and runs to the side entrance, which leads to winding hallways lined with pictures of women of all ages dressed in red, carrying placards with protest slogans painted in black. She and Mira carefully pasted these colour printouts to the cracking walls. They blasted music in the halls as they reorganized the filing cabinet, filling it with water bills and overdue statements organized by neighbourhood, then by street, and now by family. The township names run in alphabetical order, overflowing with Amanzi bills.

The main office is on the left-hand side, just before the hall leads back into the waiting room. Mira is sitting at the computer, which creaks every time he clicks the mouse. He hammers the number one key hard three times before it gives and lets him move on. The screen makes his skin look green. He is so much darker than Nomsulwa. They don’t really look related at all. But by now everyone is so used to seeing them together that their odd pairing has become a single, cohesive unit. They make sense together, Mira and Nomsulwa. They are a team.

“Ukwenzeleni kodwa lokho, Mira?”
Why did you do it?

“What? Oh, hey, sisi, I’m just recopying the statements for the Ndebele family.”

“I told you it was too dangerous. How could you?” Nomsulwa keeps her voice even. Her words sink in, and Mira turns completely to face her.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“What did you do with it? Tell me you still have it. You didn’t sell it yet, you didn’t.”

“I met that thick man from the metal corner at a field near your mother’s house. We exchanged there. It’s done, Nomsulwa. You didn’t want to be involved.”

“No.”

Mira rises but stays back from where Nomsulwa stands. “It’s not your place to tell me no.”

“Who do you think runs this organization? Who’s in charge of those pipes you are selling off? It’s me, Mira. You snuck into my chicken coop and stole something that belonged to me, to the movement.”

“We agreed. We would hire protection. But I can’t get that kind of manpower without payment and I made a decision. Kholizwe is on the warpath. I needed to pay.”

“We already gave Kholizwe his payment. We gave a pipe to him before we took the rest to my mother’s.”

“Yes, but his men were restless. They said we cheated them.”

“How much did you get for it?”

“Two thousand rand.”

“And how much did you pay out?”

Mira pauses, caught in his lie. “The four of us split it.”

“That’s what I thought. That was our money, the movement’s money, and you blew it on Black Label and cigarettes.”

“What do you care? What are you giving back? I haven’t seen you in here with those American bills the white bitch carries with her.”

“You want me to steal from her now, too? After everything.”

“After everything she did to us!” Mira is furious. “Without them, the water men, none of this would have happened.”

“She’s not a water man.”

“She may as well be. And don’t you forget it.”

“You should have come to me. I would have found you the money. Don’t you see what trouble those pipes are? I’m trying to protect you, protect us.” Nomsulwa moves into the room, away from the door, closer to Mira.

“Do you even understand how much you owe me, what I did for you? You got me into this mess to begin with. I think I’ll take care of myself from here on in.”

“We were a team.” Nomsulwa retorts.

“No. I cleaned up your mess. It’s what I always do.” Mira walks out the door, past Nomsulwa. He shoves her as he passes, the fury so uncontrollable he is shaking.

When he is gone, the office seems smaller. The pipes and the men from the 28s and Mira’s voice, angry, fill the silent room. He’s right, Nomsulwa thinks. Without me he would be happily causing trouble with his tsotsi friends, not running from the police, making backroom deals for stolen steel, spending all day organizing fruitless protests and boycotts.

Walking back to her car, Nomsulwa surveys the neighbourhood. A group of boys wrestle in the lot next to the
centre’s front door. A girl hangs on the outside of the scuffle, yelling encouragement to her comrades. She has scraped knees. Dust lightens the ends of her hair, clings to the oil her mother combed through it that morning in an attempt to relax the strands. The familiarity, so like her and her childhood comrades-in-arms, makes Nomsulwa feel dizzy – the hard part inside her, the part she can’t open up, knocks against her chest, tightening everything, reminding her how everything has changed.

N
OMSULWA’S HOUSE FEELS EMPTY WITHOUT
M
IRA
there. She sleeps badly, then sits in the bed in the morning and listens for the sounds of the neighbourhood, hoping they will fill the space he used to occupy. Nomsulwa notices herself fingering her cellphone, flipping through the missed calls. Rechecking, as if the list of names could change from one second to the next. She is waiting for Mira, and thinking of their conversation yesterday makes Nomsulwa think of Claire.

Nomsulwa fights the feeling, distracts herself with the preparation of a big breakfast of fresh fat cakes until half her block, she’s sure, is filled with the acrid smell of oil frying. It gets into her hair and her clothes, and when she can’t take it any longer, she ducks into the bathroom, runs her head under cold water, smoothes her twists with a little wax, changes her clothes, and smells her arms carefully to make sure the fat is off them. Then she picks up the phone again.

The rings begin and Nomsulwa gears herself up to leave a chipper message.
Just checking in. Wouldn’t want a repeat of
that township visit
. No, wait, that will put Claire on the defensive.
Just checking in. Thought you might want some company
. No, that sounds more needy than Nomsulwa had hoped.

But Nomsulwa doesn’t get the chance to leave a message.

“Hello?” Claire answers. Why did she call Claire? Was it duty or loneliness?

“Hi. It’s Nomsulwa. I was just calling to check in, see how you are doing.”

“Oh. I’m fine, thanks.”

Nothing more. Nomsulwa does not give in and interrogate the girl about her activities, her life away from her driver.

“Okay, well, I just needed to make sure you were all right. No more running off on your own, okay?”

“If you’re not busy, I would like to get out of the hotel today.”

Nomsulwa agrees to be there in an hour. She tries to think of somewhere they can go that won’t have anything to do with the company or the township. She rushes to the mirror again and sees how her hair has fallen too far to one side and the twists are too thin at the head and too loose at the bottom. She’s sure she still smells like oil. She gets her bag and leaves the house, sits on her front porch, hoping the dusty air around her will make her smell more normal. Or more like Claire.

She sits very still, arms slightly apart from her body, willing the air to rush through her. But it is a hot, quiet day. No wind. Just children running down her block in small groups, their school uniforms on and no school anywhere
nearby. Truants. And then a few teenage boys who whistle or suck their teeth at Nomsulwa. She flips them off with a smile. They laugh with one another and return the favour in a friendly way. She sees no one she knows.

O
UTSIDE THE HOTEL
, N
OMSULWA WAITS, IGNORING
the glares of the doormen. She watches the front door, calm now because Claire is coming down and they will spend the day together enjoying the sights. She thinks she might take her to the Apartheid Museum, a place every student in the country visits before high school graduation. When Nomsulwa first saw it, it was a brand new building, and she was so moved, witnessing all the clever ways their history had been squeezed into “interactive” displays. How easily hope can pervert the world around you.

When Claire arrives, she walks smiling, but with her arms crossed across her narrow chest. She stops at the car, deftly navigates the stuck passenger-side door, and sits down.

“I was thinking today we could go see his hotel,” she says, as if it is a suggestion to see the local zoo or museum.

“We could do that.” Nomsulwa pauses. “Or we could go see the Apartheid Museum. It’s the most famous museum in Africa.”

Claire nods. “We can do that, after the hotel.”

“I’m not even sure what we can see there, Claire.” Nomsulwa holds out her hands, giving up.

“I’ve been to his office, and to the township. Now I need to see where he stayed.”

“Maybe you should wait and get Alvin to take you. I don’t even know which hotel it is.”

“The Central Sun.”

“Right. Well, I didn’t know it. I’ve never been there. I think he’d get you better access.”

“We can try. If it doesn’t work, I’ll call the Dadoo guy.”

“I don’t know …” Nomsulwa stalls. She thinks of Mira’s reaction if he knew she was going to that hotel.

“I’ve been here for over a week and found nothing. This is the last place I can think of to look.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Can you just take me? I’ll know it when I see it.” Claire is very sure of herself. She sits upright, posture full of confidence. Nomsulwa gives in and steers out onto the main road.

As they drive, Claire shifts back and forth, full of nervous energy. Nomsulwa wants to put out a hand and stop her moving. She wants to warn her against getting her hopes up. Whatever Claire expects to find at the Central Sun, Nomsulwa is pretty sure it won’t be there.

The differences between the Central Sun and Claire’s hotel are minor. Really, they all boil down to scale. The Central Sun is the largest hotel in the district and it is sufficiently out of the way so that it looms even larger; there are no big buildings to offset it. Nomsulwa flips her collar up around her neck and flicks her twisted hair to one side. She keeps her head down in case there is any problem.

Claire walks quickly and Nomsulwa hangs back, keeping close enough to Claire that it is clear they are together,
but letting Claire be the one to greet each new face. As they get inside, Claire walks directly to the front desk and smiles a big smile. Nomsulwa pretends to be very interested in the art on the far wall. She does not stare up at the decorated ceiling and does not study the lobby that is more like a wide avenue, lined with restaurants and shops. She hears Claire ask sweetly for the manager and then drum her fingers on the desk, impatient now, so close to something but not sure what it is. Nomsulwa feels a sense of dread. When the manager emerges, Claire introduces herself. There is a pause.

“My father,” Claire explains further, “he was staying in this hotel right before he died.”

There is silence.

“He worked for the water company,” Claire offers.

The manager clues in. He stumbles on his words. “Of course, of course. Yes, yes, very sad. He was a … a … valued guest here.”

“Do you have a record of which room he stayed in?” Her voice has become higher.

“Perhaps.” The man starts to click at the keys. Nomsulwa peeks around and surveys the busy room. People are moving through it in makeshift queues, suits following suits. No one notices the others around them.

Claire turns while Nomsulwa is watching. She catches her eye and smiles. “Don’t worry,” she says to Nomsulwa. “This is something I need to do.”

“Here it is. The fifteenth floor, room 1521. It is one of our executive suites.”

“Can I go see it?”

“See it?” The man pauses. Nomsulwa wonders what he thought Claire was looking for when she asked for the room number if she didn’t want to actually go there. Numerology?

“Please. I’ve come all the way from Canada.” Claire’s voice climbs higher again. “I just want to see it.”

“We have a guest checking in to that room this afternoon.”

“I will be quick.”

“The police have already cleared it for occupation.”

“I won’t touch anything. I just want to peek in.”

The man sighs. Then he motions for one of the bellmen blending into the wall.

“Take them to 1521.”

“Thank you,” Claire says before pushing off from the desk, waving Nomsulwa over, and following the bellman to the elevators.

The elevator plays choral music, unlike anything Nomsulwa has ever heard before: soft, round, high like a child, but full like a chorus of men. The music moves as slowly as the elevator, and Claire reaches out to squeeze Nomsulwa’s hand twice before they reach the fifteenth floor. Nomsulwa keeps her head down. She doesn’t let her fingers wrap themselves around Claire’s.

In the hall, Claire leads the way and finds the right number on the door. Then she steps back and makes room for the bellman to open the door. “Thank you,” she says, as he steps back to let them enter. He hesitates, but Claire
closes the door firmly on him before he can say anything.