The Water Man's Daughter (5 page)

Peter responds quickly. “God no, we have to get at the women if we want to keep those people in line.” This is something Alvin has missed. Peter reviewed their strategy to date and found myriad briefing papers on local hiring practices and school visits. All money spent on men and children. But the Phiri Community Forum – their chief opposition, if you could call it that – is mostly made up of women. Their leader is a woman too, if he remembers the reports correctly.

Mr. M. leans forward. He uses his arms for emphasis, obviously frustrated with the finer points he is sure Peter is missing about the situation in
his
township. “The women will be controlled by their men.”

“Oh, really?” Peter leans in as well. “You think the men have done a good job so far controlling their women, keeping them away from protest meetings and stopping them tampering with our meter boxes?”

“The men have not had the proper incentives to be completely on our side. We are working on them, getting
them to understand that the women must not be allowed to undo all of the township’s progress.” Mr. M. looks to his cohorts; they listen to the translation behind them and then nod their agreement at Peter.

Peter wants to believe that the women can be controlled. He can’t really imagine how the women of the township manage to organize the undoing of every pipe system they install. On his last visit, Alvin took him into the community that would become the central location of the company’s service system pilot project, and they found themselves at the mercy of just one of these insurgents.

They were doing background research on community repayment, trying to understand how debts could grow so large in otherwise stable areas of the township. Alvin left Peter alone in a house with a huge woman rustling in the background in search of the water meter printout that detailed her usage for the last month. The living room stank of warm milk and rotting vegetables and the windows covered with wrought-iron bars and thick glass let in little light and no air. He was desperate for escape from the whole township by the time Alvin returned to announce that the company car’s tires had been slashed and it would be hours until a replacement could arrive to transport them back to the hotel.

Hours of sickly sweet tea and the smell. By the end of the day he felt as inhuman as the people in that godforsaken shantytown: part dust, part liquor on the breath, part shiny skin slick with sweat.

The woman never did find her water bill. It was dark by the time they left her house and Alvin urged Peter to crouch into the seat of the car to hide his white face as they slipped past the shebeens just lighting up for the night. Peter peeked up once to watch two young boys scuffle in front of a building advertising Black Label beer. They swung off-balance punches, and one of them threw up on the side of the street. Alvin pushed Peter’s head down with surprising strength.

“Shit, man, you want to get us both killed?”

And yet, these people are single-handedly destroying the company’s flagship project. If Phiri is not up and running before the African winter, Peter will be held personally responsible.

T
HE MEETING DRAGS THROUGH THE LAST LIGHT OF THE
day and dinner is served in the boardroom. The food is awful, grey pork sunk in gravy. The fresh vegetables promised on the menu are creamed spinach and squash. Peter realizes he is starving and eats quickly as the presentations continue. There is much discussion of profit margins, of plans to increase the charges per litre for the township residents in order to offset the increased costs of civil disobedience in the area. By the end of the evening, even the wallpaper in the room seems to sag from exhaustion.

“No way.” Peter is standing. “There is no budget for that kind of payout.”

Mr. M. remains calm, matched only by Alvin, as the rest of the room squirms uncomfortably.

“Why should we pay more to those officials who already support the plan, giving you money with the hope that you will protect our pipes? You have sat by while a bunch of girls with shovels undid months of work. And now you expect me to believe that you are capable of that kind of mobilization?” Peter sits, looks at Alvin, and then glares at Mr. M. He sees the project slipping away, worries that he will have to recommend abandoning Phiri and can only imagine the kind of damage that will do to the company’s reputation, to the country’s welfare.

Mr. M. is thoughtful. “We know who is in charge of the vandalism. Perhaps … er … neutralizing those few individuals will end the trouble. The money is necessary to permit their removal without community reprisal.”

The room goes quiet. The black men stay very still. Mr. M. continues, “I was told, earlier, by your office, that this fee was secured.”

“My office?” Peter, incredulous, leans back. “My office promised you the money? Well, as of today, I am the office. And payouts to you are not likely under my watch. Certainly not for some half-thought-through scheme to ‘neutralize’ people with significant popular support. Not interested.”

Mr. M. looks ready to pounce, insult now compounding disappointment.

“It’s been a long day.” Alvin stands, putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “We will think this over and return with an answer at the end of the week. Until then, thank you for your time, gentlemen.” The translation takes a few moments
and then the black men rise and get their coats. Peter is almost out the door when Alvin stops him.

“Where are you going?” Alvin looks defeated, hunched and tired.

“To my room, it’s late.”

“We are moving on to a local bar. You are expected to join us.”

“Tell them I’m going to bed.” Peter begins to walk again. He can’t do this tonight, pretend niceties when he is so frustrated and tired. He needs to sleep. Tomorrow will be better, he will be better and more himself.

“It will cause a lot of trouble. After today’s meeting, declining their hospitality might cause irreparable damage. Come out for a drink and I’ll escort you back to the hotel.”

“Really?” Peter pleads. Alvin only looks at him expectantly, understanding that this is all it takes to get Peter to turn around fully and follow him out the door. It’s cold outside. Peter is exhausted. He hates Mr. M. and his fat bald head. He hates the greedy eyes of the men who accompany them as they march down the hill from the hotel onto a main street. They pile into a minibus waiting on the sidewalk. Once the door closes, the bus weaves through a nice neighbourhood with big houses and high fences, rides the empty highway for a few minutes, and ends up at the top of a busy street, filled with bars. People walk from door to door, black outfits shining under the streetlights. Peter is led out of the minibus and Alvin walks him to the front of a large club, dimly lit and full of people.

The crowd inside is young and dressed for a night out. Peter feels old and his suit is constricting. He begins to sweat from the heat of so many people. Black women in tight tops lean on the shoulders of white men in business suits. An Indian woman takes their coats at the door and Alvin slips her a hundred-rand bill for security. The bartenders are gorgeous blondes, Afrikaans accents slipping into the ears of customers as they deliver beers across the counter. Peter stares for a moment before Alvin nudges his side.

“They’re having Black Labels, I’m having a Windhoek. What do you want?”

“Jack and Coke, heavy on the Jack.” Peter knows there will be no ride from Alvin anytime soon. He commits completely to a night out.

T
HE BLACK MEN LAUGH LOUDLY AS ANOTHER ROUND
of drinks is served. A couple of them have met up with women they seem to know. Those men are dancing behind the table, rubbing against their friends in a circular motion as the beat pounds into Peter’s head. Peter stares at the woman who serves him another Jack. He gave up on the Coke two rounds ago. She is long, stomach flat and exposed between her white shirt and jeans. He reaches out to touch her and then sees her stiffen in alarm. He redirects his hand to the top of his hair and pats down curling strands that have fallen out of place. The meeting has disappeared from his mind, but his annoyance is still there, bolstered by the alcohol. He feels a strange mix of anger and frustration and
the thrill of slowly losing control. Drunk. Peter feels drunk.

Alvin is talking in a corner with the woman from the coat check. His head falls close to the woman’s breasts and then jerks back up to her face. She is smiling, nursing the drink he bought for her, checking on the front every few minutes. Mr. M. is gone, disappeared into the back room with a girl too young to wear skirts that short. The man next to Peter falls over in his mirth and takes a long moment to sit back up again. The waitress brushes her chest against Peter’s collar. The song changes. Peter feels alone, merely a witness to the world around him. Just then, he is dragged up by one of the dancing men and shoved towards the middle of a sweaty circle. The isolation ends as he focuses in on the hips of the girl in front of him. He vaguely remembers being introduced to her by one of the men from the meeting. He doesn’t remember her name. She is small and slight, with bare shoulders. Too young in her tight red miniskirt, but it’s just a dance. She sways, standing far away at first and then, after she catches him looking at her, inching closer. Soon she is dancing right next to him, brushing against his body and then moving away, again, looking at the floor.
She is teasing me
, Peter thinks, and then perhaps he says it out loud because the girl smiles and wiggles closer.

They are in the middle of the room. Now the girl, all limbs and chest, is pressed against him, guiding him in time to the music. She is smiling, laughing almost. She looks as though she is having fun. Peter is not having fun, but he is dancing, desperate to keep his body touching hers. He
becomes hard slowly, fighting the alcohol the whole time. She bumps against him and he can feel his penis swell in reaction. He is too drunk to feel embarrassed.
A game
, Peter thinks, and then perhaps he says it out loud because the girl wraps her arms around his neck and begins to press up and down his thigh.

Peter thinks that the girl is very beautiful. She is young, but not younger than the one Mr. M. disappeared with. Peter could think about what that means, if his head wasn’t so fuzzy. He hugs her tight and smells beer on her skin. Her thighs are still moving from side to side while her body rubs up and down. It is magic, all this moving at once. The magic makes him want to see her naked. Her skin is very black. Peter wonders if her breasts are as dark as her arms and chest. He wants to touch her stomach, to lick her thighs. He thinks about hips swaying and rubbing and breasts pitch-black and full. He holds tighter to the girl’s waist, pushing and rubbing harder. She breathes in his ear, spots of saliva tickling him.

“Come with me.” Peter motions to the door and then tugs the girl from the dance floor.

T
HE MINIBUS DOOR SLAMS SHUT BEHIND
P
ETER
. The driver is passed out in the front seat. He presses into her and kisses her hard. She tastes sour, like the milk these people leave on their counters overnight, waiting for it to curdle. She kisses back, then puts space between them. “It’s four hundred,” she says, all of a sudden matter-of-fact. She seems inexperienced, not aware of the way to coax bills out of drunk
men’s pockets.
Could this be her first time?
Peter thinks, and this arouses him more, the excitement filling his body, every inch of skin in the same state of fevered expectation.

Peter digs into his pants and realizes that he didn’t even go back to his room for cash and has been relying on Alvin for the night’s expenses. He panics for a moment. The girl leans in to kiss him and moves back again, making an impatient motion with her hand. He follows her, breathing as he kisses, allowing no pause. His teeth catch her lip. There is blood. Peter keeps moving against her. He stumbles, knocks his head on the roof of the van, and falls forward. The girl is sobbing now. Peter holds his free hand over her mouth, pins the girl underneath him, crushes her with his weight. “Be quiet,” he whispers. He shifts his leg to reach his belt. He opens his pants and guides his penis out. The girl tries to wriggle away and Peter pins her down. He looks into her eyes, big, not blinking, terrified. He looks at his hand, pressing on a tiny face. He stops, noticing his penis has gone soft in his hand. What has he done?

He collapses next to her and clutches her with one arm as he zips his pants up. He feels inhuman, too dizzy. He cannot think now. He leaves the minibus, shutting the girl in with the unconscious driver, and stumbles back into the bar.

T
HE YOUNG GIRL IS MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN THE RAIN.
She has hair as black and shiny as a wet rock, eyes as gold as a soaked field, lips as brilliant red as a berry, and teeth so white
you could reach into her mouth with your tongue and lap them up. The young girl rolls over, runs out of the minibus and into the arms of a man waiting on the corner. Mouth cut, black hair pulled sideways, rain seeping out of every fold of her skin
.

Z
EMBE
A
FRIKA LOOKS IMPOSING EVEN WHEN SHE IS
bustling about her cluttered kitchen. Her big frame moves with a deft certainty as she gets a mug down from the cupboard overhead. Her nightgown is boxy and made of cloth so heavy that it stays in place when she moves. During her morning routine, Zembe gives no indication that she is dreading her meeting with the Soweto Police Service Regional Director. She doesn’t allow any hesitation or uncertainty.