Last Train to Retreat (4 page)

Lena hurried from the room and got dressed. In the mirror her face looked flushed; for a short while the blood would fill in her tired lines. She walked to the general dealer three blocks away without taking in anything. A new emotion had been added to her feelings of guilt and anxiety: reluctance to hand Sarai over to Mavis and have the girl taken to a safe house supervised by strangers.

•

The newspaper carried no reports about Cupido so Lena didn’t buy it. She walked back with milk and fresh bread, and a toothbrush for Sarai, scrutinising faces and cars even though logic told her not to worry.

She noticed how dilapidated her house was looking – the gate now on a single hinge, maize-yellow walls flaking in patches, gutters twisted and broken, the green roof blotchy from sun, wind and rain, and weeds and grass sprouting like uncut, uncombed hair. But Lena had nowhere else to go and her meagre income was just enough to cover basics like rates, water, electricity, and food. The house was still in her father’s name and he wasn’t dead, at least she didn’t think so. Buying it for R5 000 in the 1990s, when the post-apartheid government offered homes on the Flats at below market value to encourage ownership was the only good thing her father had done. It was now probably worth R150 000 but legally she couldn’t sell it. Neither could she afford to leave. She often wondered what she would do if her father were to re-appear suddenly.

Sarai was waiting in the lounge with an uncertain smile. It struck Lena that she’d have no idea what to expect on her first day in a strange house with a strange woman.

‘How are you doing, Sarai?’

‘Okay … this your place? Is it just you and me here?’ Her eyes darted around, her smile gone.

‘Don’t worry, we’re alone, and yes, this is mine. And I don’t have to go to work today or tomorrow.’

‘Cupido, he won’t find us? Is he … ‘

‘You mean dead? I don’t know.’ Lena turned on the small TV. ‘You watch and listen and I’ll make us breakfast.’

In the kitchen Lena listened to her portable radio. At nine o’clock, with breakfast ready, she heard the news – a man had been knifed to death in High Level Road, a kilometre from the new stadium but not something South Africa needed on the first day of the World Cup, the newsreader said, not after the meticulous planning and the fantastic opening at Soccer City in Soweto. Police did not have an ID or a motive at this stage. Investigations were continuing.

Lena carried cereal, milk, toast, jam, and some bananas that were developing black spots to the lounge on a tray, the cups shaking and rattling as she went. ‘Cupido is dead,’ she said.

Sarai’s eyes went big. ‘Oh … the police, will they come?’

‘No, they don’t know about us, don’t worry. Come on, you must be hungry. Afterwards we must get you out of those silly clothes, okay?’ Had it not been for the time of day and her wild hair and streaks of mascara, Sarai might have been off to a fancy dress party.

They ate listlessly, Cupido on their minds. Afterwards Lena gave Sarai jeans and a jersey to try on. They were a bad fit because Lena was taller and thinner. ‘That’ll do for now. But you can’t go out like that, you’ll attract even more attention,’ Lena said, already thinking of reasons to keep the girl inside. Cupido was dead. There were no other witnesses that she was aware of. Provided Sarai did not tell anyone there was nothing about them here in Lavender Hill that should raise suspicion. So why hand Sarai over to Mavis? The girl had been under enormous stress. At the trauma centre she could break down and tell Mavis everything. Worse, at the safe house there’d be other victims, and would Sarai not feel tempted to unburden herself to them? Lena decided the most dangerous thing would be to have the girl in the safe house.

Lena stared at the exotic creature munching breakfast in her prostitute’s clothes, and felt vastly relieved that there was every reason not to give her up now.

L
ena endured another bad night. Sure, Cupido was a low life but he was also a human being. She had saved a hapless foreigner but whichever way one looked at it, it was murder. It left Lena feeling empowered and anxious at the same time. Only for as long as she could control Sarai would they be safe.

In the night the north-westerly blew, bringing thick cloud and rain. By mid-morning the Flats was wrapped in a grey shroud masking its unsightly face, obliterating its narrow horizon that couldn’t promise hope even on a clear day. Sitting in the lounge with blankets around them and drinking tea, Lena asked Sarai how she ended up in Cape Town so far from home. As the girl told her story Lena could feel the anger rising in her.

Sarai was born on Koh Samui, an island in the Gulf of Thailand south of Bangkok, twenty years earlier when the inhabitants earned money mainly from coconuts. Today it was different, with Chaweng, her home town, making millions from tourism. Her father and mother had kept the food stall at the Laem-Din market which was near the Green Mango Strip and their home amongst the coconut palms. Her two sisters still helped them with it, but Sarai had been attracted early on to the shiny new resorts, clubs and bars springing up on the strip and down to the sea. She learnt the special Thai way of massaging from her mother who in turn had acquired it from Sarai’s grandmother. That, and Sarai’s striking appearance, made it natural for her to become a full-time masseuse in a resort that charged seven hundred US dollars per day for room and breakfast. Her mother warned her about the brothels masquerading as massage parlours and reminded her of her Buddhist values. A woman working on the strip told Sarai how girls massaged the
farangs
who came mainly for the sex, and how it was an easy step from there to earn money only from sex – working in bars for
mamasans
, getting
farangs
to pay for expensive drinks, chatting and playing a game called ‘Four in a row’ which the girls would let them win before taking them upstairs for sex. Sure, if a girl didn’t want a man and he became abusive the
mamasans
would have him thrown out, but behind closed doors anything could happen. As evidence the woman had shown Sarai the ugly scars on her stomach from cigarette burns.

‘And in the resort where you worked, Sarai, how were things different?’ Lena asked. ‘Men are all the same, aren’t they?’

‘Well, resort was upmarket and we allowed to do only massage treatment …’

‘Oh, was that really so?’

‘Same same, but different, you see. They relax with massage, like they go to a place where they not themself anymore and they ask to see me afterwards. First I say no but one day a man stuffs big money roll in my pocket and tell me his room number.’ Sarai added hastily, ‘But they kind
farangs
, never scream at me or hurt me. And they send me letters afterwards from many countries to say thank you. Not like here.’

‘But you couldn’t have enjoyed it, Sarai?’

‘You see, there’s no God in Buddhism to say sex a devil thing. To us it is natural thing.’ Sarai struggled for words. ‘Anyway, there many fat old guys at upmarket resort who never get woman back home. We give them affection and they totally fall in love and come back for more. They send letters and some want to marry me! You see, it can make me feel good also!’ For the first time Lena saw Sarai smile, a big wide smile that lit up her face and the room.

‘Same same but different,’ Lena smiled back. Sarai had given her a glimpse of a contented island existence – picnics in forests, swimming in waterfall pools, watching Thai boxers in town fighting it out while tall, beautiful
ladyboys
– transsexuals – strutted around, full moon parties on Haad Rin beach, magic mushroom shakes that made one see the world through altered eyes. ‘What happened, Sarai? Why did you leave?’ Lena was intrigued.

With a sombre face Sarai told Lena how, during April and May, the Land of Smiles, as her country was known, was turned into a nightmare by rioting Red Shirts opposed to Prime Minister Abhisit Vejjajiva. The Red Shirts wanted former Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra back who had been overthrown by the military in 2006. For two months the Red Shirts and the army fought each other in Bangkok. Tourists stayed away and bookings were cancelled. Sarai’s boss said that if the troubles continued the resort would have to lay off staff. And because she was the youngest and newest she’d have to be one of them.

‘It is fate,’ Sarai said, ‘That same day I see advertisement in Bangkok newspaper about well-paid jobs at new health spa in Cape Town, many people will be there for World Cup so good money for someone like me. Show pictures of Cape Town … very beautiful. All they want is photo, my age, and for me to have passport. They get plane ticket, they organise work papers. I come as tourist, not to worry, they say. For one year they want me. So I do everything quick-quick because they say urgent with World Cup and only three jobs.’

Ten days later Sarai landed in Cape Town, a month before the World Cup. A week after that, on Wednesday 19 May, all hell broke loose in Bangkok. Buildings like the Thai stock exchange, Central World – a massive department store complex – and the Channel 3 TV station were torched and a rocket was fired at the Dusit Thani Hotel. Bangkok hotels pleaded for their guests to leave. In a six week period 85 people died and hundreds were wounded.

But instead of relief at having found a job in another country, Sarai experienced a new, terrifying reality in Cape Town. There was someone to meet her at the airport – in a big Mercedes – and the man was welcoming. The sight of famous Table Mountain made her heart leap. She’d only ever been to Kuala Lumpur by ferry and bus, now she was on another continent and she was going to earn enough money to send some of it to her parents. The man took her to a massage place and gave her a room for her baggage. It was the last thing she remembered before being overpowered.

‘Where was that?’ Lena asked.

‘Long Street, above the parlour there rooms. I think they give me drugs. I wake up and my stuff gone – clothes, passport, ticket, money, everything. Cupido is there. I am tied, cloth in my mouth, for three days no other people, no food, little water. First he beat me until I beg no more, then he rape me … like it is better, ha!’ Sarai stopped, struggling to speak. ‘He does it, you know, from the front then the back …
both
places, you understand, Lena?
’ It was the first time she had said Lena’s name. She squeezed her almond eyes shut but tears came through like ponds overflowing. ‘Every day he does it,’ she sobbed, ‘On fourth day he bring food and tell me there is a job but I must pay for rent and food, and pay back cost of ticket. He laughs, says no worries, there is plenty time. I belong to him now. That is Cupido. That is all of them – first they give pain then they give present. It is how they make you theirs.’

•

In the morning as she entered the Lavender Hill Multipurpose Centre where she worked Lena saw only its ugliness – yellow-brick structures of varying height and size stretching messily in all directions across a sizeable piece of land, the razor wire running along the top of the wall the only thing to suggest it was a single complex. She was too young when the apartheid government built it as a mark of goodwill towards the brown people whose homes they had demolished in Cape Town. But if it was an unattractive place with a bad history, Lena knew it had heart. Known simply as The Centre, it provided services to over 100,000 people living in three suburbs, ranging from counselling for addicts, alcoholics, and victims of abuse, to frail care for patients at home, blood transfusion, legal advice, winter soup kitchens, assistance for the physically disabled, HIV-Aids support groups, registration for government grants, and sport – a combined effort by the Departments of Social Service, Health, and Correctional Services, the Municipality of Cape Town, NGOs, and private business. It was a lifeline – a place
for
the people
by
the people, because most who worked there also lived in the surrounding communities, giving emotionally and of their time beyond working hours for a meagre R4 000 to R6 000 per month.

Lena thought how ironic it was that she dared not ask for help in what was a help centre. A mission of mercy that had turned into murder wasn’t part of its remit. The police would be even less understanding – it was
she
who had ventured into Cupido’s territory, with a weapon and with a motive.

On her first day back at work Lena was relieved that Adi Appollis, The Centre’s manager, was in her office doing administration, and that Mavis and the other counsellors were occupied in the trauma section after a weekend of violence. In the computer room Ronnie was training people on banks of PCs, while his assistant, Lizzie, was helping others to put together CVs.

Lena hurried to her desk wanting to bury herself in her job of screening and registering people for government grants. She worked with other SASSA employees in a cavernous hall. They hardly talked to one another because they were spread out to make space for the endless stream of applicants. Lena often found people queuing in the street when she arrived, with little to cover them in winter. New eligibility criteria had enabled more people to qualify and more were facing the future without work. Lena was appalled at the statistics: in 1999 2.5 million grants were awarded, of which only 22,000 were for child support. Today a staggering
15 million
people received grants,
10 million
of them children (the rest were old age pensioners, the disabled, foster children, and care dependents). This in a nation of 50 million people – one in three! She wondered how many babies were conceived just to get state support. Then there were fraudulent claims: women with one child claiming for three or four. It highlighted to Lena the gap between rich and poor – the fact that so few tax payers could fund the R100 billion needed for the grants. It was there for all to see – the wealth around Table Mountain, Helderberg, and Stellenbosch, and the despairing masses in between.

Lena’s job was neither engrossing nor uplifting. She worked efficiently without any sense of idealism. The knowledge that so many people were conniving to qualify for grants was too real. It supported her dim view of humanity. The huge hall with its bare walls made her feel insignificant. Her authority – signified by her desk and her signature – felt phoney. To Lena, people like Mavis, Adi, and Ronnie were the real heroes; everyone else was unworthy of the label ‘human being’, and she was quick to include herself. Now, on her first day back at The Centre, she threw herself into her work to numb thoughts of Cupido, only occasionally allowing her mind to fly home – a lonely, plain butterfly winging it to one that was striking in its beauty, and waiting for her.