Rachel Weeping (2 page)

Chris shook his head and picked up his silver iPad Air. He flicked through his apps while CNN played in the background. Michelle had given him the tablet for Christmas and, after a day of finding his way around it, he was hooked. He could spend hours trying out the different apps, his favourites being the social media ones.

He opened his Facebook account and a smile stole over his face as he noted the red icon indicating that he had twelve new notifications. There were the usual Candy Crush invitations, which he immediately deleted, and a couple of likes and comments on a photo he'd posted of a cappuccino he had had that morning at his favourite cafe, The Whippet. Scrolling through his timeline, he liked a photo of a friend's baby, congratulated a couple who had just gotten engaged, and wished his cousin happy birthday, a date that he would never have remembered were it not for the reminder in the corner of the window on the page.

As he moved back up to the top of the timeline he noticed the ‘
people you may know
' section and paused on the profiles of the people with whom the Facebook algorithm was suggesting he should consider interacting. Chris had to admit that he loved the voyeuristic side of Facebook. He could spend ages going through the profiles of old friends, even strangers sometimes, seeing how they lived and imagining how he might interact with them if they ever met up in person.

The first was Nicholas Alexander, a high school water polo teammate he hadn't seen in years. Chris entered Nicholas's profile but except for his profile picture, the security settings wouldn't allow him to see anything else. He hit ‘
add
' anyway and returned to the ‘
people you may know
' page to see who else was there.

Anja Fouche was next, an attractive redhead who had recently joined his company as PA to one of the directors. He couldn't say he knew her as they'd only really seen each other in passing. Her work station was across the open plan area from his office. Chris opened her profile and saw that she had no active security settings, which meant that her photos and information were freely available for anyone to see. Her ‘
about
' section said that she was 34, Christian, non-political, had studied at Wits University and was, surprisingly, single. Chris went through to her photo albums, first looking up instinctively to see if Michelle was at the door before he took a proper look. He smiled as he scrolled through photographs of Anja in settings ranging from parties to mountain tops, European landmarks to the finish lines of triathlons. In all of them she looked vibrant and natural, the projection of a woman who was enjoying her independence and life.

He looked at the ‘
add
' icon and for a brief moment considered touching it, attracted to the idea of being welcomed into this woman's digital life. Looking at the clock icon at the top of the screen, he saw that it was 22:54, well past his usual bedtime, and he turned the tablet off, making a mental note to keep an eye out for Anja at work the next day. Nothing would ever come from it, of course, but now that he had seen her life in photographs, he was curious to hear what her voice sounded like.

 

 

 

The domestic quarters were simple and unobtrusive, a free-standing building situated at the far end of the Jordaans' property. To call it a cottage would be generous for it was more a single room with an adjoining bathroom than the quaint image a cottage might conjure up.

Rachel sat on her bed, an old red biscuit tin in her cold hands.

The bitter cold of the winters in Johannesburg had been something she hadn't expected when she had first arrived in South Africa. She had never really adjusted to them. The cold still got to her and it seemed to have started even earlier this year. It wasn't that the temperatures were that low in winter – by European standards they wouldn't even be considered an autumn day, Chris had told her once – just that the houses in South Africa were designed for summer and they were unable to retain heat. While the winter days were sunny, the nights brought with them an icy cold that no heater could keep at bay. Rachel had found that the only way to secure herself a good night's sleep in winter was to go to bed with a jacket on, and doubling up socks so that her feet were protected by layers.

She popped the lid off the biscuit tin and placed it on the pillow beside her. She lifted out some papers while various keys and coins clunked along the tin's metallic base. She took out a small object that was secured in a twist of tissue paper and opened it carefully. It was a diamond ring. She held it up to the lamp and saw how the scratched gem still sparkled in the light. She had found the ring on a beach outside Inhassoro, a moment of fate that had left her believing that good things could sometimes happen to someone like her. She had had the ring valued in Johannesburg when she first arrived here and discovered that it was a four-carat diamond and worth about R8
 
000. Instead of pawning it, she decided at the time that it was probably wiser to keep it, safely tucked away in her biscuit tin with her other valuables. She didn't want to be spending the money she might get for it on foolish things.

The pawnshop would be a last resort for a day when she had no other options.

Next Rachel pulled out a wad of meticais, Mozambican bank notes, that she always kept untouched on the odd chance that she might need to make an emergency trip back to Inhassoro and didn't have time to exchange money. She placed the money on the small pine table that stood a few feet away from her bed.

The place she had called home for the last six years was a humble space, furnished mostly by hand-me-downs from the Jordaans and the few items she had purchased at the occasional yard sale in the neighbourhood. The kitchen and living area were joined to the bedroom, and there was a simple, separate bathroom. As small as her quarters were, she was fully aware that they were not to be looked down on; they were a huge step up from the tin shacks and shanty houses some other domestic workers lived in.

The table was the focal point of the little room. It included two chairs and it was used for eating at, reading and ironing. Not more than an arm's length away was a very basic kitchenette with a two-plate cooker and a sink. The sleeping area contained a single bed, a bedside table squeezed in beside it and, opposite, a chest of drawers in which Rachel stored everything she owned in South Africa. Balanced precariously on top of the chest was a small black and white TV.

Rachel took her passport out of the tin and placed it next to the money on the table. The gold coat of arms glowed against the blue background in the light from the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room.

She dug inside the biscuit tin once more and pulled out a worn photograph which she brought closer to her face. The photograph was quite old now. She remembered the day it had been taken outside her parents' house, with a disposable Kodak camera. She had asked Sergio, the neighbour's son, to take the photo so that the whole family could be in it and had instructed him to take three just in case one came out blurry.

With a weary smile Rachel examined each of the faces, a moment that had been captured in time before she had journeyed to South Africa. She had tried to explain to her parents how to pose for a photo but they didn't quite get it. Eventually she just told them to look at Sergio and not look away until she said they could. Andrea, her younger brother, who was 22 at the time, stood next to her mother while Rachel stood with her hands on her stomach, the tiny bump just beginning to show. Her father, despite her instructions, was looking to the side.

Rachel lowered the photograph to her lap. Off in the distance a shrieking siren signalled an emergency somewhere and she shuddered, trying to shut her ears to the sound. For a moment she felt dizzy and nauseous.

Revolving red neon lights reflecting on wet tar, flashing and turning.

The day her world had changed.

In an attempt to distract herself she recalled the conversation that she had had earlier that day with her mother, before her meeting with the Jordaans. Sundays were when she called her parents, usually on her walk home from church, from the pay phone outside the corner store. The pay phone was cheaper than a cellphone, and when it came to international calls, clearer too. Over the last few months her mother had been the only one able to walk to the phone in Inhassoro, her father's injury proving too painful for the journey.

This morning was no different to the previous calls, the only adjustment being the fact that she had skipped the church service and walked straight to the pay phone to make the call. The phone had rung five times before Anisia, the phone operator and baracca manager, answered it in Portuguese. Rachel, who had grown up with Anisia, returned her greeting and waited for her to pass the phone to her mother.

‘Your father is doing well. He still can't walk very far but he can stand.'

‘That's good, Mama.'

‘There's been no water for five days now.'

‘How much do you have?'

‘We should have enough for three days if we don't wash. We managed to fill the bathtub and all our buckets the last time it came on.'

‘Did you get the money that I sent you?'

‘Yes. Your cousin went down to Kosi Bay and bought us food from the South African stores because there is nothing here. We used up all you sent.'

‘I'll try to send more when I get paid next week.'

‘Bless you, daughter. Is Maia with you?'

Rachel took the phone away from her mouth.

‘Rachel?'

She took a deep breath. ‘No, Mama. Maia's not with me.'

Her mother paused before speaking again.

‘You sound ill, my child.'

‘I'm fine, Mama. I'm just tired.'

‘You must rest, Rachel. All that air pollution in that city is making you sick ...'

Rachel put her hand over the receiver as tears began to run down her face, hot emotion that she could not allow her mother to participate in.

‘I need to go now, Mama. There are people waiting for the phone.'

She hung up before her mother could respond and leaned against the telephone, where she began to cry, ignoring the looks of passersby as she spilt the tears she had forbidden herself to share with her parents. She would tell them when she returned to Mozambique but, for now, she needed to be strong and figure out what the next step forward was going to be.

This job was money. It was the roof over her head. It was what kept her parents alive and what allowed her to remain in South Africa legally. She knew how hard it was to find stable work, especially as a domestic worker when there were ten other women ready and willing to do your job for half the wages. She had seen the trucks at the border post taking illegals back to Mozambique and had heard the stories of the weeks spent in detention centres if you were caught in South Africa without a work visa.

As she packed her things neatly back into the red biscuit tin fresh tears began to roll down her face, the quiet room offering no comfort to the pain she was feeling.

She had no choice.

 

 

chapter 2

Rachel pulled Maia's
body closer to her belly, drawing comfort from the little girl as she preempted the shrill cry of the alarm clock that would signal the start of her day. They shared the single bed, an arrangement that worked well in the cold of winter but, with the summer being as hot as it had been this year, she found their proximity uncomfortable. She could feel Maia's chest rise and fall with each breath, her faint heartbeat drumming in time with her breathing.

The plastic clock radio on the bedside table clicked on and the room was filled with the energetic voices of an African gospel choir singing in Tswana about God and his goodness. While she wouldn't consider herself fluent in the language, she had picked up enough words over the years to understand what was being communicated. She opened her eyes to see that it was 05:00. It was already light in their room but sunrise was still an hour away.

She slowly rose from the thin mattress and slid off the bed, trying not to wake Maia. She tiptoed to the door, where she grabbed her dressing-gown from the hook and wrapped it around herself.

The gospel song had come to an end and the host of the early morning show started talking, his cheery voice much too upbeat, she always decided, for this time of the morning. Rachel shuffled towards the light switch and turned it on, illuminating the dark room with a harsh fluorescent glare. Next she headed towards the two-plate stove and emptied two cups of maize meal into a pot. She added four cups of water from the faucet above the metal sink and then turned the heat on low.

With the porridge cooking in the background, Rachel opened the door to the bathroom and began to run some hot water into the tub. She quickly climbed out of her night clothes and stepped in while it was still running. Picking up a bar of soap, she washed herself briskly before rinsing away the suds. She splashed water over her face and then climbed out onto the thin bathmat, dried her body with the old blue towel that hung from the railing in the corner of the small room, and applied lotion to her skin.

Age and motherhood had taken their toll and, while she weighed only 5kg more than she'd weighed in her teens, her firm body was slowly beginning to lose its grip on the youthfulness that she had once taken for granted. Blemishes had started to appear on her dark skin. She looked down at her belly as she applied the lotion to the rough scar she had been left with when they'd cut Maia out of her.

Leaving the hot water in the tub, Rachel slipped into a pair of jeans, a shirt and a jersey, all hand-me-downs from Michelle. One of the perks of her job was that she was the same size as her employer, which meant that whenever Michelle cleared out her closet, Rachel had first claim on whatever was to be given away. Because of this she hadn't had to buy clothes for herself in years, sending the money she might have spent on those items back to her parents.

Rachel left the bathroom and, after checking on the porridge that bubbled lazily on the stove, she walked over to the bed and gently shook Maia.

‘Come, girl, you can't sleep in today.'

Slowly the blanket started to move and Rachel watched as her daughter's sleepy face emerged from the covers. She gave a big yawn and sat up in bed, keeping her eyes closed. She was on the verge of lying back down again when Rachel chuckled – she understood the temptation all too well – and shook her again.

‘Go to the bath and get ready for school. We'll have breakfast when I get back.'

Her eyes still closed, Maia nodded. She climbed out of bed and started walking slowly towards the bathroom. Rachel looked out the window. It was going to be a beautiful day. The birds were chirping in the tree outside. She took a quick glance into the bathroom. Still sleepy eyed, Maia was already sitting in the tub and beginning to splash water over herself. She looked up and smiled at her mother.

Rachel smiled back. ‘I'll be back now,' she told her. ‘Make sure you clean properly.'

She opened the door and quickly stepped outside into the chilly driveway that separated her living quarters from the main property. The brickwork was covered in dew that reflected in the morning light and, as Rachel hurried past the double-door garage to the main house, she reminded herself that she would need to clean the windows sometime that week. In the middle of the driveway was a large oak tree. In summer its branches were covered in heavy green leaves that provided shade and a place to sit when she had her lunch outdoors. The morning sun was just beginning to peek through the gaps in the foliage.

The first time Rachel had walked into the Jordaan house she had been left speechless and in awe. She had seen big houses in Maputo but they had been the homes of politicians and industry captains who had spent their lives building them up, not the ordinary homes of people who were the same age as her.

She ascended the stone steps to the front entrance. The dark wooden door was surrounded by stone cladding that made it look welcoming and defensive at the same time. Rachel took out her set of keys. First she unlocked the metal security gate, then the door. Its hinges creaked as she pushed it open and entered the house. The air was filled with the beeping of the alarm system about to go off and she quickly punched the access code into the keypad on the wall next to the intercom.

Her early starting time was part of her working arrangement with the Jordaans, one that allowed her to take Maia to school between 6.30 and 8.00, if she was willing to start the laundry cycle and get the dishes done before then.

Rachel looked down to see Hugo, the strange looking dog the Jordaans had brought home last month, looking up at her with expectant eyes and a wagging tail. She shook her head and smiled at him, using her foot to keep him back while she turned on the lights to the entrance so that she could see her way down the dark passage. The wall in the passage was crowded with canvas prints of the Jordaans on their wedding day, sun-drenched images that showed younger versions of her employers in various poses that had been arranged to show their love for each other. Apparently they had hired one of the best photographers in South Africa to document their wedding; there was a glossy book with matching images on display in the living room showing everything that happened on the day, from the preparations to the reception. Occasionally, when the Jordaans were away and Rachel found herself waiting for the washing machine to finish its load, she would page through the book and stare at the beautiful photos of her employers. They looked like the models she saw staring back at her from the covers of the magazines at the store. Sometimes she wondered if she would look as beautiful in a wedding dress.

Rachel went through to the kitchen, Hugo scampering behind her, and opened the blinds. Morning light filled the room as she turned on the espresso machine and put the kettle on to boil. There was a puddle of urine on the tiled floor next to Hugo's basket. She shook her head as she bent down to clean up the mess with some paper towels. It had been like this every morning since the dog had arrived; she was grateful, at least, that she was dealing with a small animal. She knew that Hugo would not leave her side until he was fed and so she took out the bag of pellets and dished the correct amount, as Chris had shown her, into a plastic bowl and placed it on the floor to the side of the sink. Hugo immediately sank his face into it.

Rachel began to rinse the dirty plates and utensils from the previous night's meal before stacking them into the dishwasher. Out of all the chores that life as a domestic worker required her to do, washing dishes was the one she minded the least. She found the warm water comforting and the gentle scrubbing of the plates and cups cathartic. It was a task that was simple and yielded immediate results; the cleaning of what had once been dirty. Michelle preferred her to use the dishwasher, however, so now she stacked the machine, added a dishwashing tablet and hit the button that started the washing cycle. Looking up at the large clock on the wall, she saw that it was 05:50 and, after putting some coffee mugs on top of the warm espresso machine, she returned to her room.

She opened the door and found Maia sitting at the table with a spoon in her hand, dressed and ready for breakfast. Rachel gave her daughter a smile and closed the door behind her. She lifted the pot from the cooker and dished the white porridge into their bowls. She placed one of the bowls in front of Maia and passed her the sugar, watching her closely. Maia loved sugar and would always try to sneak in a few extra spoons when Rachel wasn't looking.

‘One spoon, Maia,' she said automatically.

Maia put the spoon that was already armed with a second portion back into the sugar bowl and started to stir the hot porridge. She lifted a spoonful to her mouth when Rachel stopped her.

‘Careful, it's hot.'

Maia stopped and blew on the porridge, small breaths that directed the steam away from the spoon. A few seconds passed and Maia stopped blowing. She looked enquiringly up at her mother.

‘Can I eat now?' she asked in Portuguese.

‘Only if you ask me in English.'

Rachel had decided the previous year that English would be Maia's first language, believing that the right accent and comprehension of the tongue would open up doors in her future that an African one wouldn't. It had been difficult to get Maia to switch over from Portuguese but the task became much easier when she had started attending nursery school. All the other children there spoke English.

‘Can I eat now?' Maia asked again, this time in English.

Rachel frowned. ‘Where did your manners go?'

The little girl took a deep breath and prepared herself to ask the question a third time.

‘Can I eat now, pleeeease?'

Rachel laughed and nodded.

‘Yes, you may.'

They began to eat their porridge and by the time the radio clock read 06:20 they were finished and standing at the doorway, the bowls washed and stacked in the drying rack. On her shoulders Maia had a bright pink, second-hand Barbie backpack that a friend of Chris's had given her. Rachel was wearing one of Michelle's old jackets.

‘Do you have everything?'

Maia nodded and mother and daughter left the room they called home, using the side gate at the top of the driveway to exit the property and start their two kilometre walk to Maia's nursery school.

 

 

 

Michelle lay in the king-size bed she shared with Chris, her eyes closed as she listened to the slow rhythm of her husband's breathing beneath the duvet. Were it not for that sound she would have no way of telling if he was alive. During their first year of marriage she had often woken up in the middle of the night to check that his motionless body was still breathing. She had always been a light sleeper and it had taken her a while to get accustomed to the reality of sharing a bed with another person, even if that person slept like the dead.

Michelle was accustomed to going to bed late and rising early. Her work as a brand specialist demanded it. Her company's offices were in Sandton, the financial heart of Johannesburg, and she handled an account for one of the country's largest telecommunications companies, where she oversaw millions of rands in marketing expenditure. She knew the needs of the client inside out and prided herself on the fact that she was the first port of call for all major decisions made by the team.

Michelle picked up her iPhone and activated the screen, peering through foggy eyes at the bright display which told her that it was 06:28. She had two minutes before the alarm went off and she stretched her arms out as far as they would extend in an attempt to wake herself. As she lay beside him she watched Chris as he slept, taking in the tiny details that could only be learned through time and proximity. What had once been smile lines in the corners of his eyes were now the beginning of wrinkles and, as she looked at the side of his head, she could see the first streaks of grey that had started to appear that year. He was ageing well, though, his boyish good looks gradually being replaced with a distinguished façade. She reached over and tickled his arm softly.

‘Wakey, wakey,
liefie
.'

Chris moved slowly, his body responding to her touch as he groaned and retreated deeper under the warm duvet.

‘What time is it?' he asked without opening his eyes.

‘Six-thirty.'

Michelle leaned into him, kissing him on his exposed shoulder before starting to nuzzle his neck, the sensation causing him to tense up and laugh as he tried to resist. Michelle didn't stop and eventually Chris sat up abruptly, pushing her away. They were both laughing.

‘Stop!' Chris said, holding Michelle back before pulling her in again and wrapping his arms around her. He returned the neck nuzzle, armed with morning stubble, and Michelle screamed out in laughter and protest. Chris stopped but pulled his wife's body towards his as they lay back on the bed. Michelle tried to sit up but Chris pulled her back down, the duvet doing little to hide his intentions.

‘No…' Michelle laughed.

‘Come on,' Chris said. ‘It's early still. You know I only need about five minutes.'

Michelle sat up and looked down at him. Chris's eyes were wide, innocent, but a naughty smile flickered across his face.

‘You know we only hit my fertility window tomorrow and – '

Chris cut her off by trying to pull her towards him again but Michelle fended him off with her hands.

‘ – the doctor said that you need to control yourself to increase your – '

‘Don't say it!'

‘ – your …'

‘Michelle! You know I hate it when you talk like that.'

Michelle laughed and pretended to stop, waiting for Chris to let his guard down before she shouted out the last two words.

‘ – sperm count!'

Chris put his hands over his ears, trying to block the words out before turning on Michelle and pulling her firmly towards him, tickling her for good measure. Michelle lay still, with a look of defiance in her eyes, desperately trying to resist the sensation until she couldn't any more. She burst out laughing. Chris stopped tickling her and, holding her arms down, brought his face closer to hers. He kissed her softly on her lips.