The Water Man's Daughter (17 page)

Claire moves her feet inside and closes the door. She speaks before Nomsulwa has a chance to readjust into a driving position. “I thought I’d, you know, feel something.”

Nomsulwa searches for a response.

“He wasn’t there.”

Claire turns to face her, orange sand streaked with clear rivulets where the tears have fallen. It looks like face paint, and the small smile Claire attempts crinkles her skin and causes a short shower of dust to fall on her hands. They are sitting close now, Claire’s brave smile and Nomsulwa’s grave expression. Nomsulwa tries to relax her mouth, provide a serene mask of sympathy in response to Claire’s attempt at endurance. They hang there, the two faces, inches from each other, feeling the heat leave the air, the welcome cold settle in, hearing the night’s insects begin their chorus.

Z
EMBE PERUSES THE INTERVIEW SCHEDULE ONE
more time before leaving the office. There are a number of familiar names – Trevor Phadi, Sinethemba Langa – but the senior councillor on the list is Mandla Matshikwe. He has been elected in Phiri District Three for four terms running, unheard of in the heated struggles of local politics. Matshikwe is notorious for throwing large parties for his supporters throughout the year, and she has visited his house many times before on noise complaints. The kids often get rowdy and end up crossing through quiet neighbourhood yards still calling reverie to the sky. She has had to cart many of them home to disapproving mothers.

When Zembe arrives, the compound is quiet. The redbrick house hides behind a large iron gate. The front yard is covered in concrete tile, and one tree extends almost to the pinnacle of the slender second storey. Matshikwe’s house is the tallest in the neighbourhood.

A young boy sweeps the front yard as she heads up the front walk.

“How are you, Mama?”

“Fine, and you?”

“Fine.” He continues with his slow work around the garden.

Zembe rings the bell and an older woman opens the door. Her mouth is pursed and she says nothing after a cursory nod in Zembe’s direction. She waits on the threshold until Matshikwe emerges at the far end of the front hall.

“Come in,” he bellows.

Zembe enters and shakes his hand before following him into the living room. The house is as impressive on the inside as the outside. A brand new forty-two-inch
TV
sits in the middle of the living room, a doily adorning the top. Big windows sporting patterned safety bars let light in. The curtains are trimmed with lace that matches the
TV’S
doily. Crystal glasses line the standing cabinet. A large portrait of Matshikwe and his wife with their four children is hung above the largest couch. Another, smaller portrait features Matshikwe on his own.

The councillor’s wife waits to greet her, and Zembe takes Mrs. Matshikwe’s hand in hers and comments on the beautiful decorating in the room.

“Ngiyabonga, Mama Afrika,” Mrs. Matshikwe answers proudly, then leaves the living room to Zembe and the councillor.

“Mandla, I came to speak to you briefly about the white man who was found in Phiri recently.”

“Oh, yes.” Matshikwe’s broad forehead wrinkles with concern. “I heard about that. A very awful event.”

“Mr. Dadoo from the Amanzi office told me that you had a meeting with him the day he died. I was wondering if you could tell me what the meeting was about.”

“We met, a number of us from the community, to talk about how to keep the water meters working well. You see, there have been … problems.”

“What sort of problems?” Zembe is fishing; she knows what Matshikwe is referring to.

“Some … people have been tampering with the meters. Others have been expressing concern with the way the water is being delivered. It makes the company’s job very difficult, you see.”

“Did Mr. Matthews know about this before you met with him?”

“Oh yes, the company called the meeting to discuss just that. We are so interested in helping the Amanzi people with this, you see. It is good to see thirsty people finally get water.”

“How is it that
you
have been helping Amanzi?”

“We do so many things, talk to the people, help provide security for the workers transporting pipe steel in and out of the township. We even helped lay a series of pipes last week in a ceremony in the new District Three neighbourhood.” Matshikwe gestures vaguely in the direction of the township. He rubs his hands over his thick thighs.

“Very nice place there.”

“Oh yes, new houses, all owned. None are rented.”

Matshikwe beams. Zembe pauses and gives the room another sweep of her eyes.

“What did you decide to do about the water distribution … in the meeting with Matthews?”

“We discussed some … fees that would allow myself and the other councillors to garner more community support for the meters.”

“You mean advertising?”

“Not exactly. Advertising has been ineffective so far in halting the conflict. But it is similar. We have been having so many troubles with this program and needed a little extra … support, like I said before.”

Bribes. Matshikwe is getting nervous. She wants to talk him down, tell him that her division is not in the dark about the money flowing from all corners of the city to Matshikwe’s office for a myriad of “causes” and “special interests.” He is not alone.

Bribes are as good a motive as any. Maybe Matthews refused to give the money. Maybe he was in the township delivering the money that night. Either way, Matshikwe wasn’t going to own up to anything alone. Zembe would need to use the other councillors against him, encourage them to talk to avoid a harsh sentence.

“Just one more question, Mandla.”

“Yes?”

“Where were you the night Mr. Matthews was killed?”

“At home, my wife had our neighbours over for dinner. I was watching
TV
. The women will all confirm this.”

Zembe had no doubt they would.

—

I
F SHE HOPES TO CATCH
M
ATSHIKWE IN A LIE
, Zembe will have to work outside of his circle of influence. Those under the protection or care of the councillor will not be interested in talking to her once word of the investigation’s new direction gets out. She needs a political rival.

The councillor in District Five, Trevor Phadi, has attempted more than once to instigate another clearing of informal settlements. He has successfully appealed to the federal government to send in a fleet of bulldozers to destroy the thousands of homes on the back plain of his geographical area. It keeps his richer voters happy, appeasing fears of rising crime rates from the large numbers of displaced people in their backyard. It also creates chaos for those displaced. While some decide to abandon the site after the destruction of their shacks, most simply scrounge enough money to rebuild out of scrap material left behind or purchased from junkyards near Johannesburg. Matshikwe got a lot of quick votes by opposing the bulldozing. Those in his less-affluent district with family or friends in the informal settlement are interested in seeing the shacks protected.

Phadi’s name is on the list of attendees at the Amanzi meeting. Zembe wonders how the two councillors behaved in the same room with a bribe on the table. She is hoping that the animosity between them hasn’t settled down.

Phadi is not at his house. Unlike Matshikwe, he spends most of the workday actually in the office. He is a more industrious politician, one who assumes that hard work can translate into votes from the community. Although Zembe disagrees
with his policies, she must admit that his quiet demeanour and naïve faith make him an attractive candidate.

Zembe sees Phadi’s shocking white hair first, bobbing in the middle of a small crowd of men in overalls near a cellphone store. His skinny frame is weighed down by a friendly belly, and his hair tufts out from his head, hiding his wide ears and framing his broad forehead. He smiles when he sees Zembe approach. She gives a cursory nod.

“We don’t see you much in these parts, Mama.”

Zembe thinks this might be a jab, his way of emphasizing the complaints he calls in about the need for increased street patrols. She chooses not to engage.

“Do you have a minute?”

“Well, I am on the campaign trail, as they say. Spreading the word. Not His word, but a good message nonetheless.”

“I’m sure.” She grimaces at the flippant reference to Him.

“Care to take a pamphlet?” He holds out a single sheet of paper in front of her. There is a black-and-white picture of the informal settlement across the top and a dense block of type below. At the bottom are big black letters:
“QEDA UBUGEBENGU. VOTELA UPHADI.”
Reduce crime. Vote Phadi
.

“No thanks.” Zembe sits on a ledge beside the store. “Have a seat.”

Phadi complies, resting his bag of paper on his knee and massaging his shoulder. “Old bones,” he offers in apology for his distraction.

“Tell me about the meeting with the water company.”

“What is there to tell? We met with a man from Canada and Alvin Dadoo. We talked about how to deliver the water services, how to create more support for the company. It lasted all day, but honestly not much was accomplished.”

“How did Mr. Matshikwe and the man from Canada get along during the meeting?”

“You know Mandla. He’s a bully and never respectful. There was a conflict. An argument about some fees we were promised by the company. But it seemed to have all been smoothed over by the end of the night.”

“The night? How long was the meeting?”

“We went to a bar, after the meeting. Matshikwe had organized for women to be there to greet us, show the visiting businessman a good time. He really is a pig.” Phadi stomps his foot when he says this, and even that act seems refined coming from him. Zembe is amazed at the serenity he maintains when talking about his rival.

“Did Matshikwe go home with the white man?”

“Honestly, the white man disappeared with a girl a quarter his age. When he finally got back inside the bar, Mr. Dadoo took him home. I left soon after, but came straight back here. I’m sure Mandla was at the bar all night. He had a girl too.”

“Did you see who Matthews, I mean the white man, did you see who he left with?”

“Yeah, pretty thing, didn’t look up to that kind of work. Mandla probably recruited her from the elementary school.” Phadi shakes his head.

“So the girl could have gone home with him?”

“Could have. I didn’t see her, though.”

When Zembe leaves Phadi, he seems glad to return to his pamphlets. She needs to talk to Matshikwe and get the name of the girl Matthews was with after the meeting, confront him about his lie. Could she be lucky enough to have found the owner of the beer receipt? The young girl sits next to him at the hotel bar, maybe she was invited there, she orders a beer, lures him outside with the promise of sex. National found nothing at the hotel, but Zembe’s not sure they checked the grounds. At the time they had all assumed Matthews was killed in the township. There may be something they missed.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, N
OMSULWA SETS OFF FOR THE
country. When she left Claire at the hotel the night before, neither of them had suggested meeting today. Nomsulwa has a chance to catch up on her work.

After an hour in the car, kwaito music blaring to close out any wayward thoughts, she arrives at her mother’s house, parks around the corner from the main structure, and sneaks back towards the shed. The slate-grey bricks shine out onto the street, glinting and reflecting almost like the shantytown metal. The walk is carefully gardened, her own handiwork, and the front door emerges out of a bed of green. She checks the window and confirms that the television is on. She can picture her mother, huddled on the couch watching her soaps. Likely, she is wearing her pyjamas from the night before, coughing during commercials, a cup of tea, now lukewarm, resting against her lips. Nomsulwa crouches down the side wall, careful that her footsteps not make any noise on the gravel driveway, and makes it to the shed out back without being heard. She needs to reassure herself about the pipes before she can face her mother’s illness, the unfilled prescriptions, the scattered mess of the
living room. Then she’ll draw her mother a bath and bring her hot tea, try to tidy up that depressing house.