by Ekow Duker
‘Mthatha.’
Mrs Summerscales nodded then retreated into a rose-scented silence.
‘What musical instrument do you play, Karabo?’ she asked after a while.
‘I … I … I’m afraid I don’t play anything at all,’ Karabo stuttered.
Mrs Summerscales looked a little puzzled.
‘Not even in your spare time?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Summerscales.’
‘I suppose in South Africa you’ve got other things to worry about than learning music.’ She raised a clenched fist in a grotesque imitation of a street protester.
‘No more than any other country,’ Karabo replied quickly. ‘Actually I have a violin in Mthatha but I never got round to learning.’
Her words sounded like an apology even to herself.
‘You have a violin and you never bothered to learn?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t.’
Mrs Summerscales moved a few inches away from Karabo as if she had discovered something distasteful about her.
‘And where did you meet Nigel?’
‘We met at a church sale.’
The look of disappointment on Mrs Summerscales’ face intensified to the point where good breeding could not conceal it.
‘Did you take him?’ she asked sharply. ‘I’ve no patience with the churches these days. Especially the charismatic variety. They’ve taken over all the empty offices and halls in London. I dare say you’re used to that manner of worship in Africa. All that boisterous singing and people rolling about in the aisles like they’ve got fleas. I’m sorry, but there’s something not quite right about the way they carry on. It’s more akin to vaudeville, if you ask me.’
Mrs Summerscales’ thinking was not too dissimilar from Ma’ama’s. Karabo wondered what the two women would say to each other if they ever met.
‘Don’t you go to church yourself, Mrs Summerscales?’
Mrs Summerscales’ lip curled in faint derision. ‘Church? I don’t bother with that, not anymore.’
Karabo was taken aback. Her parents, if they were here, would have called Mrs Summerscales a heretic and her words an abomination. ‘It was the Methodist church in Hinde Street,’ she replied coldly. ‘And no, I didn’t take Nigel. He was already there when I arrived.’
‘Oh,’ Mrs Summerscales said. ‘What on earth was Nigel doing at a Methodist church in Hinde Street?’
‘Like I said, I found him there.’
‘I don’t suppose it matters,’ Mrs Summerscales said with a thin smile. She patted the creases in her trousers.
‘You must think me very rude. I’ve not offered you anything to eat or drink.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you rude at all,’ Karabo replied. She dug into her coat pocket as if she were about to bring out her own snacks but stopped herself and got up instead.
‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go out and find Nigel.’
‘Very well.’
Mrs Summerscales led Karabo out the way they had come and offered her her hand at the door.
‘Please tell Nigel to come over next Friday. Seven o’clock in the evening. He’s to dress up and bring his violin. Mr Potgieter will be here.’
‘Nigel’s violin teacher?’
Mrs Summerscales seemed displeased to think Karabo knew who Mr Potgieter was. She lingered in the hallway for a few moments before she closed the door.
‘I suppose you can come as well. I dare say a little classical music will do you good.’
CHAPTER 23
Once outside, Karabo found that she was trembling with anger. She took several deep breaths to compose herself. She’d never met anyone quite like Mrs Summerscales. The woman uttered hurtful comments as carelessly as if she were merely offering sweets to small children. The grandeur of Mrs Summerscales’ house had intimidated Karabo into mute acquiescence. Her mind had gone as blank as Teacher’s old black-and-white television set in Mthatha. And by the time it flickered on again, the opportunity to counter with a telling retort had passed.
It was different with Nigel. It was easy to call him out over his bullshit but it was much harder to do that with his mother. She was his mother, after all, and it would have been quite rude of Karabo to respond in kind. If only Teacher had been there. He’d have laid bare Mrs Summerscales’ ignorance with such quiet eloquence Karabo would have stood up and clapped.
She tried to put Mrs Summerscales out of her mind but the woman kept clawing her way back into her head. Mrs Summerscales was rather like Mrs Harrison in that way. Mrs Harrison called Karabo every Friday to ask how she was getting on. She called more often than Precious did. In fact, Mrs Harrison seemed to take a greater interest in her studies than Karabo’s own mother. What she liked about Mrs Harrison was that she never said one thing when she really meant another. And after half an hour with Mrs Summerscales, she realised how refreshing that was.
Karabo found Nigel on the other side of the square. He was walking around aimlessly with his head down and his hands thrust in his pockets. She watched him for a moment, then hurried and caught up to him.
‘You shouldn’t have left me,’ she said.
‘How did you and my mother get on?’ He inclined his head as if he was anxious to hear her answer.
Karabo put on her best imitation of a South Kensington grande dame. ‘Oh, we got on splendidly! She’s even invited me over next Friday.’
‘She has?’ Nigel asked in disbelief.
‘In a manner of speaking. She wants you to come over next Friday at seven. She said to dress up and to bring your violin. Mr Potgieter will be there.’
Nigel grimaced and his face turned dark and ugly. ‘She wants a bloody recital, does she? I suppose Mr Potgieter talked her into it.’
Bizarrely, Karabo found herself speaking up for Mrs Summerscales. ‘She’s very proud of you,’ she said. ‘Any mother would be.’
If Karabo’s mother had asked her to play the violin for her, she’d have been overjoyed. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know how to play. A few hesitant notes would have been enough. But her mother had shown no interest in the violin and Karabo had left it behind in Mthatha. There hadn’t been enough space in her luggage and, if she were honest with herself, she hadn’t seen the point. Now that she was with Nigel, though, she wished she’d brought it along. Nigel could have taught her a little. They could have played duets.
Karabo had never been to a violin recital but it sounded like a rather grand affair. Mrs Summerscales hadn’t asked her to dress up for the occasion but perhaps she should. She’d seen a powder blue cocktail dress in Old Brompton Road but she put it out of her mind at once. The allowance she received from the Mthatha Women’s Club didn’t extend to dressing her up for dinner parties. As a student, she didn’t have an extensive wardrobe. In all likelihood, she thought, she’d go in the same clothes she was wearing now.
Karabo had asked Mrs Harrison why her bank statement showed that her allowance came from a C. Harrison and not the Mthatha Women’s Club. Mrs Harrison had laughed it off, saying they were a little club and it was easier that way. Less bureaucratic. Karabo suspected Mrs Harrison was the only member of the club but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to jinx her good fortune.
‘Let’s go to the Afghan Kitchen,’ she said to Nigel. She didn’t particularly care for their food but Nigel liked the place and she wanted to cheer him up. His face lit up with boyish pleasure and in an odd way Karabo felt she’d got one over his mother.
The portions were generous at the Afghan Kitchen and the hearty warmth of the restaurant made up for the yoghurt they insisted on serving with everything. Karabo had been taught that yoghurt was eaten out of a small plastic tub and never after ten o’clock in the morning.
She picked at a slice of pumpkin while Nigel plunged a wedge of bread into a thick yellow purée that looked suspiciously like lentils.
‘I don’t know what Mr Potgieter’s doing at Saint Anthony’s,’ Nigel said between mouthfuls. He’d forgotten his ear
lier ill temper and spoke and ate with a rare gusto. ‘He could sell out concerts anywhere in the world if he chose to. He played for us in class the other day. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.’
He closed his eyes with the dal-soaked bread suspended in mid-flight and inhaled deeply as if he were in a trance.
Nigel often spoke about Mr Potgieter. His dazzling descriptions of the man made Karabo curious to meet him, even if he was Afrikaans. There were supposedly South Africans everywhere in London but she’d only ever met one. It had happened one afternoon when Karabo was walking back to her room in Russell Square. A middle-aged woman with heavy rolling hips and greying dreadlocks walked past her. Then she did a double-take and ran panting after Karabo.
‘Are you Teacher’s daughter?’ she asked, pointing her finger at Karabo. It was more a statement of fact than a question and Karabo could still remember how the entire length of the woman’s arm had quivered in anticipation. She nodded and the woman let out a small squeal of triumph. She wasn’t interested in Karabo after that, not in her name, nor in what she was doing in London. She was Teacher’s daughter, and that was enough.
Nigel transferred the bread to his mouth and chewed for a few moments. Then he wandered into an airy monologue about how much he’d learned from André Potgieter and what a privilege it was to be in his class.
‘One day,’ he said, ‘I’ll thank him properly.’
Karabo felt a rush of tenderness towards Nigel for he wasn’t the sort of person to ever admit he was in someone else’s debt. She reached out and slipped her finger under his shirt cuff and traced the outline of the violin he’d had tattooed on his wrist. Her finger zig-zagged lazily across the tuning pegs then down the violin’s neck. Then she made a slow circuit around the upper bout before cutting in to stop at the waist. She’d done some reading about what each part of a violin was called. But her finger was too short and she couldn’t go any further without rolling back Nigel’s sleeve. She contented herself by plucking at the raised vein that ran straight down his wrist and along which the tattoo artist had inked fine, blue-black strings. Nigel had wanted her to get one too but Karabo had balked at the idea. Matching violin tattoos for Nigel and her? No thanks.
‘You really like Mr Potgieter, don’t you?’ she murmured.
Nigel nodded. ‘He’s strict, like a good violin teacher should be, but he makes the violin so enjoyable. He’s much better than Harper. He’s a bit of a prick.’
‘You’ll come with me next Friday, won’t you?’
Karabo didn’t remind him that his mother had already invited her.
‘It’s only a silly little recital but I’d appreciate it if I looked out and saw you there.’
His vein grew taut beneath Karabo’s finger and she felt that if she plucked it, the sound would reverberate throughout the restaurant. He’d called it a silly little recital but she could tell it was making him nervous already. She nestled against him and gazed into his eyes.
‘Are you sure you want me to come?’
‘Well you’re not doing anything next Friday, are you?’
That careless, throwaway remark landed tip down on Karabo’s heart. He’d just assumed she’d be at a loose end, as if she had no capacity for self-direction. Normally she’d have called him out on that but she decided to let it go. She was tired and she didn’t want to always be the black girl making a scene.
CHAPTER 24
Teacher and Karabo left within two weeks of each other, Teacher to Ghana and Karabo to London. Precious didn’t see either of them off at the airport. Her words to them were exactly the same. ‘Just go.’
Karabo left first and when she was gone, the house felt like someone had hollowed it out, scraping out the insides as if it were one half of a gem squash. The house breathed differently in Karabo’s absence. Even the sounds it made were no longer the same. The swing door at the back had creaked from the very first day Teacher and Karabo moved in. Now when Precious heard it creak, she jumped in fright, thinking there was an intruder in the house. Then Teacher left and the door fell strangely silent.
Teacher would have stayed if Karabo hadn’t gone, Precious was certain of that. He travelled with Karabo all the way to Johannesburg and when he came back something about him had changed. There was a grimness about him, a darkness that hooded his eyes, then cast them searching towards the horizon. She’d tried to talk to him but he wasn’t interested. He asked her what there was to talk about. He looked so empty, so worn out, that just looking at him exhausted Precious too.
Then one morning, Teacher woke up and began to pack. Just like that. Precious turned her back on him because she couldn’t bear to watch.
‘What will you tell the school?’ she asked and his answer made her shiver.
‘Fuck the school!’
It was not at all like Teacher to swear and Precious reached under the pillow for the clay beads Jabu had given her for protection. In her heart she knew they were next to useless but she clutched them tightly all the same. What would she say to uTata? That her husband had left her? uTata would be sad for her because he knew how much she loved Teacher, but deep down he would not be sorry to see Teacher go.
A part of her had always known Teacher would leave one day. She knew this because uTata had said he would.
Those men are not from here.
Teacher was to leave on a Friday but on the Wednesday morning, Precious could not take it any longer.
‘I want you to go right now,’ she said.
‘But my flight is on …’ he began to say when Precious slammed her hand hard on the table.
‘I don’t want to hear about your flight! I’ve given you almost twenty years of my life, Teacher! And now you can’t even give me back two days? Sies on you, Teacher!’ she snarled. She looked away, her lips quivering as the tears spilled from her eyes. ‘Do you know how much I’ve longed to say that to you? I thought it would be difficult but it isn’t. Sies!’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Aren’t you a man who loves his daughter in the same way he loved his wife?’ She swiped her hands rapidly against each other as if she were shaking off a coating of dust. ‘I’ve had enough of you.’
‘Be careful of what you are saying,’ Teacher growled.
She hooted at him. ‘Be careful? Is that what Karabo said to you?’ Her lips curled in disgust. ‘You should have told me when I married you that Ghananians fuck the mother and then the daughter too.’
‘But she’s not my daughter, is she?’ Teacher snarled.
‘I want you out of this house!’ Precious screamed. ‘Do you understand?’
Teacher stood up without another word and went to fetch his bags. They were packed and ready anyway. Precious did not look at him when he left. All she heard was Saddam’s piteous whimpering and the sound of shoes on gravel as Teacher walked away from the house and receded into her past.
Now there was only Saddam for company. She couldn’t bring herself to go and visit Thembeka for that would only make her sad. Saddam was old now and walked with a pronounced limp when he walked at all. His hind legs had grown so stiff and painful that he could take just a few hurried steps before he was forced to sit down again. Most of the time he just lay on the stoep and stared at Precious through wet, red-rimmed eyes.
Precious packed all Karabo’s belongings neatly into cardboard boxes. There was nothing left to pack of Teacher’s because he had taken everything he owned. Even his books. Especially his books. She was surprised at how few clothes Teacher had. Or rather, how few clothes she’d bought him. Teacher had always been very self-contained.
When Precious finished packing Karabo’s things, she stood and looked around the empty room. Other mothers would have left their daughter’s room exactly as it was, turning it into a sort of shrine with soft toys propped up on the pillow waiting for her return. But there was no point in doing that. Karabo wasn’t coming back.
There was nothing left in Karabo’s room except for the viol
in on her study table. Precious had been careful to avoid it when she’d cleaned the room, skirting around the instrument as if it were bewitched. Claire Harrison had given it to Karabo. Such an odd, impractical gift. But that was what white people did. They gave you useless things to make themselves feel better.
Then, in a fit of anger, Precious snatched the violin off the table. Teacher hadn’t left her much money and it was ridiculous to have a violin when there was practically no food in the house. She would have smashed it against the table but stopped herself just in time. Better to take it to the pawn shop in town and see what she could get for it.
The owner of the pawn shop was a gangly, desiccated white man whose hair was parted in two symmetrical halves on either side of his head. He kept looking at his watch as if it were five minutes to closing time and not ten o’clock in the morning. Precious placed Karabo’s violin on the counter and waited until he came across to serve her.
‘How much?’ She tapped her fingers on the case to let him know she was in a hurry.
‘I’m sorry, no musical instruments. Try Pawn King in Port Elizabeth. They do music.’
He had an odd accent. It wasn’t English English like Bill’s. He spoke slowly as if he’d only just learned the language and hadn’t learned it very well.
‘Hawu! But you’ve not even seen it!’ exclaimed Precious.
He muttered something under his breath in a foreign language and that only incensed Precious further.
‘Look at it!’
He dragged the case across to him and she noticed how long his fingers were. They stood out against the dark wooden counter like the pale roots of a mangrove tree. He took the violin out of its case and held it the way a butcher holds a dead goose, with his fist bunched around its neck. Then he thrust it away from him and sighted down the length. He held it like a gun and he had Precious in his sights.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘No good.’
