Now I See You

by Holmes, Priscilla; Holmes, Priscilla;

  ‘Zak, just shut up, will you?’

  ‘So you grew up in this ancient, remote valley?’ he asked after a few minutes. ‘How come you ended up as a police officer?’

  ‘Long story.’ I turned away from him, irritated.

  ‘Well, we’ve got a long time ahead of us. Do we drive all the way in silence?’

  What shall I tell you, Khumalo? That my grandfather is a chief both by blood and custom, whose bloodline dates back to the ancient Thembu clan? Although he can’t read or write, he captivates his audiences with his brilliant stories. Of long-ago battles, defeats and victories. The sound of his voice hushes a room.

  And when you are related to someone like him, the demands of your birth lie heavy. His only daughter, my mother, suckled me until I was strong enough to drink from a cow. I remember being rocked in the sun with a gentle song. A skirt flapping in the breeze and bare brown feet skipping over stones.

  Maybe you’ d like to know that I grew to look like my grandfather? My complexion as light as his; the colour of warm honey. It wasn’t the dark chocolate of my mother and the other villagers.

  Shall I tell you, Khumalo, what a bad kid I was, after my mother died and my grandfather’s face had set like a stone, because now he mourned his entire family? I wasn’t supposed to behave like a boy and run wild. Perhaps that’s why he sent me to school, Khumalo, to stop me behaving like a wild child.

  Shall I tell you about when I was seven years old, Khumalo? When the cattle were brought down to the valley where the grass lay succulent and ripe, and my grandfather took me to the valley trading post.

  ‘A yard of trobald for the skirt, petticoat and bloomers for the school,’ my grandfather said in isiXhosa to the white lady in the store.

  She smiled at me. Told me that my eyes were beautiful. ‘What about her slate and chalk?’ she asked my grandfather.

  ‘No,’ said Chief Solenkosi Tswane. ‘It’s enough.’

  So the kind trader lady gave me a slate and chalk and wrote my name for me.

  My grandfather was the one who said ‘no missionaries’ and ‘no churches’. He even said ‘no schools’, but he sent me. My grandfather was not somebody to question. He was noble in all the ways that made him a chief. He was the one who wielded the spear of authority. Proud to be amaQaba and worship the ancestors. Stubborn, proud, noble, but absolutely impossible.

  Plenty to tell Zak Khumalo, but I said nothing. There was a long pause. ‘I was the only kid in the valley to go to school,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Was that difficult?’

  ‘I walked up the cliff path every day to the farm school for three years,’ I said.

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘In summer it was easier, but you had to watch out for leopards and baboons. Winter was hard, we had snow often.’

  ‘So you climbed alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tough kid.’

  ‘Yes, but I wasn’t a valley kid any more. The last time I was there I couldn’t even carry the water up from the river on my head. My old friends had a good laugh. “Is this what schooling does for you?” they asked. “Have you forgotten everything? Tyho, Tyho, Lomfazi! – Look at that girl!”’

  Zak threw back his head and laughed. ‘So you couldn’t carry the water, but you could read and write, eh?’

  I looked out of the window, biting my lip.

  ‘Come on, Thabisa, people like you and me, we all have issues with this. We all wonder if we’re too busy and proud of ourselves to appreciate the people at home.’

  Never forget where you come from. That way you’ll always be sure not to go back.

  At eleven I was a clever little girl, Khumalo. The chief’s only living blood relative. Pretty, and quick witted. At the little farm school at Engcobo, where I went at seven years old, there were few resources, but Mrs Talbot, my teacher, said I had my own inner resources. She encouraged me in every way, said I was special. And then, Khumalo, Mrs Talbot, her husband, John, and our valley trader, discovered a scholarship for a famous girls’ school in Grahamstown. The scholarship was aimed at educating rural kids. The whole idea was that they would return to their homes and contribute to the education of everyone else.

  I won the scholarship.

  Sounds good doesn’t it? Not in the valley, though. The villagers feared for my family. ‘Chief Solenkosi Tswane has gone mad,’ they lamented. ‘With wide-open eyes he is bringing destruction on his household.’ The gogos, washing clothes in the river, called to each other that the ancestors were turning in their graves. We were summoning evil spirits by this education. Their chief had dared to break a timeless chain. Retribution would follow.

  There was nothing they could do or say to change his mind. They had to get used to the idea.

  So I left the valley.

  ‘You finished school.’ Zak prompted. ‘And then?’

  ‘After school, first the Hammanskraal Police College, then Mossel Bay, New Brighton Station in Port Elizabeth, Pretoria and now Johannesburg. The real world. Gritty, dirty, exciting. I loved city life. As far as I was concerned, the valley could stay buried at the foot of the Drakensberg Mountains.’ I smiled wryly. ‘I felt like a kid in a candy store. In Johannesburg everything was possible. It was the big picture. Everything advanced; opportunities for everyone. It was where I belonged.’ I stopped. What was it about Zak Khumalo that made me shoot off at the mouth like this? Sharing confidences, learning nothing about him in return.

  One thing I will never tell you, Khumalo, is the way I was punished. How I swore on all that I held holy that I would never go back.

  How on that night I left the valley, bleeding, humiliated, shattered. I crawled to my hut with blood running down my back, sticking my clothes onto the raw wounds. I collapsed on the straw matting and lay for a few minutes, gasping with pain. I heard footsteps approaching and shrank back; surely they weren’t coming for me again? ‘Thabisa,’ a voice whispered, and a hand pushed a jar of herbal ointment around the door. The women made this salve from the wild herbs that grew in the valley. I never knew who offered this small kindness. I applied the ointment gingerly and it helped. My mind was made up. As soon as dawn broke I packed a few possessions into a plastic bag and left the valley without a backward glance. I walked painfully up the mountain to the Talbot’s farm and asked for help. They took me in, nursed me back to health and arranged for me to get to the police college. They never asked me what happened. I never told. I just swore that I would never go back to the valley. Never.

  And now, here I was, on police business. On my way back.

  I stared out of the window at the empty sky, the flat tops of thorn trees. A swirl of dust as a distant farm truck made its way across a dirt track.

  Zak broke the silence. ‘Between your oversleeping and my sweet talking Mandile into giving us the four-wheel drive, we’re running late, especially if we have to hike down to the valley. We’ll have to overnight in Queenstown. We’ll leave for the valley first thing in the morning. Okay?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Good news is you get to spend the night with me. A single, perfect night.’

  I stared ahead, stony faced. ‘A warped sense of humour you’ve got, Khumalo. Any more sexist remarks and I’ll report you to Divisional Commissioner Matatu.’

  ‘Lighten up Thabisa. It was a joke.’

  ‘No, Zak.’ I turned to face him and spoke seriously. ‘It wasn’t. We’re colleagues. Treat me like another police officer. Give me some respect.’

  ‘Impossible. I can’t treat you like any other colleague.’

  ‘Try,’ I said shortly. ‘Think of me as the perfect police partner on this case.’

  ‘Now, why would I want the perfect partner when I have you?’

  ‘Does everything have to be a joke with you?’

  He moved his shoulders away, laughing, as I punched out at him. ‘Not everything, Thabisa. But for most things humour isn’t the worst solution. You should try it some time.’

  There was
silence for a while.

  ‘You don’t give much away, do you, Khumalo?’ I said finally.

  ‘I’ll tell you anything you wish to know.’ He glanced at me out the corner of his eye.

  ‘That would be nothing,’ I said smoothly.

  ‘I think you’re scared.’

  ‘Scared? Of you?’ I laughed.

  ‘Only you can answer that, Thabisa.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking. Every time you see me we have this sort of conversation – loaded with innuendo. It all gets so tired, Khumalo...’ I rolled my eyes. ‘I can’t believe girls fall for it. And yet, judging by your track record, they do.’

  ‘How would you know about my personal life? You’ve been checking up on me, admit it, DI Tswane.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that there are no secrets in a group who work as closely as we do. Your love life is common knowledge.’

  ‘Well, then, it should be common knowledge that I am the hunted rather than the hunter.’

  ‘Oh, come on, that is so not true. So you can stop preening. But I do have one question.’

  ‘Please,’ he smiled, ‘ask me anything.’

  ‘When do you intend to be quiet and let me sleep?’

  ‘I won’t interrupt your beauty sleep. But be warned, Thabisa Tswane, I never fail when I really want a woman. In this case, I predict that one day you will come to me.’

  ‘In your dreams, Khumalo,’ I whispered, as I reclined the seat and lay back.

  Space and winter sun crashed through the window as the four-wheel drive hummed along, following the ribbon of road. The day enveloped us. Zak reached into his jacket pocket and chucked a pouch of CDs into my lap. I looked in surprise at his choice. I thought he’d be more of a hip-hop, heavy metal guy. Cool, happening music to match his image. I chose some light classical music, it floated round the car, relaxing me for the first time that day.

  My eyes drifted closed. I forced them open and looked at my watch. Three hours to go, more or less.

  ‘If you get tired, just let me know,’ I said.

  He laughed. ‘I’ll remember that,’ he said softly. ‘Thanks, Thabisa.’

  I looked at him narrowly. For once in his life Zak Khumalo sounded as if he was being serious.

  I leaned back in the seat. This was so out of character. A few minutes before he’d been all macho and muscle-bound. Now he seemed gentler, kinder.

  I closed my eyes, letting sleep fall on me like snowflakes, drifting down on my eyelids, carrying me away...

  ‘You don’t by any chance have a split personality do you?’ I yawned.

  ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s only one version of me.’

  7

  20 June 2006

  We checked into a run-down little guest house just south of Queenstown. Then we went out and found a nearby restaurant and shared a curry. The place was full of chattering locals and tourists.

  I watched Zak collecting plates from the buffet table.

  He looked like a leopard among a flock of unsuspecting sheep, content to let them graze, but with the power to change direction at any minute. There was a dangerous quality about him that I found unnerving, He was the mystery man in the unit. I’d joked with him about his love-life, but really, how much did any of us know about Zak Khumalo? He wasn’t such an open book after all. And he liked it that way.

  Enough Thabisa! I shook my head. Just because I’d been stuck with the guy in a car for a few hours didn’t mean I was interested in him. He was a work colleague, that was all. It was all so irritating being in such close contact with a man like him. I was annoyed that Matatu had inflicted this on me.

  When we returned to the guest house, Zak opened my door, switched on the light and scanned the room. ‘No madmen lurking in darkened corners with lighters in their pockets,’ he said. ‘I’ll be banging on your door at five.’

  ‘I’ll be ready.’

  Zak leaned against the door frame. ‘You’ll need to move now,’ I said. ‘Otherwise I won’t be able to lock my door.’ He looked at me steadily, then smiled.

  ‘In case there are any more weirdos lurking around,’ I said crossly. ‘Not because of you!’

  He bent his head and brushed my cheek with his lips. I scowled at him.

  He stepped back and a small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. ‘Good night, Thabisa,’ he said softly.

  He strode off and soon I heard his door opening. Much as I hated to admit it, it was good to know he was sleeping close by.

  I brushed my teeth and had a quick shower, then stretched out on the bed, fully clothed. I’d sleep in my clothes and be ready to leave the moment he knocked on my door. I lay there, light on, eyes wide open. This had been a long day, but I wasn’t tired. I would never be able to sleep. My hand still throbbed. But it wasn’t only that that kept me awake.

  I was disturbed by Zak. Why was he such a tough person to read? One minute all street swagger and muscle, the next kind and understanding. Unpredictable. I didn’t like it. I like people up-front and direct. And he was a strange mixture: cool and kind. I had interpreted enough of the looks he gave to other females to know he was trouble in human form. And he obviously thought I was as easy and gullible as they were; ready to fall for his looks and a great body. ‘Well, think again, Zak Khumalo,’ I muttered, leaning over to switch off the bedside light. ‘You’re just a shallow, sad, empty shell.’ On that happy thought I fell asleep.

  ***

  When Zak knocked on my door, I was ready. I’d washed my face and tied my braids up into a ponytail. I watched as he brought the four-wheel drive to the door. It was still dark but dawn light soon broke across the sky in every shade of red. A winter sunrise. It all seemed so much bigger out here, a massive canvas covered in great splashes of colour.

  The distant mountains were beautiful, dusted with early snow. When we reached the red cliffs, we left the four-wheel drive parked under thorn trees, shouldered knapsacks and started walking. Ahead of us lay a wasteland: stones, rocks, thorn bushes and dust. Peak after peak of rugged mountains stretched to the horizon, shivering in the haze rising from the barren rock.

  ‘Tough country,’ said Zak. ‘So this is where you grew up to be a tough kid?’

  ‘Everyone round here has to be tough. It’s a hard life. Shame, Zulu boy, is this walk proving too much for you?’

  He laughed softly as I drew ahead on the path. ‘The view is good from where I am.’

  I tugged my sweatshirt down so that it covered my bum. ‘Don’t you take anything seriously?’ I said.

  ‘Like I said, Thabisa, life is serious enough already.’

  I ignored him.

  It was hard, steep and dangerous on the cliff path. Great flanks of mountains reared up around us. Valleys plunged below, perilously close to the path. The mist charged down on us like dragon’s breath. The whole country was painted in shades of terracotta, as if it had been burnt with a blowtorch in some macabre workshop, then left to rust.

  ‘This was all caused by a volcanic eruption millions of years ago,’ Zak remarked as we walked. ‘What we’re looking at was once the shores and bottom of an ancient lake.’

  ‘How come you know that, Khumalo?’ I teased.

  ‘I’m a man of hidden depths,’ Zak said. ‘Or it could be because I did some geology at college. Look at those rocks.’ He pointed above them. The rocks rose like gigantic teeth, set in a lop-sided grin. ‘That’s where there’s been more recent volcanic activity.’

  I could only see the horizon dominated by rock, mountains, sun and heat.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right about the lake,’ I said. ‘These old paths are thousands of years old, made by the San. I often used to find sea shells embedded in the rock when I climbed to the farm school.’

  ‘You must have been a real tomboy,’ he said.

  ‘I went to school on paths like this every day. Climbing up those footholds wasn’t easy.’

  ‘Where was the school?’ Zak asked.

  ‘It’s to the nor
th of here, quite a long climb. You can’t see it from this angle because of the mountain. It’s an old farmhouse, or it used to be.’

  ‘It’s left you with good muscles,’ he grinned. ‘I enjoy watching the Thabisa Tswane show.’

  I turned, annoyed, and almost slipped. Zak put out his hand to steady me. His touch was light and his hand warm. It brushed against my breast as he held my arm. I pushed him away. He gave a low, mocking laugh.

  ‘So, what was it like for you when you went to that fancy girls’ school in Grahamstown?’

  ‘Hard at first, but I got used to it. Everything was good, the sport, the teachers, the other girls, but the food was horrible. I missed our home food.’

  ‘What’s the school like?’

  ‘Old buildings, sports fields, lots of interesting things to do.’

  ‘Why did you join the police force; why not go on to university? Did you pass matric?’

  ‘Of course I passed matric, what a stupid question. I got an A for matric. I could have gone to UCT or Rhodes.’

  ‘Then why the police force?’

  ‘I wanted to do something practical for my country and I had a friend who... encouraged me.’

  ‘A boy friend?’

  ‘Nothing to do with you, Zak. Anyway, I like police work. I’m glad I trained at Hammanskraal. I don’t think I’d be happy in an office job, sitting at a desk all day.’

  ‘Funny, I can see you at a boardroom table, dressed in your navy blue power suit, directing Anglo American strategies.’

  ‘Thanks for the thought. Now let’s talk about you.’

  There was a long pause before he spoke. ‘I’m just a simple sort-of Zulu, sort-of-Matabele boy. Nothing to tell. Just a boring guy from the bush. And then from nowhere in particular.’

  After that we walked in silence. But even in that short interchange Zak had learnt much more about me than I had about him.

  We passed a place where I had played as a child. A stream bubbled out of the mountainside, before it became the river that flowed into the valley. On a sheltered ridge it had formed a chain of small, clear pools. Their banks shelved gently and over the centuries beaches had formed, washed white by the gushing water.