Now I See You

by Holmes, Priscilla; Holmes, Priscilla;

  ‘So Fezile was my father. But then who was Zikhali?’

  ‘Your mother was a beauty, tall and slender. She held herself like a queen. She was a tribal chief’s only daughter. Many young men desired her, but Solenkosi insisted she marry the one he had chosen.’

  Typical Solenkosi Tswane. Bending everyone to his will. But that didn’t answer my question. ‘Who was Zikhali, Mama?’

  ‘Your mother met him at a neighbouring village, two days’ walk from the valley. It was at a chief’s wedding, a very happy occasion. There was singing and dancing.’ Mama Elsie’s eyes glazed as she looked back into the past. But now wasn’t the time for one of her stories of the joys of valley life. There was something darker hiding here and I had to know what it was.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Zikhali was a handsome young man. He was worldly; he had been to school in Umtata. He and Pomola were drawn to each other. They spent three days talking, walking together. Your grandfather was not pleased. Pomola was promised to Fezile. A good man, quiet, well-spoken. He loved your mother very much, even when she was dazzled by the charm and good looks of Zikhali. Later, after we returned to the valley, Zikhali came to see us with his father and uncles. They stayed for several days, tried to persuade your grandfather to change his mind, and allow Pomola to marry him. His family promised better lobola.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Solenkosi refused to go back on his word. The lobola had already been given. Promises must be kept. Zikhali left. He was very, very angry with Solenkosi. Your mother married your father, and when you were born, she was happy enough.’

  I sat quietly. There was a long silence.

  ‘You were an early baby, very small, but the sangoma passed you through the umsi and the smoke made you stronger. Your mother was happy.’

  A thin blade of doubt slid through me. What did she mean?

  ‘How early?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t remember this... it’s now too long ago.’ Mama Elsie closed her eyes wearily.

  ‘Tell me about Zikhali. What did he look like?’

  ‘He was handsome. His body was strong and he was tall. He was a perfect body of man, except for one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In the deep valley between his back muscles, the bones of his spine looked like a ladder. Up the ladder crawled the inyoka.’

  ‘A snake? What do you mean, a snake?’ My heart skipped a beat.

  ‘In Umtata they painted the boys with skin paint that never comes off.’

  ‘Do you mean a tattoo?’

  ‘It was a big inyoka; it crawled up the ladder of his spine from his buttocks to his neck.’

  ‘Was this unusual?’

  ‘Some young men who went to school in Umtata had pictures painted on their arms or legs. I never saw another inyoka.’ Mama Elsie’s lip curled in disdain. ‘Who would choose to do such an arrogant thing? A big-headed man. One who has no respect for his people.’

  ‘What happened when my father and uncles were arrested in the valley?’

  Mama Elsie poured another cup of tea and sipped it slowly. ‘These are painful matters, Thabisa. Some problems have no solution. There are the problems of the dry land where no rain falls, the problem of the great sickness in Africa, which is turning so many children into orphans. Then there is the other kind of problem – the one people make for themselves.’

  ‘Please go on.’

  ‘If people behave themselves like we used to in the valley, when we obeyed the laws we were taught, there are no problems, but your father and uncles were rash, headstrong. If only they could have resisted in some other way, without bloodshed. I am old now, Thabisa. Old enough to see that violence brings pain and trouble.’

  ‘You are right, Mama.’ I thought about my father, wondered what injustice and cruelty had driven him. ‘But you have said my father was a good man, a quiet man. He must have had good reasons for acting as he did? Sometimes fighting back, against injustice, brings change.’

  ‘There is no answer to this, Thabisa. All I can see, looking back, was a bad time. Too much sorrow and death.’ Mama Elsie sipped her tea. We sat in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘Now, you must stop asking and forget about the old days.’

  ‘I must ask, Mama Elsie,’ I said. ‘Please tell me what happened at the end.’

  There was a long silence before Mama Elsie opened her eyes and scanned my face. She shook her head before she spoke.

  ‘The police came and took them. They were hiding in the cliffs above the village. There were caves, we took them food and water.’

  ‘Who betrayed them? I read the beads, Mama. They showed me a snake. I thought they were implying treachery. But it was more than a symbol, wasn’t it?’

  Mama Elsie didn’t answer. She got up and moved around the room. ‘Nobody knows for sure, but it was whispered in the valley that it was the inyoka.’

  ‘Zikhali,’ I said quietly.

  Mama Elsie said nothing.

  Discomfort rolled through me and I thrust back flashes of memory. Zikhali had a snake tattoo. He had loved my mother. There was a story here. I intended to find out about it.

  22

  5 July 2006 – evening

  Driving back to Grahamstown I thought about what Mama Elsie had said. My stomach tightened every time I remembered her words. A black hole of questions had opened in my mind. Questions that I couldn’t answer. Here was a clear link to the snake man Zikhali. The man who had betrayed my family. The man who had loved my mother. I couldn’t escape the powerful feeling that here was a mystery, a lost story, just waiting for me to solve it. But how? Where would I start?

  I stopped once, at Nanaga farm stall, and sat in the garden sipping lemonade. Bantam hens scratched around me. I smiled at their soft, silky feet – fluffy slippers. I stared at the flower beds for a long time without moving, thinking about the valley, watching people come and go.

  When I got back into the car I checked my voicemail. Eight messages from Tom Winter, two from Bea. Nothing from Zak Khumalo. I called Tom Winter’s number. He answered immediately.

  ‘Hi Tom.’

  ‘How are you, Thabisa?’

  ‘I’ve been out of town. I’m on my way back to Grahamstown right now.’

  ‘Can I see you? What does your diary look like for tonight?’

  ‘Tonight?’

  He laughed softly. ‘Why not? I’m off-duty. Thought you might like to relax, have a chat.’

  I hesitated for a moment. ‘Where?’

  ‘A newish place. It’s supposed to be good.’

  ‘Okay, pick me up at eight.’

  When I reached Grahamstown, I stopped by the station. It was after five.

  ‘Thabisa! Back at last. I was just leaving.’ Bea bustled through the door. She was dressed head to foot in fuchsia, even her eyeshadow was pink. A big tote bag on her shoulder, take-away coffee in one hand, groceries in the other.

  ‘Update me,’ I said, ‘why did you call?’

  ‘Nothing much happening.’

  ‘No calls? No messages? Anything from forensics?’

  ‘The bullet was from the same gun as before. No fingerprints. That’s what my call was about.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Oh and Zak Khumalo is back, staying at the Royal in town. Why he can’t stay at the safe house with you, I don’t know.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a safe house, that’s why.’

  ‘You’re mad, who’d want to be safe with that guy around?’

  I laughed and shook my head.

  ‘Come and have a drink and tell me about Jo’burg.’

  ‘I’d love to, Bea, but I’m going out for dinner this evening.’

  ‘Out? Who with?’

  ‘The doctor,’ I said.

  ‘Omigod, I hate to say it, Thabisa, but life’s so unfair. That doctor’s so cool and Khumalo is totally hot, and they both fancy you. I read your horoscope yesterday. It said you’re going to have to make a big decision soon. Looks like
this is it. Which one do you like best?’

  ‘Don’t go there, Bea,’ I said. ‘I’m not doing any choosing, believe me.’

  ‘Ja... right,’ Bea said. ‘That’s not what your horoscope says.’

  I drove back to the safe house, showered and dressed in a black pantsuit and white top.

  Tom Winter whistled when I opened the door. ‘Lovely lady.’ He kissed my cheek. ‘I still can’t believe you’re a police officer.’ He didn’t look too bad himself, in a soft leather jacket and open-necked blue shirt.

  ‘You don’t look like a doctor without your stethoscope either, but we both are what we are.’

  He placed his hand on the small of my back and guided me to the car. Did I like being treated like a porcelain doll, or resent it? Confusing.

  As we entered the restaurant, we both took out our cell phones and set them to vibrate.

  ‘It’s like looking in the mirror,’ Tom said. ‘Same wave length.’

  ‘Public servants,’ I retorted, ‘behaving properly in public.’ And Zak Khumalo could go to hell. I was off duty for the next hour.

  The restaurant was a bright, tasteful place, the food elegant. We ordered drinks. A sparkling water with a twist of lime for me, a red wine for Tom. I raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m off-duty. What about you?’

  ‘Always on duty.’ I smiled.

  I ordered salmon, baby potatoes and a salad; Tom went for the pasta. The waiter lit candles on the table and we began to talk.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, the usual, saving a few lives here and there. What about you, DI Tswane?’

  To my surprise I found myself telling him about my journey to Johannesburg, the story I’d heard about my father and uncles. The words tumbled out. It was such a relief to have a kind, gentle listener, one who I knew would never betray my trust. As I spoke I realised how deeply affected I’d been by what I had learned. So much about my life had been thrown into question and it didn’t seem as if I’d be getting answers any time soon. Tom listened intently, narrowing his eyes when I described the bomb attack, their betrayal and execution.

  After I’d told him the whole story, I paused.

  He stretched out a hand and laid it briefly on my wrist. ‘How do you feel about all this?’ he asked.

  ‘It shouldn’t make a difference to me. I mean, I was raised in the valley, but I left. Still...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s eating away at me.’ I took my hand away. ‘I want to find out what happened.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. I would too.’ He reached across the table and touched my hand again.

  ‘Thabisa, don’t shut me out. I’ve been working in Africa long enough to know what happens. There’s a lot of anger and disappointment here.’

  ‘Yes, there is, but it’s directed the wrong way. When I give police talks at school career days, I see kids dressing badly, skipping lessons, not studying properly, then blaming the system for their problems. It’s hard to motivate kids like that.’

  ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I tell them everybody’s got absolute power over themselves. The question is what do you do with it? I tell them to get out there, grab what life has to offer and take responsibility for themselves.’ I smiled wryly. ‘I don’t know if I get through to them though.’

  ‘Maybe not to all of them,’ Tom said, ‘but if you make an impression on one kid, or two, your words can change the way they see themselves. And that’s the first step to changing their lives. You worked hard, took what opportunities you could. Look at you now. Those kids, the ones you get through to, look at you and they can see what’s possible.’

  I turned away and shook my head. ‘I worry about the other kids though. The ones who don’t make it, who don’t have anyone to look up to.’

  He stared at me seriously. ‘I enjoy looking at you. I could look at you for hours. You’re a lovely woman.’

  My cheeks flamed. ‘Thank you.’ I tried to cover my embarrassment by studying the baby potatoes as if they were the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.

  ‘Good food,’ Tom said.

  ‘It’s greatthat we both we seem to enjoy food,’ I laughed.

  ‘What will you do about your family mystery?’ Tom asked.

  ‘I’ve decided to go to the valley, talk to my grandfather, and see if there’s any more he can tell me.’

  ‘Good. That’s a start. Do you want any help from me?’

  At the thought of Tom appearing in the valley, I burst out laughing. ‘I don’t think the valley is ready for you,’ I said. ‘White men aren’t thick on the ground there, let alone Australian ones.’

  ‘What did Martin Luther King say? We should be judged by the content of our character, not the colour of our skins?’

  ‘I doubt many people in the valley have heard of Martin Luther King, but my grandfather belongs to Nelson Mandela’s tribe, and they all know about him.’

  ‘Really?’ Tom looked suitably impressed.

  ‘Don’t get excited, Tom. My grandfather isn’t anything like Mandela. Take it from me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He doesn’t want anything to change. He thinks the old ways are best.’ I snapped a bread stick in half with a satisfying crack.

  ‘Don’t you think they are in some ways? Easier to understand. Structure, a hierarchy, knowing where you stand?

  ‘South Africa’s moved on, Tom, it’s all changed.’

  ‘Some changes happen more quickly, others take longer. It’s all very well being progressive, but what’s the use of destroying everything in a rush?’

  I fiddled with my braids and sighed. ‘My grandfather will never change.’

  ‘Well, you could try to help him.’

  ‘Me?’ I retorted. ‘He won’t listen to any woman, let alone his granddaughter.’

  ‘But you’re the key. Don’t you see that, Thabisa?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re the link. You’re his blood family. Why else did he educate you?’

  ‘He wanted somebody to come back, to help the valley.’

  ‘So, why don’t you?’

  I looked away. ‘He wants more, much more. He wants me to marry somebody he chooses. He wants me to stay in the valley, do beadwork, have kids.’

  ‘You can help him compromise. He’s created an educated granddaughter. Work with him, on your terms.’

  ‘He won’t compromise.’

  ‘Try him. Use psychology. Talk to him about this tragedy in your family, then try and debate. Ask him how you can help him. You can follow your own rules.’

  He watched me closely. I remained silent, restlessly rearranging the salt and pepper containers, straightening out the silverware.

  ‘You’ll never lose your identity. It’s part of you, Thabisa. It’s a proud thing, to come from the valley and educate yourself the way you have, but there’s room for all aspects of your identity.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps.’

  Tom listened intently, asked intelligent questions and weighed up my words. Talking to him helped sort my thoughts into some kind of order.

  Later, while we sat over coffee, Tom asked: ‘Have you ever been in love? Really in love?’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘You first, Thabisa.’

  I paused for a long time before I answered. ‘Yes, when I was just out of school, before I went to Police College. He was a student at Rhodes.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was... killed.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He was shot during a rally in Pretoria. Even though the State of Emergency had been lifted. I was there.’

  Shall I tell you what it was like to see the crowd descending on us as we tried to hold them back with a cordon, Tom? Shall I tell you that I saw Victor trying to stop them? He was part of the protest, right at the front of the crowd. He was yelling at them to stop stoning us. All round me, men and women opened fire. My finger froze on the tri
gger and I watched as the bullets flew. One of them hit Victor in the chest. I broke ranks. Rushed to him. I held him while he died. Shall I tell you, Australian Doctor Tom? Will you understand?

  ‘I’m so very sorry,’ Tom said. ‘How old were you?’

  ‘I was eighteen.’

  ‘What a dreadful thing,’ he said.

  We were silent for a moment before Tom said: ‘It’s something else we have in common, Thabisa. My fiancée died in a car accident just before we were due to be married.’

  ‘That’s terrible. When did it happen?’

  ‘Two years ago. It’s the reason I left Australia and came here.’ Tom swigged the last of his wine, and then placed the glass firmly on the table. ‘Right, that’s enough doom and gloom. Let’s order something decadent to cheer us up and then I’ll take you home.’

  Tom summoned the waiter and ordered warm chocolate pudding smothered in raspberry coulis. He even persuaded me to try some and the rest of the evening passed easily.

  As soon as we arrived at the Hill Street house, Tom reached for me and drew me to him, wrapping his arms around me. He held me close for a moment.

  ‘We’ve done nothing but talk since we met,’ he said.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not enough for me.’

  ‘I think it’s great that we’ve got so much to talk about.’

  ‘Shh.’ He stopped my words with his mouth. ‘You’re beautiful.’

  I tried to relax. I wanted to like this kind, attractive man, but I felt nervous, on edge. As we stood embracing in the narrow hallway, I glanced across to a mirror on the wall opposite. Tom’s skin looked so light against mine. Light against dark. Beautiful in a way, but unfamiliar. A man with skin the colour of vanilla ice cream. All that paleness.

  His body against mine was warm and solid. His kisses were gentle at first, but they soon became hotter, more insistent. The kiss was arousing in a way many unknown things are arousing. I moved away a little.

  ‘Let yourself go, Thabisa,’ he murmured against my mouth. ‘Relax and enjoy this.’

  ‘I don’t really know you well enough,’ I said quietly.

  He laughed. ‘You and I have talked about so many important things.’ He spoke softly into my ear. ‘You know what? Thabisa Tswane is brilliant, and she knows it. Thabisa Tswane is highly competent and she knows it. Thabisa Tswane is beautiful and loveable, but she doesn’t realise it at all. She’s the woman I think about when I wake up in the morning and when I go to sleep at night. Believe in yourself, Thabisa, you’re very special.’