The Monster's Daughter

by Michelle Pretorius

  Andrew’s eyes were teary. “I had to try. They needed …”

  Tessa touched his face. “We need you. If you’re gone, we can’t survive. They’ll take me from Ma. The landlord doesn’t want a black woman alone in the house. Ma had to take work cleaning white people’s houses while you’re in here. They have her scrubbing floors on her hands and knees. They leave her plate and cup next to the dog’s kennel. They won’t even let her eat in their house.”

  “What are you whispering about?”

  Tessa tried to block out the old man’s whining. “They call Ma lazy when she gets tired because of the baby.” Her voice broke, helplessness spilling over. “So no more of this, hear. Not ever.”

  Andrew averted his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

  Tessa had the strangest sensation of doing a grown-up thing, of being the one that made the rules for the first time in her life instead of being swept up in other people’s choices. “A man came to the house yesterday, a Dutchman. Ma recognized him. He knocked for a long time. We didn’t open the door for him. She said I should tell you it’s one of the men who brought the girls to the doctor. What does that mean, Pa?”

  A frown had lodged between Andrew’s thick dark eyebrows. “It means we have to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “Have to trust me.” Sweat formed on his pale forehead. “There’s money in the tea-box. Tell Sarah to take everything and come get me tonight.”

  “You’re in no condition to—”

  Andrew grabbed her hand, pulling her closer to him. “It’s important, Tessa.”

  Tessa found a distressed Sarah at their normal meeting place next to the park. She took Sarah’s hand, trying to reassure her. “Pa said we need to go to the next town on the list, Ma.”

  Sarah glanced back at the hospital, weighing her desire to see Andrew against the consequences. “Is he …?”

  “Tell me what’s going on, Ma.” Tessa heard the demanding tone in her own voice again. Its effect fascinated Tessa as Sarah acquiesced, the power of her own will becoming more real. She let Sarah pick her up, feeling a sudden weariness penetrate her bones as she listened to Sarah’s truth.

  Johannesburg hazed like a gray dream in the late afternoon, a smoky mirage. Around them, lines of color divided the masses of people trying to eat, breathe, and live, going home to separate areas. Would it fall one day, this city of Gomorrah? Would she alone be standing at the end, eternally a child, and know the truth about misery and the consequence of hate? See the result of their toils, of their poverty, of their greed, while they lived only for what today offered? The loneliness of that future ripped at her. She would go on, she decided, for Sarah and Andrew. But when the time came, when they were gone, she would know what to do. No hell she could imagine would be worse than bearing that kind of knowledge alone in the world.

  4

  Saturday

  DECEMBER 11, 2010

  The bride bopped on the dance floor like a rhythm-challenged stripper, her legs spread wide, the long white train clutched between fuchsia-taloned fingers. The hem of her dress rose with every step, exposing spray-tanned thighs between layers of sequins and chiffon.

  From where she sat at the bar, Alet could see Frieda’s garter as she hopped around with her bridesmaids, her hips canting back and forth like a marula-drunk elephant. Even a couple of the older aunts and uncles had joined in the fray, flocking up from their tables the moment the DJ started the song.

  “Sheep,” Alet muttered under her breath.

  “What?” The uncle of the bride had planted himself next to Alet. He had patchy dark eyebrows and a tic in his left eye that punctuated every third word. It was hotter than hell and he was wearing a leather jacket, zipped up to his throat.

  “Nothing.” Alet tilted her glass back.

  He leaned in, bringing his ear against her nose. “Sorry? You said something?”

  The effort of remaining civil with a stranger over the noise drained Alet. She pushed her glass toward the edge of the bar and made a circle above it with her finger as soon as she caught the young bartender’s eye, probably the bride’s underaged brother employed for the evening to keep him out of trouble. He came over, gin bottle in hand, smiling.

  “Another?”

  Alet winked at him. “You’re my savior.”

  “So what were you saying, huh?” The uncle stepped even closer, rank body odor escaping from his jacket collar. Alet shook her head, turning to see the dance floor doing a grapevine in unison before “Go low!” had them all squatting down, like synchronized idiots.

  The uncle tapped her on her shoulder. Alet shook his hand off. “What?”

  “What did you say?”

  Alet sighed, wondering what it would take to get rid of him. “I said, people love to be told what to do. Like sheep.”

  “It’s fun.” He smiled, genuine delight on his face.

  “Ja?”

  He nodded, his big head moving in slow motion.

  “You like to be told what to do?”

  He was quiet for a moment, thoughts trickling like molasses. Alet noticed a patch of hair on the side of his bald head that he’d missed while shaving.

  “Listen, I’m just not into this, okay?” Alet took a large sip of her fresh gin. “Go play with someone else.”

  The bartender boy leaned over the bar, his freckles a tie-dye brown. “My uncle’s a bit not lekker,” he shouted in her ear. “Slow. It’s not his fault. You don’t have to be ugly.”

  Ah, fok. Alet was already having trouble with the new in-laws and her dad hadn’t been married three hours. On top of that she was now out of favor with the bartender. It was time to quit the party. She drained her glass and pushed her seat away from the bar, sucking her stomach in before standing up. The black velvet cocktail dress had fit ten kilograms ago when she wore it to her graduation party. Her patent leather heels were also doing a number on her, the balls of her feet throbbing in rhythm with the cha-cha. Her hair fell forward, covering her face, as she crouched over her bag to try to find her keys. Alet lost her equilibrium for a moment.

  “You’re not thinking of driving like that, are you?” Her father, Adriaan Berg, put a firm grip on her arm.

  “I’m fine, Pa.” Alet pulled her arm away. “Lovely wedding, but duty calls.”

  Adriaan’s lips moved to the side of his face, a sure sign that he was pissed off.

  “By the way, does your new father-in-law know he’s now family with police? I saw kids over there nipping schnapps. Underage drinking and so on.” Alet shook her head gravely.

  Adriaan’s expression remained unchanged. Alet wondered if her father had any sense of humor at all. He was a man who didn’t tolerate insubordination. Even now he probably wasn’t above making the wedding guests drop and do push-ups if any of them stepped out of line. The thought made Alet giggle.

  “Auntie Mattie said you can have the couch. I’ll drive you over.”

  “You can’t leave the blushing bride alone on your wedding day. I won’t have it.”

  “Stay here.” Adriaan walked over to Frieda, interrupting her mid-hop, her blond-streaked hair falling in ringlets from beneath her rhinestone tiara. She shot Alet a look of disdain.

  “Who the fok still wears a tiara?” Alet muttered as she waved at Frieda.

  Frieda turned her back to Alet and kissed Adriaan passionately on the mouth, her newly ringed hand on his cheek. Alet made a loud wolf-whistle. Embarrassed glances shot in her direction.

  “Come.” Adriaan marched past her without waiting to see if she’d follow. Outside, some of the groomsmen had already begun to deface his Mercedes with white shoe-shine, singing “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” as they saw him approach.

  “Dammit, Greeff!” Adriaan shouted at one of the men. “I need a car that doesn’t look like a black taxi.” The men stopped singing abruptly.

  “Take mine, Boss.” Greeff, a balding, bulbous-nosed drill sergeant who Alet remembered from back in basic training, fidgeted wi
th his hands in his pockets, finally producing a set of car keys. “Sorry, hey. It’s just a little fun, see?”

  Adriaan didn’t respond. He took Greeff’s keys, dragged Alet over to a white sedan, and opened the passenger-side door for her. “Put your seat belt on.”

  “What about my car?”

  “Come get it in the morning.”

  “This isn’t necessary. I’m fine to drive.”

  A muscle in Adriaan’s temple jumped. “I don’t need you in a drunken accident. You’ve been enough of an embarrassment.”

  “Sorry.” Alet slid down in her seat, her head resting against the back, a surge of self-loathing washing over her. Adriaan was ashamed of her for more than just misbehaving at his wedding. She had been late for the ceremony and made no effort to be sociable during the reception, offering labored words of congratulations to Frieda. She looked over at Adriaan in his dark suit with the pink carnation on the lapel. His dark hair and trimmed mustache had always been frosted with silver, which had launched ever more aggressive invasions as the years passed. She suddenly wondered if she would ever have a wedding day where he would give her away.

  Alet had met her father for the first time shortly after her mother, Gerda, announced that she had been diagnosed with cancer. Adriaan had been an enigma to her before then. She had disparate memories of him from when she was little, fragments of him picking her up from her grandmother’s apartment for a custody visit, her mother scrubbing her clean, tying her hair in a tight braid, laying out her best dress, the one with the pink polka dots, and telling her to behave. Her grandmother faffed nervously, gathering toys for her to take along in the pink plastic handbag with Cinderella on the front. They stood in a line in the living room, her mother, her grandmother and Alet, waiting for the doorbell to ring at eight a.m. sharp. Even at four years old, Alet could sense the tension in the room when her father walked in, her mother’s words measured, her posture stiff and unyielding. Her dad was a tall man. He always wore a neatly pressed white shirt with dark jeans and brown leather shoes. It was his off-duty uniform. On duty he was a policeman, something important, her mother had told her.

  Gerda didn’t want Adriaan in their lives after the divorce. She seemed genuinely scared of him. She later married an Englishman, Rob Turner, and they moved far away from Jo’burg, far enough that regular visits with Alet’s dad became impractical. Alet had always wondered if her mother had done it on purpose. Gerda kept suing for more child support, and Adriaan agreed to give up custody without much of an argument. Alet remembered how Gerda had coached her for the phone call, her dad’s voice curt on the other end of the line, a stranger asking her if she wanted him or Rob to be her dad.

  “Rob.” Alet had answered, the way Gerda had taught her.

  “Are you sure?”

  Alet had looked at Gerda, who stood next to the telephone, a cigarette clasped between her fingers. Gerda had nodded slowly, pressing her lips together in a tight smile before taking a drag.

  “Ja.”

  “You want Rob Turner to be your pa.” An emotionless statement of fact from Adriaan.

  “Ja.” Alet wished it would be over. She wanted to go back outside and ride her new bike.

  “Tell your mother to come talk to me.”

  Alet never heard from Adriaan again. She later daydreamed about her real father rescuing her, showing up one day and telling her that she could come live with him, especially when her mother and stepfather were having a go at each other. She imagined Adriaan giving her all the attention Rob never did. Rob was nice enough, but his demeanor made her understand that she wasn’t his. Then, just after she turned fifteen, Rob got a job in Kempton Park, a suburb next to the Jo’burg airport. Four months after they moved, Adriaan Berg sent her a letter in the mail, simply requesting that they meet.

  “You look like your mother,” was the first thing Adriaan had said to her. He was late picking her up after school, their agreed-upon meeting point. She was on the verge of walking home, trying not to cry, when the Mercedes pulled up.

  “She says I look like you.” Alet feigned nonchalance as her heart beat furiously.

  Adriaan shrugged. “Is the Spur okay for you?”

  Alet nodded and got into the car. Once they were seated at the restaurant, it was Alet who broke the awkward silence. “So, what now?” Her anxiousness had diminished as she studied his face. Adriaan wasn’t the god she had always thought him to be. He was just a man in a white button-down shirt and dark-blue jeans, the way she remembered, only the lines in his face were deeper, his eyes sunken and wary as if he too spent his nights lying awake.

  “I thought we might get to know each other.” Adriaan’s words were quiet, measured. “You’re almost an adult now. We can talk.”

  “I’m not going to call you Pa, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “I don’t expect it.” Adriaan crossed his arms, his look inscrutable. “It wasn’t my choice to be out of your life.”

  “Whose was it, then?”

  “I called. You said—”

  “I remember.”

  “My own child said she didn’t want me in her life.”

  Alet’s temper flared, her temples pulsing. “I was six. I hadn’t seen you in two years and all that time Ma talked about you as if you were some kind of …” She balled her fists under the table, trying to hide her hurt in a veil of resentment. “Don’t you dare blame me. You were the adult.”

  “You’re right.” A hardness had suddenly crept into Adriaan’s voice, his mouth set sternly under the peppered mustache. That would be the Adriaan Berg she would know from then on, distant, in charge. “But I knew exactly where you were, Alet. Always.”

  “You kept tabs?” Alet’s anger was momentarily knocked out of her.

  “You are my only child.”

  As if that was an explanation, or an excuse. Yet Alet was desperate to hold on to anything that might indicate he cared about her. She felt a reckless stubbornness, asking the question she had been mulling over all her life. “Why did you leave?”

  Adriaan studied her for a moment. “You’re old enough to know the truth, I suppose.” He looked away. “I was no good at domestic life,” he said at last. “My work got in the way. Your mother—”

  “She says you hit her.”

  Adriaan sighed wearily. “I lost control once. Only once.” And with that, the subject was closed. The rest of the lunch felt like an interrogation. Alet answered Adriaan’s questions with reserve. Gerda had started intensive chemo, the prognosis wasn’t good. Rob couldn’t hold on to money and regularly uprooted the family because of some scheme that went sour. Some days were harder than others, but she didn’t have a bad childhood, she told him.

  “I have to go,” Alet had said during a drawn-out silence. “I have a test tomorrow.”

  “Look,” Adriaan had said as they got up, “this didn’t go well.”

  “Really?”

  “Sarcasm.” Adriaan curled his lips in disapproval.

  “Can we go, please?”

  “I have a pool.”

  “What?” Alet was about to congratulate him, but the vulnerable look on Adriaan’s face made her bite her tongue.

  “We can braai and watch the game this weekend.”

  Alet still wasn’t sure if she wanted Adriaan to become a part of her life. She definitely wasn’t going to pretend to like rugby for him. But perhaps he was trying. Perhaps she should too. “Ja. Okay,” she said quickly before she could change her mind.

  They regularly spent time together after that, though this occasionally meant vacations with the latest in a succession of young bleach-blond girlfriends. He bought her a secondhand motorbike when she turned sixteen so she could get around, performing the maintenance himself. When her mother started losing the battle, his house became a refuge. It was the first time in her life that Alet had felt taken care of. In spite of herself, she looked up to him. She loved listening to the stories he told of his days as a detective in Brixton Murder and Robber
y. It turned out that he was something of a celebrity, known for solving almost every case that had landed on his desk, his picture regularly appearing in the paper in connection with some high-profile case. He was later transferred to John Vorster Square, but he always missed Brixton, he said. By the time Alet matriculated, she was enamored of the life he described. She decided to enroll at the police college in Pretoria.

  Some people became police officers because they couldn’t find other work, some were just glorified bullies, but Alet knew she fit into the third category, the ones who had it in their DNA. All of her life, she had felt like she was pulling the wool over people’s eyes, but the very first day she set foot on the police college campus, she knew that she was going to be good at it. She flew through Basic and in-field training, graduating top of her class. By the time she started in-service training, she couldn’t imagine doing anything else. She loved the look of pride in Adriaan’s eyes, especially when she told him that she had applied for Special Task Force training. There were no women in the unit, but Colonel Adriaan Berg’s daughter would be the first if any woman was.

  Adriaan pulled into the driveway of a red brick house in a suburb of Port Elizabeth, stopping in front of the enormous security gate. Barbed wire ran across the top of the fence. Aunt Mattie’s dressing-gowned figure waddled past the barred living-room window of the house and the stoep light went on.

  “Our flight for Mauritius leaves at eight.” Adriaan left the car idling. “I’ll ask someone to come pick you up.”

  “I’ll call a taxi.”

  Adriaan nodded. Alet noticed the edge of a scratch mark protruding from his dress shirt collar. She imagined Frieda digging her talons in passionately while screaming in ecstasy, then cursed herself for the image. If that was the kind of kink they were into, she really didn’t need to know.

  “How are things? You’ve gained some weight.” Adriaan’s voice had a strained gravity.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not pregnant. I’m just fat.”

  Adriaan pursed his lips for a moment, but let it go. “Are you getting along in Unie?” It was the first time since she’d been kicked out of Special Task Force training that he had shown any interest in her life. She grabbed the opportunity.