by Z. P. Dala
For my daughter
In this work of fiction I have, at times, described the way of speaking of the Cape Malay people. I have tried to maintain the authenticity of this dialect, though it has been modified for clarity to a wide readership. My writing of this dialogue is meant in respect and in no way is a parody of their dialect and mannerisms.
I have also attempted to speak about the imprisonment of a group of women who were activists during the anti-apartheid struggle in South Africa. Any documentation mentioned is not factual in terms of date, name, or place and is written in interpretive narrative form that is fictional, but strongly rooted in fact. I have attempted to treat this narrative with the greatest respect.
—z.p. dala
PART ONE
BACK TO BRIGHTON
CHAPTER ONE
Stalked by the specter of memory, Afroze Bhana drove her rental car into the town on a winter morning. The sun was deceptive. The brightness of its glare belied a bone-chilling sensitivity, its clarity leaving her to wonder at the ghosts at her back. She knew that the car attracted attention. It was too large and too clean. The early-morning bakers and greengrocers stopped sponging down their shop-front windows and watched her glide by.
A man was setting up a table of ascending oranges, bright and glistening with water, outside his vegetable store. The orange at the very top of his pyramid went rolling to the ground. As Afroze drove on she saw in her rearview mirror that a million oranges left their perches and followed her car. Even they were drawn toward her return. Asking the question she felt even the town must be asking, a best-kept secret about to be revealed: why has the Doctor’s child returned to the town where she was born, the town from which she was sent away at the age of six?
The town was called Brighton. A Brighton far removed from the other Brighton—the seaside town on the English coast where you licked ice cream cones and froze in a bathing suit, exposing your thighs to unforgiving saline waters.
This Brighton was an antithesis. This Brighton was rugged and arid, a mountain shelf in the middle of rural Zululand, South Africa. The closest town, the even more parched Tugela Ferry, an hour’s drive away. Dundee, a veritable metropolis, with an actual ATM and one fast food restaurant, was half a day’s drive away.
Nobody remembered the Englishman who came over a mountain in the early 1800s and decided to stick a stake into rock and build this town. There was nothing here, no saleable commodities, unless you considered the hundreds of Zulu tribes that populated the rough mountains as commodities. To the Englishman, Lord Pomeroy, they were just that.
The Englishman was crafty, for he settled here, adopted the fraudulent title of Lord (when he was no gentry at all), and began recruiting, with threats and a gun, the local Zulu men, to send to the labor market in the big cities.
Men would leave their people and travel far away to the City of Gold, now called Johannesburg. The Zulus were a proud people. They did not lose their men easily. But choices belong to the victor—the one with traces of gold and gunpowder. To the City of Gold the men were conveyed, like carts of luggage, where they would descend into the innards of the Earth, disappearing for years. Down in the mines. Forgotten by the world. The wage pittance they sent home the only thing telling their stories, whispering to their women, “We are living. Here is our blood for sale.”
A tragic conception will bear a child that carries tragedy inside its genes. The cells of Brighton had begun life in a thick matrix of ugliness. Of loss. These cells would divide a million times over, creating a lineage of loss and heartbreak that would survive the centuries. Brighton, conceived in pain, would only bring pain in different incarnations to all its people. In the years that had witnessed the fall of empires, the rise of apartheid and then the false celebration of freedom for all after years of struggle, Brighton remained quite frozen in time.
A spell, only a powerful spell, would break the curse. Until then, pain became the pastiche composed in self-fulfilling prophecies of Brighton’s small populace.
Afroze drove past the old mission hall, hearing the angelic voices of the Norwegian nuns that had once cloistered there, singing prayers to the Lord.
For the deliverance of the faithful. The nuns were no longer alive, but their voices resonated through Afroze’s gloom. From a tall minaret, another mournful angel sang out the call to another prayer.
For the deliverance of the faithful. She imagined nuns and muezzins praying for Afroze Bhana, calling her by her childhood nickname, Rosie.
Rosie, who hated coming back.
She found her mother’s house with ease. It had remained exactly as she remembered it. Thirty-six years had not altered the fairy-tale facade. A fake fairy cottage on the outskirts of Brighton. She remembered once, as a five-year-old girl, trying to bite off a piece of wall, wondering why her mouth tasted of salty blood and not of gingerbread. The witch lived in a gingerbread house. The one who had been trying to fatten up little Gretel. Afroze howled and ranted for days after, when nobody called her Gretel. And she howled from the pain of a broken front baby tooth.
The witch. Her mother. Doctor Sylvie Pillay—that witch who performed miracles of healing for the sick and the dying but could not take away a toothache from her own child.
Afroze was 42 now, on the shelf. No longer the frightened child who used to sit on the stone steps watching lines of bandaged and coughing people snake into the front room of the house. The most beautiful room in the house, the one where the morning sunshine flooded in to comfort, and the afternoon sunshine gave reprieve. Her mother had turned the best room in the house into a surgery, tastefully furnished in nonmedical style. The curves of a cottage-style dormer window reflected the curves of the hothouse orchids that thrived in splendor on the windowsill, gorging on an abundance of sun. On the floors, tiny parquet wooden rectangles in shades that ranged from caramel blond to deep mahogany were arranged in starbursts, the wood varnished to a gloss where people could see their reflections. On the pale walls hung two large Art Deco mirrors facing each other, creating a hall of mirrors that didn’t distort into ugliness. And beside both mirrors, Sylvie had sprinkled the walls with framed paintings that were neither landscape nor portraiture, but bright Pollock-styled abstracts of how dreams might paint themselves had they been given canvas. The out-of-place glass cabinets filled with her beloved Swarovski crystal collection stood next to an ugly, peeling examination couch and a trolley of medical supplies. This peculiar medical couch placed among opulence might have disturbed people. But, strangely, all of the doctor’s patients found relief in that room, even before she had injected them.
Afroze remembered the smell of cigarette smoke that had wafted under the door of the surgery. Her mother did not care in the least about the stench of the smoke to her beloved patients. She made no excuses. Her ever-present cigarette dangled from bright red lips as she squinted into wounds or shone her torch down throats. The patients never complained to the doctor; they thanked her in adept Zulu for her healing potions and pills. They left presents of fat, live hens at her door, or baskets filled with dewy vegetables glittering like the jewels of queens in their myriad colors. Afroze would linger near the trellis of nasturtiums next to the always opened dormer window listening to her mother’s rough, throaty voice speaking perfect Zulu, asking and instructing, diagnosing, and bossing her patients into some form of healing.
Her mother, known to all only as Doctor but whose rightful given name was Sylverani, always wore a sari.
Low-class name, that: Sylvie. Like a shop-girl name, that. Why you throw away your beautiful Tamil name? Call yourself English name, but fall asleep in your drunken daze always in your sari. Why do you always have to be such a conundrum, Doctor? Why?
I gave away
my Tamil name, I gave away my Indianness, I gave away my identity because we all were told to be one, a machine. But they watched my defiance in six meters of cloth.
Afroze would watch the morning ritual, folds and folds of pale-colored chiffon floating up among the dust motes, waiting for her favorite moment. In a flourish, her mother would take the folded cloth and flick it upward, unraveling the diaphanous cloud high into the ceiling. Only when it came to settle in a soft pile at her feet would Doctor Sylvie begin the laborious process of pleating and tucking it into a perfectly worn garment. Afroze used to love to stand under the cloth as it fell to the floor. Her mother would ignore the tiny girl with outstretched arms. The girl whose chubby arms perhaps wanted to feel her mother’s embrace but who settled for the sandalwood smell of her mother’s favorite garment instead. It was many years before Afroze stopped dreaming about the feel of silk chiffon as it fell against her skin, or the way the light caught every ripple in the cascading haze before it fell in soft waves onto the floor.
On the morning the telephone rang, Afroze had been fast asleep. Dreaming strangely of tumbling chiffon on her warm, naked body, feeling the almost-nothing fabric between her thumb and forefinger. The smell of sandalwood, the smell of the old cupboard in which the saris were stored, assaulted her nose, and she woke up sneezing just at the moment the telephone screeched. It was strange, the interconnectedness of people, of genes. She knew before she answered; the message had been carried to her in her sleep, across the plains and mountains of her country.
“Your mother is very ill. You must come.”
It is strange, how blood would call to blood when death was flirting.
There was no one outside the fairy house. The walls had now been painted an ugly lavender, and the concrete gnomes and toadstools littered the wonderful garden. Afroze picked her way through the turtles with silly grins, the elves with fishing poles, their fishing lines embedded into a fake pond in which fake fish poked their pouty mouths out of fake water. She stopped only for a second to pay homage to the rosebushes.
Oh, won’t you all just die already.
Despite the arid heat of this lost town, those showy roses had never failed to bloom. She hated them. Their garish redness was the last thing she saw before she was sent away. When she used to sit on the steps watching sick humanity come to the doctor for their balms and needles, she always marveled at how every single patient, no matter how unsteady on his feet, would somehow avoid the rosebushes, the fresh lawn, and the long arms of the gladioli. They weaved and careened but always remained on the cobblestone path, the one shaped like two S’s saying softly, sweetly, snaky, “Simon-says walk this way to me.”
That path was still there. The only addition was a large, gongy wind chime hung from the veranda rafters. It did not move at all. There was, and had never been, much wind in Brighton. Except for the day Afroze had been sent away. That night had been blustery and angry. She felt glad the wind chimes were a new addition. She would not have been able to bear the memory of deep gongs haunting her for years.
The door, still painted forest green, looking ridiculous, swung open with her approach. A tiny waif stood there, holding an armful of sheets. She peeped with large, beautiful eyes at the woman frozen in the collage of the storybook garden.
“Hello, who are you, then?” Afroze said, realizing too late that she had launched into the typical singsong voice adults reserved for children. She remembered this parody voice well. It had followed her for most of her childhood, when she had wondered why adults believed that if you increase the octave and amplitude of your voice, you were somehow less scary.
The little sprite bolted. In a language that Afroze neither understood nor recognized, she heard the girl calling someone.
A tall woman appeared at the doorway; the girl had dropped her dirty sheets and stood behind the woman. Clearly a mother and daughter.
Blood.
“Can I help you?” the woman said, guarding the door with her large, strong frame.
Afroze climbed the stone steps and faltered for a fraction of a moment. She extended her hand; the woman did not take it.
“I am here to see Doctor Sylvie,” Afroze said.
“The doctor is ill. She will not see patients,” the woman said and Afroze tried unsuccessfully to place the African accent. Was it Nigerian, Malawian? She had no ear for accents.
“No, I mean . . . I’m sorry, I should have been clearer. I am not here as a patient.”
The woman’s eyebrows raised and she looked almost ready to shut the door. It seemed as if she had spent a great deal of time sending people away from the fairy house.
“No, wait. It’s just that . . . I received the call. From the Seedat family who live nearby. It’s me. I mean . . . I am her daughter, Afroze.”
The woman’s face traveled through a range of expressions, at least one of which appeared to be wariness, to see this long-lost piece of the doctor’s history. Obviously this woman knew much. About the secrets the doctor kept hidden. With discomfort, Afroze noted that it is very unnerving to meet someone about whom you know nothing, but who by the words on their face tell you that they know everything about who you are.
“Rosie . . .” The woman breathed.
And although Afroze had not been called that name in over twenty-five years, she answered to it. “Afroze . . .Yes, Rosie. Who are you?”
“I am Halaima . . . I live here with Doctor. I look after her. I have been with her for ten years.”
Afroze saw the proud jut of the woman’s chin. She reveled in her care-giving. She felt that the old doctor was hers. Immediately Afroze knew: she was resented.
“May I see my mother?” she asked, stepping forward. Asking a stranger for the right to open the gates to her own heritage.
Halaima hesitated, looking backward into the dark house, as if she was asking the house for permission. Or perhaps she was asking a ghost in the house for permission.
Finally she moved aside and held her palm upward toward the passageway with a swaying motion. In her movement, she smacked the little girl standing behind her skirts in the face. A loud wail for such a tiny body.
“Oh, now look what you have made me do. Bibi won’t stop wailing now, silly child. Oh, Doctor will be so upset. So upset.”
And on cue, a hoarse voice followed by a racking cough echoed down the dark halls.
“Halaima! Halaima . . . why is my Bibi crying? What is it? Halaima . . .”
“Oh pssssh!” Halaima said, flustered. “Look now, what you have done. Just look how you have upset the doctor,” she spat out at Afroze, who was trying to work out how she was the one to blame.
Halaima pushed the little Bibi outside and, in her thick language, instructed her to go and complete her wailing at the far fence.
She turned to Afroze, who was rooted to the ground. It had taken her fewer than five minutes in that horrid garden to return to being the five-year-old naughty child, the one made to go and cry in far fences. Some things remain as they were. And they still smell of showy roses.
Halaima had scuttled back into the house, and Afroze heard a muffled exchange. A gruff voice refusing repeatedly. A softer one getting louder. Her mother did not want her there.
Finally, Halaima reappeared with a swish of her beautiful African skirt.
“Go in,” she mumbled, and indicated with her almond eyes toward the room on the left down the hall. The darkest room. The one where saris floated romantically to the floor.
Afroze walked with purpose. She was an adult now. A full-grown woman with her seals and medals of heartbreak, mad-crazy-forbidden love, sex, salaries, properties, dinner parties, cars, and nothing much else. There was no need to fear anything. She was a somebody now. But why did she almost trip as she entered the dark room?
The drawn curtains were pink floral. That was the first incongruous thing she noticed. Her whisky-drinking, cigar-voiced mother hated pink floral. But as she looked to the little head poking out from underneath mounds of covers
on the bed, she noticed the pink floral pattern everywhere. It was dizzying. She felt the room spin.
“Mother . . .” she whispered.
The woman in a pile of pink and satin seemed frail and ethereal, staring with milky eyes at the wall.
“Mother, it is Afroze . . .” Again she whispered softly, in a voice reserved for rooms of the very ill and of the already dead.
Her mother did not move. Afroze crept closer and was about to speak again when her mother’s voice, in a loud, hoarse boom, spewed lava from her sickly colored bed.
“Rosie! What the hell are you whispering for? I am not dead yet.”
“Oh, Mother . . . I’m sorry. I thought you might prefer quiet . . . I . . .” That harsh croak had melted away all the years of steel, and she was a little girl again, watching her mother light a cigar and throw herself onto the lap of a man who had come to visit from the big city. One of many. She saw the clinking ice in the glass and the gleam of admiration in the eyes of a suave gentleman.
“Fuck you, Rosie. You ruined my body, the day you slid out of me. Now, go and see to Bibi because Halaima said you made her cry. Give her some of your money. I hate to see my little girl cry.”
CHAPTER TWO
What began as an intention to visit for a day began to slowly spiral into the possibility of a night. Despite herself, and the long hours of self-talk she had gifted herself on the drive to her hometown, Afroze felt disgusted but strangely drawn to this house and the women in it. She hated herself for lingering. But she felt that lingering was something she had to do. She reminded herself that one night meant nothing. Only one night, and tomorrow she would leave this horrible town behind—cleansed, purified, transcended, dipped in the pool of deliverance.
Her mother remained on the bed speaking to no one but the bustling Halaima. Afroze had sought out Bibi at the outermost fence, sobbing in the manner that all little children achieve in their early days. Half-hearted sobs. Scratching the dusty ground with her bare foot, she looked up often to the house to see if anyone was watching. When she had convinced herself that maybe an adult was looking at her, Bibi would wail and rack her body with tortured contortions.
