by Z. P. Dala
“He told my uncle to come with him to this town, because my uncle knows about fixing buses. This man, Seedat, he owns many buses between Dundee and Durban. I came to this place. And here I am very happy. Now my uncle, he is buried and he is very happy. He sees that I have my daughter now. May Allah grant him beautiful gardens in Jannat, our Paradise.”
Halaima spoke like a chant. Her mesmerizing voice took Afroze deep into a world of love between an uncle and his niece. Living on the fringes, hiding in townships, waiting for a day when they could stop their hearts from banging against their chests in fear. But Halaima spoke of it in a matter-of-fact way, far removed from the actual pain of it all. Life was good now. There was no need to recall the past. People suffer, good people and bad. The best ones just keep moving. And the best of the best will walk in the gardens of paradise.
“How did you come to live here with my Mother? What do you want from her?” Afroze asked cuttingly, putting an end to the tiny little bond that Halaima had felt forming.
Sathie was right. This woman was cold as ice. Halaima shot Afroze a dark look. She picked Bibi up in her strong arms, Bibi’s gangly limbs dangling out akimbo. Halaima swept past Afroze, her skirt making a dismissive rustle.
“I must put my child in her bed.” Halaima said, walking swiftly away. She turned slowly at the doorway to the house, looking at Afroze again, this time her dark eyes finding and holding Afroze’s gaze. She looked like a queen, lit by the orange light, and Afroze felt Halaima’s strength in that brief moment when their eyes met and lingered.
“Your mother is a good woman,” Halaima said, and then she was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
The morning found the women in the fairy house in a fluttering tantrum. It began at dawn with the loud howls of the doctor. Afroze, who had fallen asleep in the lounger on the veranda, lulled by the dying fire, sprang up, knocking over the empty coffee mug she had been clutching as she slept.
She bolted toward her mother’s bedroom, expecting the worst, not wanting to see it. But she found her mother sitting upright on the edge of her bed, clutching something in her hands. Ugly, gray tendrils. Fronds of weakness. Strands of hair. Barely there.
Again, her mother screamed. The type of scream that was half disgust, half terror. Carrion cry. It was her hair, after all. What was left of it. All falling out, all clumping together, everywhere. Her hands itched with the horror of some sort of contagion. She wondered in her own private rage at how much she hated parts of herself. Even the parts that had left her, and fallen off.
“Halaima! Come, come. Halaima, there is more. Come.” She ignored Afroze, who had run to her side.
“Mother, what is wrong? What is it? Are you in pain?”
Her mother was staring in shock at a long, silvery strand that lay on her lap. She began to moan in fear, pulling at the almost undetectable strand, trying to pick it up. But her fingers shook with tremors.
The situation was getting frightening. Afroze had to do something. Where was Halaima? Halaima would know what to do. Afroze felt inadequate. She did not know any means of comforting her mother.
Her mother began brushing at her body, violently. Scratching at her skin, pulling the overstretched folds until they fell back in red puckers. Every attempt Afroze made at holding down her hands sent deeper howls into the morning. The old woman had gained taut muscles in her anxiety, fighting Afroze with force.
Afroze made a clumsy attempt to hug her, to make her stop. The hug was met with a violent twist that found mother and daughter sliding to the floor. Her mother lying on top of her, Afroze could feel how light her frame had become, how age had bitten holes into once-formidable bones. The smell of her was strong and pungent. Afroze knew the smell of soiled sheets.
Her mother felt no shame. She clawed into Afroze, going first for her mane of untied wild hair, pulling at it with her balled fists. Tufts of dark, beautiful hair ripped out, clutched in clawed, aged hands. Her mother glared at the tufts and her keening intensified.
“The witch. The witch has taken my youth. My hair. My hair. She cursed me. Curses. Curses,” her mother moaned, and the words brought fresh, foamy spittle to her toothless mouth. Her scalp afire, Afroze felt that she was suffocating, and pain made her try to push her mother off of her. But the old woman would not let go. She grabbed at Afroze’s fresh skin, pinching at it, like she had pinched at her own; the pain was sharp. In disgust, Afroze noticed that her mother’s nails were long and painted maroon.
“My hair. My hair. Collect. Keep. My hair.” Her mother ranted, clutching tufts of Afroze’s long hair, and Afroze could not breathe any longer. When her mother’s hands began snuffling her nose and mouth, smelling of musty, old skin and a hated perfume, Afroze pushed with all her strength, and her mother rolled off her and lay panting on her side, her limbs splayed.
It was only then that Afroze looked up to the door, realizing that Halaima had been standing there all along, watching mother and daughter fight like cats in a cage. Afroze saw a faint smile linger only for a second on Halaima’s lips. And then it was gone.
“Doctor, I am here. Are you okay? Doctor, it is Halaima. Come let me help you up.”
Too late. Too little. Halaima had watched the horror for too long before acting. Afroze saw it as Halaima’s cruel calculation.
Halaima saw it as giving a mother and a daughter a chance to hold each other.
Afroze kneeled on the horrible carpet, gasping for air. She reached forward, an attempt to assist.
“Stop!” hissed Halaima. “You have hurt her enough.”
Slowly, in the most caring of grasps, Halaima pulled the frail, old woman to her feet, and hugged her close to her chest. She gently placed the old hands around her neck, and she circled the little waist. In a waltz, they moved to the bed, where Halaima laid her softly down.
She reached for one of the many blankets that had fallen in piles on the floor. Afroze tried again; she handed Halaima the blanket closest to her. It was bright blue. Snoopy danced in a cloudless sky, musical notes dangled in the air. Halaima batted away Afroze’s hands.
“Go! Go now. I will get this sorted out.”
Afroze backed slowly out of the room, only realizing that she still had the Snoopy blanket clutched to her when she sank into a chair in the kitchen.
Bibi appeared at her side. A tiny apparition in overall pajamas. The tufts of her puff-ball hairstyle stuck up like antennae.
“My blanket,” Bibi said petulantly, and pulled at the Snoopy. She dragged the large blanket away, and Afroze watched the girl disappear into the darkened passage.
Afroze had barely caught her breath when, again, like a little morning nymph, Bibi came back, holding a beautiful Chinese lacquered box in her hands. She blinked innocently at Afroze and indicated that she should take it. Afroze, steeped in confusion, took the box from the little hands and immediately opened it. She was met with the horrific sight of hair. In revulsion she shut the box and swallowed hoarsely.
“It is Doctor’s hair,” Bibi said matter-of-factly, the way only a child could speak of something so bizarre.
“What?” Afroze asked.
“Doctor collects all her hair. She says it is for her dead day.”
Afroze opened her mouth to question when Halaima stalked into the room. She picked up the dusting cloth that had been left on the table. She made rapid dusting movements, making an exaggerated theater of the work. Afroze waited for her to say something. She said nothing at all. She just dusted.
In its pristine state, the mink-colored, corduroy sofa cushions covered with thick plastic had to be dusted meticulously every day. And most important, so did the large, overbearing imbuia cabinets with the mirrored inner walls that contained the doctor’s treasures—the beautiful Swarovski crystal ornaments of mythical creatures, strawberries, trees dripping with tiny golden pears, and perfectly cut vases that glittered. Afroze had a hazy remembrance of breaking a swan once. But she did not recall her punishment. Halaima seemed intent on the punishment of
silence. She focused her attention on the room. The museum. Or now, a mausoleum. A crypt filled with the most beautiful things.
“I have brought your bag inside from your car. You must bathe. Sathie will be here soon. You look like a mess.” Halaima said after a long silence, concentrating on dusting a beautiful red-crystal unicorn. It glittered with fire as the morning sun rose and streamed into the room.
Afroze stood up to leave.
“Do not use all the water. Restriction starts at seven and I still have to bathe Bibi and Doctor.”
Afroze nodded like an obedient child. She placed the lacquered box with its strange contents on the table and walked away.
CHAPTER THREE
Sathie’s arrival was again met with a girly commotion. He swanned into the house at exactly eight o’ clock, dressed again to perfection in dark trousers, crisp, white shirtsleeves, and a tweed waistcoat, very much the dandy brandishing his smile and his cane. Bibi ran up to him, clearly in love, accepting the fawning he advanced on her. He made a show of a magic trick in which he pulled sweets out from behind her ear and Afroze, who was watching from the front door, rolled her eyes at the oldest trick in the book. Bibi skipped into the house, loudly singing his arrival, and again from the bedroom there came the flutter of debutantes getting ready for the ball.
This time Afroze didn’t linger to watch. She could not bear to see again how her wigged, limping, old mother melted and flirted in his presence. Afroze had bathed with Halaima’s strict cautions ringing in her ears, using barely half a bucket of lukewarm water to splash her body down. She felt dirty still, sure that the sparse allotment of water she had been given was totally unfair. She had heard Bibi splashing about in a full bathtub with squeals and songs.
Dressing hastily, she realized that she had packed only two sets of clothes. She had not intended to remain in that house for longer than a night. Afroze was just thankful that she had packed her large bag of pills, but then, she always had the bag with her and went nowhere without it. Swallowing her doses of calming pills was a balm to her frazzled brain. How beautifully bitter they tasted on her tongue. So familiar. She knew there would probably never be a day in her life when she would not take them.
“Ah, there she is. The fainting Rose,” Sathie announced, standing up with a gentlemanly sweep when Afroze finally came to the breakfast table.
She saw her mother seated in her usual place, dressed, powdered, and painted again. This time a different ugly wig. But still the same bright lipstick. All traces of the woman who had been keening and scratching banished; she looked composed. Serene. She turned a glance at Afroze, taking in her plain black jeans and white shirt, her bare face and tight bun. She frowned deeply.
“My dear Rosie, you should have made some effort at least. There is a gentleman at the table, after all,” she said.
Afroze looked at the table. A place was set for her at the farthest end of the table.
“Far enough away from the pork, are you?” her mother said pointedly, and stabbed a sausage with her fork.
Afroze did not respond. She slid into her chair and gratefully grabbed a slice of toast. Halaima appeared, placing a mug of strong tea before her. Sathie, who had taken his place at her mother’s side, whispered something to little Bibi and they both giggled loudly.
Afroze remembered her mother hating giggles or silliness at the table. But now she smiled benignly at the laughing pair. “Share. Share the joke, you two,” Sylvie said.
“Oh, it’s nothing, my dear. Just some silly talk from an old man,” Sathie said and absently picked up her hand to kiss it.
“Mister Sathie said that Miss Rosie makes her mouth like a chicken’s backside,” Bibi announced.
Afroze’s mouth went into a natural pout, one she now became very self-conscious about, and her mother burst out into loud laughter. Even Halaima stifled a chuckle.
“Oh, my darling Sathie, what would we do without you? Us boring old girls would probably just wither away and talk about flour and sugar. You are our dearest light,” Sylvie said, turning a flirty eye on Sathie, who puffed up even further.
“Yes, my sweet Sylvie. But truly your daughter should learn to smile more,” he said.
“Agh, Rosie. Always with a pout. Born with a pout. Probably why she is still a virgin,” Sylvie said.
Afroze spat out a mouthful of tea. “I am . . . not. I have . . . I mean, I am not a . . . virgin, Mother,” she stuttered, drawing more laughter from the two.
“Well, Rosie. You could have fooled us. You walk like a virgin, my dear,” her mother said.
“What’s a virgin?” Bibi asked, and this reduced the two lovers to fits of laughter so absurd it was a comedy in itself.
Halaima appeared then and shushed Bibi quickly, ushering her from the table with a piece of thickly buttered toast.
“Not for the dogs, you hear. For you, little Bibi angel. So you can grow big and strong and very, very clever and become a doctor like me,” said Sylvie.
Bibi batted her lashes and hugged the old woman, skipping away to a tune in her pretty child voice.
Sylvie’s eyes followed the little girl until she was out of sight, growing misty and soft as she watched the child. Afroze’s eyes never left her mother. She glared at her in hateful disbelief.
See how you love a stranger’s child, Mother. See how you do.
Sathie looked from mother to daughter, and theatrically cleared his throat. “Rosie, my dear. As a gentleman and as the one who is closest to your dear mother, may I ask the one thing we all would like to know? Dear girl, why have you come here?”
“It’s actually none of your business,” Afroze said snippily.
Sathie, clearly insulted, maintained his composure well, that mask of a smile never leaving his face. He felt the fragility of his place in the doctor’s home shake the ground beneath his well-shod feet.
“She has come to watch me die. That’s why she is here. But here I am, disappointing her by being full of life,” her mother said and waved her fingers at Afroze in dismissal.
“I have not come here to watch you die, Mother,” Afroze said defensively. “And perhaps if the adults in this house begin behaving like such, instead of giggling teenagers, you would know that I came here to see how you were. When your neighbor, old man Seedat, called me in Cape Town telling me you were ill, I booked a flight immediately.”
“Very generous, Rosie. Leaving your fancy Cape Town to come to this dump to see me,” her mother replied.
“I wanted to see you, Mother.” Afroze said and fell silent. Even Sathie had no retort.
Sylvie sat still for a fraction of a second, her thoughts running into places no one could read. And with a start, she shook herself a little and her masklike face reappeared. “Do you want a medal then?” she muttered and stabbed dramatically at her sausage, which she shoved into her mouth. She chewed noisily, in an arrogant show.
“Well, I am leaving today anyway,” Afroze said,” I’m driving back to Durban after breakfast, Mother, and my flight back to Cape Town is at two.”
“Can’t wait to run away, can you?”
Afroze’s eyes blazed now. Anger and frustration bubbled over. The last twenty-four hours bared their teeth. “Enough! That is enough. What do you want from me? I come here to see you, hearing news of your grave illness. I am laughed at, scolded, blamed, treated like an intruder into this . . . this strange world you’ve created for yourself. Well, there, Mother. I did my duty. Which is more than you have ever done for me. So yes. I do want a medal. I do.”
Sylvie put down her fork with a clatter. She stared at her daughter’s angry eyes, her flushed skin. For a long, long while, she just looked at her. Afroze refused to drop her eyes, and returned the burning scrutiny. Two women, a million unsaid words like an electric cable connecting them, alive with the energy of every wild thing that has never been let out of its cage. And somewhere in the middle of it all, the salty, old woman began a knowing chuckle.
It simmered first inside her ches
t, little flutters of a rib cage. It rose quickly into a mighty roar. It engulfed the circle the two women had drawn around each other, the bright orb. Not to raze. To create. For creation begins from a point of light, a crazy, static, rubbing together of two atoms that should not even be in the same room together, energy created from aggrieved matter. Creation. But of what?
Sylvie knew. It was the strangest of emotions. She had never felt it before. But Sylvie knew what this electric storm had done. It had created pride. And pride trumped guilt. It had the power to dig trenches, fill moats, throw wrecking balls at walls.
Afroze felt it as well, though she could not name it. She had never experienced it before. She was young. And she called it “anger.” The name stayed. Anger old began to beat at pride newborn with large, ugly sticks. Afroze felt powerful. She felt it tentatively, as if power was a new feeling in the world. She squared her shoulders and brandished herself, enjoying the new emotion, this virgin dominion in a world in which she had never tasted such things. She knew she had won.
“Goodbye, Mother. Thank you for your kind hospitality.”
She stood up to leave. Sylvie knew that it was now her serve. She could deliver a stinging volley, aiming strong the blow to her child’s head. Or she could place her hands upward and refuse the game. Where is maturity at a moment such as this? The second that defines the course of love or hate that would run inside veins for generations. The cowards turn away. They neither play nor concede. They look away.
Had Afroze lingered for but one second longer, she might have seen the slightest of movements. Her mother’s hand, reaching ever-so-slightly toward her. But it did not happen that way. Afroze marched. Sylvie grabbed her fork. All beauty dissolved. Possibilities were ended.
And yet moments such as this always call for a knight in shining armor. Oh, Charming, where are you, Prince? Ah, there you are. Naughty man. See you looking at the young flesh, the new flesh, the child of your benefactress. Glimmer, glimmer, sigh . . . Oh, but she is such a beauty after all. You just can’t help yourself, can you? That high color finally comes to her cheeks. What on Earth is wrong with me? My Diana’s daughter. I see fire in you yet, my dear. Shall I have a sip?
