by Shamim Sarif
“Like Jacob,” Amina continued, with a half-smile. “He stops me from ruining the business with my crazy ideas.”
“More eggs?” Miriam asked, half standing.
“No, thank you.” The girl remained seated for a moment, wishing to continue the conversation, but Miriam seemed restless, or perhaps nervous. Amina politely looked at her watch and exclaimed at the time.
“That garden will be growing weeds if I leave it much longer,” she said, picking up the plates. “I better get to work. Thanks for the breakfast.”
“It’s nothing,” Miriam replied reaching to take the dishes from her.
“I’ll wash them,” Amina said. “It’s the least I can do after you cooked.”
“No, no. It will take me two minutes. Come on. You have a garden to make.”
Amina yielded the plates, and went to the back door. As she stepped out, she pushed her worn felt hat back upon her curls.
“What time does your husband get home?”
“He should be here any minute.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed, Miriam thought. “Well, thanks for the breakfast. And for the conversation,” she added, glancing at Miriam from beneath the brim of her hat. “I hope I didn’t worry you with my strange ideas.”
Miriam shook her head. “You don’t worry me. You make me think. And that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
Amina grinned at her. “That depends on who you ask,” she said, as she walked away. She raised a hand as she reached her new patch of garden. “I’ll show you where I’ve planted everything later,” she called, and Miriam nodded and stood watching for just a few moments, as Amina rolled up her sleeves and set to work once more.
Chapter Eleven
For the last week, Miriam had not been able to tell exactly what day it was. The days seemed to have lost their particular ability to change mechanically from one to another, and now, for her, they just drifted sinuously together with nothing to differentiate them at all, not even the passing of a whole night. She had long ago become accustomed to routine, to a life where each day often differed little from the one that had gone before, but this was something new, a mass of time that sat heavily upon her, and that had somehow welded itself unevenly into an unmarked stretch of consciousness. She remembered little bits of the routine that had carried her through those long reaches of hours—she recalled feeding the baby, again and again, and cooking dinners and opening the shop and re-stacking some shelves. At one point, she had dropped a saucepan of food that she had just cooked. It had hardly even startled her. She had merely waited for the noise of the falling pan to stop echoing in the kitchen, and had then looked at the spilled food as though it belonged nowhere else but on the floor. Robert had cleaned up the splattered mess, watching her with flickering, concerned eyes, while she had gone upstairs to see to the crying baby.
She was tired. She felt exhausted—she had hardly slept for five nights. She blamed the baby, but the child had cried only once in the middle of each night. Whenever she got up to feed or change her, though, she remained away from her own bed for a whole hour, sometimes two, standing at the window, holding the slumbering child, and rubbing her back soothingly. Miriam had no wish to return to the sleeping man in her bed, or to fall into sleep herself, because her dreams were filled with him—with images of him and of Farah, together. Her sister-in-law was always laughing in those dreams, loudly and without joy, and the noise had woken Miriam each time, leaving her forehead damp with sweat and her pulse racing unevenly.
Her daytime thoughts formed a whirling sequence in her head that gave her no peace. She thought about Rehmat and James, and the way they had chosen to live, and she wondered if, in the same circumstances, if the option had even occurred to her, she would have fought convention and run away as Rehmat had done. She considered Sam and Alisha, how their lives might turn out, and her thoughts wandered to her mother in Bombay, who had never seen her grandchildren. The letters between them were more and more occasional; usually delayed and often lost. She reflected on Amina Harjan for a long while, and stared now and then at the new vegetable patch that lay outside the confines of the shop, neatly hoed and planted. Although Amina had been at the shop for only two days, Miriam had missed the girl’s presence during the past week and had found her dormant loneliness acutely sharpened. When she returned to her bed, it was to lie motionless on her back, her features as still as those on a death mask, listening as she once had during her first months here, for any sign of life in the vastness outside, for any sound to come and distract her from the voices that were crowding in her mind.
For relief she had begun to read through the book of poetry that Amina had left with her that day. It was all love poetry and this, combined with the memory of Amina’s eyes watching her, had caused a flicker of nervousness in Miriam. Something about these poems disturbed her; some twisting image of a rose or a breaking heart would wind its way into her restless dreams, and she would awaken unrefreshed and saddened. There were certain lines that she had read over so frequently that they were imprinted forever upon her mind, and those words would shock her sometimes during those days by appearing to her with a clarity that was strange, but somehow appealing, as though they were words she had thought of herself and was laying at the feet of some lover as yet unknown.
At three o’clock that afternoon Omar went upstairs to get his jacket for a trip to a wholesaler in Springs. Miriam picked up the broom and waited for him to come back down again. Within a few moments he appeared in the doorway, straightening his lapels.
“I won’t be long,” he said, and she nodded and walked with him to the stoep and watched him as he got into the car. He wound down the window and leaned out and she stepped forward to listen.
“Rehmat’s going back tomorrow,” he said. “We should drive over in the morning and say goodbye.” He started the car.
“What about the shop?”
“Robert can mind it.”
“Okay.”
Pretoria. A glimmer of change to break the monotonous days. Miriam returned to the shop and began brushing the floor, her mind on tomorrow’s trip and on Rehmat. As she worked, she recited under her breath the parts of the poems that she knew, the beats of the verse forming a rhythm for her work, and she watched the knots and the grain of the floorboards appear and disappear beneath the bristles, as she moved the brush back and forth in swift, even strokes.
She saw their feet first, as she swept towards the open door. Big, black boots, the tops shiny, the edges laced with red dust from the road. Like the falling pot of food, it was a surprise but she was not visibly startled. She looked up slowly and saw two pairs of legs, encased in blue uniform trousers; then belts, holsters, batons, epaulettes, and two pairs of eyes—one brown, that watched her flatly from above a beard, and one intently blue. She took a step back and watched as the two policemen entered the shop. The blue-eyed one touched his cap.
“Afternoon,” he said, pleasantly.
“Afternoon,” she replied and waited there, still holding the broom. The other man began walking around the shop, browsing casually through the counter displays as though picking through items at a sale. She parted her lips to ask what she could get for them, but closed them again, knowing instinctively that they were not here as customers.
“I’m Officer De Witt. This is Officer Stewart. We need to ask you some questions, ja?” He had blond hair, the policeman that addressed her, and he smiled when he talked.
“My husband is out—he just left—maybe you saw him,” she said, and then she realised that she had not heard the police car coming up the track.
The men glanced at each other. “Ja, we must have just missed him. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s not him we came to see.”
Miriam looked at Robert, who had appeared at the foot of the stairs. There was a raw fear in his eyes, in the set of his thin arms and legs, that seemed to be preventing him from entering the shop. Miriam felt his terror infect her at once. She beckoned to him and h
e walked in with reluctance, waiting beside her, eyes cast downwards. Neither officer gave any sign that they had noticed him come in.
“Would you like some tea. A drink?” she asked, in barely a whisper. Her eyes moved down to the baton that hung at the policeman’s side. Behind it, she realised, was a gun. She swallowed.
“Ja,” he said, looking at his colleague, eyebrows raised. “A Coke would be nice.”
She nodded to Robert who returned in a moment with two bottles and glasses. Miriam said nothing, but gripped the broom handle as though it alone were supporting her.
“A good shop you have here.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
De Witt tilted back his head and took a long drink from his Coke bottle. Miriam watched the liquid passing in gulps down the taut outline of his throat. He gave a satisfied sigh as he brought the bottle down, and wiped the corner of his mouth with the knuckles of his hand.
“Who are your main customers?” he asked.
“I suppose the farmers, mostly.” Miriam cleared her throat, which was tense and hoarse. “There are many farms around here.”
The man nodded, but looked vaguely bored. “That’s interesting. Don’t you find it too quiet?”
“No, sir. I am used to it now.”
“So you like it here?”
“Yes, sir”
“Is your sister-in-law here?”
Miriam felt her heart jump. “My brother-in-law and his wife live in Pretoria,” she replied, as casually as she could.
The officer laughed, showing even white teeth, shook his head and put his hands firmly on the counter, so that he was leaning in towards her. Despite herself, she took a step back.
“There is nothing to be afraid of,” he said. He looked over at Stewart, who had circled the whole shop and now stood before Miriam, by his partner’s side, his fingers pulling absently at his beard.
“Let me make things clear,” said De Witt, smiling. “We are looking for James Winston and Mrs Rehmat Winston.” he put a sarcastic emphasis on the word “Missus” and looked towards the stairs.
“And we have very good reason to believe they are staying with you. With her brother.”
“They aren’t staying here,” said Miriam, and she winced as she saw the officer smile, broadly this time.
“Oh. But you know where they are staying.”
Miriam said nothing, and looked down.
The men nodded at each other and walked towards the back of the shop.
“Where are you going?” asked Miriam.
“Upstairs. To take a look,” replied De Witt. “I think they are here.”
The last sentence was directed at his partner, and Miriam watched helplessly as they ran up her stairs two at a time. She listened to the rubbery noise of their boots, and then to the footsteps above, creaking into the bedrooms. At once, she remembered the baby, sleeping up there, and she ran up the stairs and into Salma’s room. The men had not been in there yet, and she looked down at the child, her soft cheek pushed up against the pillow, her tiny chest rising and falling in the yellow sleepsuit that had once been Alisha’s. Miriam’s hands held tightly to the edge of the crib, and she watched her baby and listened hard as they strode about her bedroom next door, opening closets, scraping the bed back across the floor. She heard the drawers being opened and closed one by one, and she felt a rising anger that they were seeing and touching her things.
She picked up the sleeping child and followed them into the children’s room, greeting them with a look of defiance. The handsome face of the blond, blue-eyed officer watched her for a moment, but his smile was gone. Stewart paid no attention to her, only dropped to his knees to look under the children’s beds, and then looked into the old wooden wardrobe that stood in the corner. There were notches cut into it at about waist height, and he stopped and touched them.
“What are these?” he asked. It was the first time he had spoken since they had arrived.
“The children measure their height,” she said, and turned away. The baby shifted but did not awaken and De Witt stopped to look at her.
“A beautiful baby,” he said. She waited for him to move away, but instead he reached out a large hand to touch the baby’s head. Miriam made an abrupt movement away from him, and he turned slowly and looked up at her for a long moment, as though gauging her response. He took a step towards her.
“Listen,” he said. “You could be in a lot of trouble if you help them. Tell me where they are, and we won’t need to bother you again.”
“What have they done?” she asked, so quietly that the policeman had to listen hard to hear her.
“What have they done?” he repeated. He looked incredulous. “Is that what you asked? What have they done? They have broken the law. There is a law against mixed race marriages.” He explained this slowly and not without some sarcasm, as though the concept might be too much for Miriam to grasp.
“The Prohibition of Mixed Marriages Act. 1949,” he continued, his voice official. “We are trying to make sure people know we mean business. That the law is not there to be ignored. You understand?” he asked.
Miriam said nothing.
The policeman sighed and stood back. He walked about the room. Then he looked at his watch as though calculating something. He turned to Miriam and asked conversationally:
“What time do your children come home from school?”
Miriam felt her stomach drop. De Witt looked again at his watch. “I mean, it should be sometime soon, ja?” He looked at his partner with an air of innocent inquiry. “Maybe we should just hang on and have a chat with the kids?”
“Ja, why not?” said Stewart. He leaned against the wall, as though settling himself for a wait. They all stood silently, and listened to the breathing of the baby. Miriam shook her head, and the policeman gave her a querying look.
“Don’t question my children. Please.”
“But we have to. You’re not helping us.” He watched her, casually scratching his ear with his little finger.
“You will leave my children alone,” she said finally, her voice unnaturally high. “Please,” she added, suddenly conscious that she was talking back to a policeman.
“That’s up to you.”
They waited, watching Miriam, whose gaze went from the floor to the baby, until De Witt spoke again.
“Are they at your brother-in-law’s in Pretoria?”
Miriam said nothing.
“Just give me a yes or no. Is that where they are? You don’t have to say anything. Just nod.”
Miriam shook her head. “I don’t know where they are. How do you expect my children to know . . . they don’t even know who she is.”
“Then you won’t mind us asking them.”
The tone was nasty and heavily caustic, and it shook Miriam into the kind of alert wakefulness that she had not felt in days. She felt her uncertainty, her wavering fear dissipate and she decided then, without qualms, that she would not answer these men and that she would find another way to get rid of them before they got to her children.
“No,” she said firmly, looking the officer directly in the eyes for the first time. “I don’t mind.”
Swiftly, she walked out of the room and downstairs. She heard them follow a few seconds later. She held the baby close to her chest, and stood behind the counter. De Witt followed her there without any hesitation, walking straight to her, quickly, his face hard and set like a mask, and she backed away beneath his stare.
“Where are they?” he demanded, still advancing upon her.
“I don’t know.”
She moved backwards, clutching the child who was now beginning to cry and De Witt matched her steps, following her down the length of the counter.
She stopped, terrified, with a bump that startled her like a gunshot. A display cabinet stood heavily behind her and she was trapped between it and the policeman. He smiled tiredly and leaned forward, one muscular arm placed on either side of her head, his solid palms pressed flat against t
he cabinet. The baby cried, and she hugged the tiny body closer to her neck. His blue eyes were no more than two inches from her wide brown ones, and she turned her head away. She watched his forearms, forming a barrier on either side of her, saw the muscles taut beneath the tanned skin and the raised blond hairs that covered them. He spoke harshly and very quickly:
“Are they in Pretoria?”
“No.”
“Then where are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are they?” he shouted
“I don’t know.”
“WHERE ARE THEY?” he yelled, and she felt droplets of his saliva spray onto her face.
Miriam said nothing. Her eyes were tightly shut and the baby was screaming. The policeman moved his reddened face even closer, so that when she breathed she was forced to inhale his own hot breath.
“Do you really want me to ask your kids?”
She opened her eyes, moving the baby up and down in a poor effort to soothe it, and watched his red, violent face and his cold eyes only inches away from hers. She imagined that face close to her daughter’s, but she felt no real sense of fear now, only a disgust and loathing for this boorish man before her. She looked directly into his blue eyes, noticing the thin red veins that crept out from his irises, and then she spoke:
“You’ll never find them.” Her tone was firm but quiet. “Just leave us alone now.”
The policeman’s eyes grew wider—he looked stunned. From the corner of her eye, and with some relief, Miriam saw his partner step forward and place a restraining hand on his shoulder. De Witt paused a moment, his arms still up against the wall, trapping Miriam and the baby, and then he stepped back and turned and walked out to the kitchen. His partner waited in silence. There was no sound for a few moments, and then came a crash of furniture that made Miriam jump. She paced up and down, rubbing the baby’s back, listening to the din that now issued in a continuous stream from her kitchen. Plates were being thrown—it sounded like every last one of them was being smashed—and she heard four loud thumps that she thought must be chairs being kicked over. A clatter of metal followed, and she knew her saucepans of freshly made food were now lying on the floor.
