by Shamim Sarif
Chapter Thirteen
There was no delay between the rap on Amina’s door, and the entry of the policemen. The room was fully dark now, and in the shadows all they could make out was a long body lying in the bed. They waited in silence, and watched Amina’s deep, rhythmical breathing. Otherwise she lay perfectly still. Stewart walked around the bed so that he could see her face, and the sound of his boots woke the girl with a start.
“Jacob?” she said, confused.
“Officers Stewart and De Witt.”
Amina sat up at once. She reached for the matches that lay on her bedside table, struck one and applied it to a candle. Then she looked up at the two men revealed to her in the warm light, her eyes still adjusting from the earlier darkness.
“Yes?” she asked politely, as though preparing to take a breakfast order.
“We know she’s here,” stated De Witt, with a tone of authority.
Amina looked perplexed. She knew Officer Stewart well—he was as reasonable a policeman as you could get in this place, but she was wary of the other, De Witt, and his gun.
“Who?” she asked him.
“Rehmat Winston.”
“Who?”
De Witt sat down on her bed, and Amina raised her eyebrows at the presumption, and looked at Stewart queryingly. He made no response, just stood impassively, waiting.
“Rehmat Winston,” De Witt repeated. “14 Boom Street. You know her. She came in here asking you to hide her.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Amina. “I think I would have noticed.”
“We know she’s here.”
“Well, you know more than me, then.”
De Witt leaned in to her. She smelt the acrid odour of sweat and dust on his shirt.
“Don’t be smart,” he told her. He got up suddenly and walked around the room. There was no door other than the one that they had used to enter, and no window other than the one that was beside the door. The only furniture in the room besides the bed and the table—which held a wash bowl, a jug and some soap, as well as the candle and two books—was a big wooden closet built into the side wall. Officer Stewart knelt to look beneath the bed, although he knew very well that it was too low to conceal a person. Then he stood up wearily and waited while De Witt went to the closet. Amina remained sitting up in her bed, cross-legged now, watching the two men. She looked bored and vaguely irritated. Yawning slightly, but audibly enough, she watched De Witt tug at the closet handle.
“Open this up,” he said.
She didn’t hear his words because suddenly her heart was pounding so hard that the blood pulsing through her ears blocked out all external sound, but she knew what he wanted. She swung her bare legs from the bed—she was wearing only a man’s cotton shirt—and reached for her trousers. Slipping them on, she slid a key from beneath the bed and went to unlock the closet. She moved about methodically, her face showing no trace of concern, when in fact she felt she might pass out at any moment from the strain of trying to slow the adrenaline that poured through her veins. She turned the key with a strong twist of her wrist and flung open the door. De Witt stared at her.
“What is all this stuff?” he asked, frowning.
“Extra stock. From the shop. That’s why I lock it,” she said. “You know these kaffirs,” she added with heavy irony. “They would steal anything.” It was the kind of thing they would ordinarily like to hear, that they could chat about sympathetically, but they caught her tone and knew she was mocking them.
The closet space was shallow but tall, and was stacked top to bottom with tins of jam, bags of flour, beans, lentils and other dry goods. In one corner hung six shirts, three pairs of trousers and a coat. The policemen stepped back, and with a sudden jab of his leg, De Witt kicked the door shut.
“WHERE IS THE BITCH?” he shouted and Amina turned away from him. She tried to reach the front door, but Stewart stood massively in her way.
“Just tell us,” he said.
“I don’t even know who you’re talking about.” She attempted a smile. “You know as well as I do that I’ve had some women in here, but this time even I don’t know what . . .”
De Witt’s stinging hand across her neck stopped her from finishing her sentence.
“Stinking queer,” he spat.
A second blow to her body hit her with a force that sent her crashing onto the bed. She lay there with her arms up in front of her, stunned, waiting. Nothing else came. Stewart had grabbed hold of his partner and was pushing him towards the door, the meaning of his shouts lost in the incoherent rage of his speech.
“Leave her,” Stewart was telling him. “Wait in the car. Go on. Go.”
They heard De Witt stumbling away from the room, around the outside of the café, and in a moment Stewart returned. He stood at the entrance to Amina’s room.
“Hey,” he said to her. She was sitting up now. Her neck was sore but she would not touch it while he watched her. She looked down at her hands, deliberately studying the pale outline of the veins, and waited for him to speak.
“Didn’t I do you a favour one time?” he said.
She looked at him.
“Yours is the only place in town where your kaffir workers eat alongside Indians and Coloureds, and you get away with it. You’re on my beat,” he continued. “And I don’t see the point of making an issue of it, so I let it go. I let it go that last time, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“I could have closed you down any time.”
“Yes.”
“I still can.”
“Yes.”
“So don’t you think you owe me one?”
She paused and her eyes looked away to the dark window, considering.
“I suppose so,” she said finally.
“So,” he said, and his tone implied that they both understood the contract just formed between them. “Is she here?”
Amina looked at him, her eyes clear and open and serious.
“No,” she said.
“Do you know where she is?”
She shrugged helplessly. “I really don’t,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded, satisfied at last.
“Okay,” he said. “Sorry for my colleague, eh?”
Amina waved a dismissive hand. “Forget it,” she told him, even though she knew she wouldn’t. “Thanks for helping me out. Maybe next time I can do the same for you.”
“Ja,” Stewart said. “Maybe next time.”
Amina lay quietly on her bed for another thirty minutes after they had left, thinking hard, watching the quivering shapes thrown against the walls of her room by the guttering candle. She hated to be laid low by pure physical force, and though she knew that it was De Witt’s own weakness that made him hit out, her rationalisations could not reduce her disgust at his behaviour. After she judged that enough time had gone by, she sat up and checked her watch. Then she went to the window.
The lights of the kitchen were opposite, and she could see the outlines of her staff, cooking and washing up. She could also make out the back of Jacob’s head as he moved through the kitchen, and she looked again at her watch, and knew he must be wanting to get home. The long days they worked on the weekends tired him. She touched her neck, still red from the officer’s hand, then went and sat on her bed and reached down beneath it for the key. She weighed the cold iron in her palm for a moment, and then she went to the front door and slowly opened it.
Outside, she made a brisk, wide circuit of the land around her room, and the café, peering carefully into the darkness, straining her ears to hear above the scraping of the crickets that at night invaded even this built upon area of land. When she was satisfied that the policemen in fact had left, she returned to her room and went directly to the closet, unlocking it and throwing open the doors.
One by one she picked up the bags and tins, swinging each one over to the recess between the closet and the wall, transferring the sugar and flour and lentils back to the place where they were
always kept. She worked as she had done the first time, in a steady rhythm, and she soon felt warm, for the bags were heavy, and she paused to undo the top button of her shirt. When she had almost emptied the closet, she straightened up and ran her hand down the edge of the back panel of the wardrobe until her fingers found and pushed into a tiny hollow. With some considerable effort, she pulled her weight against it until the panel slid open.
Rehmat squinted up at her, crouched low in the tiny space, her arms wrapped defensively about her. Amina leaned against the side of the closet and looked down at her with a wry smile, resting her forehead wearily on one arm.
“They’ve gone,” said Amina.
Rehmat let out a shaky sigh and looked mutely at Amina, the suggestion of tears touching the edges of her eyes. Without another word, Amina held out a hand to help her, and she grasped the long fingers tightly for she had long ago ceased to feel any sensation in her cramped legs, and needed all Amina’s support just to stand up. Amina supported her as far as the bed where Rehmat sat waiting while the blood began a slow and painful course again through her legs. She rubbed at her calves and the backs of her knees.
“I’m sorry I did this to you,” she said. “I heard them when they shouted.” She looked more closely at Amina, at the fading red spot on her neck, and gasped.
“Did they hit you?” she asked, appalled.
“No,” she replied. Amina paced up and down a few times. “They weren’t bad. Just frustrated.” She stopped and looked at Rehmat for a long moment, incongruously, as though she were a piece of sculpture, there to be examined and perhaps admired, taking in the details of her eyes and nose and mouth. Disconcerted, Rehmat looked away, and asked her quickly if she hadn’t been scared by the policemen.
“Oh no,” said Amina. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”
“With the police?” asked Rehmat, surprised.
Amina laughed. “Yes, I suppose, but I meant I’ve had plenty of practice with the closet.” Her eyes were smiling and Rehmat smiled too, a little cautiously, uncertain of how to respond. Amina took in her confusion and changed her tone, to one that was more business-like.
“I’ll have to get back to work soon,” Amina said.
“Of course—I’m sorry to have caused you so much trouble.”
“No trouble. What will you do now? Where is your husband?”
“I don’t know. On a flight to Paris or London, I hope. I phoned him as soon as Miriam phoned me to warn me about the police, and he didn’t want to leave me alone, but I persuaded him to go straight to the airport and try to get out. I hope he did. We were both supposed to leave tomorrow morning. Only one more day.”
At her washstand Amina poured some water into the bowl, and began washing her face. She turned to Rehmat as she rubbed the soap into a lather between her hands.
“How did you know to come here?”
“Jehan gave me the idea. The Harjan girl, she kept saying. She’s been repeating it on and off for a few days. She must have heard someone talking about you.”
Amina said nothing, and Rehmat continued. “When the warning call came . . .”
“From Miriam?” Amina said.
“Yes. The police had been to Delhof.”
Amina washed her face, her expression impassive. Then she reached for her towel and watched Rehmat as she dried herself.
“So how did they know you were here?”
“The police?”
Amina nodded. “I mean, we’re not related. I have a slight reputation for being in trouble with them but still . . . Why did they come straight here?”
“They must have gone to the house first.”
“So somebody there must have sent them here,” stated Amina simply, and Rehmat frowned.
“No,” she said. “It’s not possible. When I left, only Jehan was home, and she wouldn’t even have opened the door.”
“Where was Farah?”
“At the shops. I was expecting her back any time . . .”
Rehmat heard herself and stopped short and massaged her leg again. She could not look up to meet Amina’s eyes. The girl tied back her long curls into a loose ponytail and shrugged on a jacket with a casual motion of her thin shoulders.
“I wouldn’t go back there if I were you,” Amina said.
“We don’t know if it was Farah. And they’ll worry about me,” replied Rehmat.
“Perhaps,” Amina said, without much conviction. “But apart from anything else, the police are probably watching the house. I think you should stay here tonight. You can read—there are some books over there—and rest. Try to sleep. Tomorrow morning I’ll take you to the airport.”
“I can’t . . .”
“Why not?”
“You’ve already done more than enough. I don’t want to put you at risk any longer.”
“What else will you do?” she asked. Rehmat could not answer.
“Don’t worry,” said Amina gently. “Take a shirt from the closet—I think there are even some pyjamas in there.”
Rehmat nodded. There was a sense of safety here in this small, softly lit room, and in the quiet confidence of Amina’s voice and her calm directions.
At the door, Amina turned. “I’m going to make a call to someone I know who works at the airport about getting you on a flight. But your things . . .”
“Forget them,” said Rehmat. “It’s only my clothes really.”
“What about your passport and tickets?”
“I have them. I made sure I brought them with me when I came.”
“Good. Now try to rest,” Amina repeated.
“I will. Thank you.”
Amina smiled and closed the door behind her and Rehmat began to cry, her sobs a mixture of fear, relief and sorrow.
Fifteen minutes later there was a firm knock at the door. Instinctively, Rehmat froze where she sat on the bed, her stomach a ball of fear, and she tried not to breathe, tried only to listen.
A key was scraping into the lock, turning slowly.
“It’s Jacob, ma’am,” called a deep, gentle voice and she stood up, quickly, light-headed with relief. She was embarrassed to greet Jacob with her face tear-stained, but he did not look directly at her. He walked inside and placed a tray of covered plates on the bedside table.
“Amina sends you some dinner,” he said. “Pardon me for walking straight in but I didn’t want to just hand them over to you, in case the police are still around.”
“Thank you,” she called after him, but he had already closed and locked the door. The act of eating seemed unimportant to her at this moment, and unappealing. Nevertheless, she uncovered the plates and found the rising scents and warmth stimulated her appetite at once. The dishes were all distinctly South African—she had been sent a plate piled high with a stew of tomato and lamb breedie, a square piece of bobotie rich with minced lamb, raisins and spices, and a large slice of milk tart for dessert. A newly opened bottle of soda water stood on one corner of the tray, with an upturned glass balanced on top of it. She poured the drink first, and looked at the food. The bedside table was too small to take more than one plate at a time, so she placed Amina’s books and the tray of food onto the floor beside her and brought each dish up to the table in turn.
She consumed the food slowly and with a strange mixture of pleasure and regret. It was food that she remembered from her childhood—not from her father’s house, where the food that had been cooked was predominantly Indian—but she recalled it from school and from cafés that she had visited illicitly when she was a teenager. Her emotion constricted her throat and made it difficult to swallow, but she ate anyway, because she knew as she finished the last mouthfuls that it was unlikely that she would ever taste such dishes here in her own country again.
It was almost one o’clock in the morning when Amina locked the back door of the café and walked back to her room. The only breaks in the darkness came from the far, faint glow of a street lamp on the road and from the window of her own room, where a soft light bre
athed against the curtained pane of glass. Rehmat must be still awake, or else must have left a candle burning. She half hoped that Rehmat would still be awake, so that they might talk for a while. Throughout her evening’s work at the café, Amina had been considering the events leading to Rehmat’s appearance in her room. She knew that Miriam had been visited by the police, but who had alerted them in the first place? She frowned at the thought of Miriam with those men. She knew her to be shy, but she had sensed flashes of strength in her character, and she hoped she had not caused them to harm or threaten her. What it was about Miriam that had caught Amina’s interest, she could not quite say. She was attractive, certainly, but so were many other women. Amina intuited a quick intelligence and sensitivity beneath the controlled surface of Miriam’s personality, but she was willing to admit that she might be reading too much into their brief meetings. She wondered if her concern would seem justification enough for her to visit Miriam in Delhof. Perhaps not.
Amina hoped that Rehmat would shed some light on the preceding day’s events, but she also wanted to talk to this woman about her life, about why and how she had run away from her family for the sake of love. It was a rare event for Amina to find another Indian woman who had dared not to conform to tradition and convention. She reached the door, slipped her key into the lock, and turned it as quietly as she could.
Rehmat was fast asleep on one side of the bed. The candle that still burned on the table lit her even features with a low, trembling light. Amina closed the door soundlessly, and stood watching the woman who lay sleeping before her. Rehmat was very beautiful, Amina decided, and looked very much like her brother. She had thought that Omar was also good-looking, but in her opinion, his regular, clean features were lacking in spirit. There was no openness in his face, and no sense of the unpredictable in his nature. In Amina’s eyes, these were the qualities that elevated ordinary beauty to something irresistible. Rehmat was attractive, but Amina’s admiration was merely superficial—the appreciation of someone looking at a fine painting, without a wish to hang it in their own house. In a matter of moments, she had buttoned on a clean shirt to sleep in. She had crept to the closet with the intention of wearing the unaccustomed pyjamas, but they were gone, and she assumed that beneath the drawn up sheet, Rehmat must be wearing them. Amina lifted up the edge of the sheets, and slid slowly beneath them. The sound of her body shifting between the crisp cotton roused Rehmat, but only for a second, only long enough for her to turn her head on the pillow, so that now Amina could see her perfect profile.
