by Shamim Sarif
Miriam frowned. The girl’s tone was hard to read—at times she felt she was being teased, and at others as though she were being tested.
“No,”Miriam replied, and Amina turned to look at her. “You look nice in these clothes, but you are tall and thin and . . . and nice-looking and you would look fine in anything. But,” she took a breath, and avoided Amina’s intent eyes, “but you don’t look like yourself.”
Amina’s laugh seemed to warm the cool silence of the room. “I’m glad you said that, because I don’t feel like myself.” She looked ruefully down at the gold stitching and the coloured cloth.
“But I have to please a person who, god rest her soul, is not even able to see me.”
“It sounds ridiculous, when you say it like that.”
“I know.” Amina offered Miriam a seat, but she shook her head and remained standing while Amina sat down cross-legged upon her cushion. “I keep looking at the accepted conventions from the wrong angle—and once you’ve done that, you can’t ever go back to seeing things the old way.”
“Maybe you are not seeing from the wrong angle,” suggested Miriam, not sure of her argument but determined nevertheless to hold up her end of the conversation.
“Everybody else thinks I am.”
Miriam said nothing, and Amina watched her, amused.
“Do you think I am right, and everyone else is wrong?” Amina pressed.
“Perhaps. I don’t know what you are talking about in particular. But just because everyone believes something does not make it right.”
“But what people think puts pressure on you to accept things, doesn’t it? I mean, why did you get married?”
Miriam was surprised. “What do you mean?”
“Did you see your husband and fall in love, and know you wanted to be with him for the rest of your life?”
There was a small window in the room, and against the lamplight it was simply a black square with nothing visible through it. Even so, Miriam took a step towards it and studied the darkness as though it were the view she had waited all her life to see. Amina was silent, watching the floor and Miriam’s shoes.
“No,” Miriam replied quietly.
“Then why did you get married?”
Miriam turned to her with a slight smile and a shrug, as though already acknowledging her defeat in an argument that had barely started.
“He saw me a few times and proposed, and my family accepted for me,” she said. “That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? I married him because they told me to. But it never occurred to me, Amina, to question it. I got married because everyone expected me to.”
The uttering of Amina’s name had made Miriam self-conscious, and she turned again to look through the opaque window.
“Well, it occurred to me to question it,” said Amina.
“I know.”
The girl looked down, dissatisfied, and her eyes rested on the opened book which lay beside her.
“I didn’t thank you for the book,” she said. “I liked the inscription a lot.”
Miriam blushed, but tried to sound casual. “You don’t have to thank me. I should be thanking you. You made me think about all the books I had brought with me from Bombay.”
“From Bombay?”
“Yes. I know, it’s a long way to drag a box of books, but my husband didn’t know—he thought it was part of my essential possessions. In a way, it was. I loved those books as a girl and bringing them with me made me feel less homesick. I felt as though I were bringing some friends with me. Even if they were only characters in novels.”
When she turned away from the window, Miriam found that Amina was listening with great care, and her gaze made Miriam feel nervous again.
“Listen to me, talking away,” she said, with a slight laugh. “I am here to give you my condolences, not tell you my life story.”
“I like to hear it,” said Amina, but speaking of condolences had reminded Miriam of Mrs Harjan’s words.
“Your mother wants you to come downstairs.”
Amina sighed.
“Come on,” Miriam coaxed. “My husband would like to see you as well.”
Amina tried not to look too doubtful about this last comment.
“He would,” repeated Miriam. “To thank you.”
“For what?”
“You know for what. For Rehmat. What you did was . . .”
“Nothing,” said Amina, standing up. “It was nothing. Anyone else would have done the same.”
“I didn’t,” Miriam said, and again she was looking out of the window, so that Amina could not see her eyes.
“You warned her they were coming for her,” said Amina, “and because of that, she had time to come to me. You did your part, and then handed her over. We were like runners in one of those relay races.” She laughed, pleased with her analogy, but Miriam shook her head.
“I didn’t do my part. All I did was betray her, and then wait while you saved her.”
“Would you come with me?” Amina said. “I want to change back into my usual clothes before we go downstairs.”
Miriam followed Amina out to the room next door, and waited while the girl pulled the long blouse over her head and picked up a shirt from the bed.
“You think you betrayed Rehmat? Because you told the police she was in Pretoria?” Amina asked.
“Yes.”
“They didn’t hurt you did they?”
“No. They didn’t touch me. They were taking my children away. To the station.” She could see the gleam of Amina’s skin in the darkness, and the flash of her eyes. The girl was already pulling on a pair of trousers.
“Then you did the right thing,” Amina told her. “Rehmat knew she was taking a risk coming back here. There is no reason for your children to suffer because of that.”
Miriam nodded, as though conceding the point. “But then, there was no reason for you to risk yourself either.”
“I am an adult,” Amina said. “And I can make my own decisions, unlike Sam and Alisha. And my reasons for taking the risk were that I hate apartheid and its stupid laws and I hate seeing the police get away with bullying people.”
Amina looked up and began buttoning her shirt. Miriam turned away quickly, conscious that she had been watching the girl.
“I think we should go downstairs now,” she said.
Amina nodded and walked past Miriam to lead the way.
“You know, Amina,” Miriam said suddenly. “I would like to be more like you.”
Amina was already at the doorway, but she stopped at this and turned back, until they were standing so close that even in that darkness, Miriam could see the amusement in her eyes.
“Be careful what you wish for,” she said, and smiled.
Chapter Eighteen
“Jacob,” said Amina. “I have an idea.”
“What is it?”
“Indian food.”
Jacob smiled to himself and sighed, both at the same time. The two of them sat in the café, drinking coffee. It was early morning and it was quiet; the short minutes of calm before the breakfast clients arrived, although today they expected fewer people because of the heavy rain. It had been raining steadily for three days, and the water fell now onto large pools that already lay on the ground, and spread like molten glass over the roads and sidewalks. The rain was warm and smelled strangely of grass, Jacob thought, a smell he remembered from a childhood that had passed fifty years ago. He liked to hear the metallic sound it made when it dripped from the roof and hit the puddles beneath. He listened also to the drumming sound of it on the roof, and felt comforted by the warmth and light in the café.
Amina waited, humming a tune under her breath, watching his slow smile, noting the hand that went up to brush over his cropped hair, a sure indication that he was thinking about what she had just said. Jacob was a man of routine, and generally disliked too much disruption. Amina’s ideas nearly always meant a disruption of some kind, but on the other hand, they were almost always brilliant. He was sitt
ing in the wooden chair that had come to be his favourite spot, by the gramophone that Amina kept running all day, and when he was ready, he looked back at his business partner.
“Curries?” he asked.
“Yes, and all sorts of things. Samosas, rice pilaus, biryani. That’s what we should serve. I mean, as well as what we have already.”
Jacob reached for his coffee cup, which sat high above him on the wooden counter top. He took a sip of the black brew and considered. He knew it was his role to think out the possible problems whenever Amina came up with an idea. Her natural optimism rarely allowed any thoughts of setbacks or failure into her head, and while he enjoyed this trait in her, it also exasperated him at times.
“Most of our customers are Indians,” he said. “Why would they want the same kind of food they get at home?”
“People love what they know. And anyway, I don’t say it would be just any food—it would have to be good. First rate.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Maybe even just one special every day. How about that? One Indian dish each day?” She frowned, thinking. “Or maybe a few dishes one day a week?”
He looked at her eyes, alight with enthusiasm.
“Jacob, look. The men who are working around here, who can’t get home for lunch. Even the women, who want a break from cooking two meals a day. They would all come.”
Jacob looked less sceptical at this, but a sudden thought brought the frown back to his face.
“Our girls,” he said, nodding towards the kitchen, “They don’t know the first thing about making a proper Indian curry. Who’s going to do the cooking?”
Amina looked at him and smiled, in a way that made his misgivings suddenly return.
“Don’t worry,” she told him. “I’ve already thought of that.”
Still the warm rain fell, and Amina cursed silently as the wheels of her truck ground and spun with difficulty up the wide dirt road that was the main street of Delhof. She peered through her dripping windscreen, pausing once in a while to wipe at the condensation with an old cloth.
“What a place,” she muttered to herself. She was feeling uncharacteristically nervous today, as she drove out to try and secure the services of a new cook. It was a Tuesday and she hoped that the rain had not prevented Omar from making his usual trip to Pretoria, for if he was at the shop, she would have an uphill struggle to persuade Miriam to cook for the café. She had overheard some gossip in the café about Omar and Farah—it was interesting how her own community were often careless within her hearing, as though assuming that such an outsider as she would not know or care about the people they spoke of. The talk corresponded with what she had already suspected about his nights away and so, before leaving that morning, she had driven past Farah’s house but had not seen his car there. Perhaps people were being too hard on him, but somehow she doubted it.
In a few minutes the shop came into sight through the misty glass, and she drove slowly up the path and parked as close as she could to the stoep. Even the few steps she had to take through the sheeting rain proved to be too much however—she appeared in the doorway with her curling hair damp against her head and drops of rain on her face and sprinkling the shoulders of her jacket. She found that she was the only occupant of the shop which, on this gloomy afternoon, was lit solely by one paraffin lamp, which cast a pale yellow glow that reflected off the counters. Amina wiped her face with the ends of her sleeves and pushed back her hair.
“Shop!” she called. There was a light tapping of shoes on the stairs and Miriam came hurrying into the room. She held in her hand a baby’s bottle, half full of milk, and she looked at the girl, surprised and speechless.
“You’re feeding her,” Amina said, looking at the milk. “Go ahead. I can wait.”
Miriam only nodded, then disappeared back to the kitchen, where she sat feeding the baby and wondering why seeing Amina unexpectedly should throw her into such confusion that she had stood before her like an idiot, unable to speak.
In the meantime, Amina walked about the shop looking at the items on sale. She felt lighter now, relieved that Omar was not around. She became aware of a soft issuing of music in the room, and looking around, found a wireless set in the corner. She turned it up slightly, and hummed along with a Doris Day tune. “Once I had a secret love . . .” sang the radio, and Amina smiled to hear the words. She picked up a coloured hair tie that hung with others on a piece of cardboard by the till and tied back her damp hair. Checking the back of the card, she noted the price and fished in her pocket, leaving a pile of coins by the till in case she forgot to pay later. She leaned back against the counter, then, and read three times through the headlines of the magazines that were racked in front of her until Miriam suddenly appeared again, the baby in her arms.
“Hello,” Miriam said. She seemed more composed now that she was busying herself with the child. “Sorry to make you wait. I was surprised. I didn’t expect you to be passing here.”
“I wasn’t passing. I came especially to see you.”
“Oh.”
“She’s gorgeous,” Amina said, smiling at the baby. “Can I hold her?”
“Of course,” replied Miriam, and she held the child out. Salma went to Amina, as she did to everyone, without complaint, although Amina held her with some awkwardness at first. She stood looking from Miriam to the baby, and then began to walk around the shop, pointing out items of interest to the child as she went. “Look at the sweeties,” she said, “and look here, here’s a hammer and nails, and here is a cup and saucer, look . . .” The child looked only at Amina however, a serious expression on her little face, and then she leaned towards her and grasped an escaped lock of curly hair in her tiny fingers. Amina laughed and spun the child around. The baby smelled clean and fragrant, and she held the child closer for a few moments, kissing her finally on her forehead.
“She’s beautiful,” she said to Miriam.
Miriam was smiling at her. “I know.”
Amina felt self-conscious before Miriam’s gaze, and she took the baby to the open front door where they stood looking out at the rain, staring at the water while she racked her brain for something to say to Miriam.
“Terrible weather we’ve been having,” she said at last, with such formality that Miriam laughed. Amina blushed.
“You’re right,” said Miriam, containing her smile. “It has been terrible.” She walked over to the counter and picked up her apron. She was caught in the glow of the lamp light now, and Amina patted the baby’s back and watched Miriam, a slight frown on her face. She had never in her life felt so disconcerted by anyone, and as she stood in the gloom by the open door, she examined Miriam as though she were a framed picture on a wall. She watched her slender hands place the apron around her waist, saw the slim muscles that flickered like thin fish beneath the skin of her forearm. She watched the lit face intent on tying the bow, watched the shadowed angles of her cheekbones, and the long eyelashes that brushed the tops of her cheeks when she blinked. Miriam felt the eyes upon her and looked up. The shop was dark beyond the circle of the lamp, and she walked away from the light, towards the door.
“I can’t believe you drove through all this rain,” she said. The baby was restless, and Amina handed her back. Miriam felt the girl’s hands brushing hers as the child moved between them and wondered for a moment why she was so aware of such small things where Amina was concerned.
“I’m used to driving in the rain.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot that you used to do taxi-driving,” replied Miriam.
“I still do,” Amina corrected. “I’m leaving again next week, in fact. To Cape Town.”
“Cape Town,” Miriam repeated, and the tone of wonder in her voice made Amina turn to look at her again. “What is it like, in Cape Town?” asked Miriam.
“It’s beautiful,” Amina said. “Lovely small towns. And the mountains and the beaches. There are some beautiful beaches—if you’re White, especially.” She paused and looked ou
t again.
“I don’t stay there long,” she said. “I like the drive more than anything—even when it’s not picturesque, like the Garden Route, there are always things to see. Even driving past townships, you see all these people living very different lives from your own.”
Miriam held the baby close and thought that Amina herself lived a very different life from her own.
“You’ve been on the Garden Route?” she asked, her tone wistful.
Amina nodded. “Twice,” she said.
Miriam turned and sat the baby down amongst her toys on the floor behind the counter, pausing to touch her soft hair.
“I’ve never been anywhere,” she said, straightening up. “Only to Pretoria.”
Miriam hardly noticed the girl move, but suddenly Amina was standing right before her, with only the counter top between them.
“Come with me to Cape Town,” she offered, and her tone was one that Miriam recognised from before, flirtatious and laughing. She was looking Miriam directly in the eyes, and then she looked, disconcertingly, at her mouth. Miriam pulled back, for Amina was standing so close to her that she could catch the fresh scent of her, a scent that she still remembered well from the night the girl had stayed over. Miriam said nothing, but came out from behind the counter and went back to her spot by the open door.
“Come with me,” said Amina again, more serious this time. “It would be company for me. And we could take turns with the driving.”
“I can’t drive,” said Miriam.
Amina considered this. “Well, I don’t really need help with the driving . . .”
“I can’t go with you,” Miriam told her abruptly. “I have a husband and three children and a shop to look after.” She looked away, and they were both silent, listening to the rain and the blues tune that floated out from the radio.
“Okay,” said Amina quietly, to pacify the sudden irritation, and she sat down on the window sill and looked up at Miriam. “Okay. Anyway, that’s not what I came here to ask you.”
“I see,” said Miriam, although she did not. She did not want Amina to think badly of her, and was embarrassed at her moment of ill temper, which had come of frustration. She wanted nothing more than to see Cape Town, but she was trapped in this vast, limited square of countryside forever.
