by Lesley Lokko
Hélène’s face was turned away from him. For a second, neither spoke. ‘That was some move you made,’ she said calmly, without rancour.
‘You’d have done the same,’ he said easily. ‘Don’t pretend otherwise.’
‘True, but it was a risky move all the same.’
He shook his head. ‘No, not really. You’re unusual, Hélène.’
She turned towards him. He saw that her face was alive in a way he hadn’t seen it before. ‘How so?’
‘You want to win. You’ve led this party for nearly twenty years. We both know you won’t take the presidency, not in our lifetime. You’re a middle-aged, middle-class white woman. You’ll never get the majority vote. No offence.’
‘None taken.’ There was a smile playing around her lips. His respect for her doubled. Her clear blue eyes came to rest on his. ‘But you will. So, here’s what we’re going to do. This is how we’re going to play it and this time, there’s no room for negotiation. As you say, this is my party. I’ve built it from the ground up, before you were even out of diapers. So, be quiet for once, and listen.’
78
Kemi’s mouth dropped open, her fork halfway. She spilled her glass of wine. From her feet, Pablo growled in protest as the drops splattered over him. She stared at the television screen. Solam was walking down the steps of Parliament, two at a time, followed by a surprised pack of photographers and journalists. Breaking news: Minister Rhoyi crosses floor to join Democratic Party. The ticker tape surged across the screen. Breaking news! The newscaster broke off her story to make the announcement. ‘In a move that shocked and stunned the nation, popular Minister for Youth and Sport, Solam Rhoyi, crossed the floor in Parliament this afternoon, joining the opposition party. DP spokesperson—’
Kemi muted the television and jumped up, scrabbling for her phone. Jen’s line was busy. She pressed twice and on the third try, she got through. ‘Jen? Tell me this isn’t true! Did you know?’
Jen sounded dazed. ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on . . . his mother’s been on the phone. They can’t get through to him. I’m watching the television now but they’re talking to the Democratic Party spokesperson. He’s unavailable for comment.’
‘Jesus Christ! His parents . . . his mother will kill him. What is he thinking?’
‘I don’t know, Kem. I’m scared . . . what’s going to happen?’
‘I’ll be right there.’
79
Jen put down the phone. She was shaking. She wasn’t joking; she was terrified. She knew little about South African politics – or any politics, for that matter – save that it was brutal and short-lived. Solam was a government minister. They lived in a ministerial house. Their cars belonged to the government . . . or did they? She actually had no idea. Upstairs, she heard Euan begin to cry. The noise had woken him. Auntie Gladys was already on her way up. For once, she was grateful. She felt sick. Her phone rang again. It was Solam.
‘Solam? What have you just done? What’s going on? Where are you?’ She was sounding hysterical but she was too frightened to care.
Solam’s voice was oddly calm. ‘Calm down. There’s nothing to be afraid of, absolutely nothing. I’ll be back tomorrow night.’
‘Your mother’s been trying to reach you,’ Jen said, her voice shaky. ‘You’re all over the news!’
‘I know, I know. The main thing is just to stay calm. I’m sending over two new bodyguards. They’ll be there in the next ten minutes—’
‘Bodyguards? What’s wrong with the ones you have?’ Jen broke in, even more alarmed. ‘Where are they?’
‘Jen, I’ve switched party. I haven’t assassinated anyone. You change party, you change your job. They’ve arranged for two of their own to handle the transition, that’s all.’
‘Are we going to have to move again? I can’t, Solam, I can’t bear it! We’ve only just moved into this house!’
‘Jen, just calm the fuck down! Go wash your face, call Kemi, do whatever you have to do. There’ll be reporters all over the house tomorrow morning. I need you looking like a trophy wife, not some hysterical nutcase, do you understand?’
Jen was brought up short. A trophy wife. It was exactly what some journalist had called her. Did she know? Did she know what was about to happen? The small worm of fear that never really went away where Solam was concerned raised its head. She swallowed. ‘OK,’ she said, trying to steady her voice. ‘Sorry.’
‘It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I just couldn’t take it any longer. But let’s talk tomorrow. And Jen?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t talk to anyone about this, you understand? Not Kemi, not my mother, not anyone. Just tell them you’ve spoken to me, and everything’s fine. You got that?’
‘Yes, got it,’ Jen whispered.
‘OK. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He hung up.
80
She and Jen were sitting in the living room talking softly when there was a tap at the sliding doors. Jen’s head shot up. She clutched Kemi’s hand in fright. ‘There’s someone at the door.’ She was still jumpy.
‘I’ll go,’ Kemi said, getting to her feet. There’d been three security guards on duty when she arrived half an hour earlier; it was unlikely an intruder had got through. She walked to the doors and looked out. There was a man standing outside with one of the guards. The guard gestured to her to open up; it was all right. She unlocked the door. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, wondering who it was.
‘Good evening, ma’am. I’ve been assigned to the Rhoyi family. Just wanted to let you know. Sbu and I will cover things for tonight with the rest of the team.’ He indicated the guard next to him.
Kemi nodded, unsure of what to say. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’m just a friend. Mrs Rhoyi’s inside, but I’ll let her know.’
‘Yes, I know. Thank you, ma’am. You have a good evening.’ They turned and walked back to the gate.
‘Who is it?’ Jen called.
Kemi let the curtain drop. ‘Looks like a new security guard. He said he’d be working with the rest of the team for tonight.’
‘Oh, I forgot. Solam said he was sending someone new over.’ She stopped suddenly and put her hand over her mouth. ‘I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you that,’ she said, looking even more confused. ‘He said I wasn’t to say anything.’
‘Then don’t say anything,’ Kemi said quickly. Some deeply buried memory of her own past surfaced. Silence had been one of the tactics of the Mashabane household for as long as she could remember. ‘Give him a chance to talk first.’
Jen nodded doubtfully. ‘What d’you think’s going to happen?’ she asked after a moment.
Kemi shook her head. ‘No idea,’ she said truthfully. ‘I actually have no idea what he’s up to.’
81
Iketleng was shown to a table tucked discreetly behind the column. The restaurant at the Mount Nelson Hotel in Cape Town was the perfect place to meet her son. She could be sure of at least half a dozen prying eyes and the odd roving photographer to capture the moment where she either slapped him, threw a glass of wine in his face or both, preferably. She was seething with rage and everyone, including the poor, innocent waiter who’d shown her to her seat, knew it. It emanated from her like a life force, sending waves of static running up through her body; her hair refused to cooperate, bursting out of the elaborate head-wrap she wore, shoved angrily to one side.
The waiter addressed her respectfully in what he guessed was their shared tongue: ‘Something to drink, Mamá?’
‘A white wine. No, make that a whisky. Double, no ice.’
‘Yes, Mamá.’ He withdrew as silently and unobtrusively as possible. She didn’t even have the time to be angry at the word ‘Mamá’.
She saw him as soon as he entered the restaurant. There was a murmur of surprised recognition from the other guests when he appeared in the doorway, all 6'3 of him, dressed casually, as though it were an ordinary summer day. He wore a light blue shirt, no tie, black trousers. He cut s
uch a fine, distinctive figure, she ought to have been proud. Heads turned as he walked past, and not just because of recent events. She was a woman. She saw the way other women looked at her son. But she was not proud. She was angry and ashamed. And by God, was she going to let him know it.
‘Ma,’ he said, bending to kiss her on the cheek. She offered it coldly.
‘You’re late.’
‘Three minutes. I was stopped at the entrance by one of the doormen.’
‘Wanting to know why you’d done it?’ she hissed angrily.
‘No, wanting my autograph,’ he said mildly. ‘What are you drinking? Whisky?’
‘Your autograph?’ She stared at him in disbelief. ‘You’re lying.’
‘Ask him.’ He raised his hand for the waiter. He hurried over. ‘I’ll have the same.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The waiter hastened to comply. Iketleng watched him, her eyes narrowing. There was something in addition to the man’s professional demeanour, some other attitude she couldn’t quite define. He hurried back with her son’s drink. ‘Anything else for you, sir? Not ready to order? No problem, sir. Just let me know when you’re ready, sir.’ As if she didn’t exist.
‘Cheers,’ Solam said, raising his glass slightly.
‘Don’t you dare say “cheers” to me!’ she snapped at him. ‘This is not a cause for celebration.’
‘Isn’t it?’ He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. As with the damned waiter, there was something in his manner she couldn’t identify. He was relaxed, easy in himself . . . in complete command of his actions. He looked at her almost insolently. How dare he? The thought made her angrier still.
‘What have you done?’ It came out louder than it should. Through the damned potted palms and the gap between the columns, she could see people’s heads turning.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his hands clasped under his chin. He did not look like a man with regrets. ‘Look, Ma,’ he said calmly. ‘I know you’re upset, believe me.’
‘Upset?’ She couldn’t help herself. ‘I’m not upset! I’m ashamed, d’you hear me?’ She took a gulp of whisky. ‘How could you do this to us?’
He leaned back. ‘I haven’t done anything to you,’ he said deliberately. ‘Do you not realize what I just said? That man wanted my autograph.’
‘Sycophantic creep!’ Iketleng hissed angrily.
He shook his head. ‘No, that’s where you’re wrong. “It’s far easier to blame the past than to try and fix the future.”’ He leaned forward again. ‘You said it to me once, remember?’ He didn’t wait for her to answer. ‘You can’t see it because you’ve done the one thing you always taught me not to do.’
‘Which is what?’ she spat suspiciously.
‘Not to think short-term. Not to only think about the here and now. To think – and play – the long game.’
‘What are you talking about? How does betraying your party manifest as long-term thinking? Have you lost your senses?’
‘On the contrary. Look around you, Ma. You think the party’s going to win the next election?’ He shook his head, almost sadly, she thought. ‘They’ve lost the plot. All they’ve managed to do in twenty years is line their own pockets, at the expense of everyone else, yourselves included. This bill was the last straw. I don’t need to spell it out. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t kid yourself.’ He stopped. He picked up his glass and held it to the light. ‘The truth is simpler than we realize,’ he said after a moment. ‘This isn’t the party you fought for. It’s been disappearing ever since ’94. Slowly at first, and now almost daily. Once the damned World Cup is over, the bubble will finally burst. The only question you need to ask yourself is this: are you going to take the fall along with the rest of them? You’ve kept your nose clean all these years, and well done to you for having the courage to do it. I know it, Dad knows it . . . they know it. But what’s the point of having a clean nose when the music stops playing? That’s what’s happening, Ma, only you’re too damn stubborn to see it.’
Iketleng’s mouth dropped. The rage that had been building in her all day suddenly left her, replaced by an overwhelming sadness that brought tears to her eyes. It wasn’t just the fact that it was longest speech she’d heard him make in more years than she could remember, it was that deep down, buried in her in a place that was accessible to few, she knew he was telling the truth. It wouldn’t have been her way. He was right about one thing: she was stubborn. It was a trait that had seen her through things that would have broken anyone else. Her refusal to give in or to give up was the reason they were sitting here in the Mount Nelson Hotel today, drinking fine whisky and being waited on, hand and foot. Thirty years ago, they wouldn’t have been allowed on the grounds of the hotel, let alone into the restaurant. So, stubbornness was useful. It made it possible to continue the struggle when all hope was lost. But now? Perhaps he was right. Her mind went back to the newspaper she’d bought at JFK, only weeks earlier. She couldn’t remember the writer’s exact words. ‘There are only three necessary conditions for any society: a capable state, the rule of law and a culture of accountability, including accountable government.’ Something like that. She’d read it on the long flight back home, her neck prickling uncomfortably. Accountable government. She looked at her son, who was draining his whisky. Was it possible that he had seen what she couldn’t?
He put down his glass and stood up. He walked round the table and leaned down. For a moment she thought she would clutch at him physically. He kissed her on the cheek, very softly, then straightened up. ‘See you, Ma,’ he said gently. Then he turned and walked out, heads turning, eyes following him hungrily in his wake.
PART TWELVE
2008
Three years later
• • •
An affair wants to spill, to share its glory with the world. No act is so private it does not seek applause.
JOHN UPDIKE
82
The new house was smaller than their previous home. As a member of the opposition, Solam wasn’t entitled to quite as many perks, which was a relief to Jen. It was just off Oxford Road, in a part of town that seemed to have no exact definition, situated halfway between Rosebank and Killarney but belonging to neither. There was a small, nondescript gate off the main road, a long narrow driveway and then the house itself, hidden in the trees. There was a swimming pool, separate quarters big enough for one maid, and a sentry post halfway down the driveway, which had obviously been installed at a later date. It meant Auntie Gladys could no longer live with them, another fact that pleased Jen. It also meant the various security guards who’d been assigned to the family no longer intruded on their presence every waking moment, although the current lot were a vast improvement on the old bunch, she had to admit. There were three new guards assigned to the family. There was François van Niekerk, the tall blond one with the quiet smile. There was Motsame Dhlamini, cheerful, short and powerfully built. And then there was Sbu Motsepe, tall and thin, respectful to a fault, who hardly ever said a word. They kept their distance, unlike the previous guards, and were always ready to lend a hand with the shopping or the kids’ prams. She could even call on François or Motsame to keep an eye on four-year-old Euan in the pool or kick around a football with him in the garden.
Solam seemed happier. He spent more time in Cape Town with Hélène. Although there hadn’t yet been an official announcement, the papers were full of speculation. Rhoyi was about to take over from Van Roux as the party leader. Solam said little to her, but Iketleng was uncharacteristically talkative. Jen had no idea what had passed between mother and son in those few days after he’d stunned the country by joining the opposition, but their meeting in Cape Town seemed to have initiated a thaw between Iketleng and her daughter-in-law. She’d always been pleasant, Jen said to Kemi over the phone one Sunday morning, but now she was positively kind. And it wasn’t just towards her three grandchildren, either.
‘In what way?’
‘Well,
don’t laugh, but she rang up yesterday and said she wanted to take me to a hairdresser’s.’
‘Really? Her hairdresser?’
‘No, don’t be silly. What would her hairdresser do with my hair? No, some new place in Sandton. She says it’s the place for white women.’
‘She said that? She used those words?’ Kemi started to laugh.
‘Yes, I couldn’t believe it. Anyhow, we’ve got an appointment on Saturday. She says it’s about time she took me in hand.’
‘What on earth does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out.’
Henning studied her with all the intensity of a surgeon about to make the first incision. He swivelled her round in the plush revolving chair, first this way then that, looking at her auburn tresses from every angle. Finally, when she thought she wouldn’t be able to keep a guffaw of laughter in for one second longer, he turned to Iketleng.
‘There’s no way around it,’ he said dramatically. ‘It’s got to come off.’
Jen put up a hand to lift her heavy mane instinctively. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean, you’ve got to cut it. It’s in terrible shape.’
‘You’re going to cut my hair off?’
‘Every last scrap. You’ll love it, darling. I promise. Oksana!’ He turned around and bellowed to a woman who was busy drying another client’s hair. She switched the hairdryer off.
‘Yes, Henning?’
‘When you’re done with that, come over here. Wash, but don’t bother conditioning. It’s all going to come off.’ He smiled at Jen in the mirror and puffed himself up. ‘Trust me. You won’t recognize yourself. You’ve been hiding under all this shit for years.’ He lifted up her hair and let it fall. ‘Time to let the real you out.’ He strode off.
