City of Golden Shadow, Page 57

  Good heavens, Papa, will you quit complaining?"

  "I'm not complaining, girl. I'm just asking."

  "Over and over again." Renie took a breath, then bent to try to pull the strap tight on the suitcase again. Few of their possessions had survived the fire, and the confusion of recent events had left Renie no time for shopping, but they still seemed to have more things than they did storage. "We're not safe here in this shelter. Anyone can find us. I've told you a hundred times, Papa, we're in danger."

  "That's the damned silliest thing I ever heard." He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head as if to banish the whole concept into the oblivion it deserved.

  Renie fought a powerful urge to give up, to stop fighting. Maybe she should just sit down beside her father and join him in wishing the real world away. There was a freedom in being obstinate, the freedom of ignoring unpleasant truths. But someone finally had to acknowledge those truths—and that someone was usually her.

  She sighed. "Get up, you old troublemaker. Jeremiah's going to be here any moment."

  "I'm not going nowhere with no girly-man."

  "Oh, for God's sake." She bent over, pulled the strap tight across the straining suitcase, and secured it on the magnetic tab. "If you say one stupid thing to Jeremiah, just one stupid thing, I'm going to leave you and your bloody suitcase by the side of the road."

  "What kind of way is that to talk to your father?" He glowered at her from under his brows. "That man attacked me. He tried to strangle my throat."

  "He came looking for me in the middle of the night and you two had a fight. You were the one who went and got a knife."

  "That's right." Long Joseph's face brightened. "Hoo-hoo, that's right. And I was going to cut him up for damn good, too. Teach him to come sneaking round my place."

  Renie sighed again. "Just remember, he's doing us a big favor. I'm on half-pay while I'm suspended, Papa, remember? So we're lucky to find somewhere to go at all. There isn't supposed to be anyone living in that house until they sell it. Do you understand that? Jeremiah could get in trouble, but he wants to help me track down the people who did this to Susan, so he's helping us."

  "Okay, okay." Long Joseph waved his hand, indicating that as usual, she was underestimating his social graces. "But if he comes sneaking in my room at night and try to get mannish with me, I knock off his head."

  "It's all new." Jeremiah pointed to the mesh fence that now surrounded the house. "The doctor's nephew decided to improve the security. He thinks it will make it easier to sell the place." His pursed lips made it clear what he thought of these absentee landlords. "So you should be safe. Very high-tech thing, this security system. Top of the line."

  Renie privately had doubts that the kind of people they seemed to be up against would have any problems getting through even top-of-the-line domestic security, but she kept them to herself. It was certainly an improvement over the shelter.

  "Thank you, Jeremiah. I can't tell you how grateful we are. We really had no friends or family to go to. Papa's older sister died two years ago, and his other sister lives in England."

  "Wouldn't give you a stick to scratch your back, that one," grumbled Long Joseph. "I wouldn't take nothing from her, anyway."

  The security gate hissed shut behind the car as they entered the semicircular drive. Renie's father looked up at the house with sullen amazement. "God Almighty, look at that. That's not a house, it's a hotel. Only white people have a house like that—you have to stand on the back of the black man to own a place so big."

  Jeremiah hit the brakes, skidding more than a few inches along the gravel drive. He turned in the seat and stared back at Long Joseph, his long features pinched in a scowl. "You are talking like an idiot, man. You don't know anything about it."

  "I know an Afrikaaner mansion when I see one."

  "Doctor Van Bleeck never did anything but good for anyone." Tears were welling in Jeremiah Dako's eyes. "If you're going to say things like that, you can find somewhere else to stay."

  Renie winced, embarrassed and angry. "Papa, he's right. You're talking like an idiot. You didn't know Susan and you don't know anything about her. We're coming to her house because she was my friend and because Jeremiah is doing us a kindness."

  Long Joseph raised his hands in martyred innocence. "My God, you people get touchy. I didn't say nothing against your doctor lady, I just said that's a white people's house. You a black man—don't tell me you think white people have to work hard as a black man."

  Jeremiah stared at him for a moment, then swung around again and inched the car forward to the front of the stoep. "I'll get your bags out of the boot," he said.

  Renie glared at her father for a moment, then got out to help.

  Jeremiah took them upstairs, showed them to a pair of bedrooms and pointed out the bathroom. Renie thought that her room, its walls papered in a faded design of cavorting rag dolls, must have been intended for a child, although the Van Bleecks had never had one. She had never thought much about Susan's childlessness, but now she wondered if it had been a greater sorrow than the doctor had let on.

  She poked her head into her father's room. He was sitting on the bed, examining the antique furniture with suspicion. "Maybe you should lie down and have a nap. Papa." She deliberately made it more of an order than a request. "I'll make some lunch. I'll call you when it's ready."

  "I don't know if I can get comfortable. Big old empty house like this. I can try, I guess."

  "You do that." She shut the door and stood for a moment, letting her irritation subside. She let her gaze slide along the walls, the wide, high-ceilinged hall.

  Stephen would love this, she thought. The thought of him bouncing excitedly down the hallway, exploring this new place, suddenly made her almost dizzy with loss. She swayed, her eyes stinging with tears, and had to clutch the banister. Minutes passed before she felt composed enough to descend to the kitchen and apologize for her father's behavior.

  Jeremiah, who was polishing an already gleaming pan, waved her explanations away. "I understand. He's just like my father. That man never had a good thing to say about anyone."

  "He's not that bad," Renie said, wondering if that were in fact true. "He's just had a hard time of it since my mother died."

  Dako nodded, but did not seem convinced. "I'm picking up your friend later tonight. I'll be happy to make dinner for you all."

  "Thank you, Jeremiah, but you don't need to do that." She hesitated, wondering at the look of disappointment on his face. Perhaps he, too, was lonely. She knew of no other people in his life besides Susan Van Bleeck and his mother, and Susan was gone. "You've done us so many favors, I feel like I should cook for you tonight."

  "You're going to mess around in my kitchen?" he asked sourly, only half-joking.

  "With your permission. And with any advice you want to give gladly taken."

  "Hmmm. We'll see."

  It was a long walk between the kitchen and the living room, and Renie did not know where the light switches were. She made her way with great care down halls lit only by the thin orange light leaking in through the high windows from outside, trying to keep the ceramic lid on the casserole dish despite hands made clumsy by potholders. The darkness seemed a tangible, powerful thing, an old thing, the security lights an inadequate human response.

  She swore as she banged her knee against an almost invisible table, but the reassuring noise of the others came drifting down the hallway. There was always something on the other end of darkness, wasn't there?

  Jeremiah and her father were making brittle conversation about the rich neighborhood of Kloof that surrounded them. !Xabbu, who had arrived with all of his worldly possessions in one small, cheap suitcase, looked up from his study of Susan's cave-painting photograph.

  "Renie, I heard you strike against something. Are you hurt?"

  She shook her head. "Just a bump. I hope you all have your appetites."

  "Did you find what you needed in the kitchen?" Jeremiah cocked
an eyebrow. "Break anything?"

  Renie laughed. "Nothing but my pride. I've never seen so many cooking things in my life. I feel inadequate. I only used one dish and a couple of pans."

  "Don't talk yourself down, girl," said her father sternly. "You a real good cook."

  "I used to think so, until I saw Jeremiah's kitchen. Making my little chicken casserole there was kind of like hiking into the middle of the Kalahari just to dry your clothes."

  !Xabbu laughed at this, a delighted gurgle that even made Jeremiah grin.

  "Ah, well," she said, "everybody, hand me your plates."

  Jeremiah and Renie were finishing the bottle of wine. Her father and !Xabbu had been sampling beers out of the cold pantry, although Long Joseph seemed to be getting a disproportionate share. Jeremiah had built a fire in the wide stone fireplace, and they had turned most of the other lights out, so that the light in the wide living room wavered and danced. But for the murmuring of the fire, the last minute had passed in silence.

  Renie sighed. "This has been such a nice evening. It would be so easy to forget all the things that have happened and just relax . . . let go. . . ."

  "You see, girl, that's your problem," her father said. "Relax, yes. That's exactly what you must do. You always worrying, worrying." Surprisingly, he turned to Jeremiah as though for support. "She work herself too hard."

  "It's not that easy, Papa. Remember, we're not here because we want to be. Somebody burned down our flatblock. Some other people . . . attacked Susan. No, let's be honest. They murdered her." She cut a quick glance toward Jeremiah, who was staring at the fire, his long face somber. "We know a little about the people who seem to be responsible, but we can't get to them—not in real life, because they're too rich and too powerful, and probably not by stealth either. Even if Mister Singh—that's the old man, Papa, the programmer—knows what he's talking about, and we need to investigate this big network they've built, I don't see where I fit in anyway. I don't have the equipment to stay online long enough to get through the kind of security they must have for this . . . Otherland." She shrugged. "I'm feeling pretty hopeless about where to go from here."

  "Did they smash up everything of the doctor's you could use?" Jeremiah asked. "I'm still not sure I understand everything you've told me, but I know that Doctor Van Bleeck would say you were welcome to anything that would help you."

  Renie smiled sadly. "You saw what they did to her lab. Those bastards made sure there wouldn't be anything left anyone could use."

  Her father snorted angrily. "That is the way. That is always the way. We throw the Afrikaaner bastards out of the government and the black man still can't get no justice. Nobody will help my boy! My . . . Stephen!" His voice abruptly cracked, and he brought one of his large callused hands to his face before turning away from the fire.

  "If anyone can find a way to help him, then your daughter can," !Xabbu said firmly. "She has a strong spirit, Mister Sulaweyo."

  Renie was surprised by the certainty of his words, but the small man would not meet her gaze. Her father made no reply.

  Jeremiah opened a second bottle of wine, and the talk slowly and somewhat awkwardly turned to other things. Then Long Joseph began quietly to sing. Renie was at first only conscious of it as a low tone on the edge of her attention, but gradually it became louder.

  "Imithi goba kahle, ithi, ithi Kunyakazu ma hlamvu Kanje, kanje Kanje, kanje"

  It was an old Zulu nursery song, something Long Joseph had learned from his grandmother, a lilting, repetitive melody as gentle as the wind it described. Renie had heard it before, but not for a long time.

  "All the trees are bending, This way, now that way, All the leaves are shaking This way and that This way and that."

  A memory from her childhood surged up, from a time before Stephen had been born, when she and her mother and father had taken the bus to visit her aunt in Ladysmith. She had felt sick to her stomach, and had huddled against her mother while her father had sung to her, and not just the Kanje Kanje song. She remembered pretending to be sick even after she felt better, just to keep him singing.

  Long Joseph was swaying gently from side to side as his fingers tapped out a spidery rhythm against his thighs.

  "Ziphumula kanjani na Izinyone sidle keni" "See them resting On this sunny day Those lovely birds In their happy homes. . . ."

  From the corner of her eye, Renie saw something moving, !Xabbu had begun to dance before the fire, bending and straightening in time to Long Joseph's song, his arms held out, stiff and angled, then brought back to his sides. The dance had a curious rhythm that was at once strange and soothing.

  "Imithi goba kahle, ithi, ithi Kunyakazu ma hlamvu Kanje, kanje Kanje, kanje" "Children, children, children come home Children, children, children come home Children, children, children come home. . . ."

  The song went on for a long time. At last her father trailed off, then looked around the firelit room, shaking his head as though he surfaced from a waking dream.

  "That was very, very nice, Papa." She spoke slowly, fighting the wine-and-dinner thickness in her head: she didn't want to say the wrong thing. "It's good to hear you sing. I haven't heard you do that in a long time."

  He shrugged, a little embarrassed, then laughed sharply. "Well, this man here has brought us to this big house, and my daughter cooked the supper. I figured it was my turn to pay for my keep."

  Jeremiah, who had turned from the fire to listen, nodded soberly, as though approving the transaction.

  "It reminded me of that time we went to Aunt Tema's. Do you remember?"

  He grunted."Woman had a face like a bad road. Your mama got all the looks in that family." He stood. "Going to get another beer."

  "And your dancing was wonderful as well," Renie told !Xabbu. She wanted to ask a question, but hesitated, afraid she might sound patronizing. God, she thought, I have to be an anthropologist just to talk to my father and my friend. No, that's not true—!Xabbu is a lot harder to insult. "Was that a particular dance?" she finally asked. "I mean, does it have a name? Or were you just dancing?"

  The small man smiled, his eyes crinkling almost shut. "I danced some of the steps of the Dance of the Greater Hunger."

  Long Joseph returned with two bottles and offered the second one to !Xabbu, who shook his head. Long Joseph sat down, a bottle in each hand, satisfied with the way his good manners had been rewarded. The small man stood up and walked to the photograph on the wall and traced one of the bright-painted figures with his finger, then turned. "We have two hunger dances. One is the Dance of the Little Hunger. That is the hunger of the body, and we dance it to ask for patience when our stomachs are empty. But when we are full, we do not need that dance—in fact, it would be discourteous after such good food as we had tonight." He smiled at Renie. "But there is a hunger that is not solved by filling your belly. Not the meat of the fattest eland, not the juiciest ant eggs can cure it."

  "Ant eggs?" said Long Joseph in exaggerated tones of outrage. "You eat eggs from a bug?"

  "I have eaten them many times," !Xabbu wore a slight smile. "They are soft and sweet."

  "Don't even say it." Long Joseph scowled. "Make me sick just to think about it."

  Jeremiah stood and stretched. "But it's not crazy to eat bird eggs? Fish eggs?"

  "Speak for yourself. I don't eat no fish eggs. As for bird eggs, just from chickens, and that is a natural thing."

  "When you live in the desert, you cannot avoid anything that can be safely eaten, Mister Sulaweyo." !Xabbu's sly smile grew. "But there are some things we like better than others, of course. And ant eggs are one of our favorites."

  "Papa's just a snob," Renie explained. "And for all the wrong reasons. Tell me more about the dance, please. About the . . . Greater Hunger."

  "Call me what you want, girl," her father said with an air of magisterial finality. "Just don't put none of them on my plate."

  "All people know the Greater Hunger." !Xabbu pointed to the figures in the rock-painting. "Not only
the people dancing here, but the person who painted the dancers and all who have looked at the painting. It is the hunger for warmth, for family, for connection to the stars and the earth and other living things. . . ."

  "For love?" Renie asked.

  "Yes, I suppose that could be true." !Xabbu was thoughtful. "My people would not say it that way. But if you use the word to mean the thing that makes us glad of other people, which makes being together better than being alone, then yes. It is a hunger for the part of a person which cannot be filled by meat or drink."

  Renie wanted to ask him why he had chosen that dance to perform, but felt it might be rude. Despite his robustness of body and spirit, there was something about the small man that made Renie feel clumsily protective. "It was a very nice dance," she said at last "A fine thing."

  "Thank you. It is good to dance among friends."

  A not uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Renie decided it would be all right if she left the dishes until the next day and got up to go to bed. "Thank you, Jeremiah, for taking us in."

  Jeremiah Dako nodded, not looking up. "It's fine. You are welcome."

  "And Papa, thank you for the song."

  He looked up at her, a strange, half-yearning look on his face, then laughed. "I'm just trying to pull my weight, girl."

  She floated in and out of a half-doze, fretful and restless, knowing that there were too many problems without solutions to waste precious rest, but unable to do anything about it: sleep and its welcome oblivion stayed exasperatingly beyond reach. At last she surrendered and sat up. She switched on the lights, then switched them off again, preferring darkness. Something that !Xabbu had said kept coming back to her, running through her disordered thoughts like the chorus of a popular song: . . . the thing that makes us glad of other people, which makes being together better than being alone.

  But what could she and a few others hope to do in a situation like this? And why did it have to be her in the first place—why didn't anyone else ever take responsibility?