Another Woman's Daughter (14 page)

Master Michael and Madam Rita,

When do you visit? You make promise . . .

I must to change my address for letters.

I snatched at pieces from the blue pile of words like a starving animal scavenging meat from a carcass. But instead of satisfying, they only tantalized and teased and made me hungry for more. I wanted to scream out my frustration, my desperation, my all-consuming guilt. I had allowed Rita to paint over the memories of my mother with lies.

I had to go back to Africa. I had to find her. But there was something I had to do first, before I left Britain. I had to cut myself loose from the Steiner name. I would change my name back to Miriam Mphephu by deed poll.

January 1985

Miriam

“International Directory Enquiries, how may I help?” A friendly Glaswegian accent was on the end of the line.

“Yes. Uh . . .” My voice quivered. “I'd like to trace a number in South Africa.”

“Certainly, madam. What city?”

“Johannesburg.”

“Name and address?”

“P. and M. Rodrigues. Sixth Street, Parkhurst.”

“Please hold the line while I connect to the South African exchange.”

The line crackled, then there was ringing.

A strong Afrikaans accent. “
Goeie môre
, good morning. Directory Assistance.”

“Good morning, South Africa.” The Scottish voice again.
“This is the United Kingdom. I'm trying to trace the telephone number for a P. and M. Rodrigues in Sixth Street, Parkhurst.”

“Is that
M
for maple?”

“It is.”

“In Second Street, Parkhurst,” repeated the slow, thick voice.

“No, not
Second
!” I interjected, unable to be a silent member of this triangle.

“That is Sixth Street, sir,” the Scottish lady corrected.

“Juz hold the line, please.”

The leisurely pace of the call was killing me. Even a two-minute delay seemed intolerable.

Dave was balanced on the arm of my chair, caressing my back. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. I didn't respond.

“We have no listing for a P. and M. Rodrigues in Parkhurst—”

I should have known it wouldn't be as easy as a simple phone call.

“—but we do have one listing for that name with those initials in Orange Grove.”

“Please hold, sir, while I speak with the caller. Caller, there is only one listing for a Rodrigues, and it's in Orange Grove. Do you wish to try that number?”

“Yes! Yes, please.”

Silence, two beeps, then ringing.

A woman's voice.

“Go ahead, caller.”

My mind went blank. “Uh . . . Hello . . . I'm calling from England. I'm not sure if I have the right number. Do Maria and Pedro Rodrigues live there?”

My hesitant voice echoed back at me. “Live there, live there, live there.”

“This is Madam Morela house,” said a native African voice.

“Oh. Oh, I'm sorry. I must have the wrong number.”

A click and the line went dead.

Slowly I replaced the receiver.

“No luck?” David said, squeezing the back of my neck.

“I should have known it wouldn't be easy,” I said, pulling away. “How stupid of me to think I'd get to speak to her today I mean, even if I had found the right people, it's been twenty-five years. My mother will be long gone. What's the likelihood of her working for them after all this time?”

I sank back into the chair, defeated.

Dave crouched down on his haunches and took my hands in his. “It just proves what we've known all along. You can't do this from thousands of miles away. You need to go back. You need to
be
there.”

I almost resented his compliance and understanding. It would have been easier to make the decision to leave had he fought with me.

“I was speaking to a colleague at uni today,” he went on, “who has a friend in Johannesburg—a newspaper reporter for
The Star
. He's offered to contact the guy and see if he'd be interested in following your story. Act as a sort of a guide. You can't do this on your own.” He caressed my inner thigh. I shut my legs. “Miriam, Africa is waiting for you.”

“I've done the maths,” I said, standing up. “It's not going to be possible. I can't afford the fare. We're both living on my student loan.”

His face broke into a broad grin. “You're forgetting the lecturing post.”

I was annoyed. What was there to smile about? He hadn't even started the job yet. He slid a hand into a pocket in his jeans and pulled out a crumpled, peach-colored envelope. “Michael came to the university today.”

I winced at the mention of Michael's name, the pain of our meeting still raw.

“He dropped this off for you.”

I'd had enough of Michael's surprises.

“It's a check for two thousand pounds.”

—

Do you know where you are going
?

The orange poster on the tube door hadn't given up on me as I caught the Underground the following morning. This time, though, I smiled.

Yes. Yes, I do.

February 1985

“Please fasten your seat belt, do up your tray table, and place your chair in the upright position.” The air hostess moved on through the cabin.

I rubbed my eyes. My neck ached, my mouth was dry, and my skin felt stale and itchy.

“You were out for some time,” said the old lady next to me, as she touched up her foundation.

The plane's wheels hit the runway, the cabin shuddered, then came the screeching of brakes and we were thrust back into our seats. As we taxied toward the terminal, I pulled up the oval of blind covering my window and in an instant was doused in a shower of warm, yellow light.

The queue of passengers filed slowly out of the aircraft. Too slowly! I was impatient to get out.

The cabin attendant, her lipstick freshly applied, smiled
politely as I stepped out of the plane. “Thank you for flying British Airways.”

Above me stretched an endless blue sky. A warm breeze carried smells to me, at once both foreign and strangely familiar. I inhaled deeply, feeling this new air seep into my body and filter to the ends of my fingers and toes. I hurried down the steep staircase, the moldy dampness of an English winter rising like steam as a dry, baking heat enveloped me. I stopped on the bottom step and teetered there for a moment before lowering first one foot, and then the other, to the ground.

Terra firma pushed back. This was the same soil I had walked on twenty-five years ago. It was overwhelming—the permanence of it. Humans were the transient ones—mere incidentals on this, nature's grand stage.

I climbed aboard the shuttle bus and with a jolt we were headed for the terminal building. Once inside, I joined the queue in front of the sign that said
Foreign Passports
.

Eventually I found myself in front of a heavyset man with lines of perspiration tracking across his greasy brow. Two dark patches of dampness ballooned out from under the arms of his khaki shirt. A lone table fan had lost its battle and was simply stirring up the rancid smell of sweat. I peeled off my cardigan.

The man eyed me suspiciously. “What is the nature of your business?” he barked, his rough voice matching his dented and pockmarked complexion.

“I . . . I'm here to . . .” I was caught off guard by his guttural hostility. I handed him my permit to visit, which Dave, after numerous letters and phone calls, had finally managed to secure for me.

“Born in Elim Hospital, hey?” he said with a snigger, his thick, nicotine-stained fingers paging through my British passport.

“Yes.”

He gave me a long, contemptuous stare. “Where will you be residing?”

“With someone in Soweto,” I said nervously. I couldn't bear the thought of anyone or anything sabotaging my journey at this late stage.

“Fill in the details,” he said, shoving a sherbet-green form at me, then he stamped my passport with a thud. “Remember,” he said, rolling his
r
's and wagging a stubby finger at me, “it is a punishable offense to enter any public place reserved for whites or use any whites-only amenities.”

I nodded obediently and scuttled through the turnstile.

My bags were already circuiting on the carousel when I reached the baggage collection hall. A bent black man with graying hair was heaving suitcases off the conveyor belt as passengers pointed to their moving luggage. A traveler half his age slipped him a coin.

“Sank you,
baas
,” said the old man, his shiny black face lighting up, his hands clasped together in a ritual of gratitude.

I collected my own luggage and followed a white family down the green corridor—
Nothing to Declare
.

A woman dressed in khaki intercepted me. “This way,” she directed me, her painted fingernails pointing to a stainless-steel counter.

She had short, bottle-blond hair and a heavily made-up face. Balanced on top of her curls was a boxlike hat, its upturned brim standing stiffly to attention. A thick layer of foundation had blanked out any hint of blemish or freckle.

My smile was not reciprocated.

“Open your bag.”

As I clicked open my suitcase, the lid sprang back, releasing a burst of cramped contents. It had been a tight squeeze.

Ten minutes later the guts of my case lay spread out across the counter—underwear, an emptied tampon box, a squeezed tube of toothpaste, socks, books, medication, a now unwrapped present of Scottish shortbread . . . Even the jar of Colman's mustard had been opened. I felt as if
I
had been opened up and emptied out too.

The khaki woman made an all-embracing sweep with her arms and stuffed everything back into the case, but made no effort to shut it. “Okay. Move along,” she said, already heading for a young Indian man.

My face was burning and blood was pounding in my temples. “But . . .” I fought back tears as I struggled to close my case. Another official slouching against an X-ray machine looked on absently.

Eventually, my hands trembling and my blouse damp with perspiration, I heaved my bag off the counter and made for the frosted-glass doors marked
Exit
.

As I approached them, I faltered. They were about to slide open on a different world—a world of so many unknowns. I'd hoped to feel an immediate affinity with this land I so desperately wanted to call home, but I realized now it could never be that simple. This country did not want me either.

For two pins I'd have jumped on the next plane back to England—back to Dave and my job, back to Zelda and her kids, back to the life I knew. The country of my birth hadn't received
me with open arms or clasped me to its breast. Instead, in just a matter of minutes, I had been deftly deprived of my dignity. Everything I'd learned and practiced in the study of the mind hadn't prepared me for the psychology of apartheid. How quickly it ensnared and undermined its prey. How quickly I had succumbed.

I was angry, mostly with myself for being weak in the face of these people, but also for foolishly believing the riddle of my life could be solved so easily. Where did I belong?

Then, like the Red Sea, the doors in front of me parted and I was looking into a busy arrivals area, the pathway bordered by a blur of faces.

Miriam Mphephu.

I spotted the whiteboard with red writing hovering above the crowd. It took a few moments for me to realize it was
my
name; I still thought of myself as Miriam Steiner. I traced the sinewy black hands holding up the placard back to their owner—a tall man standing in the front row of the crowd. I had the advantage of being able to inspect him before he knew who I was.

His hair, a mass of tiny French knots, framed a luminous, open face dominated by a prominent forehead, angled cheekbones, and wide, warm eyes. A scar pulled at one corner of his mouth as it tracked down over his jaw. He was wearing a casual cotton work shirt with the sleeves rolled up and collar unbuttoned. Faded blue jeans hung off his bony hips, big dents in the denim accentuating his skinny frame.

I maneuvered my trolley toward him.

“Miriam?” His voice was strong and deep and left me feeling flustered.

“Welcome, sister,” he said, breaking into a huge grin that creased his eyes shut. I was about to put out my hand, when he leaned forward and pulled me into a tight hug. The smell of his shirt—wood smoke and soap—awakened in me a strange sense of déjà vu. Undeveloped negatives flashed through my mind.

“You must be Thabo,” I said clumsily, as he released me.

He gave a deep, throaty chuckle and extended his hand in formal greeting. “So very pleased to meet you.”

I giggled like a schoolgirl, embarrassed at my own stiltedness.

To my surprise a small sparrow suddenly alighted on his left shoulder. I screamed and Thabo ducked just as my handbag glided past his ear. He straightened and looked anxiously over to his shoulder. The bird was still there, its small body puffed up in fright.

Stroking its wings, Thabo smoothed down the bird's ruffled feathers. “Miriam, meet Zaziwe.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” I said, mortified. “I had no idea. Is it a pet?” This was one time I was glad of my dark complexion; otherwise I would have been the color of a tomato.

“Not really a pet,” Thabo said, looking thoughtfully at the small bird. “That would imply some degree of ownership. No, we're just good friends.” And with that, he nimbly wrestled control of my trolley. “Come, you must be tired and we still have a long journey ahead of us.”

So we headed out of the airport building into a glorious morning—golden dry heat, still blue air, sharp white light. In the parking lot we stopped beside a rusty red VW Beetle
bearing the scars of several skirmishes. It took numerous attempts to start the engine before the little car finally coughed and spluttered toward the exit.

At the ticket booth, a man leaned out of a small square of window.
“Skakel die motor af
.
”

Thabo switched off the engine.

“What are you doing?” I was mystified, considering the effort it had taken to start the car.

Thabo put a finger to his lips.

“Goed,”
the man said, feeding our parking ticket into his machine.
“Twee rand
.
”

Thabo rummaged in his back pocket and handed over a crumpled note.

“
Ry aan.
Drive on
.
”

Now free to move, Thabo made several unsuccessful attempts to start the engine again, before finally leaping out and, with the handbrake down, pushing the car past the elevated barrier into a running start.

“What was that all about?” I asked once we were moving again.

“A security measure,” he said. “Many cars are stolen. They check to see you have keys for the vehicle you're driving, just in case you'd jump-started it.” He gave an engaging chuckle. “Welcome to the Wild West.”

The six-lane highway stretched in a straight line toward the horizon, the road bordered by strips of golden grass interrupted occasionally by bands of leggy pink and white cosmos. So this was Africa. Like a word on the tip of my tongue, I could nearly remember it.

“Open your window if you like,” Thabo volunteered. “Natural air-conditioning.”

I wound down the window and a warm, grassy breeze blew in. Zaziwe ruffled her feathers indignantly and took refuge behind Thabo's ear.

“You must be tired,” he said, fiddling with the radio dials. “We'll have lots of time to talk later. Just sit back and relax.”

I was grateful. It relieved me of the pressure to make small talk. I
was
weary, having slept for only a few hours on the flight. Strains of African music filled the small car, and it wasn't long before the deep bass beat, rattling car parts, and soaring morning temperatures lulled me into a mellow stupor.

When I emerged from my reverie, there it was in front of us—Johannesburg—a tall gray tower with a bulbous top dominating the skyline. The gouty finger grew larger and larger and soon our little red car was trapped within the shadow of this skyscraper.

We wove through a maze of flyovers and highways until a sign prompted Thabo to abruptly change lanes. A prolonged hooter blast from behind saw Thabo swerve sharply to avoid colliding with a minibus packed with people.

“
Ai!
Bloody taxi drivers!” he cursed. “They're a law unto themselves.”

I laughed nervously, releasing my foot from an imaginary brake pedal. Thankfully we were soon veering away from the hectic metropolis.

Two mounds of yellow dirt rose up on my right like flat-topped dunes.

“Old Rand mines,” Thabo said, answering my gaze.

The mines.

“I can remember my mother telling me my father worked on the mines,” I said, this recollection coming as a surprise. “I remember her telling me how important his job was. Busy too, I guess, because he never visited us.”

Where was this coming from? Had the landscape so effortlessly unlatched a box in my mind? My voice was shaking and I struggled to maintain my composure in front of this stranger with whom I was sharing my very personal history—history that felt new even to me. It was a shock to face such recollections—recollections that sprang uninvited from my unconscious. But memory was like that. Capricious.

“Gold,” Thabo said. “
Black
gold.”

I wasn't sure what he meant.

The countryside was changing, dry grass giving way to dusty paths littered with rubbish, overturned supermarket trolleys, and abandoned car tires.

“The ridge of ore discovered here was actually low grade. It was simply the sheer amount of it that gave it any worth.”

I watched anxiously as his hands lifted off the steering wheel to accompany his script.

“Extracting the particles of gold was labor-intensive and required huge amounts of manpower and expensive machinery. If the mining houses were to make any money out of the venture, they had to have ready access to cheap labor; I mean
very
cheap labor.”

He swung an arm out, as though inviting someone onstage from the wings. “Enter the black man. Forbid him from living in the cities. Put him in large reserves where the land is barren
and job opportunities poor. Offer him work and accommodation on the mines. And hey, presto, migrant labor is born!”

He slapped the rim of the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. The horn sounded. I jumped.

“Then forbid his family from joining him. That way you only need pay wages for a single man. And . . . wait for it . . . this is the best bit . . . because the worker is a migrant, no need to budget for illness or old age. Throw in hostel living with appalling conditions; make it a crime for a worker to break his contract; force him to carry a pass whenever he leaves the compound . . . Your labor problem is sorted
and
you get rich. Very rich.”

I shook my head, unable to think of something worthwhile to say.