Forgive Me (10 page)

“Mr. and Mrs. Krispin Irving,” said Abdul.

“And, um, Nadine Morgan,” Nadine said, leaning forward.

“Oh yes, Irving,” said the man in the pith helmet. “Of course, of course.” He waved them inside, and Abdul put the car in gear. Past the gate, the road was brick and lined with palm trees. The clatter and noise of the city faded as Abdul drove into an oasis of picture-perfect calm.

The Victoria was made up of many pink buildings, some with private pools, some with balconies. Abdul pulled up to the main lobby, where three men in uniforms waited. “Good morning,” said one, opening the door of the Mercedes. Another man grabbed luggage from the back of the car, and the third simply stood by, hands folded across his chest. “I will leave you now,” announced Abdul. “I will take you to dinner tonight at seven
PM
.”

“Lovely,” said Sophia, “We’ll see you then.” She turned to Nadine. “Good-bye,” she said firmly. “Have a nice visit. Krispin, I’ll see you inside. I do not want you to have anything further to do with this reporter. I hope I make myself clear.”

“Sophia,” said Krispin.

Sophia was shaking with rage. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath. Then, eyes open, she spoke to her husband. “I came here at your request,” she said, spitting the words. “I am going to face the animals who killed my son. For you, Krispin. I don’t want to be here.” Her voice rose, and her shoulders shuddered. “
I don’t want to be here,
do you hear me?
I will never forgive the—
” She stopped and covered her face with her hands. After a moment, she regained her composure, and let them drop. “I deserve to ask for something,” she said.

Nadine opened her mouth, but Sophia walked away, passing through the hotel doors.

“Mr. Irving,” Nadine said.

“I’m sorry,” said Krispin. “I’m not going to be able to speak with you. Good luck, Ms. Morgan.”

“Mr. Irving,” said Nadine, feeling her story drain away. “If you’d just meet me for a drink…”

“Didn’t you hear her?” said Krispin, looking at Nadine with pity.

“But,” said Nadine, “we could…there’s a coffee shop…”

“I said no. I’m sorry,” said Krispin, turning away.

Nadine stood with her duffel between her legs. “You are not the child of the Irvings?” said Abdul.

“No,” said Nadine. “The Irvings’ child is dead. He was killed here, in Cape Town.”

“Jason Irving,” said Abdul. “I should have known.”

“Yes,” Nadine said.

“Do you need to go somewhere, ma’am?” asked Abdul.

“No,” Nadine said. “I’ll stay here. I can call a taxi if I need one.”

Abdul looked at Nadine blankly. “You cannot take another taxi,” he said. “It is very dangerous.”

“Okay,” Nadine said.

“Listen to me, ma’am,” said Abdul. “You cannot walk outside the Victoria. You will be at risk. Street children. They sniff the glue.”

“Okay, thanks,” Nadine said, opening her wallet and handing Abdul a five-dollar bill.

“You don’t listen,” said Abdul, “but you should listen.”

Nineteen

N
adine walked into the cavernous lobby, the porter wheeling her duffel before her on a large brass stand. The lobby smelled of eggs, bacon, and Pledge. A white woman behind the front desk looked up as Nadine entered. The woman was flanked by huge floral arrangements. “Good morning,” she said cheerily. “Nice flight, hey?” Her accent, almost Dutch, was Afrikaans. Most whites in South Africa were either Afrikaans, descendants of Dutch settlers, or
soutpiels,
“salt penises”: descendants of English settlers with one foot in Europe, one in Africa, and their
piel
hanging in the salty sea. Maxim’s family was Afrikaans.

“It was long,” Nadine said.

“How many hours?” asked the woman. Her name tag read
JO
-
HANNA
.

“Twenty-one to Johannesburg,” Nadine said, “a layover, and then three hours here.” Nadine looked at the Tanzanite jewelry in a lit-up glass case on the wall. A plaque read,
VISIT OUR GIFT SHOP
.

“Is it!” said Johanna, shaking her head. “Are you checking in, then?”

“Yes,” said Nadine, placing her MasterCard in front of Johanna’s manicured nails. “The least expensive room available, please.” She would have to call Eugenia, beg for her expenses. Ian had been clear in his refusal to send her abroad until spring.

“We’re out of superior rooms,” said Johanna. “For the same rate, I shall give you a luxury suite.”

“You know,” Nadine said, “that’s the best thing to happen to me in a very long time.”

“I’m so happy,” said Johanna.

T
he elevator was a tiny library filled with books on two sides. They were leather-bound classics. Nadine touched
Othello,
tried to pull it off the wall, and found that the books were glued together, fake.

Her suite was bright and sumptuous, with elephant and tiger prints on the wall. The giant bed had a canopy spilling over it; when Nadine looked closer, she saw that the rich fabric was patterned with men smoking opium pipes.

In the suite, an arrangement of flowers, giant eggs with stubby petals, had been placed in a crystal vase. They were proteas, the national flower.

Nadine ran the taps of her enormous bathtub and stripped off her travel clothes, piling them next to the bed. She put Jason Irving’s journal on the mahogany desk by the window. Nadine knew she should begin working the phone now that the Irvings were refusing to talk. She sank into bubbles, willing herself to think about new angles, possible contacts.

Instead, she thought of Hank. She wanted to have him next to her, to pull his solid body into her arms. She had convinced herself she was happy alone for so many years, but now the lie was plain. What was the point of a giant tub—Nadine could stretch both her legs out completely—without someone to slide in beside her? The slow contentment Nadine had felt in Hank’s house was gone now, and she was left with the unmoored, nervous feeling that she had convinced herself was inescapable. But what if she didn’t have to feel the dull sense of loneliness as each day scraped by? The possibility of something else filled her with yearning.

When the water in the bath was cool, Nadine climbed from the tub. The sun outside her hotel window was too bright. She moved to close the curtains and discovered two wrought-iron doors leading to a balcony, which was appointed with a table and two chairs. Table Mountain was visible to one side, Lion’s Head to the other. Nadine put on a thick terry-cloth bathrobe and sat outside for a while, staring at the busy streets.

Long after Nadine left for Mexico, bloody fighting had continued in South Africa. In desperation, the apartheid government finally released Mandela in 1990. He fought tirelessly to end apartheid, and was elected president in 1994. Nadine had seen the election on television: township residents, who had voted for the first time in their lives, watched the ballot counting with thunderstruck expressions. They danced in the streets when their beloved “Madiba” actually won. Ten years after Nadine’s departure, South Africa was tasting a fragile peace. The city before Nadine had changed completely, and yet here was Nadine, still alone, still running, the same.

Twenty

NANTUCKET TO STARDOM

This morning was crazy, as usual. I woke up with a really good feeling buzzing around in my chest, and I wanted to run downstairs and tell my parents all about Malcon and the auditions. I was halfway down the stairs when I remembered the pinched look my mom gets when she thinks I’m going to lose or be humiliated. She got it when I told her I needed head shots to send to Cheerios for the “Face of Cheerios Contest.” Yes, we went to the photographer, and we sent the pictures in, but every day when I begged her to go get the mail that little line between her eyebrows got deeper.

She was right: I never heard back from Cheerios. And I was upset, but I got over it (after a few months). She was also right about the Dance USA video I made her take of me and the Barbizon Modeling School Catwalk Summer Camp in Worcester. But that worried look just keeps on coming, when she picks me up at school and sees me standing alone, when we drive by a birthday party I haven’t been invited to.

My dad says,
Let him stick his neck out, for Christ’s sake,
but my mom says,
I just can’t bear to see him sad.
She calls me her sweet baboon and she always wants to give me a hug and smooch my cheeks. She wants me to sit next to her when we watch movies and put my head on her shoulder. Okay, I like it, too. I love the smooches and the sweet baboon. But I don’t want her to worry every time I take a chance!

So I decided not to say anything about Malcon or the audition. The kitchen radio was really loud—it was Dolly Parton singing “Here You Come Again.” I went downstairs, and there was Mom in her fuzzy green robe twitching her bottom back and forth. When she heard my footsteps, she whirled around and sang—
totally
off-key—as loud as she could, “All you have to do is smile that smile and there go all my defenses!” And she held her arms open like I was going to rush right in.

I said, “Mo-om,” and rolled my eyes as disdainfully as I could. She smiled at me and kept right on going. “Here you come again, looking better than a body has a right to and shaking me up so…”

“Mom!” I said. “Please stop right now.”

And then—I kid you not—
Dad
came into the kitchen in his Brooks Brothers boxer shorts. And he sang right along with her! Talk about a bunch of ham bones. It was just too much before breakfast. I turned and tried to run back upstairs. But Dad followed me, grabbed me around the waist, and swept me up like I was a kid. He dragged me back to the kitchen and made me sing along, even forcing me to solo during the chorus, singing into a wooden mixing spoon.

“We should start a band,” said Dad, out of breath from shimmying. “Like the Partridge Family.”

“Like the Jacksons,” said Mom.

I rolled my eyes again and gave them the Loser sign, but they didn’t even know what it meant. Now I have to go: Dad and I are going to try for bluefish on Tuckernuck Flats. At least the radio on the boat broke, so no more scary tunes.

Twenty-one

C
ape Town was seven hours ahead of Boston, so Nadine had to wait to call Eugenia. She told herself she didn’t want to wake Hank, and her father was snug asleep with Gwen, but Nadine thought of Lily, who might be up by five
AM
. She picked up her phone and, with the help of the hotel operator, dialed the number she knew by heart.

“Hello?” Lily’s voice was sleepy but clear.

“Hi,” Nadine said. “I didn’t think you’d answer. It’s me.”

“Hey you,” said Lily, “I heard you’re shacking up with the good doctor.”

“Actually,” Nadine said, “no. I’m in South Africa.”

There was a silence. “I beg your pardon?” said Lily, finally.

“I’m looking at Cape Town out my window.”

Lily sighed. “You never change.”

“Why should I?” said Nadine.

“I’m not even going to dignify that question with a response,” said Lily.

“You’re the one who’s changed,” said Nadine. “You don’t want to hear about anything beyond—”

“I have changed, Nadine,” said Lily angrily. “And I know you’re afraid of ending up like your mom, stuck on the Cape. But you can’t just keep…running away!”

“Why not?”

“Nadine,” said Lily. “Dr. Duarte is a wonderful man. You really blew it this time.”

“I left a message for him. I’m going to call him,” said Nadine. “I just didn’t want to wake him up.”

“He doesn’t know?” screeched Lily.

“I’m here for a trial,” said Nadine. “It was a last-minute assignment. I had to get here, it was one of those things—”

“One of those things,” said Lily.

“My God!” said Nadine. “Isn’t anyone proud of me? What I do is important!”

“And what I do doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

“Lily—”

“Bo was sick yesterday. He had a fever of a hundred and one and was breathing funny. I took him to see Dr. Duarte. He said you were staying out on Nantucket. He was so happy, Nadine. He said you were so damn great, blah, blah.”

Nadine was silent. In the background, she heard a baby begin to cry.

“But guess what?” said Lily. “I told Dennis you’d just screw him over. And I was right.”

“Oh, Lily,” said Nadine. “What can I do to make things better between us? I miss you, you don’t know.”

“I know,” said Lily quietly.

“Why can’t you love me the way I am?”

“Because this isn’t who you are,” said Lily. “This is you being afraid of being who you are.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

The baby’s cry grew louder. “I have to go,” said Lily.

“Oh,” said Nadine, “okay.”

“I know you feel sorry for me,” said Lily. “You feel sorry for me and my boring life. But you know what? I’m going to go hold my sweet baby. He’s going to be okay, by the way. What are you going to do?”

“I’m,” said Nadine. “I’m…”

“Right,” said Lily. And she hung up the phone.

Nadine held the receiver in front of her, and then started laughing. “I’m going to mix a delicious gin and tonic,” she told the buzzing line. “And I’m going to drink it on my snazzy balcony. That’s what I’m going to do.” She tossed the phone into its cradle with a flourish and walked over to the wooden bar, which had every sort of liquor and every sort of glass, from champagne flutes to cognac snifters.

T
wo drinks and a Demerol later, after making a list of possible stories, she called Eugenia in Boston. “Babe,” said Eugenia. “It’s been awhile. I heard you got beat up.”

“I did,” said Nadine. “Chiapas. But listen. I’ve got a hot story, and I want you to publish it.”

“I heard you’re a basket case.”

“I’m fine,” said Nadine. “Listen.” She reminded Eugenia about Jason Irving’s 1988 murder, played up the fact that the Irvings were about to meet his killers face-to-face. “The Irvings’ testimony,” she concluded, “could decide whether or not Jason’s murderers are given amnesty.”

“What’s the deal?” said Eugenia. “Are they just unlocking the jails over there?”

“No,” said Nadine. “It’s a case-by-case basis. The crimes have to have a clear political motivation, for one thing. And the TRC has to feel that the criminals are telling the truth. People have been refused amnesty. What the Irvings have to say could make all the difference.”

“You think they’ll speak at the hearings?”

“Hard to say,” said Nadine, imagining Sophia’s pursed lips, her angry tirade.

“I always knew you’d go back to South Africa,” said Eugenia. Nadine heard her draw in on a cigarette. “I’ve got a stringer in Johannesburg,” said Eugenia, “but the Irvings won’t talk to anyone. It’s a good piece either way, but if you can get the Irvings on record, this could be big.”

“Eugenia,” said Nadine, “I flew over with them! I have Jason’s journal in my hand right now.”

“You’re my gal,” said Eugenia.

“I need money,” said Nadine. “I had to stay in the same hotel as the Irvings.”

“No problem,” said Eugenia. “This is front page. ‘Parents Decide Fate of Son’s Killers.’ I love it.”

“They’re not exactly—”

“This,” continued Eugenia, “is the kind of stuff that sells papers.”

“I suppose,” said Nadine, pouring a third drink. She realized the tonic was gone, shrugged, and poured more gin. “Thanks, Eugenia.”

“Honeybun,” said Eugenia, “you’ve always got a place at the
Trib.
”

“That’s good to know.”

“Send some other stories, too, while you’re there. Some of the other trials, maybe.”

“Will do,” said Nadine.

“I’m not even going to ask why you’re not with Ian on this one,” said Eugenia.

“Great,” said Nadine.

“Get quotes from the kid killers,” added Eugenia. “A rock, wow. You can’t make this shit up.”

N
adine hung up and lay back on the bed. She grabbed Jason Irving’s journal and opened it to a random page.
Today I leave for South Africa,
Jason had written.
It’s finally time to see the place I’ve dreamed about.

Nadine’s notes fanned out around her, scrawled pages, and she thought of lying in bed with Maxim, his photos overlapping with her papers. She had felt full of purpose in those days, so sure that what she was doing was right. One day, Nadine picked up a photo of what looked like the interior of a kitchen. Light from a window hit canisters of flour and sugar lined up on the counter.

“What’s this?” she said.

“A house near my parents’ farm,” said Maxim. Brought up on a farm outside Johannesburg, Maxim was bound to his family and his country by a mixture of love, guilt, sorrow, and hatred. Maxim had been raised by a black “mammy.” His mother was wan and distant, and his father was baffled by Maxim’s desire to “liberate the natives.”

Nadine examined the photograph. It was the end of a long day, and Maxim wore only jeans. She touched his chest.

“It’s a sad picture,” she said. “Why is that?”

“A woman was killed in that kitchen,” said Maxim. “Mrs. Robertson. She was a widow, used to hire me to help around the house.”

Nadine stared at the photo. She and Maxim had been lovers for a few months, and she knew by now that if she waited, the story would come.

“That’s the other side of things,” said Maxim. “The blacks want the land back. Some group of thugs—could have been her own workers, but probably resistance fighters—beat her to death, just left her lying in the kitchen. She might have been there for days. My mum stopped in for a cup of tea and there she was. They took the jewelry, money, her china.”

“Your mom found her?” said Nadine. “I’m so sorry, Maxim.”

Maxim stared straight ahead. “Could happen to my parents, too,” he said. “Their farm, it isn’t near anything. Cut the phone lines and that’s that.”

“Jesus.”

Maxim’s shoulders slumped. “My mum said, she said to me, ‘Just don’t let me die alone, Max. Don’t let someone find me when they come in for a cup of sugar.’”

“So you call every night.”

“That’s got to be the worst,” said Maxim. “Dying—passing over—all alone in your fucking kitchen.”

“You’re going to live to one hundred,” said Nadine, running her fingers through his flaxen hair, “a grouchy old grandpa who won’t turn on his hearing aid and carves wooden animals all day.”

Maxim leaned down, rested his head on her stomach. He took her hand. “A tumbler of whiskey at my side?”

“Yes,” said Nadine, “I’ll share it with you.”