Forgive Me (12 page)

Twenty-five

A
s Nadine approached, George stood. “It’s you,” he said. His friends’ fervent conversation halted. Nadine put her drink on the bar.

“It’s me,” said Nadine.

“As breathtaking as ever,” said George.

“Thank you,” said Nadine, though she knew her lank hair and weary eyes hardly added up to breathtaking.

“Boys,” said George, “this is Nadine. A fellow journalist. We shared an Obs apartment a long time ago. Before. But Nadine moved on to bigger and better things.”

Nadine tried to smile, and George’s companions responded with serious nods. It was clear they had been discussing something depressing.

“Alphonse,” said one of George’s friends, a heavyset black man. He held out a weathered hand, which Nadine shook. “Al, for short.”

“I’m Ernest,” said the other man. His accent was Afrikaans.

“That’s his name,” noted George. “Not his personality.”

“Ernest,” Nadine said. “Like Hemingway.”

“Haven’t shot myself yet,” said Ernest.

“Nor have I,” said Nadine. She picked up her glass and took a sip.

Ernest guffawed. Like Hemingway, he was a white man with a belly and an overgrown beard. The muscles in his arms and chest were huge, and he was deeply sunburned.

“It’s been awhile,” said George. He looked older, all the naïve bravado gone, replaced with something hard and cold. “I take photos now,” he said. “The novel didn’t pan out. I’m just in town a week or so.”

“I’ve seen your work,” said Nadine. George had become well known for his unflinching portraits of war. He traveled around the world, chasing bloodshed. Though he hadn’t won a Pulitzer yet, Nadine knew it was just a matter of time.

“Novel?” said Ernest, raising an eyebrow.

“How about today?” said George, turning to his friends. “Anyone get anything?”

“The esteemed Archbishop Tutu, eating a sandwich at the break,” said Ernest. “I think it was ham, or egg and mayonnaise.”

“I got another crying mother,” said Al. “I got ten more crying mothers.”

“They’re digging up some bodies,” said George. “Out by Vlakplass. They’ll bury them right this time. Might be some good shots there.”

“Will Mandela come?” said Al.

“Who knows,” said George.

“Not like the old days, that’s for sure,” said Al, glumly.

“We miss the blood and guts,” Ernest explained to Nadine. “We’re vultures,” he added, shrugging and sipping his beer. “Democracy makes for boring photos.”

“Depends on the democracy,” said Nadine.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” said George. “I thought you were following the Zapatistas in Mexico.”

“Keeping tabs on me, are you?”

“Hard to miss you,” said George, “when your name’s in the paper.”

“I’m covering a story. Jason Irving. His hearing is Monday.”

“Don’t we know it,” said Al. “More journalists here for the dead American boy than for all the Africans put together.”

“Don’t mind him,” said Ernest. “We’re knackered. We’ve been following the commission all over the country.” He shook his head. “I’ve been to almost forty public hearings so far, each one filled with hundreds of brokenhearted mothers and widows. I suppose it should add up to something.”

“And brokenhearted fathers,” said Alphonse.

“And sons,” added George. “And men, electrocuted until they couldn’t stand up.”

“Ah, fuck,” said Ernest. “I can’t wait until the TRC is over. I call it the Truth, Retch, and Cry.”

“How much longer?” asked Nadine.

“I think there are ten or so hearings left. Then the commission’s report.”

“And then we begin life in the new South Africa!” said Ernest. His tone was mocking.

“I need another drink,” said Al. “Can we charge them to your room, Big Shot?”

“Why not?” said George. “It’s on
Newsweek.
”

Al ordered drinks, and the three men fell silent. The room was dim, and the music was slow and sultry, some sort of jazz. “And you?” Nadine asked George. “How are you? How is Thola?”

“Oh God,” said Al. George didn’t respond, but drew in on his cigarette and blew smoke, facing away from Nadine. “Tell her,” said Al.

“Tell me what?” said Nadine. She felt a leaden weight in her stomach.

There was an awkward pause. George continued to look toward the screen glass doors, toward the lawn and the sky.

“Hendricks faces the TRC in Cradock, right?” said Ernest. He looked at George, concern in his brown eyes.

“Hendricks?” said Nadine. “Who’s Hendricks?”

“What about Gandersvoot?” said George, turning back to them. In his voice was a warning. “That’s tomorrow. And Thola’s sister, Evelina, on Monday. The Cape Town hearing is chock-full of thrills.” He looked at Nadine for a moment, their eyes locking. Ernest and Al exchanged a glance. “You’ve already written about Evelina, haven’t you, Nadine?” Nadine met George’s cold stare.

“George,” said Nadine, “don’t.”

“You had an exclusive interview with Thola,” said George. “The one chance to change minds. Isn’t that what you said to Thola? You would
change minds
about Evelina?”

“George,” said Nadine, sighing.

“But you dumped that story and ran off to Mexico, didn’t you, Nadine? You barely had time to say good-bye. Not to Thola. Not to me.”

“For Christ’s sake,” said Nadine.

“Not to Maxim,” said George.

“Hey now,” said Ernest, bringing his palms together. “What about a change of scenery?”

Nadine broke her gaze from George. “Where to?” she asked.

“A
shebeen,
” said George.

“G,” said Al, “I don’t think—”

“She’s been to them,” said George, holding up his hand like a traffic cop. “She was here before,” said George. “It’s Disneyland now.”

Al raised his eyebrows. “You’re welcome to join us,” he said, “but it’s not a big deal. Stay here if you’re more comfortable.”

“Comfortable,” Nadine said quietly, even the word making her feel hemmed in.

“You do like to be comfortable, don’t you?” said George.

“I’m happy to stay here,” Nadine said. “I don’t feel very well, actually.”

“She likes the champagne bar,” said George.

“So do you, you bugger,” said Al.

“Jet lag?” said Ernest.

“Most likely,” said Nadine. “I have all the symptoms. I’m exhausted, and sort of sick to my stomach. Kind of dizzy, too.”

“Sounds like my wife when she was pregnant,” said Al. “All she did was sleep, throw up, and eat ostrich biltong.”

“Nasty stuff,” said Ernest.

“I like it, myself. Salty.”

Nadine smiled, but as the men headed to the
shebeen,
leaving Nadine with empty glasses, she thought of Hank, and the way she had climbed into his bed without considering birth control. But you couldn’t get pregnant from a few nights of unprotected lovemaking, Nadine told herself. Not at the wrong time of the month. Not at thirty-five years old.

T
here was a concierge on call at the front desk. He looked up with a subservient smile when Nadine approached. “Ma’am?” he said, “You have been enjoying a cocktail in the champagne bar?”

“Yeah,” said Nadine, “listen. I need a favor.”

“Anything, madame,” said the concierge superciliously. “Anything at all. My wish is your command.”

“Good to hear,” said Nadine. “I need a pregnancy test.”

The concierge looked stunned, and Nadine heard laughter. She turned around to see Sophia Irving, one arm over her chest, the other tossed out, a cigarette in her fingers.

“The plot thickens,” said Sophia, laughing again and then walking with an exaggerated, drunken gait to the elevator.

“Mrs. Irving!” called Nadine, but Sophia stepped into the elevator and pushed the button. Nadine ran to her.

“Did you know that a little girl killed my son with a rock?” said Sophia brightly. Her eyes glittered: with alcohol or madness, Nadine wasn’t sure.

“Please,” said Nadine, but the elevator doors closed and Sophia was gone.

“One moment for your personal hygiene item, ma’am,” said the concierge. He picked up the heavy black phone and spoke rapidly in yet another language Nadine did not comprehend.

Twenty-six

NANTUCKET TO STARDOM

Is Mom in love with another man? This question has been worrying me for days. I once heard Bret Williams say that the only time moms go into Boston is when they’re redecorating or having an affair. We are not redecorating.

Today Dad took the early boat to the baseball game with Mr. Mullen from next door, giving me a dejected look as I ate cereal in my pajamas.

“You want your hat?” he asked, holding a Red Sox cap.

“That’s okay, Dad,” I said. I was reading the back of the Special K box, studying the Ten Tips for a Trimmer Waistline. “Give it to Mr. Mullen.”

“Son, I’d really like for us to hang out together.”

“Yeah, Dad,” I said. “Me, too.”

“Maybe we could hit the whaling museum tomorrow.” When I was little, I loved the whaling museum. It was a family joke that I made my parents talk about whales so much they wanted to move to Nebraska so we could talk about corn.

“Sure, Dad,” I said.

“Well, good luck at that, um, meeting of yours.”

“You, too,” I said. I was preoccupied. Could I really replace two meals a day with bowls of thin flakes? I wasn’t sure. I was considering the possibility as Dad closed the door behind him.

Meanwhile, Mom was primping. I wandered upstairs to find her on her hands and knees in the bathroom, rummaging through the cabinet under the sink.

“Mom,” I said, “what are you doing?”

“Oh!” she said, standing up. She looked embarrassed. “Have you…do you know where my mascara might be?”

“I have it,” I said. “For the play,” I explained. “By the way, what ferry are you taking?”

“The ten fifteen,” she said. “Why?”

I shrugged. I was supposed to meet Malcon at one, so all was well.

“Who are you having lunch with?” I said. If she said
a decorator,
I could really rest easy. And let’s be honest: our La-Z-Boy living room could use an update.

“Oh, just an old friend,” she said.

“A man or a woman?”

“A man,” she said. She gave a weird little laugh and I felt a flicker of fear in my stomach. “Are you coming back tonight?” I said.

“Of course!” she said. She put her hands on her hips. “What do you think, muffin?”

I said I didn’t know.

“There’s nothing
nefarious
going on,” she said. “You give me too much credit.”
Nefarious
had been Tuesday’s Word of the Day. “And never mind the mascara,” she said. “It won’t matter, anyway.” She looked bummed, all of a sudden. She gestured to her stomach. “Mascara,” she said, shaking her head.

Dad has a photo of Mom by their bed. In the picture, Mom is really young, sitting in some French plaza. (They went to Paris for their honeymoon.) She’s wearing a miniskirt with a flowy silk top, and her legs are skinny. She looks like a model. But everyone gets old, right? What can you do? Some of the other moms are muscular as deer, spending all their time at the health club, but I think Mom’s soft stomach is beautiful. So she spends her time reading books on the couch, so what? But I don’t know how to tell her any of this in a way that won’t make her feel bad. So I said, “You look great, Mom.”

She snorted. “I have a mirror,” she said.

I looked at my watch—I had three hours to do my hair before catching the noon ferry. “I can make you up,” I said.

“What?”

“I know how. From acting class. I’ll give you a makeover.”

Her face scrunched up like she was about to cry or laugh. “Oh honey,” she said. “That would be wonderful.”

I did what I could.

Twenty-seven

T
he Response One pregnancy test arrived with Nadine’s room-service breakfast, nestled inside a linen napkin. Nadine took the test in the bathroom. While she waited for the results, she called the front desk to ask for the Irvings’ room. She was connected, and when Sophia answered, Nadine said, “Mrs. Irving, it’s Nadine Morgan calling.”

“Well, good morning,” said Sophia.

“Good morning,” said Nadine. “I…I was hoping perhaps we could meet for lunch today, or coffee…”

“Should you be drinking coffee, dear?” said Sophia.

“I don’t…I was hoping,” said Nadine, “that we could talk about Jason. About the trial. Would there be—”

“I think I made myself abundantly clear,” said Sophia, her voice growing hard. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with. I assume you have no children, Ms. Morgan. Not yet, at least!” She laughed again, a mean, loopy laugh. “My son’s killers are going on trial Monday morning, even though they have already been found guilty. I am spending the weekend sightseeing. We’re looking at penguins, and I’m going to drink this delectable Cape Pinotage. I’m not talking to any reporters. Is that clear enough, Ms. Morgan? Let me say it once more: Don’t call again.” Sophia hung up.

Nadine held the receiver. She wanted to dial Hank, to say she had made a mistake by leaving, or why didn’t he hop on a plane and come ravish her, or just say hello. Good morning, Hank. Or happy middle of the night. Instead, almost by instinct, she dialed Lily. Dennis answered, sounding sleepy and alarmed. “It’s me,” said Nadine.

“Nadine?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Dennis, I know it’s late—”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m, well, not really. I mean, yes, I’m fine, but…can I speak with Lily?”

“Goddamn it, Nadine,” muttered Dennis, but he woke Lily, whose voice was clear on the line.

“What is it?” she said. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” said Nadine.

“Are you still in Africa?”

“Yes,” said Nadine.

“What is it?” repeated Lily.

“I just took a pregnancy test.”

“Oh,” said Lily. “Whoa, sweetheart. Hold on, I’m making tea.” Nadine heard the rustle of covers, Lily’s padded steps to the kitchen, the beeping of a microwave, and the clanking of a spoon in a cup. “I’m ready,” said Lily. “Talk to me.”

“It’s Hank, and I…I’ve been dizzy, and I’m late.”

“What does the test say?”

“It’s in the bathroom,” said Nadine. “I’m scared to look.”

“I’m with you,” said Lily. Nadine felt a wash of relief. It was like college: no matter how bad the drunken mistake, calling Lily always made things better. Nadine started toward the bathroom, but the phone cord wouldn’t reach. “Shit,” said Nadine.

“Oh my God,” said Lily.

“No, it’s that…the cord won’t reach.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” said Lily. “Go grab the stick and don’t look. We’ll find out together.”

Nadine did as she was told. “It’s positive,” she whispered.

“Holy Lord God,” said Lily.

“Fuck me,” said Nadine.

There was silence, and then Lily said, “Honey? What are you going to do?”

“I have no idea,” said Nadine.

“You have to tell him.”

“Yeah.”

“But not until tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” said Lily. “You know,” she said, “if you need me, if you need help with anything, just come home.”

“What should I do?” said Nadine.

“I can’t decide that one for you.”

“Is it…,” said Nadine. “Is it terrible?”

“Terrible?” said Lily, genuinely confused.

“You seem so tired,” said Nadine. “You seem…kind of lost in it all.”

“Yeah,” said Lily, her voice growing pensive. “I guess I am. And you know what? It’s scary, too.”

“Tell me,” said Nadine, sitting on her bed.

“Loving them, it’s…the only word I can come up with is
anguish.
I love them so much I’m in anguish. I’m so scared something might happen to them. And it would be my fault. And then I would be alone. I mean, there’d be Dennis, but I’d…I’d be alone.”

“Jesus,” said Nadine.

“Yeah,” said Lily.

“I’m proud of you,” said Nadine. “I guess I never told you that.”

“I’m proud of myself,” said Lily. “You know, if you came home, we’d be in it together. And actually, Nadine? I think Dr. Duarte is a lot more like you than you think. He’s smart, and he’s done so much…he’s funny, too. He was a pirate for Halloween. He had this parrot on his shoulder. And an eye patch.”

“I mean really,” said Nadine. “You think I should come home and marry Hank? I mean, honestly, Lily.”

“Why?” said Lily. “Why is it so impossible?”

Nadine was silent.

“You got knocked up,” said Lily. She started to giggle. Nadine couldn’t help but join in, laughing so hard that her stomach hurt. Finally, they said good-bye, Nadine promising to call in a few days.

She washed her face and decided to get to work. The TRC hearings would take her mind off her decision, she hoped. She dropped the test into the wastebasket by her desk and rummaged through her duffel bag, trying to find something clean to wear. She might be knocked up, but at least she could send Eugenia a story about Friday’s hearing, the trial of Leon Gandersvoot, a member of the apartheid government’s “counterinsurgency.” Men like Gandersvoot were told to take care of any uprisings against the government. They “took care” by torturing and killing suspected activists. Now the apartheid government claimed there had been no such command. Many whites in Cape Town, Nadine believed, didn’t want to acknowledge that such things had taken place. They knew what had been done to keep them—the tiny white minority—safe in their bougainvillea-covered homes, but they didn’t want to know.
South African TRC: Dragging dirty secrets to the surface,
Nadine wrote in her notebook. It made her feel better to flip open her notebook, to scribble. She knew how to be a reporter.

The Good Hope Centre was mobbed. Nadine climbed up the crowded steps, clutching the china mug from her room, which she was using as a take-out coffee.

She found her way to the press area, a bare room with a television surrounded by plastic chairs. The other reporters were animated. “It’s unbelievable, really,” a woman with a blonde pixie haircut said, after introducing herself as Ruth. “I can’t believe Gandersvoot is going to walk in here and tell the truth. He’d be jailed for the rest of his life if it weren’t for the TRC, but we’d never hear what he’d done, from his own mouth.”

“We know what he did,” said a bitter voice. Nadine recognized it and looked across the room to see George, holding a camera.

“Not the details,” said Ruth.

“Fuck the details,” said George. “Not worth giving Gandersvoot amnesty.”

“I guess that’s the question,” said Ruth tiredly. She had been covering the hearings for a year, she told Nadine, traveling all over the country. First the victims had told their stories, and now the accused had their turn. The hearings were open to the public, and every one was mobbed. The audiences were primarily black: after being mistreated their whole lives, blacks could finally hear the crimes against them spoken of openly. The process was clearly taking a toll on the reporters, many of whom, though hyped up on caffeine, looked exhausted. “The problem with us South African journalists is that we keep bursting into tears all the time,” said Ruth.

T
oday, she explained, Gandersvoot was being tried for the murder of a young man named Julian Hamare. Julian, a black high school student and activist, had been abducted, tortured, and fed rat poison. He returned home wheelchair-bound; his hair fell out from the poison. The second time he was taken from his parents’ home in Guguletu township, he never returned. Julian’s mother, Faith, had saved his hair in a plastic baggie for twenty years.

George approached Nadine. “We missed you last night,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” said Nadine. “I was tired.”

“I hear you,” said George. He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, then sighed and said, “Thola’s gone. She’s been gone a long time.”

Nadine’s knees felt weak. “What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s gone,” said George. “Come on.” He wanted to get shots of Faith, so they went into the main room where the hearings would be held. Some five hundred folding chairs were filling quickly. Headphones trailed along the floor: the hearings would be translated into eleven languages. In the corner, a woman held a pitcher of ice water. She was, George said, a “comforter.” Her job was to support whoever was testifying, victim or perpetrator. She supplied tissues, cold water, and human contact as necessary.

At the front of the room, the members of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission sat at tables covered with white tablecloths. Nadine recognized Archbishop Desmond Tutu, with his gray hair and oversized glasses. A banner above the tables read
THE TRUTH SHALL SET US FREE
.

Faith Hamare, wearing a blue polyester suit, her hair wrapped in a matching scarf, sat with ramrod-straight posture in the first row, next to three seats with sheets of paper on them reading
VICTIM’S FAMILY
. The bag of her son’s hair rested on her lap. George knelt with the other photographers, taking pictures of the stony-faced Faith. Periodically, Faith held up the hair and shook it for the cameras.

Nadine walked to the back of the room. Ruth leaned against the wall, holding her tape recorder and a small pad, waiting for the hearing to begin. The noise in the room was deafening.

“Are you a reporter?” Ruth asked.

“Yes,” said Nadine. “The
Boston Tribune.
”

“Covering Gandersvoot?”

“Yes,” said Nadine. “And Jason Irving’s killers.”

“Of course,” said Ruth, resigned. “They fly you in and they fly you out. A dead American, big news.”

“The Truth and Reconciliation Commission is big news.”

“Have you read about it in the American papers, then?” said Ruth angrily. “Front page, hey?”

Nadine pulled her notebook out and pretended to look closely at the blue-lined sheet. On the day she’d flown from Nantucket, the
Boston Tribune
had featured a front-page story about renovations at Disney World.

“You know George, eh?” said Ruth. She tried—and failed—to conceal a smirk.

“I did know him,” said Nadine. “A long time ago.”

Ruth nodded. “Well,” she concluded crisply, standing up straight, “he’ll need you.”

“Sorry?”

“You heard me. I’m glad George has someone to lean on. He’s been carrying this by himself for way too long.”

“What?”

“Tholakele. The whole thing. Oh, hold on. It’s showtime.” Ruth pressed the
RECORD
button on her tape recorder. Nadine squinted, failing to find George in the crowd.

All eyes were on a white man who made his way to the front of the room flanked by bodyguards. He was wearing a suit and striped tie and had a narrow moustache. His step was swaggering and confident. To Nadine, Gandersvoot looked like an accountant with a clear conscience.

Gandersvoot settled himself in a chair, took his oath, and poured a glass of water from a pitcher before him. He was ten feet from Faith, who stared straight at him. Gandersvoot’s lawyers led him through his plea for amnesty. He seemed strangely removed as he described the day he took Julian.

“I was under orders,” said Gandersvoot, his accent clipped. “I picked up Julian Hamare on the night of October twenty-ninth in Guguletu township.”

“Where’s Guguletu?” said an Australian reporter.

“Fifteen minutes from here,” said Ruth.

“And where did you take Julian Hamare?” asked Gandersvoot’s lawyer.

“I took him to Post Chalmers,” said Gandersvoot.

“Where’s Post Chalmers?” the Aussie asked.

“Do shut up,” said Ruth.

“After that,” continued Gandersvoot, taking a sip of water, “I shot him, and buried him in the river.”

“The Fish River?” said a lawyer.

“Yes,” Gandersvoot said. “The Fish River.”

Faith’s eyes had been dry until this point. She cried out hearing Gandersvoot’s words, her wail filling the courtroom. She knew, at last, where her son’s body lay. Pain fluttered in Nadine’s gut.

“And why did you kill Julian Hamare?” asked the lawyer.

“I was told to kill him,” said Gandersvoot. “He was a threat to national security.”

“Now this is hard for me to ask you,” said the lawyer, “but what happened at Post Chalmers?”

In a flat tone, Gandersvoot said, “He was tortured, at Post Chalmers. We burned his body, me and some other officers. We gave him a cup of sleeping pills so it wouldn’t hurt, and we had a
braai.
”

Murmurs of outrage rippled through the crowd. A member of the TRC spoke. “You put Julian Hamare’s body on a barbecue grill?” he said. Around the room, spectators had their hands pressed over their mouths, eyes watering.

“Yes,” said Gandersvoot.

“How long did you
braai
Julian Hamare?” asked another TRC member.

“Six hours,” said Gandersvoot. “Maybe seven hours,” said Gandersvoot.

“What did you do for six or seven hours?” said a TRC member. “Did you stay there, for
six
or
seven
hours?”