Forgive Me (15 page)

On and on Thola spoke, through cheesecake and coffee. Nadine assiduously took notes. By the time Thola reached the day of Jason’s murder, the café bill rested on the table in a leather folder. “I came home from my job,” Thola said, “and my sister, she was in jail. They told my mother she murdered an American boy, but we could not believe it.”

“Do you believe it now?” said Nadine.

“I believe it,” said Thola, “and I think it will help to free our country. Do you see how much attention the boy’s death has brought to South Africa? I am sorry for the boy and his family, but we must fight for freedom, whatever it takes. If killing white people leads to freedom, it is worth it.”

The waiter approached, but receded when he heard Thola’s tone. “Jason was against apartheid,” said Nadine. “He was a teacher, Thola.”

Thola stood, raising her chin. “It does not matter,” she said. “Do you think the police asked Stephen Biko what he believed before they murdered him in jail? Did anyone ask me my opinions before they told me I could not go to college? What side are you on, Nadine?”

“I’m not on a side,” said Nadine. “I want to present all the sides. I want the world to hear your side. Please, I’m sorry.”

Thola sat back down. “This is a difficult story,” she said. “So many important angles to discuss.” Fikile yawned. “My mother needs to get home,” said Thola, “and we will continue in the car.”

“Okay,” said Nadine.

“I want my struggle to be in the newspaper,” said Thola. “The world has forgotten about us. Why aren’t there American troops in our streets? What is Europe doing to help us? We are being treated like
animals.
Do you get this in your notebook? Black people are disappearing. Nobody knows where they go!”

Nadine was as exhausted as Fikile. She put the bill on her credit card, unsure how she would ever pay for it. Thola spoke of the resistance movement on the way back to Sunshine, pointing to the beautiful homes at the edge of the city—now surrounded by alarm systems and fences—saying, “A black family will live there, and there. No security fence or mean dog can stop the inevitable!”

In her bedroom, Nadine paged through her notes with a sense of defeat. Thola’s words were practiced; she had avoided discomforting emotions. Nadine knew her interview hadn’t revealed any underlying truths about Evelina. Still, she wrote for hours, first a profile of Thola and then an exploration of the ANC resistance movement. Maxim found her rubbing her temples and staring at pages and pages of disconnected words. Her last fax from Eugenia had read,
What about a lifestyles piece, N? Something about tribal music?

With Maxim’s help, Nadine finished her story in the middle of the night. She led with a recap of the murder, and then tried to explore the pressures that led Evelina to kill: the sense of hopelessness; the collective despair of generations of children told they had no chance at a brighter future; the belief that violence was the only recourse. Her last line read,
Only history will decide if Evelina Malefane is a murderer, a martyr, or a confused child. Perhaps she is a mix of the three.

“F
ikile. I feel so sad for her,” said George, as they drove.

“What do you mean?”

He lit another cigarette. “When did you quit smoking?” he said.

“I haven’t. Just a break.”

“I see.” George stopped for hamburgers at McDonald’s, and turned north on a road called N10. He drove past signs for Addo Elephant National Park.

“No elephants?” Nadine said, biting into three french fries at once. She swallowed, but couldn’t help asking, “Where are we going?” She felt a shadow of fear.

“Trust me,” he answered. They had left the sea behind, and the land grew arid and empty. “This is the Karoo,” said George, “The Valley of Desolation. This is where the Transkei and Ciskei homelands are located.”

“What?”

“The apartheid government made fake homelands for blacks in the middle of nowhere. The Transkei and Ciskei are Xhosa homelands. People get picked up from cities and moved here, depending on tribe. Their neighbors might end up somewhere else entirely.”

“I remember that now,” said Nadine. She cradled her wrist in her right palm. Her pain had decreased every day, and she had stopped taking Demerol. Her head felt clearer, and her ribs no longer hurt, but in the evenings a dull ache in her wrist remained. They drove through vast, uninhabited plains. Black, flat-topped mountains loomed in the distance, while woody shrubs, wild mums, and giant aloe plants grew nearby.

In a shop by the side of the lonely road, they stopped to buy gas, cigarettes, and Cadbury Fruit and Nut bars from a white man wearing suspenders. He rang up their purchases, then returned to his book. Nadine squinted: he was reading
Our Man in Havana
by Graham Greene. Darkness fell as they drove. They listened to the radio for a while, and then the classical music faded to static.

Nadine took one of his cigarettes and lit it, but then put it out in the ashtray. She licked salt from her fingertips and looked over at George. Though he should have been looking at the road, he was gazing at Nadine.

“Can we stop for the night?” Nadine asked. The sky was black.

“Where?” said George. “There’s nothing here.”

Nadine looked out the car windows. The road snaked over empty plains and dry, scrubby hills. George was right: there was nothing, and they hadn’t seen another car for an hour or so. Nadine felt a cramping pain below her stomach. Her wrist throbbed.

“Maybe we should go back,” Nadine said, trying to sound relaxed.

“You remember that night? The night Maxim—”

“Of course.”

“I went to meet you two at the Waterfront,” said George. “We heard the explosion.”

“I don’t feel well,” said Nadine. “I’m sick.”

“Maxim ran out of the bar. The air smelled like something burning.”

“Please, George.”

“I heard gunshots and I ran to find you, Nadine. I couldn’t find you, but someone told me Maxim had been shot. I drove to the hospital.”

“Stop,” said Nadine. “Stop it, George.”

“Maxim was lying in that big bed. There were tubes, all these machines. I sat next to him.”

“Please, George. I’m sick.”

“Do you remember the tubes, Nadine? Do you remember?”

Thirty-one

N
adine remembered. Her feet in Maxim’s lap, a large bottle of Castle beer in front of her. They had been planning a celebration for Maxim’s upcoming birthday: a feast of Indian food at the house. “And what do you want for the big day?” Nadine asked him.

“You,” said Maxim. “Maybe with caramel syrup?”

“I was thinking silk sheets,” said Nadine.

George shook his head and covered his ears. “Please,” he said, laughing, “I feel like I’m in a pornographic video.” Suddenly gunshots exploded outside the bar. The lights went out, and the jukebox fell silent. “What the fuck?” said George, grabbing Nadine’s arm.

She listened to Maxim’s breathing. He touched her feet, moved them from his lap. They could hear sirens wailing, and more gunshots. Maxim gathered his cameras in the dark. Nadine spread her palm on his back: she could almost feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He kissed her on the cheek, leaving the scent of his cigarettes. His bony nose, and the way he would burrow his face into her hair at night. His lips on hers, soft words: “
Tot siens, bokkie,
we’ll have champagne tomorrow.”
Bokkie
—his name for her—little doe. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she watched him go, his long back in a damp cotton shirt, rushing toward the action.

During the lull, when gunfire gave way to quiet, Nadine stood. “Don’t go,” George commanded, but she moved outside. She called Maxim’s name. The gunfire started up again, and Nadine, her sneakers smacking the dirt road, her hair stuck to her neck with sweat, her nostrils filled with the reek of garbage and gunpowder, Nadine ran.

Maxim wasn’t wearing a vest. He never wore a vest. As Nadine neared the commotion, she saw throngs of people outside a hostel. Police were firing at township residents, and they were firing back.

In the midst of the pandemonium, she saw Maxim kneeling by a sandbag barricade. He stood slowly and lifted his camera. Later, when the film was developed, Nadine would see that he had been capturing a man yelling at the police. The man’s neck was ropy with tension, his mouth wide open.

When Maxim was working, he had told Nadine, he started seeing photographs, not reality. The worst sight did not affect him emotionally: it was his canvas—he thought of the light, the angle, shutter speed. Nadine watched him at work and was filled with pride.
He is mine,
she thought, and then she saw him stumble, and drop his camera.

He collapsed to his knees, looking with shock at his shoulder, which flowered red. As Nadine ran to him, he fell forward. He looked baffled. The bullet had grazed his collarbone, the bone where Nadine’s cheek rested when they watched movies, entwined on the couch.

There was no ambulance. On Ncumo Road, Nadine stood and screamed, watched as blood bubbled from the wound. Fear coursed through her as she watched Maxim grow pale. Maxim, a stunned expression over his beautiful face. “What?” he said.

“Shh,” said Nadine. She cradled his head in her lap, felt hot tears in her throat. She said, “Shhh, love, I’ve got you.” The ground was hard and oily under Nadine’s knees.

Near her, a woman wailed and rocked an infant who did not move. Nadine directed her gaze to Maxim, trying to block out the other bodies, the stench of blood. An ambulance finally arrived, winding slowly through the crowd, and two men loaded Maxim into the back. “Are you coming, ma’am?” one asked, his fingers raking through his crew cut.

From the stretcher, Maxim gazed at her. “Nadine,” he said. He held out a hand, and his palm fell open. Nadine hesitated for an instant.

“No room,” said the other. “Meet us at the hospital.”

The doors swung shut, Maxim’s eyes searching Nadine’s, his palm empty. Though the woman near Nadine held her infant up and screamed in Xhosa, the ambulance sped away.

Nadine pushed through the sea of people, finally finding a British journalist who had a car. “I need to get to the hospital,” she pleaded, and he agreed.

At Groote Schuur, Nadine was ushered upstairs to a private room. Maxim lay in the hospital bed, eyes closed. George was hunched at his side. “Thank God,” he said, standing. “He was asking for you, Nadine.”

“How did you get here so fast?”

“The car,” said George. “I looked for you.”

“Here I am.” Nadine’s calm voice betrayed the fear in her spine.

Maxim opened his eyes. He blinked, unseeing for a moment, and then his pupils came into focus. His gaze rested on Nadine, and he seemed to relax. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” said Nadine, leaning in and touching her cheek to his.

“I’m okay,” said Maxim weakly. “No worries,
bokkie.
”

“Thank God,” said Nadine. She sat down in the chair George had vacated, and smiled at Maxim.

“Thank God if you must,” Maxim said, coughing. “I’ll thank the fine doctors at GSH.” His mouth curved upward.

Awash in relief, Nadine kissed him hard on the lips. “You bastard,” she said. “I was scared to death. You have to wear your fucking vest, Maxim.”

“Nag, nag, and we’re not even married yet.”

“Yet?” said George. He leaned against the wall, his ankles and arms crossed.

“Be quiet,” said Nadine. Over her shoulder, she said to George, “He’s hallucinating.”

“If I’m hallucinating, where’s the caramel syrup?” said Maxim. Louder, he said, “For the love of Christ, someone give me a cigarette.”

“Not a chance,” said Nadine.

Maxim yawned. “Some wonderful drug is making me very sleepy,” he said.

“Sleep, love,” said Nadine.

“Okay,” said Maxim. He raised his hand with effort, touched the ends of Nadine’s hair. “So gorgeous,” he said, and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was breathing deeply.

Nadine let out a long sigh. George had found another chair, and he dragged it next to her and put his hand on her knee. “Fuck,” said Nadine. “The last time I was in a hospital…”

“What?” said George.

“It was the day my mom died.” George looked at the linoleum floor. “I was so angry at my dad,” said Nadine.

“Why?”

“For letting it happen, I guess. Or for not being the one who…”

“For not being the one who was sick?”

“I don’t know. Something like that.” Nadine gathered her black hair, then let it fall.

“You need a psychiatrist,” said George. His elbows rested on his knees, and he placed his chin in one hand and looked at her.

“I need a drink,” said Nadine. The antiseptic smell of the hospital made her feel queasy and nervous.

“And a psychiatrist.”

“Where’s Thola?” said Nadine.

George shrugged. “One of her meetings, is my guess.”

Nadine gazed at Maxim. He looked peaceful. “I hope she’s careful,” said Nadine.

“I know,” said George. They sat in silence. An orderly came in to check on Maxim. She wore a starched uniform, and three gold bracelets on her dark wrist. Her eyes were swollen, as if she had been crying.

“How is he?” asked Nadine, her hand on the sheet that covered Maxim’s thigh.

“He lost a lot of blood,” said the orderly. She shook her head. “A terrible night,” she said. They all nodded. “My father just called from Soweto,” said the nurse. “My cousin was beaten up and taken away in a blue Kombi. They say he is a spy.” She sighed, adjusted Maxim’s tubes. “Maybe he is a spy,” she said. “Who knows what is what?”

“I’m so sorry,” said Nadine.

“You are American?” said the woman, looking Nadine up and down.

“Yes,” said Nadine.

“A journalist?”

“Yes.”

“My father,” the woman said, lowering her voice, “he says Winnie Mandela was in the Kombi. My uncle saw her.”

“Winnie Mandela?” said Nadine.

“Winnie Mandela, yes. The wife of Nelson Mandela. Mother of our nation, we call her.”

“She was in the Kombi?” said Nadine. To George, she said, “I’ve been hearing rumors about her. She has some group of thugs living at the mansion. They call themselves the Mandela United Football Club. But no one has been able to prove anything.”

“A terrible night,” the nurse repeated, closing the door behind her. Nadine’s heart beat fast. She turned to George.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

“If I can get the uncle to talk…,” said Nadine.

George shook his head.

“I mean,” said Nadine, “it’s a three-hour flight. I’d be back by morning. Maxim, of all people, would understand.”

“Nadine,” said George.

“This could be the story,” said Nadine. “The one.”

“It’s up to you,” said George tightly.

Underneath the fluorescent hospital light—exactly like the light that had made her mother’s skin sallow—Nadine stroked Maxim’s face. “I love you,” she said. She sat back, interlaced her fingers, let them sink to her lap. Maxim slept soundly. Nadine sat for a few minutes, then leaned forward. “Baby,” said Nadine, “I’m coming right back. I’ll be right back.”

George exhaled, and averted his gaze to the floor. He pressed his lips together.

Nadine leaned close to Maxim, breathed him in. His clove fragrance, his hot skin. She kissed him. “I love you,” she said.

“You have everything,” said George quietly.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” said Nadine, standing and walking out the door.

I
n Soweto, the sprawling township outside Johannesburg, Nadine found the address Maxim’s orderly had written on a prescription pad, but when she knocked, no one answered. The windows of the house were grimy and dark. As she smoked in her car, however, a boy approached. “You’re a reporter?” asked the boy. His hair was shaved close, and he wore a soccer jersey and dirty jeans.

“I’m a white lady in a rental car with a tape recorder,” said Nadine. “What do you think?”

“My father, he saw her,” said the boy. His fingers clenched the edge of the car window, and he bounced on the balls of his bare feet.

“Who?” said Nadine breathlessly. “Who did your father see?”

“Mrs. Mandela,” said the boy. “She was here.”

The boy led Nadine to his home. When she stepped inside, a sheet separating the two rooms was pulled back, and the boy’s father appeared. In halting English, he confirmed his son’s story while his wife made tea.

When the interview was over, the boy asked Nadine to write down his address. “Please,” he said, “you can send me a book on starting your own business?”

“Of course,” said Nadine. The boy stood at the door of his house, his feet planted apart, as she walked away.

Nadine drove from Soweto to Johannesburg, her heart beating fast. She checked into a Holiday Inn. There was no answer in Maxim’s hospital room, and no answer at the Nutthall Road house. For a moment, Nadine panicked, thinking Maxim might have taken a turn for the worse. But she told herself he was probably still asleep. Then, looking at the mirror above her hotel bureau, she called Renata, her old professor, in New York. Nadine watched her own face as Renata spoke excitedly.

“There have been rumors about Winnie for a while,” said Renata. “They say she has a team of bodyguards surrounding her, that they’ll kill for her. This is the first confirmation, Nadine. I’m calling the AP. This is your story.”

Nadine booked the seven
AM
flight to Cape Town and wrote up her interview longhand at the plastic table in the corner of the room. A streetlight burned through the gauzy curtains. Nadine called to order something to eat, but the hotel had no room service. Her stomach rumbled.

A hazy dawn rose over Johannesburg. Nadine made coffee in the small pot, and the phone rang, interrupting her first cup. It was Ian Pauling from the Associated Press, offering a tidy sum for exclusive rights to Nadine’s interview. “We’re proud to run this piece,” said Ian. “I’d like to talk more about your future with the AP.”

“Thank you,” said Nadine. “I’ll fax my home phone along with the story.”

“Talk to you very soon, Nadine,” said Ian.

“Okay.” Nadine hung up and squeezed her eyes shut, murmuring,
Yes.

Below her South African Airways plane, Nadine saw elegant suburban homes with swimming pools and the gaping mouths of forgotten gold mines. She ate an apple yogurt and savored her success, leaning back in her seat and smiling.

She planned how she would tell Maxim, the details she would use to bring the night to him: the boy’s thin fingers on her car window, the sleeping baby she had glimpsed through a hole in the sheet. The way the father’s reverent tone as he talked about Nelson Mandela, his jailed hope, changed to bitter whispers as he described recognizing Winnie’s face in the car. The boy taken in the Kombi had played tennis in the street, said the man, using a broken racket and a flat rubber ball.

Maxim would likely be laid up for a while, so in her imagination Nadine spent her new money on him, buying picnic ingredients, the red wine he loved, a wheel of Camembert. The plane descended, and the ocean shimmered, welcoming.

Nadine took a taxi from the airport to Groote Schuur. The hospital was busy. Orderlies wheeled stretchers and white men in lab coats bustled by, carrying clipboards. With her shoulder, Nadine pushed open the heavy door leading to the stairwell, and ran upstairs to Maxim, envisioning his excitement as he listened to her news. They would share breakfast and trade information like nuggets of gold. She would take him home, kissing him in the elevator, lifting his cotton gown. She flushed, and turned the corner to Maxim’s room.