Forgive Me (8 page)

Fifteen

M
axim: his muscular arms, unshaven cheeks stubbled with rough hair. A cigarette between his fingers even before he had climbed out of bed. On Nadine’s first morning at the house on Nutthall Road, he wandered into the kitchen as she was making a pot of coffee. His jeans hung low on his hips.

“That coffee’s crap,” he said.

Nadine wore pajama pants and a tank top. She turned. “What do you suggest?” she said.

“Come with me. For the day.”

“Where?”

“Yes or no,” said Maxim, walking toward Nadine, pinning her with his eyes.

“Yes,” said Nadine.

I
n the Bo-Kapp neighborhood, Maxim bought Nadine a syrupy coffee. She drank it too fast, and ended up with a mouthful of grounds. “Forgot to mention,” said Maxim. “Don’t drink the last sip.”

Nadine looked at him darkly.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he said.

Nadine blushed. She lined up her notebook and pencil on the table. “Where are we headed?” she asked.

“We drive around,” said Maxim waving his hand toward the city. “We look for trouble.”

“The townships,” said Nadine.

“Yes,” said Maxim. “It’s like the coffee,” he said. “Once you taste the real thing, the rest is shit.”

Nadine thought of her disappointing stories so far: a long interview with the man who monitored the penguins at Boulders Beach, the group of Germans on a wine tour. She had even stooped to writing an article about shopping for African handicrafts.

“I’m ready,” she told Maxim.

Maxim drove the Tercel out of town, onto the highway. He explained that the murder of Jason Irving had been just the tip of the iceberg. “These kids are tired of waiting for equality, so they’re turning to violence.” Quietly, he added, “One of the kids who killed the American was Evelina Malefane.”

“I remember the name. A little girl, right? With pigtails.”

“She’s Thola’s sister,” said Maxim. “She went to jail a month ago.”

“Thola? You mean George’s girlfriend?”

“She’s a lot more than George’s girlfriend,” said Maxim.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s complicated,” said Maxim. He put on his blinker and drove off the highway. The air was thick with the scents of urine and spoiled meat. The streets were riddled with potholes, and then the pavement stopped and mud tracks began. Morning sun glinted off streams of waste that ran along the road. Makeshift houses were crammed together: pieces of welded iron without plumbing or concrete floors. Trash was simply everywhere: wet rags, cardboard boxes, discarded food wrappers, newspapers.

“Don’t tell me it’s complicated and stop,” said Nadine. “I want to understand. That’s what I’m here for, damn it.”

Maxim raised an eyebrow. Children came running toward the car, banging on the windows and yelling in English and Xhosa. “Can I explain tonight,” said Maxim, “over dinner?”

“Okay,” said Nadine. There was no time to savor the invitation; Maxim rolled down the window.

“
Hola,
” he said, stopping.

“
Hola,
” said one skinny kid, opening the back door of the car and clambering in. Maxim explained later that the township thugs liked to pretend they were a real part of the resistance movement, and so adopted the Spanish greetings that guerrilla fighters had brought home from training camps, where many teachers were Cuban. “You looking for bang bang?” said the boy, smiling too widely from the backseat. Nadine shot Maxim a nervous look.

“Anything happening?” asked Maxim, putting his hand on her knee to calm her.

“You have petrol, com?”

“I’m a journalist,” said Maxim. To Nadine, he said, “He wants the gas for Molotov cocktails.” Maxim’s hand was warm on her knee.

“You want the
nyaga nyaga,
” said the boy, “you give me something.”

“Here,” said Maxim, pulling a ten-rand note from his cigarette packet.

The boy took the money and a cigarette. Maxim lit the cigarette. The boy had long eyelashes and acne-pitted skin. He wore a white sweatshirt that said
HOOK ’EM HORNS
. He was very young, not yet a teenager.

From the backseat, the boy directed them down alleys and past a food stall, where piles of fatty meat lay glistening. A man in a blue shirt and a sleeveless argyle vest tended the coals of an enormous barbecue. Kids of varied sizes filled the streets; one girl in pink track pants sucked a lollipop provocatively, her hair poking in all directions. There was a heavy stench of blood, and the ground was wet: lunch had recently been slaughtered.

Finally, the boy extended a skinny arm, pointing to a long, concrete block in the distance. “The hostel,” he said. “There’s the bang bang for you, com.”

“Okay,” said Maxim, handing the boy another ten-rand note.

“I’m Mikey,” said the boy. “Ask for me if you need anything, okay?”

“You got it,” said Maxim.

“Watch yourself, white boy,” said Mikey, starting to laugh. He seemed drugged; Maxim later told Nadine that Mandrax, a banned tranquilizer, was heavily used in the townships. The kids mixed Mandrax and marijuana, smoking it out of a bottleneck. They called the concoction “white pipe.” Mikey jumped out of the car and ran back down the road.

“Put this on,” said Maxim, pulling a bulletproof vest from the backseat. “It can get ugly.”

“What about you?”

“Shit,” said Maxim. “When my time comes, it comes.”

“I feel the same way,” said Nadine, not sure if this was true.

They drove toward the hostel, which was surrounded by people. Maxim explained that much of the township fighting was between blacks and blacks—members of Mandela’s ANC party and the rival Inthaka party. The two groups were split along ethnic lines as well as by geographic origin: many Inthaka supporters were Zulu, and had moved into fortress-like hostels to be near jobs in the city. It was rumored that the government was funding and inciting the Inthaka fighters in order to weaken the ANC resistance. “In short,” said Maxim, “it’s bloodshed all around.”

“Bang bang,” said Nadine.

“Precisely,” said Maxim. He turned to look at her, and a slow smirk moved across his lips. “You love it,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Nadine.

“Thank you,” said Maxim, looking skyward, clasping his hands together. “You have brought her to me at last.” Nadine smiled, and Maxim looked back at her. He moved his hand slowly up her thigh. She lifted her chin, never breaking her gaze from his.

There was the sound of a gunshot, and Maxim turned away. “Showtime,” he said, his voice husky. He opened the car door and moved toward the sound. Nadine followed. She was used to ugliness, but running toward gunfire was something new. The streets were mobbed. Dozens of men were chanting and shooting, trying to gain access to the hostel. Finally, they broke down a locked entrance and dragged a man out, surrounding him and beating him with sticks and stones. Maxim crouched behind a garbage can, his camera clicking and whirring. Nadine stood farther back, protected by a makeshift barricade, taking it in.

An older woman in a turban headdress walked by Nadine. “What’s going on?” asked Nadine. “Why are they beating him?”

“He is a traitor,” the woman spat, her arms crossed. She watched the scene with apparent relish.

Nadine could not look away. Her mind spun. She wondered if the anger around her would result in a better South Africa, or just a bloody disaster. Could Jason’s death—and violent outbreaks such as this one—possibly end apartheid?

The man cried out, panicked. Maxim told Nadine later that the crowd thought he was a Xhosa spy, hiding in the Zulu hostel. It would be impossible to tell the man’s ethnic group until his passbook was examined. Nonetheless, people attacked him viciously. The man fell to the ground and was quiet. Someone yelled, “Poyisa!”

Both sides scattered amid screams and gunshots. A tank crunched over the sandbags set up to barricade the area. From inside the tank, white police fired randomly. The group surrounding the man dispersed, but some were shot and fell to the ground. Maxim ran, pulling Nadine alongside. They hurried into the Tercel, and Maxim put the car in gear, pressing the gas to the floor. In the rearview mirror, Nadine watched the scene. The Zulu man did not rise. His blood formed a thick puddle on the ground.

“Fuck,” said Nadine.

“Hold on,” said Maxim. He sped out of the townships, driving until he reached a dazzling Camps Bay beach. People sunbathed and swam in stylish bathing suits. Rows of shops selling beachwear sparkled in the sun.

“I don’t…,” said Nadine.

“Follow me,” said Maxim.

He climbed from the car and stripped to his cotton underwear. His body was ropy with muscle, his skin pale. “We’ll swim,” he said, and Nadine nodded.

Pulling off her jeans, she followed Maxim into clear waves. She dove underwater, trying to cleanse herself of the township smell. The cold water ran along her arms and legs, and she heard the thudding sound of her heart.

Nadine surfaced, water over her forehead and over her shoulders. The sun was hot and bright, but she shivered. Maxim stood in front of her, so near she could see the stars of gold in his blue eyes.

They looked at each other. Maxim lifted his arm and touched Nadine, tucking her wet hair behind her ear. Nadine felt blood rush to the surface of her skin. She wanted Maxim to pull her closer, to kiss her and keep kissing her.

Maxim’s fingers moved down, touching her neck, her collarbone, the soaked fabric of her shirt. When he reached her breast, she breathed in sharply and closed her eyes. “Nadine,” whispered Maxim. His arms were strong around her, and he pulled her close.

“Yes,” said Nadine. Maxim kissed her hard, the waves running over them. He held her aloft, she wrapped her limbs around him, she opened her mouth. His touch was rough, as desperate as her own. His fingers found lace underwear; he ripped it from her body.

“Yes,” said Nadine. She thought,
So this is love.

Sixteen

T
he phone rang at five
AM
. Hank’s Nantucket living room was filled with a murky light. The television was on, muted. Wrenched from dreams, Nadine picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Nadine Morgan?”

“Hello?” She blinked away the image of Maxim’s face, the memory of his body.

“This is dispatch. Taxi’s on the way to your house.”

“It’s not my house, it’s—”

“Lady, you call a taxi?”

“I did, yes.”

“Well, it’s on the way.”

“Thanks.”

Nadine pulled off the blanket and sat up. She recognized the movie on television:
On Golden Pond.
Outside the window, Nadine could see a minivan pull into the driveway, headlights sweeping the snowy lawn.

Nadine splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth, washing her hands with Hank’s peppermint soap.

She had fallen asleep in her travel clothes, and her bag was jammed full and zipped. In the kitchen, Nadine picked up the phone and hesitated, then held it with her chin and dialed Hank’s condo in Falmouth. The phone rang, and she thought of the sound echoing through the apartment. She could almost see Hank, his dark eyelashes, his olive skin. He breathed heavily when he slept, sometimes muttering or sighing. The phone called to Hank, but he did not answer.

After three rings, Nadine hung up. She found a pencil and a legal pad. She touched the pencil to the paper, trying to find the right way to say good-bye.
You were right,
she wrote.
The story on Jason Irving was just what I needed.
She stared at the note. She added,
There is something about South Africa that I just can’t put behind me. I hope that someday—
Her pencil stopped. She wrote,
we can…

Nadine bit her lip. The pencil was still. Finally, she tore off the sheet and threw it in the trash bag. She turned down the thermostats and stepped outside. Hank’s front door closed behind her.

Nadine put the trash bag in the bin at the end of the driveway, tossed an empty whiskey bottle in the recycling. The air was frigid; her hands ached. The driver stepped from the car and walked toward Nadine, taking her bag. He stowed it in the trunk, then held the door open, and she climbed inside, breathing in the scent of men’s cologne. The driver, a heavyset man, settled himself in his seat.

“No need to talk,” he said to Nadine, and she nodded.

In the Nantucket airport, Nadine bought a weak coffee. She called Hank’s office and left a message with his answering service: “Please tell him I—Nadine—Please tell him Nadine went to South Africa and she will call soon. And tell him I said thank you. For everything.”

“South Africa?” said the woman incredulously.

“Yes,” said Nadine. “Tell him I’ll call soon.”

“They got phones over there?”

“Yes,” said Nadine. “They do have phones.”

When the flight was announced, the few early travelers boarded the prop plane to Boston. Nadine was seated across the aisle from an older couple. She glanced at them and felt a shock, then turned and stared, unable to believe her eyes. It was Jason’s parents, Krispin and Sophia Irving. Krispin, wearing a pale blue sweater and wool slacks, read a newspaper. Sophia wore what looked like silk pajamas with a soft gray wrap.

The plane lifted into the air, and Nadine saw Nantucket Island below them, a sandy shoe in a dark sea. She felt an unfamiliar sorrow leaving the island: she had always been so happy to leave Cape Cod. Now she wanted to be in Hank’s warm bed, sipping coffee and planning the day. Maybe he was right, she mused. Maybe Nadine really did want a more settled life, a couch, a bedside table piled high with books.

Sophia Irving’s hands emerged from beneath her blanket and she tipped a bottle of cream into her palm, setting the bottle down on the tray table and rubbing the lotion into her face with her fingertips. When her skin shone, she produced a red eye mask and slipped it over her face. She leaned back into the plastic seat, exposing her throat.

“Excuse me,” said Nadine.

Krispin looked up from his newspaper. Outwardly, he looked prosperous and confident, but his eyes were dull. “I don’t mean to intrude,” said Nadine. “My name is Nadine Morgan, and I’m a reporter. I’m, well, as it turns out, I’m going to Cape Town. To cover the TRC hearings.”

“You’re from Nantucket?” Krispin asked.

“No,” said Nadine. “Actually, I—”

Sophia Irving pushed her eye mask up with an angry motion. “I don’t mean to be rude,” she said sharply, “but this is a difficult time. We’d like some privacy.” Krispin looked at Nadine apologetically.

“Of course,” said Nadine. “I’m sorry.” She thought quickly about which angle to use, and then said, “You’re incredibly brave. I just wanted to say that. It’s amazing, what you’re doing.” Sophia did not look at Nadine, but Krispin met her eyes. “If you ever want to speak with me, you can leave a message at this number.” She gave Krispin her Associated Press card, knowing she could call for messages.

“I’ll be clear: leave us alone,” said Sophia, staring at her latched tray table.

“I see,” said Nadine, trying to think of something else to say. Finally, she moved to an empty seat at the back of the plane, across from the bathroom. She flipped open the in-flight magazine, staring at an ad for a Houston steak house. What the hell was she doing, she wondered, reading about
succulent cuts
and
hearty homemade sides.
Why wasn’t she at Hank’s, waiting for his return? She was surprised to feel an ache, missing his tangled hair, the way he hummed as he chopped vegetables for dinner. Her wrist throbbed, and the picture of a rare piece of meat made her stomach turn. She closed her eyes, but opened them with a start when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Nadine Morgan,” said Krispin. He cleared his throat. “Here,” he said, handing Nadine a manila envelope. “This is a copy of Jason’s journal. He wrote so well, you’ll see, even when he was very young. Maybe he would have been a reporter, too.”

“Thank you,” Nadine said.

“This is a tough trip for my wife,” said Krispin. “It’s tough for both of us. But Jason…” His clear, blue eyes teared up. “He wouldn’t have wanted her to…I’m sorry.”

“Please,” said Nadine, “go on.”

“I can still remember her,” said Krispin. “The way she was…before…”

Nadine nodded, the words forming an opening paragraph in her mind. She willed Krispin to continue.

“I hope this trip helps her,” he said. He took a breath and stood. “I hope you can write something. Something wonderful.”

“I’ll do my best, I promise,” said Nadine, holding Jason’s journal tightly. “Jason,” she said. “He was a remarkable person.”

“You knew him?”

“No,” said Nadine. “No, I just…I’ve read about him.”

Krispin looked long at Nadine. “We’re staying at the Hotel Victoria,” he said. “Come and talk to me. I want—” He looked away, out the window, at the clouds. “I want Jason to be remembered. I want this pain to amount to something.”

“Of course,” said Nadine.

Krispin nodded briskly. He patted the envelope on Nadine’s tray table and went back to his seat.

O
n the twenty-one-hour flight to Johannesburg, jammed between a Liberian mother and her infant and a woman with a ruddy complexion, Nadine pulled out the envelope Krispin had given her and opened it. Krispin had made color copies of his son’s journal, as well as everything from his birth certificate to his “Good Attitude Award” at Camp Becket in the Berkshires.

Nadine had to bite back tears as she took note of particularly moving information: Jason’s dreams, his love of musical theater. She rubbed her eyes, thinking that the painkillers must be affecting her. She prided herself on never getting her emotions mixed up with her work. Sure, this boy had grown up near Nadine, but she hadn’t known him. He was simply, she reminded herself, the subject of an article. Nadine forced herself to turn the pages.

She closed Jason’s journal and took a melatonin tablet. Though the Liberian baby screamed every half an hour or so, Nadine slept for a while, and then watched three movies in a row. By the time they reached Accra, Ghana, Nadine had a splitting headache and her joints throbbed. In the tiny bathroom, she took some Demerol. She ran a damp paper towel over her face as the plane refueled and stewardesses sprayed the walkways with aerosol cans. The floral-scented antibacterial made Nadine’s headache worse.

By the bathroom, two men in camouflage pants discussed their upcoming hunt. “I’m taking a lion
down,
” said one.

“Stewardess cut off my scotch,” said the other.

“I’m taking a lion
down,
” said the other. “Well,” he said, seeing Nadine, “what have we here?”

She pushed past him and sighed: ten hours until Johannesburg.