The Water Man's Daughter (19 page)

The interior of the room is cream and beige. The two colours, so close, they blend into each other. In the middle of the wallpaper a swatch of deep red runs around the room. It matches the stripes on the curtains and the pattern on the bedspread. The neutral room. The crack of red. It seems violent.

Claire walks through the bedroom towards the bathroom. She peers in. Nomsulwa follows, her curiosity moving her feet before she chooses to. It is an enormous room, bigger than Nomsulwa’s living room and kitchen combined, made of cream-and-beige marble. No red, save for the toiletries wrapped in red paper peppering the wide two-sink counter across from the sloping cream bathtub. A separate shower stall has a round head that hangs like a cloud over the floor. Turn on the tap and you could have your own personal rainstorm. There is no sign that anyone living ever touched the room.

Nomsulwa is still staring at the bathroom when Claire leaves. She hears scratching from the other room. Then a thud.

Claire has thrown herself on the bed. She is tugging at the pillows, the endless pile of pillows, and throwing them one by one on the floor. She lifts up the covers and works her way under them. She scratches at the sheets until they pull up, revealing more padding, and under that the satin sheen of the mattress. Claire slams her open palm into the wall above the bed and it causes the canopy, strung with gauzy curtains, to sway.

“He’s fucking nowhere,” Claire says to no one.

“The room has been cleaned,” Nomsulwa offers. As if that logic would make sense to Claire.

“I know the room’s been cleaned. But you can’t clean a ghost. It lingers, it hovers and waits for its people to find it.” Claire is speaking with a great deal of authority. The ridiculous words seem almost plausible.

“Claire. This isn’t a good idea. Let’s go back.” Nomsulwa tries to be gentle as she takes Claire’s arm. Claire is still clutching at the sheets. Her knuckles are white.

“He’s not here. Where is he?”

Nomsulwa doesn’t know how to answer the question, and Claire’s distress is disturbing. Nomsulwa wants to go, but she can’t leave without the girl.

“Camon, sis.” Nomsulwa moves her hands under Claire’s armpits, lifting now. She’s so light. Claire leaves the bed without further coaxing, but as soon as she’s standing she breaks from Nomsulwa’s grip and goes back to the bathroom. Nomsulwa follows and watches her take each red-wrapped package from the counter and stuff it into a pocket. She clutches the bigger items, the soap and tissues, in her hands. Little swatches of red peek out from her hips and through her fingers. She matches the room now, all pale with red accents. And her cheeks are red, too. And her neck.

“I’m ready to go now,” she says.

“Okay.” Nomsulwa goes first, trusting Claire to follow. Willing her to leave the place quickly, without a scene. Nothing to draw attention to them.

In the elevator, Nomsulwa leans over to Claire. “How are you going to get past the front desk with all those toiletries?”

Claire looks down, as though she’s forgotten she’s clutching the collection of soaps. “I don’t know.”

“Here, give me some.” Nomsulwa takes the shower cap and the small bottle of conditioner and puts them in her pocket. They bulge out.

“You’re going to get us caught,” Claire observes.

“I’m not the one who just tore up a hotel room for no reason,” Nomsulwa retorts.

The elevator announces the lobby. Claire nervously pushes the contraband deeper into her pockets. “We need to find a side exit.”

“There’s one in the restaurant, but we don’t need it. Just walk quickly, look confident, trust me.” Nomsulwa leads the way, sauntering as if her pockets aren’t filled with red cardboard boxes. She hopes Claire is doing the same. The man at the front desk nods curtly as they pass, but he says nothing and returns to the paperwork on the high table in front of him.

The lobby recedes, the outside air is thick with car exhaust. People are everywhere. Nomsulwa’s car is waiting for them.

Claire lets out a breath. “You marched out of there like you owned the place. It was incredible!”

“Best trick in the book, act like you belong and no one ever notices you.”

“Thank you.” Claire’s face is serious and stoic, like the pieces of the hotel room in her pocket are calming her down some.

“Let’s get out of here before anyone notices.”

Claire puts her hand on Nomsulwa’s arm. “I couldn’t have done that without you. It’s like when you’re around I’m a little invincible.”

“You’re safer when you’re with me.” Nomsulwa says more to herself than to Claire and then she puts her hand on the small of Claire’s back and leads her to the car door.

Z
EMBE RINGS THE DOORBELL AGAIN AT
M
ANDLA
Matshikwe’s house. Mandla’s wife shows up looking perfect and frazzled at the same time. She has her best dress on, but her hands are dripping wet, as though she was taken away from her sink.

Inside, Zembe can hear loud laughter and the deep voices of men in argument.

“Mama Afrika. What a pleasant surprise,” Mama Matshikwe says, clearly not believing her own niceties.

“Sorry to barge in, but I must speak with Mandla immediately. It is urgent.”

“We are in the middle of dinner.”

“And I am in the middle of a murder investigation. Tell him to meet me out here.”

Defeated, Mama Matshikwe trudges back inside. The laughter stops. Chairs scrape across the floor. Zembe looks up at the sky, the colour changes from a light pink to a deeper red. Night has begun. Dust grounds itself around her. The sounds of cars and people fade. It is peaceful.

That peace is broken when Mandla exits his front door. He has his napkin in one hand and a scowl on his
face. He wipes his mouth before holding both palms up in front of him.

“What could be so urgent that you would interrupt a man’s dinner? When I am entertaining important guests, no less.”

“What could be so important that you would lie to the police to protect it?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“I know, Mandla. I know that you went out after the meeting with the water men. I know that you were out late, that the men took home girls. No confirmation from your wife about a nice dinner at home is going to save you.”

“It’s bullshit.”

“I can prove it.”

“How?”

“I’ve found the girls,” Zembe bluffs. Phadi had, in his most disdainful voice, alluded to Mandla’s choice cut from the local elementary school. Zembe is hoping, praying, that Phadi’s suspicions are not far from the truth: local girls to whom she would have access. The high schools in the area have not reported any activity involving their students. But the chances that some administrator would notice such goings-on, let alone report them, are slim.

Mandla pauses, but not so long that Zembe feels the surge of success.

“There are no girls for you to find.”

Zembe snaps at him. “With the girls I’ve got, I can start an audit, find out everything, legal or not, your office has
been spending money on. We’ll begin with campaign contributions, and then move down the line to your personal accounts. This is a dead white man we’re talking about. A foreigner from one of the most powerful companies in the country. There are unlimited funds. National has an entire team working the case. If I tell them you are the missing link, they’ll go after you with so much fervour you won’t understand what the word ‘investigation’ means any more.”

“You’ve got nothing.”

Zembe sighs. She takes in the night’s arrival. And then, because she is the chief of police and she wants Mandla to remember that, she closes her jacket, turns around, and walks off without a word. It takes just seconds for Mandla to follow her.

“Sisi. Look. Ima!”

Zembe stops at the gate. A group of curious men stops across the street and Mandla lowers his voice when he gets close.

“We went to a club, a bar, after the meeting. It was not my idea. That Indian man wanted it to happen. Said it would be a good idea to loosen things up after the meeting. There
were
girls. Not mine. But girls. The white man went off with one of them. He came back into the club after that. We saw him leave with the Indian man. They were drunk, but fine. I swear.”

Zembe listens with her arms crossed in front of her chest. She pauses for a moment when Mandla, now panting a little, paunchy, suffering from serious consternation, finishes. Then
she leaves. He yells after her, “That’s all I know. Sisi.” She doesn’t turn back. The word will spread now, the councillors will be on alert. They will all know that one of their own is a suspect. But Zembe has other worries.

Dadoo is withholding information, and, she suspects, it’s not just because he is trying to be difficult.

Z
EMBE FINDS A NOTE ON HER DESK WHEN SHE GETS
back to her office. She picks it up and walks out again, into the main room.

“Who took this message? When did it come in?”

“About an hour ago.”

“And they are sure these are the same pipes, the ones dug up in Phiri?”

“The man on the phone sounded sure, but I didn’t think it was my place to ask more questions.” The officer lowers her eyes.

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Zembe?”

“Hmmh?”

“Sipho Thizwe has been telephoning for you. He’s called four times in the past hour.”

“Thanks.”

Zembe walks back into her office and shuts the door. She crumples the message and opens the Matthews file. She begins to log her interviews, following the trail from Dadoo to Matshikwe and then to the young girl. Within the hour, there is a tentative rap on the glass window of
her office door. She puts down her pen and closes the file. She takes a long time standing up. A female voice, muffled, starts talking before Zembe crosses the room.

“Regional Director Thizwe is here to see you.”

“Tell him I’m not back yet.”

“…  Ummm, Captain?” The young officer hasn’t left.

“What?”

“He knows you’re here. I told him already.”

Zembe collects herself. “Show him in.” What was she thinking? That she could avoid him forever? Seconds later, there is her boss, bald head, tall body, leaning over her desk.

“I know as much as you do. I got a phone call. A pipe was sold in the market. That’s it, Sipho.”

“That’s not it. You got a phone call, then what, what did you do? Who did you send to investigate? Let me speak to them.”

“My office is full up with work from the water man. You think I have officers to spare for some stupid investigation into lost steel? I’ve only known for an hour.” That should fend him off. How is she expected to head two investigations in addition to the station’s regular duties?
Go away now, Sipho. Please
.

“They say it was sold to them by a boy, tall and thin, with almost no hair –”

“That could be anyone!”

Sipho sidles up beside Zembe’s chair. He perches on the desk, which only adds to his height. He bends down, almost menacing. “But you have an inkling, a little suspicion, no? You know who it
could
be.”

“I’m busy, Sipho. You have to leave me to do my work.”

“Ha! So you do know. I knew it. I want to see her by morning. I want to have a little chat with our friend the pipe thief.”

“Her?”

“Are you playing dumb with me, Zembe? It’s a girl, the one who runs the electricity mamas. Am I right?”

“Yes, but –”

“– but nothing. Come on, I’m not isilima, not an idiot. Who else would have orchestrated this.” Sipho does not pose this as a question.

“But it was a boy who sold the pipe.”

“It was. I want to find him, too.”

“Listen to me.” Zembe speaks very slowly, she looks at Sipho, keeping her eyes directly on him no matter how much she wants to look away. She acts like the innocent she should be. “I don’t have a clue who went to the market. I have no evidence that Nomsulwa had anything to do with the theft. If I find something, ngizoshesha ngikushayele ucingo.”
I’ll call you immediately
.

“I expect a call by the end of next week.” Sipho stands up and leaves.

Zembe’s heart contracts in her chest with a mix of anxiety and fallen hopes. She spins the creaky chair in a circle and takes in her office, the cracked walls, the peeling paint, the musty smell that circulates endlessly around her as she works. She wonders why she is still here. Still playing the game with the township, letting them have just enough of their own law to keep them happy. It used to be a survival
mechanism, but Zembe worries that after so many years she has more faith in the ramshackle order imposed by taxi drivers and community workers than the judges in the city.

Zembe thinks about packing it in early for the day, taking the afternoon for herself. She could spend some time in the church’s big main room while the preacher prepares for Sunday, then do some shopping. She might actually get a full head of cabbage if she gets to the vegetable stand now instead of batting off the other latecomers in a rush to scrounge food for dinner from the day’s leftovers. She makes the move to leave: picks up her bag and places her phone and datebook inside, piles the papers on her desk in two separate groupings, small and big. She takes the open file on her desk and locks it in the bottom left-hand drawer.