The Water Man's Daughter (29 page)

Nomsulwa remembers her father, stumbling across him in the middle of Phiri during a week when he was not staying at home. His arm was around a boy not much older than her. She remembers him talking in low tones, holding the boy with what seemed like love and encouragement, writing on a piece of paper as though to explain something complicated, and exuding patience when the boy needed help in understanding. The difference in attention, in tenderness and care between that man in front of her and the father she knew, was striking. She couldn’t help thinking that if she had somehow been more like that boy, body all angles, face out of proportion and skin
bumpy with puberty, she would have deserved a father who stayed.

Nomsulwa thinks about loss and her father. What she couldn’t ask for and how it is the same now.

When she arrives at the Phiri police station, Zembe is in her office. She looks like she just arrived, her hair blown out of place by the wind and her jacket still on.

“So you decided to return from your little trip, I see,” Zembe says, as she moves around some papers on her desk. “Where is the Matthews girl?”

“She’s at her hotel. I brought her back, just as you asked.” Nomsulwa sits down. She sets her face in a serious expression. “The girl, Claire, is actually the reason I came by.”

“I’m listening.”

“I want something. For me. Well, actually for Claire.”

“Go on.”

“I want her father’s ring. Before you say no, the girl has come all this way. She’s got nothing to go home with. You haven’t found the murderer. Giving her the ring is the least we can do.” Nomsulwa waits for a response, holding her breath, hoping she didn’t give away how much she needs this.

“You talk to me as if I’m keeping the poor girl’s things out of spite. I sympathize. I do. I’m not unaware of what it feels like to lose someone, none of us are. But I can’t take evidence, let alone a valuable ring that was found on the body, and give it away.”

“Evidence is lost or stolen all the time.”

“What if we need to try the man who did this? What if we need to prove it wasn’t part of a robbery? The ring would have relevance in that trial.”

“Don’t give me that. You and I both know that any man accused of killing a water man will go straight to jail for life.”

“I don’t need you explaining the court system to me.”

“I know you don’t. So please, let me take the ring back with me.”

“It’s not possible.”

“What if I exchange something for it? I’ll work for you for as long as you need.”

Zembe stands up and moves to sit on the edge of her desk, very close to Nomsulwa. “You want to exchange, do something for me? There is one thing you have that I need.”

Nomsulwa realizes what Zembe is referring to.

“No.”

“This is not my choice. Things have progressed. I can no longer explain my inability to recover those pipes. I made sure you were safely away from the stolen goods before we went searching for them. But now I need those pipes. My job is at stake here.”

“Those pipes are going to be sold to pay for water treatment. They are going to literally save hundreds of lives.”

“I understand this.”

“You can’t ask for them.”

“I know.” Zembe doesn’t move. She takes a deep breath. “But I am asking. You won’t make it to the market with those things. Mira will be caught and delivered to this
station before the first sale is made. I can’t continue to be silent, or save you. It’s now out of my hands. If you give the information now, it will be better for all of us.”

Nomsulwa takes this in, wanting to see the logic in Zembe’s analysis. But she knows they have a buyer, a secret meeting location where no market tourists will catch sight of the transaction. Mira has worked out every detail.

“So it’s your skin you’re saving.” Nomsulwa pauses, tries to control her urge to lash out. Nomsulwa imagines herself writing down the location of the field where Mira has buried the pipes, sees her cousin’s face when he finds out the pipes are missing. Then she imagines him discovered, arrested. It seems as inevitable as Zembe pretends it is. The anger leaves, replaced by nothing. She feels as if she is being carried, against her will, without the ability to fight back.

“I’m saving you, too,” Zembe responds.

“You have to give me time to make sure Mira is long gone,” Nomsulwa says, her voice dull.

“Of course.”

“And the runners, from the market, I don’t want them there either.”

“You choose the timing.”

Nomsulwa thinks it through. She hopes Mira will do as she says and not go, but if he does he will be there this afternoon and the runners tonight. That gives the police a two hour window in the late evening. If she is careful to account for her whereabouts for the afternoon, neither group will suspect her as the tipof. The runners will be angry but assume
that the dig was reported by local residents and busted by the police. Mira will … Nomsulwa stops herself there. She can’t think about Mira.

“Seven this evening. Before it gets dark.”

“The address?”

Nomsulwa takes the pen Zembe hands her. “You’ll leave Mira out of it?” Nomsulwa looks up, pen poised over the paper.

Zembe nods. Nomsulwa holds the pen lightly as she writes down the address, as if pressing gently will make it less real.

“One more thing,” Zembe says as Nomsulwa shoves the address across the desk. “It’s about Mira.”

“You just promised he’d be left out of this.” Nomsulwa is exasperated and overwhelmed. She’s not sure how much longer she can keep this up.

“It’s not about the pipes. We found pieces of cloth with the water man’s blood buried in his front garden.” Zembe announces it without ceremony and then pauses.

Nomsulwa wills herself not to react with anything but surprise. Holding her breath, holding it all in, she runs through all the ways Mira could have let this happen. He could have tried to clean up, could have gotten blood on his clothes. But he wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave evidence in front of his own house, would he? She tries to imagine him, panicked, left with the responsibility for a murder he didn’t commit. Who knows what mistakes he might have made?

“Someone is framing him,” Nomsulwa says. “He didn’t kill any water man. I would know if he’d done that.”

“We have blood evidence linking him to the murder. And he certainly has the motive and connections.”

“What has this got to do with me?” Nomsulwa’s voice gets higher.

“So you will be careful. I want to keep you out of this.”

“I am careful. And Mira had nothing to do with it. Am I free to go?” Nomsulwa is empty, everything spent.

“The ring.” Zembe offers. Nomsulwa nods. Zembe gets up from her desk. She leaves the office, shutting Nomsulwa in.

The walls close. Nomsulwa fights the urge to dash out of the building into the open air. She tries to calm her breathing. When Zembe returns, she is carrying a small plastic bag. In it is Claire’s father’s ring. She places it on the desk. “I will call when the pipes are secured.”

Nomsulwa grabs the ring and stuffs it in her pocket. She stands up.

“Don’t. Don’t call. I’d rather not know.”

Zembe doesn’t say anything more. She lets Nomsulwa walk out.

Z
EMBE BEGINS TO PREPARE FOR THE PIPE RECOVERY
. The water man is far from her mind for the first time in weeks and his absence makes her feel lighter, more sure of each decision. She is beginning to dial Sipho when an officer knocks, enters, and hands over a small stack of messages. Zembe dismisses her and then glances at the top piece of paper:

Zembe thinks about the hair rings found on the body. She thinks about Josef’s description of the woman at the bar. Light skinned. Then she pictures Mira. His bald head,
the way he stumbles, can’t seem to get anything right, needs someone to tell him what to do and how to do it. She rereads the note and she knows.

N
OMSULWA WAITS UNTIL SHE IS SAFELY OUTSIDE OF
Phiri before she rips open the sealed police evidence bag. She lets the ring rest on the car seat beside her, too nervous to touch it just yet. Her driving is erratic, attention split between the road and the object beside her. It is like the water man’s ring has a life of its own.

When she parks at the hotel she takes the ring, slips it in her pocket, and hurries through the lobby and into the elevator without being spotted by the front-desk staff. She travels up to Claire’s floor and knocks on the door of her room.

Claire swings open the door and steps back, obviously surprised to see Nomsulwa again. Before she has a chance to say anything, Nomsulwa steps in, looks at the carefully folded piles of clothes on the floor next to the open suitcase, and then sits on the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing here?” Claire asks.

“You know nothing about me. Not really,” Nomsulwa says.

“Look, I’m trying to see my way clear to leaving. I can’t –”

“Maybe there are things you should know,” Nomsulwa interrupts. “About me. About
my
father.” Nomsulwa leans forward, holding her hands out in front of her, inviting
Claire to sit. “I won’t take long, and then you can finish packing.” Claire does as she’s asked. She let’s the door close and sits across from Nomsulwa.

Nomsulwa accepts this as permission. She takes a deep breath and begins the only story she can tell.

I
WAS TEN THE FIRST TIME MY FATHER POINTED A
gun at my mother. He was home from a campaign, that’s what they called them, but I know now they were in hiding, planning to blow up industry targets, learning how to make bombs that were stable enough to transport. He had wandered in late the night before, gotten undressed, left his gun on the living-room table, and slept on the couch. I saw him first, woke him, and made him tea. I sat across from him, watching him sip it, letting him relax in the quiet room.

She took her time getting ready, as if to let my father know that we weren’t waiting for him. His return was just another Saturday event. When she did enter, she was dressed simply, a forced smile pasted on her face. Even that disappeared when she saw the gun. She grabbed it, furious. She accused him of wanting me dead, of not caring if his own child lived or died. Why else would he bring a gun into this house, after he knew she had forbidden it.

At the word “forbid,” my father lunged at my mother. No woman was going to tell him what to do. He wrestled the gun from her hand, breaking her finger, I imagine now, though she made very little noise when it happened. He cocked the gun, holding it in front of her, desperate to silence her no
matter what it took. But my mother kept insulting him. Her voice calmed. The tone got quiet. She didn’t take her eyes off the gun. She told him that he wasn’t welcome in her house, that there wasn’t a place for him any more if he refused to take responsibility for the upkeep of his child, for my safety.

He was shaking with anger, finger on the trigger. I thought he was going to kill her, knew he was capable of it. But instead, as if giving us a gift, he uncocked the gun, slid it into his pants pocket, grabbed his jacket, and walked out.

My mother collapsed. She was crying. I went to help her with her hurt finger, but it was clear to me that her tears were more about his leaving than the pain in her hand. She brushed me away. I was glad to leave. I followed my father’s path out the door.

I was mesmerized by him, couldn’t see anything beyond his face and wanted nothing but the smell of leather that followed him everywhere. The few moments in which he was genuinely kind, when he helped me learn to pitch a cricket ball or tie my shoes, were all in Technicolor. Glorious. My mother was like a faded picture compared to him. Leaving her wasn’t just easy. I had no choice.

He walked ahead of me and I liked it that way, knew that it was dangerous to get too close when he was in a mood like this. But eventually he stopped and waited for me to catch up, then went on more slowly so I was in step. When we were close to the town, he bent down and smoothed my braids.