The Water Man's Daughter (31 page)

The Indian man comes close to her target.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

“Yes. Please.”

The men wave their bills at the waitress and stumble out of the club. Nomsulwa watches, following cautiously. The men climb into a white minibus with an older man half-asleep at the wheel. Nomsulwa repeats the licence plate to herself enough times to commit it to memory and then runs back over to her cousin.

“Go now, Mira. Take her home. Here are my keys. The car is over there.”

“Did you find him, Nomsulwa? Did you beat him good? Did you get him for what he did?” Mira rambles, face pressed into Aluta’s hair.

“Shhh now, Mira. She’s going to need her sleep. I’ll handle it, I promise.”

Nomsulwa leaves Mira and Aluta and starts weaving through the minibuses and limousines. Club patrons are exiting the buildings alongside the street and stumbling into their rides home. Nomsulwa spots the Indian man
holding the American as he leans out the side of the moving van. He throws up into the street and the wind whisks away all traces. Nomsulwa runs to the curb and hails a taxi, one of the few unchartered rides on the strip. She orders the driver, an older man with more than one cross hanging from his rear-view mirror, to head to the hotel row in the downtown business district. He nods and cuts into the stream of traffic entering the highway, taking the same route, Nomsulwa hopes, as the white minibus. It’s almost eleven. Her mind is racing, the image of Aluta with her bloody lip becomes a filter through which she sees the highway split in two and her exit for hotel row coming close on her right.

Once the tall buildings close in, the taxi slows down.

“Where to, sisi?” the driver asks.

“Just keep moving, slowly. I’ll tell you when we’re there.” Nomsulwa scans the licence plates of the vehicles stationed in front of the hotels. Each building is more impressive than the next. Grey and huge, they flutter their flags of South Africa, England, and America.

Halfway down the block, Nomsulwa sees it. The driver is bent over, straining to pull something out of the back of his minibus. She double-checks the plate numbers, thankful that the downtown rejuvenation project came with increased enforcement of illegal taxis. A few years ago, most of the minibuses had no plates at all. The white man stumbles out, followed by the Indian. She hands the driver money and steps out of the car.

Her hands are shaking as she rolls up the black shirt she is wearing so that her midsection shows. She ruffles her twisted hair and lets it fall in front of her eyes. The top is not cut low enough to show her breasts, but it is tight, and she hopes that is sufficient. When she walks up the steps to the front entrance of the hotel, the doorman smiles at her and turns to the side, as if to say, “It’s your time of night now, sweetheart. Good luck.”

The lobby of the Central Sun is blistering with lights. Nomsulwa winks at the boy manning the front desk and murmurs her excuse, “Meeting a colleague for drinks.” Her accent, put on to impress, makes the word lengthen to sound more like “
caawleargue
.” He nods and returns to his paperwork, too used to the girls in and out of the hotel after hours.

Nomsulwa checks the lobby first. She’s only minutes behind the white man, hopes he has not yet made it to his room. The elevator bank is silent, no faint ding of doors opening on a higher floor. She worries about looking lost and so holds her shoulders back and saunters into the bar area, left of the main lobby, where tables line a mirrored, circular room. They are covered in white tablecloths hanging at precise ninety-degree angles. At each setting, a wine glass cradles an artfully folded napkin. There are quite a few patrons still scattered around the room. A couple lean into their cocktails. A group of four men sit two tables away. They argue loudly and slam the table, making the napkins jump.

Nomsulwa approaches the bar. In front of her, the Indian man is fussing over the drunk American. He tugs on
his shirt almost like a child nervous about upsetting his parent.

“Piss off, Alvin, I want to have a drink.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? It’s already been a long night.”

“You’re the one who persuaded me to go out. I was the one who wanted to go to bed!!” The white man yells this.

“We should get you up to your room. Here, I’ll take you.” He moves to help the American off the stool.

“No!” Several people at the bar look around to see what the disturbance is. But quickly the two men are drowned out by an uproar from the room behind them. The female bartender catches a knowing look from her male counterpart and saunters over to the table of men. She leans over the group, lets her breasts peek out at them, then focuses on the ringleader, mussing his hair and whispering in his ear. Eventually, he follows her out towards the elevators. The other three wear big grins but are now quiet.

“Look. Let’s meet tomorrow in the office when we both feel better,” the Indian man says.

“You were angry about how I handled that meeting. How I upstaged you, but we had to be tough. We
had
to tell them that the company was serious about getting the water system in the ground by the deadline. We have to meet that deadline!”

“I wasn’t angry.”

“Yes you were and so you punished me.”

“This is insane, Peter.” The Indian raises his voice. “You need to take yourself to bed.”

“You’re going to pay for this. Whoever put you in charge of this project is going to hear from me.”

The room becomes clearer, brighter. Nomsulwa feels rage fill her. They are water men. Aluta’s face becomes so many faces: the mamas who sing in her community centre, the children who dip buckets into dirty gutters next to wells no one can afford to use anymore.

“I’m done,” the Indian announces before leaving the bar. Nomsulwa takes his seat quickly and turns slightly away from the American to face a man in a grey suit speaking into his cellphone. The light from the screen glows on the edges of his ear. The American takes another sip from his glass. The remaining bartender stands expectantly in front of Nomsulwa and she orders a beer.

“Drink up, sis, we’re closing soon,” he says as he hands her a cold bottle.

The American shifts and pushes back from the bar. He unsteadily makes his way to the far corner of the room. Nomsulwa waits a moment, then she throws down ten rand and stuffs the receipt in the pocket of her shirt.

The men’s bathroom door has shut by the time Nomsulwa arrives in the dead-end alcove. She doesn’t hesitate outside but walks through, under the flowery “Monsieurs” written in gold paint. There is a sharp corner, hiding the interior. She eases the door closed, giving away nothing as she slips in and around.

The American stands at a sink, water running, face and collar wet. He stares in the mirror, letting the tap empty into the
porcelain bowl. Nomsulwa walks up to the row of sinks and, taking a brass knob in each hand, turns on another faucet, and then another. The sound of running water grows and makes the American look around. He opens his mouth and blinks rapidly at the woman next to him.

He makes a move to leave. Nomsulwa blocks his path.

“You forgot to turn it off,” she says.

“Wha?” The American tries to push past but almost loses his balance. He straightens and attempts to navigate around her.

“The tap.” She points calmly to the first sink.

The American looks where she points, then shakes his head and pushes her hard, trying to shove her out of the way.

She lunges as soon as his hands make contact with her shirt. She catches his collar and pushes him up against the wall to their right. The edge of the sink stops his back and bends him so his face is forced to look up at his attacker. Though she is smaller than he is, he is unsteady on his feet, alcohol slowing him down.

She begins to speak softly, whispering in his ear. “You think it’s okay to force little girls to lie with you you hit her you let her bleed you locked her in the car you let her bleed, you hit you think it’s okay to force little girls to –” Her grip tightens around his collar. She is no longer sure if she is holding on to cloth or folds of skin. Tighter. Anger is in Nomsulwa’s hands, in her legs, pushing against the man’s crotch.
Water man
, Nomsulwa thinks.
Water man
is all she can think.

The man thrusts his weight back into her, lifting himself off the sink, but the floor, now slick with water, causes him to lose his footing. Nomsulwa braces herself for the fall and ducks into the thick body in her arms. She hears the clear hard sound of skull on porcelain as they drop and then sees the water man rest limp on the floor. Blood drips out of a small cut on his head. It slips out of his ear and into a small pool around them, turning the floor a delicate pink.

N
OMSULWA STARES AT THE MAN NEXT TO HER, HER
body taut and waiting for him to lunge. She watches for movement, for the fight to resume, but he remains still. Her first feeling is of relief, relief for her own escape without confrontation, without injury. He could cry out at any moment and she would be arrested and thrown in jail for years after this kind of trespass. But he doesn’t call out. And soon the relief fades.

She stands up straight. A pool of water is rising around her shoes. The sound of the running water fills all the empty space around them and she starts to shake. She quickly closes the taps and tugs the man’s body. She drags him as best she can into the corner stall, panting, despite the short distance and the way the man’s pants slide over the wet floor when she lifts his shoulders. When she hears a knock and then the sound of the door opening, her breathing stops altogether.

“Hallo?” The bartender’s voice wraps around the corner. “We’re closing up now. Anyone here?” The cursory check.
There is a pause. Then the door closes again. Nomsulwa buckles, almost sitting on the body beneath her. She can’t stop shaking.

Nomsulwa counts the breaths as though she is counting seconds. When she can’t stand the wait any longer, she steps carefully away from the stall and sneaks a look out the bathroom door. The bar is silent. She braves a few steps farther and sees that the dining room is closed up and pitch-black. She takes her cellphone from her jacket pocket and, fingers trembling, punches in her cousin’s number.

“Ku-late! It’s late! Where are you?”

“Hurry, Mira. I’ve done something … I need help.”

N
OMSULWA CHECKS THE BAR EXIT AND FINDS THE
broad wooden doors closed and locked for the night. She has to find another way out.

Behind the bar she spots a dolly and wheels it to the bathroom. The body is so heavy. That is all she can think: the heaviness of death. When she was struggling with him he didn’t seem as bulky. He seemed light, fragile; now it takes all her strength to lift one leg and then the other up a few inches. When his torso is half on the dolly, she begins to push him out of the bathroom. A leg catches on the door, snagging the body, threatening to push the water man off completely. She shifts the leg and rebalances her load.

There is a service door in the back of the dining room leading into a narrow alleyway behind the kitchen. She pauses, knocks on the door, hoping that Mira has arrived.

There is a faint knock back. She mutters to herself, like she’s saying a prayer. Then she pushes the door open.

Rats scurry away from her feet as she drags the body into the warm night air. How can her story of what really happened be believed? How can she be forgiven? Mira begins single-handedly moving the dolly towards the car. She hears police sirens and loud yelling. Mira shakes her shoulder, bringing her back to the silence around her.

“Camon, sisi!”

She thinks she feels the body jerk, looks down, and sees a stolid face, round eyes, calm and still.
Don’t look down again
.

Mira lifts the body and cradles it into the back seat of the car. Nomsulwa gets in the passenger side. Her sweat has dried to a cold cake on her chest and bare arms. She has lost the ability to think, her body acting as if controlled by something outside herself. She is cold and then too hot and then freezing again.

They drive on, in silence, nothing but a taxi and a few anonymous dark cars left in the hotel district. Eventually they take the exit towards Phiri and head down the street that leads to Nomsulwa’s house. When she starts to protest, Mira shushes her, assuring her that he has a plan. He takes a turn and ends up in the driveway on his family’s property.

He opens the back door, drags out the body, and waits for Nomsulwa to follow. She pauses for a moment, breathes, gets her bearings.

Mira lifts the shoulders and Nomsulwa picks up the dangling feet and legs. They struggle with the weight,
stumble in the shadows, careful to stay in the ditched edges of the road where the grass covers their lower torsos and their cargo.

At a T junction, Nomsulwa stops. Mira urges her on.

“Keep going, there is a hidden yard a small ways up this block. We will go there.”

She nods, resigned, and continues down the road.

When they arrive, Mira leads them to the middle of the sandy plot. He gently lays down his half of the body and she does the same. She looks around her, notices that there are no windows looking out over this one corner of her township. A neighbour’s washing hangs on a thin line of string above them, shielding them from the street.

“Let’s get out of here,” Nomsulwa whispers urgently, becoming a little more herself, returning to the role of elder and leader.

“No.” Mira looks directly at her, focuses in on her like there is nothing else around him. “You have to go home and leave me here.”

“What?”

“You have to go home. Clean up. Burn your clothes and leave me here. I’ll handle everything else.”

“What are you talking about? We need to scour the car, get rid of any evidence. Let’s get out of here!” Nomsulwa tries to take Mira’s arm.

He reacts by snatching her clothes and dragging her in close to his face. His eyes are sunken from exhaustion, his breath sour from sleep, he whispers very quietly, “Go. I am
handling it.” Nomsulwa feels suddenly afraid of the boy she loves so much. He gives her a slight shove backwards. Then stands waiting for her to obey.