The Water Man's Daughter (9 page)

“Another favour.” Zembe doesn’t smile. “The foreigner who died, he was a water man –”

“So?” Nomsulwa jumps in. “Why do I care?”

Zembe continues as if she hadn’t just been interrupted. “He worked for Amanzi’s parent company and the company is, as you know, very close to the police services branch.”

Nomsulwa isn’t leaving, but she’s certainly won’t stay put for long either. Zembe speeds up her explanation. “The company is flying the daughter over here and has put my office
in charge of taking care of her while she is in Johannesburg. That means I need to find a guide I can trust, fast.” Now Nomsulwa really is turning around, as if to escape. “Where are you going?” She confronts Nomsulwa directly.

Nomsulwa stands still, legs taut and eyes big. “What can I do to help with that?” As if Zembe had levelled an accusation rather than a request. Then, before Zembe can answer her question, Nomsulwa starts to leave. “I really have to go to that meeting—”

“Wait. Don’t walk away from me. You’re the guide.”

“You’re crazy. I’m not going to be able to help you with this.”

“You’re going to have to. This is not a favour. It’s an official request.” Zembe walks forward, puts a hand on Nomsulwa’s shoulder, and feels how tense the muscles are. She tries to be calmer, more friendly. “I haven’t got enough information yet, I need more time.”
Be grateful, Nomsulwa, that I didn’t drag you down to the station that night
. “I need you to distract her, take her out, see the countryside, tour around. I need you to keep her busy.”
Pause again, give her time to remember, to feel lucky and indebted
.

“Hayi-bo wena, you drunk? Not me, I can’t.” Nomsulwa walks up the stairs, stumbling a bit. Zembe follows her erratic path indoors.

“I could have turned you all in, I could have put you behind –”

“But you didn’t.” Nomsulwa spins and stands her ground. “You wouldn’t because you resent the water men
just as much as I do, as we all do. You hate every bit of what they’ve done here. You wanted those pipes gone. You were glad I was out there, doing what you didn’t have the courage to do.”

Zembe says very quietly, “I don’t hate them enough to lose my job.”

“Find someone else. I can’t be in charge of some water man’s kid.”

“You’re it. She arrives in four days. White girl, twenty-one years old. Be at the airport by eleven, it’s the midday flight from Toronto. She’ll be in the South African Airways terminal.”

Zembe walks away.

“What’s her name?” Nomsulwa calls after her.

“Claire Matthews.”

Zembe does not look back. Nomsulwa will do it. She has to. The threat is real. Zembe doesn’t like the idea of turning in this brave girl, but she will if she has to.

N
OMSULWA ALMOST MAKES IT TO THE CAR
. T
HEN SHE
feels sick to her stomach and turns around, dashing back into her house. By the time she is on the road to the airport, she is twenty minutes late.

She spent the past four days thinking of every possible excuse to remove herself from the position of tour guide. Each phone call was forcefully brushed aside by Zembe. There is no choice. Either Nomsulwa shows up today or she and her entire organization will be arrested for the pipe theft. This reality sitting heavy on her chest, Nomsulwa wonders what part of herself will shut down, what part of her will turn off so that she can get through the task of escorting this girl to and from her fancy downtown hotel. For the first time in her life, she is thankful for her father, a man who held life in pieces, always choosing which one would rise to the surface. The kind of man who could break your fingers one moment and then hold them in his cool, broad hands with complete love the next.

The airport is on the opposite side of the city from Phiri. She has been there once before, to send off a cousin on his way to London for school. The entire family attended
his departure, shoving blankets and treats for the plane in his hands as he tried to escape. Nomsulwa hung back, fiercely jealous and nervous in the strange hall full of white men in business suits. One day, she swore, she would be the one with a scholarship, leaving on an airplane to study.

But then there had been a sick mother, and a cousin to keep out of trouble, and Nomsulwa had gotten her degree from the local university. A degree, sure, and with honours. But it is not worth much now.

The airport smells like cleaning fluid and men’s cologne. She sidesteps ladies swathed in animal-print gossamer with large bags trundling behind them. Families are here this time, too, gathered in huge numbers to send off or receive their own prodigal sons. She doesn’t look at faces, hoping to avoid recognition. She would have a hard time explaining her presence without giving away who she is picking up.

There is a scuffle on the left side of the hall. Crowds are being shifted this way and that as people gravitate towards the commotion. She follows a group of kids who were hovering around the vending machines to see what is going on. As she gets closer, she can hear the voice of a young woman yelling, “Give it back!” Another tourist fallen victim to the boys who hang around poaching unattended bags.

The woman in the centre of the gathering crowd still has one hand on her bag, while a tall boy backs away, looking very nervous about all the attention he is receiving.

The first thing Nomsulwa notices about Claire Matthews is that she looks incredibly familiar. Her colouring is all wrong.
Nothing like the pale ghost of the water man. But the eyes are the same. She is tiny; her face is scrunched and she is on the verge of exploding into tears, grabbing at her knapsack now securely in the arms of the tall boy searching for a place to run.

Before the boy has a chance to escape, Nomsulwa manages to scoot behind him.

“Shiya Buti,” she says in a low voice. “Yeka isikhwama.” She holds out her left hand while tightening a vicious grip on the boy’s shoulder. He winces. Bows his head, tries once to wriggle out of the hold, and then relents and passes the green-and-black bag to Nomsulwa.

“Dankie.” Nomsulwa thanks him snidely before shoving him in the direction of the door. Those who were watching the interaction begin to pick up their own conversations and movement resumes all around Nomsulwa and the girl.

The second thing Nomsulwa realizes about Claire is that her dark hair and pale skin are unlike anything she has seen on a white woman before. There are no hard features, no tight mouth, and when she asks Nomsulwa to please give her her bag back, there is no whiney British accent, no hard clip of Afrikaans.

“I’m sorry, here you go.” Nomsulwa reaches out with the knapsack.

“Thank you.”

“No worries.”

The girl sits down on the bench next to the baggage carousel.

“Are you Claire Matthews?” Nomsulwa asks, although she is already sure of the answer.

“Yes. Who are you?” A guarded expression covers Claire’s face. She holds her bag tighter.

“I’m Nomsulwa. I’ve been sent to pick you up.”

“I am meeting a police escort here.”

Nomsulwa’s not sure what to say to this. Claire is not budging, as if her escort couldn’t possibly be the woman standing before her wearing an ill-fitting suit taken from the back of her closet.

“I’m it.”

“You’re a police officer?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I’m the escort.”

“What is my father’s name?”

“Peter Matthews.”
The water man
, Nomsulwa thinks as she answers.

Claire gets her suitcase from under the bench. “I’m ready to go now,” she says.

Nomsulwa reaches over for Claire’s larger bag, but the white girl maintains a fast hold on the handle. Nomsulwa shrugs. They walk in tandem.

She had not, until this moment, contemplated that the girl would be a separate entity from the man, that the two could be individual people with different stories and histories. This girl, small, slight, tipping with the weight of the clothes she has brought for her African safari, is certainly not the man, angled, too tall, hair that blended into his skin that blended into his suit. The difference is a huge relief to Nomsulwa.

When they arrive in the parking lot, Nomsulwa directs Claire to her battered blue car. She is immediately self-conscious about the state of the paint and interior, and then just as quickly resents feeling that way. She throws the girl’s bag in the trunk, gets into the driver’s seat, and starts the engine without a word. They drive in silence, as though each is waiting for the other to capitulate and lose face.

Nomsulwa can smell Claire’s nervousness and sadness like body odour. It seeps out of every crevice in the girl. She sees the will that is also there to keep her lips tightly clenched, to touch as little as possible of the small, dirty car, to take in almost nothing of the scenery around her – Nomsulwa realizes it’s all part of the girl’s futile effort to keep the smell in.

“You’ve been to Africa before?” Nomsulwa asks, conceding defeat.

“No,” Claire answers, her voice less clipped.

“You’ll like it here. It’s the best place on earth.” Nomsulwa smiles, and then doesn’t know what to do because of course this is the farthest thing from the best place on earth, and Claire most certainly will not like South Africa. She stares at the road. Drive the girl to the hotel and get rid of her. This is not going to work.

“I’ve read a lot about South Africa and the work my father was doing,” Claire answers quietly, eventually. “He was going to take me on the next trip.”

She speaks almost like a child. Nomsulwa fakes another smile. She doesn’t answer. She doubts that the water man would have taken his daughter further than the pool
behind the air-conditioned hotel. Nomsulwa feels a little smug, for a second, before the reality of the dead man enters the conversation.

“I’m really sorry about your father,” she chokes out.

Claire doesn’t answer. Nomsulwa needs to get this girl out of the car.

“Do you know when I am supposed to meet with my dad’s company?” Claire asks when they have gotten closer to the city and the large buildings can be seen through the front window.

“I know I’m supposed to take you to the police station in charge of the investigation tomorrow morning,” Nomsulwa answers evenly.

“Oh.” Claire slumps a little. Nomsulwa glances sideways, notices the parts of Claire that seem beyond her control: her hair curls at awkward angles from the base of her neck; her fingernails are bitten down to the skin with little scabs on the edges. She bites one now, catches Nomsulwa looking over, and quickly brings her hands down to her lap.

“I’m sure the company has left an itinerary for you at the hotel.” Nomsulwa tries to reassure Claire, but she is really reassuring herself. Please let there be a full schedule, a plan for her so Nomsulwa can remain a glorified chauffeur. There is no way she’ll get through this week – is it a week? – without it.

“How long are you visiting for?”

“My ticket home is for eleven days from now.”

“Wow, that’s a long time.” What is she going to do for all that time?

“That’s what my mother said.” Claire pauses. “I want to see the places he worked, talk to the officers in charge of his case, talk to the men in charge of his schedule while he was here. There’s a lot people don’t know about my father, and maybe if they knew it, it would help them find—” Claire stops there. She folds her hands in her lap. Nomsulwa watches the road. She hears Claire shift in her seat. “I’d stay longer, but I’m starting law school soon. This is my only chance to come.”

“Law school?”

“Yeah, that was the plan at least. Before …” Claire looks directly at Nomsulwa for the first time. Nomsulwa can sense her studying her face, the big hair and small jaw and big eyes. She imagines Claire taking in the way that Nomsulwa’s hands are too large for the rest of her body and her clothes are tight over her arms. “He died trying to change things here. And I need to see what he was doing, what he didn’t get to finish.”

Nomsulwa nods, as if this is a satisfactory explanation for picking up and flying across the world to a strange and dangerous place and throwing yourself at the mercy of an anonymous company, an overworked police department, and a woman who would rather see you on the next plane home. Nomsulwa wonders if there is anything she could say right now that would convince this girl to turn around and go straight back to Canada. Only a small part of her admires the courage it took to make this trip.

The Regal Hotel is close to City Hall. Its exterior is the same slate-grey brick all the hotels on this strip chose. No windows, no doors other than the well-guarded revolving front door. High up the windows begin, but they don’t save the building from the severe impression it makes. A black man in a green uniform runs down to meet Nomsulwa’s car. He opens the door and Claire steps out. Nomsulwa wants to drive away immediately. She wants to slap the small boys begging for change next to the steps who crack jokes about her beat-up car. She wants to run over the toe of the uniformed man snickering at the creak and whine the car makes as he closes the door behind Claire.

Instead, Nomsulwa cuts the engine and jumps out.