Bloodlines (39 page)

“I can’t tell you much,” he said as he ran his fingers lightly through my hair. “Only what cannot harm you. The Special Branch can extract information from a stone—and if you are interrogated and they take from you information about where I’ve been, you’ll be charged with treason along with me.” He paused. “I have already once been responsible for landing you in jail. If it happens again they will discover that Grace Michaels is really the escaped terrorist, Michaela Green, and this time they will make sure that there is no escape.”

“I know you want to protect me,” I said. “I don’t need to know the details of the operations you’re involved in. But you can’t expect me to live in complete ignorance, worried about where you are and what you’re doing. We didn’t get into this so that you could be the wandering freedom fighter and I could stay home and tend the fire. For the last six weeks I didn’t even know whether you were alive or dead, Khabazela. And the first news I had of you was three days ago. That’s not fair.”

“Solomon told me about Jonathan, the injured man up in the cave. You were determined to tend the wounds of your patient.” He smiled, stroking my neck. “You are your father’s daughter.”

His fingers on my neck stopped short, his body stiffened, and the smile disappeared. For a moment I saw on his face the uncompromising harshness that made him a successful commander for the ANC.

“Jonathan has acted foolishly, and we are all endangered by what he has done.”

“But he was trying to protect his sister,” I said. “Should he have let the farmer beat her?”

“He endangered his sister in the first place by going to her for help. Others would have helped him—but he was not thinking clearly. For us, it doesn’t matter that he did away with a farmer who would have beaten his sister and killed him, but his actions have had other consequences. Now his sister is a fugitive without a job; the police are on the hunt for a murderer, and you can be sure that the Special Branch has been called in.” He paused, searching in himself for the softly spoken lover who had been eclipsed moments before. Eventually I felt his body relax, but the lover was gone, and in his voice there was still the anger of betrayal.

“The time will come when this kind of attention is inevitable,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “but we’re not ready. We’re training fighters in camps across the border; there are operations planned inside the country that will target military and government installations. Our objective is not to kill people, Michaela, but to show them that we have the power to make the country ungovernable by destroying the infrastructure. This is not about random violence, or revenge; it’s not terrorism, where people are rightly afraid of being killed in their beds, and we don’t want to give the government the ammunition to label us as terrorists. We can have much greater political effect if we are seen as an organized military operation with discipline, a command structure, and an overall plan.”

He stopped and swallowed, took a deep breath. “Jonathan acted without thought. But it will not happen again. He is now a liability for us, and I have had him taken back to his home near Eshowe. He is not happy with my decision, but we are done with him.”

“But he’s badly injured. I’ve been taking care of him, and he can barely walk. How are you having him moved?” I sat up angrily, his eyes and then his hand moved to my swaying breasts. “No,” I said as I took a handful of sheet and covered myself. “How could you do this without talking to me first?”

There was a smile on his lips as he raised himself up on his elbow, but it was not a smile I had seen before. He took the sheet and slowly, very firmly, pulled it from my hand until I was fully exposed, and as he passed his eyes over my body the trajectory of his vision left a burning sensation on my skin, like sunlight through a magnifying glass. Then he knelt between my thighs and, with the palms of his hands on my shoulders, he pushed me onto my back.

“This bed will serve many purposes,” he said softly. He was no longer whispering; his face was inches from mine, and I felt his voice reverberate in my chest. “But it will never be a place for you to question my command decisions. Not ever.”

Then, tenderly, with a relentlessness that frightened me but that I could not oppose, he lowered his hips to mine, and that night I knew what it meant to be possessed by a man, and to be fully known. It exposed me fully; laid me bare, deprived me of every shred of personhood and individuality, even of the social convention of consent. I was surprised, outraged, pleasured, all at the same time. I wanted to eject him and throw him off me, pummel him with my fists, wind my arms about his neck and embrace him, and all my ambivalent impulses converged in my constricted throat and came out as a huge gasp.

Had I resisted him, Khabazela would have stopped. But although I wanted to, I could neither oppose him nor struggle against him. To my astonishment, and in the midst of my fury, I was content in that moment to watch the expression on his face, and to be his vessel.

.

twenty

MICHAELA

Natal, South Africa, 1966

M
y first summer on the farm came to an end with the last apples on our trees, as the temperature dipped and frost appeared. As the dry winter approached, the grasses began to fade. The sun set earlier; once it began to dip behind the mountains, the warmth of the day quickly dissipated, and nights were bitterly cold. We had no central heating then, and late each afternoon Selina lit a fire in the fireplace so that I could add kindling as the evening wore on. First thing in the morning when she came in, she made sure that it was lit again.

Khabazela was away when I received an invitation to a meeting of the local ladies club, which went by the name of The Cultural Society. Under normal circumstances I would have declined. It was the last place on earth I wanted to be, and it was a given, I thought, that I would find no like- minded people among them. On the other hand, they might consider it strange for a new woman in the community to want no part of them, and it was important that I not stand out. I was also lonely, and it was beginning to dawn on me that if I didn’t begin building a life in the community, I wouldn’t have one. So I accepted the invitation.

I went out of curiosity, not realizing that they had invited me for the same reason. The members were almost all of Scottish and English descent; the Afrikaans farm wives were not included. They didn’t know who I was or where I came from—but I had bought a farm from one of their long-time Scots neighbors and they wanted to find out what I was up to. What they saw was an attractive, well-turned out young woman who lived alone, and ran a substantial farm without the presence of a husband or father. They had no difficulty letting me know how they felt about me—but at first, I had no idea that for many of them, the threat I posed was too much to bear.

I had spent almost three months on the farm with little socializing, and arriving at the polo club was reminiscent of the culture shock I had felt when I returned to Durban after spending a year in Lungile’s homestead. I gave my coat to a blue-and-white uniformed maid, and as I approached the clubhouse, I heard the sound of women talking and laughing. For a moment I felt glad to be there, optimistic about the possibility of friendship. Then I entered the clubhouse, and I knew I had made some bad choices.

There had been no one to consult, no one to ask what the women would be wearing. In the absence of information, I decided that I would wear my bank suit—which is how I thought of the beige linen suit that I bought in Switzerland before I visited my father’s safe deposit box. The suit was simple and elegant, with a cropped jacket, a narrow knee-length skirt, and matching beige heels. The sleeves were three-quarter length, and the whole ensemble had the Jackie Kennedy look that was in vogue in America. It had been months since I wore any makeup, and something in me objected to giving this event too much importance. So I wore pale pink glossy lipstick, and nothing else. My hair, dark and short, fell naturally to my neck. I should have recognized that the look was too stylish and too urban—that it made me look overly tall and fashionable; more attractive and younger than any of my neighbors were willing to have me be.

The women wore full-skirted, flowered and print dresses belted at the waist, some with puffed sleeves and sweetheart collars, or light colored blouses and darker, pleated skirts. Several wore small hats with little veils, and white lisle gloves. They were sitting at little tables, sipping tea out of blue and white china cups. On each table was a teapot, and a platter of sandwiches—watercress or egg salad on white bread points. They recognized me as I arrived, the only unfamiliar face, and as each table took note, all heads turned towards me. Sound and movement slowly evaporated, and the room filled with silence.

One of the women rose nervously and walked toward me.

“You must be Grace,” she said.

She looked to be in her late forties, with graying hair above a round, youngish, face. She wore a pink and yellow flowered print dress, a shiny red belt, and a small, brimless eggshell colored hat secured by a dainty hat pin to the top of her head.

“I’m Eileen,” she said with a tense smile, “Eileen Gregory.” She took my hand and shook it. “I’m so glad to meet you. We’ve all been a little remiss in not welcoming you before now. Let me take you around and introduce you.”

I had already met several women at other meetings or at the cooperative, and as we went around the room, a few greeted me warmly. Most, however, were curious and distant, even cold. We came to a table at which all but one of the women reached over and shook my hand. She waited until I had greeted her table mates, and then looked up at me. She was probably a little older than I was, overweight and red haired. She didn’t introduce herself, and she kept hold of her teacup and saucer, making clear that she had no intention of extending a hand to greet me. Her voice was brassy and loud—either she had no idea how loud, or she felt so insignificant that she would do anything to make herself heard.

“You met my husband, Graham, at the Cooperative,” she said. “Graham Collins.”

I remembered him—a big man with a soft voice, a nice sense of humor, and hungry eyes. “Yes,” I said. “We talked about sorghum and cattle feed. He was very kind.”

“He remembers you, too,” she said grimly. “In fact, he thought you were quite the thing. Very sympathetic, he was, with the difficulty of your new situation.”

I was puzzled for a moment, wondering what I had unwittingly revealed. Then I remembered telling him my cover story—after my husband’s death in an accident, I sold our farm in Rhodesia and returned home to South Africa, resumed my maiden name, and made a new start.

“Yes,” I said, “it’s quite an adjustment, but I’m learning to manage.” I paused; no one spoke. “Thank you for inquiring,” I continued in my politest voice.

“If there’s anything I can help you with,” she continued, “you can ask me.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That’s most generous.”

“But my husband,” she continued quickly, unable to hold back the words, glaring at me through thickened lashes, “has his hands full managing our farm.”

I was startled by her vehemence, and by the openness of her jealousy, and I’m sure it must have shown on my face.

“Oh, I’m quite sure he has his hands full,” I said eventually, managing a smile. I would have said more, but Eileen Gregory took my arm and pulled me away.

“Let’s move around, dear,” she said. “Everyone else wants to meet you, too. I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her round cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Please, don’t take Madeleine too seriously—she means no harm.”

Madeleine Collins was unpleasant, and it would be a long time before I spoke to her again. But she posed no danger—her lack of subtlety made her an open book. At the next table, however, I found Phyllis McGowan, a woman much more sympathetic to my manufactured plight. She was older than I was, and half a head taller, with pale, delicate skin and fine features. Rising to introduce herself, she took my hand in both of hers.

“Nice to finally meet,” she said, pulling me closer, as if we had already made a connection. “I’ve heard so much about you.” She had large green eyes, and she fixed them on mine. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal,” she said. “You’re a very brave young woman, to start over the way you have.”