Bloodlines (63 page)

S
TEVEN

KwaZulu-Natal, 2002

T
he drive from Johannesburg to the Drakensberg took seven hours, and when we left the highway at Mooi River, we still had thirty miles to go along narrow country roads, only some of which were paved. We were in KwaZulu-Natal.

At one point we took a wrong turn and drove twenty deserted miles through a silent landscape of immense dignity—stark, rocky foothills and fields of grass dotted with cows and the occasional goatherd with his animals. The road was empty, we discovered, because it led to only one destination—Giant’s Castle Reserve, an immense natural park. Along the way we passed the rural Zulu village of Mahlutshini, where most of the homes were built of brick or cement, or of the discarded materials from building sites—corrugated iron and wooden beams. But there were still many dwellings that gave a feeling of what the village might have looked like when my mother arrived forty years earlier—rounded, thatched huts; half-spheres of intertwined branches caulked with mud. There were even a few huts where the walls had been painted in traditional Zulu designs.

The village seemed to have been built in an arbitrary way, with houses scattered along the hills in no particular design—but there was an order imposed by the landscape. Some houses were built on the side of the road, but most were situated on hillsides, and on higher ground, and because there was no shortage of space, there was little crowding. This was a poor village, but the magnificence of its surroundings lent it grace and dignity.

On the left the village extended up the hillside, and off into the fields on the right. The road ran right through, and because there were so few cars, the people used it as their main thoroughfare. The day we arrived was a Sunday, and the village road was crowded. Many adults were dressed in white vestments, or in long robes of startling blue or red, on their way to church, and children were everywhere, running through the crowds, riding bicycles, playing with balls, bicycle wheels, tin cans. I drove cautiously, feeling very much as if we were trespassing on a private event. The people were friendly, looking at us with open curiosity as they made their way slowly to the side of the road so that we could pass.

The village had little if any indoor plumbing, but there were hand pumps scattered through the hills, and women and children looked up from their pumping to wave at us as we drove by. We passed several women walking down the road with five-gallon containers of water, or packages, or even huge and ungainly bundles of firewood, balanced on their heads.

Eventually, studying the map, we realized that we had made a wrong turn, and before we reached the end of the road at Giant’s Castle Reserve, turned around. We had not seen another vehicle since our first pass through the village, and on the return trip we were greeted by the same smiling crowds, and by some laughter.

“They all think we’re idiots,” said Sally through a clenched grin as she waved out through the open window.

“Why do you say that, honey?” I asked innocently, thinking the same thing.

“They knew we were lost the first time we went through, and they were just waiting for us to realize it and come back,” she said. “And they’re right. I feel like an idiot, and it’s not even my fault. I just wish,” she said into the rear-view mirror, a look of long-suffering on her face, “that I had parents who could read a map.”

“They can read maps,” said Greg solemnly, and I heard Dariya’s words in his mouth. “They’re doing their best in a new and difficult situation. Why don’t you just stop being so bossy?”

The children glared sullenly at each other for a brief moment, and we smiled sheepishly as we crept along slowly, waiting again for people to make their leisurely way to the side of the road. At the time, our detour felt like a waste—but it gave me some perspective on the nature of my mother’s life. She lived a world apart from the reality of our lives in Boston—and compared to what we had just left behind us in Johannesburg, she might as well have lived in another country, in a different time.

At mid-afternoon, having driven back through the general area of Balgowan, we turned left off the paved road and onto a dusty two-lane dirt road that seemed to wind on forever.

“This is where we should be looking for Cleopatra Mountain,” said Dariya, checking the directions. “It’s the side of a mountain, up at the top of a cliff that looks like the outline of a woman’s face.”

“There it is!” shouted Sally, eager to be first. “Straight ahead of us!”

She pointed through the front windshield at the mountain looming before us, and we leaned forward to see that at one end, in profile at the summit, there was indeed the outline of a face. Whether it could have belonged to the Egyptian queen is another question.

Leaving the farmland behind us, we followed the gravel road, and Cleopatra Mountain slid off to the side as we began to rise into the foothills of the Drakensberg. At one point the road forked, and we took the right fork up a hill.

“We’re very close now,” I said. “What color are the walls supposed to be?”

“Grayish-blue,” said Greg. “And two big pillars, one on each side of the entrance.”

My mother’s property was surrounded by a high brick wall, and it was indeed painted a deep grayish-blue. The entrance was between two cement pillars, to one side of which there was a small sign announcing “Cleo’s Retreat, Bed and Breakfast. Best Fishing in the Drakensberg. Michaela Green, Proprietor.” Tourism had come to the Midlands in a big way, and a few years earlier my mother converted part of the farm into a high-end bed and breakfast, which Penya ran for her. Still, it was something of a surprise to find that the woman who lived the life she had, was also the proprietor of a fair-sized bed and breakfast establishment. I pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. There were only three or four cars in a lot big enough for a dozen. We discovered that people left early in the morning, and returned for dinner.

“Well, I guess we got here,” I said.

Dariya placed a reassuring hand on my arm, and as usual, our children missed nothing.

“This will be fine, Dad,” said Sally. “You don’t have to worry.”

“Yes,” said Greg, putting a small hand on my shoulder. “We’re all in this together.”

“And if it turns out that Grandma doesn’t like you, Dad,” said Sally, pinching both Greg’s cheeks between her thumbs and forefingers, “all she has to do is look at this boy’s handsome face and you’ll be a star.”

“Hands off the merchandise,” he said, garbled and unclear, and we were all laughing as we poured out of the car.

We made our way down a series of stone steps and through a rose arbor, with a well-labeled herb garden on one side and a hedge of white flowering trees on the other. At the bottom of the steps there was an expanse of grass leading to the banks of a narrow, fast-flowing stream, and at the opposite bank forested hillsides ascended steeply, separating into several rounded hills.

The forests petered out halfway up the hillsides and were replaced by long, rough grasses, and at the summit the hillsides coalesced into an imposing façade of eroded sandstone formations. These were foothills, small by mountain standards, but they were majestic and grand.

At the bottom of the steps and to the left was the main farmhouse, constructed of dark, quarried stone, and beyond it, a series of buildings and then plowed fields. To the right there was a large inlet, a pond that had been created by allowing water from the river to pool, and it was surrounded by a series of individual guest houses, and a larger building with a sign over one door indicating that it was the office.

“This is a most beautiful place,” muttered Dariya, leaning into me. “I begin to understand why Michaela didn’t want to leave here. I wouldn’t want to leave, either.”

We stood at the bottom of the steps, looking from the farmhouse to the office. I didn’t relish the prospect of explaining who I was to a stranger behind a desk. But two huge German shepherds solved the problem for me. They bounded across the grass towards us, barking loudly, and Greg grabbed hold of my hand in alarm. Sally ran towards them, fearless and laughing.

One dog was slow, old and grizzled; he had a torn ear and arthritic rear legs, and his breathing was labored as he did his game best to keep up with the competition. The other dog seemed to have just emerged from puppy-hood—all he wanted to do was play, and for him, everything was a game. He had a thick coat of heavily brushed hair, a curious, intelligent face, and, it turned out, a wonderful temperament. He greeted Sally, jumped up briefly with his paws on her shoulders and licked her face, and then very gently came over and charmed Greg by inserting a cold snout into his hand.

The noise couldn’t help but attract some attention. The rear door of the office building flew open, and a young man came towards us. He held himself tall and straight, like Khabazela; his eyes were green, his hair tightly curled, and he had a lean handsome face and a humorous mouth. He was a stranger to me, yet there was intimacy in his smile, and knowledge of me, and in some indefinable way he was as familiar to me as my own children.

“I should have been waiting here to greet you,” he said, his voice deep and vaguely familiar. “My grandfather called to say that you would be arriving around now.”

“Penya?” I said.

“Yes,” he said, giving Dariya a hug. “My grandmother asked me to welcome you all on her behalf. And to Michaela’s other grandchildren,” he said gravely, turning to them, “to Sally and Greg, I welcome you, too, to your grandmother’s home. I am your cousin, Penya.
Sawubona
.”

“We learned what that means in Zulu, Mom,” said Greg proudly, looking at Dariya. “It means ‘I see you.’”

“That’s very good,” said Penya, kneeling down so that he was at eye level with Greg. “And do you know how to answer
Sawubona
?”

He shook his head.

“I do,” said Sally. “
Yebo.
But I don’t remember what it means. Maybe it means Hello?”

“Not quite,” he said. “It means ‘I am here.’ And do you know why we greet each other this way, instead of saying a simple ‘hello?’” He rose. “We believe that we all exist only because other people see and know us. So when I greet you, I am saying that I see you; that I recognize your being. And when you reply, you are saying that you are here because I see you. And so, in that way, we acknowledge our need for each other.”

Then Penya Michaels turned to me, and for a brief moment he looked at me in silence.

“You did not know until now that I exist, but I have known for many years about Steven Green,” he said. “Now we meet, finally.”

He placed his hands on my shoulders.

“
Sawubona
,” he said softly. “Welcome home, my uncle.”

Penya had arranged for our suitcases to be carried down from the car, and showed us to our rooms in the main farmhouse. He sat down with us in the kitchen to a late lunch of grilled chicken sandwiches and salad that was brought in from the main kitchen, and he was charming, knowledgeable, and interested in us all and in our impressions of the country.

But I found myself increasingly agitated. My mother was absent; there was no mention of her or of where she was, and I restrained myself from asking. After so many years of silence, was it too much to ask that she be present when we arrived? I waited until the end of the meal, when the children wandered out to see if they could spot the huge brown trout in the pond.

“When do you expect my mother back?” I asked.

Penya grinned. “She wanted you to get settled and have lunch,” he said. “She’s waiting for you.”

“Where is she waiting?” I asked.

“She’s not far from here.” He pointed vaguely outside, towards the mountains. “She asked me to take you to her whenever you’re ready.”

“I’ve come halfway around the world to see her,” I said, rising from the table. “How much more ready could I be?”

Penya rose, too. “Come then,” he said softly. “I will take you.”

Dariya got up from the table and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Good luck, Stevie,” she said. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

“You’re not coming?”