Sex and Death (18 page)

She turned to Matilda. ‘Where did this happen?'

‘Northfields, in town,' said Matilda.

Plaxedes turned back to her phone. ‘Northfields . . . Northfields. In town. I said North . . . Ah, I have run out of airtime.'

‘
Inga i
horror,' she said. ‘But I have to go. My break is over but I will be back in an hour to find out more. If you are not finished with the braids, I will even come and help.'

Pepukai breathed at last.

Plaxedes's phone rang as she left, and they could hear her say, ‘Northfields . . . Northfields . . . Yes . . . She was shot at Northfields.'

As soon as she was out of hearing, MaiShero said, ‘Is there a bigger gossip than that Plaxedes?'

‘You know, don't you,' said Zodwa, ‘that her husband's sister and aunt actually beat her up once because of her gossiping?'

‘She is not the type that you can tell anything,' said MbuyaMaTwins.

As she talked, MbuyaMaTwins moved from under the dryer to a dressing station. Shylet stood behind her to unroll her hair from the curlers and style it. MbuyaMaTwins admired her reflection in the mirror. Pepukai thought the wash and set made her neck and head look like a very small mushroom on a particularly bulbous stalk. As Shylet sprayed liberal doses of a particularly smelly moisturiser over the finished hair, Pepukai tried not to cough.

‘
Ende machena zvekwa
MaiChenai
chaizvo
,' said MaiShero. ‘That looks so nice.'

‘
Ndachenaka?
' said MbuyaMaTwins. She preened in the mirror as she turned her head, the tips of her spread-out fingers lightly tapping her new hairstyle. ‘We have a function at church. This time,
bambo vekwangu
will have to come, I won't hear any more of his excuses. What sort of golf is it that is played at all hours?'

The women nudged each other. MbuyaMaTwins, unseeing, continued to admire herself in the mirror. They all looked up as a voice came from the door. ‘
T'ookumbirawo rubatsiro vanhu vaMwari. T'ookumbirawo rubatsiro vanhu vaJehovah
.'

It was a blind beggar who was led by a small boy of no more than seven or eight years of age. The man wore tattered blue overalls while the boy wore a shirt and shorts that belonged to two different school uniforms. They were both barefoot.

Matilda said, ‘Does anyone have a dollar?'

MbuyaMaTwins rummaged through her overstuffed bag. Pepukai opened her purse. Genia let go of Pepukai's hair so that she could dig into her trouser pockets, MaiShero and Zodwa went to their stations to get their handbags. As the boy went from woman to woman collecting money, the old man dropped to his knees in thanksgiving, raised his voice in blessing and clapped his hands in gratitude.

‘
Mwari wenyu vakukomborerei, vakukomborerei, vakukomborerei.
'

They left the salon.

MbuyaMaTwins took twenty-two dollars from her bag and handed it to Matilda. ‘I will give you an extra two dollars for a drink,' she said.

‘Thanks MbuyaMaTwins,' said Matilda. ‘Shylet!'

Shylet's face brightened.

‘Go and give this to Plaxedes at TM. I owe her thirty for the relaxer. Tell her the rest is coming.'

Shylet's shoulders drooped as she walked out.

‘Right, girls,' said MbuyaMaTwins, ‘I have to go, but before I do we need to pray.' Without further prompting, the women melted from Pepukai to gather around MbuyaMaTwins in the middle of the salon, their heads bowed. Unsure of what to do, Pepukai joined them.

MbuyaMaTwins's face became twisted with effort.

‘Bless Lord everyone in this salon, Lord, and especially this daughter who is taking a flight today. Send her journey mercies, dear Lord. Do not put evil thoughts in the mind of the pilot, Lord, let the pilot land the plane with no incident, let him not crash it deliberately.'

‘Amen,' said Genia.

‘We ask you to receive into your loving arms our sister Kindness, take her into your glory, Mwari Baba to you she has come to rest Lord,
Ndimi
Mwari Baba
vemasimba
, Mwari Baba
munogona
, Mwari
munogona kani
, Mwari Baba
munogona
!'

‘Amen,' the women chorused.

‘We ask you to guide us today in everything we do, so that all that we do may be to honour your holy name.'

‘Amen,' said Genia.

‘This we ask in Jesus's name.
Muzita ra
Baba,
nere
Mwanakomana,
nere
Mweya Musande. Amen.'

‘Amen.'

MbuyaMaTwins crossed herself and kissed her rosary. She picked up her bag off the floor, stuffed her white headscarf into
its capacious depths and with a radiant smile said to Pepukai, ‘
Wofamba mushe dhali
, travel well,' and to the others, ‘
Ndiyoyo vasikana
, see you next week.'

‘Mati,' said MaiShero as soon as the client was out of hearing, ‘isn't that woman supposed to be a Roman Catholic?'

‘You know she is,' said Matilda. ‘You saw what she is wearing, so why do you ask?'

‘Because she prays like a Pentecostal, that's why,' said MaiShero.

Shylet piped up from the sink. ‘She apparently wants to set up her own church. A women's ministry.'

‘That is a smart move,' said Genia. ‘There is so much money to be made in these new churches.'

‘And she will need all the prayers she can get with that husband of hers,' said MaiShero. ‘He is the busiest unemployed man in the city.'

‘And he is never alone either,' laughed Genia.

‘
Makwatuza
,' said Matilda.

‘
Makwatikwati
,' echoed Zodwa.

‘
Kuda zvinhu!
' said Mai Shero.

They laughed and clapped their hands to each other.

It took a little more talk of Kindness and another hour before Pepukai was done. The braids fell beautifully and lightly from her head, in hundreds of long thin ropes that were perfectly even. The last thing was to soak the ends in hot water to seal them and make sure that they did not unravel. Genia held up a mirror to the one before her so that Pepukai could see the back of her head.

The women beamed as they admired their handiwork.

‘You are so right,' Matilda said, ‘this is very old-fashioned but it really suits your face.'

‘Perfection
sipo yekuwizira chaiyo
,' said MaiShero.

‘
Maoresa nhunzi yegreen
,' agreed Genia.

Shylet approached, shaking the can of the stinky spray. Pepukai held up her hands as if to ward off evil. ‘It's really okay, thank you, Shylet,' she said. ‘I do not need the spray, I will do that later.'

She paid the eighty dollars that Matilda had requested, and gave her an extra twenty. ‘This is my
chema
for Kindness,' she said. ‘I hope it all goes well.' As she spoke, Matilda's phone buzzed out a new message.

‘It's from the cousin sister of Kindness. She has no airtime, but she says we have to come now,' said Matilda. ‘The mourners are gathering at their house in Warren Park.'

‘Is it okay if I just wait here for my hair to dry a bit?' Pepukai asked.

It was fine, Matilda said, Shylet would stay to lock up. They said their goodbyes and bustled out. Pepukai continued to hear their voices until they turned the corner past the butcher's. In thirty minutes, her hair was dry enough for her to leave. The last Pepukai saw of Snow White Hairdressing was Shylet sitting at Kindness's station, plaiting the rest of her hair.

That night, on her flight to Amsterdam, Pepukai chose the chicken over the fish. Nor did she eat any of the orange segments in her fruit salad, choosing to eat, instead, the grapes and cubed melon and the delicate slivers of apple.

Money had kept everything sweet for the last few years, but now it had all gone wrong. He was in bad trouble, and it was because of money. He couldn't see any way out of the situation except to run, and so here he was, taking the train without telling anybody he was leaving, without saying goodbye.

From the moment he got on board he was reminded of what awaited him, what money had been protecting him from. Only poor people took the train these days. The other passengers were threadbare, stamped hard by life. The few white passengers in particular had something granular and common about them. He didn't want to share a compartment with any of them.

He himself was young and attractive and liked to dress well, but he didn't want to be noticed today. Although his suitcase was full of expensive clothes, he was wearing jeans and a green T-shirt, along with a cap and sunglasses. It was the way he'd looked when he'd first arrived in Cape Town seven years ago.

The train was quite empty and he was still alone in the compartment when the whistle blew. He took off his sunglasses and watched the city fall slowly away, though the mountain stayed visible for the first hour, a blue stain on the horizon, gradually diminishing. He was restless to begin with, lying down, standing up again, pacing the corridor. But as the train climbed away from the greener landscape at the coast toward the interior, he became more settled, and then introspective.

By the time they arrived at Laingsburg in the late afternoon, he'd been immobile in his seat for an hour, brooding on the turn that his
life had taken. He was slow to become aware of a lone figure on the otherwise deserted platform, and only saw a passing glimpse of a sorry-looking old man, bald and battered, toiling with a heap of luggage toward the carriage door. Immediately he had an odd certainty that the old man would be with him in this compartment.

When the train pulled out again, the sun was going down. The reddish light gave a soft, benign look to the stony hills they were passing through, but the scrubby bushes, festooned with rags of plastic, were vibrating in a cold wind. After a few minutes nothing had happened and he started to relax.

Then came a knocking and a tugging at the compartment door.

‘Who is it?' the young man called, though of course he knew.

‘It's me, Corrie.'

He unlocked and opened the door. The old man was outside amidst his baggage. Two bulging suitcases, a rucksack and a plastic bag. All his life in these worn-out containers; you could see it at a glance.

‘I'm in here,' the old man – Corrie – told him. Holding his ticket in his hand.

‘There's lots of space,' the young man said. ‘You could be on your own.'

‘Sorry?'

‘Don't you want to be alone?'

He looked at the ticket, confused. ‘No,' he said. ‘I'm in here.'

As he started stowing his luggage, the young man went out and down the corridor, looking into other compartments. If he could find one that was free, he might take it. But by now there were more people on the train and no more vacant spaces. He went back to his own compartment, where Corrie had seated himself on the opposite bench and was running a comb through a few lank strands he'd greased down across the top of his scalp. He put the comb away in his shirt pocket and studied the young man through thick, black-framed glasses.

Finally he said, ‘I didn't catch your name.'

‘I didn't tell it to you.'

‘Sorry?'

‘Robert. My name is Robert.'

They nodded uneasily at each other. Two men in a metal box, rushing across a landscape.

‘How far are you going?' Robert said.

‘Johannesburg. All the way. And you? What about you?'

‘Me too. All the way.'

No escape then, till midday tomorrow.

‘You live in Johannesburg?'

‘In Morningside.'

He could see that the name meant nothing to Corrie, though a quick, indefinable emotion passed across his face. ‘I've never been before,' he said. ‘This is my first time.'

‘Never been to Johannesburg in your life?'

‘No. I never had a reason.'

Robert watched him and could see what the old man was trying to hide from himself. Corrie had nothing to show for the past and was very afraid of the future. He glanced sideways at Robert and asked, ‘What work do you do?'

‘I'm a lawyer.'

‘A lawyer!' Corrie whistled through his teeth. ‘Man, that sounds to me like a real job.' A moment later he was studying Robert in bemusement. What was a lawyer doing riding on the train?

‘Do you live in a big house?' he asked.

‘In a flat. With my fiancée.' He looked calmly at the old man. ‘It's a huge, old block and we have the penthouse. Twelfth floor. Great view of the city skyline. On a clear day you can see across to the Hartbeespoort dam from the bedroom windows. Floor-to-ceiling glass.' As he described it, the life composed itself around him, even though he had borrowed its parts from somebody else, a man he'd once known. None of what he'd said was true, not
even his name, which was actually Johan.

The old man was openly worried now, fidgeting on his seat. He dragged one of his suitcases out and rummaged through it till he found a box of cigarettes. He offered one to his fellow passenger, who shook his head, then retreated to the corridor outside to smoke. Johan could see him through the open door, staring at the darkening view. He had that quality of thoughtfulness certain smokers have, as if contemplating weighty matters while they puff. Though Johan doubted there was anything important to think about in this case – nothing but bad choices and missed chances.

The conductor came by to check their tickets and to ask whether they wanted bedding for the night. There was a fifty-rand charge, which Johan reluctantly paid. Corrie said no.

When the conductor had gone, Johan said, ‘It's going to get very cold in the Karoo tonight. Below freezing.'

‘I know.'

‘How will you keep warm?'

‘I've got a
trick
,' the old man said, and winked at him.

Johan didn't want to know about any tricks, but the question had set Corrie off. His reticence had gone and now he wanted to speak. For some reason he launched into an account of working for a fisheries company ten years ago, although he hadn't been there for long. It was only one of a series of useless jobs he'd had, all of which he was describing to Johan, spreading out his life in a patchwork of one-horse towns and bright ideas that had quickly burned out. He'd been living in Laingsburg for the past four years, ever since his wife had died of cancer and his only child, a daughter, had become estranged from him. He'd had a plan to get a carpet-cleaning business going there, but it hadn't worked out. There just wasn't a big enough market, he explained dolefully, but he brightened again as he talked about going to Johannesburg and making a fresh start. He would be staying with the brother of his late wife, who was a good guy and would help him. Life had
given him a few kicks, it was true, but he had some big fish on his line and it was all going to turn around soon. He could feel it. There was a note of genuine hopefulness in his voice, as if this time, at last, against all the mounting odds, something would fall into place and his luck would finally change.

While he spoke and spoke, Johan studied him with the clear eyes of hatred. He saw the marks of old food on his jacket, the frayed cuffs, the nicotine stains on his fingers and moustache, and all these things told a story that the young man knew by heart. It felt to him suddenly that he couldn't listen for another second.

He stood up abruptly and said, ‘Excuse me, I'm going to eat.'

Corrie was halfway through a sentence, his mouth open. Johan pushed past him and went down the corridor. On the way to the dining car he turned into the bathroom. The mirror above the metal basin was scratched and old; his youngish face floated in it. He judged himself coldly, as he judged others, not liking what he saw – his fading prettiness and also the corruption it concealed. Though he was only twenty-seven, his expression had started to thicken and set. Something evasive in the eyes, a petulance in the downturned corners of the mouth.

He had used his looks well in his time in the city. They were his only real asset, like a bright blade with which to cut a path for himself, and he had cut and cut, and some people had bled in the process. He'd never paused for long enough to care, but the edge of the blade had become duller lately and life had slowed down. There were younger, prettier faces now, supplanting his, even before what had happened. This – the Event That Changed Everything – was something he didn't like to think about, not directly. When sometimes it came into view, he flinched away. It was too big, too dangerous, the consequences too scary to imagine.

He thought about them now. He took a sharp breath, looked his reflection in the eye and told it, ‘You killed somebody.' The words sounded flat in the grubby little cubicle. The memory of it
was also far away and somewhere else, faint pictures that didn't fit together. Cocaine on a mirror, a hotel room with a brown-green carpet, an argument going badly out of control. Money at the heart of it all. For him, money was somehow always the main cause.

For a moment he saw clearly what might happen to his life and this was far more vivid than what he'd done. He yanked quickly away from the mirror, ran water into the basin, splashed his face. Better to keep moving, not to think too much.

He left the cubicle and went to the dining car, though he wasn't hungry. He sat at one of the tables and drank bad wine and tried to stop his mind from turning as he stared at the blackness pouring past the window. He had a sense of fate gathering inward, toward some central point in the future. It hadn't been that way till just a few days ago. Up until then, he'd believed he was in charge.

When he got back to the compartment, his bed had been made up and Corrie was sitting on the bottom, unmade bunk, grinning, wearing a puffy, padded white outfit, something like an astronaut's space suit. White gloves and jacket, white pants. He pulled the white hood up over his head and goggled smugly at Johan.

‘I told you I have a
trick
,' he said.

Very pleased with himself.

‘What is that?'

‘When I worked for that fisheries company I mentioned, in the warehouses with the frozen foods, you know, they gave us this stuff to wear. This is all I need, my friend. I am A1. I tell you what, I won't be cold tonight.'

You may not be cold
, Johan thought,
but your life will always be your life
. His heart was hardened anew with contempt against Corrie and his kind. There was nothing you could do with some people.

*

He himself slept restlessly, and every time he woke it seemed to him Corrie was standing in the corridor in his bunny suit, under the fluorescent lights, smoking a cigarette. But in the morning, when Johan climbed down, the old man was lying on his back on the bottom bunk, hood up, eyes closed, still wearing his glasses in his sleep. The compartment was thick with stale air.

He opened one of the shutters and raised the window a little. The landscape had changed in the night, bleached grass replacing stones, emptiness giving way to houses, roads, people. The world was filling up. He stood staring, his brain like a dirty windscreen that the cold air was wiping clean. Eventually he could see through it to what the rest of the day contained. Beyond that, everything was obscure.

When he turned back from the window, he could tell immediately that the old man was dead. There was a total stillness about him that was almost like a colour, though all the actual colour had drained away.

‘Oh,' he said, himself going still. Something should have followed on, but didn't. There were no words.

He gripped Corrie tentatively by one arm and shook him, to make sure. But there was no doubt. A coldness, a heaviness had taken over. The old man had become an object. Some time in the night, with Johan just above him.

He had seen only one dead body before. It was what he was running from, would always be running from, and it had followed him here. That other scene welled up in him, and for a moment he was in the sickening aftermath again, not able to believe what had happened. What his hands had done.

Now, as then, he very quickly became practical. He moved to the door, making sure it was locked. It was obvious to him what should happen. He didn't want any kind of scene; he didn't want to be questioned and have his details recorded. He was travelling under a false name and no clues would lead to him, if he just
acted fast. The old man was nothing to him. He didn't owe anything to Corrie.

He dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, the T-shirt and cap and dark glasses. He packed everything away that belonged to him and left all the old man's things exactly in place, including his wallet with its pathetic clutch of notes. Then he sat ready in the darkened compartment, watching over the corpse, like a mourner or a mortician, for the next couple of hours, until they were entering Johannesburg. There was a general commotion on the train and he slipped out into the corridor with his suitcase, at a moment when nobody was passing, closing the door behind him, and walked down to an exit three carriages away to wait.

*

A bus, an hour of hitchhiking, another hour on foot. Then he was coming along the dirt road above the house, the Hartbeespoort dam glowing red with the sunset in the distance. He stopped at a bend to look down on it all, cupped in a bald hollow in the veld. The tin roof, the back stoep, the tree with its old swing made from a car tyre. The walls just slightly askew, not properly aligned with each other. None of it any different, as if he'd only gone that morning.

Even his father had apparently not moved since Johan had left. Still on the couch in his vest, watching the television. Though the lines on his face were deeper and his hair was grizzled. He hadn't shaved for days.