Blue Sunday. Irma Venter
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like you didn’t believe her,” I say.
Ruby narrows her eyes. “Are you really going to help, or are you going to sit here for two hours like the police did, taking a statement while you perv and drink my coffee? And then we never hear from you again?”
I look back at the photo. Ranna was right about the girl, about me, as always. That I should do this story.
“We’ll write an article,” I say, “but then you have to help. How old was she really?”
Ruby crosses her arms. “I think she was closer to sixteen.”
“But what about the Renault?”
“Colin wanted to believe she was eighteen. Didn’t matter if the licence was fake. She came in here, young and eager – and nice – and told him she could dance. Showed him she could dance.” Ruby snaps her fingers. “Just like that she got the job, never mind that I said she was too young.”
“Could she dance?”
“Oh yes,” says Ruby.
“Strip?”
“She learnt quickly.”
I feel strangely relieved about the answer. “And was she really nice, or nice just to get work?”
Ruby sweeps the braids from her eyes. “Her name was Martina. Tina.”
I nod. “Okay, then. Was Tina really nice?”
Because there’s really nice, and there’s nice in order to survive. Nice because you know what to do to put food on the table.
Ruby pulls the corners of her mouth down. “She was really nice.”
“Too nice for here,” says Ivanka. “But sad. Very sad. And angry.”
The Russian fishes a pack of cigarettes from her handbag, lights one and blows the smoke high into the air. Her neck reveals the onset of middle age, lines that creams and make-up can no longer hide.
“When did she disappear?” I ask.
“Sometime over Christmas,” Ruby answers. “Ivanka and I were off for a week. When we got back on the 30th, she was gone. The way people talk, they last saw her on the morning of the 24th.”
“That long ago? Did the police find nothing?”
“They didn’t even look. I know what they think, and you too, probably. That some blesser took her away, or that she went onto the streets, or OD’d somewhere, or went home.” Ruby’s hand mimics a mouth opening and closing. “But she didn’t do any of those things and she’s not a junkie.”
“How do you know that?”
“Are you––” Ruby snaps.
Ivanka holds up her hand. “Wait, wait.” She quickly looks towards the front door as though she’s expecting the club manager any minute now. The heavyset bouncer pretends he doesn’t see us. Ivanka gave him R100 before she came to talk to us.
She turns to Ruby. “Ranna said he was going to check the facts before he writes the story, remember?”
Ruby lifts her chin in challenge. “I know Martina wasn’t a junkie, because I look after the dancers.” She motions towards the stage. “That one? Llello … coke. She thinks no one knows, but Colin’s already moved her to afternoons.”
She taps her chest with a long red fingernail. “I know everything that goes on here, and I can promise you that girl didn’t want to go home. There was nothing there for her. Neither money nor food. She was desperate when she got here. I gave her a sandwich before the interview and she ate as if she hadn’t seen food for days.”
I look at the photo on the table again. Martina. Tina. Sixteen is very young to be dancing in a Joburg strip club.
“It’s almost two months now. Has no one heard anything from her?”
Ivanka shakes her head.
“Did she ever talk about where she came from? About a mother or father?”
“No.” Ruby waves towards a door at the back of the stage. “I’ll show you everything she left here. Maybe that’ll help.”
“Everything?”
“Her suitcase, clothes, make-up. Just her handbag is gone. When she didn’t return, I packed the rest of her things in a suitcase and took it home. Things have a habit of disappearing here.” She points her thumb over her shoulder towards the back of the building. “There are single rooms at the back of the club that the girls can rent if they want to.”
I look at Ranna. What woman, no matter her age, leaves her clothes and make-up behind when she runs away?
Ruby laughs sardonically when she sees my expression. “I’m telling you: she didn’t run away. She was taken.”
The sun breaks through the clouds as we leave the Midnight Club. Ranna puts on her sunglasses and takes my hand.
A bright-blue BMW with shiny mags turns into the gate and parks in one of the two carports on the grounds. The engine gives a throaty, impatient roar, dies. A youngish man with black hair gets out – bulky and broad-shouldered, his slim-fit black suit and white shirt more sedate than the car.
He laughs. “Frankie?” He walks towards us, his shiny black shoes crunching over the gravel. “What a surprise.”
Ranna squeezes my arm, warning me, and steps forward. The man kisses her on the cheek and extends his hand towards me.
“Colin Farrell. And no, I had the name first, not that actor.” He smiles.
I shake his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
The absence of lines around his eyes tell me he’s lying. He is considerably younger than the film star. And I can see why Ranna warned me. His eyes stray to her breasts, stay there.
Ranna worked hard to convince the manager of the Midnight Club to include Ruby and Ivanka in her photo essay about the women of Johannesburg. Not that I know why she even had to ask him. In the end, she wasn’t allowed to photograph them at the club.
From up close, it’s clear that his suit costs more than Ranna’s camera.
Colin swings the car keys in his left hand. “You’ve come to get more photos?” Suspicion glints through the feigned friendliness.
“No.” Ranna smiles – briefly, almost intimately, touching his arm – and shakes her head. “Alex was curious. And a little jealous.”
“Makes sense.” Colin plays along. “I would be.” He laughs, but it’s forced. “Don’t you want to stay for coffee? Something stronger? The Boeing’s gone over. I hide the good whisky in my office.”
“No, thanks,” says Ranna. “Next time. Promise.”
“Call me.” He hesitates. “Next time. Call me before you come.”
“I will,” says Ranna solemnly. “Promise.”
MARIA
1
Thursday, 8 February, 12:02
I open the second-last tin of beans. Now there’s just one tin of baked beans and two tins of tuna left. The water bottle is at one litre and the orange juice is under the halfway mark.
Enough food and drink for three days – maybe more, if I’m careful.
How long can one go without water again? Three days?
I sit down on the mattress on the floor. The sheet was clean when I got here, but the white is now an ugly cream colour. It smells different too. From clean to sweat to stink – the smell of the damp walls, the sandy plaster and the wet red bricks beneath it.
When’s he coming back? He has to come