Circus. Irma Venter
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and want to give financial aid to poor black scholars and students. Come, you must get to bed.”
“Can you bring all that money into the country just like that?”
“Adriana, there’s no need to upset yourself. Come now.”
Something in his voice makes me wonder. He may not be lying, but he is not being honest either.
He gives me a long look. Smiles a little. “You don’t say much, but your eyes don’t miss a thing, do they? Ever since you were born.”
“Why don’t I know about this money you brought from overseas? Is it the first time? Does Ma know?”
“You know now. And your ma would be very upset. She … she has her own problems.”
He closes the box. Rests his hand on the blue lid. “I’m thinking of finding another job. One where I won’t have to travel so much. Maybe I could lecture again. Someone in Johannesburg is bound to have a job for an old physics professor.”
“But you’ve been with the Trust so long.”
“Things aren’t the same any more.”
“Why not? What has changed?”
He raises his eyebrows. “All these questions. You know I don’t talk about the Trust. With good reason. Not everyone is in favour of my work. The less you know, the better.”
I nod. I’ve known it since I was a child. And I’ve always heeded his warnings about not saying a word about the Trust. But something about this money scares me.
He puts his arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go make some tea. How are the studies coming along?”
“You know I hate school.”
“Just hang in there. A few more months, and you’ll be a student at Wits.”
He stops at the door. “The box … Don’t tell your ma or anyone else about it. It’s important.”
I relent. “I won’t. Promise.”
4
Johannesburg, November 1989
My mom’s breathing is calm. She sleeps bunched up, on her side, her left hand under her head and her right hand on my dad’s empty spot in the bed. He’s in the garage again.
His constant worry over the past few months has turned into an almost tangible fear, although he refuses to admit it. Earlier he spoke about resigning, but last week he went back to Germany.
He’d better not spoil everything now. The day after tomorrow I’ll be writing maths, my last matric subject, and I need a distinction. On Saturday I start waitressing at the Four Seasons. Next year I’ll have to fend for myself. My PetroChem scholarship will pay the tuition fees for my BSc course, and my earnings at the restaurant will have to cover the rest. I should manage. If you give the right kind of smile at the Seasons, know the menu off by heart and anticipate what people need, they give fantastic tips. Especially businessmen over forty who come drinking without their wives.
I hear a clatter in the garage. What is the Dutchman doing?
I follow the noise, open the garage door.
The blue toolbox is in the farthest corner. My dad is hiding it under a heap of old roof tiles. He gets to his feet as if his back is aching. Sometimes I forget that he’s fifty.
“Dad?”
He jumps, gives a relieved smile when he sees me. “It’s you. Hi.”
He’s neatly dressed in shirt and trousers. His wallet and car keys are on the workbench.
“Where are you going? I’m going to make supper. Mom’s asleep.”
“I know. But you don’t have to cook. We’re going out.”
“Now?”
“Don’t you want to go out for supper? We can go to Hillbrow. And why don’t we ask Tiny and Daisy to join us?”
He comes closer, puts his hand on my shoulder. “I have good news. Tomorrow I’m resigning from the Education Trust.” He looks relieved, a smile lights up his eyes.
“Can we afford it?”
“We’ll be okay. I want to spend more time with you and your mom.”
“Now, all of a sudden? Now that she’s better and I’m off to varsity?”
“I know, meisje. I’m sorry.”
I keep quiet. My nerves are too frazzled to be having this conversation now.
“I’m really sorry, Adriana. The past few years … But the time is finally right. Things are changing. Everything is about to change. This country … It’s going to get better.”
I don’t believe him.
He picks up his wallet and keys. “So, shall we go out for dinner?”
“I have to study.”
“We won’t be long. An hour and a half, tops.” He pinches my cheek as if I’m six years old. “Besides, it’s your last paper, and if I know you, you’ve done all the studying you need. Isn’t maths your best subject?”
I’m surprised he knows.
“Are you going to make me beg?” he asks, smiling.
Probably not. It would be nice to spend some time with him. We haven’t gone anywhere in a long time. And he’s right. We do have something to celebrate. I’m just as glad as he is that this mess with the Education Trust and the money will soon be over.
“Give me ten minutes to get changed.”
The last daylight falls in soft orange hues between the blocks of flats in Hillbrow. The streets are bustling, noisy, the pavements overflowing. People of every colour and age are going home or getting ready to go out.
We drive past the Café Three Sisters, Look & Listen, Exclusive Books and Hillbrow Records, turn into a side street. My dad parks across the street from Roxy’s.
Does he know I regularly slip out to come here? He didn’t even ask me where I want to eat.
We walk to the alley. Inside, Roxy’s is still quiet. I look at the programme on the wall. An hour from now a jazz band from Soweto – Amanzi, the one I love so much – will be taking the stage.
We sit down at a table for four.
“Tiny and Daisy will be here soon,” my dad says. “In time for dessert.”
A waitress approaches, notepad in hand.
“Champagne,” he orders.
“Not for me,” I stop him. “I’m not that crazy about champagne.”
“Oh,” he says, sounding disappointed.
At least he doesn’t ask how I know I don’t like champagne.
“A glass of wine, then?”
“Cabernet sauvignon, please. Whatever they’ve got by the glass.”
One day I’m going to order an entire bottle. An expensive bottle from one of the Cape’s best vineyards.
The waitress looks me up and down.
I wish I’d worn my heels. I left them in my wardrobe, not wanting my dad to ask questions. The subtly applied make-up and black dress don’t do much to make me look older. For the umpteenth time I wish I was taller.
“Two glasses of cabernet, please,” my dad tells the waitress.
“How old is she?”
Really? Why is the woman talking to my dad as if I don’t exist?
“Eighteen.”
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