Circus. Irma Venter
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frustration.
Suddenly I wish I was in Maputo, or Pretoria, instead of here, at the tail end of a Cape winter that should have turned into spring by now. In Pretoria the jacarandas have been blooming for a month.
“The lounge was recently painted.”
Kayley … no, wait, Hayley, points at the walls as if I should care about the fact that they are a generic shade of cream.
I nod and fold my arms, look around as if I’m interested. I could probably get used to anything. And if it makes Alex happy …
I gather my last ounce of enthusiasm. “When was the house built?”
Hayley frowns. “I’ve no idea. I’ll have to find out.” She waves towards the interior of the house. “Let’s take a look at the kitchen. It’s the star feature.”
I trail behind. Alex’s gait is the calm, measured movement of a long-distance runner.
The kitchen is great – even I can see that. Sleek new cabinets, a large scullery and a shiny new gas range.
A godsend if you cook and bake. If.
Why did the owner leave for Canada? Why is the house so affordable?
Leaning against the granite countertop, I inspect the tiles for traces of blood. Then scrutinise the brown carpet in the passage for similar signs of violence that may have persuaded the owner to pack up and get the hell out of Cape Town.
Hayley points at the space in front of us. “You could easily fit an eight-seater table in here. Plenty of room for the kids at mealtimes.” She leans towards Alex, laughing, as if the two of them are sharing a secret.
I wait for him to raise his eyebrows, but he turns to me instead, a question in his eyes.
Four bedrooms. A huge dining table.
Kids?
Is that why Alex is suddenly keen on suburbia?
I turn, stripped of all pretences. Walk out into the street, where the Land Rover is parked.
He’s by my side before I can get in. “What’s wrong?” At six foot two, he looks me in the eye. Tall women like tall men and I’m no different.
“You know what. Kids,” I say.
“I swear I’ve never even given it a thought. I’m just looking for space. Room to breathe.” He taps on his chest. “Farm boy. Plaasjapie. But you know that.” He runs a hand through his light-brown hair, laughs as if he’s caught me out.
“So you’ve never even thought about kids?” I look down at my Doc Martens.
He touches my arm. Slowly, gently rubs the skin on my wrist underneath the multitude of silver bangles. “Hayley said it, not me.”
“But?”
He thinks for a moment. “Not now. One day. Maybe. Who knows?”
“I’m not getting any younger.”
“You’re being difficult. Later … much later. When you’re forty? Medical science is amazing these days. And I told you. Maybe.” He shrugs. “Or maybe not. I realise it’s difficult with our history.”
“Forty? I can’t think that far ahead.”
“It’s not that far.”
“Hey, watch it.”
He smiles. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of planning, is there?”
Hayley has followed us outside. Alex signals: Give us a moment.
She hooks her handbag over her arm. “Of course, fine. You have a chat.” She spins round on her heels and disappears back into the house.
“We’ve never spoken about children.” I lean against the white Land Rover, soak up the feeble sun breaking through the clouds. “Do you want children?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. A little girl, the spitting image of her mom, to twist me around her little finger.” He grabs my hand. “And you?”
“Our lifestyle doesn’t allow for children. We’re always on the move.”
“Well, we’re buying a house, aren’t we? Putting down roots?”
“Are we? I thought we’re buying a place to use as a base for our travels. There are lots of places I still want to photograph. Stories I want to tell.”
“Yes, true, but …” He gives a long, loud sigh. Steps closer. Meets my gaze squarely. “Ranna … let’s stop dodging the issue.”
“That’s not what we’re doing. I’m not sure and you are. My dad was a bastard. He beat my mom and she did nothing to stop him. What if I’m like him? Her?”
“My dad was a bastard too and I’m definitely not like him. And I know you, I know who and what you are. You’re nothing like your father. Or your mother.”
I keep silent.
He looks at me for a long time. Unhooks his sunglasses from the front of his shirt and puts them on.
“I’ll tell Hayley we’re not interested. You’re so spooked, you’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”
2
Johannesburg, present
Adriana is waiting for me at the door of her apartment. “Hello, Ranna.”
I bend down to kiss her. “Sorry I’m a few days earlier than I said. When Alex left for Syria, I got on the first plane to Joburg.”
I put down my bag. She looks exactly as I remember her. Short, lithe figure, straight dark bob ending on her jawline. Under the thin straps of her red dress her shoulders are tanned. I’d kill to look that good when I hit forty in a few years’ time.
“You look great. Are you on some kind of health kick?”
She beckons me inside. “It’s not what you eat, it’s what you do. A little judo, a little swimming, a little yoga.”
I follow her inside. Her Sandton rooftop apartment overlooks the economic hub of South Africa. Beyond the brightly lit office and apartment buildings of one of Africa’s most expensive patches of real estate flickers a sea of lights. Midrand on one side, behind it Pretoria, and the brighter, more numerous lights of the Johannesburg city centre on the opposite side. A building, still under construction and almost identical to her own, but taller, dominates the foreground, fortunately not blocking too much of the view.
The open-plan apartment still looks the same. Mauve sofas, large eye-catching paintings, expensive carpets, chequerboard kitchen floor. In its usual place in the corner, Adriana’s cello. Hosni, her Persian cat, is basking on the windowsill. Nina Simone smoulders on the speakers.
She leads the way into the kitchen. I close the heavy front door and check it’s locked before she can remind me. Sit down facing her at the counter.
She was chopping tomatoes when I knocked. She resumes the task, working rapidly, precisely. Speaks without looking at me.
“On the phone it sounded as if you and Alex had a fight.”
How does she know? “No.”
“No, it didn’t sound that way, or no, you didn’t fight?”
“Both.”
She’s laughing at me now, her brown eyes flecked with yellow. It softens the scar under her right eye reaching all the way to her ear.
“Was it hard sending him off to Syria and staying behind?”
I wonder whether to admit it. Alex is at the Darkoush Hospital, run by Gift of the Givers. The NGO invited him there after an “accidental” bombing two weeks ago.
I shrug. “There was room for only