The Water Man's Daughter (11 page)

N
OMSULWA ARRIVES AND DOESN’T SEE
C
LAIRE
. S
HE
idles outside for ten minutes before parking the car and entering the hotel. She steels herself for another inquisition from the hotel staff and it takes a moment for her to find a good spot, far enough away from the front desk to avoid attention as she scans the lobby.

Claire finally exits from the farthest set of elevators. She is wearing a pair of light-blue pants and a white shirt that
hangs off of her small shoulders. She sees Nomsulwa and smiles, lets a little half-wave out before a man dashes out from behind the front desk and strides towards her.

“Claire Matthews?” Claire stops, confused, and nods.

“We have a number of messages for you. You didn’t check in with the front desk yesterday.”

“Yes, I know. I wasn’t feeling well.” Claire looks past the man at Nomsulwa when she says this.

The man hands Claire a small stack of pink slips. She stands still, reading each one, her face closing as she sorts through the pile. Claire crumples them all into a tight ball when she is finished and shoves them into her pocket. She looks around, unsure what to do next. Nomsulwa walks forward.

“Everything okay?” Nomsulwa sees the stress in Claire’s small body. She suddenly feels responsible for her, which is, she realizes, exactly what Zembe was counting on.

“Yeah. Fine.”

Nomsulwa isn’t convinced, but reminds herself that her job is simply to deliver Claire to the police station. “Ready to go?” She turns towards the exit.

Claire hasn’t moved. “My mother keeps calling.” She looks up at the ceiling and takes a big, exasperated breath. “She’s terrified. I called her when I arrived, but now she’s asking if I’ll turn around and come home. But I can’t. I have to be here. Maybe I shouldn’t have left her alone.” She bites her lower lip and her angled face softens.

“Do you want to call her now, before we go?” Nomsulwa asks patiently, waiting for Claire to make a decision. But
Claire is immobile, paralyzed by the wad of pink messages in her pocket.

“She told me to come. Said I couldn’t sit around the house all day, waiting by the phone for the police to call. She said that I needed to do
something
. And she was right. I needed to leave, to come find out for myself.”

Nomsulwa thinks about her own mother. “But now you’re gone and she’s desperate to have you back. You know, she’s worried, that’s all.”

“I know.” Claire’s voice gets quieter, like she is talking to a co-conspirator. “But I can’t call and listen to her cry on the phone.”

Nomsulwa understands what it means to escape that responsibility. “What if there’s nothing to find out here? What if you left her for no reason.”

“There is. There has to be something. He just got on a plane. He got on a plane and disappeared into thin air and that’s not …” Claire searches for the end of her sentence.

“You should call your mother.”

“She’s my mother. Don’t worry about it. I will.” Claire begins to walk away, but this time Nomsulwa is the one to stay put.

“She’s your responsibility now.” Nomsulwa presses. “He’s gone so you have to take care of her from now on.”

“I will. Don’t you think I know that?” Nomsulwa detects a tiny bit of anger and impatience in her voice.

“I know what it’s like to have a dead father and a broken mother. That part I understand.”

This Claire doesn’t respond to, so Nomsulwa continues, walking past Claire to the exit as she talks. “It can feel like a huge weight and unfair and you can waste your whole life trying to make things better just so you can finally escape and that doesn’t really ever happen.”

“Look.” Claire stops just before the door, blocking Nomsulwa’s way. “That’s not my life, okay? I’m going to start school when I get back home. I’m going to move out and get my own apartment and live my life. My father would have wanted that.”

“Is that what
you
want?” They stand face to face, now.

Claire shifts her gaze to the ground, giving up on their staring contest. “All I want is to have him back.”

Nomsulwa can’t look at Claire any more. The feeling of wishing she knew nothing about water men is so overpowering it makes her feel like she might split in two. When she is with the fragile girl in front of her, all confusion and sadness, she regrets every moment of her life that brought her anywhere near the company and the police.

“We should get going.” Nomsulwa barely manages to say.

“Yeah.” Claire walks down the steps to the waiting car.

Nomsulwa gets into the driver’s seat. She turns on the car and presses on the gas, hoping speed and the highway and the noise will erase the thoughts Claire has brought up in her.

Claire finally settles in and watches the road. Nomsulwa takes a deep breath and turns down the radio, now playing soft
R&B
.

Claire takes out the many crumpled pink messages once they are clearly out of the city. She smoothes out one message in particular. Nomsulwa glances over, but can’t read the writing.

“It’s the water company. They left me an itinerary and a phone number for Alvin something. So I guess I’ll call him and see if they can’t help me find my father’s papers.”

Nomsulwa imagines Claire alone in a cold office with pieces of her father everywhere. She pictures her surrounded by him and his life and how hard that must be. Maybe the girl in the car with her has more pride and strength than she gave her credit for. They drive in silence, only light radio in the background. The traffic smooths by. They have just missed the rush hour minibus taxis and commuters in fast cars, and the road seems almost peaceful. Highway turns back into urban avenues between large buildings as they enter the government district.

“You ready?” Nomsulwa asks.

“I’m nervous,” Claire says.

“You’ll get through it.”

“Yeah … You’ll come in with me?”

Nomsulwa is about to refuse. She can’t imagine hearing one more word about the water man than she has to. Then she realizes that she is being offered a look into the investigation, a chance to learn what the police know. All the usual police leaks have dried up for this one. She is the only one with access. At least, this is what Nomsulwa tells herself when she nods.

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” Nomsulwa gives a grimace that was meant to be a supportive smile.

P
OLICE HEADQUARTERS IS LOCATED IN A TALL WHITE
building. The avenues here are wide and the buildings are mostly grey and brown, separated by carefully tended lawns. There is a fountain in the median, also brown, with birds of paradise bending at the corners. Orange is the brightest colour around. But Claire might have missed all this because when they drive into the covered car lot, she looks, eyes wide and glassy, as if she has been asleep.

“We’re here,” Nomsulwa says.

“Yes.”

The elevator takes a long time to reach the thirty-fourth floor and Nomsulwa says nothing the entire ride. The secretary waves them in with a weak smile. Claire pauses, lets Nomsulwa lead.

In the office the air is too cold from the
AC
wall unit behind the desk. Zembe perches on the edge of a side table, and a tall man Nomsulwa doesn’t know rests in a chair behind Zembe.

Nomsulwa takes a stool from the corner and sits far away from Claire. Zembe gives her a hard look, but she ignores it despite the officer’s wishes.

The Commissioner begins, explaining things very slowly, bit by bit painting the picture as gently as possible for Claire. His voice is deep and monotonous. They found Claire’s father
in the township, they don’t want to upset her by going over again the details of her father’s death that she and her mother were provided by phone, but they know who is responsible and all units are looking for the culprit. They believe her father was killed by a member of a local gang, likely for his money. They’ll know more once the suspect is apprehended.

“Where was he found?” Claire stops the Commissioner in mid-sentence.

“In Phiri.”

“But where? Show me a map so I can see
where.”
She won’t let this detail go.

The Commissioner reaches into a closed file on the desk and takes out a crude map.

“Here, on Lenkoe Street, between the two houses that meet up with Nsizwa. In this yard hidden from the street.”

When the Commissioner removes the map, several photos fall out of the yellow folder. Claire reaches for these, and the Commissioner slides the photos back, out of reach.

“Show me those photos.”

“Are you sure?” The man is incredulous, but seeing Claire’s face he opens the file. Both Zembe and Nomsulwa lurch forward.

“No, let him,” Claire says in a strange, high voice. “I need to see.”

The man lays the pictures on the desk, facing Claire. Nomsulwa tries to avert her eyes but catches sight of an eyebrow, a hair, brown and curled. She sees a hand, white
and yellow-rimmed from what looks like sand. It lies palm down, the back visible and bathed in light.

Claire reaches out and touches the last image where a gold ring wraps the middle finger. The band displays three letters like swaying tree trunks intertwined:
PEM
.

“Where’s his ring?”

“What?” Zembe asks.

“Where is his ring? I want his ring.” Claire is still focused on the photo.

“It’s in evidence,” the Commissioner answers, voice firm.

“It’s my property.” Claire looks up, defiant.

“We’ll send it to you with the rest of his effects once the case is closed,” Zembe assures them both.

“That could be years. I need it now. Please?” Claire directs this last plea to Nomsulwa, who shrinks back. She can’t get involved in police business.

“The ring.” Claire motions with her hand. She stands up, raises her voice, “The ring is mine, ours. We need it at home.” She seems wobbly on her feet, she sways. Nomsulwa gets to Claire in time to support her as she doubles over, retches twice, and throws up clear liquid on the office floor.

“Take her back to the hotel,” Zembe orders, panic on her face.

Nomsulwa does as she’s told, propping Claire up as they slowly make their way to the exit. Claire rests her head on Nomsulwa’s shoulder, but straightens when they hit the outside air.

By the time they are on the main road to the hotel strip, Claire is sitting upright, staring ahead. She says nothing.

Nomsulwa parks the car and walks with Claire through the lobby and up to her room. Claire turns to her once they reach the door.

“I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.”

“I just need to be alone.” Claire’s voice cracks. The embarrassment shines on her face like sweat.

Nomsulwa tries to say something reassuring, but before it can come out, Claire hardens her expression. She unlocks the door with the key card, enters the room, and closes the door without looking back. Nomsulwa stands there for a long minute listening to make sure Claire doesn’t collapse, doesn’t call for help, doesn’t retch loudly again. After it becomes entirely quiet, she turns and retreats.

As soon as she is in her car she opens her cellphone and dials Mira.

“I think it’s about time you started cooperating with Zembe. They have a suspect … Member of a gang … No, they didn’t say a name … They don’t know that. You’re safe.”

W
HEN
Z
EMBE ARRIVES BACK AT THE
P
HIRI POLICE
station, Mira is in front of it. He seems to be surveying the building and the wide sandy parking lot that is empty too often. The green paint is faded, from rain mostly, but there is the occasional swatch of brighter colour where Zembe has made an officer paint over graffiti. A large tag, wonkily placed on a corner, reappears periodically – kids showing off the immunity of youth.

The structure has a central screen door, useless for keeping out the cold or many of the bugs. Mira starts towards it, slowly, unaware that he is being watched.

He has been here only once before. Zembe made sure it was the last time. She’s not sure why. Certainly it was not because her heart went out to the tall, snide kid she arrested fifteen years ago, after a fruit cart was overturned, the owner kicked in the side as the boys ran away. Perhaps it was because he came with a sidekick: a fragile girl with huge hair and eyes that were light for her skin. She was too skinny to be beautiful, but she had a striking, head-turning smile, and a surprisingly loud voice.

—

T
HE ROOM SHE HELD
M
IRA IN THEN WAS BROWN
with narrow windows near the ceiling that blocked out the light rather than filtering it in. Even the orange sunrise outside crept in as only a whisper of pale dust floating in front of Zembe’s face. She looked hard at the boy in front of her. He was wiry, too tall, sneering. The insults came from him faster than Zembe could pick them up: “bitch, whore, slut, skinny, sick.” Zembe waited them out. She waved away the other officer in the room, who had inched closer to the boy and rested his hand around his gun. When the boy finally ran out of curses, Zembe placed her hand on his arm and jerked him hard. “Shutup wena.”