Water Music (10 page)

The electronic spiderweb that bound people to a communal life was absent. Wheres the busy virtual life of a pretty young woman, Clare wondered.

Clare checked the time late enough to be sure Ina Britz would be at home.

Anything
more on Rosa Wagners phone? asked Clare when Ina picked up.

Its a pay-as-you-go. Small top-ups. Apart from calling her oupa, she didnt use the phone much. And she didnt use it at all after the twenty-fifth of May. Ive put her details up on Facebook and Twitter. Well see if that triggers anything. The papers are running something tomorrow. But listen, go to sleep now. Theres nothing more to be
done right now. Ill see you first thing.

OK. See you at nine, said Clare.

You need to get here before that, sister, said Ina.

Im going to the doctor first thing.

Vroulike kwale?

You could put it like that, said Clare, hanging up.

She walked to the bathroom, Fritz at her heels. The light was harsh, the mirror unkind. She looked wan, drawn around the eyes. Sleep. She was desperate for it.
She closed her eyes against the headache building in the base of her skull. The momentary darkness was a relief, but not an escape.

Escape. The reason why many people disappeared. You just vanished. And then, somewhere else, sometime later, you could just make yourself up again.

The phone call, the blood on the wall. Rosa hadnt wanted to escape; shed been trying to get home.

Clare opened the
bathroom cupboard and rooted through the jumble of medicines and cosmetics. There they were: the sleeping pills.

Do not combine with alcohol
, said the package insert.
Not safe during pregnancy.

She popped one out of its foil blister and placed it on her tongue, but she gagged, her body rebelling. She could not get it down. She spat out the pill.

She was tired enough, in any case. Shed sleep,
shed sleep. She lay down, her limbs leaden with exhaustion, though she willed herself to get up, to shower, to eat something. But it would be morning before she awoke the warm creature against her back the cat rather than Riedwaan.

Relax your leg against me. The gynaecologist gave her knee a firm pat. Come on, Clare.

I hate this, she said.

I know. You tell me every time theres a moon blue enough to make you come and see me.

Clare forced herself not to tense up while the speculum parted her flesh. She lay still while the doctor adjusted the light, looked at whatever it was he needed to look at, probing what he needed
to probe.

All done.

He pulled the towel over her knees.

All fine, he said. No infection, healthy cervix. The test says you are about a hundred percent pregnant. Youre a bit on the thin side, but youre a strong woman. Youll push out that baby, no problem.

I dont want it, she said.

Nobody in their right mind
wants
a baby, Clare, said Dr Evans. But sometimes people get lucky.

Lucky? said Clare.

Its your birthday today, he said. In case youd forgotten.

I hadnt, said Clare.

One wouldnt, I suppose, being born on the day that the whole country convulsed. Seventy-six. You and Constance, born as those children were being shot at in the streets.

The events are unconnected, said Clare. My mother went into labour early. Tell me why you think Im lucky to be sitting here like a careless teenager
in trouble.

The doctor leaned back in his chair and regarded her for a moment. Clare, youre thirty-six today, He glanced at his notes. In two years time itll be much harder to conceive. Four years time youll be forty. Youve read the articles, you know the numbers. For women, biology isnt fair.

Its not for me, motherhood, said Clare. Its inconvenient.

Inconvenient. Dr Evans looked at her over
his glasses. You are one of the most inconvenient people Ive ever known, Clare. Since you were born youve made a career out of it, like your father did when he was alive, like you are now with that unpleasant policeman I heard on the radio this morning.

Jakes Cwele, said Clare. Im quite enjoying inconveniencing him.

Are you afraid? the doctor asked.

I just think I should terminate, said Clare.

Have you discussed this with that unsuitable cop of yours?

Clare shook her head, looked at Table Mountain framed by the window.

Its a hard thing to decide alone, said Dr Evans. A hard thing to do alone.

Maybe you should do that scan after all, said Clare. Let me look at it. Then Ill decide.

Itll make it harder if you do, said Dr Evans, putting his hand on her shoulder.

Ive never not looked
what I plan to do straight in the eye, said Clare. Let me see this.

The doctor spread a thick film of gel across Clares concave belly. He ran the scanners arm over her skin. A pale green snowstorm appeared on the screen. Here was the solid cradle of the pelvis, cupping softer, darker parts of her body. Dr Evans moved the instrument with precision, naming the organs that did their quiet work unnoticed
bladder, liver, kidneys. Then a different spherical shape, the uterus. The doctor zoomed in, pressing the eye of the sonar firmly against Clares belly, bringing the inside of her into sharp focus on the screen. A window into another world. The bulge of what would be a head, the curve of a bottom, flipper-like arms, tadpole legs curled into a chest. It was of her, but not her. At the epicentre
of this ordered, alien accumulation of cells, a steady pixel-pulse. A beating heart.

Everythings there, everything looks right. The doctor was concentrating, measuring.

Its a mistake, said Clare.

Nothing wrong with mistakes. The sonar spat out a print of the scan. He handed it to her. The blur of her belly, the womb where the tiny foetus floated, oblivious of being spied upon in its safe, watery
cave.

This is not a mistake I think I can make, said Clare.

The doctor wiped the gel from her skin. Get dressed, and then come through and talk to me.

On the broad, blank desk was a paperweight, two paperclips, a family photograph. Her file, lying open. Clare watched him write up his notes, the sound of his pen scratching at the silence in the room.

She felt as if she were floating, or drowning.
It was surreal. An unforgivable slip-up that had landed her at the edge of a precipice. She had to decide. Whatever she decided would be absolute and irrevocable. This was the moment between Before and After. Baby. No baby. There was nothing in between. Two halves of herself: her desire to shield the vulnerable; her fear a terror, really of losing her independence, her hard-won solitariness.
She felt as if she were being drawn back into being half something doubled. A twin and now a mother. Potentially a mother. She looked at the small black-and-white image in her lap, and her throat closed up.

Did you hear me, Clare?

She jerked back to the present, to the room, to the window with the mountain caught in its frame, to her doctors voice. Her fathers friend, and the man who had reassembled
Constances broken body Constance, her other other. This doctor who had known her since before she was born. His eyes were on her now, gentle, knowing, without judgement.

Youre further along than you think, Clare, he repeated. Ten, eleven weeks.

Clare felt the shackles of indecision and anxiety tighten.

How do you know? she asked.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a card. The Ministry of Healths
coat of arms was on the front, the bird at its centre more Zazu-from-
The-Lion-King
than the eagle rampant Clare presumed it was meant to be. Dr Evans opened the card three elegant diagonal lines plotted on a graph.

Whats that? asked Clare.

A state antenatal card, said Dr Evans. This graph gives you a good idea of uterine development, which helps estimate fairly precisely how far along you are.
This here shows

Clare was on her feet.

Thanks, she said.

Clare, sit down, said Dr Evans. Im not finished. Your condition is not something you can hide from. Youre nearly twelve weeks, he continued. And youre thinking of terminating. If you wait much longer it will be far harder.

I know, said Clare. But I cant think about that now. Can I have that card?

Are you afraid? He handed it to her,
bemused.

Im terrified. Clare stood up abruptly, knocking the chair over. But theres something I have to check.

Dont worry with the chair, he said, righting it. He put his hand on her shoulder. Itll be fine. Youll be fine.

A film of tears covered Clares eyes. Ill come see you again. Tuesday, maybe. You can tell me the rest then.

With that, she was gone.

Dr Evans walked over to the window.
He watched as Clare ran across the rain-slicked parking lot. Her hair flashed against her blue coat. It made him think back to when she and her twin had been schoolgirls. He closed his eyes, remembered the summers night eighteen years before. Constance, ever the shy twin, climbing out of the window of her boarding school, following Clare always impatient, always questing who had a liaison with her
first love. Dr Evans opened his eyes, saw still the sinister park where Constance born second, born smaller, incubated for weeks, unable to bear being apart from her twin had followed Clare. But instead of finding her sister, Constance had been set upon by five gangsters. Two had knives, one had a hammer. When theyd finished with her, they left her for dead. Clare had found her twin, mutilated,
maimed; she had forced Constance to live. Forced her. And ever since, Clare had tried to atone.

Clare tried to order her thoughts as she drove back to Hout Bay. The simple solution seemed impossible. And the complicated solution, not taking action, was also impossible. She had to brake sharply for the horsebox at the traffic lights, the acrid smell of rubber bringing her back to her surroundings.

There were few people about, two horse riders on Main Road, an intrepid group of cyclists
overtaking them. Women domestic workers, cashiers, packers trickled out of the tin shacks that clung to the mountainside. Boys in immaculate soccer kit streamed down to the muddy poor-boy pitches lower down on the Disa River. Light gilded the corrugated iron walls, and for a moment Imizamo Yethu looked like the City of God. Then the sun was gone and it was a slum again.

As Clare turned into
the Section 28 parking lot she could hear the first cheers of the gathering crowd. The rally was the prelude to the Saturday morning soccer matches. There were posters. Free T-shirts were being handed out. The familiar image of Hector Petersen borne in the arms of a youth whose face is forever frozen in fury and pain.

Today, in Cape Town, on this muddy stretch along the Disa River, there were
Cokes and Kwaito music. Soon, politicians would make speeches filled with promises that would dissolve in the rain.

Clare parked her car, the wind catching her door as she got out.

Sweetness, let me help you. It was Jakes Cwele holding her door, blocking her path. He thrust an enormous bunch of white lilies at Clare as she got out.

I signed for them. Says here:
Clare. Sweetness, see you at
dinner, Birthday Girl
.

He smiled. A row of perfect white teeth. Blank eyes.

Thank you, said Clare. She had no choice but to take the flowers. Having her hands full made her feel vulnerable. He had boxed her in between her car and the fence. Im surprised to see you here, she said. I thought youd be at the rally, telling the youth what a wonderful job the police are doing to keep them safe, ensuring
that they enjoy all the rights promised in Section 28.

Just came by to wish you, to tell you take the day off.

And why would I want to do that? said Clare.

Im your commanding officer, remember, said Cwele. Im here to help, to guide, to advise. You feminists, you think you have to do everything yourselves, but try it. Sometimes a man can help.

Its so kind of you to offer, said Clare, But right
now, neither Major Britz nor I need your help or your advice, said Clare.

Your time is up, Dr Hart.

Not quite, said Clare, pushing past him. You check my contract, you check the mandate of Section 28. Youre not getting rid of me yet.

Clare, his voice was low. Watch yourself. If I find out that you have done something out of order, you will pay.

Clare turned to face him.

What are you implying?

Ive been told that resources are being spent on things other than childrens welfare, said Cwele. Thats a serious offence.

Cwele, she said, you might be my commanding officer, but I will say this to you. You have no interest in justice.

You watch yourself, little lady, he said. Captain Faizal and Phiri are not going to be able to watch out for you that much longer.

Are you threatening me? asked
Clare.

Cwele held his hands open, palms up. Im your friend, he said. Im looking out for your welfare.

Thats something Id prefer to do myself.

Clare slammed the door behind her.

Ina let out a low whistle when Clare walked in.

I watched that, said Ina Britz. Looks like Cwele really got to you.

Thats one way of putting it, said Clare, propping the flowers in the sink as she washed her hands.
She hadnt realised they were shaking.

Dont take it personally, said Ina, dunking a doughnut in her coffee. He hates all women, especially the ones who backchat.

Ja, I know, Clare gave a wry smile. But hell be out of the way today. Hes scheduled to be the ministers poodle at the Youth Day rally.

Clare watched Cwele manoeuvre a million rands worth of official car out of the parking lot.

Its
a farce, said Clare, turning away from the window. Were still getting kids shot in the back. Some days it feels as if were handcuffed to history.

Youre philosophical for such a cold morning, said Ina.

Not me, said Clare. Salman Rushdie, I was reading
Midnights Children
again. That phrase, right there on the first page it jumped out at me. Seems to sum up the Cape.