Читать книгу Circus - Irma Venter - Страница 19

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.”

The waitress doesn’t believe him.

“I promise. It’s her birthday today.”

When the waitress has left, he produces a gift-wrapped box from his pocket. “Did you think I’d forgotten?” He hands it to me, leans over and kisses my cheek. “I hope this will be a wonderful year for you.”

“That was delicious.” Oom Tiny raises his glass. “To Adriana.”

“To Adriana,” Daisy echoes.

Oom Tiny gives a broad smile. “You look lovely. I can’t believe you’re eighteen. Feels like yesterday that your dad first dropped you at the gym. How old were you? Eleven?”

“Nine.”

“Nine? Good grief!”

“Yes, all right,” Daisy laughs. “You’re giving your own age away.” She clinks glasses with me and my dad.

She looks happy. The Dutchman looks happy. They make me happy, but I don’t want to say it out loud. It feels short-lived and out of control. Dangerous, almost, to be so happy because others are happy.

The first lingering notes of Miles Davis’s “Blue in Green” sound from the stage. The droning voices die down. The grey-haired trumpeter with thick-rimmed glasses closes his eyes. Plays as if we don’t matter, as if he’s forgotten about us. As if this country and its violence don’t exist.

Suddenly I feel like leaving. Maybe the moment will last for ever if I’m not here when the music stops.

I sit back in my chair, breathe in the perfume I dabbed on in the ladies’ room. Chanel. The Dutchman didn’t choose it for the scent, he said, but for the strong, flamboyant woman it was named after. I’m like her, he said.

I feel his eyes on me. He seems to know what I’m thinking. He motions with his chin towards the door, raising his eyebrows. I nod. As soon as Miles has finished.

Daisy leans over, whispers: “I’m going to the ladies’ room. Are you leaving?”

“Soon.”

“Then I’ll say goodbye. You know how long the queues can be.” She squeezes my hand and blows my dad a kiss.

Outside Roxy’s the streets are slick with rain and oil, coating the tarmac. The air smells of wet concrete and soil.

I link my arm through my dad’s. “Thanks for a lovely evening.”

We cross the street to where the car is parked.

I hear the footsteps before I see anyone, the sharp sound of leather-soled shoes. A man appears from between two parked cars ahead of us and walks swiftly in our direction, his hands in the pockets of his lightweight overcoat.

There’s no one else in the street. Somewhere I hear a woman’s laughter. It’s the kind of laughter I have often heard in Hillbrow – too high-pitched and too animated, as if she is being paid to laugh.

The man looks up as we approach him, smiles as if in greeting.

Again the woman laughs. I turn to see if I can spot her, but notice no one. When I turn back, there’s a pistol in the man’s hand.

My dad stops in his tracks, his body tense. With one arm, he shoves me behind him.

“Wait, just wait …” he says soothingly, and searches in his trouser pocket. “Just a moment … my wallet.”

The man steps closer, raises the pistol. I turn ice cold.

My dad pushes me away. “Run, Adriana!”

I try to grab him. “No …”

“Run! Now!”

A loud thud.

My dad drops on the tar.

The man with the pistol is on top of him, searching his pockets.

Without thinking, I jump on his back, strike out at his neck, his head. “What are you doing? Leave him!” I scream.

He shakes me off.

I fall, taste blood in my mouth. Crawl towards my dad.

“Dad? Dad!” I hear myself scream.

The man curses, grabs a few notes from the wallet, throws it aside and runs.

I struggle to turn my dad over. His chest is soaked in blood, the red stain on his shirt growing bigger and bigger.