The Disappeared (7 page)

Josh was still
deciding what to do when he saw the girl. The girl that would change his life.

Jump.

Go ahead,
jump. Then it’s all over.

She stood
on the ledge that ran along the perimeter of the 4-Ways Hotel roof. In the
middle of Hillbrow. Johannesburg. The girl with the beautiful chestnut-brown
skin. The girl with the beautiful big eyes; swirled with emerald green, flecked
with sorrow brown.

Jump.

Six-storeys
down below Pretoria Street throbbed and ebbed with the night-time traffic of
cars and pedestrians. The garish hues of dozens of neon signs washed the street
in a sickly rainbow of light. Even from here she could hear slivers of
conversation in several languages; loud rapacious laughter; catcalls and
jeering; wolf whistles; and the never-ending blare of car horns, revving
engines and slamming doors. This was downtown Johannesburg. This was her home.

Jump. And it
will all be over.

The girl
touched the lower part of her abdomen. She could feel the bitter flat emptiness
that now occupied that part of her body. Sometimes she could feel the phantom
shape curled up inside her. And sometimes. When her mind grew still and she
focused on it. Her hand could imagine an extended tummy. And tracing with
delicate fingers she could just barely feel the blurry outline of a tiny thing.

But now. There
was just a sucking vacuum. A dark hole inside her.

She looked
down onto the street. From this height there were no faces. No smells. Only the
swirling chaos of street life. It was a thousand pinpoints of consciousness
forming ever-altering constellations of movement against the darkness of black
streets. And she was a fading star. Adrift in a lost orbit. A thousand
light-years above everyone.

She
shuffled forward. Soon she would be a falling star; extinguished in a shower of
crimson sparks against the black void of Johannesburg.

The girl
held out her arms – a bird with broken wings – crucified against the skyline of
a dark city.

Yes. Now ...

‘Don’t.’

A voice.

It was such
a soft gentle admonition. A statement of such blatant obviousness that the girl
froze. Unsure whether she had heard anything at all. She twirled around almost
losing her balance.

The white woman
was standing at the entrance to the little roof-housing. Behind her was the
open door that led to the eighth floor of the 4-Ways Hotel below.

The old white
woman looked familiar. Yes. The girl had seen her before. Yes. She was always
amongst the Christian missionaries – or whatever they called themselves – who
came to the dirty streets of Johannesburg to save souls. Or bug people. Depending
on how you looked at it. ‘Turd flies’, as Sizwe used to call them. Yes. She was
sure. That’s who she was.

‘What do
you want?’ The woman didn’t say a word. She just stood there. The girl saw that
she was holding a Bible, clasped in hands, folded in front of her. Yes. The old
woman was definitely one of them. The Turd Flies. Suddenly she wondered how
long the old white woman had been standing there. She wondered how much the old
woman had seen of her sad, pathetic one-woman show.

The girl
felt a hot flush of resentment.
Who the hell did this old woman think she
was? How dare she come here and make a ‘project’ of me?
If she wanted to
drain herself of white guilt she would have to go somewhere else.

‘What do
you want? Leave me alone.’ The old woman didn’t speak. Instead she looked at
the young girl with an undefined softness in her eyes. It wasn’t judgement. It
wasn’t compassion. The girl felt naked. Exposed. Anger flushed her cheeks. ‘I
don’t want you here. Can’t you understand me?

The old
woman’s expression remained unchanged. To the girl’s extreme consternation she
turned her eyes towards the night sky as if she hadn’t heard a single word. She
walked forward and sat on the very ledge from which the girl had planned to
launch herself. The girl stared down in disbelief at the white woman who was
making herself comfortable. The woman folded her dress underneath her and
adjusted her ample behind on the narrow ledge. She placed the Bible – a thick
black leather-bound book – next to her. The girl stared at the black book in puzzlement.
She turned her eyes from the book to the old woman who was still staring at the
night sky.

‘Listen,
old woman, I don’t want you here. Don’t you dare ignore me or treat me like a
servant-’

‘Such a
beautiful night, don’t you think?’

‘Fuck you!’
She was not going to put up with this. No way! She jumped from the ledge and
walked towards the roof-housing and the open door with its welcome escape.

‘Stop,
Lindiwe!’ The softness was gone from the old woman’s voice. This was a direct
command. Lindiwe stopped, halfway towards the roof-housing. She felt unable to
resist the effortless authority in the voice. She whirled around.

‘How do
you-’

‘Stop all
of this now.’ The tone in the old woman’s voice was hard and uncompromising.
Lindiwe felt like she was back at St. Mary’s. A young sixth-grader in awe of
the authority of the nuns. ‘It’s gone far enough. Others have hurt you and you
have hurt yourself.’ The old woman fixed Lindiwe with a stare that made her
weak at the knees. ‘But now it must stop.’

 The glow
from a nearby skyscraper – the old run-down Carlton Centre – with its loud neon
sign, lit up the night sky around the old woman’s head. It looked almost like a-

‘It’s time
for the hurt to stop.’

Lindiwe
stared in barely-suppressed awe at the buxom old woman who now sat on the ledge
that Lindiwe had occupied only seconds before. There was a silence as Lindiwe
tried to make sense of it all. The background din of downtown Johannesburg
remained undiminished. Somewhere a couple’s drunken argument reached a hysterical
summit. Glass shattered. Someone laughed in triumph.

‘Who are
you?’ Lindiwe expected to hear something enigmatic and profound. An obscure
quotation from the Bible. At the very least she anticipated some answer
straight out of a Hollywood movie or a fantasy novel; a confirmation of
Guardian Angels, Destinies, Chosen Ones ...

‘I am
Estelle van Deventer from number nine Marula Street, in a little town called Bishop.
Ever heard of it?’ It was almost laughable. Angels didn’t have physical addresses.
Angels didn’t wear floral dresses that belonged in a thrift shop. But most of
all ... angels didn’t call her by name. The old woman picked up her Bible and
rested it on her lap. ‘I have been watching you for a long time, Lindiwe.’

Lindiwe
turned from the old woman; a maelstrom of emotions ripping through her.
Finally, her bluster was depleted. She began crying softly. ‘I lost my-’

‘I know.’

Lindiwe
should have been surprised. How could the woman know about that? About the dark
endless silence of a stillbirth. And yet – for some reason – she wasn’t
surprised at all.

‘Stop
blaming yourself.’ The old woman’s voice had softened to a mere whisper. ‘She
was never meant for this world.’

Lindiwe
wanted to ask her how the hell she knew this. How could she possibly know what
the cruel God in her black leather-bound book had intended for the child that
never was. And how
in God’s name
had she known it was a girl? But
instead she just cried softly. Behind her there was the shuffle of shoes on
concrete. She felt arms around her; unbelievably strong arms that enfolded her
in an impenetrable cocoon of safety. Lindiwe turned and grabbed the old white
woman. Returning her embrace with fierce passion. She cried for an eternity, soaking
the woman’s dress. When there were no more tears – and the sorrow inside her
was sated – the old woman placed a hand under Lindiwe’s chin and lifter her
head until their eyes were level.

‘Tonight is
my last night here.’ The woman smoothed Lindiwe’s hair against her head. ‘It is
your last night also. You are coming with me.’

Lindiwe
nodded passively. She was once again the young idealistic girl that sat at her
mother’s feet while she cleaned the vegetables. She was once again the young
girl who wanted to become President of the country – the girl who didn’t know
sorrow, violation, addiction and loss.

The old woman
took her hand and led her down the stairwell to the street below. There an
ancient white Toyota Hilux
bakkie
waited. The woman opened the passenger
door for Lindiwe who climbed in obediently. With a demonic grating the old
woman manoeuvred the gear lever – attached to the steering column – into first
gear. And so they departed; away from Johannesburg; away from sorrow and
degradation; away from a throwaway life.

‘I’m going
to be very sick ... soon,’ Lindiwe said as they passed the city limits of Johannesburg.
She dreaded the heavy convulsive withdrawals that came with alcohol addiction.
Her heart was dark with anticipation.

‘I know,
angel.’

Angel
.

Her mom
used to call her that. A very
very
long time ago.

The old
woman placed a hand on Lindiwe’s leg. ‘Don’t worry. I used to be a nurse.’
There was a long silence as the old woman negotiated the thinning traffic of
the outskirts of Johannesburg. She looked at Lindiwe again. ‘You’re too
beautiful. You deserve better.’ There was a poignant tenderness in her voice
that once again moved Lindiwe to tears. She cried until the glow of Johannesburg
faded behind the dark horizon. Until the whizzing landscape merged into one
shapeless mass. Until darkness fell over her. She awoke when they entered the
tiny hamlet of Bishop. She was immediately struck by the quaint, near-fairytale
appearance of its streets and neat buildings.

Soon after
that the terrible withdrawals started.

The old
woman offered her a room in the house but Lindiwe preferred the privacy of the
compact caravan in the backyard. She was too familiar with the terrible
indignity of withdrawals and wanted a measure of solitude and privacy.

 For the
next two weeks Lindiwe suffered horribly at the hands of her addiction. The
deep inner cold that couldn’t be assuaged by a thousand blankets; the
convulsive retching and vomiting that ripped her body apart; the ceaseless
degrading diarrhoea that struck without warning; and the constant longing for
the bitter taste of alcohol on her lips – the fiery liquid that was the only
thing that could fill the aching void.

But always
there, like a tireless hovering angel was the old woman – the old woman who had
come to save her; who had come to restore her to sanity. In the long endless
hours of night – it was always worst at night – she begged and pleaded with the
old woman. Please ... just one drink ... just one more drink. Just one sip to
silence the screams inside her body. But the old woman was unrelenting. And she
insisted. The withdrawals had to be clean and unassisted by anything but the
most rudimentary medication. And so for two weeks Lindiwe sweated and suffered
and puked and defecated her way to recovery and health. And then ...

One day she
had awoken ... and it was over. She was clean. She was healthy. And she had a
brand-new life before her. And then the sorrow had come. All the feelings she
had suppressed for so long with the amnesia of alcohol came flooding through
her. For three days she cried. For the lost life of an infant; for the lost
love of a mother; and the lost years of her life.

But that
too had passed. And at the end of it, she was in a place called Bishop. And she
had found a new mother – the old lady who she had come to call
gogo
.

The old
woman who – overnight – had disappeared from her house.

Estelle van
Deventer never knew what hit her.

Earlier
that evening she was watching
Isidingo
– the local
soapie
on
SABC
3
. She had been watching the long-running series since ... well, who could really
say. Since the beginning, she guessed.
She had
been through deaths, divorces, betrayals, affairs, addictions, hostile
take-overs and God-knows-what-else. She had even watched
The
Villagers
- the original show all those years ago that had inspired this spin-off. She
had been a loyal viewer. For a very long time now. She even – sometimes –
enjoyed watching the Sunday Omnibus. Yes. She was a loyal viewer indeed.

Sometimes
though. Not often. But sometimes ... she would sit with a cup of black coffee
in her hand and stare at the flashing images and she would think. No. Not again
.Not another affair. Not another scandal. Not another new preppy face supposed
to boost flagging ratings. Sometimes it felt like an ancient marriage that had
gone sour. A suffocating decades-old Waltz of apathy – consisting of the same
old steps repeated ad nauseam in mindless repetition.

That
evening as a restless Estelle watched the bland flickering images on her TV in
its cabinet with the tapered legs she felt the same way. She wished for Lindiwe’s
company but she knew the young girl was in her caravan reading. Lindiwe never
watched TV. For a brief moment, Estelle felt like going to the backyard and
spending some time with her. In the short period that she had been there,
Lindiwe had become precious to her: a daughter. But she didn’t want to bother
her. Not tonight. Tomorrow was a special day. Lindiwe’s first milestone. Six
months was a long time for anyone. But especially for a recovering alcoholic.
She was proud of her and she wanted it to be a special day. Three weeks of planning
and collusion with Lily had ensured it would be.

The evening
news played out behind the ancient ashen anchor with the striking chestnut wig.
It wasn’t just the soapie. Estelle felt her restlessness grow. And with it an
inability to concentrate on anything the old Pioneer television flashed at her.
Eventually she stood up and switched off the TV – the Pioneer was purchased in
a time when there were no remotes – and closed the cabinet doors. Then she drew
the curtains and made sure all the doors to the house were locked. She walked
the stairs to the top floor.

Already the
emphysema was choking her lungs with a thousand tiny strangleholds. She paused
as she reached the landing, trying to force oxygen into the damaged alveoli.

How was
that for irony? Estelle had seen a thousand of them. The old
tannies (
Afrikaans
ladies
)
with Courtleigh Satin Leaf or Dunhill Menthol dangling from
their quivering lips. Forty sticks a day – for thirty, forty years. They die of
tumours, diabetes, pneumonia, complications arising from a horde of conditions.
Everything except smoking. And here she was – not a cigarette in her entire
life and she couldn’t walk even a dozen steps without clutching at her chest.
She paused a moment longer, then entered her large bedroom. She sat down on the
double-bed and reached for the oxygen mask on the bed stand. The mask hissed to
life as she turned the knob on the bright green oxygen tank, nestled in its
trolley next to her bed. Estelle placed it over her mouth and lay down on the
quilt on top of her bed. She relaxed as the sweet gas inflated her lungs.

It was
early still. She thought of reading her Bible but her early restlessness had
transformed into tiredness and she just lay there appreciating the life-giving
gas. She turned the flow down – as low as it could go without ceasing altogether
– and stared at the ceiling as loose smoky thoughts drifted through her mind.

And then
she fell asleep. The oxygen mask still clasped over her mouth. Hissing ever so
softly.

Then.
Suddenly. She was awake. The world was swimming before her eyes. Bright painful
explosions of light obscured her vision. She was retching blood. And the mask
was strangling her.

Dear God. What
was happening? What in God’s name ...

Then.

The light faded
into a splotchy darkness. And she gave up.

Much
much
later – through serrated edges of light – she saw them. Strange shapes. Alien
and foreign. She watched them. Watched them as they came to get her.