Authors: Shamim Sarif
Rehmat heard herself and stopped short and massaged her leg again. She could not look up to meet Amina’s eyes. The girl tied back her long curls into a loose ponytail and shrugged on a jacket with a casual motion of her thin shoulders.
“I wouldn’t go back there if I were you,” Amina said.
“We don’t know if it was Farah. And they’ll worry about me,” replied Rehmat.
“Perhaps,” Amina said, without much conviction. “But apart from anything else, the police are probably watching the house. I think you should stay here tonight. You can read - there are some books over there - and rest. Try to sleep. Tomorrow morning I’ll take you to the airport.”
“I can’t…
”
“Why not?”
“You’ve already done more than enough. I don’t want to put you at risk any longer.”
“What else will you do?” she asked. Rehmat could not answer.
“Don’t worry,” said Amina gently. “Take a shirt from the closet – I think there are even some pyjamas in there.”
Rehmat nodded. There was a sense of safety here in this small, softly lit room, and in the quiet confidence of Amina’s voice and her calm directions.
At the door, Amina turned. “I’m going to make a call to someone I know who works at the airport about getting you on a flight. But your things…
”
“Forget them,” said Rehmat. “It’s only my clothes really.”
“What about your passport and tickets?”
“I have them. I made sure I brought them with me when I came.”
“Good. Now try to rest,” Amina repeated.
“I will. Thank you.”
Amina smiled and closed the door behind her and Rehmat began to cry, her sobs a mixture of fear, relief and sorrow.
Fifteen minutes later there was a firm knock at the door. Instinctively, Rehmat froze where she sat on the bed, her stomach a ball of fear, and she tried not to breathe, tried only to listen.
A key was scraping into the lock, turning slowly.
“It’s Jacob, ma’am,” called a deep, gentle voice and she stood up, quickly, light-headed with relief. She was embarrassed to greet Jacob with her face tear-stained, but he did not look directly at her. He walked inside and placed a tray of covered plates on the bedside table.
“Amina sends you some dinner,” he said. “Pardon me for walking straight in but I didn’t want to just hand them over to you, in case the police are still around.”
“Thank you,” she called after him, but he had already closed and locked the door. The act of eating seemed unimportant to her at this moment, and unappealing. Nevertheless, she uncovered the plates and found the rising scents and warmth stimulated her appetite at once. The dishes were all distinctly South African - she had been sent a plate piled high with a stew of tomato and lamb
breedie
, a square piece of
bobotie
rich with minced lamb, raisins and spices, and a large slice of milk tart for dessert. A newly opened bottle of soda water stood on one corner of the tray, with an upturned glass balanced on top of it. She poured the drink first, and looked at the food. The bedside table was too small to take more than one plate at a time, so she placed Amina’s books and the tray of food onto the floor beside her and brought each dish up to the table in turn.
She consumed the food slowly and with a strange mixture of pleasure and regret. It was food that she remembered from her childhood - not from her father’s house, where the food that had been cooked was predominantly Indian - but she recalled it from school and from cafés that she had visited illicitly when she was a teenager. Her emotion constricted her throat and made it difficult to swallow, but she ate anyway, because she knew as she finished the last mouthfuls that it was unlikely that she would ever taste such dishes here in her own country again.
It was almost one o’clock in the morning when Amina locked the back door of the café and walked back to her room. The only breaks in the darkness came from the far, faint glow of a street lamp on the road and from the window of her own room, where a soft light breathed against the curtained pane of glass. Rehmat must be still awake, or else must have left a candle burning. She half hoped that Rehmat would still be awake, so that they might talk for a while. Throughout her evening’s work at the café, Amina had been considering the events leading to Rehmat’s appearance in her room. She knew that Miriam had been visited by the police, but who had alerted them in the first place? She frowned at the thought of Miriam with those men. She knew her to be shy, but she had sensed flashes of strength in her character, and she hoped she had not caused them to harm or threaten her. What it was about Miriam that had caught Amina’s interest, she could not quite say. She was attractive, certainly, but so were many other women. Amina intuited a quick intelligence and sensitivity beneath the controlled surface of Miriam’s personality, but she was willing to admit that she might be reading too much into their brief meetings. She wondered if her concern would seem justification enough for her to visit Miriam in Delhof. Perhaps not.
Amina hoped that Rehmat would shed some light on the preceding day’s events, but she also wanted to talk to this woman about her life, about why and how she had run away from her family for the sake of love. It was a rare event for Amina to find another Indian woman who had dared not to conform to tradition and convention. She reached the door, slipped her key into the lock, and turned it as quietly as she could.
Rehmat was fast asleep on one side of the bed. The candle that still burned on the table lit her even features with a low, trembling light. Amina closed the door soundlessly, and stood watching the woman who lay sleeping before her. Rehmat was very beautiful, Amina decided, and looked very much like her brother. She had thought that Omar was also good-looking, but in her opinion, his regular, clean features were lacking in spirit. There was no openness in his face, and no sense of the unpredictable in his nature. In Amina’s eyes, these were the qualities that elevated ordinary beauty to something irresistible. Rehmat was attractive, but Amina’s admiration was merely superficial – the appreciation of someone looking at a fine painting, without a wish to hang it in their own house. In a matter of moments, she had buttoned on a clean shirt to sleep in. She had crept to the closet with the intention of wearing the unaccustomed pyjamas, but they were gone, and she assumed that beneath the drawn up sheet, Rehmat must be wearing them. Amina lifted up the edge of the sheets, and slid slowly beneath them. The sound of her body shifting between the crisp cotton roused Rehmat, but only for a second, only long enough for her to turn her head on the pillow, so that now Amina could see her perfect profile.
Amina took a long, deep breath and exhaled slowly, and silently, feeling the muscles of her slim body relax in the bed. She turned to look at Rehmat once more, but at that moment, the guttering candle expired, dousing them in a darkness that was thick as a liquid. Amina turned on her side and closed her eyes, and slipped into sleep to the slumbering breaths of the woman who lay beside her.
O
NLY WHEN SHE HAD FINISHED
the last of her breakfast did Amina fold up the newspaper she had been reading. She was sliding out of her booth when she noticed the large, lumbering frame of a man standing almost over her. He was Indian, but she did not recognise him as a regular customer of the café. She nodded to him politely but he only regarded her nervously, fiddling with his watch strap.
“Miss Harjan?”
“Yes.” She was standing before him now, putting on her jacket, waiting.
“I am Sadru, Rehmat’s brother.”
Amina was surprised. He was most unlike either Rehmat or Omar in his features and build. He did not seem to be as articulate either, and appeared to be struggling to address her.
“What can I do for you?”
“My sister. Where is she?”
His tone was almost plaintive, an incongruous tone from such a large man, and Amina glanced around the café to give herself a moment to think. Sadru followed her look with hope, as though it might reveal Rehmat to him. Amina looked back at him, gauging her response. She did not think he had had anything to do with calling the police – she was sure his wife had managed that by herself – but Rehmat had come too close to getting away for her to take any chances.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Why do you ask me?”
“Farah told me she came here.”
“Did she really?”
Sadru frowned and his shoulders dropped, as though he sensed that yet another woman was about to run rings around him. Amina smiled, and leaned in towards him so she could lower her voice.
“Listen. She is fine. I promise you. She’s not here, but she’s fine.”
“Really?” He looked relieved. “Because, I don’t want anything to happen to her, you know. And James has been phoning.”
Amina looked interested. “Her husband? Where is he?”
“In Nairobi, already. He’s flying to Paris tomorrow.” Sadru frowned. “He didn’t waste any time. He just left.”
“Good thing,” said Amina. “Easier for them both. Listen. Tell James…
”
“He’s phoning again in an hour,” Sadru interrupted, pointing to his watch.
“Okay. Tell him, she’s fine, and that he should just concentrate on getting home? Okay? Will you remember?”
“Concentrate on getting home,” Sadru repeated, earnestly, as though sifting the sentence for a hidden meaning.
“Yes. Anyway,” Amina said, glancing out to her truck. “If you don’t mind excusing me, I have a delivery to make, Mr…
”
“Sadru. Please, you must let me thank you for helping us…
”
“I didn’t do anything.”
He held out a massive hand, which Amina took, while guiding him out through the front door.
“We can never thank you enough, Farah and I…
”
“There’s really no need. I didn’t do anything.” She looked into his face, and repeated the words. “I didn’t do anything.”
He frowned. “No?”
“No. If anyone ever asks you. Okay?”
He nodded, and gave her a wink as he ducked into his car. She watched him lower the window so that he could lean his meaty arm on it, before he revved up the engine and motored out into the road.
Amina watched him go until his car had disappeared completely, in the hopes that, if the police were still around, they would follow him instead of her. Then she waved at Jacob through the front door. He gave her an encouraging smile, and watched as she went to her truck.
She walked around the vehicle quickly, making her habitual check on the tyres. The roads, especially the side roads, were poor in the Asiatic Bazaar and all the other Indian and Coloured areas, and since the introduction of the Group Areas Act, they had only deteriorated further. Amina rarely had reason to drive into the African areas but she knew the roads there were much worse, if they existed at all. Once she was satisfied that all was in order, she opened the door and raised a foot to climb in.
“Just a moment.”
She felt the fine hair on the base of her skull prickle as she recognised the voice of Officer De Witt. His hand was on her shoulder. She stepped down again, turned and smiled at the policeman.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” she said. “People will talk.”
He flashed her a smile that was barely more than a grimace. “That’s something you should already be used to,
ja
? People talking.”
Amina shrugged and looked past the policeman. She frowned as she saw his car parked no more than fifty feet away, across the road – how had she missed it? Officer Stewart was sitting inside the car, but when he saw her looking over, he came over to them, his face drawn into a frown. He tipped his cap as he arrived, and spoke with some annoyance to his partner.
“We have things to do. If you’ve said your good mornings to the lady, we should be on our way.”
De Witt paid little attention. He moved to the rear window of the truck and examined the interior. The back seat was covered with tins and a cardboard box from which various grocery items protruded. The long hollow floor space between the front and back seats was also filled with supplies and covered over with layers of sack cloth.
“Do you always carry so much stuff with you?” he asked, his tone belligerent.
“You know how it is,” replied Amina. “There’s always something to pick up or deliver. Half the time you can’t rely on people delivering goods when they say they will. Easier to do it yourself.” She glanced at Officer Stewart for affirmation of this generality, and he nodded politely. She remained very still, trying not to betray her anxiety, trying to slow her movements to give the impression that their interest in her truck was of no concern to her.
“Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen, or can I get on with my day?” she asked finally and as she spoke, she stepped up behind the wheel. Even as his partner smiled and began to say that they should also be getting on with their day, Officer De Witt yanked open the back door and plunged his fist twice, and with great force, into the sacking that lay across the hollow behind Amina’s seat. The girl’s heart stopped. De Witt shouted in pain and withdrew his hand, shaking it.
“What the hell have you got in there, rocks?”
“Tinned goods,” Amina replied automatically. She felt dizzy with tension, and started the truck, shifting immediately into first gear. “I’m sure I’ll see you both around,” she called as she pulled away.
De Witt stood nursing his fist and shouting after her. “Go on,” he yelled. “If I never see you again, it would be too damn soon.”
Amina was already too far away to hear the words, but inside the café, Jacob heard the commotion as he poured a cup of coffee for his first customer of the day, and he looked up briefly, and allowed himself a smile.
Amina drove down the road at a pace that was sedate and, she hoped, not suspicious, watching the policemen in her rear view mirror. They were walking back to their car, and appeared to be arguing.
“I don’t think they’re going to follow us,” she called out over her shoulder. “Are you okay? He punched so hard.”
She was met with no reply other than the sound of the engine, and she looked around at the sacking. Slowing down even more, she flicked back a couple of pieces to find nothing but the tinned goods she had just claimed.
Amina sighed and braked slightly but realised she would only draw attention to herself if she stopped.
“Where are you?” she called, as though the missing woman might somehow appear before her.
Amina stared out at the road tried to think what to do. If she went back, they’d see her. Amina had sent Rehmat out to hide in the truck over an hour before. She must have seen the police then. Or did they already have her? A chill grasped her. Maybe that whole exchange just now was a joke on her. That bastard De Witt was probably laughing at her right now.
She had to swerve to avoid an African woman who had stepped out without warning, almost under her wheels. Amina stopped and looked back to check that the woman was okay, only to find that she was running after her, and losing her colourful blanket and headscarf as she came. Without a word she pulled open the door and began clambering up into the truck.
“Give me a hand, would you?” Rehmat said, breathlessly. Amina grasped her wrists, hauled her up and pulled back onto the road at once, pressing the truck to move more quickly. Rehmat sat back, her eyes closed, and took a deep breath. Amina glanced at the blanket which Rehmat still held over her shoulders.
“Don’t tell me – you got tired of the same old Paris fashions?”
Rehmat smiled. “Yes. Wanted to try something new.”
“What on earth happened?”
“I saw them when I came out,” Rehmat said. “I had a feeling they might be back, so I crept around and I saw them from behind the tree in the yard.”
“And then?”
“I didn’t know what to do,” Rehmat said. “I started to come back to your room, and then I thought, no, that’s the first place they’ll come. So I started walking up the road, away from them, and I was hoping that you would start driving, thinking I was in the truck, and see me.”
“I did think you were there,” Amina smiled. “I thought that you got hurt. That bastard policeman smashed his fist into the sacks and hurt himself on some tins.”
“Which? The one that hit you?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” said Rehmat, and laughed.
She shivered suddenly and turned to look back, but the road behind them was still clear.
“You gave yourself away just now,” she said, after a moment, and Amina frowned and looked into her rear-view mirror but Rehmat smiled.
“No, not with them,” she said. “With me. You lied to me yesterday. You told me they didn’t hit you.”
Amina smiled.
“Why did you lie to me?” Rehmat asked.
Amina shrugged. “I didn’t want you to feel bad.”
“You’re very considerate,” Rehmat replied. “It’ll be a lucky man… or a lucky person that has you as their partner.”
“A lucky person,” repeated Amina with a smile. “So even you have heard the rumours about me?” She laughed, but Rehmat bit her lip and concentrated on looking from the windscreen before her. After a minute had passed in awkward silence, she spoke.
“What you do and how you live is your own business, and nobody else’s,” Rehmat told her, annoyed that her acknowledgement had been cast aside. “If anyone should understand that, it’s me. I was trying to be nice, not make a comment about the way you live.”
Amina glanced at her. “I know. Don’t be angry. I was just surprised, that’s all. No one ever gave me such a compliment before.”
Rehmat shrugged slightly then smiled.
“I didn’t think you were going to stop back there,” she told Amina. “I was waving and waving.”
“Sorry, my mind was all over the place. When I realised you weren’t in the truck, I panicked. And your disguise confused me.”
Rehmat shook her head. “This poor African woman. She was walking along with her child, and I came running up and begged her to sell me her scarf and her blanket. She must have thought I was mad.”
“But she gave it to you anyway?”
“You should have seen how much I paid her,” replied Rehmat.
They drove along in silence for few minutes, and Amina kept an eye almost continuously on the road behind her. She felt sure, though, that the officers had given up.
“Your brother Sadru came in the café this morning.”
“Really?”
“He wanted to know where you were, if you were okay. I said I didn’t know, but to tell James that you were fine.”
“James is all right?”
Amina nodded. “He’s in Nairobi, so there’s nothing to worry about. He’s going to Paris tomorrow.”
Rehmat sank back in her seat. “Thank God,” she said.