Walking up St Andrew’s Road, close to her block, Surita saw a figure moving towards her. “Hey sweetie,” said the man. Her feeling was bad – his movement was wrong, too much swagger. A woman alone on a dark empty street: the guy probably couldn’t believe his luck. He came up right in front of her, grinning. She stopped.
“Want to get a drink?” He was maybe in his early thirties, ten years older than her, smart dresser, wearing a belt with a metallic buckle.
“I don’t think so,” she said and started to walk around him.
“Don’t be rude, cherry.”
“What did you say?”
He raised his hands mockingly, palms facing her. “Got your period? Or you always a bitch?”
A heartbeat of a pause, and then she came up close, grabbed his shirt and jerked him forward. As he pulled back she went into a kosoto-gari, that same mugging move the Egyptian girl had performed: hooking her right leg behind his left knee, pushing, landing hard on him as he hit the ground. When she got up, he was still lying on the tar, groaning and curling up like a worm. This guy had no idea how to fall. Fuck him and whoever made him.
She jogged home, ignoring the nausea. She could have walked away from that guy instead of reacting, or run if she’d needed to. But she wasn’t going to run from anyone. That weird loss today – her opponent was strong, quick, but not invincible – was a defeat of the mind, not the body. Her mind would just have to get stronger.
Back in her flat, she poured a can of tomato soup into a pot and watched it come to the boil. She felt the agitated energy of the bubbles forming and bursting. At one point, purposefully and calmly, she stuck the tip of her finger into the liquid. The burn dissipated her appetite. It was as if she could fill herself up on heat and pain. She held her finger under the cold tap, keeping it there until the cool water numbed it. Then she ran a scalding bath and got in: no bubbles, no soap, only water. Tonight, she told herself, she’d let herself look at the document.
She’d received it two days before, but had not yet examined the pages closely: the experience was too intense. Soon she would do it, but first – a mental challenge – she would stay in the bath for at least half an hour. No rushing. She would take her time, train herself. She gave herself a choice: think back over the fight, list her flaws, or let her mind empty and become open to passing sensations – the throbbing of her shoulder, the strained muscle fibres in the hot water.
She stayed submerged for almost an hour, reheating the bath water four times, until at last she got out, wrinkled but clean. Surita laid the two pages on her unmade bed and sat cross-legged, reading them.
ST NICHOLAS ORPHANAGE
DATE: 15 November 2013
NAME OF APPLICANT: Surita Adams
ID NUMBER: 9103060766035
CURRENT ADDRESS: 12 Van Riebeeck Flats, Rondebosch, Cape Town
NAMES OF ADOPTIVE PARENTS: Michael and Betty Adams
REASON FOR VISIT: Surita Adams made contact with Sister Deborah on 11 August 2013. She had been in the care of St Nicholas from birth on 6 March 1991 until 10 April 1995. In keeping with current legislation, specifically the Children’s Act (No 38 of 2005), Surita Adams requested that the St Nicholas Orphanage approach the Registrar of Adoptions, Department of Social Development, on her behalf in order to disclose information contained in the adoption register. This application was successful. The biological parents of Surita Adams are:
MOTHER: CAMILLE JOSEPHS – deceased
FATHER: Unknown
MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER: MARCIA JOSEPHS (Contact number: 021 461 8883 / 077 4456782)
The second page said:
Please bear in mind that there are many good reasons not to contact your family of origin without prior reflection, counselling and prayer. It is possible that:
• The biological parent has now remarried and has not told either her spouse or her children about the adoption.
• The parent might not want to meet you. Unfortunately, this is a frequent problem.
• Your birth might be the result of a bad relationship, or a coercive act, and your biological mother might not wish to deal with this.
Finally, remember, there is always a reason that a baby is given up for adoption. The adopted child might find it difficult to accept this reason. Good luck with your search. May God find His way into your heart and guide you with all decisions henceforth.
Surita folded the paper and placed it in the drawer of her bedside table. God had offered her little guidance this far. As always, it was in her hands. She reached for her cellphone, her shoulder aching, and began dialling.
Maja
At eight pm, an hour into the flight to Cape Town, Maja felt calm enough. Her skills weren’t as extensive as she’d told Jerome. She’d helped on jobs but had never orchestrated anything on her own. Still, she believed this job would be manageable, whatever it was. Her money, depleted after dealing with Carel, would only last a few days, but she’d find a way. When she got back and received the full payment, she’d sort out Carel once and for all and then enjoy the rest for herself.
Thinking of her brother, Maja began to feel uneasy. She watched an air steward approaching with a drinks trolley. He’d been making slow progress down the aisle, since every passenger wanted wine, and now he was at her row. She asked for a glass of red wine and a peach juice. This being economy class, the steward hesitated before passing both drinks over.
“You wouldn’t think that would break the bank, would you?” said the man next to her in the window seat: a florid fiftyish fellow, stout, wearing a bright yellow T-shirt and jeans.
“You would not.” Maja was comfortable in English.
“From Holland, of course?”
“Yes. And you are from?”
“England. Just spent a bit of time in your country, saying goodbye really – I won’t be back there for a good while.”
In the silence, Maja sipped her wine. The alcohol dulled the feeling that crept into her throat and stomach when she thought about Carel.
She’d gone round to his apartment, even smaller and crummier than her own, the day before leaving for Cape Town – to check he was okay; give him some cash. He’d answered on the first ring, but barred the entrance with his short, solid body – built like their mother, her dad had said.
“Yes.” As if she were a stranger.
“Carel – what the fuck, let me in.” At first she’d thought he had a woman in there, probably not his girlfriend, and that was why he was acting so strangely.
“Get away,” he hissed. “Now.”
“No.” She pushed past him, using her height. He jumped back as though she’d genuinely hurt him. She was trying to work out what had happened when she spotted two broad men, beefburgers in dark sunglasses like baddies straight out of a comic. One of them was sitting on the bed, with Carel’s largest marionette, Babette – blonde haired, blue eyed, hunchbacked – over his knees. The other man was pacing the room, slapping the metal candlestick from Carel’s bedside table against his palm.
She saw that Carel was injured. He had slumped to the floor, back against the wall, and was groaning softly.
“What’s going on here?” she asked, making her voice deep and her speech slow.
The man threw the candlestick onto the bed, moved over to her and pushed her out the door as if she were no heavier than a child. She was tall, but he was bulky. The door slammed shut.
“Hey!” she shouted. Silence. Shit, shit – now? Okay, this was business. Maja took her