Bloodlines (43 page)

“This is the
Fairy Bell Pachycarpus
,” he said. “The Zulus call it by a name that means ‘to forsake one’s mother’. The root is used as a love potion—it’s said to ensure total devotion. Some Zulus swear by it, and I’ve seen its impact on them.” His mouth widened in a gleeful, boyish grin, and he rose to his feet. “I know it works on western-trained white Zulu physicians,” he said, looking down at me. The grin disappeared and became a tentative, concerned smile; the lines around his eyes vanished as his eyes opened wide. “I wonder if it might also work on a ravishing young woman,” he said, speaking the words in a low, gentle voice, “whose real name is Michaela Green.”

I placed my palms down on the ground and scrambled to my full height, my legs shaking, chaos in my belly, anger and fear fighting for mastery in my head.

“So you know my name,” I said, trying to contain the trembling in my voice. “Who are you, Andrew? What is it you really want from me?”

He rose to his feet and took a step back. “I’ve already told you,” he said, “I’m a friend. And what I want from you is your trust.”

“Why?”

“Because part of my job is to keep you safe—and it’s a lot easier to do that if I have your trust.”

“Is there anything else you know about me that I should be aware of?” I paused and glared up at him. “Or is it your goal to keep me off balance by dropping intimate little details about my life at strategic moments?”

“Grace, the last thing I want is to keep you off balance and frightened.”

“If you think this is fear, you’re way off the mark,” I snapped.

“Well, if the truth be told, I’d rather have you angry than afraid of me. But I’d prefer it if you were neither.” He managed an uneasy smile. “Where politics and medicine are concerned, I’m as silent as the tomb. When it comes to friendship, however, I’m very uncomfortable with secrets. And we have a problem, because we’ve become friends.” He looked at me, waiting for me to agree.

“What of it?” I asked.

“Well, I consider you a friend,” he continued, “and I’m uncomfortable with what I know about you. I wanted to bring it out in the open before it has a chance to create tension between us. Which it will, eventually.” He paused in the silence between us and looked around at the little pond, glinting in the winter sun, the sound of birds’ wings audible against the water as they landed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I could have handled this better, and I should have dealt with it sooner.”

“Yes,” I said. “You could, and you should. What else do you know about me?”

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Michaela Davidson, born in Johannesburg. Your father was a dentist; your mother a teacher, both politically liberal, active members of the Jewish community. You graduated from Witwatersrand University in 1954 with a degree in music. Married Lenny Green, civil engineer; one son, Steven, born in 1955. In 1962 you were arrested along with Mandla Mkhize and sent to prison for treason and miscegenation. You received a ten-year sentence; he was put away for life. You didn’t spend much time in prison. The ANC wanted him out, but he wasn’t about to escape without you, and the ANC agreed to his terms. Following your escape, a phone call was arranged with your husband from a secure telephone near Durban, and he told you that he was taking your son and leaving the country. They left for Boston shortly after, and you haven’t seen your son since.” He stopped. “I’m so sorry.”

“Steven was seven when they left—he’s almost ten now.” I said it as matter-of-factly as I could. “There’s no reason to be sorry—it is what it is. Go on.”

“You and Mandla Mkhize were transported separately to Zululand, where you stayed in the homestead of one of his kinsmen. You remained there for just over a year, after which you were provided with a false identity and papers, and you traveled to Europe to retrieve funds your father left for you in a Swiss bank account. Your intent was to purchase a farm from which you could assist in the work of the ANC by providing him a cover, and at the same time provide safety and transportation out of the country for dissidents and those being sought by the government.”

I was angry before Andrew expanded upon what he knew of me, and I felt exposed and taken advantage of. But now I knew what it was like to feel so revealed that humiliation and shame made anger impossible. I covered my breasts with my arms in a gesture that revealed a sense of nakedness beyond what clothing could mask.

“You’ve had me under surveillance. All the time we were in Zululand, and in Europe. And on the farm.”

“Yes,” said Andrew. “And I’m so sorry it had to be done surreptitiously.”

“You have people watching me—us—on the farm, too. How could we have been so bloody stupid?” My voice was hoarse. “We thought we could come up here and live our lives with at least a semblance of privacy.” Then a thought struck me, and my blood ran cold. “Does Khabazela know that we’re being watched?” I looked up at him, squinting into the sun, unable to see his expression.

“You have it all wrong, Grace,” he said quietly, placing his hands on my shoulders. “No one was watching you in Zululand. And when you were in Europe, whatever surveillance the ANC provided was for your own safety. For God’s sake, woman, you were alone in an unfamiliar city, walking the streets with a sack full of diamonds. Khabazela wanted to be sure that you were protected. The organization also had to protect itself—they didn’t know whether you were being watched or whether your identity might have been compromised. The Special Branch might have been on the alert, waiting for you to lead them directly to the ANC leadership when you returned.”

“That leadership being you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “There are no whites on the executive council. I’m small potatoes in the organization; they tolerate me because of what I can contribute.”

“So why are you so involved in my case? Why so privy to the details of my life?”

“Because I’m here, Grace. Because I’m a doctor and I help when people are in trouble. It’s not for nothing they call me the White Zulu. I love this country, and I’m committed to this struggle.” He paused, looked at me with a pained expression, and continued in a voice that was resigned and sad. “The council leadership was willing to have you come out here and help Khabazela, but they were unwilling to put your lives at any greater risk than necessary. They wanted someone close by to watch over you, someone you could talk to and perhaps confide in. They needed to know how you were dealing with the strain. You live a double life, which is stressful enough—but when he’s traveling, you’re isolated, too, and the fact that you’re involved in dangerous work increased the strain even more. They just wanted to make sure that you were coping, Grace.”

“And if my coping skills were less developed than they’d like?” I asked, tasting in my throat the acid that I couldn’t hide in my voice. “What would they have done then? Dispensed with my services? Gotten rid of me?”

“There’s a life and death struggle being played out here,” he said sharply. “We’re trying to rid the country of a terrible regime, and you must have realized by now that working for the ANC carries lethal risks. This government has already tried to chew you up and spit you out. They failed, but they won’t fail again. If the Special Branch knew where you were they wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in your head—after you told them everything you know. And trust me, Grace,” he said grimly, “before they were through, you would have given them all the information they wanted. Then they’d make it look as if you’d been raped, mutilated and dismembered by a horde of bloodthirsty Zulus, and leave your body where it would create the greatest fear among already terrified whites.”

He took my arm and led me gently to a rock outcropping, brushed the dirt away with the flat of his hand, and sat me down. He lowered himself to sit beside me, and softened his voice. “The leadership of any underground organization has to know how its members are doing. Anyone who can’t cope with the stress endangers everyone he has contact with. Of course the council is concerned about you—not only for your own safety, but for Khabazela’s. On every mission he undertakes, the man you claim to love steps into nothingness. Every time he leaves you he takes the risk of not coming back.” Andrew paused. “The council wants to make sure that at least when he’s with you, he’s safe.”

Late afternoon was upon us by the time we started back. I walked in front of Andrew, my arms clasped about my chest. The thick cardigan I wore should have warmed me, but the freeze extended through my flesh and into my viscera. The cold felt as if it was coming from within, emanating outwards. The evening chill of winter was in the air as the sun quickly dropped towards the distant mountaintops, and the quality of the light was stark and cold. The dry
veld
grass, wheat-green and pale, was tinted with silver as the wind turned its face and wove wide ribbons towards the horizon and back again, and the silvered swaths matched the backlit silhouette of the mountains.

My conversation with Andrew was an eye-opener—it forced me to recognize how much was at stake, and in how much danger Khabazela walked every day. It was almost as if I couldn’t tell which role was real, and which was the cover. In some ways, the role of country lady farmer had become my real life, and the challenges it posed had become my real problems. Living undercover had come to feel like a charade, with pretend dangers, unreal cloak-and-dagger hide and seek, and my clandestine nights of love part of an exciting fantasy, without potential consequence.

I kept to myself for the next few weeks as I came to terms with the reality that Andrew had pointed out. It wasn’t clear to me at first how—or even whether—I needed to adjust my thinking or my behavior. But everything I did or said was informed by the realization that we were under observation by friends, and that the danger posed by enemies was much greater than I had been willing to acknowledge.

And it made a difference—I became harder, more focused; more suspicious than I had been before, able to trust no one. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I was on constant alert for anything that might reveal the presence of someone watching me, and I wondered whether I would have the courage to take any action in the event that I discovered a spy. Until Andrew revealed that I was being observed, I had no doubt that I was coping well—but once I knew that I was being watched I became far less trusting, and it crossed my mind that I might be showing signs of paranoia.

To the farmhands I was cold and distant, and instead of talking to them when I was tramping the fields, I preferred to stand and watch them from the field’s perimeter. They waved; I waved back. When I walked the farm in the early winter mornings with Solomon Mavovo, I found him looking at me with concern in his reddened eyes.

“The
Nkosikazi
is not well today,” he said, shaking his head.

“What do you mean, Solomon?” I asked.

“Her spirit is elsewhere, I think,” he replied.

Even Brian McWilliams was aware of a change in my behavior, and he surprised me as we sat together in my office one morning going over the books.

“Are you unwell, Ms. Michaels?” he said, leaning forward on his chair.

“I’m fine, thank you, Brian,” I responded, not looking up from the ledger.

“I don’t mean to be personal,” he said, “but you do seem distracted. Even the farmhands are talking about you, wondering if you’re ill, or worried about something.” He paused, looked down at his shoes. “I hope it’s not something I’ve done.”

I laughed. “I’m not that easily upset, Brian. From what you know of me,” I said, “do you think I’d hesitate to let you know if you’d offended me?”

“I’ve not offended you,” he said quickly. “That’s for sure. I’ve done all I could to stay on your good side.” He brushed his hair from his forehead with a self-conscious gesture, rapid and secretive. “And I’d not upset you for anything.”

“I appreciate that,” I said.

Brian McWilliams’ boyish eagerness to please was sudden, and surprising, and I found it hard not to smile. I wondered for a moment whether I had misjudged him. But as he rose from his chair and walked across the rug between us, I knew that this was more than a desire to please me, and I knew that I should have anticipated it. I rose quickly, not wanting to be seated as he stood above me, and found that I was facing him, and that he had stationed himself much closer than was comfortable. I raised my hands before me, fingers outspread, in a clear gesture that said he was too close. He took my hands in his.