Bloodlines (53 page)

We didn’t say much to each other until after dark, when we took off again, headed out over the Atlantic. We were the only passengers, and it was the first time we had been alone.

“Khabazela, where are we going?”

“We’re flying south,” he said, “down the coast of South Africa. Before we get to Durban we’ll turn inland, staying low to avoid radar. I don’t know where we will land–but there are many small runways within a few hours of the farm, and the pilot knows which ones are safe. There will be a car there waiting to take you home.”

“So I’m going home to my farm,” I said, looking at him. “What about you?”

The passenger cabin was small, and we were sitting against opposite bulkheads, facing each other. There was a table between us, and behind each of us was a mirror, angled slightly down. I could see the back of his head, tightly curled hair cut short to the shape of his very familiar skull. And I could see myself, a weary young woman with uncombed hair and dark circles beneath her eyes. I didn’t like how I looked—puffy, unhappy, demanding; not very attractive. He, too, was exhausted and drawn, and his lean face showed it. Beneath the arches of his cheekbones his cheeks were hollow; his mouth closed tight, lips sad and turned down at the corners. He looked at the hands in his lap as if they were not his, picked at the fingernails. I watched him, waiting, unwilling to make it any less difficult.

“It was too hard, Michaela,” he said finally, speaking slowly, still avoiding my eyes.

“What was?”

“Living apart from you, and meeting only in secret. I could do it, because I knew it was just as difficult for you as it was for me—so long as I was still able to work effectively. But what some of the leaders told me all along came to be true. I thought I was strong enough to do what I came here for—but my strength alone is not enough to bring about sweeping changes. For that, I need to be someone the people can identify with; someone who comes from among them, and also lives their life.” He paused uncomfortably, shifted in his chair. “It means having a
kraal
in the village. And it means a traditional family, wife and children.” He lowered his head, sighed deeply, and, finally, looked up to meet my eyes. “You know already that I have taken a wife, Michaela,” he said. “That night at the cave, it was clear to me that you knew—I could feel your anger. I supposed that Andrew told you, but it was not the time to talk. Andrew is smitten by you, you know.” He grinned, weakly. “Or I thought it might be Solomon who told you. He is torn in half by this—he feels as much loyalty to you as he does to me, which is a great tribute to you.”

I looked at him, clenching my fists in my lap, filled with fury. “Don’t you dare try and charm me,” I said. “Do you think so little of me? You imagine that I can be flattered into accepting this?”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t intend to offend you.”

“I suppose I should congratulate you. Both on your marriage and on your virility—you have two women pregnant at the same time. How proud you must be. Which child will be your firstborn,” I asked. “Hers or mine?”

“Don’t, Michaela,” he said.

“Don’t what? Complicate your life?”

“This is difficult enough. Don’t make it worse.”

I laughed harshly. “How could it possibly be worse?”

He had no answer, and for a time we sat in silence. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I was searching for an escape from a situation that seemed, for that moment, awful beyond words, and inescapable. The drone of the engine filled the space between us, and I finally calmed myself sufficiently to have a conversation.

“Her name is Miriam, I hear.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t think for a moment that I was just going to go along with this, did you?”

“I hoped,” he said. “But I thought not.”

“But you went with her anyway, and when she became pregnant you married her, in the traditional Zulu way.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is the Zulu way.”

“But you know that even if I wanted it, the Zulu way has no place for me. When we had each other, I felt no need to have a place in your tradition. I had you, and that felt like enough. We could combine forces, live a secret life, and imagine that we had won a small victory against all the forces that want to keep us apart. But for me, alone against Zulu tradition, there’s no winning. Not if I don’t have you at my side.” We looked at each other. “And you can’t have us both at your side, you know.”

“I know,” he said.

“So what plan do you have for me now? Where do I go?”

“Go?” he said, looking at me with bewilderment. “We still have work to do. You belong on the farm. And I can still come to you.” He took one look at me and his smile disappeared, stillborn. “No,” he said. “I suppose not.”

“No,” I repeated. “No more.”

The emptiness of no more night visits hit me, and I was filled with sadness. We had conceived a child together, but nothing was permitted us. Aside from the immediacy of love and the urgency of our work together, there was little else important enough to unite us. I felt hopeless and defeated. Even though his people might never be able to wholly accept me, I had thought it within my ability to wholly accept them.

Now, for the first time, I had evidence of my own limitations. Whether they were the result of having been brought up in a western, Judeo-Christian culture, coming from a Jewish home, or having parents who believed that men and women were truly equal, I was unsure. But whatever the reason, it was beyond my capacity to accept being a second wife—or a mistress—in a culture where men were permitted what women were not, and in a political environment where either way our relationship would have to be hidden.

.

twenty four

MANDLA

Natal, South Africa
,
1968

I
have left it up to your mother to decide how much she wishes to share with you about the early part of our relationship. For me, it was a dangerous time, but filled with excitement. It was disorienting as well, because I played many roles, and eventually it became impossible to keep them all straight. Ultimately, I had to admit to myself that I could no longer function effectively. It was only a matter of time before I made a mistake that would place Michaela, or the men in my command, or our entire operation, in jeopardy.

Without being a part of the community, I was unable to have the kind of impact I needed to have. And once I realized that I was the cause of the problem, I had no choice but to change things. So I married Miriam, a young woman in my mother’s village. We have been together now for over thirty-five years.

As might have been expected, Michaela did not take the news of my marriage to Miriam well. She felt that I had betrayed her, and she wanted nothing to do with me. I told her that my love and admiration for her were unconditional; that my being married need not change anything between us. But there were limitations to what she could accept.

“You live as if the opportunities available to you are endless,” I told her, “as if you can go on making choices without consequences. Well, you’re already living with consequences. In order to come live with me, you had to leave Steven. That had consequences. In order to make you and our child safe, and to make our work here possible, I had to marry. That has consequences, too, for all of us. But there are reasons—very practical reasons—why my marriage might be advantageous.”

“For you, maybe,” she said, filled with anger. “You have someone to cook for you and a warm bed to go to when you’re not with me. It makes you one of the boys; when you meet with the traditional leaders you can impress each other with the number of your women and your children. Yes, it makes the work you do easier if these leaders respect you—but don’t insult my intelligence by telling me how your Zulu wife will make my life better.”

“It may not make your life better,” I told her patiently, “but it will make your life—and our child’s life—safer.”

We had these discussions over several days, and it became increasingly apparent that our time of intimacy and closeness were over. But if that was the case, there was a way in which my having a Zulu wife could make her life better, and might also provide an acceptable reason for me to be around the farmhouse.

“You’re going to need someone to take care of the child while you run the farm,” I said at one point. “Have you thought who you will hire?”

She looked at me as if I had lost my mind.

“You’re not serious,” she said.

“Why not? You need to have a woman who’s trustworthy and competent, someone who you can be honest with. In this situation who could you be more honest with than my wife? You’ll need someone you like, and you and Miriam will get along very well.”

“You are serious,” she said. “I can’t believe it. You want me to employ your wife to come take care of our child in my house?”

“I would like you and Miriam to meet, and yes, I would like you to consider having her work for you. You may be angry with me, Michaela, but you cannot be angry with her. She has done nothing wrong, and she intends you no harm. There is much she can learn from you. She is a lovely young woman whose company you will enjoy, and like you, she will soon have a child.”

“So my house will become a little like your private
kraal
, where we two women can raise your children together. Is that what you envision?”

“No,” I said firmly. “It is not. Your house will be your home, in which you raise your child as you see fit. You would have a nursemaid for your child who lives in the servants’ quarters, and who will sometimes have her child here with her. What happens beyond that is completely up to you,” I said quietly. “What I want is for you and for our child to live in safety and security, and for Miriam and her child I would like these same opportunities. In this world, where am I more likely to find them than in your house?”

You will find that your mother is a stubborn woman, Steven, but she is not dogmatic. One of her many admirable qualities is her ability to change her mind when she sees a better way, and she has the moral strength to admit when she is wrong. In this case, she recognized that I was right, and she was able to see that her argument went counter to the goals we were trying to achieve.