The Monster's Daughter (14 page)

Jooste had had some hard years after the war. Ignored by the British and despised by the Boers, he'd had to scrape by. But memories faded quickly. He was moving up in the world again, one of Malan's trusted men. It still amazed him how little it took to pull the wool over people's eyes when there was a cause to rally behind. It made them blind to all else. Jooste found causes fluid, his own always trumping any other.

The British, for all their ingratitude, had paid Jooste well to clean things up at the farmhouse after Leath was marched away and shipped back to England. The dear doctor had been quite an embarrassment for some of the higher-ups in the British forces, everybody eager to sweep the whole thing under the rug, especially once they started discovering the bodies, women and mutilated infants, buried between grapevines. Jooste had discovered Leath's journals under the floorboards in the study and snuck them out. He had thought about burning them, afraid he might be implicated, but the chance that they might be valuable was great. Curiosity, more than anything else, made him pore over the rants about human imperfection and strange formulas and correspondence with a man named Röntgen. The good doctor wanted to strengthen the stock, as it were; create a better human. The depravity the journals described fueled a strange fascination for Jooste, his obsession growing by degrees. He tracked the baby boy they had found that day at the farm to a mental hospital in Bloemfontein. Jooste had bribed one of the staff, a man named Smuts, to get access to the boy. What he found unnerved him, a scrawny little thing, his eyes all strange and too large for his head, staring at Jooste as if he knew what he was thinking. Smuts said the boy was severely retarded, that's why he was put there. Jooste wasn't so sure.

Jooste stayed within arm's length of the girl, but hung back when
she exited the hospital. He watched her from the doorway as she crossed the road. A black woman waited for her on the edge of the park, across the road. Jooste recognized Sarah immediately.

“So that's what you did, my pretty? Stole yourself a white baby,” Jooste muttered. He followed the pair down the street, weaving between people, trying not to be noticed. The
meit
and the girl ambled toward the suburbs, unable to board a bus together, their faces contracted in serious conversation. Jooste watched from a distance as they entered a working-class house with a low roof and a small garden, a smile spreading on his face.

Andrew stirred. His skin was still sallow and bruised, but at least the swelling in his face had gone down. Tessa shifted closer to his hospital bed and reached for his hand. She remembered how strong it had been the night he left, deep grooves lining the palms, dirt lodged permanently under the cuticles no matter how much he scrubbed them. He tightened his grip. Spasm or reflex, she didn't know, but the doctors looked at her dubiously when she told them about it, condescendingly calling it a little girl's imagination. She'd often felt hampered by her body, but this was the first time it had really mattered. When Tessa looked up again, Andrew's eyes were open, looking at her as if he couldn't remember who she was.

“
Pa?
”

“T … T …” Andrew struggled to get the sound out.

Tessa leaned closer. “Shhh,
Pa
. I'm here.”

“Sa …?”

Tessa glanced over at Mr. Visagie, the old man who shared a room with Andrew. He glared at her, snorting when she caught him watching, and turned around in bed, the back of his striped pajamas riding up into his bottom.

“She is good,
Pa
.”

“Where?”

“They wouldn't allow her into the hospital.”

“Quiet!” Visagie's head snapped back in their direction. “There shouldn't be children in this ward.” He started mumbling. “Rules are only good for some people. Others do whatever they want.”

“Oh, shut it.” Tessa put her hand in front of her mouth, but it was too late.

Visagie look at her strangely. “How dare you talk to me like that, you little twit. My
pa
would give me a good whipping if I talked to him so. God-fearing man, he was. Knew how to keep his children on the narrow road.”

Tessa turned her back to Visagie. She put her lips close to Andrew's ear. “You can't do that again,
Pa
. You hear?”

Andrew's eyes were teary. “I had to try. They needed …”

Tessa touched his face. “
We
need you. If you're gone, we can't survive. They'll take me from
Ma
. The landlord doesn't want a black woman alone in the house.
Ma
had to take work cleaning white people's houses while you're in here. They have her scrubbing floors on her hands and knees. They leave her plate and cup next to the dog's kennel. They won't even let her eat in their house.”

“What are you whispering about?”

Tessa tried to block out the old man's whining. “They call
Ma
lazy when she gets tired because of the baby.” Her voice broke, helplessness spilling over. “So no more of this, hear. Not ever.”

Andrew averted his eyes. “I'm so sorry,” he whispered.

Tessa had the strangest sensation of doing a grown-up thing, of being the one that made the rules for the first time in her life instead of being swept up in other people's choices. “A man came to the house yesterday, a Dutchman.
Ma
recognized him. He knocked for a long time. We didn't open the door for him. She said I should tell you it's one of the men who brought the girls to the doctor. What does that mean,
Pa
?”

A frown had lodged between Andrew's thick dark eyebrows. “It means we have to leave.”

“Why?”

“Have to trust me.” Sweat formed on his pale forehead. “There's money in the tea-box. Tell Sarah to take everything and come get me tonight.”

“You're in no condition to—”

Andrew grabbed her hand, pulling her closer to him. “It's important, Tessa.”

Tessa found a distressed Sarah at their normal meeting place next to the park. She took Sarah's hand, trying to reassure her. “
Pa
said we need to go to the next town on the list,
Ma
.”

Sarah glanced back at the hospital, weighing her desire to see Andrew against the consequences. “Is he …?”

“Tell me what's going on,
Ma
.” Tessa heard the demanding tone in her own voice again. Its effect fascinated Tessa as Sarah acquiesced, the power of her own will becoming more real. She let Sarah pick her up, feeling a sudden weariness penetrate her bones as she listened to Sarah's truth.

Johannesburg hazed like a gray dream in the late afternoon, a smoky mirage. Around them, lines of color divided the masses of people trying to eat, breathe, and live, going home to separate areas. Would it fall one day, this city of Gomorrah? Would she alone be standing at the end, eternally a child, and know the truth about misery and the consequence of hate? See the result of their toils, of their poverty, of their greed, while they lived only for what today offered? The loneliness of that future ripped at her. She would go on, she decided, for Sarah and Andrew. But when the time came, when they were gone, she would know what to do. No hell she could imagine would be worse than bearing that kind of knowledge alone in the world.

The bride bopped on the dance floor like a rhythm-challenged stripper, her legs spread wide, the long white train clutched between fuchsia-taloned fingers. The hem of her dress rose with every step, exposing spray-tanned thighs between layers of sequins and chiffon.

From where she sat at the bar, Alet could see Frieda's garter as she hopped around with her bridesmaids, her hips canting back and forth like a marula-drunk elephant. Even a couple of the older aunts and uncles had joined in the fray, flocking up from their tables the moment the DJ started the song.

“Sheep,” Alet muttered under her breath.

“What?” The uncle of the bride had planted himself next to Alet. He had patchy dark eyebrows and a tic in his left eye that punctuated every third word. It was hotter than hell and he was wearing a leather jacket, zipped up to his throat.

“Nothing.” Alet tilted her glass back.

He leaned in, bringing his ear against her nose. “Sorry? You said something?”

The effort of remaining civil with a stranger over the noise drained Alet. She pushed her glass toward the edge of the bar and made a circle above it with her finger as soon as she caught the young bartender's eye, probably the bride's underaged brother employed for the evening to keep him out of trouble. He came over, gin bottle in hand, smiling.

“Another?”

Alet winked at him. “You're my savior.”

“So what were you saying, huh?” The uncle stepped even closer,
rank body odor escaping from his jacket collar. Alet shook her head, turning to see the dance floor doing a grapevine in unison before “Go low!” had them all squatting down, like synchronized idiots.

The uncle tapped her on her shoulder. Alet shook his hand off. “What?”

“What did you say?”

Alet sighed, wondering what it would take to get rid of him. “I said, people love to be told what to do. Like sheep.”

“It's fun.” He smiled, genuine delight on his face.

“
Ja?
”

He nodded, his big head moving in slow motion.

“You like to be told what to do?”

He was quiet for a moment, thoughts trickling like molasses. Alet noticed a patch of hair on the side of his bald head that he'd missed while shaving.

“Listen, I'm just not into this, okay?” Alet took a large sip of her fresh gin. “Go play with someone else.”

The bartender boy leaned over the bar, his freckles a tie-dye brown. “My uncle's a bit not
lekker
,” he shouted in her ear. “Slow. It's not his fault. You don't have to be ugly.”

Ah,
fok
. Alet was already having trouble with the new in-laws and her dad hadn't been married three hours. On top of that she was now out of favor with the bartender. It was time to quit the party. She drained her glass and pushed her seat away from the bar, sucking her stomach in before standing up. The black velvet cocktail dress had fit ten kilograms ago when she wore it to her graduation party. Her patent leather heels were also doing a number on her, the balls of her feet throbbing in rhythm with the cha-cha. Her hair fell forward, covering her face, as she crouched over her bag to try to find her keys. Alet lost her equilibrium for a moment.

“You're not thinking of driving like that, are you?” Her father, Adriaan Berg, put a firm grip on her arm.

“I'm fine,
Pa
.” Alet pulled her arm away. “Lovely wedding, but duty calls.”

Adriaan's lips moved to the side of his face, a sure sign that he was pissed off.

“By the way, does your new father-in-law know he's now family
with police? I saw kids over there nipping schnapps. Underage drinking and so on.” Alet shook her head gravely.

Adriaan's expression remained unchanged. Alet wondered if her father had any sense of humor at all. He was a man who didn't tolerate insubordination. Even now he probably wasn't above making the wedding guests drop and do push-ups if any of them stepped out of line. The thought made Alet giggle.

“Auntie Mattie said you can have the couch. I'll drive you over.”

“You can't leave the blushing bride alone on your wedding day. I won't have it.”

“Stay here.” Adriaan walked over to Frieda, interrupting her mid-hop, her blond-streaked hair falling in ringlets from beneath her rhinestone tiara. She shot Alet a look of disdain.

“Who the
fok
still wears a tiara?” Alet muttered as she waved at Frieda.

Frieda turned her back to Alet and kissed Adriaan passionately on the mouth, her newly ringed hand on his cheek. Alet made a loud wolf-whistle. Embarrassed glances shot in her direction.

“Come.” Adriaan marched past her without waiting to see if she'd follow. Outside, some of the groomsmen had already begun to deface his Mercedes with white shoe-shine, singing “For he's a jolly good fellow,” as they saw him approach.

“Dammit, Greeff!” Adriaan shouted at one of the men. “I need a car that doesn't look like a black taxi.” The men stopped singing abruptly.

“Take mine, Boss.” Greeff, a balding, bulbous-nosed drill sergeant who Alet remembered from back in basic training, fidgeted with his hands in his pockets, finally producing a set of car keys. “Sorry, hey. It's just a little fun, see?”

Adriaan didn't respond. He took Greeff's keys, dragged Alet over to a white sedan, and opened the passenger-side door for her. “Put your seat belt on.”

“What about my car?”

“Come get it in the morning.”

“This isn't necessary. I'm fine to drive.”

A muscle in Adriaan's temple jumped. “I don't need you in a drunken accident. You've been enough of an embarrassment.”

“Sorry.” Alet slid down in her seat, her head resting against the back, a surge of self-loathing washing over her. Adriaan was ashamed of her for more than just misbehaving at his wedding. She had been late for the ceremony and made no effort to be sociable during the reception, offering labored words of congratulations to Frieda. She looked over at Adriaan in his dark suit with the pink carnation on the lapel. His dark hair and trimmed mustache had always been frosted with silver, which had launched ever more aggressive invasions as the years passed. She suddenly wondered if she would ever have a wedding day where he would give her away.

Alet had met her father for the first time shortly after her mother, Gerda, announced that she had been diagnosed with cancer. Adriaan had been an enigma to her before then. She had disparate memories of him from when she was little, fragments of him picking her up from her grandmother's apartment for a custody visit, her mother scrubbing her clean, tying her hair in a tight braid, laying out her best dress, the one with the pink polka dots, and telling her to behave. Her grandmother faffed nervously, gathering toys for her to take along in the pink plastic handbag with Cinderella on the front. They stood in a line in the living room, her mother, her grandmother and Alet, waiting for the doorbell to ring at eight a.m. sharp. Even at four years old, Alet could sense the tension in the room when her father walked in, her mother's words measured, her posture stiff and unyielding. Her dad was a tall man. He always wore a neatly pressed white shirt with dark jeans and brown leather shoes. It was his off-duty uniform. On duty he was a policeman, something important, her mother had told her.