Amanda Ward - Forgive Me

For the first time on assignment, Nadine looked just like the locals around her: black Cape Townians were not allowed in white areas after dark, and Nadine blended in with the white South Africans as she wandered among the Dutch and British colonial buildings, the cathedrals, shops, and the old slave market, now a shady square lined with upscale restaurants. Only Nadine’s American accent gave her away.

Nadine studied guidebooks and maps of the city. A blank section on most maps between the peninsula and the African mainland was designated CAPE FLATS. Nadine knew this bleak place plagued by wind-driven sand was where the city’s millions of non-whites lived. She visited District Six, once a thriving mixed-race neighborhood in one of the most beautiful parts of Cape Town. It had been “bleached” by the government, its buildings bulldozed, its residents sent to the Flats. Now it was a wasteland of rubble, plans for its revival mired in red tape.

Nadine stayed at a hostel on raucous Long Street for a week, examining the classified ads in the white edition of the Cape Argus. She’d heard there was a “native edition,” but no one was selling it on Long Street. Finally, Nadine called the number on an index card tacked to the hallway bulletin board: OBS HOUSE NEEDS ROOMIE. 17 NUTTHALL ROAD. CALL MAXIM AT 448-6363.

She spoke with Maxim, who was short on the phone. “Come see the place,” he said in a strong Afrikaans accent. “Then we can talk,” he said.

Nadine tried to take a bus to Observatory, but all the buses were labeled NON-WHITES ONLY, and the drivers wouldn’t let her on. Finally, she took a taxi to 17 Nutthall Road, a ramshackle house with a sagging front porch. Nadine climbed the steps and pressed the buzzer. Nothing happened. She wiped perspiration from her brow: the southeast wind the guidebooks called “the Cape Doctor” was hot as hell and she was tired. She carried a bulging backpack. Finally, she banged on the door, and it opened. A guy her age stood in front of her, wearing only a towel.

“Uh,” said Nadine, “are you Maxim?”

“No, darling,” said the guy. “I’m George.” He was lean and muscled, his shoulder-length dark hair combed back from his boyish face. Even his accent was charming–almost British, but not quite. Nadine would later learn that he was American: the accent was complete artifice. He held a cigarette. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed one leg over the other. He watched Nadine, a smirk playing across his face.

“Can I have a cigarette?” she asked.

“That depends,” said George.

“On what?”

“Well, who are you?” said George. “And why are you wearing an enormous bag on your shoulders?”

“I’m Nadine Morgan. I’m a journalist, and I need a place to live. I saw the ad and spoke with Maxim.”

“Good enough,” said George, holding his towel while he turned. “Come in,” he called, and Nadine followed him. The floor was cracked linoleum, and the apartment reeked of pot and beer.

“Three bedrooms off the hallway,” said George. “Shared bathroom and kitchen. And one common room.” The apartment was filled with photographs: chilling scenes of beatings and people lying in the street, dead or dying. Peaceful pictures of rolling South African farmland–Maxim’s home, George explained– and a beautiful blonde woman: Maxim’s mother. There were photos of dancers. One girl had her head thrown back in ecstasy, her muscled leg kicking high. The power of her body brought her joy, it was clear. Nadine was unnerved to see a similar facial expression in another photograph: a woman in an angry mob, beating a man to his death.

George walked briskly and turned a doorknob. “My love,” he called, “can you bring a cigarette for my new roommate?”

“Of course,” came a voice from inside the bedroom.

“Um,” said Nadine, “is Maxim here?”

“He’s at work,” said George. “Taking pictures in Cape Flats.”

“And you…”

“Oh, me,” said George, still holding his towel. “I’m waiting tables and writing a novel. It’s terrible. I’m also trying to convince this woman to marry me.” He extended his arm, and a stunning black woman in a gray dress came into the hallway. Her hair was cut short. Unsmiling, she handed a pack of Marlboros to Nadine. With her perfect posture, she seemed six feet tall, though her lips only reached George’s bare shoulder, which she kissed. “Nadine,” said George, “this is Tholakele.”

“Put on some clothing, George,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you, Nadine.”

“Your wish,” said George, touching her hair, “is my command.”

“Do you live here as well?” Nadine asked. Tholakele laughed. “I could go to jail for spending the night,” she said angrily. “Or for loving that boy.”

“Aren’t I worth the price?” said George, coming back into the hallway wearing a terry-cloth robe, his hair in a red rubber band at the nape of his neck.

Tholakele rolled her eyes. “I must get back to work,” she said.

“Thola is a dancer,” said George.

“I am a maid,” said Thola.

“And a maid,” said George, his face darkening.

“Good-bye, new roommate,” said Thola to Nadine, and she walked hand in hand with George to the door, where they kissed chastely. Then Thola opened the door, looking both ways nervously.

“There are men who watch us,” said George simply. Nadine was to find that this was not a paranoid delusion: the government employed security police to keep an eye on questionable liaisons.

“Good-bye, Prince Charming,” said Thola. She slipped into the warm evening, shutting the door behind her.

In Woods Hole, Massachusetts, Nadine closed her eyes and saw her friend Thola. Perhaps she was alive and well, married to George at last. It was possible.

Another gloomy day dwindled into brittle night. Nadine watched scientists exit the Marine Biological Laboratory from her hotel window, willing herself to get out of her pajamas, wrap herself into a parka, and walk down Water Street to get the paper. Her father and Gwen had decided it would be best for her mental health to avoid the news. Gwen had taken away her television while she slept, replacing it with a ceramic whale.

“Sweetheart?” said Gwen, rapping on the door.

“I’m asleep,” said Nadine.

The door nudged open anyway. “Nadine,” said Gwen, “I wanted to see if you’d join us tonight for the Christmas tree lighting at the library.”

Nadine sat up.

“You’re not asleep,” said Gwen accusingly.

“I’m in my nightgown,” said Nadine, pointing to Garfield’s smiling mouth.

“And it suits you,” said Gwen. She nodded, and the holiday bells on her headband jingled.

“Thanks for inviting me,” said Nadine. “I appreciate it. But I’m a little tired.” She did not add, I’m a little tired of you trying to make a daughter out of me.

Gwen pursed her lips and blew air from her nose.

“Gwen, I’m sorry,” said Nadine. “I guess I’m just not a holiday person. I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Its not fair,” said Gwen. “She took Christmas right away from you both.”

“What?” said Nadine sharply.

“Of course she couldn’t help it,” said Gwen. “But dying the week before Christmas… I cried when Jim told me about your mother.”

Nadine bit her tongue.

“And I’ve been wanting to be a mother to you ever since,” continued Gwen. “I never had a baby of my own, but God sent me you, Nadine.”

“Please stop,” said Nadine.

“She was beautiful,” said Gwen. “I’ve seen the pictures of your mom. That long dark hair, just like yours. And she was smart, all those books.”

“I said please stop,” said Nadine, raising her voice. She avoided meeting Gwen’s eyes, staring out the window instead. It was snowing, fat wet drops. Nadine had not seen snowflakes in a long time.