Nadine Gordimer - My Son's Story

I ran back to the house to look for my mother's store of small change, as my sister and I used to do. But there was no jamjar on the kitchen shelf. She was at work and would have her handbag with her; I thought there might be another purse or loose money in her dressing-table drawers. I know my mother; her sort of innocent, easily-found 'safe places' for things. Under the plastic tray where her cosmetics are ranged was a five-rand note and an envelope printed with the logo of a passport-photograph vending machine.

I ran, again, to the black woman seated with indifferent patience under the blanket-skirt and the young Afrikaner wife, legs strutted wide on high heels, arms crossed under her breasts, smiling at me as if I were an athlete racing for the tape. She was another pink-and-yellow one. But not emancipated, like the other, not a prison visitor or a lover. She greeted me with a little sharp twist of the smile in the direction of the mealie vendor. — They just charging whatever they think you'll pay. I've told her, not fifty cents each, forty cents. So no, wait, that's too much — you only owe one-twenty.—

My father's passport (he went overseas to a conference in Germany before he was detained) has been withdrawn, Baby left illegally, I've never had one. Neither has my mother. I went back into their bedroom to find what she had placed under her cosmetic tray. Photographs are not like letters, anyone may look at them. There were six. There she was, her neck held as you do when seated upright in the booth as the flash comes. The slightly defiant embarrassment with which exposure is met, because you never know for whom, in the world, your image is meant. Hair smoothed a moment before; wearing her seed pearls.

Where is she going? Is she going to leave him? Wild idea. my mother! Where is there for her to go. There's an accountant cousin who emigrated to Toronto a few years ago, at the Saturday tea-parties there's news of him doing well.

So I know nothing about her. Like him, I don't know the invasion of unhappiness in her; the devastation left by him and his daughter.

I don't have a photograph of my mother. If I took one of these, would she miss it?

Aila has her passport. She told her husband only after it had been granted and issued.

He had the curious impression that she must have mentioned, indicated, her intention. A torn-off strip of paper buried in a pile of problems documented in his mind; the new series of bans imposed on his comrades had brought a crisis and reshuffle of responsibilities.

There was a moment's pause. His wife evidently decided— they both decided without a glance — to accept the lapse as genuine. Her taking the necessary steps for application with the absolute minimum of reference to him was what he would have advised; it was as if she had acted upon this. Aila was in the clear, innocent. She had done nothing beyond visiting him in prison as his wife and keeping a carryall packed with toiletries against his re-detention. But of course there was guilt by association, by loyalty. Aila had to show she was not involved; a stay-at-home wife. The affectionate diminutive by which she knew her only girlhood sweetheart, the chummy appellation by which crowds knew him — the police files' alias Sonny —did not have to be filled in between first and surname on forms requiring name of husband. Aila's best chance of getting a passport was to distance herself from him, his record, his activities, his life.

A stay-at-home wife — and mother. There was the question of Baby, as well. The Security Police surely knew about Baby; but maybe not, the illegal movements of young people presumed to be erratic and adventurous could pass unnoticed until and unless someone was picked up and gave out names under interrogation.

Sonny knew where Aila would go. — And a visa? — He spoke almost humbly.

She had one; everything was arranged through a lawyer both knew well. Lawyers have the habit of discretion sometimes to the point of absurdity or unintentional slight; he saw the man frequently, he was a close adviser to the trade unions, and there had been no mention of a passport for Aila. Well, the lawyer, too, had other things on his mind. Anyway, it was necessary to feel assured Aila had been in good hands.

As Baby's mother and father, they discussed money. — I thought I'd take some clothes. I'm making warm things — they say it gets quite chilly there in winter. — Yes, lately the sewing-machine had to be put aside when the table was used for meals, he'd noticed, without attaching any significance to Aila's preoccupation. — She'll always need money. Wherever you are— (he stopped himself from citing his prison experience, the inference would be alarming to Aila). — You don't know the value of money until you're in certain situations— He laughed, as an explanation, confession: he and Aila had begun their child's life in a situation where money was associated with greed.

He knew best in political matters; they had some small savings she would withdraw from the bank and take with her.

— How much is there, exactly?—

She fetched the savings booklet and they stood heads together reading the figures. — Oh, it's more than I thought. I'd forgotten about the interest. — Aila was smiling almost as she used to.

— You can't take all that. It'll exceed the exchange-control allowance, I'm sure. The allowance is smaller for neighbouring countries than for overseas.—

— How will they know? I'll take the notes in cash.—

— Aila… — He had gone back to excising articles from a newspaper, running a blade along columns.

— Somehow. I could.—

Impatience was something new in him; like the moustache he had grown to show he was someone else, now. This person still had responsibility for her, nevertheless. — Aila, for god's sake, you can't do things like that. D'you know what'll happen if you're caught out? Can you imagine yourself in prison? Go and see Baby and enjoy it. Forget what I said about money. Take the dresses and whatever. Those kinds of games are not for you.—

He turned pages of the paper without seeing them, then forced himself to read and began pressing the blade cleanly along a margin. His hand fumbled for a pen to mark the date;

she was still in the room, he knew it in spite of the silence— he thought of the special quality of her presence he used to sense when he would come into the house calling out her name. — You're so lucky you're going to see Baby.—

What was she doing — looking at him? Turned away? He would not lift his head and the blade sliced dryly through the fibres of newsprint, a faint domestic echo of the electric saws that destroyed the trees from which it was made; the pine tree. But his words were as feeble an echo of the surging envy he felt — of her option of distancing herself from the struggle, of the passport, of the right to go to the girl as the one who had been there to bandage her wrists.

— I know.—

Was that all? All to be expected of his wife when they were talking of their first child? Who could tolerate Aila's tranquil blamelessness!

He heard her double step, high heels touching the floor before the soles came lightly down, and thought she had left the room. But she had paused: —I wish you could go.—

With her? With Aila? On his own? In place of her? Aila never had much relish for journeys, she didn't know how to deal with officialdom, she had found it difficult even to speak in the presence of his warder.

Or she wished he had not done all he had done, all that she would not reproach him with ever, to the boy, to Baby, to her— so that it would not be only his lack of a passport, his commitment to political action that took away from him the right to be in her place.

Is it because of me?