Peeping around a shirt as she hung it up, Precious turned her thoughts once again to Zaina. She looked like she needed her mother. Something was really very wrong.

  Precious hadn’t mentioned the beach sand in Zaina’s clothes to Rabia. Joyce had told her that madams didn’t like maids who asked too many questions. So she was undecided about going to ask Zaina what the matter was. Precious had no way of knowing that they had something in common – they were both hiding a huge secret.

  Precious decided to make some sweeping movements so that it would seem like Zaina was the one who’d suddenly noticed her. She waved the bucket around and slapped at a few sheets, but Zaina’s eyes were fixed on a distant shore. Precious, feeling a bit stupid after the theatrics, decided to pick up the bucket and leave, but the wind tipped it over before she could reach it and the sharpness of the metal handle hitting the floor finally attracted Zaina’s attention.

  ‘Oh, Precious,’ she said, turning towards her with a faint smile that seemed to consume most of her energy. ‘How are you?’ Zaina’s eyes were red, and her eyeliner was smudged.

  A little flushed, Precious patted down her light-blue uniform. ‘I’m okay. Sjoe! It’s windy today!’

  Zaina nodded in agreement, realising this was the first time she’d seen Precious in a maid’s uniform. It was the colour of the sky, with clouds of white around the pockets and the collar. She looked as if she were one with the heavens, as if she was going to ascend into the abyss of light. The irony in this vision of freedom and the reality of the constraints of the clothes that bound Precious to work struck Zaina.

  ‘What’s wrong, Zaina? Why are you crying?’ Precious had to know.

  ‘It’s just … been a bad day. Do you want to come sit with me for a little while?’

  Precious thought about this, staring out towards the sea, at the backs of the tall hotels, towards the pier and the beginning of the harbour. The wind howled in their ears and prickled their skin with tiny grains of airborne beach sand.

  ‘My husband,’ Precious said, pointing to the harbour. Her eyes lost their politeness, and her voice became softer. She said into the air, ‘He died there. Working on a ship. He fell into the water.’

  In the ensuing silence, Zaina found herself at a loss. She wanted to hug Precious but something stopped her. Small madams didn’t just hug their maids. ‘I’m sorry,’ she offered feebly.

  She moved her bag so that Precious could sit next to her. They painted a strange picture, sitting there on the roof, maid and small medem, not knowing what came next.

  Precious began talking, softly, telling Zaina about her life growing up. ‘I left school in Standard 8 when my father became ill. I always wanted to work in that office there,’ she said, pointing in the distance to the tall blue building in the middle of town. ‘But the work is good here. The medems are okay.’

  As she spoke, Zaina looked at her – really looked at her – for the first time. She noticed how small Precious seemed. She saw her flawless bronze skin, her high cheekbones, her big, clear eyes and her occasional fresh, child-like smile. Precious was beautiful. If she was in different clothes, she would be a sparkly girl, Zaina realised suddenly.

  Precious told Zaina she was happy that she played some kind of role in helping people. ‘Even if I am not working in an office, I am helping someone clean, make sure their house is in order.’

  That’s why the word ‘maid’ sat with Zaina uncomfortably, she thought to herself – it was mixed up in all the emotions of being a helper, a mama, a domestic worker in this unfair country of unemployment and corruption, where the monster’s poison was still in the water.

  The day heaved a weary sigh. The wind was picking up, battering the shore and the windows of Summer Terrace.

  Folding the notes that made up her wages of R120 and stowing them away in her jeans pocket, Precious gave herself a final whiff of her favourite White Satin deodorant as she stepped out of Mrs Hassim’s bathroom. She was particular about smelling good. People said maids smelled funny.

  She was glad Mr Hassim wasn’t home yet. It was strange washing another woman’s husband’s briefs and seeing him afterwards.

  ‘Thank you, Precious,’ Mrs Hassim said. ‘Here, these biscuits are for you. You must say “Bismillah” or “In the name of God” before you eat, okay?’ She handed the package to Precious as if it were a newborn child.

  She was grateful for the biscuits despite the instruction; her stomach rumbled in concert with the ominous thunder that vibrated through the lift floor and up her ankles. She worried for a second at the thought of the washing that would surely be drenched in a few minutes, but then reminded herself that her duties were done for the day. It wasn’t as if she was paid to care once her hours were over.

  She wished she didn’t have to make the two-hour journey home and toyed with the thought of spending the night in Thandi’s room. She decided to venture towards the maids’ quarters to check if Thandi was there. Besides, the confidence she’d felt while talking to Zaina seemed to be waning, and Precious could do with a dose of Thandi’s warmth.

  Precious preferred staying in her own home in Mayville. While it sat on the edge of a township and she often went without electricity, she valued her own space, which existed outside the space of her madams. It was a space where she could laugh and talk freely. She couldn’t imagine going to sleep at night knowing your madam was two or three floors above your head, paying for the room you slept in.

  She hurried across the parking lot. The rain fell in deceptively sparse drops, as if being flung by competing angels in a game of darts. Precious tried in vain to shield her head with the parcel of biscuits. No, she wouldn’t put herself through the long trip home. The weather had decided for her.

  It was a short walk to Thandi’s room, but even before she reached her door, Precious was soaked. The maids’ rooms came into view behind the blurry sheet of angry rain. Small and unassuming, they resembled garages with red, peeling doors and rusty locks, like the old red velvet curtains at the Playhouse Theatre, hiding the props behind the scenes that nobody paid to see. These rooms had been converted into living spaces for the maids, but from the outside, they conveyed no sense of warmth.

  Precious rattled the metallic door of Thandi’s room. She hoped her friend could hear her through the tinny smattering of raindrops against the metal.

  Inspecting the state of the biscuits, she noticed that there was something else in the packet. Gingerly she pulled out the thin green booklet. Its damp cover read What You Need to Know About Islam: Zulu Translation. Not knowing what to do with it and her rising frustration, she shoved the book back into the packet.

  Thandi unlocked the door and ushered Precious into the warm interior. Thandi hurriedly wrapped a blanket around her and admonished her like a mother hen for walking in the rain, but Precious didn’t mind. Sometimes it was nice being fussed over.

  Some of these rooms had a way of sucking all the warmth into their concrete walls, but Thandi’s was different. She’d tried to make it beautiful. There was an old, nostalgic painting on the wall, its red background, brown huts and blue skies rendered in quick strokes, as if the painter had suddenly realised she’d left her supper on the stove for too long. On the opposite wall were pictures of Thandi’s grandchildren, smiling widely and warmly in the sun. They were in their school uniforms. Next to these hung crosses of different sizes, woven from beads, signalling Thandi’s faith in God.

  As Precious made herself comfortable on Thandi’s bed, she watched Thandi putting on the kettle and setting out the chicken and methi lagan Ruki had given some of the maids that morning. Precious surveyed Thandi and thought that she seemed to be made up of two women, a slender one on top and a heavy one on the bottom. It was like she was the result of a magic-show trick like on television, a ‘saw the lady in half’ illusion. Somewhere, there might be a lady who is walking around with Thandi’s slender bottom, Precious thought.

  Thandi was unaware of Precious watching her. She sang about Jesus as she made the tea, plopping a tea bag and sugar into each of two blue enamel mugs while the water boiled, the soft bubble of the old kettle filling the room as the rain hammered on the car roofs outside.

  Even though the donated mattress was old, and squeaked under her weight, Thandi was now the only maid with a double bed. The other maids would sometimes gather around her bed late at night or early in the mornings to pray or to laugh about the antics of their ‘owners’ – for some madams really felt they owned them. They laughed about this too.

  Hlengi and Sibo were there now and then. Most of the time, they ended up sleeping in Laila’s lounge so that they were close if the children needed them.

  A sharp rattle shook Precious from her thoughts.

  ‘It must be Violet,’ Thandi said loudly, her voice rising above the steaming mugs of tea as she offered one to Precious.

  Violet tumbled in, like a crumpled orb of wet paper, her loud, booming voice bouncing off the concrete walls. As much as she tried to be tidy, Violet always looked as if she’d thrown her clothes on in a hurry and forgotten to tuck the edges in. ‘Hai! And this rain today? You know tomorrow there will be mud everywhere. On the clothes, on the shoes, on the carpets. And they will leave it all for us to clean! But you know me? I’m not going to go tomorrow.’

  ‘What will you say?’ Thandi asked, her mug already in Violet’s hands.

  ‘Nothing. She will think bad of me anyway.’ She gulped down the hot tea, washing down a piece of lagan, thinking of Shirin.

  ‘But you won’t get paid,’ said Precious, a little irritated. ‘At least you have a job.’

  ‘Oh, yes, and one hundred rand extra will buy me a beeg mansion,’ Violet bellowed sarcastically, stretching her arms out at the thought of a massive house, spilling some of the tea.

  ‘No,’ said Thandi, ‘but you can buy that skirt you wanted from town.’ She took the mug from Violet and put it in on the edge of the sink. She didn’t particularly care for Violet’s rashness. At her age, she’d learned that patience and perseverance were God’s way.

  ‘And then my medem will see me in it and she will think, “I am paying my girl too much, she is dressing too well now.”’ She mimicked Shirin and strutted about the room, sticking out her breasts and walking on tiptoes, one hand suggestively on her hip, the other flinging an imaginary tail of sari fabric over her shoulder.

  They all guffawed. Even Thandi, with the heavy load of respect she balanced on her head, let it fall down for a moment and allowed herself the freedom to laugh uncontrollably. Violet held her stomach as she steadied herself to mimic Aunty Shirin, brushing her hair at the dressing table. ‘Violet! Just pass me my face cream! And don’t touch my Dove soap, okay? That is not for washing! Remember you are colouring my hair this afternoon!’ she imitated, running the transparent brush over her head scarf and arching her back so she seemed a few centimetres taller. ‘Hau, but she pays you well,’ Thandi reminded her. ‘You are lucky,’ she added, more seriously.

  ‘And what about your medem, Thandi?’ Violet asked mischievously, as she tied her scarf in a knot under her chin and encircled her eyes with her index fingers and thumbs to mimic Mrs Bhoola’s glasses. ‘Oh, Thandi, you know I have such trouble with my husband. We stay in the penthouse, but he can’t give me money for medicines, look how thin my legs are.’ Violet giggled, sticking out a supple bare leg. Laughter roared through the little room.

  ‘Shhh …’ Precious warned. ‘People will hear us. The rain is quietening down.’

  ‘Oh, Precious, nobody cares what we talk about. People only care about what we can clean,’ Violet said, waving her away like an irritating fly. ‘Anyway, there must be something about your medem that makes you laugh.’

  ‘I don’t think we should talk about them,’ Precious snapped. ‘We spend our entire day thinking about what they want. I don’t want to spend one more moment thinking about them.’

  Thandi and Violet exchanged a silent glance – the look of two naughty children being reprimanded by their mother.

  ‘Fine,’ Thandi said, stifling a grin, ‘no more talk about medems. We have something much more important to talk about, anyway. We need to find out who took the jewellery.’

  ‘Us? Hau! Why? We didn’t do anything wrong.’ Violet’s voice rose defensively as she stood up.

  There was a sharp rat-tat-tat on the tinny door.

  ‘Ah, that will be Joyce,’ Thandi said, relieved.

  Joyce greeted everyone warmly. She was followed by Kadija, who smiled but didn’t say much. She was plump, with a pleasant face and easy smile.

  ‘This is our reputation,’ Joyce said quickly, getting to the point.

  ‘Our reputation?’ Violet asked sarcastically, icing Joyce out.

  ‘Yes, ours,’ Joyce replied evenly. ‘Robert said the landlord wants us to wear numbers around our necks, like sheep. So that everyone knows which flat we belong to.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Thandi. ‘We can’t be walking around wearing numbers like a damned dompas because of some stupid skelem!’

  Everyone knew about the controversy in Amber Close, the apartment block next door. Domestic workers had to wear badges on their chests in the common areas, identifying which flats they worked for. This gave them access to the washing lines and storerooms. Some had agreed with the security measure, while others had bristled at the measure’s proximity to the pass system of apartheid.

  ‘Ma’am Joyce.’ Precious spoke quietly but with authority. ‘We will do whatever you think is best.’

  ‘Tsk, fine,’ Violet said sullenly, realising she was outnumbered. ‘We will tell Sibo and Hlengi too. On Friday night during the mehndi all the medems will be busy. Then we will search for the stolen necklace.’

  CHICKEN AND METHI LAGAN

  2 large eggs

  ½ cup milk

  ½ cup self-raising flour

  ½ cup mealie meal

  1 teaspoon salt

  ¼ teaspoon turmeric

  ½ teaspoon chilli powder

  ½ cup sunflower oil

  1 large tin cream-style sweetcorn

  1 cup cooked shredded chicken, seasoned with salt and chilli

  1 cup methi bhaji leaves, cleaned and drained

  1 cup mixed chopped vegetables

  ½ bunch of dhania (optional)

  sesame seeds or poppy seeds for sprinkling

  • Preheat oven to 180 ⁰C. Grease a large rectangular ovenproof dish.

  • In a large bowl, mix the eggs, milk, flour and mealie meal together.

  • Add the salt, spices, oil and sweetcorn, and fold in.

  • Fold in the chicken, methi bhaji, vegetables and dhania (if using).

  • Pour into the dish and sprinkle sesame seeds or poppy seeds over. Bake until golden, 25–30 minutes.

  • Cut into squares and serve hot with Gori’s Delites dhania chutney.

  Makes 24 squares

  16

  ZAINA THOUGHT LONG AND HARD about having seen Imraan in the Coffee Shot with Naaz, about all the platonic possibilities that could have been the reason for their being together. But her intuition, honed over her entire childhood spent observing people either in books or in real life, couldn’t be shaken.

  Uneasiness wasn’t a new feeling to her – she’d experienced it since she was a little girl. She’d harboured an intense yearning to be liked, by everyone. When she was in primary school, if there was an element of uneasiness between her and someone else, it had bothered her for days, until she finally found some shred of a silver lining in the whole situation. Many times, she would sit alone, thinking about how she should have reacted or not, and getting herself all worked up when nothing new had actually happened.

  Now, her imagination worked overtime, imagining all the possibilities of relations between Imraan and Naaz. Even her dreams were erratic. She battled to switch off her mind. It travelled to many places and scenarios, often settling on her parents’ turbulent relationship, and how that had all ended.

  Her parents had been fighting more than usual. Rabia was a good lawyer, but Yacoob was a great lawyer, so when Rabia had received praise from the senior partner on her smooth handling of her last few cases, Yacoob hadn’t been able to bear it. It had previously always been he who’d received a special mention from the boss. He’d even secured Rabia this job. How could she betray him by outshining him? A woman must know her place.

  Yacoob had basked in the attention of the outside world, but within the walls of their home, he was a raging monster. He had decided to show his wife that her place was in the bathroom, where she could face herself and cover her bruises.

  The way her father looked when he screamed had scared little Zaina into seclusion. There hadn’t been much space in their one-and-a-half-bedroom flat in Overport, and books had provided the escape Zaina had needed. More and more, she’d retreated into her mind, where her favourite authors and their worlds existed.

  Zaina’s father, despite his frequent absence, had impacted her life in many ways when she was little and into her teens, much like the monster of apartheid. At times, she’d found herself in the depth of depression, unable to find a way out. She’d refused help from other people when it came to school projects or lifts to the movies with her friends, in fear that they may turn on her one day.

  One day, Rabia had been washing the dishes in the tiny, dark kitchen when there was a commotion at the front door. From where she was huddled in her little bed in her room, twelve-year-old Zaina couldn’t tell what was happening, but she’d heard the crashes and thuds, and her father wailing like an ambulance. Only years later did she learn that Yacoob had had a whole different family, and that the other wife’s brothers had found him and given him a good beating.