motions with her hand. She stands up, raises her voice, “The ring is mine, ours. We need it at home.” She seems wobbly on her feet, she sways. Nomsulwa gets to Claire in time to support her as she doubles over, retches twice, and throws up clear liquid on the office floor.
“Take her back to the hotel,” Zembe orders, panic on her face.
Nomsulwa does as she’s told, propping Claire up as they slowly make their way to the exit. Claire rests her head on Nomsulwa’s shoulder, but straightens when they hit the outside air.
By the time they are on the main road to the hotel strip, Claire is sitting upright, staring ahead. She says nothing.
Nomsulwa parks the car and walks with Claire through the lobby and up to her room. Claire turns to her once they reach the door.
“I’m fine.”
“No you’re not.”
“I just need to be alone.” Claire’s voice cracks. The embarrassment shines on her face like sweat.
Nomsulwa tries to say something reassuring, but before it can come out, Claire hardens her expression. She unlocks the door with the key card, enters the room, and closes the door without looking back. Nomsulwa stands there for a long minute listening to make sure Claire doesn’t collapse, doesn’t call for help, doesn’t retch loudly again. After it becomes entirely quiet, she turns and retreats.
As soon as she is in her car she opens her cellphone and dials Mira.
“I think it’s about time you started cooperating with Zembe. They have a suspect … Member of a gang … No, they didn’t say a name … They don’t know that. You’re safe.”
SEVEN
W HEN Z EMBE ARRIVES BACK AT THE P HIRI POLICE station, Mira is in front of it. He seems to be surveying the building and the wide sandy parking lot that is empty too often. The green paint is faded, from rain mostly, but there is the occasional swatch of brighter colour where Zembe has made an officer paint over graffiti. A large tag, wonkily placed on a corner, reappears periodically – kids showing off the immunity of youth.
The structure has a central screen door, useless for keeping out the cold or many of the bugs. Mira starts towards it, slowly, unaware that he is being watched.
He has been here only once before. Zembe made sure it was the last time. She’s not sure why. Certainly it was not because her heart went out to the tall, snide kid she arrested fifteen years ago, after a fruit cart was overturned, the owner kicked in the side as the boys ran away. Perhaps it was because he came with a sidekick: a fragile girl with huge hair and eyes that were light for her skin. She was too skinny to be beautiful, but she had a striking, head-turning smile, and a surprisingly loud voice.
—
T HE ROOM SHE HELD M IRA IN THEN WAS BROWN with narrow windows near the ceiling that blocked out the light rather than filtering it in. Even the orange sunrise outside crept in as only a whisper of pale dust floating in front of Zembe’s face. She looked hard at the boy in front of her. He was wiry, too tall, sneering. The insults came from him faster than Zembe could pick them up: “bitch, whore, slut, skinny, sick.” Zembe waited them out. She waved away the other officer in the room, who had inched closer to the boy and rested his hand around his gun. When the boy finally ran out of curses, Zembe placed her hand on his arm and jerked him hard. “Shutup wena.”
She patrolled the streets every day. She saw these tsotsis, gangsters, slouched against corner store walls, smoking awkwardly rolled cigarettes and ganja. They spoke in tsotsitaal, a bastard Afrikaans that is incomprehensible even when it is heard at a normal volume. Usually Zembe heard their slurs only in screams that followed her as she drove. She didn’t know these boys by name, but she knew their mothers. They talked to one another at the windows of the nearest spaza. They complained about their sons who stole food in the middle of the night but wouldn’t come in to sit for a family
“Take her back to the hotel,” Zembe orders, panic on her face.
Nomsulwa does as she’s told, propping Claire up as they slowly make their way to the exit. Claire rests her head on Nomsulwa’s shoulder, but straightens when they hit the outside air.
By the time they are on the main road to the hotel strip, Claire is sitting upright, staring ahead. She says nothing.
Nomsulwa parks the car and walks with Claire through the lobby and up to her room. Claire turns to her once they reach the door.
“I’m fine.”
“No you’re not.”
“I just need to be alone.” Claire’s voice cracks. The embarrassment shines on her face like sweat.
Nomsulwa tries to say something reassuring, but before it can come out, Claire hardens her expression. She unlocks the door with the key card, enters the room, and closes the door without looking back. Nomsulwa stands there for a long minute listening to make sure Claire doesn’t collapse, doesn’t call for help, doesn’t retch loudly again. After it becomes entirely quiet, she turns and retreats.
As soon as she is in her car she opens her cellphone and dials Mira.
“I think it’s about time you started cooperating with Zembe. They have a suspect … Member of a gang … No, they didn’t say a name … They don’t know that. You’re safe.”
SEVEN
W HEN Z EMBE ARRIVES BACK AT THE P HIRI POLICE station, Mira is in front of it. He seems to be surveying the building and the wide sandy parking lot that is empty too often. The green paint is faded, from rain mostly, but there is the occasional swatch of brighter colour where Zembe has made an officer paint over graffiti. A large tag, wonkily placed on a corner, reappears periodically – kids showing off the immunity of youth.
The structure has a central screen door, useless for keeping out the cold or many of the bugs. Mira starts towards it, slowly, unaware that he is being watched.
He has been here only once before. Zembe made sure it was the last time. She’s not sure why. Certainly it was not because her heart went out to the tall, snide kid she arrested fifteen years ago, after a fruit cart was overturned, the owner kicked in the side as the boys ran away. Perhaps it was because he came with a sidekick: a fragile girl with huge hair and eyes that were light for her skin. She was too skinny to be beautiful, but she had a striking, head-turning smile, and a surprisingly loud voice.
—
T HE ROOM SHE HELD M IRA IN THEN WAS BROWN with narrow windows near the ceiling that blocked out the light rather than filtering it in. Even the orange sunrise outside crept in as only a whisper of pale dust floating in front of Zembe’s face. She looked hard at the boy in front of her. He was wiry, too tall, sneering. The insults came from him faster than Zembe could pick them up: “bitch, whore, slut, skinny, sick.” Zembe waited them out. She waved away the other officer in the room, who had inched closer to the boy and rested his hand around his gun. When the boy finally ran out of curses, Zembe placed her hand on his arm and jerked him hard. “Shutup wena.”
She patrolled the streets every day. She saw these tsotsis, gangsters, slouched against corner store walls, smoking awkwardly rolled cigarettes and ganja. They spoke in tsotsitaal, a bastard Afrikaans that is incomprehensible even when it is heard at a normal volume. Usually Zembe heard their slurs only in screams that followed her as she drove. She didn’t know these boys by name, but she knew their mothers. They talked to one another at the windows of the nearest spaza. They complained about their sons who stole food in the middle of the night but wouldn’t come in to sit for a family
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