Ruby Red Page 12

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  A soft knock at the door comes just as I feel the gentle wind rush by me.

  I am pedalling fast down a lush country road in Stellenbosch. Vineyards and pristine Cape Dutch houses blur by us. Mother is on a sky-blue bicycle beside me and I can see Father’s legs pumping hard as he rides up ahead. I am eight and the sun is shining on this flawless day. We are having a wonderful two-week summer holiday in the Cape. Everything feels as sweet as the jasmine and morning glories that grow wildly on the side of the road. ‘Catch me if you can, Mommy!’ I stand up on the pedals and laugh and take off after my father. ‘I’m on your tail, little bunny!’ she shouts gleefully behind me…

  Mother was at the door. She had a cup of something steaming hot on a tray for me.

  ‘Drink this, darling. I just hung up with Dr Jacobs and he’s sending over an antibiotic with the driver. He said he’ll stop by later to take a look at you.’ Mother plumped my pillows and touched my forehead. ‘Cool as a cucumber. That’s a good thing at least…’

  While she coaxed me to take a sip of the clear chicken broth, I thought about how relaxed and enjoyable life had seemed when we were in the Cape, and how tense and complicated things had become now. I looked at Mother, the feathered lines round her mouth more pronounced, the furrowed line between her brows deeper, and wondered if she ever thought about those carefree times too.

  ‘Your father and I talked about the whole school thing last night. Let’s get through the exhibition and this tonsillitis first…’

  She stayed in my room until I had forced every spoonful of broth down my raw throat. She chatted on about how much she liked Johann and how he reminded her of a boy she once dated when she was a student at Wits University. Big muscles with even bigger manners. When she mentioned Johann’s name I felt a twinge of pleasure run up my spine. He had, as Loretta promised, called later that night and said that he would find a way to leave rugby practice early to come by and visit me the next day. The thought of Johann seeing me in this less-than-attractive sickly state was overshadowed by my longing to be with him again. Voice or no voice.

  Before she left, Mother mentioned that Julian would be in the studio packing up all his paintings that needed to be hung for the exhibition, and she was sure he would be pleased to have a little company. ‘If you feel up to it, meander down there, darling. He’s understandably a little nervous. I’m off to the gallery now,’ she said as she closed my bedroom door.

  Although it had only been a few days since I last saw him, I missed Julian. His deep voice that never spoke a frivolous word, his quiet passion for things that mattered to him, but what I mostly missed was the time before things changed, when there was a natural ease between us. Still, I put on a pair of comfy corduroy trousers and an old sweater and made my way to the studio soon after I heard Mother’s car engine start up.

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  I could hear the sound of popping bubble wrap as I opened the studio door. Julian was bent forward over a large frame, securing layer upon layer of the plastic protection around it.

  He was so intent on his task that he did not hear the door open and with no voice to call his name, I went over to him and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. He was so startled that he let out a loud ‘Hai!’ before turning round and seeing me there.

  ‘I am jumpy like a rabbit!’ He stood up and let out a sigh. ‘And you are sick, from what your mother tells me.’

  I pointed to my throat and nodded. I looked around the studio and saw that there were about a dozen paintings already wrapped and ready to go. They were stacked neatly against one wall but lying haphazardly on the floor and around the remaining studio walls were at least ten or more paintings still waiting to be bound. I made a gesture to Julian indicating that I wanted to help wrap the rest and hoped that he could make sense of my sign language.

  He gave me a bemused smile. ‘You can’t speak… No voice,’ he said, more as a statement than a question. I nodded. ‘Wait!’ He rushed over to a painting that was positioned on the ground and held it up for me to see. It was of a black woman in handcuffs. She was wearing her domestic nanny uniform. Blue starched apron, white cap over her short hair. A dark police truck was parked with its rear open. I could make out other servants, men and women alike, sitting on metal benches inside the truck. They were shackled to each other. A tall white policeman had his foot in the old nanny’s back as he ‘helped’ her into the van. Her body was thrust forward in a stumbling motion.

  ‘No voice?’ Julian said excitedly. ‘I have been thinking and thinking all morning what the name for this painting should be but nothing came and now you walk in and instantly it is there.’ He quickly wrote on the back of its frame with a large marker: TITLE: NO VOICE.

  I smiled and nodded, and he put his arm round me affectionately. ‘You inspire me, Ruby. Did you know that?’ He pointed with his free hand to another painting on the ground. ‘You can help me wrap this one, if you like.’

  I held the painting steady while Julian bound it with the cushiony protective plastic. It was an image of the township of Soweto from a distance but round its perimeter were a number of words written in bold childlike print. All of the words had been crossed out but were still legible. Only one word remained without a black line through it. It was the word SOuthWEsternTOwnships, which, if you chose just the capitalized letters, spelled SOWETO.

  ‘There was a competition started in 1959 about what to call this newly formed township for blacks outside of Johannesburg. After four years of debating, the naming committee, which was all white, finally decided that it should be Soweto from those words, South Western Township, but there were many other names submitted.’ Julian took the painting, now wrapped, and stacked it neatly against the wall along with the others. ‘All of those were rejected because most of them were sent in by blacks who actually lived in the township. Those are the words that are crossed out on my painting. You follow?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Thari ’Ntshu. The Black Nation. Khethollo. Segregation.’ Julian came towards me with another painting in his hands that needed attention. ‘And my favourite one that would never have been chosen, Thinavhuyo. It means, “We have nowhere to go.”’

  I wanted to tell him how much I liked the painting but all I could do was nod my head up and down enthusiastically.

  ‘There was one Afrikaans name that they considered. It was the word vergenoeg. You know what it means, right?’

  I reached for the black marker that Julian held and scribbled the translation on the top of my hand. ‘Far enough’. And shrugged my shoulders as if to say, ‘Why that?’

  ‘Ah, Ruby, it means far enough away from us whites in Johannesburg. Far enough so that we will not be tainted by your blackness in any way. Far enough so that you can train or bus into the city of Johannesburg to work, but you will go far enough away to live so that we do not have to smell your food or hear your African languages being spoken or listen to your babies cry.’

  I shook my head in disgust.

  ‘Vergenoeg,’ Julian said softly under his breath and sighed.

  I wanted to tell Julian how brilliant I thought he was and how excited everyone was about the exhibition, but, instead, I chose to write something down that I thought he would want to know above all else. I found a notepad on the only table in the studio. It had various words and sketches on it and I flipped through to find a blank page. I scribbled quickly then handed Julian the piece of paper. He read it out aloud.

  ‘Father says that you are Mother’s most talented artist. And I agree!’ Julian looked at the words a moment longer then folded the paper and put it carefully in his trouser pocket. ‘Thank you, Ruby. That is very kind of your father and you. It means a great deal to me because you both mean a great deal to me. I will keep this note to remind me when I am in doubt about my purpose on this earth.’

  We spent the remainder of the afternoon wrapping the rest of the paintings while Julian talked and explained his motivation and passion for each one. I hear
d Mother’s car come through the driveway, followed by the sound of a second car right behind hers and assumed that Dashel was coming over to collect the wrapped works of art to take back to the gallery. While we were securing the last one, entitled Despair is for the Defeated, there was a knock at the studio door and Julian went to open it.

  ‘Excuse me, but I am looking for Ruby. Her mother said she might be here.’

  The voice was unmistakably Johann’s.

  ‘Yes, she is here,’ Julian said quietly, and held the door open for Johann to enter.

  I rose from my crouched position on the floor and watched as the two men took each other in. They were of even height, but Johann was far more beefy against Julian’s slighter frame. Johann looked confused, unsure who this tall black man was, dressed in khaki trousers and a button-down shirt who clearly was not a gardener or a domestic servant. I quickly went over and gave him a self-conscious hug before pointing from Julian to the wrapped paintings.

  ‘I am an artist from Soweto,’ Julian said slowly.

  Johann nodded and held out his hand towards him, but Julian acted as if he hadn’t noticed the gesture.

  ‘I am Johann.’ His hand remained frozen in mid-air before he withdrew it and put it affectionately round my waist.

  I watched Julian’s eyes travel then hold on Johann’s fingers, which clasped my midsection. ‘I know who you are.’ His gaze remained fixed. ‘But you, of course, did not know of me until this very moment. Am I correct?’

  ‘Ja, Ruby has not mentioned…’ Johann began, but Julian cut him off.

  ‘Of course she hasn’t. I am the invisible—’

  I went to Julian’s side and touched him on the arm and shook my head fervently. He flinched and pulled away from my touch.

  ‘Yes, truth hurts.’

  Johann stood unmoving, a look of bewilderment crossed his face. ‘I should maybe leave… I did not know I was interrupting…’

  A painful, strangled ‘No!’ came out of me, causing a stabbing sensation to knife through my throat. I moved towards Johann, then stopped. I was frozen between both of them and felt my legs grow thick and heavy as if cemented to the very floor. I looked from Johann to Julian and back again. Their eyes trained on me, waiting. But it was Johann who took a step towards me and reached for my hand.

  ‘Come, you look ready to faint. We will get some air…’

  I nodded helplessly and turned to Julian. His eyes were glazed over, as hard as two marbles. ‘It’s okay, Ruby. Go.’

  ‘It was nice to meet you…’ Johann said with polite civility.

  ‘Julian. My name is Julian.’ His voice came out harshly. ‘Mambasa,’ I heard him add as Johann closed the studio door behind us. I felt myself lift from the ground then fall, before the world went dark.

  I could feel Johann’s strong arms picking me up, but I must have floated in and out of consciousness as he carried me into the house and up the stairs with Mother’s anxious voice filtering towards me. ‘She’s overburdened and exhausted,’ I heard through the haze.

  ‘She will be okay, Mrs Winters,’ I heard Johann’s deep, calm voice reply as if the words had been said in slow motion.

  The sensation of warm small hands that pulled a blanket over me. Mother’s tangerine smell hovered above.

  A soft kiss on my temple from Johann’s yielding lips and the smell of mint gum wafted over me.

  In the space and time that I came and went, my mind present then missing, I heard Johann ask Mother about Julian then drifted out of consciousness just as her lilted voice lied that he caught the bus back to Soweto every night.

  ‘Will Ruby Winters stand up? Will the real Ruby Winters please stand up and come on to the stage?’ I cannot see the people in the audience, but I can hear loud applause that after a few seconds turns into angry booing. ‘Roooooby Red, Rude be Red, Rude Ruby, Ruby Red! Ruby Red!’ Then something cold hits me in the chest and I topple off the stage…

  The ice-cold touch of Dr Jacobs’ stethoscope against my skin woke me fully.

  ‘Do you think you could stand, Ruby? Or maybe just sit up in bed? I need to listen to your lungs.’

  It took me a few seconds to make sense of anything. It was dark outside and the lampshades in my bedroom had been lit. I sat up slowly while Dr Jacobs propped me forward. Mother was still there, pacing nervously back and forth. I looked around for Johann, but he was no longer in the room.

  ‘I think she needs a tonic to boost her up. The problems she’s having at school, losing her best friend and having an Afrikaans boyfriend is all much too stressful.’

  I felt my cheeks grow hot at the mention of Johann as my boyfriend. It was not something that we had discussed.

  Mother came to the bed and took my hand in hers. ‘Johann sat by your bedside for at least two hours. Such a lovely boy. He had to get home for dinner. He was so worried about you…’

  I felt a pool of disappointment fill me. I wanted to see him, touch him, be near him, but now he was gone.

  ‘You’ve got to be well enough to come tomorrow night,’ Mother said decisively as if her words could will good health back into me.

  ‘Lungs are clear. I’m giving her an antibiotic shot as well as a cortisone one to reduce the swelling in her throat. Works like a charm.’ Dr Jacobs reached into his black doctor’s bag and took out two needles. I made a face at the sight of them. ‘I know, Ruby, not fun, but it’ll get you feeling better fast so you can make it to the exhibition. Or at least hobble there.’

  As I felt the needle bite into my flesh, tears sprang to my eyes but it was from a pain far greater than its sharp point.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  By 11.30 p.m. the gallery was already filled to capacity and the hum of many voices and clinking glasses was a cheering sound. Julian was sitting in the parking lot with Father in his heated Citroën and had been instructed not to enter until midnight. Mother liked to create a buzz, an excitement, a dramatic moment for the unveiling of a new artist. As such, she had each of Julian’s paintings covered by red and black cloths that added to the theatrical spectacle. At the bewitching hour of midnight both the artist and his art would be undraped. Father always said that what made Mother’s gallery so successful was her particularly original marketing flair. By the size of the crowd, she had done a superb job of getting influential art lovers, buyers and critics into her renowned gallery. There was a smattering of blacks amongst the well-heeled whites. I could not help noticing a regal African woman in traditional headdress and colourful garb as she stood next to her husband who wore an ill-fitting black suit. I knew him to be a member of the underground African National Congress who Father had helped to get out of jail. He and his wife had eaten dinner in our home about a year ago after his release and I had marvelled at her beautiful beaded bracelets. There were at least half a dozen or so other black men and women who looked familiar to me. They too were other members of the ANC. I recognized them from underground meetings that used to be held at our house a few years ago before things got too dangerous and Mother and Father made the decision to close our large iron gates to the outside world for the most part. I looked nervously around the room for the sight of a dark crew cut on the head of a grey-eyed man, the undercover cop who had wanted me to warn my mother. I breathed a sigh of relief when I did not see his large unpleasant form lurking about the gallery.

  Dr Jacobs’ magic injection had certainly improved my condition. My throat was far less swollen and hurt only a little. This drastic improvement gave me back my voice, something I was not sure I even wanted. I had taken Mother’s advice and had not gone to school that day. It did not require her twisting my arm very much at all since Barnard High was the last place I wanted to be. Instead, I had spent the morning with Julian, helping him choose the black trousers and open-necked maroon dress shirt that he would wear for the exhibition. He did not mention his encounter with Johann the day before and I was glad that we were able to focus instead on the much-anticipated night ahead. He had not been aware of m
y fainting spell until Mother had told him to watch out that I didn’t ‘keel over’ before she left for the gallery.

  Julian had kept checking, every few minutes or so, to see if I was feeling okay and whether I needed water to drink. I was touched, as I always was, by his deep concern for me.

  Father had made sure that I’d eaten dinner and taken all my medicines before dropping me off at the gallery at 10 p.m. I wore a black polo neck and slim-fitting black trousers to match Dashel and Thandi. It was the ‘staff uniform’ whenever we had events. Mother usually wore something colourful in silk.

  As Thandi and I stood shoulder to shoulder in the gallery kitchen, preparing the ‘fake trays’ of wine and champagne that would be stacked in the back, should we need them, Dashel breezed in to check on us.