55
CRESCENDO
WHEN HER KNEES GOT SORE FROM CROUCHING, Sweetness sat down behind the crate in Khanya’s room, peering out every now and again. But no one came looking for her, not even Tsietsi with a glass of water or something to eat. It was very hot and still; even the concrete floor was warm. After a while her head drooped and she fell asleep.
Inside the store, Philomena hurried to the counter and asked Jo, ‘Have you seen Sweetness? She left the nuns’ place early this morning. Father Liam was just now looking for her.’
‘No I haven’t, sorry.’
‘Khanya?’
‘Nothing, Ma Philo.’
‘Tsietsi?’
He looked up, all innocence. ‘What?’
‘Your sister’s gone. I’m so worried. Mother Esmé thinks she was frightened by all the questioning. Have you seen her?’
He didn’t have to answer because Jo cut in, ‘I’m not surprised she’s frightened. I am too. Everything’s changed. My world’s falling apart.’
But Philomena was not listening. ‘I don’t know what to do. The nuns say I must go with Sweetness to Joburg. That’s very far.’ She began to weep. ‘What will I do with Tsietsi?’
Tsietsi felt a clutch of dread. ‘What do you mean, Ma?’
‘If I have to go away, who can I leave you with?’ she wailed. ‘Auntie Nandi is looking after Gogo. She doesn’t have room for you as well.’
His mother never cried. And she had never left him, not even for one night to go to Joburg to look for his father. Sweetness was making big trouble here. He burst out, ‘She’s hiding in Khanya’s room. You can’t leave me, Ma. You can’t.’
‘I’ll go and get her.’ Khanya went to his room and leaned over the crate next to his bed, the obvious hiding place. Sweetness was sleeping with her head against the wall, the metal wings of the butterflies in her hair shivering with each slow breath. He gave her shoulder a gentle shake. ‘Sweetie. Wake up.’
‘Eh?’ Fear clouding her raised face.
‘It’s me, Khanya. Ma Philo is looking for you. Come.’
‘No. I’m staying here. You can’t make me go.’ She hunched further down. ‘Those people want to take me away.’
‘They just want you to tell about what you saw.’
‘I told them. Over and over.’ The butterflies jigged with every word. ‘Now I want to go home.’
His answer was as stern as her father when she had done something that made him cross. ‘Enough, Sweetie. There’s no way back. Only forward. Come, I’ll help you.’ He grasped one elbow, urging her upwards.
‘No, please—’
‘Come. Your mother’s crying.’
‘No. I won’t. They can’t make me.’
Khanya’s voice grew loud. ‘Be glad you have a mother and a brother. You should go and comfort them instead of sitting here like a sulky cow refusing to be milked. Vuma!’
She had never seen him angry. He was the quiet, studious assistant who ran the store for her mother’s drunk boss; kind Khanya who let them have groceries on tick when money was short and played football with Tsietsi in the back yard, using the rain tank as goal. So when he dragged her up and slapped the cobwebs off her gymslip and marched her into the store, she was too shocked to resist.
In the distance could be heard roars of ‘Hallelujah!’ as the prophet worked up to his peak.
‘She came to save sinners!’ His deep voice rolled through the tabernacle tent and up the koppie slopes where people sat mesmerised. ‘We are all sinners and she came to save us. That good woman, Ma-Jesu, took a taxi all the way from heaven – and you know how full those taxis can be – that good woman, I say, came to save us. And today I will obey her message by calling down uMoya, the divine wind, the Holy Spirit, to cleanse us all—’
‘Hallelujah!’
‘—so we can take that holy taxi up to the heavenly gates when our time comes. Not the other way, brothers and sisters, but upwards unto glory. Cleansed of our sins and rejoicing in the eternal life to come.’
‘Hallelujah!’
The TV camera lenses widened and panned slowly across the cheering multitude, just missing Hester as she slipped into the cooking arena. The drums thundered. The Hot Gospellers burst into a full-throated rendition of ‘Show Us The Way To The Pearly, Pearly Gates’. At the height of the rejoicing, Father Liam saw ushers wearing Correct Baptised sashes moving in through the entrances and up the koppie slope with carved wooden bowls. Ah, the tithe, he thought. Not even joy is free.
When the jubilation showed signs of waning, the smiling prophet raised both hands and all sound died away.
‘Brothers and sisters! Visitors! Friends! Before we call down uMoya and begin the healing, I want to end with some wise words from the Great Book, Deuteronomy 30, verse 19. “Behold, I have set before you this day life and death, blessing and cursing. Choose life, that both you and your children – and your children’s children – may live.”
‘Choose life! Do not lose hope that things will get better. Walk the paths of goodness and honest labour. Be kind to one another. Remember that ubuntu is our people’s great gift to the nation: the knowledge that we are all one in our humanity. Look ahead and choose life, I say!’
‘Choose life!’ the congregation roared.
‘Choose life!’ the cooks and helpers cheered from the entrances where they had crowded in to listen to the climax of the sermon.
‘Hallelujah!’ The prophet reached even higher and spread out his hands to the firmament. ‘uMoya, come! uMoya, heal us! Hold up your hands, brothers and sisters, and welcome uMoya into your hearts!’
‘Hallelujah! Hallelujah!’
As everyone began to ululate and flutter their hands in the air, all looking upwards for divine inspiration, Hester – alone for a few minutes in the cooking arena – tipped the first bottle of castor oil into the chakalaka.
Someone growled, ‘What are you doing?’
She swung round. Dr Ulrich was leaning against a tent pole watching her. She stuttered, ‘Just-just adding some oil like-like they said—’
‘Let me see.’ He came forward and took the bottle out of her hand, then sniffed it. ‘Ah. Sabotage.’
‘No, I’m just helping.’ For the second time in an hour, guilt stained her face a deep red.
His moustache curved down over a sardonic sneer. ‘With castor oil, no less. Can the Devil be far behind?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Devil – pastor – take your pick. I’d be more choosy about my spiritual mentor if I were you.’
‘He’s not a devil!’ she gasped, then, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Simple matter of public hygiene. I am the district surgeon. I have to check that food for large crowds isn’t contaminated or left standing around too long. Government regulations. Our prophet—’ he jerked his head towards the cheering, ‘doesn’t like it, or me, though he has to comply.’
‘But-but—’ She raised her hands to fend him off as he came towards her, though it was only to bend and pick up the rucksack at her feet.
Rummaging through it, he said, ‘Nine more bottles, eh? This contaminant is a first for me. Give everyone the squits and blame it on the prophet.’
His laugh was a scathing blast that sent her running for the safety of the pastorie where Pastor Nazaret would be kneeling in prayer to ensure the success of their enterprise.
‘That’s right, bugger off!’ Dr Egon Ulrich shouted after her. ‘And tell your demon lover that if he ever tries such a stunt again, I’ll crucify him. Upside down, like Mussolini!’
He took a roll of red-and-white-striped police warning tape out of his pocket and criss-crossed it between the handles of the steaming pot of chakalaka. Then he kicked away the embers burning underneath and went back to lean against the tent pole, waiting for the cooks to return.
None of the ecstatic worshippers heard or saw any of this, so loud and fervent were the ‘Hallelujahs!’ as the sick and suffering were wheeled or stumbled up to be healed and fell back dazed into the arms of helpers, and the tithe bowls were filled and passed to the ushers. After a while the crowd began to slow-clap and chant, ‘Ma-Jesu, Madon-na! Ma-Jesu, Madon-na!’
‘Now I’ve seen it all,’ Father Liam muttered to Una Dauncey outside when he felt able at last to tear himself away.
‘Aren’t you staying for the feast? The food’s always wonderful.’
‘I think not. It would be treadin’ on the prophet’s toes.’
‘But he’s trod on yours. It would be quid pro quo.’ Her smile bore the merest trace of malice.