THE PAPERS WERE FULL OF IT. Joanna couldn’t stop looking at the photograph that had made the front page. She had been staring at it all day, trying to work out the exact moment Viola had crossed the border into the madlands. Now she sat alone in her defunct study where she wouldn’t be disturbed, delaying bed, feeding the Lighthouse page through the scanner. Outside the rain made everything indistinct: the rush-hour traffic was still a dull, frustrated roar, the animal in the labyrinth. Joanna switched on the lights.
The Lighthouse had to pixellate the picture so that Viola’s nipples weren’t clearly visible, but that was somehow worse. The blurry blocks hinted at something terrifying, deformed, a woman transmogrified. As performance art went, it had been a failure.
And as a memorial service, Viola had put paid to the dignity and respect that the fat men kept on about. The KhoiSan Collective was livid. For the first time since she had stormed out of the office (and sneaked back in again to fetch what was hers by right), Joanna felt relieved. She wouldn’t have to face the press on Viola’s behalf.
No, chirped Doctor Renfield. She’ll have lawyers to do that.
Viola was going to be charged with public indecency. Joanna thought that it was about time, even though she’d probably get off with community service. She’d done what she had always intended to do: generate a flurry of interest around the Museum in time for its new incarnation as The Institute – and associate herself more intimately with Saartjie Baartman than anybody else would ever be able to.
Joanna stored the photograph on the desktop and then clicked idly around. There was the shortcut to Jan’s photos. There were a hundred files, at least, and God knew how much more stuff was stored on the external hard drive. If only he would date the folders! How did he find his way around? It was an anomaly for someone so organised in every other respect. Joanna began to click and drag them into some semblance of chronological order. Some she could work out: the Heineken commercial, with the “sensual dancing”; Going Wild, a Swedish production that showcased Lulu Mtshali’s nipples in a see-through shirt. Others were harder to place: she had to open them up to see what they were.
Like this one, labelled Experiments with Light. Joanna turned her head to one side to get the angle right. The woman had her hands behind her head, like a girl on a trampoline in a tampon advert. Except that this one was naked. Completely naked. Her perfectly round breasts pushed at the lampshade she was leaning against. Joanna zoomed in closer.
It was Devi.
And not only that.
Devi with new boobs, said Doctor Renfield. Nice job!
Joanna felt sick. There must be some explanation. Was it a joke?
Her cell buzzed angrily on the desk, and she jumped and exited the file.
CALL 1, said the screen.
It might be more work – she had put herself out on Bizhub again, and freelancers weren’t allowed office hours – but it might also be Cell C, intent on bullying her into a contract.
Still, Joanna sighed and answered, her heart hammering, the lies ready. I’m afraid you have the wrong number. I don’t know who she is. No one of that name lives here.
“Did you think I wouldn’t know?” hissed Viola. She had been charged but not detained, it seemed. Joanna’s heart bumped up against her breastbone. Was she already back at her B ‘n’ B? Were the owners listening to her rant?
“Oh, hello, yes, Viola. How was the ceremony?” Shit!
“Do you think I’m stupid? You left your umbrella behind.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Shit! Shit! Shit! Double damn and fuck!
“Where is it?”
“Where is what?” The jar, the jar, the jar. In her panic Joanna forgot for a second. Where had she hidden it?
The pantry, you doofus, said Doctor Renfield. It worked for Oswald, and it’ll work for you.
Joanna’s chest hurt. She tried to breathe deeply into her sternum, and waited.
“You know what I’m talking about!” Viola was shrieking. God, she was a lunatic! Would she actually come to the house? Joanna thought she might.
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t. It’s late, and you’re going to wake, um, the baby.”
There was a pause. When Viola spoke again the anger was gone.
“If you don’t return that jar, you are going to be more than sorry. I promise you that.”
I am an African womanist of vengeful extraction, said Doctor Renfield.
“Do you understand?” said Viola, not waiting for an answer. “I saw her first.”
The phone went dead.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Viola,” said Joanna to the empty study. She was shaking. She had to try a few times before she could plug the charger into her phone.
“Finders, keepers. What are you going to do? Report me to the police? Or fire me from my stupid job?”
Joanna got up and made her way to the little room off the kitchen, turning on the pantry light. She couldn’t think about Jan now. She would deal with him in the morning. At some level she had been expecting this. All she could muster up when she thought of him was exhaustion and wonder. Was it really Devi? Who called him Long John and laughed?
Her lovely groceries were arranged in rows, stored according to food group and frequency of use. They smelled of all the things she meant to do. For the first time in two years she didn’t want to eat. When she thought of the seven waiting Bounty bars on the top shelf, the lid of her stomach opened in revolt.
Carefully, Joanna reached up behind them and felt for the jar. It was undisturbed. Why wouldn’t it be?
She held the bottle against her chest. Was it her imagination or was the glass warm? Maybe her hands were just hot.
She turned off all the lights in the house and felt her way down the passage to the main bedroom, where Jan’s snores made a small and tuneless music against the rain.
But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t get back into that bed beside him. Joanna cupped the bottle between her palms and crept back down the passage.
James’s door brushed silently against the carpet. She felt her way over to where he lay in the little bed. She couldn’t hear him breathing. Oh, God! Was he okay?
Joanna leaned down and put her ear to where she thought his mouth would be, but there was nothing. Then his curls brushed against her lips. Of course. He was on his front again, the blanket off, his bum in the air.
She reached down and tucked the jar under the pillow, against the wall. There. She half-expected it to pulse light, waking James like Tinkerbell trapped in a bell jar. He settled back on the pillow. He was sweating in his sleep; his hair was wet.
Joanna discarded her boxer shorts and then took her bra off through the sleeves of her T-shirt. She lay down next to James, with his smell of finger biscuits. She stretched out her arm and draped it over the mound he made. Her child: the only link to the ancestors she would ever have. The two of them lay together under the mosquito that helicoptered against the ceiling, but only one of them slept.