here to celebrate all the Persephones. Those we managed to find, and bring back from the dark grip of Hades. Like Demeter, who did find her lovely lost daughter.’
The lights went off, plunging the theatre into darkness. Clare left the stage, slipping into her seat as the applause faded away.
The conductor took his bow and the orchestra began to play, the sombre celloshaunted by a single violin. The dancers stirred, their tulle skirts fluttering, like moths drawn by the light. Then the slide of pointe shoes as they took up their positions.
The curtain opened to reveal the chorus poised around the dark-haired principal, her tutu silvered, like water catching the light of the dawn. Then the music started, a chorus of morning birdsong, and the dancer beganto move.
Beatrice put out her hand and caught the tear sliding down Clare’s cheek, then she leaned against her aunt and soon fell asleep, her small body a comfort.
The ballerinas glided onto the stage for the first act, the pale greens and yellows and blues the colours of spring. Persephone drifted like a white butterfly into the centre of the stage. Beneath the dancers was a vertiginousdrop. Hades and his henchmen stirring below them in the depths, awakened by their dance, beginning the climb out of hell.
‘You were wonderful.’ Giles Reid’s breath was warm in Clare’s ear as he settled his hand on her knee. She crossed her legs away from him, annoyed with herself that she’d slept with him.
10
Rita Mkhize’s office ended up as the unofficial search and rescue centre for the Yasmin Faizal case. The room was taller than it was wide. It had been a storeroom before Rita commandeered it, tossing out a heap of Remington typewriters that had last seen action in the 1970s. Her dockets stacked, pens in a jam jar, pot plant watered – Rita had learnt long ago to order the small things.For there wasn’t much one could do about the big things.
Because the single sash window opened onto the street, it had been nailed shut; its lower pane was painted the yellow-green found in hospitals and reformatories. Mental asylum green is what Rita called it. The room smelt of damp, and stale cigarette smoke. There were two chairs, one desk, one phone, one laptop. Rita had found an aerialmap of Cape Town and put it on the wall. Someone had pinned a pink ribbon onto the place where Yasmin had gone missing.
Rita crumpled her Nando’s bag and lobbed it into the dustbin. It joined the remnants of Clinton van Rensburg’s Steers burger. He was on the phone to his wife. Rita was listening with half an ear. He was heading home, no, they hadn’t found the child, no Faizal wasn’t underarrest yet, yes it was a good idea that she go and see Shazia. Tomorrow, not tonight, there was someone with her, yes, they would find Yasmin. Alive, yes, of course alive. His voice soothing but strained, as it had been since his shooting, their own troubles with Calvaleen.
‘Still the netball queen, Mkhize?’ Delport leaned against the door frame, gnawing at a rib. He eyed Rita’s pert backside.
‘Takes one to know one, I suppose,’ Rita shot back.
‘What?’ Delport licked the tangy sauce from his fingers.
‘One queen,’ said Rita, ‘to know another one.’
Delport threw his takeaway packaging after hers. Missed. ‘Fuck you.’
‘You wish.’ Rita took the tacks out of her pocket and pinned up the printout she had brought with her.
‘Delport,’ said Clinton van Rensburg. ‘Go home.’
‘What about this weekend’s operation?’
‘Nothing’s happening tonight.’
‘How convenient,’ Delport sneered.
‘We’ll meet tomorrow. Reassess.’
‘I’ll see you then.’ Delport sauntered out; the noise of the bar on the first floor was loud, enticing.
‘There’s him, home but not dry for the night,’ Rita said. She examined her printout. Timelines. Places. People. The when-where-whoof an investigation. Just a few sparse facts on the vast savannah of their ignorance.
The lights went off, plunging the theatre into darkness. Clare left the stage, slipping into her seat as the applause faded away.
The conductor took his bow and the orchestra began to play, the sombre celloshaunted by a single violin. The dancers stirred, their tulle skirts fluttering, like moths drawn by the light. Then the slide of pointe shoes as they took up their positions.
The curtain opened to reveal the chorus poised around the dark-haired principal, her tutu silvered, like water catching the light of the dawn. Then the music started, a chorus of morning birdsong, and the dancer beganto move.
Beatrice put out her hand and caught the tear sliding down Clare’s cheek, then she leaned against her aunt and soon fell asleep, her small body a comfort.
The ballerinas glided onto the stage for the first act, the pale greens and yellows and blues the colours of spring. Persephone drifted like a white butterfly into the centre of the stage. Beneath the dancers was a vertiginousdrop. Hades and his henchmen stirring below them in the depths, awakened by their dance, beginning the climb out of hell.
‘You were wonderful.’ Giles Reid’s breath was warm in Clare’s ear as he settled his hand on her knee. She crossed her legs away from him, annoyed with herself that she’d slept with him.
10
Rita Mkhize’s office ended up as the unofficial search and rescue centre for the Yasmin Faizal case. The room was taller than it was wide. It had been a storeroom before Rita commandeered it, tossing out a heap of Remington typewriters that had last seen action in the 1970s. Her dockets stacked, pens in a jam jar, pot plant watered – Rita had learnt long ago to order the small things.For there wasn’t much one could do about the big things.
Because the single sash window opened onto the street, it had been nailed shut; its lower pane was painted the yellow-green found in hospitals and reformatories. Mental asylum green is what Rita called it. The room smelt of damp, and stale cigarette smoke. There were two chairs, one desk, one phone, one laptop. Rita had found an aerialmap of Cape Town and put it on the wall. Someone had pinned a pink ribbon onto the place where Yasmin had gone missing.
Rita crumpled her Nando’s bag and lobbed it into the dustbin. It joined the remnants of Clinton van Rensburg’s Steers burger. He was on the phone to his wife. Rita was listening with half an ear. He was heading home, no, they hadn’t found the child, no Faizal wasn’t underarrest yet, yes it was a good idea that she go and see Shazia. Tomorrow, not tonight, there was someone with her, yes, they would find Yasmin. Alive, yes, of course alive. His voice soothing but strained, as it had been since his shooting, their own troubles with Calvaleen.
‘Still the netball queen, Mkhize?’ Delport leaned against the door frame, gnawing at a rib. He eyed Rita’s pert backside.
‘Takes one to know one, I suppose,’ Rita shot back.
‘What?’ Delport licked the tangy sauce from his fingers.
‘One queen,’ said Rita, ‘to know another one.’
Delport threw his takeaway packaging after hers. Missed. ‘Fuck you.’
‘You wish.’ Rita took the tacks out of her pocket and pinned up the printout she had brought with her.
‘Delport,’ said Clinton van Rensburg. ‘Go home.’
‘What about this weekend’s operation?’
‘Nothing’s happening tonight.’
‘How convenient,’ Delport sneered.
‘We’ll meet tomorrow. Reassess.’
‘I’ll see you then.’ Delport sauntered out; the noise of the bar on the first floor was loud, enticing.
‘There’s him, home but not dry for the night,’ Rita said. She examined her printout. Timelines. Places. People. The when-where-whoof an investigation. Just a few sparse facts on the vast savannah of their ignorance.
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