Brotherhood of Thieves.” He opened the door to a warm underground restaurant. “This was a hangout for whalers back in 1840.” In the dim space, a fire blazed and people sat around wooden tables. “Two for dinner,” Hank said to the teenager in a polo sweater and cargo pants who stood behind a wooden reservation stand. The boy’s overgrown hair and burgeoning beard testified to his decision to stay on-island for the winter.
“Forty-five minitos,” said the boy. “Maybe an hour.”
“How about a drink?” said Hank, inclining his head toward a bar where men in knit hats and baseball caps watched television intently.
“Sure,” said Nadine. She took a few steps, then said, “You know, I’m going to go get some fresh air, actually.”
“What?” said Hank. “Are you okay?”
“Just some air,” said Nadine, as she rushed past the host and to the door. Awkwardly, she yanked it open and the cold wind hit her. She started to walk. Something about the dark space, the rumble of voices, the tinny sound of the television. She turned a corner and saw a church, sat down on the steps. Underneath her jeans, the stone was cold. Nadine felt her temples throb. It was something about the fire, the smell of meat. Memories rushed forward, vivid and painful.
During her summer in Cape Town, Nadine often drove from her manicured neighborhood to Sunshine township. With her housemates and fellow reporters, she drank beer at a bar called the Waterfront, listening to the Moonlights and JC Cool on the jukebox. Some nights, the tinny sound of soccer games won out over the music.
Nadine was working on a piece about the parents of boys who had run away from home to join the Mandela United Football Club. The “club” was really a gang that roamed the township streets, using fear and brutality to stamp out resistance to the antiapartheid cause. Rumors had begun to spread about Winnie Mandela, the wife of jailed leader Nelson Mandela who would later be released and elected president of South Africa. Winnie, it was said, was housing young men in her mansion. The men called her “Mommy” and carried out any orders she gave, no matter how illogical or violent. Nadine was having a hard time finding people willing to speak out against the Football Club, and finding proof of Winnie’s involvement was simply impossible.
Still, Nadine loved talking to her subjects for hours, drinking tea and picking the locks of their minds. She was always amazed at how much people would tell her, a stranger, even as she held a pen in her hand. They seemed so eager to be seen, to be recognized. But Nadine had to listen carefully for the narrative beneath the façades they constructed for themselves.
Sometimes Nadine felt interviewees pulling back from her, as if they thought she could not understand their reality, or might judge them. She used her own secrets then, handing over personal tidbits like bargaining chips, creating a sense of intimacy that almost always led subjects to reveal deeper truths about themselves.
Nadine relished the drive home with pages of scrawled notes. She would pour a glass of wine, play some jazz, and type on her antique Olivetti—she had bought it in a Station Street pawnshop—finding the arc of the story in the process. The hiss of the fax machine, the thrill of snapping open a paper to see her name, the way people lit up when they realized she had written an article they had read and thought about: Nadine loved it all.
But then there was the night they heard gunfire outside the Waterfront. A large bottle of Castle beer in front of her, the lights in the bar going dark, the music stopping abruptly. There were shots, and then screams. Around her, the murmur of voices speaking in Xhosa.
Nadine didn’t have to go outside. Her work was slow and cunning. But the photographers stood in the dark, wrapped their cameras around their necks, and raced toward the action. Nadine sat in the warm
shebeen,
her hands pressed to her
“Forty-five minitos,” said the boy. “Maybe an hour.”
“How about a drink?” said Hank, inclining his head toward a bar where men in knit hats and baseball caps watched television intently.
“Sure,” said Nadine. She took a few steps, then said, “You know, I’m going to go get some fresh air, actually.”
“What?” said Hank. “Are you okay?”
“Just some air,” said Nadine, as she rushed past the host and to the door. Awkwardly, she yanked it open and the cold wind hit her. She started to walk. Something about the dark space, the rumble of voices, the tinny sound of the television. She turned a corner and saw a church, sat down on the steps. Underneath her jeans, the stone was cold. Nadine felt her temples throb. It was something about the fire, the smell of meat. Memories rushed forward, vivid and painful.
During her summer in Cape Town, Nadine often drove from her manicured neighborhood to Sunshine township. With her housemates and fellow reporters, she drank beer at a bar called the Waterfront, listening to the Moonlights and JC Cool on the jukebox. Some nights, the tinny sound of soccer games won out over the music.
Nadine was working on a piece about the parents of boys who had run away from home to join the Mandela United Football Club. The “club” was really a gang that roamed the township streets, using fear and brutality to stamp out resistance to the antiapartheid cause. Rumors had begun to spread about Winnie Mandela, the wife of jailed leader Nelson Mandela who would later be released and elected president of South Africa. Winnie, it was said, was housing young men in her mansion. The men called her “Mommy” and carried out any orders she gave, no matter how illogical or violent. Nadine was having a hard time finding people willing to speak out against the Football Club, and finding proof of Winnie’s involvement was simply impossible.
Still, Nadine loved talking to her subjects for hours, drinking tea and picking the locks of their minds. She was always amazed at how much people would tell her, a stranger, even as she held a pen in her hand. They seemed so eager to be seen, to be recognized. But Nadine had to listen carefully for the narrative beneath the façades they constructed for themselves.
Sometimes Nadine felt interviewees pulling back from her, as if they thought she could not understand their reality, or might judge them. She used her own secrets then, handing over personal tidbits like bargaining chips, creating a sense of intimacy that almost always led subjects to reveal deeper truths about themselves.
Nadine relished the drive home with pages of scrawled notes. She would pour a glass of wine, play some jazz, and type on her antique Olivetti—she had bought it in a Station Street pawnshop—finding the arc of the story in the process. The hiss of the fax machine, the thrill of snapping open a paper to see her name, the way people lit up when they realized she had written an article they had read and thought about: Nadine loved it all.
But then there was the night they heard gunfire outside the Waterfront. A large bottle of Castle beer in front of her, the lights in the bar going dark, the music stopping abruptly. There were shots, and then screams. Around her, the murmur of voices speaking in Xhosa.
Nadine didn’t have to go outside. Her work was slow and cunning. But the photographers stood in the dark, wrapped their cameras around their necks, and raced toward the action. Nadine sat in the warm
shebeen,
her hands pressed to her
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