It was understood that if the intended could afford to send his girl all the way home just to meet his parents before the wedding, he had advanced himself in the restaurant business, despite the disadvantages young men like him had in an unwelcoming country. Upstairs was pleased with the news; Upstairs came down one evening and brought a bottle of champagne as a gift to toast Vera, whom they’d known since she was a child, and her boy — much pleasant laughter when the prospective husband filled everyone’s glass and then served himself with orange juice. Even the commissionaire felt confident enough to tell one of his gentlemen at the club that his daughter was getting married, but first about to go abroad to meet the young man’s parents. His gentlemen’s children were always travelling; in his ears every day were overheard snatches of destinations— ‘by bicycle in China, can you believe it’… ‘two months in Peru, rather nice…’… ‘snorkeling on the Barrier Reef, last I heard’. Visiting her future parents-in-law where there is desert and palm trees; not bad!
The parents wanted to have a little party, before she left, a combined engagement party and farewell. Vera had in mind a few of her old friends brought together with those friends of his she’d been introduced to and with whom she knew he still spent some time — she didn’t expect to go along with him, it wasn’t their custom for women, and she couldn’t understand their language, anyway. But he didn’t seem to think a party would work. She had her holiday bonus (to remember what she had drawn it for, originally, was something that, feeling the baby tapping its presence softly inside her, she couldn’t believe of herself) and she kept asking him what she could buy as presents for his family — his parents, his sisters and brothers, she had learnt all their names. He said he would buy things, he knew what to get. As the day for her departure approached, he still had not done so. — But I want to pack! I want to know how much room to leave, Rad! — He brought some men’s clothing she couldn’t judge and some dresses and scarves she didn’t like but didn’t dare say so — she supposed the clothes his sisters liked were quite different from what she enjoyed wearing — a good thing she hadn’t done the choosing.
She didn’t want her mother to come to the airport; they’d both be too emotional. Leaving Rad was strangely different; it was not leaving Rad but going, carrying his baby, to the mystery that was Rad, that was in Rad’s silences, his blind love-making, the way he watched her, thinking in his own language so that she could not follow anything in his eyes. It would all be revealed when she arrived where he came from.
He had to work, the day she left, until it was time to take her to the airport. Two of his friends, whom she could scarcely recognize from the others in the group she had met occasionally, came with him to fetch her in the taxi one of them drove. She held Rad’s hand, making a tight double fist on his thigh, while the men talked in their language. At the airport the others left him to go in alone with her. He gave her another, last-minute gift for home. — Oh Rad — where’m I going to put it? The ticket says one hand-baggage! — But she squeezed his arm in happy recognition of his thoughts for his family. — It can go in — easy, easy. — He unzipped her carryall as they stood in the queue at the check-in counter. She knelt with her knees spread to accommodate her belly, and helped him. — What is it, anyway — I hope not something that’s going to break? — He was making a bed for the package. — Just toys for my sister’s kid. Plastic. — I could have put them in the suitcase — oh Rad… what room’ll I have for duty-free! — In her excitement, she was addressing the queue for the American airline’s flight which would take her on the first leg of her journey. These fellow passengers were another kind of foreigner, Americans, but she felt she knew them all; they were going to be travelling in her happiness, she was taking them with her.
She held him with all her strength and he kept her pressed against his body; she could not see his face. He stood and watched her as she went through passport control and she stopped again and again to wave but she saw Rad could not wave, could not wave. Only watch her until he could not see her any longer. And she saw him in her mind, still looking at her, as she had done at the beginning when she had imagined herself as still under his eyes if she had gone to the pub on a Sunday morning.
Over the sea, the airliner blew up in midair. Everyone on board died. The black box was recovered from the bed of the sea and revealed that there had been an explosion in the tourist-class cabin followed by a fire; and there the messages ended; silence, the disintegration of the plane. No one knows if all were killed outright or if some survived to drown. An inquiry into the disaster continued for a year. The background of every passenger was traced, and the circumstances that led to the journey of each. There were some arrests; people detained for questioning and then released. They were innocent — but they were foreigners, of course. Then there was another disaster of the same nature, and a statement from a group with an apocalyptic name representing a faction of the world’s wronged, claiming the destruction of both planes in some complication of vengeance for holy wars, land annexation, invasions, imprisonments, cross-border raids, territorial disputes, bombings, sinkings, kidnappings no one outside the initiated could understand. A member of the group, a young man known as Rad among many other aliases, had placed in the hand-baggage of the daughter of the family with whom he lodged, and who was pregnant by him, an explosive device. Plastic. A bomb of a plastic type undetectable by the usual procedures of airport security.
Vera was chosen.
Vera had taken them all, taken the baby inside her; down, along with her happiness.
Comrades
As Mrs. Hattie Telford pressed the electronic gadget that deactivates the alarm device in her car a group of youngsters came up behind her. Black. But no need to be afraid; this was not a city street. This was a non-racial enclave of learning, a place where tended flowerbeds and trees bearing botanical identification plates civilized the wild reminder of campus guards and dogs. The youngsters, like her, were part of the crowd loosening into dispersion after a university conference on People’s Education. They were the people to be educated; she was one of the committee of white and black activists (convenient generic for revolutionaries, leftists secular and Christian, fellow-travellers and liberals) up on the platform.
— Comrade… — She was settling in the driver’s seat when one so slight and slim he seemed a figure in profile came up to her window. He drew courage from the friendly lift of the woman’s eyebrows above blue eyes, the tilt of her freckled white face — Comrade, are you going to town?—
No, she was going in the opposite direction, home… but quickly, in the spirit of the hall where these young people had been somewhere, somehow present with her (ah no, she with them) stamping and singing Freedom songs, she would take them to the bus station their spokesman named.
— Climb aboard!—
The others got in the back, the spokesman beside her. She saw the nervous white of his eyes as he glanced at and away from her. She searched for talk to set them at ease. Questions, of course. Older people always start with questioning young ones. Did they come from Soweto?
They came from Harrismith, Phoneng Location.
She made the calculation: about two hundred kilometres distant. How did they get here? Who told them about the conference?
— We are Youth Congress in Phoneng.—
A delegation. They had come by bus; one of the groups and stragglers who kept arriving long after the conference had started. They had missed, then, the free lunch?