White Dog Fell from the Sky - By Eleanor Morse Page 0,115
day, addressed to Isaac, postmarked Pretoria. She hesitated to open it but then did. It was written in Afrikaans. Hoe gaan dit met jou? How are you? Beyond that, she had no idea what it said. There were numbers in the text, which was all she could decipher. It was signed Hendrik Pretorius. She walked back to her truck, trying to think of someone who knew Afrikaans.
Lillian had a friend. She’d been over for dinner on a night Lawrence and Alice had been there. She tried to recall the name. Like a mosquito repellent. Petronella, that was it. Pet for short. Pet Steyn. She couldn’t remember Pet’s husband’s name, but he treated her as though she didn’t have a brain in her head. Maybe she didn’t, but she could probably translate the letter. On the other hand, what if it contained information that shouldn’t be shared? But no one with any sense would send incendiary information across the South African border. Pet lived off the Outer Ring Road, and Alice drove straight there. She didn’t want a “no” over the phone.
Pet answered her knock wearing a lime green leisure suit. She was thin, nearly anorexic, the top of her arms corded. Her face was heavily made up, giving her fine features a certain coarseness.
Alice explained about Isaac’s disappearance.
“So you want this translated.”
Alice nodded. Pet went into the kitchen and brought back a tray with two glasses of iced tea and set it down on a low table in the living room. “I’m not very literary,” she said, sipping from her glass.
“It doesn’t matter, don’t worry.” The house was cool, still, empty. Alice couldn’t imagine what Pet did all day while her husband was at work. A blank, clean, crushing life. She took a gulp of tea. “Don’t worry,” said Alice again.
Pet put on her reading glasses, looked over the first page, and began. “The items you requested will be on the northbound passenger train, arriving 9:02 A.M., May 26 in Mafeking station. Gaborone, at 3:42 P.M. The items are unaccompanied. For obvious reasons, it is important that you meet this train.”
“What items are those?” asked Pet, laying the letter down in her lap.
“I don’t know,” said Alice.
“Who are these people?”
“I don’t know that either. They know Isaac.”
“Who’s Isaac?”
“My gardener. The man who disappeared. Is there more there?”
Pet picked up the letter again. “Please inform us immediately that the pickup has been successful.” She turned the page over. “Then they give their phone number. It’s signed Hendrik Pretorius.” She looked at Alice. “How well do you know Isaac?”
“As I said, he was my gardener.”
“Was he involved with the ANC?”
“He may have been. I don’t know.”
“If I were you, I’d throw this letter away and have nothing more to do with it.”
You’re not me, thought Alice. She always hated it when people said “if I were you.”
“It sounds to me like an arms shipment. I’m telling you, I’d have nothing whatsoever to do with this. The ANC is full of desperate individuals.”
And why are they desperate? thought Alice. Because they’ve been fucked over all their lives. And they haven’t a goddamned thing to lose. “It’s not necessarily arms,” she said. “And if it is, I’ll leave them there.” She stood up. “I really appreciate your time and your help.”
“To tell you the truth,” said Pet, “I regret helping you.” She handed over the letter. “Promise me that you won’t meet that train.”
Alice said nothing.
“Listen,” said Pet, “I hardly know you. But I know South Africa. To be perfectly blunt, you wouldn’t know squat about what goes on there.”
“I appreciate your help. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”
The shipment was three days away. She damn well would meet that train. She went home and found that the electricity had gone off all over the Old Village. Itumeleng had left dinner on the table for her, covered with a dish towel, but she wasn’t hungry. She got up to call the phone number in the letter, but there was no dial tone. That was nothing new.
The next day she kept trying. On the evening of March 25, hours before she was to meet the train, she dialed again, and this time the call went through. A man’s voice answered in Afrikaans, the voice shaded, deep, elderly. “I don’t speak Afrikaans,” Alice said. “Do you speak English?”
“Of course.”
She explained where she was calling from and that Isaac had worked for her as a gardener until he’d disappeared. And she apologized for opening his mail.