Forgive Me by Amanda Eyre Ward Page A

He could not believe the stooped, round-faced woman was Thola’s mother. He tried to catch her eye, to smile, but Fikile looked into her tea.
    “Howdy, partner,” said Evelina. She was trouble, George could tell.
    “Where does Thola work?” said George.
    Fikile spoke, and George stared, trying to find Thola in her. September translated, “A fine home in the city. Twelve Serpentine Avenue.”
    “Oranjezicht,” said Evelina, naming a suburb not far from George’s apartment.
    George sipped from his mug. “I sure am glad to be here,” he said lamely. “Will you tell Thola I came by?”
    Fikile giggled like a young girl—George was startled to hear such an innocent sound from Thola’s world-weary mother—and spoke softly to her sister. “She says that Thola was right. You are handsome, for an American,” said September. Fikile hid her smile with her pudgy hand.
    “Thank you,” said George. He didn’t want to leave, but couldn’t think of anything else to say. “See you very soon, I hope,” he said, moving to the door.
    Evelina followed George to his car and asked for a ride to a friend’s house. George agreed, and then saw two boys walking toward them. “Start the car, please,” said Evelina tensely.
    “What’s the matter?” said George. The boys looked about ten years old.
    “Please start the car at once,” said Evelina. “
Tsotsis,
” she said, after George had pulled away. “They are the hoodlums.” She added, without emotion, “They raped my friend.” George opened his mouth to ask questions, but could not decide where to begin.
    Evelina directed him through the narrow, busy streets. Finally, she told him to stop outside a small house. “Studying?” said George as Evelina reached for the car door.
    “Yes, studying,” said Evelina flatly.
    “Well,” said George. “It was great to meet you.”
    “I feel the same,” said Evelina, and she slammed the door, looked both ways, and ran to the house.
    George couldn’t help himself. He drove out of the townships with relief and followed the handmade map to the leafy suburb of Oranjezicht. He was shocked by the contrast between the townships and the stunning suburbs a few miles away. As he drove, the road wound up the side of Table Mountain; some homes would have views of the sea.
    Twelve Serpentine Avenue was a white house with an elaborate garden of frangipani and hibiscus. It was surrounded by a high metal gate, and signs warned of alarm systems and guard dogs. George sat in his car, and then he saw a figure outside the gates, underneath a blue gum tree. His heart beat quickly as he got out of the car. He approached the figure, who he knew, just knew, was his Thola.
    Her eyes were closed, and she leaned against the trunk, smoking a cigarette. George watched her, the planes of her cheekbones, her lips. He had dreamed of her for years, and now here she was, more beautiful than he had imagined. She wore a gray uniform, and her hair was cut close to her head. Her ankles were crossed, her feet wrapped in ugly shoes. She wore a thick cardigan pulled over her chest.
    Thola opened her eyes. Outside the gates of an opulent home, years later and on the opposite side of the world, they saw each other again. George knelt before her, and she smiled.
    “Ah,” she said slyly. “My Prince Charming. At last, you have arrived.”
             
    “J esus,” said Nadine. “That’s quite a love story.”
    “Have you ever been in love?” asked George.
    “No,” said Nadine quietly.
    “I’m sorry,” said George. He reached across the table, but before his hand touched Nadine’s the front door banged open. A blond man in his thirties entered the room. He was thin and unshaven, and wore jeans and a black T-shirt, three cameras around his neck. There was dirt smeared on one of his cheekbones, and with his wild blue eyes and bony frame, he looked a bit frightening. Nadine felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. His sweat smelled of spice.