Forgive Me by Amanda Eyre Ward Page B

“Motherfucking Cape Flats,” he said.
    “This,” said George, “is Maxim.”

Fifteen

    M axim: his muscular arms, unshaven cheeks stubbled with rough hair. A cigarette between his fingers even before he had climbed out of bed. On Nadine’s first morning at the house on Nutthall Road, he wandered into the kitchen as she was making a pot of coffee. His jeans hung low on his hips.
    “That coffee’s crap,” he said.
    Nadine wore pajama pants and a tank top. She turned. “What do you suggest?” she said.
    “Come with me. For the day.”
    “Where?”
    “Yes or no,” said Maxim, walking toward Nadine, pinning her with his eyes.
    “Yes,” said Nadine.
             
    I n the Bo-Kapp neighborhood, Maxim bought Nadine a syrupy coffee. She drank it too fast, and ended up with a mouthful of grounds. “Forgot to mention,” said Maxim. “Don’t drink the last sip.”
    Nadine looked at him darkly.
    “You’re fucking gorgeous,” he said.
    Nadine blushed. She lined up her notebook and pencil on the table. “Where are we headed?” she asked.
    “We drive around,” said Maxim waving his hand toward the city. “We look for trouble.”
    “The townships,” said Nadine.
    “Yes,” said Maxim. “It’s like the coffee,” he said. “Once you taste the real thing, the rest is shit.”
    Nadine thought of her disappointing stories so far: a long interview with the man who monitored the penguins at Boulders Beach, the group of Germans on a wine tour. She had even stooped to writing an article about shopping for African handicrafts.
    “I’m ready,” she told Maxim.
    Maxim drove the Tercel out of town, onto the highway. He explained that the murder of Jason Irving had been just the tip of the iceberg. “These kids are tired of waiting for equality, so they’re turning to violence.” Quietly, he added, “One of the kids who killed the American was Evelina Malefane.”
    “I remember the name. A little girl, right? With pigtails.”
    “She’s Thola’s sister,” said Maxim. “She went to jail a month ago.”
    “Thola? You mean George’s girlfriend?”
    “She’s a lot more than George’s girlfriend,” said Maxim.
    “What does that mean?”
    “It’s complicated,” said Maxim. He put on his blinker and drove off the highway. The air was thick with the scents of urine and spoiled meat. The streets were riddled with potholes, and then the pavement stopped and mud tracks began. Morning sun glinted off streams of waste that ran along the road. Makeshift houses were crammed together: pieces of welded iron without plumbing or concrete floors. Trash was simply everywhere: wet rags, cardboard boxes, discarded food wrappers, newspapers.
    “Don’t tell me it’s complicated and stop,” said Nadine. “I want to understand. That’s what I’m here for, damn it.”
    Maxim raised an eyebrow. Children came running toward the car, banging on the windows and yelling in English and Xhosa. “Can I explain tonight,” said Maxim, “over dinner?”
    “Okay,” said Nadine. There was no time to savor the invitation; Maxim rolled down the window.
    “
Hola,
” he said, stopping.
    “
Hola,
” said one skinny kid, opening the back door of the car and clambering in. Maxim explained later that the township thugs liked to pretend they were a real part of the resistance movement, and so adopted the Spanish greetings that guerrilla fighters had brought home from training camps, where many teachers were Cuban. “You looking for bang bang?” said the boy, smiling too widely from the backseat. Nadine shot Maxim a nervous look.
    “Anything happening?” asked Maxim, putting his hand on her knee to calm her.
    “You have petrol, com?”
    “I’m a journalist,” said Maxim. To Nadine, he said, “He wants the gas for Molotov cocktails.” Maxim’s hand was warm on her knee.
    “You want the
nyaga nyaga,
” said the boy, “you give me something.”
    “Here,” said Maxim, pulling a ten-rand note from his cigarette