look great. Are you on some kind of health kick?”
She beckons me inside. “It’s not what you eat, it’s what you do. A little judo, a little swimming, a little yoga.”
I follow her inside. Her Sandton rooftop apartment overlooks the economic hub of South Africa. Beyond the brightly lit office and apartment buildings of one of Africa’s most expensive patches of real estate flickers a sea of lights. Midrand on one side, behind it Pretoria, and the brighter, more numerous lights of the Johannesburg city centre on the opposite side. A building, still under construction and almost identical to her own, but taller, dominates the foreground, fortunately not blocking too much of the view.
The open-plan apartment still looks the same. Mauve sofas, large eye-catching paintings, expensive carpets, chequerboard kitchen floor. In its usual place in the corner, Adriana’s cello. Hosni, her Persian cat, is basking on the windowsill. Nina Simone smoulders on the speakers.
She leads the way into the kitchen. I close the heavy front door and check it’s locked before she can remind me. Sit down facing her at the counter.
She was chopping tomatoes when I knocked. She resumes the task, working rapidly, precisely. Speaks without looking at me.
“On the phone it sounded as if you and Alex had a fight.”
How does she know? “No.”
“No, it didn’t sound that way, or no, you didn’t fight?”
“Both.”
She’s laughing at me now, her brown eyes flecked with yellow. It softens the scar under her right eye reaching all the way to her ear.
“Was it hard sending him off to Syria and staying behind?”
I wonder whether to admit it. Alex is at the Darkoush Hospital, run by Gift of the Givers. The NGO invited him there after an “accidental” bombing two weeks ago.
I shrug. “There was room for only one of us, and they wanted the pen, not the camera. Ifs and buts are irrelevant.”
I kick off my leather sandals and draw my knees up to my chin. I’m hungry, and whatever Adriana is cooking smells delicious. Something resembling custard is simmering on the stove and a chicken is roasting in the oven. I skipped breakfast this morning. Ditto the bone-dry sandwich served up for lunch by South African Airways.
Adriana takes a knife from the drawer and holds it out to me. “Give me a hand with the salad. We’d better hurry, I want my coffee before the power is cut. Thank you, Eskom.”
I reach for the cutting board and the tomatoes, carrots and cheese. “Don’t you have a generator? I would have bought one by now. All these power cuts to save electricity would drive me crazy.”
“No need, I cook with gas. And no one should expose themselves to the TV news too often. Or the internet. Same poison, delivered faster.”
I set to work slowly, carefully, my mind elsewhere.
“Alex wants kids,” I finally say. “At least, he’s thinking about it.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’ve never even considered the idea.”
She wipes her knife on a dishcloth. “Why not?”
I stop chopping the carrots. Wonder whether to be honest. “I’m afraid. Of my … you know, of who I am. How I’ll be.” I sigh. “Of settling down.”
“Hmm …”
I search her eyes for what she’s not saying. As usual, she gives nothing away. How can this woman be so warm and at the same time so distant?
“Can I stay here until Alex comes back? I’m not in the mood for my own company.”
“Of course.” She touches my hand briefly. Gives me a slight smile. “But tomorrow night you’re cooking.”
ADRIANA
1
Johannesburg, present
I lean out the kitchen door to make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me. “Since when have we had crows in the garden?”
Zenani is deboning a duck. She doesn’t answer. Monday is not her favourite day of the week.
“What’s wrong? Is one of the waiters late again?” Staff attendance is one of her biggest headaches after the weekend.
“Nothing’s wrong. Not with me.”
I stare at the bird on the telephone wire. It looks back at me with ink-black eyes, caws harshly, as if to taunt me. What is the meaning of this bloody bird showing up like this, out of the blue?
“How long has it been here?”
“Since yesterday. There are two, I think they want to build a nest.”
“You know I hate crows.”
She looks at me, frowning. “Then why is your restaurant named Crow’s Feet? I know almost everything about you, but not that. Why?”
To make sure I’ll always remember. But I keep quiet. “Where did the pigeons go? And the weavers? Last year that poor little weaver rebuilt the nest thirteen times before the female decided to move in. Even hadedas are better.”
“Forget about the crow. Give me a hand with the sauce – our first booking is for 11:30. And Katlego Tlali is coming by to discuss her husband’s birthday dinner.”
“Is that tomorrow night?” I can’t believe it’s November already.
“Yes. And make an effort, will you? A party like that is good business, especially at this time of year.”
She points at my pricey new heels. Black, to match my figure-hugging black-and-cream dress. “Are you going to work in those all day?”
“Every day, until I’m eighty and dragging myself along with a Zimmer frame.” I take another look at the crow. “It’s your lucky day,” I whisper. “Next time.”
In the pantry, I grab my apron from a hook. “Has Ranna phoned? What time is she coming for lunch?”
“Half past one. She’s sleeping in this morning. She doesn’t sound good.” Zenani waves the knife at me as if it’s my fault.
“Aikona, nothing to do with me. She and Alex argued. About having children. And she’s dying to join him in Syria.”
I go to the fridge to get the butter. Stop when I hear the front door. Who can it be at this early hour? Not a waiter. They always come through the kitchen.
Whoever it is must have got past Boris.
Probably Katlego.
I take off my apron and go through to the restaurant’s dining area. I make my way past the heavy wooden furniture, starched white tablecloths
