It was close to 8pm by the time Palesa pulled into the garage. It had been an exhausting, irritating day. How long had it been since she’d derived any pleasure from running the business on her own?
Romy was in the kitchen, putting plates in the dishwasher. “Did you go to work?” she asked, by way of greeting.
“I did,” Palesa said. “The spa was a mess.”
“How could you do that? Poppa’s only been dead a week.”
“And what would staying home accomplish?”
“It would show some respect. You’re supposed to be in mourning.”
“And you think I’m not?” Palesa was irritated but she was also hungry. She opened the refrigerator and poked around in the vegetable drawer.
“It’s hard to tell with you. You’re always working. It’s all about money with you.”
Palesa had had enough. “How dare you judge me?” she said, turning around, her voice raised. “Who’s going to pay for the food you just ate? Who pays rates on this house so you have somewhere to live? Tell me that.”
Romy banged the dishwasher shut. “You never let me come home when I wanted to. If I’d come home after the robbery Poppa would still be alive” – and the tears started.
Palesa was too shocked to be insulted. “Your father died of a stroke. Read Glenn’s note. There’s no way you could have prevented that.”
“Glenn would say anything you wanted him to say.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him what you think of him the next time he saves your life,” Palesa said. “Why don’t you go to your room, or your boyfriend, whoever he is. I don’t really care where you go. Just leave me alone.”
Palesa was too tired for this. She had not eaten since breakfast, but the exchange with Romy had taken what little energy she had left. She sat at the breakfast table, her head in her hands, and soon fell asleep.
Hours later, Romy nudged her awake and slid a cup of tea towards her left hand.
“I’m sorry, Mommy,” she said. “I guess that wasn’t fair. Glenn wouldn’t make things up.”
“Is that all?”
“Why, is there more?”
Not worth the hassle. “No, my darling,” Palesa said. “Why don’t you make me an omelette and we can talk about it. I’m starving.”
The truce lasted until the next morning, when Romy wandered into the kitchen, still in pyjamas, as Palesa – dressed for work – was finishing her coffee.
“There’s oatmeal on the stove,” Palesa said. “It’s good for lowering cholesterol. Your father’s family has a genetic predisposition to high cholesterol. I don’t suppose you’ve ever checked yours.”
“Thanks Mommy,” Romy said, and began dishing up.
“Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Ever checked your cholesterol?”
No answer. A new tack required.
“Who’s the boyfriend?”
That got Romy’s attention. “Dominick. His name’s Dominick.”
“Have you known him long? You’re hardly ever here.”
“London,” Romy said, emptying the remains of the honey into her porridge.
“That’s a lot of sugar,” Palesa said, then wondered why she’d bothered.
“We came back on the same plane. We shared the Uber. He’s getting a PhD if he ever finishes his thesis.”
“Did you know him in London?”
“I just said, Mommy. What else do you need to know? Am I sleeping with him? Not at the moment. Does he have any money? I have no idea. Who’s his family? How would I know?”
Palesa gave up and left for work.
It was not a refuge. Monica came back, and when Palesa asked her where the nail varnish had gone she screamed at her. “You always blame me! Okay, once. Not this time.”
Sophia took that moment to announce she had a terrible hacking cough and was going to the doctor, which changed the dynamics considerably: now Palesa needed Monica. “I’ll try to believe you,” she said. “Just don’t do it again. Please take Mrs van Niekerk in room 3. A full body massage with, let’s see, neroli oil. Here’s her card.”
The day didn’t improve – there was the client who showed up with very bad flu. Palesa asked her to go home and come back when she was better, and she was furious, managing to spit out “black bitch” as she waltzed through the door. Which was puzzling, since she was also black – and also a bitch, always complaining, never satisfied. Palesa was crossing her name off the appointment book as Sophia phoned to say the doctor had booked her off until Tuesday.
Natalie, the star intern, had a client in Room 2 and a new client who had come early was in reception, paging through magazines. She was booked for a facial, nothing hectic – but when Natalie’s client screamed she stood up, alarmed. “I think I’d better go,” she said.
“The client has come for a wax,” Palesa said. “Sometimes it can be uncomfortable.”
“Sounds like she’s being murdered. Sorry. Maybe another time,” and left.
Saturday was always a busy day, but with two cancellations Palesa could get some orders in and bills paid. After the last customer left and the girls had cleaned the treatment rooms, she sat at the desk for a good half hour, thinking about selling up. And doing what?
She wasn’t looking forward to going home, to a sullen Romy, but she needn’t have worried. Romy wasn’t there. Instead there was a note on the kitchen table. It read:
Sitting in the garden
Listen to the lions roar.
Isn’t Parkview lekker?
She had to smile. As a small child, Romy always said she could hear the lions roaring. Palesa said she was dreaming, the sound didn’t travel that far from the Zoo, but Selwyn backed Romy up. “Elephants too,” he would say. “And hyaenas. What noisy animals,” and Romy would laugh.
What had happened to our happy little family? She decided not to think about it. That was long over.
Romy seemed to have moved out. When Palesa went into her room, she saw her cosmetics gone – those were the first things she looked for – and some of her clothes. OK. Maybe she’ll come back. Or maybe not.
The next note came on WhatsApp:
Dusk is on its way
Time to pour the sundowners
And check the alarms.
Palesa could have WhatsApped back “Where the hell are you?” but she knew this was not the way to deal with the new, independent Romy, whose link to the family seemed to have been seriously frayed by the death of her father.
Instead, she wrote “I love your poetry. What is it?”
There came a long explanation – it was called a haiku and was a Japanese form among many Japanese literary forms Romy had studied at SOAS. She’d fallen in love with the comic-book art called manga, which had led her to Japanese art and literature and the language, which was a major reason she’d gone to SOAS. The private tutor Selwyn had arranged in Johannesburg was only able to take her so far.
“Should I try to write one?” Palesa wrote. And there was silence. DM
Moving On by Barbara Ludman is published by Modjaji Books, 2024