Forgive Me

“You’re not old,” said Nadine.

“Got to pass the torch sometime.”

In the morning, Nadine called the NYU School of Journalism, Padget’s alma mater.

Nadine studied writing, photography, and history at NYU. One of her professors was South African, and she urged Nadine to head to Johannesburg or Cape Town for the summer. “I’d give my arm to go back,” said Renata. “The Young Lions are changing the world. They’re braver–and dumber–than we were.”

Nelson Mandela’s struggle for a nonviolent takeover had come to nothing, Renata explained. Mandela was in prison, and many of his ardent supporters–including Renata, a white journalist who had questioned the mysterious deaths of jailed activists–were dead, missing, or exiled. Black youth, born and bred in the townships that surrounded South Africa’s cities, stripped of rights, material pleasures, and education, had grown up angry. “Their parents were too scared to fight. They had jobs, and they didn’t want to lose them,” said Renata. “But these kids? They’ve got nothing. They don’t have one thing to lose.”

They called themselves the Young Lions, and they were coming of age, embracing violence as a way to take back their county, which had been ruled by whites since 1948. South Africa was going to ignite, Renata said, “like a fucking bomb.

“For God’s sake, they just beat that American boy to death for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I don’t get it,” said Nadine. “I mean, why did they kill him? How could that help anything?”

“It’s the mind-set,” said Renata. “These kids feel like violence is the only way. Maybe they’re right. If they kill people, blow things up, the government will have to take notice. Everyone will stop ignoring apartheid. Jason Irving’s face was on the front page of every paper in the world.”

“But Jason Irving was American. He was teaching in the townships–”

“This isn’t subtle, Nadine. It’s not about thinking actions through. If you see a white person, kill them. If you announce a strike–nobody go to work for the white man–and some people take the train to work, blow up the train. It’s cut-and-dried, desperate. The kids who killed Jason, they had just left a rally. They’d been told to kill. One settler equals one bullet. A simple equation, in a country where there’s no room for nuance.”

“It’s insanity,” said Nadine.

“It’s news” said Renata.

Nadine went to Boston to meet with Eugenia, who was skeptical. “First you ditch me for graduate school,” she said disdainfully, lighting a cigarette in her cluttered office, “and now South Africa? I don’t know, babe. What about Sudan? Starving orphans, Nadine. Hundreds of ‘em. We’ve got Bill there, but you’re better at the misery and death stuff. Hell, Nadine, orphans are your specialty.”

“But I know I could do great work in South Africa,” said Nadine. “My professor, Renata Jorgensen, she fled the country with her notes on Steve Biko–”

“Spare me,” said Eugenia. She touched her springy red curls and then stubbed out her cigarette. “I’ll advance you the plane ticket and one month’s rent. Find something cheap.”

“Thanks, Eugenia. I promise, you’ll be glad.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Eugenia. “Let’s go pig out on pizza.”

From the moment she stepped outside the airport, Nadine was entranced by Cape Town. She loved the way the city wrapped itself around majestic Table Mountain, embracing the peak on three sides and spilling out to Table Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. Sundrenched vineyards climbed the eastern slopes of the mountain, their picturesque wineries wreathed in oak and pine trees.

Nadine took a rare day to herself, heading south of the city, to the Cape of Good Hope, and hiking out to its craggy point. High above two oceans, she breathed deeply. In the nature reserve, she saw a zebra and ostriches. Small but fierce baboons grabbed at the remains of her picnic lunch.

For the first time on assignment, Nadine looked just like the locals around her: black Cape Townians were not allowed in white areas after dark, and Nadine blended in with the white South Africans as she wandered among the Dutch and British colonial buildings, the cathedrals, shops, and the old slave market, now a shady square lined with upscale restaurants. Only Nadine’s American accent gave her away.

Nadine studied guidebooks and maps of the city. A blank section on most maps between the peninsula and the African mainland was designated CAPE FLATS. Nadine knew this bleak place plagued by wind-driven sand was where the city’s millions of non-whites lived. She visited District Six, once a thriving mixed-race neighborhood in one of the most beautiful parts of Cape Town. It had been “bleached” by the government, its buildings bulldozed, its residents sent to the Flats. Now it was a wasteland of rubble, plans for its revival mired in red tape.

Nadine stayed at a hostel on raucous Long Street for a week, examining the classified ads in the white edition of the Cape Argus. She’d heard there was a “native edition,” but no one was selling it on Long Street. Finally, Nadine called the number on an index card tacked to the hallway bulletin board: OBS HOUSE NEEDS ROOMIE. 17 NUTTHALL ROAD. CALL MAXIM AT 448-6363.

She spoke with Maxim, who was short on the phone. “Come see the place,” he said in a strong Afrikaans accent. “Then we can talk,” he said.

Nadine tried to take a bus to Observatory, but all the buses were labeled NON-WHITES ONLY, and the drivers wouldn’t let her on. Finally, she took a taxi to 17 Nutthall Road, a ramshackle house with a sagging front porch. Nadine climbed the steps and pressed the buzzer. Nothing happened. She wiped perspiration from her brow: the southeast wind the guidebooks called “the Cape Doctor” was hot as hell and she was tired. She carried a bulging backpack. Finally, she banged on the door, and it opened. A guy her age stood in front of her, wearing only a towel.

“Uh,” said Nadine, “are you Maxim?”

“No, darling,” said the guy. “I’m George.” He was lean and muscled, his shoulder-length dark hair combed back from his boyish face. Even his accent was charming–almost British, but not quite. Nadine would later learn that he was American: the accent was complete artifice. He held a cigarette. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed one leg over the other. He watched Nadine, a smirk playing across his face.

“Can I have a cigarette?” she asked.

“That depends,” said George.

“On what?”

“Well, who are you?” said George. “And why are you wearing an enormous bag on your shoulders?”

“I’m Nadine Morgan. I’m a journalist, and I need a place to live. I saw the ad and spoke with Maxim.”

“Good enough,” said George, holding his towel while he turned. “Come in,” he called, and Nadine followed him. The floor was cracked linoleum, and the apartment reeked of pot and beer.

“Three bedrooms off the hallway,” said George. “Shared bathroom and kitchen. And one common room.” The apartment was filled with photographs: chilling scenes of beatings and people lying in the street, dead or dying. Peaceful pictures of rolling South African farmland–Maxim’s home, George explained– and a beautiful blonde woman: Maxim’s mother. There were photos of dancers. One girl had her head thrown back in ecstasy, her muscled leg kicking high. The power of her body brought her joy, it was clear. Nadine was unnerved to see a similar facial expression in another photograph: a woman in an angry mob, beating a man to his death.

George walked briskly and turned a doorknob. “My love,” he called, “can you bring a cigarette for my new roommate?”

“Of course,” came a voice from inside the bedroom.

“Um,” said Nadine, “is Maxim here?”

“He’s at work,” said George. “Taking pictures in Cape Flats.”

“And you…”

“Oh, me,” said George, still holding his towel. “I’m waiting tables and writing a novel. It’s terrible. I’m also trying to convince this woman to marry me.” He extended his arm, and a stunning black woman in a gray dress came into the hallway. Her hair was cut short. Unsmiling, she handed a pack of Marlboros to Nadine. With her perfect posture, she seemed six feet tall, though her lips only reached George’s bare shoulder, which she kissed. “Nadine,” said George, “this is Tholakele.”

“Put on some clothing, George,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you, Nadine.”

“Your wish,” said George, touching her hair, “is my command.”

“Do you live here as well?” Nadine asked. Tholakele laughed. “I could go to jail for spending the night,” she said angrily. “Or for loving that boy.”

“Aren’t I worth the price?” said George, coming back into the hallway wearing a terry-cloth robe, his hair in a red rubber band at the nape of his neck.

Tholakele rolled her eyes. “I must get back to work,” she said.

“Thola is a dancer,” said George.

“I am a maid,” said Thola.

“And a maid,” said George, his face darkening.

“Good-bye, new roommate,” said Thola to Nadine, and she walked hand in hand with George to the door, where they kissed chastely. Then Thola opened the door, looking both ways nervously.

“There are men who watch us,” said George simply. Nadine was to find that this was not a paranoid delusion: the government employed security police to keep an eye on questionable liaisons.