Read Online The Disappeared by Vernon William Baumann - Free Book Online Page B

light. Even from here she could hear slivers of
conversation in several languages; loud rapacious laughter; catcalls and
jeering; wolf whistles; and the never-ending blare of car horns, revving
engines and slamming doors. This was downtown Johannesburg. This was her home.
    Jump. And it
will all be over.
    The girl
touched the lower part of her abdomen. She could feel the bitter flat emptiness
that now occupied that part of her body. Sometimes she could feel the phantom
shape curled up inside her. And sometimes. When her mind grew still and she
focused on it. Her hand could imagine an extended tummy. And tracing with
delicate fingers she could just barely feel the blurry outline of a tiny thing.
    But now. There
was just a sucking vacuum. A dark hole inside her.
    She looked
down onto the street. From this height there were no faces. No smells. Only the
swirling chaos of street life. It was a thousand pinpoints of consciousness
forming ever-altering constellations of movement against the darkness of black
streets. And she was a fading star. Adrift in a lost orbit. A thousand
light-years above everyone.
    She
shuffled forward. Soon she would be a falling star; extinguished in a shower of
crimson sparks against the black void of Johannesburg.
    The girl
held out her arms – a bird with broken wings – crucified against the skyline of
a dark city.
    Yes. Now ...
    ‘Don’t.’
    A voice.
    It was such
a soft gentle admonition. A statement of such blatant obviousness that the girl
froze. Unsure whether she had heard anything at all. She twirled around almost
losing her balance.
    The white woman
was standing at the entrance to the little roof-housing. Behind her was the
open door that led to the eighth floor of the 4-Ways Hotel below.
    The old white
woman looked familiar. Yes. The girl had seen her before. Yes. She was always
amongst the Christian missionaries – or whatever they called themselves – who
came to the dirty streets of Johannesburg to save souls. Or bug people. Depending
on how you looked at it. ‘Turd flies’, as Sizwe used to call them. Yes. She was
sure. That’s who she was.
    ‘What do
you want?’ The woman didn’t say a word. She just stood there. The girl saw that
she was holding a Bible, clasped in hands, folded in front of her. Yes. The old
woman was definitely one of them. The Turd Flies. Suddenly she wondered how
long the old white woman had been standing there. She wondered how much the old
woman had seen of her sad, pathetic one-woman show.
    The girl
felt a hot flush of resentment. Who the hell did this old woman think she
was? How dare she come here and make a ‘project’ of me? If she wanted to
drain herself of white guilt she would have to go somewhere else.
    ‘What do
you want? Leave me alone.’ The old woman didn’t speak. Instead she looked at
the young girl with an undefined softness in her eyes. It wasn’t judgement. It
wasn’t compassion. The girl felt naked. Exposed. Anger flushed her cheeks. ‘I
don’t want you here. Can’t you understand me?
    The old
woman’s expression remained unchanged. To the girl’s extreme consternation she
turned her eyes towards the night sky as if she hadn’t heard a single word. She
walked forward and sat on the very ledge from which the girl had planned to
launch herself. The girl stared down in disbelief at the white woman who was
making herself comfortable. The woman folded her dress underneath her and
adjusted her ample behind on the narrow ledge. She placed the Bible – a thick
black leather-bound book – next to her. The girl stared at the black book in puzzlement.
She turned her eyes from the book to the old woman who was still staring at the
night sky.
    ‘Listen,
old woman, I don’t want you here. Don’t you dare ignore me or treat me like a
servant-’
    ‘Such a
beautiful night, don’t you think?’
    ‘Fuck you!’
She was not going to put up with this. No way! She jumped from the ledge and
walked towards the roof-housing and the open