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A Beautiful Family
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A Beautiful Family
Marilyn Cohen de Villiers
© 2014 Marilyn Cohen de Villiers
First edition 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.
A Beautiful Family is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance of the characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by the author using Reach Publishers’ services
P O Box 1348, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631
Edited by Vanessa Finaughty for Reach Publishers
Cover design by Francois Engelbrecht
Website: www.marilyncohendevilliers.co.za
Email: [email protected]
Contents
PART 1 TRACY
CHAPTER 1 Johannesburg, 2012
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
PART 2 ANNETTE
CHAPTER 1 London, 1985
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4 London, 1988
PART 3 BRENDA
CHAPTER 1 Israel, 1985
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4 London, 1985
CHAPTER 5 London, 1989
CHAPTER 6
PART 4 BEN
CHAPTER 1 London, 2012
CHAPTER 2 London, 1985
CHAPTER 3 London, 1988/89
CHAPTER 4
PART 5 ALAN
CHAPTER 1 Israel, 1985
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
PART 6 ANNETTE
CHAPTER 1 London, 1989
CHAPTER 2 London, 1990
CHAPTER 3 London, 1992
PART 7 BEN
CHAPTER 1 London, 1989
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3 London, 1994
PART 8 TRACY
CHAPTER 1 Johannesburg, 2012
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
PART 9 BRENDA
CHAPTER 1 London, 1989
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5 London, 1993
CHAPTER 6 Johannesburg, 1995
CHAPTER 7 Johannesburg, 1999
CHAPTER 8 Johannesburg, 2005
PART 10 ALAN
CHAPTER 1 Johannesburg, 2012
CHAPTER 2 England, 1988
CHAPTER 3 London, 1990
CHAPTER 4 London, 1994
CHAPTER 5 Johannesburg, 2012
PART 11 YAIR
CHAPTER 1 Johannesburg, 2012
CHAPTER 2 Johannesburg, 2004
CHAPTER 3 Johannesburg, 2008
CHAPTER 4 Johannesburg, 2009
CHAPTER 5 Johannesburg, 2012
CHAPTER 1 Johannesburg, 2012
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
EPILOGUE AVIVA
Author’s Notes and Acknowledgements
Glossary
‘Do not go about spreading slander among your people’ Leviticus 19:16
PART 1
TRACY
CHAPTER 1
Johannesburg, 2012
‘Hey... T.T.’
Tracy looked across the newsroom at Tshepo Buthelezi, the burly political editor.
‘Hey, T.T. Come here.’
She frowned. She hated her newsroom nickname. It had been bestowed on her – quite maliciously, she suspected – by the news editor, Prince Tshukudu, almost as soon as she’d introduced herself.
‘So,’ he’d sneered, staring at her chest before looking up at her face. ‘They finally found someone to tick as many of our employment equity boxes as possible in one skinny package. Female, tick; white, tick; a religious minority – you’re Jewish, aren’t you?’
She’d nodded, startled at being so quickly, and easily, identified.
‘So, Jewish, tick. Disabled, tick.’ He’d giggled, indicating her glasses. ‘You a lesbian?’
She’d gaped.
‘Well, are you?’ he’d demanded. ‘If you are, we can tick the sexual orientation box too... No? Too bad. Thought you’d be company for Thomas. Oh well, they haven’t done too badly with their token appointment this time. Four out of five ticks should be great for our equity scorecard. Hey, everyone,’ he’d yelled out to the newsroom, ‘meet Tracy, our new token.’
That had been nearly four months ago and the stupid name had stuck. Token Tracy – T.T. for short. It didn’t make it any better that most of her new colleagues also had nicknames. Prince – Mafuta to his subordinates – called Tshepo ‘the Nigerian’, either because of his dark complexion or to cast aspersions on his honesty; Tracy wasn’t sure. His more respectful colleagues called him Kingmaker because of his reputed influence in the highest echelons in the ruling African National Congress.
Now Kingmaker asked her, ‘You know a dude called Alan Silverman?’
She shook her head.
‘You must know him – he’s Jewish.’
‘So are fifty thousand or so other people in Johannesburg.’
‘Oh don’t be such a smartarse.’
Tracy bristled, and then grinned at him. He was a good guy, Kingmaker, even if he teased her all the time. It was all good natured fun and, anyway, he was one of the few in the newsroom who bothered to speak to her, notwithstanding that she was, after all, just a novice.
‘How come you don’t know him? He’s apparently a main man among your people,’ Kingmaker said.
‘They’re not “my people”. And I suppose you know every Zulu – or Nigerian – in Jo’burg too.’
‘Sho – you are being cheeky today, aren’t you?’
‘Sorry. Okay, I know of him. Who doesn’t? I went to school with his kids.’
‘And?’ Kingmaker waited.
‘And nothing. All I know about him is that he’s rich. They say he donates a whack of money – anonymously, of course – to the Chev every year.’
Kingmaker raised his eyebrows.
‘The Chev. You know – the Chevrah Kadisha – the Jewish Helping Hand Society. It’s the main Jewish charity organisation. For Jews, by Jews.’
‘I didn’t think you Jews needed charity.’
‘Very funny.’ Tracy sniffed, pretending to be annoyed.
‘Silverman?’ Kingmaker asked.
‘I’ve never actually met him, not properly.’
‘You sure? What about his wife?’
‘Nah. Mrs Silverman was never around much at school. She certainly never stooped to help out in the tuck shop like the other moms. I saw her last week, though, at Moo-z bakery in the Sandringham strip, opposite Sandringham Gardens – the Jewish old age home. There’s a whole bunch of kosher shops there and she was shopping for bagels and cheese cake. Not that she ever eats them, I shouldn’t think – she’s skinny as a rake. And dressed to kill. Anyway, why’re you so interested? Jewish high society’s hardly your beat. I’d have thought you’d be more into Mrs Sexwale and Mrs Ramaphosa... and Mrs... the one married to that mega rich oke – Patrick something...?’
‘Patrice. Patrice Motsepe.
Anyway, I can’t tell you what’s going on, but something is. I’m hearing the name Alan Silverman a lot lately. There’s talk – totally off the record, of course – that he’s been spreading his generosity around a hell of a lot more than before. They say he’s trying to buy his way back into ANC inner circles now that Thabo has gone... and with the ANC’s National Conference coming up in December. Anyway, he needs watching. ’
‘Ja, of course he does.’ Tracy dripped sarcasm. ‘He’s Jewish; he’s white; he’s rich – he must be up to something.’ She widened her eyes, put her finger over her lips and whispered, ‘Shh. He’s probably involved in a Zionist plot to get all the Muslims out of government and replace them with Jews. Think what that would do to our foreign policy towards Israel.’
Kingmaker laughed. ‘We’re more likely to see Thabo back on the throne.’
Tracy relented. ‘Look, if you like, I’ll ask my mom to keep an eye out for any stories about the über-rich, gorgeous Silvermans in the Jewish Voice. Okay? But it will probably only be society stuff – although, if I remember correctly, Mr Silverman won the Jewish Businessman of the Year Award a couple of years ago. I think. I’m not really into that sort of thing.’
***
A few weeks later, Kingmaker waved at Tracy from Mpho, the crime reporter’s, desk.
‘I knew it. I knew it. I told you... I told you something was going to happen with your people,’ Kingmaker said triumphantly as she made her way across the newsroom to the window behind the big TV stand. Mpho spent a lot of time gazing out at the brick wall of the neighbouring building as he chatted on the phone to his many and varied sources.
‘I don’t have any “people”,’ Tracy said.
‘Tell her, Mpho.’
Mpho was irritated. ‘It’s just another dead body in Jozi. Even the gated, leafy suburbs get them occasionally. Anyway, you know you’re not supposed to read my notes over my shoulder,’ he whined at Kingmaker. ‘This isn’t a fucking story. Fourteen thousand people are murdered in South Africa every year. And they’re not even sure this is a murder. It’s just some dead white lady.’
‘Not just any lady – one of the chosen,’ Kingmaker said.
‘Who’s dead?’
‘A Mrs Brenda Silverman,’ Mpho said. ‘Found dead in her bed this morning. No big deal….’
‘Alan Silverman’s wife? Shit! She wasn’t very old. How did she die?’ Tracy asked.
‘No idea,’ Mpho replied, and then looked down at his Rolex. ‘Look, you’re not busy with anything, are you? You can handle it. I’ve got a really important meeting across the road with a source about a big corruption story I’m working on.’
Tracy hesitated. She still had to finish the story Mafuta had gleefully assigned to her that morning – the outbreak of lice at a suburban nursery school. The white parents were blaming the black children while the black parents said… well, that was the problem; she hadn’t managed to speak to any black parents.
She was also waiting for someone from the Health Department as well as the Education Department to get back to her with answers to her questions about the prevalence of lice in Johannesburg schools – but she wasn’t holding her breath. She’d be lucky if they responded in the next month – probably with a comment that “this information is extremely sensitive and, therefore, cannot be made public”. Translated, it meant they didn’t have a clue. However, good journalist that she aspired to be, she was willing to go through the motions. Still, this could be her first big story. Brenda Silverman dead! Wow.
‘Go, go, go,’ Kingmaker said. ‘I’ll tell Mafuta and the editor I said you should go – the body being Jewish and everything.’
She weighed up her options. The bloody lice story would probably be spiked, but Mafuta would scream and yell if she failed to submit it. Or she could follow up on a possible murder of a relatively prominent person. She grabbed her bag and tatty shorthand notebook and loped down the corridor to the photographers’ office. No one there. Typical.
She hurried to the pub in the local brothel across the road. Three of her reporter colleagues and a couple of photographers looked at her impassively, then turned their attention back to their beers and the replay of an old Kaiser Chiefs-Pirates game on the flickering TV in the corner.
‘Got a possible murder – body’s still at the scene,’ Tracy announced. ‘Who’s coming with me?’
No one moved. Then Precious sighed, picked up her camera bag and followed her back across the road and into the car pool office.
After yet another altercation with the car pool manager over the correct documentation required to get a car – they had at least one run-in every day – Tracy took her beloved Buttercup that she’d bought just last month from Preloved Cars in Jules Street. Only 120,000 kilometres on the clock, just one old lady driver and an absolute bargain, the salesman – being a second-hand car salesman – had lied.
‘Are we going to Jewish?’ Precious asked as Buttercup crawled down Death Bend on Louis Botha Avenue.
Minibus taxis flew past, clearly not at all daunted by the name of that particular stretch of the notorious road, tearing through the traffic to get from Hillbrow to Alexandra Township as quickly as possible.
‘Jewish?’
‘You know. Jewish. My mother works in Jewish – at Mr Greenberg’s house. I usually take the taxi to Alex to get there when I go visit her. I get off in Jewish.’
‘There’s no such place as Jewish,’ Tracy snorted. ‘Is that what you call this area? That’s so funny. I grew up near here. We still live here – although obviously not in the same suburb as the Silvermans.’
CHAPTER 2
Tracy waited as the taxi that had cut her off at the traffic light trundled across the busy intersection. She followed it impatiently into Hathorn Avenue and slammed on brakes as the taxi stopped dead in its tracks to drop off a passenger. Fuming, she manhandled Buttercup around the minibus and headed towards Sandringham.
She pondered the angle to take on the story. Mpho had said that the cops had told him that they weren’t sure if there had been any foul play. However, there had to have been. Brenda Silverman wasn’t very old. She was probably younger than her mom, Maxine. The Silverman family had apparently first called Hatzollah, the Jewish paramedics, and the armed response – and only then did someone think to call the cops.
Tracy drove through high-walled, Jacaranda-lined streets and finally drew to a stop at a security boom where she had to argue with the guard about signing a register before being allowed through. Shit, he was stubborn. So she signed the book “Minnie Mouse, 011 555 6789”. The guard studied her entry dubiously, then painstakingly copied her car registration number next to her scrawled signature.
She gunned Buttercup through the boom, bounced over the traffic calming bumps and wound her way through the quiet, shady streets, stopping outside an imposingly large house with a very high white wall.
She extricated herself from the car and strode towards a pair of high, intricately designed wrought iron gates. Precious scrambled after her. A uniformed man emerged from the guardhouse.
‘You not allowed here. Go away.’ He walked threateningly towards them.
Precious shrank back.
‘This is a public pavement and a public street. I can be here. I want to speak to Mr Silverman.’ Tracy heard her voice tremble. Just a little.
A big black 4x4 vehicle loomed up. Two large, black, heavily armed private security men emerged. ‘You not allowed here.’ They cradled their automatic rifles in their arms. ‘Go.’
Precious turned, as if to run. Tracy grabbed her arm and stood her ground. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I have as much right to be here as you do.’
One guard spoke into his radio and glared at her. Tracy glared back. The pedestrian gate at the side of the wrought iron driveway gates opened and a police officer approached them.
Tracy held out her press card for his inspection. ‘Tracy Jacobs. Daily Express. I’d like to go in and speak to Mr Silverman.’
‘The family’s traumatised enough. Leave them alone,’ the officer said. ‘All I can tell you at this stage is that Mrs Silverman was found this morning, in her bedroom. That’s it. There’ll be an autopsy and probably an inquest to determine the cause of death. You can stand out here if you must, but go through these gates, and I’ll arrest you.’
***
Tracy looked down the long driveway to the white, double-storey Georgian house. It didn’t look as if it had changed at all from the night of Yair’s Barmitzvah party. Jeez, that was ten years ago already.
‘Wonder what that house is like inside,’ Precious said. ‘It’s much fancier than Mr Greenberg’s.’
‘It’s huge, a bit like a hotel.’
‘You been in there?’ Precious’ eyes were enormous. ‘You didn’t say you were friends with them.’
‘I’m not. I just went there once, for Yair – the son’s – Barmitzvah party. A long time ago.’
She had been surprised, and bloody thrilled, to receive her invitation, because she hadn’t thought Yair Silverman knew she existed. She hadn’t told her mom when she’d found out that the entire Grade 8 year – all two hundred kids – had also been invited. Maxine had been so excited that her daughter was going to be mixing in Silverman circles. She had dragged Tracy to the hairdresser that morning to try to get some of the frizz out of her hair, and had even let her wear some make-up to cover her freckles. But Tracy had drawn the line at the pretty pink dress Maxine had wanted to buy for her. Her mom was always trying to dress her in pink.
***
At the sound of the gates opening, Tracy looked up. A large black Mercedes, escorted by three police vehicles with flashing blue lights, shot out. The convoy turned right and wailed away.
‘Hey, did you see who that was?’
Precious shook her braids.
‘I swear that was that new MEC. What’s his name again? Sipho something... Sipho Mphahlale. What the fuck was he doing here? Did you get a pic?’