A Beautiful Family Read online

  Tracy indicated to Kingmaker to join one of the two long lines that formed a guard of honour across the stony earth. Precious scrambled out of the way, trying to get a good angle as Alan, Yair and Zivah – who now clung to both her father and her brother – walked slowly through, their eyes fixed to the ground. As they passed the end of the lines, they stopped, and the crowd swirled around them.

  Tracy hung back, waiting for the mob to thin. Alan walked off with Zivah. Yair returned to the grave and furiously began to shovel more earth onto it.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said to Kingmaker. ‘Precious, don’t do that.’

  Precious dropped the stone she had picked up off a shiny granite tombstone.

  ‘I’m just trying to clean this up a bit,’ she said. ‘Someone’s gone and put these dirty stones all over this grave. That’s so disrespectful.’

  ‘That’s because that’s what Jews do when we visit someone’s grave. Christians take flowers. We put a stone on the tombstone. No, don’t ask me why,’ she interrupted Kingmaker.

  ‘Stones are cheaper,’ Kingmaker muttered.

  Tracy ignored him and walked towards Yair. He looked up as she approached. Tears were streaming down his face.

  ‘Yair, I’m so sorry. I wish you long life.’ She held out her hand, then dropped it to her side. Stupid. Stupid. Yair was ultra frum now, and strictly observant Jewish men like him didn’t shake hands with women.

  Yair leaned on the spade and smiled bleakly at her. ‘Hello Red,’ he said. ‘Thought I recognised you. Long time, huh? Didn’t expect to see you here, but thanks for coming. I appreciate the support.’

  He remembered her!

  ‘Yeah, long time.’ She smiled back, her heart thumping. He was still absolutely gorgeous. ‘You okay? It must have been a hell of a shock.’

  ‘Yeah. It was. I still can’t believe it, you know. She was so, so... before she died, you know? So together.’ He wiped his eyes.

  ‘How’s your dad holding up? And Zivah?’

  ‘Poor Zivah, she’s taking it really hard, poor kid. I’m not sure she really understood, until today. She kept saying Mom would get better and come home.’

  ‘And your dad?’

  ‘He’s fine – he’s always fine. He’s the great Alan Silverman.’ He turned away and dug the spade viciously into the pile of soil.

  ‘Where’s Aviva?’

  ‘She couldn’t get on a flight. Rabbi Rosenberg wouldn’t delay the funeral any more to wait for her.’

  ‘But she had five days to get here. What did she say? Where is she?’

  He shrugged and carried on shovelling earth into the grave.

  ‘Listen, Yair, I’m really sorry to ask this, but I’m a reporter now, you know? With the Daily Express. Do you know what happened? I mean how your mother… I mean.’ She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Ja, I know.’ Yair’s blue eyes became grey flints and his jaw clenched. ‘My father killed her.’

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘Are you fucking out of your mind?’ Mafuta roared. ‘Are you fucking crazy? You want the Daily Express to be sued? You’d want to get fired? You want to get me fired? That’s Alan Silverman you’re writing about, not some Booysens tow truck driver, you stupid, stupid…’

  Tracy jumped up and glared down at the frothing news editor.

  ‘Listen. I just wrote what Yair told me. He told me his dad killed his mother. No ands, ifs or maybes about it. He said quote, my father killed my mother, end quote. Those were his exact words. You heard him,’ she appealed to Kingmaker.

  ‘I heard him too,’ Precious volunteered.

  ‘I don’t care what Mr Junior Silverman said. I’m not going to publish the accusations of a crazy, spoilt brat. You hear me, T.T.? For all I know, Junior was as high as a kite. When he says the same thing at the inquest, in open court, under oath – then you can write it. But for now, just give me a fucking straight story.’

  Mafuta collapsed back into his chair, his shirt buttons straining to contain his heaving belly.

  She looked appealingly at Kingmaker, who shrugged.

  ‘You heard the man,’ Kingmaker said. ‘Straight.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Precious. ‘You heard. You gotta write it straight away.’

  Tracy returned to her desk, slammed her fingers onto the keyboard, and typed:

  [HEADLINE] BRENDA SILVERMAN BURIED

  By Daily Express reporter

  Mrs Brenda Silverman (44), wife of Johannesburg property tycoon, Alan Silverman, was laid to rest in a traditional service at Johannesburg’s West Park Jewish Cemetery yesterday.

  Mrs Silverman was found dead in her bedroom at the family’s plush northern suburbs home five days ago. While foul play is not officially suspected, the results of an autopsy have not yet been made public.

  Yesterday’s funeral was one of the largest ever seen at West Park Cemetery, with many of the country’s leading businessmen among the pallbearers. It was also attended by the cream of Johannesburg’s Jewish community, including the Chief Rabbi, the head of the Beth Din – the Jewish Ecclesiastical Court – and the president of the South African Zionist Federation.

  Mr Silverman was accompanied by his son, Yair (23), and younger daughter, Zivah, who turned 18 the day after her mother died. Aviva Silverman (23), Yair’s twin, didn’t attend. The Daily Express understands that she lives overseas and was unable to get on a flight to South Africa in time for the funeral.

  Rabbi Jonathan Rosenberg, who led the service, said Mrs Silverman had been a loving wife and a good mother who was well respected in the community.

  As is traditional in religious Jewish circles, prayers will be held every evening for a week at the Silverman home.

  Ends.

  She read over her story. There. Couldn’t get blander or straighter than that. Mafuta couldn’t complain now – but… She chewed some ragged cuticle skin as she walked over to Kingmaker’s desk.

  ‘Something’s not kosher with this whole story.’

  Kingmaker nodded. ‘I’ve been trying to get comment from some of Silverman’s BEE associates as well as some other ANC people and all I’m getting is crap – so sorry she died so young, heart-breaking for Silverman, an icon of the struggle who continues to make such a valuable contribution to the upliftment of the people, yadda, yadda, yadda. So why didn’t any of them go to the funeral?’

  ‘Yeah. And where’s Aviva? Why didn’t she come? Alan Silverman could have hired – no, he could have bought – a bloody airbus to bring her back from wherever she is. I wonder if they even know, because Yair didn’t say when I asked him. I’m going to fish around a bit more. I’m going to prayers tonight. Wanna come?’

  ‘Nah, I’d stick out like a bruised thumb. You go – see if you can get anything more from your old boyfriend – Red?’ Kingmaker grinned as she flushed.

  ***

  Just after six, Tracy turned Buttercup through the open security boom and rattled up the road towards the Silverman house. Cars lined the jacaranda-lined street, so she parked and walked the three long blocks to the white-walled mansion. Dozens of people walked up the road with her and turned in at the Silvermans’ gate. This time, the guard didn’t stop anyone, not even the group of black women whose taxi had dropped them right at the gate.

  Inside the house, sheets had been draped over the gilt-framed mirrors and paintings. The huge room where Yair’s Barmitzvah party had been held was devoid of furniture once again, except for a small table covered in a white cloth, bearing two gleaming silver candlesticks and a large, thick memorial candle, set against the far window. Alongside was a long, low bench on which Alan Silverman and Yair sat ramrod straight. Zivah wilted between them.

  Tracy hung back in the double volume entrance hall, her eyes scanning the faces of new arrivals, storing away names of the rich, the famous and – in one or two instances – the infamous. She thought she saw that ANC MP woman with the fancy double-barrel surname, but she wasn’t sure it was her. Apart from the women who had arrived in the taxi and were
hanging around at the back of the crowd, there was just a sprinkling of black faces, but she didn’t recognise any of them. Damn Kingmaker for not coming. He knew everyone.

  ‘We are about to start. Will the men please come forward,’ Rabbi Rosenberg called.

  Alan and Yair stood and joined the throng of men. Zivah remained on the bench. Tracy moved back to join the crowd of women spilling out of the main room into the entrance hall. She watched as the men chanted together, occasionally taking a step or two forward, then back, then praying silently and, once or twice, thumping themselves on their chest over their hearts.

  She didn’t bother to follow the service in the slim little book she had been handed as she entered the house. She wasn’t there to pray. Neither, it seemed, were many of the women who whispered quietly to each other. Two young women were complaining about the umpire in a school cricket game; an elderly woman, who leaned heavily on a stick, and her daughter – was it her daughter? – were arguing quietly about which delicatessen made the best chopped liver. She clearly preferred Feigel’s, while her daughter was in favour of DJ’s.

  Tracy examined the room. Ten years ago, she’d stood in almost this exact spot for the most miserable few hours of her life.

  It had taken all her courage to walk up the long driveway alone. Sarah had gone away to Umhlanga with her family for the weekend. She had wanted a blow by blow account of the great event at school on Monday. It had been even worse than she had anticipated. She spent most of the night nursing her cream soda, slouched against the wall, hoping against hope that Yair would ask her to dance. She couldn’t see him anywhere. She was too afraid to help herself to the schwamas and hamburgers in the dining room. No one spoke to her. Aviva barely acknowledged her when she handed her Yair’s present to put somewhere safe. A lot of the kids were dancing to the disco in the big room on the right. No one asked her to dance. She hadn’t really expected anyone to – she towered over all the boys, except Yair. Then she saw fat Joshua who was as much of a misfit as she was, making a bee-line for her, clearly intent on asking her to dance. And it was a slow dance too. She fled down the passage and scooted through a door, into the kitchen. Brenda Silverman was there, a wine glass in her hand. ‘Toilet’s that way, sweetie. Or you can use one of the bathrooms upstairs.’ Upstairs seemed like a safer option. She bolted up the stairs and opened the first door. Yair and several boys and girls were lolling on the double bed, smoking. Empty bottles littered the thick grey carpet.

  ‘Hey Carrots, join us,’ one of the boys said. ‘You can be our totem pole.’ The other kids sniggered. They may as well have screamed with laughter. She turned and ran, down the stairs, across the enormous entrance hall, out the front door, pausing only to say ‘Thank you for having me’ to Mr Silverman who was standing on the front porch with Aviva.

  She hid in the shadows next to the guard house, jealously watching Aviva and her father until Maxine came to fetch her at 11pm. Maxine had even thanked her for being punctual. If she had only known.

  ***

  Tracy wondered what had happened to Joshua. She’d heard his family had emigrated to Australia.

  One of the taxi women bumped into her and quickly apologised. ‘Did you know Brenda Silverman well?’ Tracy whispered.

  ‘We are going to miss MaBrenda.’ Tears ran down her nutella cheeks. ‘We don’t know how we will keep the studio going. Eish, it’s too sad.’

  ‘Studio? Where?’

  ‘Our studio, the best studio in Alex. Eish, eish, eish.’

  ‘Here.’ Tracy handed the woman a tissue and her card. ‘Phone me. I’d like to come and see your studio. Maybe I can help.’

  The woman tucked the card into her bra.

  ‘Amen,’ the rabbi sang.

  Prayer books were closed and everyone filed past the Silvermans, who were once again ensconced on the bench. The taxi group left.

  Tracy waited until the crowd thinned, then made her way over to the family.

  ‘I wish you long life, Mr Silverman,’ she said. She remembered not to extend her hand.

  He nodded, staring through her. Then he flushed as recognition dawned, and he stood up.

  ‘You’re that reporter. I saw you this morning at the cemetery.’ His voice shook. ‘Can’t you vultures leave me and my family alone at a time like this?’

  She stepped back as he raised his hand to wipe his eyes. ‘I’m really sorry, Mr Silverman. Yes, I am a reporter, but I was at school with Yair and I just wanted to pay my respects.’

  ‘Leave Red alone, Dad.’ Yair looked exhausted. ‘She’s an old friend and…’

  ‘She’s a reporter. And being a friend of yours doesn’t mean she’s welcome in my house. You, Miss…’

  ‘Jacobs. I’m Tracy Jacobs.’

  ‘Well, Miss Jacobs. My family and I thank you for your concern. But please leave and I’d appreciate it if you don’t come back.’

  Shocked, she backed away, and looked helplessly at Yair. He shook his head at her and mouthed “I’ll phone you” before slumping down on the bench. Zivah continued to stare sightlessly ahead. Tracy, her cheeks aflame, made her way out the front door and down the long drive to the street. She switched on her cell phone and called Kingmaker.

  ‘Alan Silverman just threw me out. I couldn’t get near Yair, but he said he’d call me. He doesn’t have my cell number, so he’ll probably phone the office in the morning.’

  CHAPTER 5

  By midday, Yair still hadn’t called. Tracy took a deep breath, wiped her sweating palms on her jeans and phoned the Silverman house.

  ‘Sorry, Yair’s not here,’ said the maid.

  Tracy exhaled slowly. ‘Please will you tell him that Red called?’

  ‘Yes. But I not know when. The master say Mr Yair gone away. Hold on and I’ll call the master – or Miss Zivah?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  She replaced the receiver thoughtfully. What the hell was going on? You didn’t only not go out in the week of Shivah, you certainly didn’t travel.

  Kingmaker was out, so she walked down the corridor to Thomas Gray’s office and stuck her head around the door.

  ‘You busy?’

  ‘Never too busy for you, Tracy. Just trying to find something nice to say about “Mad Buddies” without being condescending. Inspire me, please.’

  Tracy laughed. She dumped the pile of Village Voices and Rolling Stones off the lumpy armchair onto the floor, and curled herself into it.

  ‘So, you’re a secret snob, Thomas.’ She always called him Thomas, never Tom. Just as he never called her anything but Tracy. He had once asked her if Tracy was short for Theresa, as he felt that Theresa would be more appropriate for the future editor of The Times – London, not South Africa. She’d blushed, but he’d said he could see she had enormous potential and predicted a great journalistic future for her. It sustained her when Mafuta was being more of a bastard than usual.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘I just wanted to bounce this story off you. There’s something not right about it, but maybe it’s all in my mind.’

  Thomas listened attentively, as he always did when she invaded his space to pick his brain.

  ‘So,’ she concluded, ‘he’s a good-looking, ultra-smooth creep who probably inherited his daddy’s millions and now thinks he’s better than anyone else. Even his son hates him.’

  ‘What’s the problem, Tracy? Are you pissed because he threw you out of his house? I would have done exactly the same. The poor man has just lost his wife, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t have to be so damn rude, so bloody arrogant. I know his type. He’s…’

  ‘He’s what? He’s rich? He has it all – or had it all? He’s Jewish? He could be your father?’

  Her mouth opened in protest. ‘That’s not fair, Thomas. I told you about my dad in confidence.’

  ‘And I haven’t broken that confidence, my dear. But you can’t hold your father against every rich, good-looking, Jewish middle-aged man.
’

  ‘Not every good-looking, middle-aged man. I like you.’

  ‘I’m not Jewish. And I’m definitely not rich. And, of course, you don’t really think of me as a man at all, do you? Not a man like Alan Silverman.’

  She felt her face burn. ‘I’ve never said you’re gay.’

  ‘No, you haven’t – you’re far too PC for that. But you think I’m gay, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, everyone says…’

  ‘I know. I’m your stereotypical gay, right? I don’t swear and fart, I’d rather savour a good Chardonnay than swill a beer, I like arty movies and the opera, I wear well-cut, good quality clothes and, oh my God, I actually have my nails manicured. I’ve even gone for a facial a few times – with my wife.’

  ‘You’re married?’ She cringed at the surprise in her voice.

  ‘For the past twenty years. You’ve sat in this office talking to me, how many times? Who did you think was in this photograph?’

  She looked at the attractive blonde woman and two teenage boys in the silver frame and squirmed.

  ‘I dunno. I always thought it was your sister, or something?’

  ‘My wife, and our sons. You never asked, but don’t feel bad. There are people here I’ve worked with for years and they’ve also never asked, because they just presume they know who and what I am.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tracy said.

  ‘I’m not blaming you, my dear. I’m just trying to make a point.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Think very hard about what it is about the Silverman story that gets you so stirred up. I’m not saying Alan Silverman is innocent – I don’t know the man at all. But don’t let your prejudices shape the story.’

  ‘I’m not prejudiced.’

  ‘Are you sure? Prejudice can be a very dangerous thing – it can make you see things that are not there and blind you to what is. It can make you reduce people to stereotypes – me. Your father. Alan Silverman.’ He paused and then added, ‘Now go get the real story.’