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“Who’s currently cleaning the house?”
Marie looks at me as if I asked her for a gold coin. “A cleaning service. I presume since you’re here, they’ll be fired.”
Poor people. They’re going to lose a big contract, but at least they’re free.
At a wooden door with an intricate carving, she stops. “This is his bedroom. Next door is Miss Carly’s. Mr. Louw’s mother is at the opposite end.”
She knocks on Miss Carly’s door and opens it without waiting for a reply.
A girl of about sixteen lies on her stomach on the bed. The room is one of the prettiest I’ve seen. It’s decorated in blue with whitewashed furniture.
“Carly,” Marie says, “this is Valentina. She’s the new live-in.”
Carly lifts her head to look me up and down before burying her face in her iPad again.
“His daughter,” Marie says, closing the door. She lowers her voice. “She sometimes lives with her mom, but she’s mostly here.”
So, Gabriel and Carly’s mom are separated or divorced.
We explore the house until we end up back in the kitchen. Only the kitchen is surgical white. It’s not a room the inhabitants of the house live in. There’s no breakfast nook, books, or flowers, not a trace of warmth. It’s a functional room equipped for the staff. This is where Marie pauses the longest to show me the adjoining scullery where they keep the household appliances and a fridge for the staff.
“You can keep your food here,” Marie says. “The one in the pantry is only for the family.”
Cleaning products are neatly stacked on the shelves on the wall. Everything is tidy and in its place. At least there are a state-of-the-art vacuum cleaner and washing machine to work with.
“Do you know how to operate these?” Marie points at the washing machine and tumble dryer.
I nod, even if I don’t. I washed our clothes in the bathtub, but how difficult can it be to figure out a washing machine?
“The washing has to be sun-dried,” Marie explains, “unless it rains. Mrs. Louw doesn’t believe in wasting electricity.”
From the scullery, a door leads to the maid quarters. This is where I’ll be sleeping for the next nine years. I put my head around the frame. The room is small, the double bed taking up most of the space, but the cream-colored carpet is clean, and the mattress looks new. The paint is white, and there are no foul smells or damp to darken the walls. A connecting door gives access to a small bathtub with a shower nozzle fitted inside, a basin, and toilet. It’s much better than what I’m used to. There are no linen or towels, and I didn’t bring any, but I don’t ask.
“Well,” Marie dusts her hands, “I’ll let you get on with it. Your uniforms will arrive later. For now, you’ll have to work like this.” She gives my legs a disapproving look.
“Can I have my phone?”
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Louw about that.”
The minute she’s gone, I use the bathroom to splash water on my face. The enormity of the situation pushes down on my chest. I can’t breathe. Needing air, I open the window, letting the breeze on my wet cheeks cool me. From here, I have a view over an enclosed courtyard. There’s a circular clothesline in the center and a wheelbarrow pushed up against the wall. Through the open door giving access to the backyard, the blue water of a pool is visible.
Since I don’t know how to go about my new job with the massive size of the house, I decide to dive into the deep end and swim. It’s an approach that always works for me. For the next few hours, I work out a plan of action as I go, starting with laundry and dusting, then vacuuming and finally washing the floors and windows. My mind is filled with Charlie and Puff, and even if I can’t fight my tears, I can hide them while I bend my head over the mop. As I mourn for Puff, I let my hate for Gabriel and the guy who shot him ripen. The only ray of hope in this nightmare is that today is Wednesday. On Sunday, I’ll see Charlie.
* * *
In the late afternoon, Gabriel summons me to the reading room. Stepping inside, I’m taken aback by the presence of an elderly man dressed in a Mandela style shirt and chinos.
Gabriel turns to me. “This is Dr. Samuel Engelbrecht. He’s going to take a blood sample and examine you.”
I look between the men. “What for?”
Gabriel ignores my question. “Are you on birth control?”
The wind is knocked out of me by the implication of the question, even if I expected it as an inevitable part of the deal I’d made. If the doctor recognizes the shock on my face, he doesn’t acknowledge it.
