The Water Man's Daughter Read Online Free PDF

reading for class. His wife is there too, rubbing his shoulders before ushering him out the door. Peter thinks once more of Claire laughing, feeling the calm it brings. Five more days and he will be on a plane back to Toronto and his family in his clean house that is always just the right temperature.
    He walks very slowly down the last flight of stairs to the meeting. The man who must be the senior city councillor is sitting at the head of the table already. His suit is patched and has a little ring of dust around the cuffs of the jacket and pants. He has a beard, curled close to his skin, and small eyes set deep in his huge bald head.
    “Mr. Matshikwe.” He holds thick fingers out to Peter.
    “Peter Matthews.” Peter shakes his hand and sits down. He does not try to repeat the man’s name, stopped trying years ago. African names are impossible. The table is almost full, men tucked into corner seats, all wearing mismatched suits with dust rings. Mr. M., his name shortened in Peter’s head immediately, is the only one with a beard.
    Alvin Dadoo is smiling widely. Peter is glad to see a familiar face, even if Alvin’s polite and accommodating nature tests Peter’s patience. Alvin doesn’t mean to be a nuisance. His obsequious demeanour covers a backbone Peter respects. The two men have been close at times, even though it is a closeness born of too many harrowing days spent tracking their way through the parts of South Africa any sensible executive avoids. Alvin isn’t sensible, and neither is Peter. That is why they are both so good at their jobs. But at the end of the day, Alvin is a babysitter, and so he must smile and nod and pretend agreement when men like Peter are around. More often than not, Peter is gripped with the urge to shake the pleasantries out of the small Indian man now standing next to him, to have just one real conversation.
    The meeting begins slowly, constant translation whispers in the background as the black men huddle around one another. Peter waits for Alvin to make the introductory remarks.
    “Gentlemen, as you know, we are here today to discuss the unfortunate recent incidents of sabotage of our water distribution system. Despite our efforts to disseminate accurate information, we have yet to convey to the local population the necessity for our services. In other words, they still aren’t pleased about having to pay for water services, and, despite the improvements we have brought to the system, many hold on to a misplaced nostalgia for the substandard water service we had under Apartheid. Efforts to convince local leadership otherwise have failed.” Alvin pauses and looks directly at the councillor. For just a second, annoyance peeks through Alvin’s formal exterior. He explains how even this morning they discovered that Phiri’s most recent infrastructure upgrade was undone last night by what must have been a crew of villagers armed with old shovels and flashlights. No police presence was requested to protect the asset.
    “They were very busy, sir, the police,” Mr. M. interrupts. “There are only ten officers for the entire area, including the informal settlement. And they have only two cars.”
    “I understand that, Mr. Matshikwe,” Alvin snaps back, “but their negligence cost our office an extra 60,000 rand. Perhaps police presence through the night would have been a better investment?”
    Peter sees Mr. M. open his mouth to retort. His neighbourtouches his arm, a gesture to calm him down, and so Mr. M. sulks instead. He knits hit forehead and glares at Alvin.
    Peter is used to this kind of tension at meetings and, as the regional director, it is his job to sweep in and resolve the impasses when negotiations with local politicians have broken down. He prepares to be authoritative.
    “And why,” Peter interjects, his voice cold and quiet, “would you have taken it upon yourself to decide when it is appropriate to guard our company’s investment? This is not a job to be