notes.
Nothing, he said. We didnt argue. We never argue. She said shed be back for the holidays.
Did she have a boyfriend? Was she unhappy that she told you about?
She never said.
Where did Rosa grow up?
With me, he said. In Churchhaven, an hour or so up the West Coast.
I know it, said Clare. Its like heaven.
For some, said Mr Wagner. For a long time it was. Then Rosa wanted more. There isnt evena shop there. No electricity. No running water. Its how young people are.
Where are her parents? asked Clare.
Her father, my only son, died when Rosa was four. His wife his mouth twisted as he spoke the word she brought Rosa here some time later. My sons wife said shed come back for Rosa, but she never did. The damage was already done by then.
What damage?
The child never spoke of it. MrWagner looked directly at Clare. But there are things that can be done to a childs soul that cannot be measured in bruises or blows. This you would know.
Wheres her mother now? asked Clare.
She died when Rosa was eight. Rosa said nothing at the time. She didnt even cry. There was only the silence her death left in its wake. A silence that Rosa filled with music. Thats how we lived together;just me and her and our music.
Mr Wagner handed Clare an envelope. In it were a few photo graphs. Rosa in the sun on a wind-scoured beach, black rocks, her eyes slits against the wind. An only child sitting between her parents, her father the image of the man in front of Clare; the woman small, her face obscured by luxurious black hair but where Rosas skin was nearly as dark as her fathers,her mothers was pale. The rest of the photographs were of Rosa alone on the beach, a three-legged dog beside her. A few more of her playing her cello. One of her standing outside a Victorian building: the Cape College of Classical Music.
Has Rosa ever disappeared before? asked Clare.
No.
Never went looking for her mothers family?
Not that I know of, he said. But I think it unlikely.
Thereare few children who dont want to find their mothers, said Clare.
Even if their mothers have traded their bodies for drugs? the old man asked.
Even then, said Clare. Sometimes especially then. We have to consider everything.
There is no one that I know of, he said. She came from Joburg. Apart from my son, she seemed to have no one.
No school photos? said Clare. Always helpful, old school friends.
I taught her at home, said Mr Wagner. I taught her what I knew. Nothing that would help her, really. About birds and fish. Some Latin and Greek. And music. Rosa, my vulnerable granddaughter, was my consolation.
In what way was Rosa vulnerable?
Shes a lonely girl, he said. That makes you vulnerable.
Clare looked at the old man a moment.
I need a list of everyone she knows, where she goes, shesaid. Friends, boyfriends, coffee shops, clubs. Phone numbers. Everything you have.
He took the pen she handed to him and began to write. I phoned the music school this morning, he said, looking up at Clare. When they said shed withdrawn, I didnt understand. She never abandoned anything in her life. Theres only love in her hands. Thats why she plays like an angel.
He handed the list to Clare.It filled half a page, his number at the bottom.
Do you have somewhere to go? asked Clare.
I must go home. He stood up, unsteady on his feet. If shes running, thats where shell be headed. Im too old and too sick to do anything else but be there when she gets there. Thats the only thing Ive ever been able to do for her. Ill be waiting for her to come, or for you to phone.
He turned around, andwalked back into the rain.
Clare watched as he picked his way past the row of BMWs. He climbed into a rusted old Cortina and sat with his hands on the wheel. A dog hopped up and placed its grizzled head on his shoulder. Then Alfred Wagner started his car and drove away.
9
Ina Britz opened Clares door. She had a packet of biscuits in her hand.
Eat some of these, she said.
Im not hungry, said Clare.
I dont
Nothing, he said. We didnt argue. We never argue. She said shed be back for the holidays.
Did she have a boyfriend? Was she unhappy that she told you about?
She never said.
Where did Rosa grow up?
With me, he said. In Churchhaven, an hour or so up the West Coast.
I know it, said Clare. Its like heaven.
For some, said Mr Wagner. For a long time it was. Then Rosa wanted more. There isnt evena shop there. No electricity. No running water. Its how young people are.
Where are her parents? asked Clare.
Her father, my only son, died when Rosa was four. His wife his mouth twisted as he spoke the word she brought Rosa here some time later. My sons wife said shed come back for Rosa, but she never did. The damage was already done by then.
What damage?
The child never spoke of it. MrWagner looked directly at Clare. But there are things that can be done to a childs soul that cannot be measured in bruises or blows. This you would know.
Wheres her mother now? asked Clare.
She died when Rosa was eight. Rosa said nothing at the time. She didnt even cry. There was only the silence her death left in its wake. A silence that Rosa filled with music. Thats how we lived together;just me and her and our music.
Mr Wagner handed Clare an envelope. In it were a few photo graphs. Rosa in the sun on a wind-scoured beach, black rocks, her eyes slits against the wind. An only child sitting between her parents, her father the image of the man in front of Clare; the woman small, her face obscured by luxurious black hair but where Rosas skin was nearly as dark as her fathers,her mothers was pale. The rest of the photographs were of Rosa alone on the beach, a three-legged dog beside her. A few more of her playing her cello. One of her standing outside a Victorian building: the Cape College of Classical Music.
Has Rosa ever disappeared before? asked Clare.
No.
Never went looking for her mothers family?
Not that I know of, he said. But I think it unlikely.
Thereare few children who dont want to find their mothers, said Clare.
Even if their mothers have traded their bodies for drugs? the old man asked.
Even then, said Clare. Sometimes especially then. We have to consider everything.
There is no one that I know of, he said. She came from Joburg. Apart from my son, she seemed to have no one.
No school photos? said Clare. Always helpful, old school friends.
I taught her at home, said Mr Wagner. I taught her what I knew. Nothing that would help her, really. About birds and fish. Some Latin and Greek. And music. Rosa, my vulnerable granddaughter, was my consolation.
In what way was Rosa vulnerable?
Shes a lonely girl, he said. That makes you vulnerable.
Clare looked at the old man a moment.
I need a list of everyone she knows, where she goes, shesaid. Friends, boyfriends, coffee shops, clubs. Phone numbers. Everything you have.
He took the pen she handed to him and began to write. I phoned the music school this morning, he said, looking up at Clare. When they said shed withdrawn, I didnt understand. She never abandoned anything in her life. Theres only love in her hands. Thats why she plays like an angel.
He handed the list to Clare.It filled half a page, his number at the bottom.
Do you have somewhere to go? asked Clare.
I must go home. He stood up, unsteady on his feet. If shes running, thats where shell be headed. Im too old and too sick to do anything else but be there when she gets there. Thats the only thing Ive ever been able to do for her. Ill be waiting for her to come, or for you to phone.
He turned around, andwalked back into the rain.
Clare watched as he picked his way past the row of BMWs. He climbed into a rusted old Cortina and sat with his hands on the wheel. A dog hopped up and placed its grizzled head on his shoulder. Then Alfred Wagner started his car and drove away.
9
Ina Britz opened Clares door. She had a packet of biscuits in her hand.
Eat some of these, she said.
Im not hungry, said Clare.
I dont
Similar Books
Suck It Up
Emma Hillman
Eye Spy
Tessa Buckley
Seduction in Mind
Susan Johnson
Shadow Hawk
Jill Shalvis
The Dutch
Richard E. Schultz
The Wellstone
Wil McCarthy
The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3)
Jennifer Blackstream
Claws for Alarm
T.C. LoTempio
The Templars and the Shroud of Christ
Barbara Frale
Twelve Red Herrings
Jeffrey Archer