Rachel Weeping Read Free Page B

Chris opened her profile and saw that she had no active security settings, which meant that her photos and information were freely available for anyone to see. Her ‘ about ’ section said that she was 34, Christian, non-political, had studied at Wits University and was, surprisingly, single. Chris went through to her photo albums, first looking up instinctively to see if Michelle was at the door before he took a proper look. He smiled as he scrolled through photographs of Anja in settings ranging from parties to mountain tops, European landmarks to the finish lines of triathlons. In all of them she looked vibrant and natural, the projection of a woman who was enjoying her independence and life.
    He looked at the ‘ add ’ icon and for a brief moment considered touching it, attracted to the idea of being welcomed into this woman’s digital life. Looking at the clock icon at the top of the screen, he saw that it was 22:54, well past his usual bedtime, and he turned the tablet off, making a mental note to keep an eye out for Anja at work the next day. Nothing would ever come from it, of course, but now that he had seen her life in photographs, he was curious to hear what her voice sounded like.
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    The domestic quarters were simple and unobtrusive, a free-standing building situated at the far end of the Jordaans’ property. To call it a cottage would be generous for it was more a single room with an adjoining bathroom than the quaint image a cottage might conjure up.
    Rachel sat on her bed, an old red biscuit tin in her cold hands.
    The bitter cold of the winters in Johannesburg had been something she hadn’t expected when she had first arrived in South Africa. She had never really adjusted to them. The cold still got to her and it seemed to have started even earlier this year. It wasn’t that the temperatures were that low in winter – by European standards they wouldn’t even be considered an autumn day, Chris had told her once – just that the houses in South Africa were designed for summer and they were unable to retain heat. While the winter days were sunny, the nights brought with them an icy cold that no heater could keep at bay. Rachel had found that the only way to secure herself a good night’s sleep in winter was to go to bed with a jacket on, and doubling up socks so that her feet were protected by layers.
    She popped the lid off the biscuit tin and placed it on the pillow beside her. She lifted out some papers while various keys and coins clunked along the tin’s metallic base. She took out a small object that was secured in a twist of tissue paper and opened it carefully. It was a diamond ring. She held it up to the lamp and saw how the scratched gem still sparkled in the light. She had found the ring on a beach outside Inhassoro, a moment of fate that had left her believing that good things could sometimes happen to someone like her. She had had the ring valued in Johannesburg when she first arrived here and discovered that it was a four-carat diamond and worth about R8   000. Instead of pawning it, she decided at the time that it was probably wiser to keep it, safely tucked away in her biscuit tin with her other valuables. She didn’t want to be spending the money she might get for it on foolish things.
    The pawnshop would be a last resort for a day when she had no other options.
    Next Rachel pulled out a wad of meticais, Mozambican bank notes, that she always kept untouched on the odd chance that she might need to make an emergency trip back to Inhassoro and didn’t have time to exchange money. She placed the money on the small pine table that stood a few feet away from her bed.
    The place she had called home for the last six years was a humble space, furnished mostly by hand-me-downs from the Jordaans and the few items she had purchased at the occasional yard sale in the neighbourhood. The kitchen and living area were joined to the