Free When Time Fails (Silverman Saga Book 2) by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

knowledgeable and sophisticated. She’d never stayed in a hotel with room service before. She’d never stayed in a hotel before. Her ma had always said it was a waste of money to stay in a hotel when they could stay in a nice, big beachfront flat with a full kitchen, three bedrooms and an incredible view from the twelfth floor when they went to Amanzimtoti for two weeks every Christmas. But Thys had stayed in big, fancy hotels in Johannesburg and Pretoria and Durban and Cape Town when he used to go on rugby tours.
     
    ***
     
    Annamari looked out the window, the noise of the traffic roaring along the road eight floors below muted, the low hum of the air conditioner reassuringly cool. It looked like Durban, with all the high-rise hotels lining the Golden Mile. Except the street names and shop signs were written in a strange mess of funny lines and squiggles; all the cars and taxis and buses were driving on the wrong side of the road; and the sea looked remarkably calm, flat and blue – not a single white horse to be seen. And even though it was July, it was hot, probably even hotter than Amanzimtoti in December. It was also humid, horribly humid. Stepping out of the air conditioned taxi had been like stepping into a furnace. She’d caught her breath and hurried behind Thys into the hotel foyer, her pretty new pink blouse already sticking to her back.
    The drive from the airport had passed in a blur of bewildered impressions: where were the camels, the donkeys – anything to indicate that this was the Holy Land? The busy highway rushed past some dusty, barren-looking fields and distant towns and then they were swallowed by high-rise buildings and chaotic, noisy traffic. Welcome to Tel Aviv.
    Armed with the map provided – free of charge – by the man at the front desk, she and Thys ventured out. First across the road to the promenade, strolling along trying to catch the drips of her ice cream with her tongue before they stained her fresh, yellow blouse. Then into a cool little restaurant with red Formica tables and chairs.
    They studied the indecipherable menu. ‘What do you recommend?’ Thys asked the pretty, red-haired waitress.
    ‘A toast?’ the waitress said. ‘Israeli salad? Cola?’
    They chomped their way through a large bowl of finely diced tomato, onion, cucumber and some other unidentifiable vegetables, finished their Cokes and reluctantly left the air-conditioned cocoon. Turning left at the corner, they found themselves on a tree-lined boulevard and stopped to watch two old men playing a board game she had never seen before; then around the corner into a narrow street and right into another road that seemed to have nothing but fabric shops and then they were in a market with piles of fruit and fish and cheese and toys and souvenirs and people shouting and pushing and calling to them to come in, come see, come buy... Thys bought two oranges and two Cokes.
    They were lost. A woman directed them back to the sea. They found their hotel. Annamari collapsed on the bed, exhausted, exhilarated. Her first day as a tourist in a strange – a very strange – land, and she’d handled it like a pro. Tomorrow, their guide would meet them and take them to the places from Sunday School: Jerusalem, the Sea of Galilee, Tiberius... She knew she’d never sleep. That night, after Steyn was conceived, she slept, curled up against her husband’s warm body, while the air conditioner hummed.
     
     
     

Chapter 11
1993
     
    Thys was quiet. Too quiet. He’d been mulling over something since Yossi had taken them to – where was it? They had been to so many places in the past few days it was all a bit of a blur.
    As they’d driven on towards Jerusalem she had seen he was scheming. Dreaming up some impossible plan which would change their lives. Again. It was just like before. He’d gone all quiet for days, not hearing her when she spoke, not even paying attention to the children’s shrieks and fights and noise. And then