The genre of gothic novel is an interesting one. There are ghosts here, but they may or may not be real—and their realness may or may not affect the effect they have on the plot and the people trapped inside of it. And no matter how straightforward any haunting, real or imagined, seems to be, it often contains layers of social commentary. All of that is true in Cape Fever, Nadia David’s short but weighty debut novel.
In a South Africa still reeling from the Great War, Soraya comes to Heron Place, a once-splendid mansion that has since fallen into disrepair. She needs a new job to help support her family and the lone resident of the house, Mrs. Hattingh, doesn’t pose the same danger as her male, licentious former boss, so Soraya accepts. But there are immediate drawbacks. Mrs. Hattingh is lonely and wants help around the clock, so Soraya can only return home once every two weeks. The former housekeeper, Fatima, seems to have come back to the house in the form of a spirit, as has that of a portrait subject.
Still, things go well, for a time. Well enough that Soraya can ignore the warnings of people in the market and the worries of her family. Mrs. Hattingh is even helping Soraya “learn” to read and write, especially when it comes to correspondence with Soraya’s fiancé, Nour. Soraya doesn’t even mind the added pressure of Mrs. Hattingh’s veteran son’s upcoming visits. But soon enough, Mrs. Hattingh requires Soraya to stay longer, making her miss important family events. Mrs. Hattingh also keeps Nour’s letters, not letting Soraya so much as touch the paper under the guise of safekeeping. The spirits in Heron Place know even better than Soraya that something’s wrong. The real question is whether Soraya can do anything about it before she becomes as trapped as they are.
Soraya’s voice is clear and close, not quite a whisper but more like an inner dialogue we happen to overhear. She’s never overly fond of Mrs. Hattingh, but as content as she could be in any position. Maybe it’s that general tolerance for her situation and the feeling of intimacy with her innermost thoughts that made it surprising that she expresses enough discontent at home to start an argument with her mother. (Then again, sometimes it’s hard not to start an argument with your mother.) It’s clear that, even as the writing lessons begin, Soraya sees this not as the bonding activity Mrs. Hattingh might, but as an opportunity for more autonomy; while she is literate, a secret she knows better than to tell her employer, she’s not as good as she’d like to be. It’s that kind of quiet scheming, that acceptance of her lot except for a little glimmer of improvement in the distance, that makes her a compelling person to follow.
The growing closeness between Soraya and Mrs. Hattingh seems at first harmless, though this wouldn’t be a very good gothic novel if it stayed that way. Yet even in those pleasant early days, there’s an undercurrent of unease from the inherent imbalance of power and colonialism. Soraya is agreeable and grateful, but she has no choice. She can dream only as far as her employer and society allow her to. Were this a story from Mrs. Hattingh’s point of view, it would be one of raising up a disadvantaged girl who would be doomed to live a backwards, uninspired life without her intervention. It would also be one of motherhood and hope as she directs her will to ensuring her wounded son has a safe place to land.
The gap between the stories Soraya and Mrs. Hattingh each think they each find themselves in is part of the tension that grows throughout the novel. By the time that fever breaks, it’s hard not to want to burn the whole place down in hopes of something a little happier rising from the ashes.
Ring Reads 