South of Forgiveness

by Thordis Elva

  Thomas Stranger and I.

  I take a deep breath and turn round. Tom has moved over to the sofa by the exit. A convenient spot from which to beat a hasty retreat, perhaps? Trembling from head to toe, I make my way towards him.

  ‘Hi,’ we say in unison. His cheeks and ears are glowing red and he appears just as unnerved as I am, though we’re both trying to hide it as best we can. My God, he hasn’t changed a bit. Those blue eyes. That blonde hair. The beard, all as it used to be. It’s really him.

  ‘Wow, it’s you,’ I blurt out.

  ‘Yeah, weird,’ he says, appearing equally thunderstruck. ‘Surreal. I had no idea what this would feel like.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  We stare at each other for a moment.

  ‘It’s raining. You’re wet,’ I note.

  ‘It’s not too bad.’

  ‘Did you bring an umbrella?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  His voice is husky, just as it was in the old days. The sense of familiarity is overwhelming. So much so that I cling, in desperation, to practical matters. ‘I need to buy a converter plug. Perhaps we can find an umbrella somewhere, too?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Relief washes over me as we move towards the door, no longer nailed to the floor with half a lifetime weighing on our shoulders. He seems equally relieved as we walk out of the Ritz and down to Main Road.

  In the corner store, I catch myself glancing at Tom, still finding it hard to look directly at him. He’s wearing a checked shirt, gray trousers, and leather shoes. His posture is stiff, like he’s walking on eggshells. Or maybe it’s just my presence? Enviable tan and straight, white teeth. Obviously in good shape. The blonde locks are still in place, long in the front and shorter in the back. Deep inside me, a crack opens and a silent scream escapes. HIS BLOODY HAIR IN MY FACE …

  Inhaling sharply, I regain my balance and back cautiously away from the precipice. Breathe, Thordis.

  The assistant rings up my converter plug and tells me that they don’t sell umbrellas, which is no longer an issue because it has stopped raining. Our little errand was nonetheless a brilliant way to break the ice, giving us a mundane task to share, blissfully unrelated to our past.

  Moments later, we’re standing in colorful shell sand facing the ocean. A paved walkway, aptly named Sea Point Promenade, lines the seaside. The sky is overcast and the clouds seem close enough to touch with an outstretched hand. I take a deep breath and realize that although my heartbeat has calmed down, my insides still tremble.

  ‘I attempted to imagine you here, when I came here yesterday,’ he tells me.

  ‘I had a similar idea. That we would meet up like this, by the sea.’

  ‘I was worried that my feelings would overflow when I’d see you,’ he says, and looks away. ‘That I’d turn into a teary, blubbering mess.’

  ‘I had doubts. About this … mission.’

  ‘I did too. It just seemed so overwhelming …’

  ‘… almost unthinkable …’

  ‘… after all these years.’

  He concurs with a nod.

  ‘Have you been to Africa before?’ I ask him.

  ‘No, but it’s a place I’ve always wanted to travel to.’

  ‘I did too, but I’ve never traveled this far away from home — well, apart from for work — and I don’t know if I ever will again. Which is why I wanted to meet you here, in a place where I know we could leave our past behind for good.’

  ‘I agree. This is the right place.’

  We stand in silence, observing the city that will hold our secret. The street is lined with high-rises and hotels facing the ocean. A barrier made of stacked rocks separates the promenade from the beach. Apart from a couple walking a black dog, and a panting jogger, we’re the only people around. Tom bends over and picks up an empty plastic cup from the sand. He then reaches for an empty bottle, and I realize he’s collecting trash.

  He hesitates before asking: ‘What does your family think about you being here?’

  ‘They’re not thrilled about it.’

  ‘And your partner?’

  ‘Vidir? He supports me wholeheartedly.’

  ‘Nice to hear, that’s comforting. Vidir, that’s his name?’ He says my fiancé’s name cautiously, as if he doubts his permission to speak it out loud.

  ‘Yes. It means willow in Icelandic, like the tree. What about your family?’

  ‘My parents know I’m here. After this week, I’m flying to Western Australia to spend time with friends there. My friends in Sydney think I’m going to Western Australia for two weeks. My friends in Western Australia think my holiday is only a week.’

  ‘So nobody in your group of friends knows you’re here?’

  ‘No, this week is not accounted for anywhere, really. To complicate things, my friend who I’m about to visit in Western Australia is South African and he has spoken about Cape Town so many times. He’d be hugely upset if he knew I came here without him,’ he says awkwardly, dumping a handful of trash in a nearby bin.

  ‘I know this isn’t easy, for you or me. I’ve gone in infinite loops with this myself. But I’m convinced it had to be this way. Us meeting up in person.’

  He nods. ‘Yes. You can only come so far on paper.’

  Dry seaweed crackles beneath our feet as Tom asks: ‘So do you imagine ceasing the correspondence after this week?’

  The question is laced with fear. Our correspondence has been an important stepping stone for both of us. It spans eight years of failed relationships, lifestyle changes, college degrees, jobs, child rearing, joy, and sorrow. In a way, we’ve accompanied each other through all these phases, even though they were never the topic of our conversation.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I tell him. ‘I’d like to get as much work done as possible here, in Cape Town. What about you?’

  ‘I was hoping we’d never need to write another word about this,’ he replies.

  I flinch at his words. So much has been invested in this, so much time, energy, money, and emotion has gone into our exchanges that even the tiniest rejection feels like rubbing a blister.

  ‘So what do you want to do today?’ he wonders.

  ‘Get reacquainted, perhaps?’ Half a lifetime separates the teenagers we were from the adults we’ve become, my mind adds. Aware of my habit of forgetting to eat in stressful situations, I suggest: ‘And find food somewhere, maybe?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  As we walk along Sea Point Promenade, still stiff and self-conscious, I don’t know which is more surreal: the distance between us being less than a meter or the fact that I’m halfway across the world from home. In the same hesitant manner, Tom recounts how he had spent the previous day exploring the Waterfront, where he enjoyed a lovely performance by a men’s group. ‘They were brilliant, really stirring,’ he tells me.

  ‘You didn’t feel nervous walking around by yourself at night?’

  ‘Somewhat. It feels like you need your wits about you. I’ve avoided eye contact with people I’ve walked past. So, nervous, yes, but not particularly unsafe. But there is an air of … desperation, it feels like.’

  A magnificent tree growing out of the sidewalk catches my attention. It’s got irregular white and brown patches, reminiscent of a cow. The robust trunk is split into two boles, stretching their crooked branches towards the sky. I find myself running my hand along the smooth bark, smiling to myself in fascination.

  When I realize Tom is watching me in surprise, I state the obvious: ‘I’m such a tourist.’

  ‘A tree-hugging tourist?’

  ‘And not ashamed of it.’

  We smile at each other. All of a sudden, it’s back. The old surge, the magnetic pull between us. My body identifies him as the source of pleasure, pain, and everything in between. The discovery s
hoots through me like an electric current, and suddenly I feel incredibly naive for not having foreseen this. Of course. I should’ve known there might be an attraction, even after everything we’ve been through.

  My mind races back in time, to 16 November 1996. The night I lost my virginity.

  It started with a birthday party at one of Tom’s friends’. He had invited me along, and it was our first outing as a couple. I was sixteen and over the moon, my feet barely touching the ground.

  After the party, we went to my place. With my parents and siblings’ rooms on the ground floor of our house, I enjoyed the luxury of having the entire basement to myself, complete with a separate entrance that guaranteed discretion and 24-hour privacy.

  Our mission was to ‘bake a cake’.

  Right.

  I don’t know where that joke came from. We must’ve thought it was a hilarious idea to bake a cake in the middle of the night. We laughed a lot, all giddy about it on the way to my house.

  By the time we got there, the joke was growing old. We changed the plan to ‘watch a video’.

  Right.

  I didn’t even have any videos. In the end, we settled for my little brother’s copy of Disney’s The Little Mermaid. We both knew we wouldn’t be doing any watching, anyway.

  Then we started kissing. Petting. I was wearing a Bart Simpson t-shirt; a testament to my youth, the childhood I was about to shed. We made up wonderfully lame excuses to take off our clothes. ‘Man, I’m feeling so hot, I better take off my pants.’

  Right.

  We made out for six intense hours before we decided to go all the way. It felt natural. We wanted each other. I didn’t feel pressured. I was ready.

  I remember trembling with excitement as he busied himself with the condom. Could this really be happening? Was I about to take a leap into womanhood? Would it show in the morning?

  And then we made love.

  It didn’t hurt at all, to my surprise. It was just … wonderful. Respectful, intimate, and beautiful, born of passion and free will. A delicate frame around which a first love could blossom.

  Later on, the memory of that night would haunt me like a recurring nightmare. How could the same man be gentle and yet so unfeeling? How could he make tender love to me one night and rape me the next? Why did he decide to rob me of something I’d given him freely before?

  This incomprehensible contradiction rendered me defenseless when it came to trusting people for years to come. If even those who claim to love me are capable of violating me so deeply — whom can I trust?

  The question echoes in my head as I stand by the patchy tree, breaking eye contact with Tom. None of it matters any more. I’m in love with Vidir and no memories can threaten what he and I have.

  Tom doesn’t seem to have noticed anything. ‘A week in Cape Town,’ he says with a deep breath. ‘To work on forgiveness.’

  I regain my composure before adding: ‘And manifest it.’

  ‘Manifest it?’

  ‘To me, forgiveness isn’t something you just say, it’s something you do.’

  I find myself coming to a halt, turning to face Tom. ‘Once upon a time when you were in Iceland, you gave me a rock. You said it had to be returned to its natural surroundings in Australia. You entrusted me with this task. Do you remember?’

  He wrinkles his forehead. ‘I think so. Is the rock grayish and oval-shaped?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, it is.’

  ‘It was from a beach near my house. I was down there taking some time the day before I was due to fly to Iceland. I remember picking it up and taking it with me after sitting down on a rock shelf and trying so hard to capture in my mind that bay that I love, to take it with me. But I think I settled for the rock instead when I wasn’t successful.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember giving it to you.’

  ‘Well, years after you did, I was invited to attend that playwriting conference in Australia, remember? I’d been doing my best to forget what you did to me but the invitation shocked me back into reality. It all felt fated somehow, as if I was being sent to the other side of the world to face my past. But you couldn’t see me, so that was the end of that.’

  He nods. ‘I remember where I was living when you came to that conference, and I remember my excuses for not flying to see you. Some were valid, I guess. I was just starting my youth-work course in Perth, and I remember I was a poor student again. But I think there were other reasons, or hesitations maybe.’

  ‘Anyway,’ I continue, ‘I took the rock with me and walked down to the beach one night. But I couldn’t return it. The time wasn’t right.’ I look him straight in the eye. ‘I think it’s because I needed to give the rock back to you, Tom. Face to face. But I don’t want it to end there. The whole point of forgiveness is letting go of the burdens, not passing them onto another person, even if it was theirs to carry in the first place. It’d be meaningless if the rock only changed hands and continued to nurture a vicious circle.’

  ‘Yes,’ he concurs in a quiet voice. ‘You know, I’m not sure if I was ready to take that rock from you in 2005. And I agree, it’d be a pointless exercise to have me just take on the burden and continue the hurt.’

  ‘Which is why it needs to be removed from the equation altogether. When the time is right, you should rid us of it, Tom. Where it can’t weigh anyone down any more.’

  He nods, and I reassure myself that I’m on the right track. Based on my knowledge of domestic violence, I know that continued communication between perpetrator and survivor can lock them in a destructive pattern. This is different, I tell myself. I’m not entering into a relationship with Tom. I will have nothing to do with him in the future and we’re not even going to be living on the same continent. I have a family and a life that I’m hoping to set free from the past and its unfinished business, once and for all.

  It’s close to seven o’clock when a waitress shows us to a table at a Thai restaurant. Suddenly, I become acutely aware of what our situation looks like and it makes my skin crawl. I’m bursting to tell everyone that Tom and I are not on a date, envisioning myself storming around the place, removing everything that’s even slightly romantic; blowing out candles and emptying flower vases into the trash, before turning my chair backwards, straddling it like an old mobster, and grunting in a deep voice: ‘So whaddya say, think they’ve got anything to eat in this joint?’

  I bite my lip and swallow my nervous discomfort. Our situation is strange enough without me behaving like a character from The Sopranos.

  Shortly, the waitress returns with steaming chicken noodles for me, and a bowl of tofu for Tom.

  ‘Are you vegetarian?’

  ‘For twelve years now, I think.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Numerous reasons.’

  ‘Like, ethical?’

  ‘The main reason is ethical, I guess. After learning about the sentience of animals, the factory farming and treatment of them … also for environmental reasons. It takes a thousand liters of water to produce one kilo of beef. I tried it for one summer after reading a book by Peter Singer and just ate fish. The transition wasn’t hard and I’ve just stuck with it,’ he says. It’s clear that he has no need to argue his lifestyle choice further. I take a sip of my drink and decide to respect that, even though a part of me is jumping up and down screaming about the leather shoes he’s wearing. Seriously, Thordis, shut up. Pick your fights.

  ‘So how are you doing, in general?’ His words break the tension between us as he digs into his tofu.

  I give it some thought before answering: ‘I have no idea where my life is going, I have no clue where my next pay check will come from, and I’ve never been more content with it all.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Wow. Just going with the flow, eh?’

  ‘In a sense, yes. My work is project based, which means that I do short and intensive period
s. It’s everything from writing plays to translating novels, shooting films, and doing public speaking. Luckily, the work is diverse and there’s been enough of it to pay my bills. Sure, a steady income would be nice, especially now that I have a family with all the accompanying costs. But you can’t have it all. I feel very lucky to be able to make a living from projects that I love and that serve the ultimate goal.’

  ‘And what’s the ultimate goal?’ he wonders.

  ‘Changing the world.’

  A smile flashes across his face.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m still a youth worker and case manager at the refuge. I work a few shifts every month in a store that sells outdoor clothing and gear, too. One job is emotionally demanding and the other not so much. I’m also involved in an organization called Responsible Runners.’

  Despite being too high-strung to have much of an appetite, I manage to work my way through the noodles as Tom tells me how he was out jogging on the beach one night six months earlier when he saw a guy with a headlight and a plastic bag picking up trash from the sand. Together they filled four big trash bins in two hours. ‘This fellow then organized for others to join in with us and now it’s grown into a weekly meeting of people wanting to clean up their beach. It’s turned into a bit of a movement, operating in eight places in Australia. Together we’ve collected three tons of plastic and trash so far.’

  This explains why he collected trash almost compulsively on the beach earlier, I silently conclude. Raising my glass, I say: ‘To changing the world.’

  ‘Cheers.’ His eyes narrow as he smiles.

  The moment is interrupted by a loud sizzle, coming from the kitchen. A husky chef is cooking over red-hot pans. Sweat drips from his brow as the open fire licks the ceiling.

  ‘I’m still pinching myself to make sure this isn’t all a dream,’ Tom says quietly. His eyes convey that he’s not talking about the chef.

  In the following two hours, we paint a picture of our day-to-day lives, something we’ve avoided doing in our correspondence. It’s strange but relieving to take a break from the strict dissection of the past and enter the present. The portrait of Tom is slowly revealed on the evening’s canvas through his descriptions of work, hobbies, and interests. At the age of thirty-five, his love life has had its ups and downs and he’s recently broken off a relationship, as a matter of fact. ‘She’s one of the most incredible people I’ve met … and the time together has been lovely … but unfortunately the “fireworks” weren’t there,’ he tells me.