South of Forgiveness

by Thordis Elva

  After a quick shower, I put on a long skirt, a tank top, and the cardigan, which turns out to be very useful to combat the chilly winds of Cape Town. The dining room on the first floor attracts hungry guests, neatly lined up in a queue for fried potatoes, bacon, and scrambled eggs. At the end of the line, a cook with a hairnet custom-fries eggs with friendly gusto.`

  Not ready for anything fried this early in the morning, I fill a bowl with yoghurt and raw fruit. The door to the garden is open and a fresh breeze blows through the dining room, along with a pigeon that struts confidently between tables until a man shoos it away with a sandal-clad foot. The pigeon cocks its head coolly, as if to say: you think you can ruffle my feathers, you tourist? I was hatched in this garden.

  I pour myself some coffee from a jug on a hot plate only to swiftly conclude that it tastes like earwax. Although less anxious than I was yesterday, I still steel myself as I walk down the stairs to the lobby, where I’m meeting Tom for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

  He seems aware of the repetition too. ‘It was a whole lot easier to walk in here today than it was yesterday,’ he tells me. Our interaction is self-conscious and awkward, in spite of yesterday’s rendezvous. Thirteen years’ worth of separation doesn’t dissolve overnight, nor does our awareness of the unspoken truth between us.

  With neither of us eager to take the lead, we walk hesitantly into the souvenir shop opposite the elevators, which turns out to be a small travel agency, to get advice from someone with no strings attached to the delicate power balance between us.

  A massive oak desk is the first thing we see, decorated with a brass sign that reads TRAVEL DESK. African crafts adorn the walls, along with framed magazine articles about the must-see places of Cape Town. To the right are two leather chairs, and between them is a rack with tourist brochures. The overall feel is tidy and organized, much like the man who greets us. He’s wearing a white, well-ironed shirt and black slacks. His face is clean-shaven and radiates health. And good moisturizer, I note internally.

  ‘Hello there, my name is Nigel,’ he says, pointing happily to his name badge. ‘What can I do you for?’

  We have no particular plans for the week to come except for talking, which in our case is enough of a task. There’s nothing to say these talks can’t take place at some of Cape Town’s interesting destinations. In fact, I’m sure that beautiful surroundings can only help open up our hearts and minds. As long as it’s affordable, of course. My finances have taken quite a hit due to this trip, and I’m already aware of how broke I’m going to be in the months to come. Shoving my worries aside, I take a seat in one of the leather chairs while Nigel makes a few enquiries for us. Tom follows suit and his legs catch my eye as he stretches them. Every cell in my body is aware of his presence. Its effect is like that of a strong espresso — a sharpened focus and heightened senses.

  Nigel hangs up the phone and turns to us. He is so accommodating that I wonder whether we’re expected to pay for his assistance. He gives no such indication when he informs us that the afternoon tour to Robben Island, where the great Nelson Mandela was held captive, is sold out. ‘I checked with Table Mountain as well, but unfortunately, it’s too windy. The cable car is closed.’

  Tom and I shrug and thank Nigel for his help. Outside, a day checkered with clouds, sun, and wind awaits us.

  ‘What do you say about walking down to the Waterfront?’ Tom asks. ‘I explored it the other day, it’d be nice to go down there.’

  When I agree, he adds: ‘Do you mind if we stop by the beach? It’s a bit of a thing, but I like to splash some seawater on my face. It’s kind of a daily ritual when I’m near salt water,’ he adds apologetically.

  ‘Sure, okay.’ I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want a bit of sand between my toes. An Icelander abroad is — after all — an Icelander abroad.

  I follow him onto the coarse sand, which is thick with shells. Smooth brown rocks protrude into the ocean, and large areas of the shore are covered in brown kelp. The Ritz is especially elegant from this point of view, perched next to the Lion’s Head like a twin tower. I take a picture to send to Vidir with the subject line, ‘My hotel from the beach.’ Anything that can help him envision my surroundings. I take the photo and look hard at my phone, the sun making it hard to see the screen properly. Even though it’s taken from a distance, there’s no mistake that Tom is in the picture, walking along the shore. I hurriedly delete it. Over my dead body am I sending Vidir a picture of Tom strolling on a seductive beach. I wait a moment until Tom is out of the frame before taking another picture and sending that one to Vidir. Missing him dearly has resulted in an ache, which is soothed by the thought that perhaps I can find wedding rings for us in the country of gold and diamonds, although such a gift seems small compared to his support and understanding of my highly unusual journey.

  A little while later, we’re back on the street that leads to the Waterfront. The wind uses my skirt to whip my legs, and I fish an elastic band out of my handbag to keep my hair from blowing constantly in my face.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will you tell me your life story?’

  He looks at me and giggles awkwardly. When he realizes I’m serious, the smile on his lips gives way to surprise. ‘All of it?’

  I nod.

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Have you got some time on your hands?’

  ‘I’ve got six days,’ I reply, dead serious. ‘Think that’ll do?’

  He falls silent for a moment, seemingly trying to wrap his mind around the idea.

  ‘Look. I know who it was who raped me sixteen years ago. What I need to know is who I’m trying to forgive for it.’

  We’re standing on a busy street corner, surrounded by humming traffic, and yet, the whole world seems to stand still until he answers: ‘And I also get to learn yours?’

  ‘Only if we switch back and forth, so we don’t end up with monologues that stretch out for days.’

  ‘Sounds fair.’ He studies me and hesitates. ‘Should I start?’

  ‘I asked first.’

  He exhales. ‘Fair enough. Let me see …’

  While he contemplates where to start, I wonder if it was a stupid suggestion, only to quickly conclude that it’s worth a try. I’ve always wondered what it was that shaped the 18-year-old who violated me. What was his past like? What was it like to subsequently grow up in the shadow of his own wrongdoing? All these years, I’ve only had one piece of the puzzle, and I’ve held it for so long that it’s become worn around the edges. I’m hungry for the full picture.

  Tentative, and obviously mulling over the past, Tom starts his life story at his conception, which was actually against the odds. ‘My mother had an IUD when I was conceived,’ he explains. ‘I wasn’t exactly planned, in other words. But I made it past the defenses, somehow. Mum was really worried, as was the doctor, that the IUD would cause serious complications.’

  I can’t help but wonder if perhaps Tom’s life was meant to be, given how the odds were stacked against him. This speculation is closely followed by the question of what my life would’ve been like if he hadn’t turned it upside down, but the rational part of me instantly shuts down such fruitless mind games.

  Judging by Tom’s story, the first thirteen years of his life were like a fairytale. ‘We lived just out of Melbourne, and then we moved to a small town nearby in country Victoria, while my parents built our house on a small block of land they had bought. It was a beautiful little hobby farm and sat atop a small hill. Dad studied nursing before working at the local hospital, and Mum was a teacher at the local community college. My older brother and I could just roam around the bush and paddocks, and the whole place was like a postcard. We had a few chickens, sheep, ducks, fish in the dam, and a goat at one point. When we were older, my brother and I were given a calf each to feed and raise. We got pretty close to them over the c
ourse of a year, but they were then sent to the abattoir, which we, of course, knew would happen.’

  That would be enough to plant the seeds of vegetarianism, I can’t help thinking.

  ‘My younger brother was born when I was five,’ he continues. ‘We built cubby houses together, rode bikes, played in puddles; in hindsight, it’s the stuff of storybooks. I’ve always held my childhood as dear, as a time that was slow moving and rich with experiences. When I get nostalgic about it I think of bush camping with family and friends, summers at the beach, wrestling with my brothers. We were outdoors at every chance. And you know what it’s like when you’re a kid — a tree or trampoline can be transformed into a day’s worth of wonder and fun. Holding it up against my later adult years, those times seem simple and untainted … like a bit of a calm before the storm.’ Suddenly, he inhales sharply.

  In front of us is the Green Point Stadium, built to accommodate the World Cup of 2010. We come to a halt to admire the colossal white doughnut. I can almost hear the roar of a giant crowd echoing down the path that leads up to the stadium, like a red version of the road to Oz. The air is thick with drama from sweet victories and shattering losses. Not unlike the path we’re on, I think, glancing at Tom from the corner of my eye.

  Continuing our walk towards the Waterfront, Tom prompts me. ‘Alright. Your turn.’

  I search my mind. Where to start my life story?

  ‘Well, I was born in Iceland, moved to the States by the age of two, Sweden at four, Iceland at five, Sweden at seven, and Iceland at eleven. My dad was studying medicine, which explains the moving back and forth. My mother studied fine art and graphic design, making a living off the latter for twenty years. Having to say goodbye to my friends and go back to square one on a new school playground, asserting myself in a new language over and over again, was tough at times.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Tom says with the empathy of someone who has had to learn another language, especially a difficult one like Icelandic.

  ‘I don’t know if there’s any correlation, but there was a period when I was terrified of the dark. Maybe my fear had something to do with all the moving around we did, as a reaction to the rootlessness.’ I shrug. ‘Maybe not. My sister, who is eight years older than me, has battled alcoholism since she was a teenager. It’s affected the entire family, but she has fought it heroically, and I respect her deeply for it. My brother, who is eight years younger than me, was born with a cleft palate and a split lip. He needed surgery, speech therapy, and orthodontics, and he was bullied as a kid, but he grew up to be a respected musician with more friends than I can count. During our childhood, when our problems were weighing down on us, I came to the conclusion that I was the only sibling who was close to “normal”, if there is such a thing. I aspired to never add to my family’s worries and to — if possible — make up for their trials. So when I was in first grade and my sister started skipping school, my childish logic told me that I could somehow make up for it by striving to get straight As, which led to me becoming valedictorian in every school I ever attended. My brother’s facial deformity led to my obsession with being “pretty”. By the age of eleven, I had developed an eating disorder that haunted me for the next decade.’

  ‘Man …’ Tom says, wrinkling his forehead.

  I clarify: ‘Don’t get me wrong. These expectations didn’t come from anybody but me. I was loved. I was cuddled and had storybooks read to me every night. I received compliments for things I did well, and encouragement to do whatever I wanted. Most days, I was happy. My parents were good people who did their best. More than their best. I could always turn to them with my problems. I just decided not to. I was under the impression that it was for the best. No more worries on my family’s already full plate.’

  I stop at a street corner. ‘Which is why I didn’t tell them what you did to me,’ I add. ‘That’s why I told no one.’

  ‘I understand,’ he says quietly.

  Waiting in silence at the pedestrian crossing, my mind is still on my parents. After years of practice, my habit of protecting them had become so ingrained that when I finally realized that I’d been raped, the natural choice was not to tell them. The seriousness of the matter only deepened my need to shelter them from it. Added to that was my acute awareness of my family’s suffering due to my sister’s battle with alcohol. Telling them that I’d gotten drunk and danced with the devil felt like the ultimate act of betrayal, the utmost disrespect that I could show my family. To add insult to injury, not only had I gotten myself drunk, I’d ‘gotten myself raped’ as well. That last, ridiculous idea was supported by the victim-blaming notions that I’d picked up from the public discourse about rape, which also rendered me incapable of placing the responsibility on Tom’s shoulders for many years. I glance at him standing next to me and think: We sure have come a long way.

  When the light turns green, I inhale deeply and step into the present. ‘So this is it. The famous Waterfront.’

  One of the most popular destinations on the African continent stretches out in front of us as I go through my memory, recalling what I know about it. The harbor was built in the British colonial times and named after Queen Victoria and her son, Prince Alfred. Today, the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront offers everything from fast food to haute couture. The ocean licks at the side of the harbor. Boats secured to moorings rock softly in the cerulean water. An enormous Ferris wheel gives a stunning view of the harbor and the city. The mountain range, with the magnificent Devil’s Peak dead ahead, frames the view for a postcard.

  Awe-struck, I lag behind Tom. Wow. This place totally lives up to expectation.

  Seagulls circle above my head, squawking loudly as one of them makes a quick dive to snatch a sugarcoated pretzel. The gulls of the Waterfront don’t have to settle for crumbs, thank you very much.

  ‘Coffee?’ Tom asks.

  ‘Yes. Absolutely.’

  We enter a large mall with shops stretching out on both sides and stalls offering hand-painted ostrich eggs and other memorabilia. Once inside a cozy café, he pulls out his wallet and asks: ‘Would it work if I got this round, and you the next?’

  ‘Deal.’

  Our eyes meet and, suddenly, the membrane of time is ruptured. Something in his clear blue eyes turns into acid, burning my corneas. I look away, gasping, as my heart pounds with irrational panic in my chest. Breathe, Thordis. In … and out … Muscle memory doesn’t adhere to logic, but I try to reason with my mind. Yes, those may be the same blue eyes but the circumstances are different. You’re safe now.

  Tom hands me my coffee, unaware of how time had stopped while a corrosive flashback was injected into the present moment.

  ‘I need to call Vidir,’ I say, not looking him in the eye.

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll meet you back here.’

  After trying unsuccessfully to regulate my heartbeat and climb out of the crack I fell into, I dial the number of the man who never fails to pull me up and out.

  Vidir is happy to hear from me, and tells me he’s on his way to his parents’ summerhouse with the kids so we’ll not be able to Skype tonight, unfortunately. He acts brave, but I can hear the worries simmering in his voice.

  ‘You’re so far away,’ he says, tenderly.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘On the other side of the planet. With a man who …’ He stops.

  I close my eyes. We’ve been through this many times.

  ‘But I support you,’ he quickly adds. ‘You know I do. This whole thing is just so … strange. That’s all.’

  The part of me that is still hyperventilating from the flashback wants to confess to Vidir that this was a colossal mistake, that I’m getting myself on the next plane and declaring the whole mission a failure. The part that wants to remain strong for the sake of our future scrapes together every last scrap of courage and replies: ‘Strange indeed. You know I love you, Vidir.’

 
; ‘And I love you.’

  I concentrate on steadying my voice when asking: ‘Is Haflidi’s mommy still missing?’

  There is a humorous undertone to Vidir’s answer. ‘Well, if it suits him. If he doesn’t feel like doing something, such as putting on his overalls or going to playschool, the tragedy of his missing mommy is recalled with tearful passion. Apart from that, he’s fine.’ I can hear him grin and I find myself smiling as well.

  We say our goodbyes, and the result is evident as I get up from the bench. No crack in my armor is too deep to be mended with the unconditional trust that has grown to exist between Vidir and me.

  A quick lunch later, as Tom and I are treading the boards of the Waterfront with our second coffee of the day in hand, I become acutely aware that we look like a couple, complete with to-go cups. Uncomfortable and confused, I slow my step, coming to a halt. Tom keeps walking, unaware. My eyes go to the shop window next to me and discover it’s a jewelry store. The thought of finding wedding rings resurfaces, and I jump at the opportunity.

  ‘Mind if I take a look?’ I call in Tom’s direction. He turns around, and I’m dumbfounded when he intends to accompany me inside. Well done, Thordis. Now you look like a couple on your way to the altar.

  ‘I’m looking for wedding rings,’ I say to a smiling lady who offers her assistance. ‘It’s not him,’ I quickly add as I gesture in Tom’s direction, quietly cursing my own awkwardness.

  While the assistant is getting the rings, I realize I’m between two worlds. In one of them, I’m in South Africa with my ex trying to make peace with the past, while in the other world I’m looking for a symbol of love to seal the future with my current partner. My homeland is a geographical wonder where two tectonic plates meet, and yet I’ve never found myself on a more remarkable border.