South of Forgiveness

by Thordis Elva

  ‘What’s that?’ I wonder, pointing at a round tattoo above the rune.

  ‘I got that one on my second trip to Iceland, in 2000. At one point I had a silly idea of getting one for every continent I’d traveled to. Thankfully, I’ve dropped that idea.’

  Looking at the Iceland trips that decorate his ankle, I realize that the past is written on my skin, too, albeit in a different way.

  ‘Look,’ I say, showing him two scars above my left ankle.

  Quietly, he asks: ‘Did you do that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Deep inside, a whisper stirs. Your tattoo, Tom.

  He knows. Not only did he see some of my scars himself when he returned to Iceland in 2000, but I also told him about my self-harm in our correspondence. It had been a desperate last resort after I found myself unable to break the silence about being raped. For many years, I despised the girl I used to be — for having done something as futile as cutting herself — until I realized that the truly futile thing was to bash the broken teenager I once was by judging her reactions to being brutalized by someone she loved. That’s when I apologized to her, took her in my arms, ran my hand across her dyed hair, pierced ears, and bandaged limbs, and forgave her with the words: you were alone in a hard situation and you did your best.

  Now I’m sitting on a South African beach, discussing my scars like another part of my body, like your average tattoo. After all, tattoos are nothing but colored scar tissue.

  ‘I remember the big one on your shin.’

  ‘This one?’ I ask, pulling my pant leg further up, uncovering an almond shaped scar.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This one looks like an eye, kind of,’ I say, studying the scar. ‘They become more visible when I’m tanned.’

  For a moment, we sit in silence, and it strikes me that in a way, we’ve got each other’s initials forever carved into our skin.

  ‘In the first email you sent me, along with confessing to your deed, you said you wished I just hated you.’

  He responds with a solemn nod.

  ‘To be honest, there were moments where I did just that. In between loving memories, I found layers of scathing hot hate. But hate was a treacherous ally that always ended up turning on me. In the end, I hated my own guts for caring so deeply for someone who devastated me the way you did.’ My mind goes to the rock he gave me. ‘Hate — now that’s a heavy rock. It’s the biggest millstone there is.’

  ‘And a hot, caustic one, at that. So is regret.’ He narrows his eyes and looks into the distance. ‘I’ve been in this … communication with you, primarily in the hope that it would result in healing for you because I didn’t hold much hope for myself. As you know, I’ve enjoyed self-crucifixion and flagellation, and you’ve had to endure years of me saying that I’m not worthy of forgiveness, let alone a self-love that might sustain happiness. There were times where I think I would have put my hand up from a place of punishment and screamed “it was me! I raped her and shamed my family, please make an example of me.” Dramatic, but I felt that could have been a deserving sentence that would have fit the crime, considering I’ve never been charged. I live half a world away and was never sentenced. Shit, if I chose not to talk with you, I could have hidden from my past deed quite well, roaming around Australia like I have been unless you ran a campaign to locate me.’

  ‘You’re right, you could’ve chosen to hide. Similarly, I could’ve chosen not to acknowledge what you did to me. But I would’ve lost so many other things in the process. Denial is a cruel master.’ Looking at my scars, I add: ‘Who knows if I’d even be alive by now?’

  He nods. ‘I think I’d have beaten myself to death with that stone if I’d turned away from your offer all those years ago. Your time in that café, your hand scribing out that letter — it was beyond pivotal, in your world and mine. A moment that certainly changed it all.’

  We let this simple yet powerful truth sink in while sipping on water from a bottle I fish out of my bag. When the third sightseeing bus whooshes by, we look at each other and roll our eyes.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, and throws his backpack across his shoulder.

  The next bus stop turns out to be by Green Point Lighthouse: the oldest beacon in South Africa. Beyond it is nothing but open seas. The wind makes it clear that we’re in its kingdom by unleashing its entire cavalry on us. We’re saved by a red double-decker that stops and invites us aboard. The driver presents us with earphones and a day pass in exchange for crumpled bills. The peace and quiet inside the bus comes as a relief and yet I follow Tom to the windy upstairs. After all, the silence downstairs makes us vulnerable to listening strangers.

  Tom gets in the inner seat next to the railing. Settling into the seat next to him, my knee brushes against his. This time, a wave of heat shoots through my body. I quickly withdraw my leg, cursing to myself. Why couldn’t you just be an unknown attacker? a bitter voice inside me screams. Why did you have to be my first love? I instantly grab my self-pity by the throat. Violence is always horrid, no matter who perpetrates it. And the only love that matters to me today is the one that I share with Vidir.

  Just as sarcastic jokes about ‘stranger danger’ are forming in my mind, Tom Stranger breaks my cycle of thought by muttering: ‘This has got to be the most “touristy” thing I’ve ever done in my life.’ Judging by his stories, I know his idea of a trip means hiking into the wilderness, bathing in creeks, sleeping under open skies, and surviving run-ins with wolves and bears. It certainly doesn’t involve package deals, hotels, and — God forbid — a campy sightseeing bus.

  ‘Don’t worry, cowboy,’ I mutter back. ‘Your secret is safe with me.’

  The tourists sitting in front of us all have their earphones plugged in, consumed by an audio guide about the wonders of Cape Town. I’m quietly amused by the fact that neither Tom nor I did as much as unwrap ours.

  ‘I suppose this is as good a time as any,’ he says, unfolding a piece of paper in his hands. Suddenly, a particularly nasty gust of wind throws gravel in our faces and I scramble to cover my eyes. All around the bus, the restaurant owners of Cape Town are fighting to contain chairs, tables, and signs from being scattered all over the place.

  ‘The wind. It’s almost as if it’s … angry,’ Tom says in a flat voice, putting the piece of paper away in his bag again. Despite my curiosity, I say nothing and respect his decision, knowing from experience that sometimes the moment is simply blown out of one’s hands.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ I say, looking at the city through narrowed eyes. ‘About anger.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I’ve never shown you my anger.’

  He waits patiently as the words form into sentences in my head.

  ‘Right from the start, in my very first letter to you eight years ago, I spoke of wanting to find closure and forgiveness. But that’s obviously only a fraction of the story. It’d be wrong of me to paint a picture of myself as some kind of stoic Buddha who moved effortlessly from rape to forgiveness. On the contrary, it was one hell of a venture and I often found myself crawling on my knees. But if we’re serious about closing this wound once and for all, it’d be wrong of me to censor those feelings.’

  ‘If I can request, I’d like for you to not spare me anything,’ he says quietly.

  ‘I justified it by telling myself that it was pointless and flat-out harmful to detail the pain you caused me. It wouldn’t help us, I reasoned. But somewhere deep inside, I suspect that this attitude stroked my ego; being the mature type who doesn’t dwell on things. Who doesn’t want to get her hands dirty with messy feelings and hurt. It’s obviously a load of crap. And cowardly, to be honest.’

  I pause, looking myself in the eye in Tom’s reflective sunglasses.

  ‘It created a power dynamic between you and me that was in my favor. I got to sit up on a pedestal while you groveled in the dirt. But I’m sick of it.
I want us to be on equal footing. In all our messy human glory.’

  He nods. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘So you want to see my anger?’ I ask in a low voice.

  ‘Yes,’ he answers without hesitation. ‘I want to see you.’

  Our eyes meet, and I feel anxiety spring open like a switchblade in my stomach. Truth be told, I’m not sure if this will be harder on him or me. I shudder at the thought of the toxic bitterness that consumed me when I read the poem last night. That’s exactly why you need to go there, I think. Until it doesn’t hurt any more.

  ‘Let’s get off this bus soon,’ I suggest.

  ‘Should we check out the famous Long Street?’

  ‘Absolutely. I could use a cup of coffee.’

  As soon as we’re off the bus, a friendly guy walks up to Tom and offers him weed to buy. He politely declines. Two minutes later, a passing guy with a rastacap asks Tom with a stoned smile: ‘Hey man, want some grass?’

  ‘No man, I’m good,’ Tom replies as we continue walking. ‘What?’ he asks, insulted. ‘Do I look like a weed smoker?’

  My eyes go from his unshaved cheeks to his long locks to his hippie shoes. ‘Yes. Yes, you do,’ I answer straight out.

  ‘Ouch,’ he says. ‘Caffeine withdrawal makes you ruthless.’

  ‘Lucky you weren’t around when I quit smoking.’

  A little while later, we find ourselves in a small café with old-fashioned teapots suspended from the ceiling like a British tea party frozen in time. I’ve almost succumbed to the idea of yet another cup of bad coffee when the first sip carries me through to coffee heaven.

  ‘Good, eh?’ Tom asks, eyeing me over the edge of his cup.

  ‘Divine.’ The coffee fanatic in me memorizes the name of the place like a creed: Café Mozart.

  We continue our walk with to-go cups in hand, and I’m pretty sure that the world is a better place. Even the wind is more bearable. We have everything we need to carry on with our life stories now, I think. Neither one of us has picked up where we left it, in our thorny teens. When faced with the choice of basking in an exciting city or dissecting a painful past, procrastination is understandable. Ineffective but understandable.

  I open my mouth to speak, only to close it again, unsure of how to approach the subject. Just as I’m about to give it a try, we’re surrounded by pushy peddlers offering us safari hats and animal statues made of scrap metal. Although playing the carefree tourist has its upsides, a part of me is hyper-aware of how we’re avoiding the things we came here to talk about. If only we could find a way back …

  And suddenly, my prayers are heard.

  We see it at the same time. Stopping dead in our tracks, I feel how Tom freezes up next to me.

  In front of us is a church. What makes it special, or unique rather, is not the arched windows or the elegant spires but the message that reads across it on a two-meter-long, bright-yellow banner:

  Women & men are equal in God’s eyes. So … in whose name do men rape?

  For a moment, neither one of us says a word. Instinctively, I hold my breath. Without looking at him, I ask: ‘Do you have an answer to that?’

  ‘Your own name,’ he answers, his voice barely a whisper. ‘You only do it in your own name.’

  Sometimes, help comes from the unlikeliest of sources. Ten years before I went to South Africa, I was diagnosed with abnormal cells that seemed to be rapidly developing into cancer. Luckily, my immune system overcame it, but the nine months of uncertainty were absolutely terrifying. To make matters worse, I was doing theater studies in the States at the time, far away from my family and friends in Iceland. Advice like ‘look on the bright side’ and ‘just breathe’ did less than no good. Instead, I called my father and asked him to play me the ‘Flower Duet’ from the opera Lakmé. Dad didn’t ask. He called me back when he’d found the duet that played regularly throughout my childhood. White-knuckled, I clutched the phone receiver, curled up in a ball on the floor of my ratty rental while the otherworldly soprano voices nursed my soul with their ethereal beauty.

  Now, a decade later, help arrives in the shape of a message that seems tailored to Tom and me — as if the Almighty is listening. I don’t consider myself religious by a long stretch, but I can’t help feeling that someone is on our side, helping us write the script that’ll lead us to the truth.

  ‘You realize we have to go in there now?’ I start crossing the street without waiting for an answer. The first entrance I try turns out to be locked, but I know we’re meant to go inside. It’s just a question of finding the right door.

  The church is modest on the inside. Cream-colored walls and light-gray doorframes lend it a warm atmosphere. A stocky priest with silver hair and glasses studies us with an inscrutable look on his face. Something unsaid hangs in the air until I notice a homeless man sleeping on a nearby pew. His possessions are in a plastic bag between his swollen and cracked feet, which are resting on the ground. His mouth hangs open in his peaceful face. Filtering through a stained-glass window, the sun gives his cheek a prismatic kiss. It is obvious that he is sleeping there with the priest’s permission, who studies us as if he’s waiting to see if we’ll disapprove or not. Aren’t we all children of God? I think as I smile to the priest. Relieved, he smiles back.

  My traveling companion, on the other hand, seems to doubt his right to enter the house of God. Tom’s face and poise speak of hesitation, but I walk straight to one of the pews, sit down, and close my eyes. Having been to church often enough in my childhood to know the etiquette, I automatically mouth a standard prayer for the wellbeing of my loved ones. Honoring the strange journey we’re on, I add a prayer for Tom and me, and ask for guidance in the days ahead. Last but not least, I pray for the family of Anene Booysen, the girl who has recently become a poster-child for the horrendous violence that some women and children in South Africa are subjected to. May they find strength in these trying times. Amen.

  The peace and calm of the church seeps into my mind. One feeling rises above the others: a strong sense of gratitude that I’m in the right place at the right time, serving the right purpose. Although I’ve never doubted the existence of unconditional love, I’ve always had a hard time giving a name to it. Thank you, I repeat in my mind. Thank you, Holy Spirit … thank you, divine love … thank you, God.

  Suddenly, I hear music. My eyes fly open. I must be imagining things. Can it be? Yes … it can!

  The ‘Flower Duet’ from Lakmé starts to play over the church’s sound system in all its delicate glory. The exquisite sopranos intertwine, braiding me a chaplet. Smiling, I look up to the sky and add: … and thanks for the song request too.

  My chest expands with genuine joy. I turn my head to look at Tom. He is sitting on the pew, near me. His eyes are closed, tears streaming down his face.

  A magical moment later, we both get the impulse to stand up. We pay our respects to the priest while putting money in the collection box. ‘Excuse me, I was wondering if you could tell us the story behind the banners outside?’ Tom asks.

  ‘It was a joint decision by a few of our ministers, who had it made and put up two weeks ago, after the murder of Anene Booysen,’ the priest replies. ‘May she rest in peace.’

  On the way out, I light a candle in her name. Tom lights one too, and we stand in silence, watching the flames. When the doors close behind us, the homeless man is still asleep, unaware of the enchanting moment two foreigners had under the roof of his dreams.

  The world seems different when we step out into the busy street again. The wind sings louder in the treetops and the sun feels warmer on the skin, now that the heart is wide open. The same goes for the stomach, suddenly growling with severity. Due to my newfound loyalty to Café Mozart, I suggest that we eat there. Tom agrees and a little while later, we’re sitting on the second floor of the café that serves the best coffee in Cape Town, in my humble opinion. A
cheerful waitress who finishes every sentence with the word ‘darling’ recommends the roasted vegetables and goat’s cheese on rye bread. I take her advice.

  ‘That banner on the church. I’m at a loss for words,’ Tom says when Darling disappears down the stairs to the kitchen.

  ‘And the music …’

  ‘… so beautiful,’ he concludes with heartfelt sincerity.

  Self-conscious, I again have the realization that we’re surrounded by people while having a very private conversation. Automatically, I lean over the table and lower my voice. ‘It’s weird, going from never talking about this to talking about it all the time, everywhere.’ Our conversation about anger springs to my mind and I add: ‘Even on the windy roof of a double-decker bus.’

  ‘Yes, but nobody can hear us there anyway. Everyone has headphones. Come to think of it, it’s probably a perfect place for a private conversation.’

  ‘True, but there are still things I wouldn’t say. Especially not when it’s so windy I’d have to scream for you to hear me.’ I give him a knowing look.

  Unsuspecting, he shakes his head. ‘I can’t think of anything you couldn’t say.’

  His incomprehension renders me speechless. For a moment, all I can do is stare at him. Then I blurt out: ‘So I could scream RAPIST at you on a bus and you wouldn’t care?’

  He gulps as if I just smacked him. Shocked at what I just said, I cover my mouth with both hands. My words still hang in the air.

  All of a sudden, we both convulse with laughter. It pours uncontrollably out of us until tears are streaming down our faces.

  ‘I can’t believe you said that,’ he manages to squeak between fits of laughter.

  ‘And I can’t believe we’re laughing at it,’ I moan, hysterical.

  Our awareness of how inappropriate it is to be laughing only adds to the hilarity. We can’t even look at each other without prompting another spasm. Eventually, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, hoping that a temporary separation might break this uncontrollable fit. As I return to the table, still sniffling, Tom is letting the last giggle out. Behind our hysterical reaction are years of difficult discussions. Tom’s identification with the word ‘rapist’ was so extreme that it held him back from seeking help, making friends, and having meaningful relationships with other people for a long time.