South of Forgiveness

by Thordis Elva

  ‘For a while there, as we both know, I was what I had done,’ he tells me. ‘And that was swallowing up my sense of myself and indeed my outlook. The label of rapist stuck to me as if it were my profession, one that was right up there with my name, where I was born, and how old I was — the basic fundamental facts that I saw as defining me and the part I had to play in this world. The label would flash in front of me when I was idly chatting with friends. I’d think “here are these folks laughing with me. Little do they know they sit with a monster”.’

  I clench my jaw in discontent. There’s a fine line between feeling sorry for having made a mistake and feeling sorry for yourself for having made a mistake. In my opinion, Tom crossed this line a few times in our correspondence, which left me feeling pressured to take pity on him for being the horrible, unworthy failure of a person he felt he was. Not only have I always found it ridiculous and out of place for me to pity Tom, but I also believe that if people settle into the idea that they’re beyond salvation, it hinders them from doing constructive things with their lives. And I have zero interest in enabling either. ‘You know how I feel about this “big, bad rapist monster who doesn’t deserve forgiveness/friendship/love” mantra,’ I tell him.

  He smiles faintly. ‘Yeah, I know, I remember you getting frustrated with me once and telling me to quit the “pity party”. But as you well know, self-blame is a familiar warm blanket that I’ve got a nice tight grip on. I’ve come to realize that it’s an emotional pattern to which I’ve become addicted. Playing the victim, even with you. Talking of my “hardships” to try and get understanding and attention. Isolating myself from my loved ones so that I can come back and be appreciated and admired for being so hardy and self-reliant. But all the while dodging responsibility for myself, for my emotions and my accountability. It was a real relief to finally identify that pattern and begin to eradicate it. As with a drug, I suffered withdrawal symptoms. “The Story of Poor Me” has been the main feature playing in my mind for a long time, and I’m so very tired of it. The “big, bad rapist” indeed.’

  ‘I suppose I could refer to you as a “rapist”, at the very least “my rapist”. But it wouldn’t be true — hell, it wouldn’t even cover a fraction of the truth about who you are. I’ve drunk myself into oblivion. That does not make me “an alcoholic”. I have lied on occasion. That does not make me “a liar”. I’ve been raped. That does not make me “a victim”. People do good and bad things throughout their lives. My point is that I’m a person. Not a label. I cannot be reduced down to what happened that night. And neither can you.’

  Our conversation comes to a halt as our food arrives. Tom seems lost in thought, and when Darling leaves, I find myself awaiting his next word.

  ‘When I encounter the frequent reminders of sexual abuse all around us, whether it’s news of yet another gang rape of a teenage girl at a party, or some semi-naked female celebrity on the cover of a men’s magazine, or a joke in a TV comedy about Rohypnol, I give myself a sharp stab of guilt. Right in the stomach. I know this is self-pity, at its best. And I think I, along with my greedy ego, like it. You say you are infinitely more than what “happened” to you, and I emphatically agree. However, I on the other hand didn’t have anything happen to me. I had a choice. I did something that I need to refrain from viewing as my defining characteristic.’

  ‘Do you realize what you just did?’

  He gives me a quizzical look.

  ‘First, you listed numerous things that underline how widespread and normalized misogyny is, such as sexual violence, rape jokes, and objectification of women. Then, you say that you “didn’t have anything happen” to you. Well, patriarchy happened to you. It happens to all of us. But you’re right. You had a choice that night. Nobody made it for you. I don’t believe that sex offenders are born that way. If it were some inherent male instinct, all men would be potential rapists and molesters. I find the mere notion of that an insult to men. I refuse to believe that my son has a natural inclination towards sexual violence. On the contrary, I think he is born without values and beliefs, and installing them is my greatest task as a parent. But he will also be shaped by outside influences. The answer to why men violate women lies in social structures, in the very attitudes we have towards one other. You felt a sense of entitlement that night. You’ve said so yourself.’

  ‘You’re right, patriarchy is a system I grew up surrounded by, and it soaks into so much of Australian culture. We’ve promoted the objectification of women so well that the majority of it isn’t hidden, but is up on prominent city billboards, in children’s books, and thick within our language. I’m just not sure if I can lend it too much responsibility in my situation. The choice to abuse you was mine — I think that has been established. But what I want to question is how I could have made such grossly selfish decisions when the role models around me practised and preached respect, accountability, and equality. I went to wonderful co-ed schools and had as many female friends as I did male. I have not been able to consider myself somebody who degrades women. I have been unfaithful in relationships, yes. Do I view women as lesser beings? I know I don’t. Do I objectify women? … I think I could have been found guilty of this in the past. What I’m trying to say is I have been exposed to so much education, so much love, and so many positive females in my life … and yet I could still commit rape.’ He shakes his head. ‘I prefer your viewpoint, Thordis, I do. I don’t think rapists are born. We are all beautiful clean slates when we enter this world. I’m only trying to explore this uneasy feeling I have. There is a dichotomy that separates us. You are not a victim, can’t be reduced down to such a term, and have moved so very far away from such an idea. But for myself, I’ve still felt the need to identify myself as somebody who’s been sexually violent … and not in a past tense if you know what I mean. Saying “I was once responsible for raping somebody” seems … ill fitting. I guess I’m still unwilling to burn that label.’

  I let his words sink in and decide to not probe any further. After all, I have no right to define Tom’s view of himself.

  After settling the bill, we order coffee to go. I’m determined to have more of that caffeinated delight.

  ‘Can I ask what went through your mind in the church?’ Tom wonders.

  ‘Gratitude, mostly. I was grateful for my health, my family, this trip … this moment. You?’

  ‘I thought about how glad and grateful I am that …’ — he searches for the right words — ‘… that you’re happy and healthy and loved …’ His voice breaks and to my surprise, tears well up in his eyes. Suddenly, it dawns on me: his ability to forgive himself is intertwined with my ability to find happiness in spite of what he did to me.

  Placing my hand on top of his, I whisper: ‘I am. I am all of those things.’

  He dries a tear from his cheek and nods.

  There’s a fine line between laughter and tears. When the heart is open wide, they can even merge into one and the same thing.

  Once back onboard the sightseeing bus that huffs and puffs up the side of Table Mountain before returning us to Sea Point, I drink in the magnificent view over the city. In the mouth of Table Bay, a lonely ship is sailing on the turquoise ocean. The bus passes a row of flagpoles that sing a loud, clanging song in the wind. For a split second, the sound morphs into the metallic banging of the bedpost against a wall. I glance at Tom, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed it. Are there any smells, sounds, or sensations that pull him under the surface of the past? I wonder. Does he ever find himself gulping for air?

  The further up we climb, the stronger the wind gets, until we’re forced to seek shelter on the lower deck. Inhaling deeply, I muster the courage to say: ‘It’s been a whole day since we paused our life stories, just when we were getting to the hard part. Avoiding it won’t make it any easier.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he says with a somber expression. ‘You want to continue now?’

  My stomach
takes a nosedive but I answer: ‘Yes. I want to rip the dressing off.’

  ‘Alright. Let’s do it,’ he replies. I can see how he clenches his jaw, the muscle flexing underneath his beard.

  We exit the bus about half a mile from the Ritz. The wind captures the raging surf and blows it like powdered sugar onto the beach, where it blends with a whipping sandstorm. A laughing woman tries to stand upright as her friend takes a picture, her orange skirt strung tight in the wind like a sail. Suddenly we’re slapped, literally speaking, by a gust of wind with sharp, sandy claws. As the weather builds up to a frenzy and disperses our conversation, my mind revisits the anger Tom claimed he wanted to see. The air between us is thick with unspoken words and bottled-up tears, rustling like the grass that billows around us in shiny green waves.

  It’s seven o’clock when we buy ourselves a drink at the hotel bar and sit down by a table facing the garden, readying ourselves for the hard talk. The windowpane clatters loudly, and an endless stream of staff crossing the room distracts me to the point where I give up. ‘What do you say about us finishing this conversation in my room?’

  He looks at me, shocked. ‘Are you sure? You’re comfortable with that?’

  ‘I’m sure that it’ll be easier to have this talk if we get proper privacy. It’s tough enough as it is.’

  Tom radiates ever-increasing anxiety as the elevator climbs closer to the twelfth floor. Unlike him, my emotions have calmed down. Almost serene, I step out of the elevator. There’s no turning back now.

  He buries his hands in his pockets as I fish my key out of my bag in front of my hotel room. Putting my hand on the doorknob, it morphs into the white plastic door-handle with the keyhole that haunts my dreams. Within me, everything falls silent. Ready? I ask myself.

  Without hesitation, I turn the key.

  Tom follows me inside my room, takes a look around and smiles nervously. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Sit wherever you like. I’m going to make some tea.’

  He sits down on the edge of the bed while I busy myself with the kettle. From the corner of my eye, I notice him closing his eyes and straightening his back, as if he’s steeling himself. When the boiling water hits the teabag at the bottom of the cup, Tom begins the story in a hoarse voice. ‘I wore my golden shirt that evening. I didn’t know it was customary to get dressed up for a dance in Iceland, and I didn’t have anything fancy. The son of my host family took me to an exclusive store and helped me choose the shirt. I thought it was the peak of cool, at the time. The striped trousers were a present from my host sister.’

  He accepts the steaming teacup from my hand and stares into it for a moment before continuing. ‘I remember how excited I was when I bought the ticket. I remember that I was with my friends Carlos and Ben when we met you outside the dance. You were pretty drunk when you arrived.’

  ‘It was the first time I’d ever tasted rum,’ I tell him. ‘I didn’t know how to drink alcohol. Nor did I know how to smoke, even though I took a drag from the rolled cigarette you handed me. I just wanted to impress you.’ And after the ensuing wild cough, I wondered if perhaps that wasn’t a cigarette, I remind myself.

  ‘I lost you the minute we stepped inside,’ Tom continues. ‘Carlos and I went straight to the dance floor. I remember feeling happy and carefree in that sweaty pile of people. Then someone told me you weren’t well, you were in the ladies’.’

  My mind replays the awful scene from the bathroom stall. The stains on my new dress. My hair wet from hugging the toilet. My fear and wonder as one spasm after the other wrung my body out like a dishrag. The repeated promises that I’d neither drink nor smoke again if I were only allowed to survive this night. And finally, the desperate wish for my mom to come save me. I fucked up, Mom. I’m sorry.

  Tom frowns. ‘I felt it was my duty to go and check on you. So I went in and climbed over the partition, into your cubicle. I held your hair back while you vomited, and I thought I was going to be sick as well. Then you flopped to the ground and lay there, motionless. I remember carrying you out.’

  He pauses and looks away. Before I have a chance to tell him how grateful I was when he appeared like my mother’s incarnate to save me from an untimely death on the bathroom floor, he grimaces bitterly. ‘Then I couldn’t be bothered to look after you, Thordis. I dumped you on Ben and left you with him. You were slumped on the chairs outside the bathrooms and he stood there, stooped over you, as I went back to the dance floor.’

  I look at him in surprise. ‘I thought you’d taken me straight home.’

  He clenches his jaw. ‘My only thought was that this was the only Christmas dance I was going to experience in Iceland. I was selfish and didn’t have any concern for you. In the end, I felt guilty that some other guy was looking after my girlfriend. So I scooped you up in my arms and carried you up the stairs, in a foul mood because I had to leave the party.’

  ‘And the security guards stopped you on the way out because they wanted to call an ambulance for me as I was dangling from your arms, foaming at the mouth. They thought I had alcohol poisoning.’

  ‘I’d forgotten that … moment … but I don’t doubt it,’ he says in a low voice.

  ‘I remember that part vividly because for a second there, I thought you’d take their advice,’ I respond, looking down into my cup. ‘That Mom and Dad would get a call from the hospital saying that their 16-year-old daughter was lying there with alcohol poisoning. I imagined being grounded for life.’

  ‘I’d known for three years by then what it is to drink to excess, and I’d seen many of my friends at various stages of drunkenness. I just thought you were wasted. I didn’t think you were in real danger,’ he says.

  ‘Whatever it was, it had me paralyzed and unable to speak. But I heard you loud and clear as you refused the offer of an ambulance, telling the security guards that you knew me and would see me safely home.’

  He nods, his complexion strangely pale. ‘The taxi was white, I recall. I told the driver your address … I remember letting us in to your house. But what I don’t remember is what I did with you while I struggled to unlock the door.’

  ‘You draped me across your shoulder while you rummaged round in my bag for the keys.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Really? Like a sack of potatoes?’

  I nod.

  He swears at himself quietly. ‘And I remember your entrance hall, the shoes on the floor. From memory, past the coat hooks there were some stairs on the left, leading up to the kitchen and your parents’ area. Your room was through on the right.’ He stops and swallows. ‘I remember taking your clothes off.’

  I remember it too. My gratitude when he removed my vomit-stained dress. My relief at having my feet freed from the high-heels. My frustration for not being able to utter a word of thanks. My lack of understanding when he continued to remove my underwear. Why my panties? Why?

  My stomach muscles reflexively tighten as I prepare for the blow.

  He stands up, moving restlessly, and walks over to the wall opposite the bed. ‘I undressed you completely. I remember you lying on the bed under me, naked. You were lying at an angle across the bed … I didn’t even bother to take my shirt off.’ He falls silent and hangs his head. ‘I don’t remember how long it took, but it was a long time.’

  ‘Two hours,’ I say tonelessly. ‘You laid me on the bed so I was facing the alarm clock, which glowed in the dark. Even though my head had cleared my body wasn’t obeying me, so I couldn’t shift or turn over. The only thing I could do was count the seconds until it was over.’

  The wind howls pitifully outside the window.

  ‘There are 7,200 seconds in two hours,’ I add.

  Tom begins to cry. ‘I wish I could tell you why I did it, Thordis.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Raped you,’ he says, quietly.

  I blink in disbelief that I heard him correctly.
‘What did you say?’

  ‘I raped you.’

  His words hang in the air, sharp as a razorblade. I want to reach my hand out and touch them. Having read his confession on paper does nothing to lessen the impact of hearing it spoken out loud like this, to my face. Suddenly, the dam within me bursts and I double over on the bed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers.

  ‘Are you sure that’s how you want to put it?’ I whisper back.

  ‘No, I meant forgive me. Forgive me for raping you, Thordis.’

  I’m in a hotel room in the middle of a tropical storm, listening to a weeping man utter words I’ve longed to hear for half of my life. Words I’ve craved like a cure, a crutch, an antidote. I’ve imagined how I’d react, envisioning the moment and how I’d welcome forgiveness wholeheartedly. Instead, I feel stunned, with a bad taste in my mouth and blood rushing in my ears. Without warning, I hear myself hiss: ‘Your goddamn hair was in my face the entire time and what it did to me … To this day, there’s a certain shampoo smell that I can’t fucking stand. I can’t have anybody’s hair hanging in my face under any circumstances.’ The words dart between my teeth like bullets. ‘I can’t even describe the pain … At first, I honestly thought you’d sever me in two. That my body would be ripped open from my crotch to my chest, that’s what it felt like. Little by little, I went numb between my legs but your bloody hipbones, how they dug into the inside of my thighs over and over again, do you have any idea how much that hurt? It was like being punched in the thighs for two hours straight. I was black with bruises down to my knees for weeks afterwards, you know?’ I whimper, furious and hurt. ‘Shit … Do you even know?’