by Thordis Elva
She was sitting a couple of feet away and I glanced at her. Her shoulders were loosely slumped, and she looked really relaxed. My gaze continued on an arc past her, and I reconnected to the song as my eyes moved up towards a beautiful stained-glass window above her and then over to the pinnacle of organ pipes. I acknowledged the polished pillars as my gaze drifted past and then sank immediately ahead of me, resting on the darkened timber of the altar.
I issued myself a gentle request to let go and focus not on the sights surrounding me but on resting there. My fingers were splayed out and I was stroking the colored fibers of the pew. All the mental wanderings stopped and time just melted. I joined the uprising of my breath, filled my chest, and then attempted to control a slow and even release of air. By the time the tapered breath was over, I felt as if I had arrived. I remember thinking I am housed.
Safe. It was so very safe in there.
The strings had settled into a deep familiar chorus, and I was floating amongst the paradox of being earthed in that very second but alive to the history that brought us there.
Listening to the song, I was thinking about her life, as it is now, with her partner and her son, her work and investment in her projects, her activism. She’s healthy and from what I had learnt, she seemed to be on sure ground. She laughs a lot. I know she is loved. Despite years of emails, I still hadn’t known the true state of her soul after what I did …
My God, she is okay.
Thank you.
I looked up again and felt the faint weight of tears behind my eyelids as the song built into a slow, pulsing plateau. It was all so grand and overwhelming that I wondered if there was something divine at work in there. Prayer and reverence have normally shifted me in my seat, but right then and there it was as if I had been put exactly where I should be.
I walked out of there feeling — it sounds clichéd — cleansed. A bit lighter, and a bit braver, I think. Resigned, maybe, that all was in its place. And I’m glad that was the feeling, because tonight our life stories reached the night of the Christmas Ball. 17th of December, 1996.
It was initially so horribly awkward, walking into her room. After I sat down, I started to prepare myself a bit. I was staring out over the shrouded pool and streetlights below. I could hear the kettle slowly heating up, but the bubbling was barely audible against the sound of the wind doing its best to bend the windows. It was wild out there … angered weather, and it roared at the thin film holding it back. I was thankful for the glass, and became aware of how dry, contained, and safeguarded we were, separated from the harshness but still able to hear it.
Now I was waiting to hear and appreciate her anger.
She asked me if I wanted to see it today, on the bus.
I was bracing myself for it. Sitting there it felt like it was now time to be raw.
In the past we’d always had our practiced precautions, and had been so very careful not to step on emotions.
I’d wanted her anger for my own purposes. I’d been consciously and unconsciously trying to lure her into judging me. I’d wanted her hatred and anger quite desperately. It would have been some additional weight to add to the tails of my whip, and lucky for me she’s known this.
This week has increasingly felt like it’s about overturning stones and searching for everything that has been left unsaid. Tonight it was about saying it all. Not for me to receive some overdue penance, but because I hadn’t been back there with her yet.
She’s been restrained with me about that night, and the outcome. I’ve known she has held things back in our correspondence. So have I.
But now it was time for the padding and filters to be dropped. Where we can be for once angry and brave and free.
I was sitting there pushing down with my hands and straightening my arms to try and stretch out the knot in my stomach. I looked over and she was standing by the dresser, unwrapping two tea bags and dropping them into cups. I could see that she was deep within her thoughts and was moving almost automatically when she poured the hot water.
I wondered to myself if she was fearful, but then figured fear was not part of her mind space. We’d been moving towards that moment for years, and I had no doubt that she was completely prepared for what we were about to walk through. She didn’t seem to have any tension in her stance, and her calmness gave me cause to relax a bit more. Despite the wind it became strangely tranquil in there, and seemed mutually agreed upon. As were the small ceremonies we were both carrying out. Any remaining fears joined the swirling winds outside and dissipated.
I knew we were about to time travel. I didn’t doubt that those seconds and minutes were the last ones before we became younger, before we became our 16- and 18-year-old selves. I prepared to walk with her into that dark cave, knowing she would light up demons hiding in the corners of my self.
I wanted those demons to speak. I wanted the dark corners to have explanations. The questions of ‘how’ and ‘why’ have echoed down to the depths of that cave and no answer has returned, no matter how loud I’ve screamed. Right then, I wanted there to be revelations and new understanding. I wanted the darkness to talk.
No hiding. No softening or omissions.
I thought about the questions she was going to ask as I thanked her for the warm cup of tea.
I then let go of any mental pushing and pulling. I remember thinking perhaps it wasn’t about the answers.
Perhaps all I needed to do was to just listen.
Recall all I could.
Own my violence in all its ugly entirety.
Perhaps it wasn’t about what came out of the darkness, but more about seeing it for what it is. It’s mine … and I will find no peace in there if I’m screaming out questions.
She explained to me the horrors. I remembered flashes and feelings. I remembered being on top of her. I remembered her room. All the black pieces fit. Even how I broke up with her days afterwards.
We went there.
Now … it feels like there’s more simplicity.
I took what I wanted. I took what I wanted and I wasn’t caring about what I left behind.
She told me tonight what I left behind. It was in her poem.
I could hear it in her voice when she read it.
There was your answer, Tom. In the anger she spoke to and in those bleeding words.
Now I know what I did … and the why matters less.
DAY FIVE
31 March 2013 (Easter Sunday)
The face of my grandmother, whose name I bear, dissolves as I regain consciousness. As I ponder the meaning of the dream, Tom’s words echo in my head: ‘You only do it in your own name.’
I sit up in bed and search my soul for signs of a hangover from last night’s vulnerability binge. Everything seems to be unscathed, thank God. I look to where Tom was huddled on the floor. I wonder if he has a bad case of vulnerability hangover this morning? Or on the contrary — does he feel like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders?
Thoughts surface of the lost puzzle that fell into place last night. My retaliation. The reason I’m certain of it is that despite my memories being clouded by shame and trauma, I clearly remember the feeling. I ponder whether this discovery gives me reason to second-guess my entire memory bank, but come to the conclusion that Tom is the only person in my life whom I deliberately tried to hurt back in this way. Owing to our youth and the novelty of our relationship, we introduced one another to a whole array of emotions and experiences, ranging from delightful to absolutely detestable. Come to think of it, everything that has happened between Tom and me has been a deviation from the norm in one way or another.
After a quick shower, I put on a tank top and pair of capris, noting with excitement that the palm trees outside are standing up straight in the calm sun. A long line of people snakes through the dining room, eating up the half-hour I intended to use to write and reflect. Damn i
t. The past few days’ discoveries and experiences are way too valuable not to be documented before my memory distorts them, misplacing their detail. With a mouthful of half-chewed fruit, I run to the sofa overlooking the lobby and hammer away at my laptop until Tom arrives, looking rested. There’s an air of fragile relief between us after last night’s discussions. In a sense, we have managed to walk through fire without major burns, although there’s still a way to go.
Relieved that the sun is finally out, we decide to check out the popular Camps Bay beach that’s two miles down the road. We would’ve preferred to walk, but our table reservation puts us on a tighter schedule, and so we settle for the polite Roy, who pulls up to the Ritz and opens his taxi doors to us. Wearing a white short-sleeved shirt, he’s professionalism in the flesh. Tom and I get into the backseat, where we admire the coastline as we drive along it.
‘I woke up to the singing paperboy again,’ Tom tells me, chuckling. ‘What a talent.’
All of a sudden I realize that I have a knot in my stomach and, for the first time since I got here, it has nothing to do with the past.
‘I’m nervous about wearing swimwear in front of you,’ I blurt out. ‘No use in pretending I’m not, bullshit like that never works. The only thing that works when you’re nervous about something is to say it out loud, poke fun at it, and go on with your life.’
He stares at me, baffled. ‘Can’t say you’re lacking in the honesty department, Thordis. But since you brought it up, then yes: I’m nervous too.’
Roy the Professional pretends that he doesn’t hear the unusual confessions taking place in the backseat. I smile appreciatively at him in the rearview mirror.
‘So what do we do now?’ Tom asks. ‘Do we skip the beach?’
‘Hell no, just the opposite. Fear, almost without exception, shrinks when you’ve put it into words. Now we poke fun at it and go on with our lives.’
He nods, a smile touching the corners of his mouth.
A moment later, we find ourselves in front of the lively beach bars and cafés of Camps Bay. The atmosphere is a stark contrast to everything I’ve experienced in Cape Town so far. Most of the people around us seem to be young British tourists, based on their accents. And overflowing with hormones, judging by the tacky flirting going on.
We hurry across the street and straight into the light sand. To my frustration, the sun has gone behind thick clouds that render the sky colorless. Shuddering, I pull my cardigan out of the backpack in which I’d gleefully packed it when the sun was shining. ‘What the hell, man? Is it impossible to get some sun around here?’
‘Remarkable. It seems to have only been above your hotel,’ he says with a wry smile. ‘In other words, you just paid someone to drive you out of it.’
‘I came to South Africa straight out of six months of dark, freezing Icelandic winter,’ I mutter. ‘And what do I get? A storm and overcast beaches.’
Nevertheless, we kick off our shoes on the shore. My feet celebrate their emancipation from sandals that have been filing the skin off my heels. The water is freezing cold, which explains why nobody is swimming except for a ten-year-old daredevil in a pink bathing suit. Tom takes off his backpack with a gleam in his eyes. ‘I’m going in.’
The moment when he takes off his clothes is just as awkward as I’d predicted. Turning away, I look to the mountains with stiff shoulders. Having made it a habit to hide behind my phone in awkward situations, I fumble for it, deciding to familiarize myself with the panorama settings on the camera. Just look busy.
Snapping away, I understand why the mountain range is sometimes called the Twelve Apostles, in light of its many peaks. The bustle on the beach is also worth photographing. A few well-dressed, middle-aged couples enjoy their Sunday paper on orange tanning chairs, each with a respectful distance between them. Muscular guys with bare feet play beach tennis nearby. A young woman in black holds hands with an old, white-haired lady wearing a sunhat, walking slowly along the shore. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. C’mon, be an adult. I turn to face the ocean.
Tom’s footprints form a straight line pointing to the sea. His back is turned to me. His tanned, toned body stands out from the bottle-green water and gray skies. Swiftly, I turn away again, unsure of why I’m so uncomfortable. Perhaps due to the past we share, perhaps out of respect for Vidir, perhaps because Tom is unaware of me watching him.
He doesn’t last long in the frosty water and a little while later, we’re both on dry land and fully clothed. Walking along the beach, we stop to marvel at massive rocks. The largest ones are as big as trucks, sculpted by the sea and winds. Their coarse surfaces bear huge slabs covered in saffron-colored lichen. Propped up like a mammoth game of cards, the rocks balance hundreds of tons on ridiculously small surface points. Walking in between them, I gaze up at a rock pile that looks like it could come crashing down on me any minute. Yet I’m sure that this elephantine stack of boulders is safer than any man-made structure I’ve ever entered.
Eyes resting on the colossal rocks, Tom asks: ‘Isn’t it your turn to tell your life story?’
‘Okay. Can you take my picture first?’
When he nods yes, I hand him my phone. Not wanting to pose, I start to climb these fossilized dinosaur eggs, shy of his stare through the lens and conscious that the picture will capture me in a moment that will forever be from his point of view.
A moment later, we clamber over a sunbaked rock, giving us a good view of the ocean. The teal sea and the Twelve Apostles, who watch over the curved coast, provide a stunning view.
‘At the age of eighteen, after two years in the school where you and I met, I gave up,’ I say, hugging my knees. ‘The memories were too painful. I transferred to a different college where I enjoyed my studies and met interesting people out on smoke breaks. But all the unresolved stuff kept dragging me down, and I was still in a self-destructive spiral.’
Picking up a random rock, I weigh it in my hand before throwing it off the cliff.
‘Little by little, I became convinced that I was a freak who didn’t fit in anywhere. So I started to seek out other freaks. Guys who were misfits for various reasons — addicted to drugs or mentally unstable — hoping that their company would make me feel like I belonged somewhere. That I was somewhat “normal”. Sometimes, it worked. My eating disorder and self-harm seemed innocent next to the drug habits and suicide attempts of the guys I hung out with. It was comforting, somehow. Who would’ve thought normalcy could feel so good?’
Tom confirms the feeling with a knowing sound.
‘One day, Mom caught a glimpse of one of my friends,’ I continue. ‘Afterwards, she told me she didn’t want me to “consort with the likes of him”. I had to bite my tongue not to hiss at her that she had no right to judge my friends by their appearances “because I was raped by a model student and you sure as hell didn’t mind him at your dinner table”.’
I look at the model student sitting next to me. ‘No offense.’
‘None taken.’ He rests his eyes on the horizon and for a moment, neither of us says a word.
‘I have once spoken about a particular side to me, Thordis. I’m sure you remember? It’s that irritable and selfish “flash”. The point I’ve been scared of when I’m either tired or flat or impatient … the one that I’m deeply fearful of because it can undo any calmness or steady rationale. It’s only self-directed, and the frustration is only ever with myself or circumstances I’ve become impatient with. Pretty natural emotion, I guess. But nonetheless, I hate feeling so self-involved in those moments. They scare me, because … I really want to stay grounded and mindful of others around me. If I’m going to be somebody’s life partner someday, I’d want to be on top of that stuff.’
Knowing how Tom has spent nearly half of his life regretting and reflecting on a bad decision, I trust him to have more self-knowledge than most. Yet I understand his questioning. After years of
self-hatred and pushing loved ones away, it is hard to allow oneself to care and be cared for. We both learned that the hard way. Lost in thought and cradled by the ocean and mountain range, it feels as if we are suspended in time. If it weren’t for our restaurant reservation, I’d gladly surrender to that timelessness and spend the rest of the day floating from one existential reflection to another. Reluctantly, I look at my watch and break the silence. ‘Time to go. Food awaits.’
‘Speaking of …’ Much to my delight, he pulls two boxes of chocolate out of his bag, handing one of them to me. ‘It’s Easter, after all.’
We climb down from the boulder, slip into our shoes, and slide into the backseat of a metered taxi.
‘Should I put on a dress?’ I think out loud, watching clothing stores and restaurants flash by. ‘I mean, because it’s Easter?’
‘Ah, no, I’d say that’s unnecessary, don’t you think? I only brought this,’ he says, looking down at his plaid cotton shirt and shorts.
‘Yeah, and it’d be too date-like, wouldn’t it?’
‘There’s that too …’
‘Well, I’m glad we had this conversation, then,’ I tell him. ‘Just say it out loud, poke fun at it, and go on with your life.’
‘Quote of the day,’ he says in an amused voice.
When seen from the rotating restaurant on the twenty-first floor of the Ritz, the massive trees below look like sticks of broccoli. Dramatic clouds hover over the steel-gray sea, and a cargo ship lurks a few miles off the coast. Tomorrow’s destination, Robben Island, rises proudly out of the water.
Once we’ve been seated and the waiter has taken our order, Tom chooses his words carefully. ‘Can I suggest something?’
‘Sure, what?’
‘It’s inspired by your suggestion that we tell each other our life stories. How do you feel about searching your soul and asking me anything?’
‘Anything?’
‘Even if you’ve asked it before. After all, posing a question in writing is very different from asking it face to face. This week is about tying up as many loose ends as possible, isn’t it?’