South of Forgiveness

by Thordis Elva

‘For me, the biggest challenge has been to identify what’s a result of the violence I’ve experienced and what’s simply part of my nature,’ I tell him. ‘There have been times where I needed to give up all control in intimate situations. Maybe I needed to see if I could handle giving over power, or maybe I just liked the freedom that comes with leaving the decisions to someone else. I don’t know which is what, in the light of everything I’ve experienced. But I try to stay connected to my emotions as opposed to disconnecting like I did for so many years.’

  Loud laughter cuts through the air, coming from a couple of girls who look about twenty, smoking cigarettes under the overhang. Tom takes a look around and smiles faintly. ‘Christ, Thordis. I can’t believe we’re discussing this.’

  ‘To brave conversations,’ I say with a smile, raising my glass. ‘After all, healing is giving up all hope of a better past, isn’t it?’ I down the rest of my glass and slam it on the table. ‘But no more juice for me tonight.’

  ‘Why? Feeling tipsy?’

  ‘Worse, sentimental. Let’s go find a taxi.’

  We say our goodbyes in front of the Ritz after having decided to sleep in. When Tom texts me that he’s home safe, I’m standing by the hotel window. I reach for the light switch and turn it off. The city lights stretch out below me like a shimmering blanket, and I connect the dots with my finger on the cool glass. The memories may have been erased from my mind, but my skin is aglow with secrets. My reflection in the window takes on the face of revenge: the cruel creature who wanted to bring my tormentor to his knees. Growling softly, she stretches lazily before meeting my eye. I licked your wounds, she purrs while flashing her claws. You think you have the right to judge me now?

  I turn away from the apparition, seeking solace in how far I’ve come through understanding and patience. Revenge grabs hold of my chin with bony fingers and forces me to face her. Admit it, she hisses. You enjoyed making him squirm.

  You’re wrong, I hiss back. It healed nothing.

  Snarling, she retreats into the shadows. Her presence lingers, its remnants pulsating through my body until sleep finally pushes me off the edge and into the subconscious of the African night.

  From Tom’s diary

  Monday

  I interpreted her passionate words on the Robben Island tour bus as a dividing line, a statement of limits, a condemnation of men, of which I am one. I felt like I should have been nodding, but internally I was shaking my head. I knew full well that our shared history and my deeds took place within a bigger social context. I know something of the realities, and I know that we are part of these horrible statistics. I’ve studied and read and thought intensely about issues of inequality.

  I questioned her internally. Does she think I’m ignorant? Doesn’t she know how I feel?

  For a moment it felt like I was being lectured, and that’s where a real discomfort set in. Something changed on that tour bus and it shattered what I had presumed to be a possibility. It was a thought born from a crazy hope: that during this week I could regain some respect in her eyes. Forgiveness was beyond my wildest dreams, and always enough, but I can’t deny I hoped I could somehow redeem myself. Crawl out of that pit and show myself to Thordis as somebody trustworthy, considerate, well raised, and balanced.

  On the ferry and in the restaurant I wanted to spill out all that I understood, felt, and was sickened by. I wanted to tell her I agreed and felt as she did when walking amongst the hard, gray injustices of Robben Island. Instead, there was a bottomless gulf that had cracked open between us, and the miles grew between our two chairs.

  I felt male, white, and clothed in stupidity.

  I was the colonizer of bodies, the thing that sickens me the most.

  I was shocked back into the position of rapist, and I think I had somewhat misplaced that truth in the time and conversations we’ve shared so far. I was back on the wrong side.

  When I couldn’t explain myself, I began to crack. I stood up and announced I was going for a cigarette as the first tears appeared. Taking my jacket, I walked slowly out into the pouring rain, although inside I was bloody sprinting.

  I was panicking and searching for words. Any ways to explain myself that wouldn’t insult Thordis and jeopardize the whole week. Just as I finished my cigarette, her words came to me: find a way to laugh about it. That’s exactly what needed to happen. I was running, there was a hugely difficult space to work through, but I needed to get back in there and find a way to laugh about it. It felt … educational, and I knew she deserved my composure. I wasn’t sure we’d close the gap, but it couldn’t be allowed to widen.

  Luckily, we somehow came through it. I don’t know if I expressed myself properly, but she worded out a truce that seemed to bring some peace.

  I know the dynamic between us has historically been skewed. She’s been the driver of proceedings at most turns, further along on her journey, and I’ve been the agreeable one, nodding my head. On some level I understand this as a natural history, given that Thordis has been the instigator, and I’ve been wanting to apologize and surrender control. I also admitted to myself a long time ago that I’ve found her intimidating. But will I ever feel confident in challenging her if I disagree? Thordis is very intelligent — do I have a personal problem with that? No, that’s not it. It’s the pattern whereby she’s the assigned leader and I’m the meek, under-confident follower. I look forward to when we can both speak to each other outside of our roles and without fear of failure or insult.

  When we were having a drink later she also said that she only wants something good to come out of this. It’s what she’s always wanted.

  After all the twists and turns, here we are. In South Africa of all places, doing our best to mend and transmute the past pains and choices.

  Yes, something good has to be born from this, for both of us.

  Despite our at times lopsided dynamic, our correspondence has still been a safe haven of self-exploration for me. Thordis has asked about and listened to the hardest of it. That’s where the work has been done, in those cringing, tense, and searching emails we exchanged.

  Then there were also the lighter and more promising ones.

  I remember when she signed off ‘take care, Tom’ for the first time in an email. It felt significant, as if there was something achieved … something being built out of the ruins. Something that not everyone who has been on either side of a traumatic experience gets a chance at.

  I remember a simplified, epiphanic statement I wrote to Thordis once:

  ‘Understand your choice as much as you can, if possible make amends in any way you can, learn from it, help others to learn from it, never do it again, and move on.’

  I must have written it when I was confident and decided, arrogant even. From here, I know I don’t have a right to presume others need or want help, nor do I have the right to believe I am some kind of trustworthy, valid voice.

  And yet, I do think if I start talking about my experience of being male, my privilege, and the culture of men … I’ll be ostracized or meet some serious judgment. I think if I paint myself as in any way representative of men as a whole, I’ll rightfully be shot down. But don’t I want to ask questions, of myself and of others, about our ways of being men? About our relations with women? Don’t I want to contribute to the acknowledgement of a problem? In one ear I hear the word ‘hypocrite’, and in the other I hear the word ‘complicit’.

  All I know is that this seems to have morphed from the two of us redressing our bleak past into something that feels bigger. If we walk off lighter but scared to talk about it, it’s just giving in to the fear that we have been working so hard to find our way out of. Confronting fears has been a theme, and I want that theme to continue. I want to keep talking, let the circle expand. It’s the talking that has led us here.

  The purpose that brought me here also feels like it could stretch past just me and her. C
oming to Cape Town to meet Thordis initially busied my head with trepidation, around what it would achieve, how I’d have to look her in the eye when speaking, and also the fact that I’d have to explain the reason for meeting Thordis to my then girlfriend. But with some thought and time it became obvious that we both needed this, even though she had initially proposed it. I needed the repair that would only come with voicing past damages — letting go was essential to secure me a healthy and open future. Nothing else would get me there. Even though we’d been emailing, the claims to our past were still unsigned. Ownership hadn’t been established. And I feel this is a very human thing that we share with many others. Sometimes, the responsibility gets shoved around, or placed on a dusty shelf, or even strapped to those who don’t own it. If I’ve learnt anything, it’s that denial leads to decay … and the opposite is also true.

  Maybe the sharing of our history might just act as a circuit breaker, and allow for an open and alternative conversation. If so, then I think it might be a greater fear worth facing.

  Jesus. Grand (and almost wantonly noble) aspirations, Tom. Just get through this week and see how you feel. Maybe even lighten up a bit!

  I was glad for the ‘easier’ dinner conversation tonight. After that rocky day, it felt good to have a less serious occasion. I found myself pondering less serious matters, and after the constant analysis I think it’s wise to just let the conversation be less directed.

  We chatted about wine, and I thought about how healthy she looked. Just well and clear-eyed, like somebody who has found that elusive life balance. I reflected on the Thordis I used to know, also noticing a couple of quick comparisons. There’s no more excessive smoking. Her hair is a natural color, as opposed to the jet-black I recall from 2000. The style of her dress is completely different now, as is the way she wears it. The tight, dark, and risqué outfits have become a simple long red jacket that matched the bench she was sitting on. The vodka I remember her ordering at bars is instead a tall glass of red wine. She’s barely had mascara on, whereas I recall thick eyeliner and varying shades of lipstick. She’s worn comfortable sandals this week that I don’t think the old Thordis would have worn.

  Her accord with herself has shifted completely along with her relationship to her body. Of course it has. I know very well how much work she has put into understanding herself, and I also know how we grow into our own skin.

  Plus, she’s a woman now and a mother … and it’s been almost thirteen years. I knew I was to meet the adult Thordis, but I was smiling at myself again for believing that I’d be meeting the same person.

  DAY SEVEN

  2 April 2013

  My mouth is a desert. I sit up in bed, only instantly to regret it. The hangover has my head in a vice. Fuck. Me. Didn’t I only have two beers at the Scottish bar? Man, how uncool is it to be hung-over from two beers and a glass of red wine? I remember the days when I could show up at school fresh as a daisy after having won a tequila-shot contest the night before. Girl, you’ve obviously lost your touch.

  As I stumble out of bed, thoughts flit through my foggy mind about how Tom and I managed to bridge the gap that our disagreement created yesterday. Frightening as it was, it served to reinforce our mission of not looking away even when we’re scared of what we may find within each other. And perhaps more importantly, within ourselves.

  In the shower, water flows across my scalp like liquid pain relief. Breakfast can wait, though, I think as I stagger back to bed, equipped with my phone, which beeps a few minutes later, piercing my throbbing head. The message is in broken Icelandic:

  Hi, I’m upside and done eating, and look like filth, but still am … relieved and sort of … smiling. I’m going in shower and was thinking about walking to you soon.

  I laugh out loud at the wonderful mistranslations. What a champ, though, to be able to make himself understandable in Icelandic half a lifetime later without even having an Icelandic keyboard on his phone. I text back:

  Filth’s the word. See you soon.

  I check my email to see if I’ve gotten a reply from the Rape Crisis Cape Town Trust, the only destination I was determined to visit while in South Africa. It’s a non-governmental organization for people who have been subjected to sexual violence. When I told Tom about it in an email shortly before the trip, he surprised me by saying he’d like to join me, as the visit could be useful to him in his work at the youth refuge. To be honest, I doubt that he’s ready to come with me to a place where rape survivors go after their lives are ripped apart, but I respect him for even considering it. I wrote back saying he was welcome to join me, and it wasn’t until after I’d hit the ‘send’ button that it dawned on me: What a surreal full circle that’d be.

  But alas, still no reply from Rape Crisis. I reach for the landline and dial the number listed on the organization’s website. Shy and self-conscious, I explain that I’m a published author of a book about gender-based violence in Iceland, who would find an opportunity to learn about the work of Rape Crisis most valuable. I’m advised to call back after twelve o’clock and ask for Shiralee, whose name I jot down on a piece of paper.

  An hour later, I meet up with Tom in the lobby, where I carefully lower myself into the floral sofa next to him. ‘Hi,’ I grunt.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fresh like a damp rag sock. You?’

  ‘I’ve been better,’ he says with a grin.

  Having grown fond of our habit of talking through our lives while traveling around Cape Town, we decide to have another go at Table Mountain. Nigel is sitting behind the desk in his little travel agency, as well-ironed and tidy as ever. He lights up when he sees me and rushes to his feet.

  ‘I found your tree!’ he says with a triumphant smile.

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but Nigel continues eagerly. ‘It’s called the Upside Down Tree here in South Africa. That’s why I didn’t know what you were talking about when you asked me about the baobab. To me it’s the Upside Down Tree!’ He smiles enthusiastically, awaiting my response.

  I stare at him, not understanding a word of what he just said. Judging by the look on Tom’s face, he’s just as dumbstruck as I am. ‘My tree?’

  ‘Yes, the baobab you were looking for,’ Nigel replies, giddy with excitement. ‘I called my friend who is a gardener and he told me. It’s in the botanical gardens!’

  I’m still in the dark. ‘You must be mistaking me for someone else because I haven’t asked you about any tree,’ I tell him in a tentative voice. The pure joy radiating from his face has me wishing that I were, indeed, the right woman.

  He studies our faces with an embarrassed smile, like we’re making fun of him. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I haven’t asked you about a tree—’

  ‘Was she wearing pajamas and doing this?’ Tom asks, stretching his hands out like a sleepwalker. He bursts out laughing.

  Nigel laughs politely at the joke before turning to me with a serious expression on his face. ‘The tree is in Kirstenbosch, the botanical gardens. The blue bus will take you there.’ He hands me the bus schedule.

  My laughter dries up and my whole body tingles as I take the bus schedule from his hands. ‘Thank you, Nigel.’

  He does us the favor of calling Table Mountain to see if the cable car is running today, but tells us that the phone line is busy. We thank him for the help and he waves at us, happy to be of service. ‘I hope you enjoy your tree,’ he shouts out.

  ‘Whoa. That was weird!’ Tom says as we walk out into the sun. ‘But at least you’ve found your tree!’

  ‘Perhaps I’m meant to go there,’ I say in a casual voice, despite meaning every word.

  On our walk towards the bus stop where we’re hoping to catch a ride to the top of Table Mountain, Tom turns to me and says: ‘I wish I had my iPod with me. I’d be tempted to play you a song called “Stranded on Earth” when we g
et there.’

  ‘Who’s it by?’

  ‘A group called The Herbaliser. I’ve had intense, almost spiritual experiences when listening to that song. I once listened to it on top of a mountain outside of Vancouver that I had climbed, while admiring this jaw-droppingly beautiful vista of snow-capped mountains with not one trace of humanity visible. So surreal and powerful — I remember the song building and rising up and giving me full-body tingles.’ He gestures towards the beach. ‘One second, I need to make a quick stop here.’

  ‘Go for it,’ I say, and take a seat in the sand while Tom wades in and splashes seawater in his face. Thank God my hangover is subsiding. The sun peers out from behind wispy clouds. For the first time since I arrived in South Africa, I can take off my cardigan and enjoy walking around in a tank top, much to the delight of the Icelander in me.

  Suddenly, I feel like we’re being watched. Looking sideways, I discover four men about fifty meters away, watching us carefully with silent, serious faces. ‘Let’s go,’ I say, throwing the backpack across my shoulder. Tom nods and we quicken our step. When we’re back on the street again, Green Point Lighthouse greets us with its brightly painted lines.

  ‘Speaking of Vancouver, you know how I wrote to you from internet cafés in Canada?’ Tom asks me. ‘Well, I was there for three years, from 2007 to 2010. Three pretty mobile but amazing years. Initially, I was with my brother, living a snowboarder’s dream in the mountains for one winter. Then we worked various trade jobs while basically living out of a van and friends’ houses. When one year stretched into two, I gravitated towards Vancouver and ended up being approved to use my youth-work qualification. It was a job I got at a multi-modal school that solidified it for me — that I enjoy working with kids and young people. I was new to working with kids with more complex needs, some of whom were non-verbal with autism spectrum disorders. But you were working one on one, so it was very intensive, and the relationships that were built were amazing. I remember it as being up there with my most challenging jobs, but without a doubt it’s the one I value the most.’