by Thordis Elva
We stand by the bus stop and he takes off his backpack, resting it on the ground. ‘Speaking of my job, I took a short training course in case management last year and found it brilliant. It was just so practical and dealt a lot with real-life professional situations. But at this training they asked for a male volunteer. Now, I have a policy to fire my hand up if a volunteer is ever requested. More often than not it has helped my confidence in front of groups, but sometimes it’s ended up in me having to do something decidedly stupid.’
‘Oh. I can imagine where this story is going.’
Tom shakes his head. ‘Wait for it. This time, I role-played a character who made me sick to the core of my bones. I had to play Neil. A man who beat his wife. A man who believed violence against his wife was justified because she pushed his buttons, caused him “to lose it” and “lash out at her”.’
I cringe at the notion.
‘Anyway, I was handed the script and then played the character for about fifteen minutes to an audience of around thirty. I played Neil well. I scared myself with how well I slipped into his shoes. Numerous people said I was “believable” and that I “should act”. I was upset by these remarks. I could feel myself playing the ignorant, selfish, angry Australian male bigot that I know so well, and then right in the middle I panicked because I thought I might be revealing a believably violent and vicious side of myself. I heard myself reading the lines and justifying my violence, getting defensive, and denying any responsibility for my violence because it was out of my control, because my wife was the one who enraged me. It was her fault. Which is obviously such a bullshit childish notion, to claim that one has no control over one’s emotions, or that another person “made me do it”!’
‘What a mind-fuck,’ I blurt out.
‘Right? I was a bit of a mess afterwards.’
‘But you can rest assured that everyone has a place within where violence sleeps, Tom. I can imagine situations where I’d pull the trigger. The fact that you played that character well doesn’t make you worse than anybody else, it just means that you’re able to make a clear distinction between the violent part of you and the rest of you. Which, I’d say, is a good thing.’
‘This exercise brought up some questions in me. Did I feel anger towards you that night? Because I chose to look after you in the bathrooms, did I feel like I was … powerless? Like I had no choice but to be responsible for you? It gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach to pose such questions. Have I shifted to a selfish point before, where I lost all considerations of others and lashed out like Neil? I’ve spoken of entitlement before … but did I have some kind of unwarranted blame towards you that night? Disgusting to consider, but I want to be transparent.’ His willingness to bare it all is evidenced by the open sincerity written across his face. Heartening, I note, but unnecessary.
‘It doesn’t make a difference to me, Tom. I know we’ve talked about how understanding can be vital to forgiveness, or even one with it. But I’ve understood enough. For me, it’s time to start letting go.’
A bus with the words ‘Red Line’ across it comes whooshing around the corner, pulling up to the curb. We climb onboard and get a seat on the upper deck.
‘Thank you … for the level of trust last night,’ I tell him.
‘Likewise.’
‘Well, I didn’t share a lot about … the topic at hand,’ I say, lowering my voice as I realize that the young couple in front of us are not wearing their headphones. ‘Intimacy used to be a minefield for me. I spent many years being emotionally detached during sex. Twisting it, turning it into something it’s not. For a while, I even had allergic reactions to sexual stimuli and had all kinds of medical tests done. The health-care professionals who treated me seemed ill-equipped with knowledge about sexual violence and its impact on survivors, and as a result I don’t know what’s cause and what’s effect, what’s physical and what’s emotional.’ Looking away, I add: ‘What I’m trying to say is that I’ll never know how sex would’ve developed for me had you not … been my first.’
He nods solemnly. I see my reflection in his sunglasses and contemplate how detaching myself from my body was the only way for me to stay sane during the 7,200 seconds of violence he subjected me to, and how this survival strategy later prevented me from being present in my body when receiving physical affection. The thoughts are tender, and I’m grateful that he’s listening in silence. The film over this part of my life is too thin to bear the weight of his words.
Suddenly, he looks to Table Mountain and frowns. ‘I think the cable car is closed.’
I squint my eyes but I can’t make it out. ‘How do you know?’
‘It isn’t moving.’ He blocks the sun with his hand, peering for a long time at the mountain. ‘Yeah, it looks closed to me.’
I recover quickly. ‘It’s OK, though. I have a date with a tree, anyway.’
‘Too true,’ he says, smiling widely. ‘That’s on the ‘Blue Line’. Come on. We need to hop off at the next stop and change buses.’
The next stop turns out to be in the buzzing city center, a stark contrast to the ghost town we experienced on Good Friday. The air is practically vibrating with energy. Men in suits with briefcases hurrying to important places sidestep tourists with their cameras aloft. Laughter pours out of a KFC restaurant and the sound of jackhammers echoes through the dug-up streets. Cape Town smells much like a fast-food drive-thru, where the aroma of deep-fried meat is indistinguishable from car emissions.
‘This feels more like a city now,’ Tom says excitedly. Then he looks around wildly. ‘Hear that!? Someone’s singing!’
I close my eyes, drinking in the urban cacophony. So here you are, Cape Town. Nice to finally meet you.
Tom studies the map for a short time before reading nearby street signs, trying to find out where the nearest bus stop for the Blue Line is. ‘This way,’ he says. We stop at a crossing on a busy, sunlit street.
‘Tom?’
‘Yes?’
‘Ten o’clock.’ I gesture discreetly with my head towards a van that is waiting on a red light. Tom sizes up the driver, a tall, skinny man with a cap who has rolled down his window and glued his eyes to me.
‘You mean that guy who’s checking you out?’ Tom asks.
‘I think so. If that’s what that is.’
‘Oh. That’s blatant.’
‘So it feels.’
‘Amazing. He doesn’t even try to hide it.’
‘Nope.’
‘And taking his time too.’
‘Is he still looking?’ I ask, locking my eyes on a nearby palm tree.
‘Yep.’
‘How about now?’
‘Yep.’
‘Still?’
‘Yep.’
‘Wow.’
At last, the light turns green, and we cross the street in a big herd of pedestrians. The van driver takes off, burning rubber. I’m as good as naked after his lewd stare, feeling exposed. I glance at Tom, strolling next to me with no worries in the world. The likelihood of a woman staring him down in a threatening sexual manner is close to none — and in the unlikely event that it happens, the odds of him feeling threatened are negligible. This basic difference in perspective will always separate us, down to the smallest stitches in life’s fabric.
He stops opposite a shiny tower with polished windows and gilded columns. ‘We should turn here,’ he says, gazing into a small side street.
‘But first I need to take a look inside,’ I reply, pointing at a jewelry store on the corner. After smiling politely to the security cameras, we’re buzzed in through two robust gates with steel bars and electric locks. A petite woman in a hijab welcomes us to this fortress. ‘Can I help you?’ she asks. Her face is fair, almost childlike. I explain that I’m looking for a wedding ring. She opens one cabinet after another with a jangling key chain, pulling out a tr
ay with rings and placing them in front of me. Her presence is timid; her slender fingers fluttering from one ring to the other like the winged fairies I saw in a cartoon when I was little.
‘This one,’ I say, pointing to a men’s ring with a snakeskin pattern. Framing the silvery snakeskin is a thin gold loop at the top and bottom. The overall look is sophisticated and stylish. Vidir would love it. We decided long ago that our wedding rings didn’t have to be a pair or even come from the same store — what matters most is that we like them enough to wear them for the rest of our lives.
She chuckles softly. ‘Good choice, miss.’
‘Mind if I take a picture of it?’
‘Go ahead,’ she says, handing me the ring. I slip it on my thumb, pull out my phone and take a picture, sending it to Vidir.
‘When are you getting married?’ she asks, smiling at Tom, who’s standing by a glass cabinet admiring rings.
‘What?’ he asks, confused. ‘We?’
Damn it, how could I not foresee this?!
‘We’re not getting married,’ I quickly answer. ‘To each other, I mean. Not to each other.’
‘I’m not tying the knot anytime soon,’ Tom answers with a good-natured grin. ‘There’s the small matter of finding a girlfriend first.’
‘Thank you for letting us take a look,’ I hurriedly tell the assistant. ‘We might come back later.’
When we step out on the street again, I turn to him. ‘Sorry. I should’ve known what that looked like, you and I ring shopping together.’
‘No worries.’
I spot a coffee sign half a block down the street. ‘Come on, Stranger. It’s time for coffee.’
To our surprise, it isn’t a café but a tourist information center. Behind the big streamlined service desk is a white wall with the word ‘Welcome’ in eight languages. Touch-screens adorn every surface. It’s all so modern and white and user-friendly that I feel like I’m in an Apple store.
Looking at the clock, I realize it’s time to call Shiralee at Rape Crisis and am delighted to discover pay phones towards the back of the tourist center. She turns out to have a youthful, composed voice when apologizing for the lack of reply to my email inquiries. ‘But you’re welcome to pay us a visit tomorrow morning. How does 9:30 sound?’
‘Very well,’ I say, bouncing with excitement. ‘I’m traveling with someone who works in a shelter for homeless youth in Australia and is very interested in the work you’re doing, just like I am. Can he come along?’
‘Absolutely,’ Shiralee replies, and I admire her warm South African accent before hanging up. The confrontational work with Tom has demanded so much of my attention in the past few days, I didn’t realize how much this errand mattered to me as well.
Looking around, I spot Tom with a pair of large headphones on, listening to CDs in the center’s souvenir shop.
‘You can come with me to see Shiralee at Rape Crisis tomorrow,’ I tell him once he removes his headphones. To be honest, I still have my doubts that he will actually come, but I’m willing to play along.
‘Cool. What did you, ah, tell her about me?’
‘You know.’ I shrug. ‘The truth.’
‘What?’
‘You know, that you work in a youth shelter and that you’d find it very valuable to get an insight into the work they do at Rape Crisis.’
He exhales loudly, deeply relieved. ‘Whoa, I almost had a heart attack there, when you said you’d told her the truth.’
I suddenly realize what he’s referring to. ‘Oh, THAT truth? No, no I didn’t tell her that.’
‘That’s a relief,’ he says with a sigh. I burst out laughing at the misunderstanding, even though it’s freakishly odd to laugh at his fear that I’d tell a woman whose job it is to assist survivors of rape that he raped me. Yet there’s something strangely satisfying about it, like the laughter somehow dulls the edge. So many tears have been spent on this.
A moment later, we exit the tourist center and cross the street to the bus stop. The red behemoth pulls up to the curb seconds later. My phone beeps as we sit down on the upper deck.
Beautiful ring. Let’s buy it. Love you. Vidir
I feel like climbing the skyscraper reflected in Tom’s sunglasses and shouting from the rooftop that I’ve found a wedding ring for the man I love and that I’m on my way to visit my tree in company that’s proving to be healing, regardless of the past. I’d predicted a lot of emotions on this trip, but stupid happy was certainly not one of them.
‘Can I …?’ Tom asks, taking the sunglasses off my nose. He polishes them with his sleeve before handing them back to me. The gesture is effortless and mundane and yet so intimate that it renders me speechless.
‘As much as I like glasses, I can’t stand it when they’re smudged,’ he explains. ‘A past girlfriend wore glasses. She was lovely, calm, and so very generous. I think she was one of the first women I shed some layers with and opened up to. Our relationship was patchy, and I think she was aware that I was guarding some bones in my closet, but she still persisted with me. I just remember her being patient and real. At one point, when we were intimate, I was getting panicky and sweating, but she just grabbed hold of me and got me to breathe through it. She was really giving and understanding of me, but unfortunately I made various excuses and “wandered” off from that safe relationship to go and work a ski season. Reflecting on it, I think she also had some well-founded reservations about me. I was pretty reckless at that point and wasn’t exactly stable. I was smoking some grass and I was dedicated to escapism, which meant I had a fairly mobile, itinerant lifestyle for a while.’
My mind goes to my own wanderings: from being a magazine columnist to a playwright, a librarian, a translator, an actress, a copywriter, a television reporter, a government official, a producer, a public speaker, a director, and a full-time writer. And that doesn’t even include my time as a bartender, a car salesman, and a gogo-dancer.
The look on Tom’s face is pensive. ‘It’s very clear to me that I can no longer harbor or hide this weight,’ he continues after a brief pause. ‘I thought there was enough love of myself there to be in a relationship, but I’ve just recently admitted to myself that I’m not there yet. I’ve got one hand out while having the other dragging a heavy memory behind me. I need to release my grip on it and let it go. I’ve been thinking that with some strength and resilience, and your forgiveness and understanding, I could battle it out, and that on some level I deserved the battle as a sort of ongoing penitence. But I’m wasting a wonderful life holding on to a big stick, ready to beat myself with it every time I make a mistake. No more excuses.’
‘That goes for me too,’ I admit. ‘Standing still felt dangerous, it invited too much self-reflection. I too wandered off from stable and nurturing situations and to this day, I’ve never lived more than five years in the same place. And my CV … it looks like someone played Twister with the Yellow Pages.’
He nods with a faint smile. ‘Aren’t we a pair of vagabonds? Perhaps that’s why I’ve liked cars that I can sleep in the back of. I’ve owned a couple that have allowed me to “camp” in back, loving the freedom to pitch up where I wanted. One memorable night, I slept under a few cardboard boxes behind a dumpster in Edmonton in minus-seven degrees. Due to some shitty budgeting after a stint on the Alberta oilrigs, I came back to town without a cent to my name. I remember chuckling to myself though, wearing all the clothes I had and trying to sleep in the snow. Kind of symbolic, as I’ve never been too interested in money and I’ve never learned the art of saving. It’s only been a short while since I faced the fact that I’m not a nine-to-five, mortgage, family, routine type of guy. With all due respect to those who are.’
As I listen, I wonder just how much of our self-image was shaped by the violence he perpetrated against me when we were teenagers. Would we each have led a more conventional life if it hadn’t happened, wit
h less foolhardiness and wanderlust? I also ponder the freedom and fearlessness that color Tom’s stories and I can’t help but attribute that in part to his gender. I don’t know many women who would chuckle at the thought of spending a night behind a dumpster, as they would be fearful of being attacked or raped in such a situation. Again, the odds that Tom and I face will always be differently stacked, no matter how willing I am to face my fears. Now that’s a worthy challenge, I think, smiling to myself, changing the odds altogether. What’s to say that being a woman has to mean being afraid?
The bus meanders through streets we’ve never seen before. We hit the highway, framed by sky-high trees. It takes us to the other side of Table Mountain, the ‘backside’ not visible from the city. The beauty of the mountain is fierce, with precipitous wooded cliffs, and clouds resting on the top like whipped cream.
The bus stops in a tidy parking lot in front of a ticket booth with a straw roof. Walking through turnstiles, we enter Kirstenbosch: Cape Town’s botanical gardens. Beneath our feet is a paved road that winds through the gardens. The air is thick with bird song and whispering canopies.
‘Amazing …’ I mumble at the sight of a majestic cactus plant that looks like a lion’s mane.
The path swerves to the right, and I catch my breath in awe as the garden unfolds before us in all its glory. A creek flows past a bright, lush lawn. Barefooted children wade in the creek, splashing and laughing. Plants, barely upright under the weight of their enormous flowers, fill sprawling flowerbeds. Soft xylophone music wafts through the air as birds strut around in the grass. A lake surrounded by tall weeds reflects the breathtaking mountain brooding over the garden. An occasional ray of sunlight penetrates the clouds and cascades down the wooded mountainside. The beauty is simply hypnotizing.
‘The scent ...’ I exhale after a speechless moment.
‘Yes,’ Tom says, stunned. ‘So rich …’
‘… so fertile.’