South of Forgiveness

by Thordis Elva

  He takes off his shoes and walks barefoot onto the lawn, where the grass is soft and swelling, like moss. The color is so green and juicy one can practically drink it. I come to a halt. In front of me is a sight I’ll never forget. At the outskirts of the lawn is an oak tree. Stretching its branches fifteen meters into the air, the canopy draws its dark outline in the clouds. It proudly presides over the lower plants surrounding it. The mist in the slopes of Table Mountain adds to the prehistoric beauty in the background.

  ‘This is paradise,’ I whisper.

  Tom also comes to a halt. Awestruck, we marvel at the oak and its kingdom, stretching as far as the eye can see.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you ever eaten from the tree of knowledge?’ I hear myself ask.

  He looks away. When our eyes meet again, his soul is open so wide it startles me.

  ‘Yes. I took a bite once,’ he says in a quiet voice.

  I know what he’s referring to. I was there too.

  Suddenly, the sun breaks through the clouds over the mountain, bathing us in golden light. My feet collapse as the tears start to trickle down my cheeks. My heart is like a helium balloon bursting out of my rib cage.

  He takes a seat in the grass next to me, his eyes worried and inquisitive.

  ‘Safe,’ I whisper through the lump in my throat. ‘I haven’t felt safe until now. This is a divine place. Like coming home.’

  He nods in respectful silence. I allow the tears to flow freely until my heart settles back in my chest. And that’s when I know it. This is the place.

  I reach into my backpack. The rock is smooth and cool in my hand. ‘I think it’s time.’

  He swallows. Our eyes are locked as I take his hand, placing the rock in it and closing his fingers around it. He inhales sharply and starts to weep. I place my hand on top of his closed fist; his other hand forms a seal on top of mine, enclosing the hard core of the past.

  Within me, everything falls silent. It takes a moment to get used to the dark. Then I see a faint but familiar sight. The door. I hear the muffled moans seeping through the keyhole along with steady squeaking.

  For the thousandth time

  I press down the white plastic door handle

  breathe in the stench of alcohol and vomit

  barely making out the bed in a faint light from the streetlamp outside the window.

  The young man hunched over the girl.

  His blonde hair covering her face.

  For the thousandth time

  I stand by the bed

  and watch as Tom rapes me.

  His fists digging into the mattress on either side of me,

  my hand dangling lifelessly from the edge of the bed.

  Hear the fleshy sound when his weight slams repeatedly into my body

  and the metallic banging of the bedpost against the wall.

  For the thousandth time

  I note the teen posters on the walls,

  the stuffed animals that still adorn the bed

  the all-encompassing childhood that starkly contrasts what’s happening.

  I look to my guardian angels who are standing by the footboard — the confidantes I’ve let in on the truth and into this room, one by one. Silent and loyal, they stand by the edge of the bed, giving me strength. I meet the eyes of a friend who had no words for me when I finished the story but hugged me instead with all her heart.

  For the thousandth time

  I turn towards the bed

  and for the first time ever

  I stop Tom.

  For the first time ever

  he rolls his weight off me and sits up.

  With strong hands, I raise myself to a sitting position in the bed. Wipe the tears from my face, the blood from my thighs, and dress the girl I used to be in a clean nightgown. Lifting her chin, I make her a promise:

  You’ll never be counting seconds again.

  Then I open the door.

  First, the guardian angels exit, one by one. If I’m not mistaken, they’re accompanied by a faint flap of wings.

  Tom gets up. With big, firm steps, he exits the room without looking back.

  At last, I’m alone.

  Ready? I ask myself.

  As soon as I exit the room in my mind’s eye, I let go of Tom’s hand. My fingers open slowly like a lotus flower, revealing his closed fist. When I open my eyes, his cheeks are streaked with tears.

  I smile.

  I smile because the South African sun is hot on my skin.

  I smile because I know that this moment marks the beginning of a new chapter in my life. I emptied the room. I did it!

  And then I smile from ear to ear because suddenly, as if by divine intervention, a big fat African turkey is standing next to me. His head is bright blue, a red pouch dangles from his beak, and dark and dotted feathers cover his robust body — which seems way too large for his tiny bald head. He blinks and scrutinizes us sternly. I look up to the playwright in the sky and nod approvingly. Nice plot twist. Things were getting too melodramatic and we needed some comic relief. Cue turkey. I couldn’t have written it better myself.

  Tom blinks, wiping the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand while looking at the bird. ‘It’s just not fair that the feathers don’t cover their heads too,’ he mutters. The turkey gives him the evil eye and doesn’t seem to feel the least bit sorry for himself. On the contrary, he tries to snatch the cigarette Tom just lit up.

  ‘You had that coming for saying that about him,’ I point out as Tom defends himself from the attacks. The bird pecks angrily at his thigh and makes another attempt at the cigarette. ‘What’s more, he doesn’t want you polluting the air in paradise, see?’

  I go through my backpack and find a bag of nuts. ‘Are you hungry, buddy?’ Wasting no time, the bird gobbles up the nuts I sprinkle in the grass next to me. I grin guiltily at Tom. ‘This is probably against the rules, don’t you think? Feeding the animals?’

  ‘Hardly if it’s in self-defense,’ he says, grinning back.

  Having wolfed down the nuts, our ungainly new friend looks contemptuously from me to Tom and back to me, as if making up his mind whether to spare our lives or not. After a short deliberation, he turns his majestic backside to us and wobbles away. The laughter spurred by this chance meeting is most welcome, before I turn back to Tom and select my words carefully.

  ‘I’d planned to give you the rock on Robben Island. In my mind, there was something symbolic about leaving the rock on a prison island, allowing us to walk away free. Then things got a little … sour … between us there so I changed my mind. But that’s not the only reason. It’s because our story deserves a good ending. It shouldn’t end in a place of suffering and injustice. It deserves to end here, in paradise.’

  Visibly moved, he agrees with a nod. ‘At the roots of the Upside Down Tree,’ he adds.

  ‘Good idea. Now let’s go find that tree.’

  Before we can stroll further into nature, Tom has to answer its call so we walk down a narrow path to a restaurant with a straw roof. I chuckle quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just happy. And lighter, somehow.’

  ‘I know what you mean. It’s like having a helium balloon inside your chest,’ Tom says.

  I stop dead in my tracks.

  ‘What?’ he wonders again.

  ‘Nothing … It’s just … I had that exact same thought a few minutes ago,’ I mumble. What are the odds? I ask myself as he disappears into the bathroom. Does the confrontational work we’re doing call for such an intense meeting of minds that our thoughts basically merge too?

  Suddenly, a cheerful voice next to me says: ‘You should have your face painted.’ The voice belongs to an upbeat bald man in a beige shirt with the name of a restaurant embroi
dered on his chest. He points to a woman wearing a tunic and a headdress, standing next to the entrance to the building. In front of her, three children are impatiently waiting to have their faces turned into a work of art.

  ‘Nah, that’s OK,’ I tell the man. Judging by the queue, face paint is cool as long as you’re nine years old or younger.

  The man acts like he didn’t hear me. ‘Do a nice one,’ he tells the woman, eagerly pointing at me. Not wanting to turn down this display of local hospitality, I drag myself reluctantly to the back of the line.

  When Tom comes back, white dots line my forehead leading down to my left cheek. Small symbols that resemble butterflies adorn the corners of my eyes.

  ‘You too?’ the lady asks Tom. I’ve started to suspect she had a few puffs of a reefer this morning.

  Tom’s face lights up. ‘Sure — could you paint something related to water?’

  She gives him a stoned smile and starts to paint lines around his right eye. When we’re back on the path leading to the gardens, he asks with anticipation: ‘What did she do? Does it remind you of water?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even close?’

  ‘Does a foot remind you of water?’

  ‘She drew a foot?’ he asks, surprised.

  ‘Stop that, you’re making your foot all wrinkly,’ I say, pointing to his forehead.

  ‘She did seem just a little bit … high, didn’t she?’

  ‘Like a kite, you mean?’

  The beauty of the garden silences us as we walk across the grass towards the big oak. A tingling feeling in my stomach grows stronger with every step that brings us closer to the tree, though I know it can’t possibly be the Upside Down Tree. As we reach it, I rest my hand on its robust trunk and climb with my eyes to the treetop. Meanwhile, Tom bends down and picks up an acorn.

  ‘She has lots of little babies lying around here,’ he says, gesturing towards the oak.

  I take the acorn from his outstretched hand. ‘The Mother tree.’

  He concurs. ‘The Mother tree.’ Pointing to a man who is carefully smearing grout on the path ahead, he adds: ‘Perhaps that guy knows where to direct us.’

  ‘The Upside Down Tree?’ he repeats after Tom, getting up and wiping beads of sweat off his forehead. ‘Ah yes, it’s down there. In the glasshouse. You can’t miss it.’

  My instinct is to follow his directions and go straight down the path to find the glasshouse. Whatever that is.

  ‘Do you mind if we wander up and take a look at that tree there first?’ Tom asks me, pointing up the path in the direction of an impressive canopy that triumphs over the other foliage on the mountainside ahead. ‘I’ve got to see the tree that all that belongs to.’

  It’s more than optimistic to think we’ll find the tree that this particular canopy belongs to in the middle of the forest, but since our entire trip is the result of a giant leap of faith, I walk with Tom up the path without a word.

  ‘This way,’ he says, pointing to a path that leads deep into the forest. The sight makes me feel like Alice in Wonderland. The path crosses a small pond. A bridge made of carved wood is reflected in its green surface. A bench is overlooking the pond. Branches and reeds are wedged between its boards. Sun seeps through the foliage, collecting in pools of light on the occasional branch. A slanted tree forms a crooked frame around the picture. Beneath my feet, the earth is breathing.

  We drink in the environment for a moment. Without a word, I start walking across the bridge. Our weight makes the wood creak.

  The path twists between the trees and suddenly, Tom stops. He looks up and squints his eyes against the sun. ‘It’s not a single tree, Thordis,’ he says, agape.

  I look up. High above our heads, the branches interlace like fingers in a prayer.

  ‘It’s a community of trees,’ he whispers.

  The majestic canopy is the result of a collaboration. To add to my amazement, the trees are not deciduous but evergreens stretching twenty meters into the sky.

  ‘Look, they’ve been trimmed back repeatedly and always grown in a different direction. Amazing,’ he mutters.

  I study the work of art above me and am reminded of my own words about sexual violence not only affecting survivors but the people who love them as well. To overcome it, an entire community has to grow in the same direction, trim off the misconceptions, and join their efforts.

  Neither of us says a word. The wind stirs the branches in a quiet song, and my senses are open wide. Little by little, the forest intoxicates me, making my limbs heavy with nature. Tom seems just as hypnotized as I am. He sits down and leans against a tree trunk. I take a seat on the other side. For a long while, I’m part of a millipede’s journey, clambering across the colorful bark and cutting across my foot. Like a fingerprint, the tree’s coarse skin is patterned with winding curves in brown, orange, gray, and white.

  I have no idea how long we’ve been sitting there when we simultaneously get up. In silence, we walk back across the bridge and down the path to where the Upside Down Tree awaits us. My mind is tranquil and calm, filled with the single notion that everything is in the right place, somehow. Even the foot on Tom’s forehead is exactly where it’s supposed to be.

  Our walk through the garden is a wordless adventure. An Egyptian goose and her three chicks swim between water lilies on the lake, sheltered by tall reeds. Purple flowers extend on the right, tropical ferns on the left. Graceful statues rise out of the vegetation. One of them is of a mother cradling her baby. Her long body is curved around the infant, a braided necklace around her neck and a smile upon her lips. Suddenly, a ray of light breaks through the thick canopy and lights up the statue as if she were an actress on stage.

  It was impressive enough already, I tell the playwright above. Now you’re just showing off.

  ‘This way,’ Tom says. We’re standing in front of a building with a stately glass roof. As I walk through the door behind him, my heart is pounding.

  My first observation is that the space forms a spiral. Flowerbeds with thousands of plants form a prayer circle of sorts around a massive tree, rising like a totem pole out of the middle. The tree is about ten meters tall, almost reaching the glass ceiling. The rest of the vegetation is comprised of short plants, cacti, and shrubs, so there’s no doubt who the star of the scene is. Dare I ask if this is …?

  The space is circular, and one can go either to the left or the right. Tom goes to the right, but I automatically go to the left. Thousands of little plastic signs stick out of the ground with the name of each plant in Latin. For a second I’m overwhelmed. How on earth am I supposed to find the Upside Down Tree in all this flora? I don’t even know what it looks like.

  ‘Thordis, come here!’ Tom shouts suddenly.

  ‘You found it?’ I hurry over to him.

  He’s standing by a large sign made of glass. Stopping next to him, I read: THE UPSIDE DOWN TREE.

  ‘Is it …?’ I ask, but the sentence dies on my lips.

  ‘Yes,’ he replies, and gestures with his head towards the massive tree in the heart of the spiral. ‘This is it.’

  Leaning my head back, I study the tree I’ve happily accepted as mine, thanks to a strange twist of fate. Dark-green leaves grow out of branches that seem petite compared to the sturdy trunk.

  ‘It’s called the Upside Down Tree because according to African folklore, the Great Spirit gave each of the animals a tree. The hyena received the last tree, a baobab, and was so upset that he planted it upside down,’ Tom reads from the sign. ‘And look, here’s a map.’

  The map shows the tree’s journey. Baobab is the largest succulent in the world, growing only in dry areas. This seven-ton, century-old tree was hauled from the diamond mines of Limpopo in the north of the country. From there, it traveled across South Africa to end up here, in the botanical gardens of Cape Town, making it the southern-most baobab
in all of Africa.

  A traveler, I can’t help but think. Just like us.

  Without second thought, I step into the flowerbed. Carefully, I creep up to the baobab, making sure I don’t step on any other plants. Tom follows cautiously behind me. Luckily, we’re alone in the glasshouse, and I use the opportunity to kneel at the foot of the tree. He kneels next to me. The trunk reminds me of an elephant leg, grayish and studded with knots and lumps. I place one hand on it and gasp in surprise.

  ‘What?’ he whispers, also placing a hand on the tree.

  ‘It’s hard like stone,’ I whisper back, baffled. ‘Feel that?’ I dig my fingernail as deeply into the bark as I can, but it doesn’t even leave a mark.

  This time it’s Tom who whispers: ‘I think it’s time.’ He takes the rock that carried the weight of our story for the past sixteen years out of his pocket and places it inside one of the knots in the bark; an almond-shaped fissure that looks like an eye, which in turn makes the rock seem like a hazel iris. It barely fits, protruding a little from the rounded edge but remarkably steady nonetheless. The outcome is like the last piece of a puzzle that finally found its place. I lean back and smile. Thank you for seeing us. Thank you for letting our story end here, this way. It’s a silent prayer, like many others I’ve said today.

  After having patted my tree goodbye, I sneak out of the flowerbed. Tom lingers a while longer. The sight of him kneeling by the bulging eye of the baobab, surrounded by fanged cacti and drooping branches, is forever etched into my memory.

  I circle the tree, studying it from all sides. There’s also a glass sign on the other side. The first tears fall from my eyes as Tom stands beside me.

  ‘THE BAOBAB — A TREE OF LIFE,’ he reads from the sign.

  I lean on his shoulder and cry as we read about how the baobab is literally the tree of life, where every part of it has value to either man or animal. It’s sometimes the only source of water for people and animals in a large area, casting vital shade in the deadly heat. Its leaves, seeds, and fruits are eaten by humans and animals alike, while the roots are used to dye clothes. The bark is used to make ropes, fishing nets, and medicine, while empty seed shells become food bowls and hollow trees become home to entire families. The tree of life lives up to its name, and I cry at its feet. I cry over the heavy burden of secrecy that often threatened to break me, but will from now on be carried by one of the greatest living things on earth. I cry because I finally eye the finishing line on a journey that brought me halfway across the planet and half a lifetime into the past.