by Thordis Elva
‘There’s a sign by the entrance that says Succulent Survivors,’ I realize, looking at Tom. ‘We’re in the house of survivors.’
His eyes are open wide as they meet mine. ‘Remarkable,’ he mumbles. ‘Just … remarkable.’
It truly is my tree. And for some reason, Nigel knew it.
When we exit Kirstenbosch and board the tourist bus, nippy winds blow through our hair as it’s almost six o’clock. I’m satiated after an amazing day when Tom turns to me with a thoughtful expression.
‘Thordis?’
‘Yes?’
‘Where did you keep the rock all those years?’
‘In a pen jar on my desk. It’s quite remarkable that I still have it, to be honest. Since you gave it to me, I’ve moved six times. It’s gone with me from Iceland to the States and back, to Australia with stopovers in Singapore, London, Norway, and Turkey.’
‘And this is where it ends up. Here, in South Africa.’
‘For good.’ The discovery hits me and I can’t help but shake my head. ‘The pen jar. It’s a storage for writing materials.’
‘Yes, I think we’ve definitely found our format,’ Tom says, and the face paint around his eyes crinkles as he smiles. ‘Writing has to be it.’
Suddenly, a shantytown appears on our left. A sign that points to the township reads: WASTE DROP-OFF. Fragile sheds of corrugated iron cling to the mountainside. Clotheslines cut through the settlement with colorful shirts fluttering in the wind. The name IMIZAMO YETHU is hand-painted on a container. On the street, an old lady is resting her weary bones on a plastic crate. In front of her is a small table with goods for sale. I spot two signs that say REAL SHOP, prompting the question of what an unreal shop might be. The evening sun shines brightly on the people sitting out on their steps or gathering around parked cars at the outskirts of the township. An armed police officer with a cap stands by a rusty police car, watching the people.
‘From what I’ve read about Cape Town, township tours are one of the biggest tourist activities here,’ I tell Tom. ‘They may have their positive sides, but I can’t stand the thought of going on an organized trip to gawk at people like they’re on parade.’
‘Yeah, poverty as a tourist attraction,’ he says with a shudder.
Imizamo Yethu disappears but my thoughts linger with its residents. I wonder how many of the township’s women are survivors of rape like me, but will never have their pain acknowledged the way I have? Who, due to their background, will not have the same chance to be heard and seen as I do? Whose daily battles leave them with no time to dwell on the past? It strikes me how even the most traumatizing event of my life is still a testament to my privilege. I’ve been able to publicly discuss my status as a rape survivor, without being ostracized from my community. I’ve been able to criticize men’s violence against women, without being stoned. I’ve been supported by my family, not murdered to ‘restore their honor’. I’ve received respect and recognition for something that my fellow survivors around the world are whipped, shamed, and killed for speaking up about. And here I am, having a voluntary meeting with my perpetrator, whom I wasn’t forced to marry as a result of his violence towards me.
I shudder and note how chilly shadows have started to creep up the sides of the Lion’s Head. Tom puts on a scarf and I pull an old shawl out of my backpack, spreading it over my legs.
‘Oh my God, is that …?’ he asks, staring at the shawl, which is bright-orange and decorated with stenciled pictures of lobsters.
I look down at my lap. ‘Yes, I’ve had this since I was a teenager. Do you remember it?’
‘You had that wrapped around you like a skirt one night when I met you downtown, in 1997. You were wearing a red jacket.’ He’s talking fast, fascinated like he just met an old friend.
I spread the shawl so it covers his legs as well. ‘Well, this sure is a trusted, old companion,’ I say, pleased. ‘It’s traveled with me across the globe and has been used as a skirt, a scarf, a towel, and a tablecloth. Imagine that — and never once have I washed it.’
Tom’s face goes pale. ‘Never?’ he asks, looking with disgust at the shawl across his legs.
I burst into laughter. ‘Gotcha!’
He starts to laugh too, relieved that he doesn’t have twenty years’ worth of bacteria in his lap. We climb off the bus at the Waterfront, lighter than we were before. Our ways part when Tom goes to find chocolates for Nigel as a token of our appreciation for suggesting Kirstenbosch to us.
The mall named after Queen Victoria has shops on both sides and stalls in the middle of the walkway. The stalls in Icelandic malls usually sell cheap merchandise like t-shirts or hair products. But not in South Africa. Here, they have diamond kiosks with gems in piles like candy. To think, I always believed Iceland to be a country of extremes with its erupting volcanoes and frosty glaciers, pitch-black winters, and summers where the sun never sets — but South Africa takes the prize with its lavish natural resources and wildlife next to gut-wrenching poverty and systematic violence. The extremes are spelled out on a sign in a jewelry store that says 50% OFF ALL DIAMONDS THIS MONTH! A diamond sale. Now I’ve seen it all.
It’s waiting for me inside the store: the ring. It’s delicate, with ethically mined diamonds that are cut vertically instead of the typical brilliant cut. As a result, they look like glass splinters that let the light through as opposed to a crystal that reflects it in different directions. There’s something fascinating about the transparency. As a symbol of loyalty, I find it very fitting, representing the transparency in a marriage where neither person has anything to hide. And what’s more beautiful than letting light through, helping it spill forward? There’s something simply cool about a diamond that doesn’t need to capture the light to prove that it’s a diamond. It’s all about knowing yourself, I think as I try the ring on. As soon as it slips into place on my finger, we make a pact: People can think whatever they want but we both know you’re a real gem, baby.
I study the ring I intend to bear for decades to come as a symbol of my devotion to my wonderful man. Adele’s voice echoes from the store’s speaker system: ‘Just take it all, with my love.’
‘I’ll take it,’ I tell the assistant. With my love.
Tom bumps into me as soon as I exit the jewelry store with the ring in a bag and a goofy smile on my face. Suddenly, I explode with hysterical giggling and have to lean forward to catch my breath.
‘That was a massive step,’ he says in an understanding voice. ‘You just bought yourself a wedding ring!’
‘As if this day wasn’t epic enough already,’ I mumble. From now on I’ll never forget April 2nd.
‘Can you help me out with something?’ he asks.
‘What’s that?’
‘Picking out a card for Vidir?’
A moment later, we’re frowning in front of a completely useless selection of cards in a bookstore. Given that Vidir is not a lovesick zebra, a birthday boy, nor a father-to-be, there’s no card that’s even close to appropriate. I hold up a soppy card of two giraffes kissing.
Tom gives me the evil eye. ‘Ha ha. Very funny.’
Soon, we walk past the souvenir shop with the towering beaded Mandela. ‘Perhaps they sell cards?’ Tom says, casting a hopeful glance inside. ‘I’m having a look.’
‘Can you do one thing for me, first?’ I ask, handing him my phone before taking a stand next to the beaded giant.
‘Serious?’ Behind his inquisitive look is a broad grin.
‘Dead serious,’ I reply, determined. ‘I’m not above this any more.’
The truth is that the trust that we’ve built between us in the past few days has given me the courage to be silly around Tom. My ego no longer crumbles under jokes at my expense. When he takes the shot, it’s hard to tell who’s smiling wider — the statue or me.
Shortly thereafter, we’re comfortably seated on a bolst
ered bench in a nearby restaurant. The menu arrives in the shape of two large chalkboards perched up on chairs next to our table by a thin waiter wearing glasses. I realize to my horror that it’s the only copy of the menu.
‘What do the other dinner guests do while we’re making up our minds?’ I ask, fraught with choice anxiety.
‘They wait,’ the waiter replies with a smile.
‘They wait,’ I repeat, perplexed. In the western societies I’ve lived in, having to wait for food is unthinkable, as evidenced by fast-food chains where minimal time is spent on this underestimated primary need: eating. Here, however, a packed restaurant kindly waits during peak hour while I decide whether I want the chicken paella or the pork belly. Amazing. After all, life isn’t going anywhere, I conclude. It’s here and now.
I swallow a delicious mouthful of pork while Tom gets to work on his chickpea curry. The pork skin is salty, crunchy, and fat. He looks at it, curious.
‘Help yourself,’ I tell him.
‘You know I’m vegetarian.’
‘You’re also dying to try it. I can spot it from a mile away.’
‘I always did like the crackling, as we call it. But no,’ he says with reluctance. ‘Not a chance.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just ’cause. Meat has not passed through these lips for years.’
‘I hadn’t smoked for years until I took a puff from your cigarette the other day.’
‘This is different.’
‘Is not.’
‘Is too.’
‘I dare you.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘What are we, twelve?’
‘No, we’re adults on a trip so crazy, we’ve hardly told a soul the truth about it. In order to come here, we had to do the impossible: to trust each other. And now, after all that, you’re telling me a bite of pork skin is unthinkable?’
Without further ado, Tom pops the pork in his mouth. He grimaces. ‘Way too salty,’ he moans. ‘What a disappointment.’
‘Congratulations,’ I say as I raise my glass with a wink. ‘You just did the unthinkable. Twice in the same week, even.’
He shudders and gulps down a glass of water. Then he pulls a pretty brown box of chocolates out of his backpack and places it on the table between us. ‘What do you say we write a note to Nigel, to accompany the chocolates?’
‘Great idea.’ I tear an empty sheet of paper out of the notebook in my bag.
‘Let’s write on either side of it, OK?’ he suggests.
I nod, folding the paper.
Dear Nigel,
Visiting the Upside Down Tree — the tree of life — was an unforgettable and meaningful experience. If you ever visit Iceland, drop me a line. Take care of yourself and thank you dearly for your valuable help, my friend.
With warm regards,
—Thordis Elva
I shove the pen and paper across the table.
‘I’m not going to read yours until I’m done writing mine,’ Tom says, and turns the paper over. He jots down a few lines before shoving it back across the table to me.
‘Funny,’ I exclaim after reading it. ‘We say the exact same things except you use the word “baobab” while I say “the Upside Down Tree”.’
Soon, we’re sitting at our local pub around the corner from the Ritz. The wonders of the day sparkle in my mind, bright like supernovas. Gazing at the night sky, I’m sure that gravity has a lesser pull on me than before.
‘I’ll never forget this day,’ Tom says, staring into the darkness.
I watch the smoke from his cigarette coil in the air like a blue snake. ‘Strange.’
‘What is?’
‘All this emotional intimacy, after so many distant, analytical years.’
‘Yeah, it is strange.’
Only never to meet again, I conclude in my mind. Not too long ago, it would’ve felt like a feasible endpoint, but now the thought is accompanied by a sharp, unexpected sting.
I’m exhausted but happy when I stick the key in the lock of my hotel room and let myself into the moldy smell I’ve grown almost fond of. When emptying my pockets on the nightstand, I make a note of the missing rock. Unburdened. I feel so light that the sheet hardly crumples beneath me when I sneak into bed. As I close my eyes, the empty teenage room in my head is being refurnished with Paradise’s birds, sheer diamonds, and a white butterfly trail surrounding the tree of life.
From Tom’s diary
Tuesday
It was lovely to just stop. I shuffled around a bit on the brittle bark to find a flat spot so I could lean back on the base of a large tree. Looking up at the canopy, I smiled at how something that looked from a distance to be a singular rich green tree was actually a collection of trees. A tight-knit family sharing the sun.
I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and then let my shoulders hang loosely and my spine mould into the base of the tree. I ‘checked in’ with myself, just like I’ve practised at The Treehouse, my Wednesday-night meditation back home.
Everything felt so purposeful once we’d walked through the gates to that place, almost as if we were being carried by something greater than ourselves. There was a humming richness about those gardens that made the green look even greener. The earthen smells were so invigorating that I swear I could taste the dark soil below us.
Whatever the transcendental presence in that immense garden, it felt similarly ‘touched’, just like the calming space we found in the church the other day. Any intellect or logic I lean upon was defied by a gentle fatalistic feeling, and whatever was gracefully buzzing about had a divinity that I didn’t so much need to label as to acknowledge and be comforted by. I felt light. I was simultaneously full and empty.
I registered the firmness of the tree against my back, the warm filtered sunlight on my skin, and the small, smooth rock against my thigh in my pocket. I allowed the sensation to grow into a thought and I reflected on what happened when we were sitting on the grass this morning.
I was glad she surprised me with the timing. The rock was as I remembered, smooth and elliptical, and cool when she put it in my palm.
I remembered the weighty significance of that small rock and what it had represented for Thordis. Initially an innocent thing plucked from a local rock pool, it had grown into an anchor. She’d told me that returning the rock to me meant forgiveness for her.
The small ceremony on the grass felt like an act of release, and with it a beginning and an end. I was happy to take it from her, wanting to feel the weight of meaning the rock had embodied.
I knew she also wanted for me to part with it, for it to be returned to where it came from. I saw myself throwing it as far as possible out into the ocean. But first I wanted to sit with it for a while. That rock had been in her room for years.
I know we’re committed to leaving everything resolved and set free, so that meant the rock was soon to be placed by the Upside Down Tree. I felt a fleeting urge to hold onto that little familiar stone, but then I thought about how pissed Thordis would be if I kept a grip on it.
Allowing the rock to live momentarily in my pocket, I returned to focusing on the sounds around us. The wind rustling the branches above and the chirps of unfamiliar birds. Sitting there, I was enjoying some of the quietest inner space I’d found in years.
With each day passing this week, our time travel into the past seems to be easing a long-held disquiet about the future, and today was no different. Even in that moment, sitting amongst those trees, I felt like I was growing, too … and it felt good.
The rock was given away shortly after that. We were both kneeling at the base of the Upside Down Tree, speaking quietly. I saw to my right a small rib-like opening in the bark. Its curves looked like a cross between an eye and a set of lips. I instinctively reached for Thordis’s hand, my other hand holding the rock. There were no thoughts, no wondering if the rock w
ould fit on that tiny ledge. There was no background noise, no second-guessing. Holding it in between two fingers, I placed the rock flat on the small smooth platform.
It balanced there perfectly, looking almost like it was going to be swallowed.
Looking at it resting there … it was the most symbolic thing I had ever seen.
The effect of disarming that rock today feels clean and permanent, and nothing is left in our pockets. But this high and light feeling … a part of me wants to tug on my bootlaces and remind myself that I’ll be going home at some point. And when I do, I will also have to clean out my drawers and cupboards. I just need to remind myself that there might still be some work to do.
Perhaps some judgment will always be with me … I don’t know. I know there is more than that small rock anchoring me to my act. There’s a chance I’ve viewed this as a simple equation that neatly balances itself out.
Maybe it’s a case of doing what I can, just like the serenity prayer. And then truly acknowledging what can’t be done.
I’ll never be able to change what I did to her. That’s a simple truth. But somewhere in between the ‘why’ and my respect for myself, I don’t doubt I’ll find a solid place to carry what I need to.
Maybe look back at these pages two weeks after returning home. How do you feel now, Tom?
Move on and forgive yourself, if it feels right.
DAY EIGHT
3 April 2013
As I sleepily open one eye on the morning of my last full day in South Africa, the amazement over my whereabouts has given way to worries about whether I’ve run out of toothpaste or not. That’s life. In the end, the little things always win.