Refuge

by Andrew Brown

  Richard had felt a suicidal urge to tell his daughter about the forbidden massage. The moment he had arrived home, his skin still soft from the oil, he had felt drawn towards opening up to her. He had stood at her doorway watching her blow-dry her hair, imagining how he would tell her. He would reinvent the woman as his beautiful lover. His risky infidelity would shock Raine, perhaps even gain her respect. He imagined her piggish eyes opening wide in disbelief – ‘Not you, Dad, no!’ – and then an elbowed snigger. Maybe a casually slapped palm, like he saw her exchange with her friends. He knew this desire for disclosure, for affirmation, was not only irrational, but also a bleak indication of how easily the apparent solidity of his world had fractured. It made him feel reckless. But when Raine had seen him watching her, she screwed up her face. ‘Freak,’ she mouthed at him and then grinned. He had smiled back, uncertain, and then retreated.

  Richard returned to his half-eaten soup, the red purée stained against the white crockery like blood. He let his thoughts drift, watching Coetzee holding forth through a haze, nodding occasionally in agreement and topping up the guests’ glasses with wine. When he had first left the studio that afternoon, it had felt as if a defining moment had occurred in his life, a moment that would steer his travels on a different course regardless of whether it ever happened again. Indeed, at the time it seemed to him that to repeat the experience would be to diminish it; it needed to remain encapsulated as a once-off event that he could ruminate over at leisure. But after just a few hours he realised that it was more like a drug, the pleasure of which was so pure that he had a physical craving for more. Only, unlike a drug, he sensed that each time would be more satisfying, not less so. A drug would not grow with him; it could deliver only the same altered perception. But with this, there was the potential for greater intimacy, for trust to develop, perhaps allowing an emotional bond to form. He had to restrain himself from getting up from the table again. He wanted to leave the mundane social play, to be alone, so that he could capture her scent again, the feeling of her skin, the brush of her kiss on his eyebrow.

  He caught David looking at him with interest. ‘You okay, Richard? You seem distracted, old boy. Nothing up, is there?’ Richard shook his head, aware that Amanda was glaring at him from the other end of the table while continuing an animated conversation with Kristi about a new gym instructor. Charmaine was listening intently, but looked half-drunk, lolling slightly to the side in her seat. Cynthia had left the table and was trying, without success, to engage Raine in small talk.

  Richard felt far removed from them all, as if he were watching a dinner party on a grainy home-movie screen. People talked and moved and ate, and he observed them, without curiosity, taking in the meaningless motion. Perhaps I’m falling ill, he thought distantly, blinking and trying to concentrate. He stood up clumsily and walked to the whitewashed sideboard. He took some time to choose an ostentatious bottle of chilled syrah, replete with gold and silver stickers announcing the awards it had won. He had chosen wines that were expensive, as was his habit, relying on price rather than reputation to impress his guests. He carefully removed the empty white wine glasses from the table. Amanda ignored him as he brushed past her and leant over to take her glass away, red lipstick pressed neatly on the edge. He placed a cavernous red wine glass in front of each guest, save for Cynthia, who was drinking only mineral water. He moved robotically from one place setting to the next, oblivious to their murmured platitudes. The first bottle of wine was finished by the time he had made his way around the table and only a small layer, filled with sediment, rested in the bottom of his own glass. Still, he left the empty bottle on the table for his guests to inspect and chose another wine to open for air.

  ‘Good man, Calloway,’ David said loudly, holding up the empty bottle for all to see. Richard felt his mood lighten a little and he smiled at his friend.

  ‘Chilled too, old boy. Nice touch!’

  ‘Enjoy,’ Richard countered with stilted generosity.

  ‘Fucking excellent, mate,’ Coetzee bawled in a mock-Australian accent. Kristi tittered appreciatively.

  Amanda was bringing out the main meal: small strips of sole resting on an oblong bed of wild rice, flanked by asparagus and green beans. Richard saw something childish in the presentation, as if it were meant to depict the face of a clown or a raggedy doll, to be offered to a reluctant toddler. But the guests were impressed, lavishing Amanda with praise and protesting that they couldn’t possibly eat such a work of art. Richard plunged his knife across the midriff of the caricature. He could feel Amanda’s eyes on him but he didn’t look up, concentrating on cutting through the pile of beans.

  He tried to organise his thoughts again. He imagined the various pockets of people out there, all going about their evening affairs, disparate and yet all part of a city which, until now, had somehow passed him by. Svritsky – did he even have a family, Richard wondered – and the Mozambican in the bar, the masseuse, the man on the motorbike, all the people who had passed unseen beneath his gaze. His consciousness had expanded so suddenly that it had seemed to explode.

  ‘I wandered into an interesting bar the other day,’ he said, addressing David but aware that Coetzee was listening. ‘I was the only white guy there.’ David put down his fork, looking wary. ‘It made me think about what it really means to be African. What it means to live in this country we call our own.’ He paused and filled Coetzee’s glass, making eye contact. ‘The place raised some difficult questions …’

  Coetzee grunted, forcing a large forkful of dripping food into his mouth.

  ‘What kind of questions?’ David asked. Richard noted with relief that Amanda wasn’t listening and had returned to her discussion with Kristi. Cynthia was looking at him, but it was not clear that she was concentrating.

  ‘Ag, you know, about what we really know about living in Africa,’ he continued. ‘Questions about who the immigrants in this country really are—’

  ‘T … I … A.’ Coetzee interrupted Richard’s musing in a loud voice. ‘You know. “This Is Africa”. There is no solution, boet. Just the problem. And the only answer to the problem – TIA. That’s it, boet. No more, no less.’

  Richard baulked. ‘Oh please,’ he said with more vehemence than he had intended. ‘That’s such a stupid phrase.’ His voice echoed in the dining room. Amanda’s cutlery clattered on her plate and someone gasped at her end of the table. Cynthia’s hand was frozen halfway to her glass and she looked as if she wanted to throw up. Raine had turned on the couch, watching for the first time with interest.

  ‘That’s just … I don’t know what,’ Richard continued, exasperated. ‘It’s some bullshit Hollywood throwaway line. People think it’s cool because a wanker like DiCaprio says it and gets away with it. But what the hell does it mean? What the hell does he – or you – know about this continent? Or care.’

  Coetzee had turned puce, the veins on the side of his forehead pulsing. Richard thought his dinner guest might throw his wine at him or try to hit him. He couldn’t bear to sit at the same table for one more second. He knew he should apologise and felt his wife’s thin expectations gathering strength. Soon they would hold him like ship’s rope. He was in danger of detonating with frustration.

  He stood up quickly, his chair scraping back on the wooden floor. ‘Sorry, I meant all of us,’ he said. ‘What do we know about this continent … I need some air.’ He strode past them, pushing through the side door and out into the fresh night air. No one followed him.

  There was a tense silence, followed by a contrite apology from Amanda: ‘My God, Ryno, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s got into him. Just ignore him.’

  There was some muttered response. As Richard moved away from the house he heard David’s voice: ‘Jeez, Amanda, when did your old man become such a bleeding-heart liberal, hey girl?’ Someone answered, and laughter, forced and ragged, swept out into the garden. Stilted conversation started up again.

  Richard moved further away into the night. The ai
r was still and smelt of cut grass and chlorinated pools. A peacock called out loudly, a plaintive cry that resounded across the entire estate.

  ‘Fuck off, you stupid bird,’ he growled, kicking at the stone chips underfoot.

  Traffic rumbled in the distance and a cricket chirped nearby. He could just make out the line of the mountain against the moonless sky, a jagged shape that dipped and rose in crags. Inside his domain, behind the high fence and the security perimeter, among the oak trees and swans, his life was a fiction, a tamed version of living. Risk and inconvenience had been banished, and life followed a predictable and safe pattern. What had Svritsky said? Repetition is not living. The mountain, the people, the traffic, that was all outside. He was a cartoon character trapped in a bowl, rubbing his nose against the glass as he watched the distorted images of reality flicker around him. He wished, ridiculously, that Abayomi were there with him. He longed for her presence, the sense of another world that she carried with her. They hadn’t spoken much during the session, but he knew that she would captivate them, and decimate their small-minded views. She would expose Coetzee and his tawdry wife. She would shine, statuesque, and sweep the cluttered table clean, leaving David gawking in undisguised marvel. And he, Richard, would laugh aloud, with real mirth and delight. How strange it was to feel so passionate about a stranger.

  An ambulance siren slowly peeled away on the highway. Two women were walking on the other side of the security fencing, talking animatedly in Xhosa. One started to laugh so much that they had to stop while she bent down, holding on to one of the bars of the gating, great whooping bursts of laughter bounding away into the night.

  ‘Ooooh, yo, yo, yo!’ she shouted, alternately slapping her thigh and wiping her eyes. Richard stood still, watching them move off, still laughing and holding their heads. He felt his cellphone vibrate on silent in his pocket. The screen shone brightly, showing an SMS from an undisclosed private number. He pressed the ‘read’ button.

  ‘Gd nite Richard. Think of yr skin on mine. C u again soon. A.’

  The words embedded themselves like fish hooks in his raw skin.

  EIGHT

  THE TRUCK, BOUND for court, lurched and swayed and the huddled prisoners rocked against each other. Initially they tried to keep from pressing up against one another, but they soon gave up and let their weight push unrestrained from side to side. The vehicle stank of urine and excrement, and the windows were welded closed with wire mesh. A half-dried splash of vomit lay in the corner. When the engine idled at a robot or stop street, the interior filled up with acrid diesel fumes. There was no escaping the mounting stench.

  Ifasen had felt nauseous from the moment he was prodded into the back, stumbling to pull himself up and knocking his knee on the metal tailgate. He sat bent over, rubbing his palms around his aching knee, trying not to make eye contact with any of his companions. The man next to him smelt of sweat, and he kept putting his bandaged hand on Ifasen’s knee to steady himself. The dirt and dried blood had turned the man’s bandage the colour of engine grease. Ifasen was exhausted from a sleepless weekend spent in the cells and the anxiety of what awaited him.

  The numbers in the police cells had grown steadily from the time of his arrest on Friday. As soon as he was given an opportunity, he had tried to call Abayomi on her cellphone. She had not answered and the call had switched to the message service. He had left a message for her in Igbo, trying not to sound scared. The policemen standing around him frowned at his language and a young woman in uniform, her pretty face shrivelled up, shouted at him: ‘Talk English, fuckwit. You’re in South Africa now.’

  He hurriedly finished his message, telling Abayomi that he was sorry, it was a stupid mistake, that he would be released soon. But even as he said the words, he doubted them. His situation had worsened with the arrival of Inspector Jeneker, who was unable to hide his delight at Ifasen’s arrest. He took him to a small holding cell just behind the charge office.

  ‘Take off your clothes, Nigel,’ Jeneker instructed.

  Ifasen looked at him uncomprehendingly. He thought maybe the inspector was drunk, the way he spat and swayed.

  ‘Everything, boetie. All your clothes. Off.’

  Ifasen undid his belt slowly, but Jeneker hurried him, haranguing him until the clothes lay in a messy pile on the ground. Ifasen worried that the floor looked dirty, that he would have to wash his shirt again over the weekend. He kept his underpants on, but the inspector yanked them down, tearing the elasticised strip along the top. Ifasen turned his back to him. Stained fingers had left smears across the wall. He tried not to put his hands on the wall where the dirt was thick. He felt the latex-covered hands pushing him towards the cold wall, his hands outstretched while his legs were pulled apart. Jeneker’s gloved hands slapped against his naked skin, slamming upwards into his groin and making him wince.

  ‘I don’t understand, sir, why you are doing this. Why is this necessary?’

  Ifasen’s attempt at negotiation was met with a solid elbow-blow to the middle of his back, forcing the breath from him in a loud hiss.

  Jeneker watched him dress again, pushing the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. The gloves lay crumpled on the ground at his feet. Ifasen could hear the radio crackling with instructions in the charge office. Someone shouted something, but Jeneker did not respond or move. He watched Ifasen with such intensity that the detainee wondered if something more was expected of him.

  ‘My son’s name is Mansoor.’ The timbre of Jeneker’s voice was taut. ‘He was at the top of his class in every subject two years ago. Maths, science, English, geography. He had the top marks in all of them. And sport? Vice-captain in school cricket, best striker they had on the soccer field at his club.’

  Ifasen did not look at him, concentrating on dusting off his trousers and putting on his socks. He felt Jeneker’s hand slide under his chin, gripping his jaw. The smell of the powdery latex made him gag. Jeneker pulled up Ifasen’s head until their eyes met and looked at him with pure malevolence. Ifasen could see flecks of brown sprayed across his greenish iris. The man’s breath was hot and quick on his face.

  ‘Then some Nigerian fuck came along and handed out free strawberry tik straws.’ Jeneker pushed Ifasen away in disgust. ‘Do you know what my son does now, Nigel? Do you know?’

  Ifasen shook his head ever so slightly, not wanting to enrage the man further. ‘He walks around the streets, stealing light bulbs and grabbing people’s cellphones for his next hit.’

  Ifasen thought of Khalifah. He did not know what the man wanted to hear from him. If he wanted to hear anything at all. Could he say sorry, apologise for something that his countryman had done? Would it make any difference?

  ‘My son has been stabbed, fucked up, arrested, chased like an animal,’ Jeneker went on. ‘Last week I found Mansoor lying unconscious in the canal with the shit and dead dogs.’

  Ifasen tried to say something but Jeneker was lost in his angry reverie, his fists closed tight. ‘This is what you have done! You and all your fucking people. All the same. All evil poese! So fucking well get your clothes on before I really fuck you up.’

  Jeneker removed Ifasen’s belt and shoelaces, leaving his trousers floppy and ill-fitting. His feet slapped against the bottom of the shoes as he tried to walk. The inspector took him to another room with a wooden counter and bright white lights, and forced his fingers down, one by one, onto a greasy metal strip. Jeneker rolled Ifasen’s fingers, thick with pasty black ink, on a sheet of paper, cursing him when he smeared the print over the lines. He motioned to him to wash his hands. The jellied pink hand soap, scooped out of a small bucket, only spread the black stain across the back of Ifasen’s hands and left his skin slimy. The sodden hand towel reminded him of the goatskins hung up after the summer slaughter, and he flicked the water off his hands rather than touch it.

  Then Jeneker led him across a yard filled with parked police vans and crushed cars recovered from accidents. In the corner, a tall armoured vehicle was p
arked up close to the wall, the grille at the front slightly bent, giving it a demented grin. Jeneker pulled open a heavy metal door. The keys clanked as he unlocked the barred gate and shoved Ifasen into the darkness of the chilly cell.

  ‘I am sorry for your son,’ Ifasen said from the gloom. Jeneker did not seem to hear. He threw a dusty blanket through the doorway and slammed the grate and door closed.

  The dark enclosure immediately threw Ifasen into a claustrophobic panic. He put his hands against the cool cement walls and closed his eyes, waiting for the moment to pass. He tried to think of Abayomi, and of Khalifah, but his terror only raised the memories that he tried to quell. An afternoon in Abeokuta. He had been walking with Abayomi in the marketplace, their fingers intertwined as they strolled past the makeshift stalls and baskets. Abayomi had been eating a ripe custard apple, pulling the segments out with her teeth and spitting the seeds into the dust around their feet. The smell of the fruit was rich and glorious. And then the shouts of men and the popping blows of gunfire had filled the air. People scattered, bounding like antelope as they scrambled between the sacks of beans and rice. A militia jeep appeared at the end of the lane, weaving and revving over the uneven ground. A clay pot filled with yellow-green achar smashed open beside them, sending shards across the stall and spraying the ground with slimy peppers and chillies. Ifasen grabbed Abayomi’s arm and pulled her between two stalls and into the open mouth of a metal transport container. He pulled the screeching doors closed behind him, plunging the space into utter darkness.