by Jen Thorpe
She stood up slowly. The ringing in her ears had subsided, and she sat on the station bench for a few moments, her eyes closed to stop the world from getting in.
‘Are you okay?’
It was Julius, the station guard. She nodded but her legs were still shaking too much to stand.
‘Do you need some water?’
She shook her head, searching for the Xhosa she should have known. ‘Andifuni amanzi enkosi. I think the wind made me feel a bit funny in the shop. It got very hot in there.’
‘Hayi, this wind. It is too much. Kumoya ngakulu.’
Nazma wanted him to go away but didn’t know the words to say so. Julius mistook her silence for his cue to sit down and start to talk. She didn’t listen to what he was saying but counted her breaths in her head. When she reached twenty she turned to look at him in his yellow high-visibility jacket and navy uniform. He was mid-sentence, but she wanted to move.
‘Thanks. I better go inside now. Enkosi again.’
He nodded, but stayed seated. She walked slowly back inside the kiosk, keeping the door open. The wind had blown the newspapers off the shelf and onto the tray of samoosas she was working with. They’d stained each other – the papers had triangular imprints of oil, and the samoosas had tiny newsprint letters on their crusts. Across one it said ‘fire pool for the community, not Number One’. She considered offering them as fortune cookies to customers but binned them all instead. Then she peeked through the bars and saw that Julius was still there.
She grabbed a Coke from the fridge, gulping it desperately. Angry and embarrassed, she looked down at the forms in her bag. Her hands were covered in dust, and as she washed them they began to sting.
‘Why’s this door open?’
She jumped at her father’s voice. He was clearly in the throes of a temper tantrum.
‘I wasn’t feeling well, Dad. I needed to let some air in here.’
‘But look at this mess. Now must I take my afternoon to clean it while you play around at some office? Who do you think will clean up your mess? Me!’
‘It’s not playing,’ she whispered, starting to shake from anger herself.
‘What is it then? Talk talk talk and everything will be fine?’
‘Talking is better than nothing.’
‘What are you saying? That I do nothing?’
‘I can’t do this now, Dad. Just let’s clean up and then I’ll go.’
‘Oh yes. Let’s do the silent treatment. That is what all this talking has taught you. To be silent.’
‘You’re the one who … You are impossible, Dad!’
‘Nazma, you don’t listen to me. Really, sometimes I wonder about the influence your mother has on you.’
‘Dad. I can’t do this now. Either I stay and help you to clean, and you keep quiet, or I go.’
‘Well, since when do you think you’ll tell me how things will happen in my own shop …?’
She grabbed her bag and ran out the door. She ran faster up the road and away from the kiosk, her lungs burning with the exertion, until she couldn’t run any more. Then she sat down on the wall of a playground, forcing her lips closed to prevent a scream. Instead she leant forward and mouthed a silent ‘FUCK’ to the ground, exhaling a hissing sound like a pressure cooker.
The cars in the street passed her by, weaving slightly in the wind. She watched mothers and schoolchildren, grandmothers, friends laughing and holding cigarettes through slits in the windows, and lonely people looking forlorn. She enjoyed watching strangers living their lives. It gave her hope.
She heard a car hoot nearby, and when she looked up, it was Sam across the road, waving at her.
17
Sam
Catagelophobia: Fear of being ridiculed
She climbed into his car, looking distressed.
‘Fancy meeting you here,’ Sam said.
‘I was thinking the same thing. Are you stalking me?’
‘Only a little bit. I was dropping off something for my company and just on the way home.’
‘Good to know.’
‘So where are we going?’
‘What would you suggest?’
‘I was going home, but I suppose we could just go for a drive before the meeting. Thought I might go and have a drink before – a coffee … or something a bit stronger.’
‘A bit stronger? Before noon?’
‘You know … an espresso.’
He winked at her. Happy to have someone else in his car, he turned back into the traffic. At midday it was mostly taxis and Jammie shuttles, ferrying students to and from the university. He watched an elderly woman cross the road, holding onto a hat that looked more like a tea cosy than anything else.
‘Looks like rain.’
‘Mmm.’
‘What were you doing sitting there all alone? You looked so … sad.’
‘Fight with my dad. I ran off and was out of breath. Note to self – get fit. I’m not sad, just pissed off.’
‘Anything serious?’
‘For for him at least it’s serious. I just feel a bit pressured living at home, but not being able to drive it’s much harder for me to get a job doing what I want to be doing. So no job means no money to live on your own. I wish I was working.’
‘Working doing what?’
‘I want to become a pastry chef. Maybe open up my own place one day.’
‘It sounds amazing. I love pastry – who doesn’t?’
‘Are you mocking me? I don’t have the energy to tell.’
‘Not at all. Promise.’
‘And you? What do you want to be when you’re grown up?’
‘Sad to say it, but I think I am already grown up. I’m writing for this company – it’s a form of Internet copywriting I guess. It’s not going to change the world, but it’s easy enough and the hours are flexible which really works for me – occupational slumming maybe, but maybe not. I mean, the thought of a nine-to-five makes me want to puke, and who said you had to work hard? Also, I can work from home which is obviously much safer.’
‘Safer than what?’
‘Out there.’
He looked outside. Even if she didn’t go anywhere, or learn to drive, all of these people would keep living their lives just as they always did. They’d go to church on a Sunday, send their kids to the nearby school, chaperone dance parties. He’d be locked inside his house, preserving his life, she’d be stuck in her family’s stupid kiosk, and the rest of the world would be out there living. He sighed with frustration.
‘But is that what you want to do forever?’ Nazma asked. ‘I don’t mean to sound judgemental. Just that you seem to like being outside a lot, but you’re choosing to keep yourself inside. And what about the company you want to start? Have you been working on it?’
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about it. I sometimes feel like I have too many ideas and not enough time to act on them. Can you ever know what you want to do forever?’
He heard how defensive he sounded, and wondered whether the defensiveness was to convince Nazma or himself. Sam watched her as she looked out of the window. He turned on the car radio and the Fine Young Cannibals began to play. He had made the mix-CD after the first session and put it in the car for the first time that day. Perfect timing. He swerved to miss a taxi, whose gaatjie flung his fist in the air, waving it at Sam. At the lights they waited next to vendors selling individual mints and jokes written on folded white paper, and then carried on over the highway and into Observatory.
Urban degradation commenced as you crossed over the boundary between suburbs and city – buildings peeling plaster, the signs outside them old and painted in dated fonts and colours. Sam turned down a tiny side road to park a block away from CIL. The street was narrow, and he noticed Nazma tense up as he parallel parked.
‘Don’t worry. I’m good at this.’
‘Parallel parking is so effing scary that I want to close my eyes.’
‘I don’t think I would suggest that as a strategy for
passing your test.’
‘Thanks, Captain Obvious.’
‘So do you want that espresso?’
‘I could do with something a bit stronger.’
‘Like …’
‘A beer?’
He nodded and they got out, walking slowly down towards the Obz Cafe. They sat down and ordered a beer each. The drinks took a while to come and the silence was awkward after their easy conversation in the car. He undid his watch strap and did it up again, then stopped and reached for his pocket to hold the comfortable weight of it. Just having it there brought him relief. When the beer came Nazma savoured hers while Sam gulped his down faster than he should have.
‘So how did you find the other day?’ he asked.
‘I loved the forest, Sam. I thought it was great. Thank you. I …’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Never mind.’
‘So glad you liked it. It’s my favourite spot. I’m looking forward to your activity this week. Have you got it planned?’
‘Yup. All up here in my noggin.’ She tapped the side of her head with the neck of the beer bottle.
‘My dad used to say “noggin”. Use your noggin, Sam. Pull your lip up off the floor, Sam. Keep your chin up, Sam. He passed away a few years ago. He was a tough nut, my dad, but I’d still rather he was around. You know?’
‘I don’t want my parents dead, Sam – I just don’t want them around me. Just to clarify.’
He blushed and she looked sorry, and he reached into his pocket again. He used to carry around a can of Mace, which he would hold tightly in his pocket or in his hand as he jogged, enjoying its pressurised metal and how firm it felt between his fingers. He had carried it for four months without incident. Then one day he fell and the can got punctured, the fiery liquid oozing out and staining his running shorts. That was his most awkward visit to the doctor ever. Yes, doctor, my testicles are sizzling because I was trying to defend myself against the imaginary baddies at the Rondebosch Common.
The day after the visit to the doctor he rushed to the hardware store to buy another can of Mace, but the shop attendant told him it was illegal. She suggested carrying a can of deodorant with him. He tried it, but it felt too chunky in his pocket. That’s why Sam had the pocketknife. Would he be able to use it if someone attacked him? To hold the knife out and stab back? He hoped he wouldn’t have to, but felt safer with it in his pocket anyway. He was also glad since it was unlikely to burn his balls, and reckoned the chances it would slice them off were small enough.
They sat looking out onto the busy street, people-watching, and finished their beers. Sam glanced at his watch and realised they were running late.
‘We better go.’
They paid, and then walked up the road together. He wanted to reach for her, to comfort her, but he knew it wasn’t the time. He remembered his old girlfriend who’d fitted just beneath his arm. He could always smell her hair from there. He wondered what Nazma’s hair smelled like.
‘Wonder what we’ll do today?’
‘Ja. I dunno.’
He searched his mind for things to say to her to make her feel better.
‘I love pastry.’
‘You said earlier. What’s your favourite?’
‘Apple strudel. For sure.’
‘Mmmm, good choice. I love a simple butter croissant. I love tearing off the sections, bit by bit. I don’t like to add anything to them, just to slowly break them apart and savour them. There is something comforting about their hard outside and soft fluffy inside. They were the first thing I learned to make at college.’
Though he had never thought much of croissants before, he suddenly craved one. They reached the door and he pressed the buzzer, his mouth still filled with longing.
Mel ushered them in, looking frazzled and gesturing to them to make their own tea and coffee quickly. They went straight upstairs and found everyone seated there waiting for them.
Simon glared at them. ‘Glad you could join us.’
‘Sorry, we didn’t realise the time.’
Everyone looked suitably anxious for a study on phobias. Johnson was staring at Ruby. He caught Sam watching him and smiled, seeming embarrassed. Sam found a spot at the table and listened to Fairouz explain that day’s exercises. They focused on trust and secrets – on letting go of anxiety and being able to tell others what it was you were afraid of, which helped to lessen the stress of doing whatever it was you feared. It all made sense, but his head felt groggy from the beer and he looked around aimlessly from person to person. When his gaze landed on Ruby she looked away. He realised she’d been staring at him. He looked over at Johnson, hoping he hadn’t noticed, and tuned back in to Fairouz’s voice.
‘So we’ll be repeating the thing we’re afraid of in a couple of different ways, trying to work out exactly what it is that makes it feel so insurmountable. Then you’ll be talking about statements that are the opposite of how you feel. So, for example, if you’re afraid of heights you’ll be saying things like, “Heights are scary, I don’t like to be too high up, being up in a building feels like being unstable.” Then later you’ll be saying things like, “I love heights, I wish I worked on the top floor of a building, I want to go skydiving,” for example. The aim of this is to begin thinking about some of the things you are letting control you, and some of the things you are missing out on because of your phobia.’
Opposite Sam, Nazma chewed her nails with vigour. He looked out the window, imagining a robber climbing into it in the night, and wondered what exactly they were all missing out on. It was hard to concentrate: he kept thinking about Nazma, and pastry, and trying to think of things to say to her that would make her smile.
The next morning, Sam woke up with a fuzzy pressure in his chest. He lay there for a while, attempting to identify the feeling. It wasn’t fear or anger or sadness. It was something close to nervousness. He thought of Nazma and it intensified. He laughed at himself – it was the pressure of a crush.
He began to do some work on his articles for the week, and when Nazma called to arrange a meeting in town, he was relieved to be distracted from the tedious topics. An hour later he was waiting at the train station in a light drizzle, keeping an eye out for her parents in the kiosk. She had instructed him to avoid conversation with her father at all costs.
Sam watched her dad emerge from the kiosk, wondering whether he could be as bad as Nazma said. He looked old and frail, wearing pants that could have been for a woman, and Jesus sandals with loads of straps. Her dad was cooing at the pigeons with affection.
The train arrived and Sam climbed into the carriage, which was sweaty and full of people. Nobody ever opened the windows on a rainy day and he felt the condensation of the other passengers’ exhalations on his skin. At Mowbray still more people climbed on. Sam was folded like an egg in batter, further and further into the belly of the train, his proximity to the door diminishing with each second.
Next to him, oblivious to those around him, a young man was singing Christian hymns. People began to edge away, squeezing against one another. The man removed a small Bible from his pocket, and, in a round French accent, addressed the carriage.
‘Good morrrrning, good people of the Lorrrd. Frrrriends. The time has come for us to talk about Jesus. Let us prrrray.’
He spouted a prayer with passion, rolling his words around in his mouth. Droplets of sweat formed against his broad forehead, accumulating as he held up his hand to the carriage ceiling. His voice grew louder.
‘We must think about society collapsing. It is collapsing because of divorrrrce. It is collapsing because the ho-mo-sex-ewe-als walk free in the street. It is collapsing because the women are working and are not staying with the children. It is collapsing because …’
‘Where are you and your funny accent from?’ yelled a voice from the back of the carriage. People turned to see who it was but it was almost impossible because the train was so full.
‘Me and my accent are from the Congo, sir,’
the preacher replied. ‘The Democratic Republic of Congo.’
‘Then maybe the real reason our society’s collapsing is because foreigners like you are flooding the city,’ shouted the quivering voice. ‘You take our jobs. You are the ones who come here and make society collapse. You come here from your violent country and you tell us how to live our lives. Now maybe that’s the reason. I think you should just shut up and keep your prayers to yourself. We’ve all got our own things to pray about here in South Africa.’
The surrounding passengers mumbled their assent and dissent, and the atmosphere grew uneasy. People began to moan at both men, telling them to keep quiet – they were just on their way to work, and nobody wanted a fight. The preacher, as though delighted by the challenge, spoke even louder. The crowd grew more aggressive. When the carriage doors squeaked open at Woodstock, Sam jumped out even though he needed to get to Cape Town. His heart was racing.
Waiting for the next train, Sam fondled his pocketknife, feeling relieved he had escaped a possible close call. Holding his umbrella in one hand, and the pocketknife in the other, he imagined himself in a fight. He was glad he didn’t have to be part of the seething mob. He realised he might just have missed his opportunity to find out if it was as scary as he thought, but still felt relief, even though it meant he’d have to keep on waiting. He admired the preacher’s bravery. It couldn’t be easy to stand in a carriage full of people and try and convert them to a faith you were so passionate about. It wasn’t easy to find something to be passionate about in the first place. He’d once dreamed of becoming an inventor, wearing a white coat and goggles, concocting bright potions that would create safety shields and barriers – a force field. In reality, he had never done much with science, and he doubted he’d be any good at it.
The next train arrived and was pleasantly empty. The one he was on must have been delayed. He wondered if everyone on it was still all right. Even if there was a riot on the previous train, the people on this one would have no idea that anything was going on. Sitting down next to a gothic woman with a tattoo of a knife on her neck, he noticed that the elderly man opposite him wore hearing aids in both his ears, their white hairs wrapping around the jelly. He watched the cable station through an open train window as the cloud cover came over the top of the mountain, swallowing it whole.