by Jen Thorpe
Nazma had suggested they meet at the Wellness Warehouse on Kloof Street. He’d only been there a few times, killing time before going for a movie at the Labia, and he wasn’t sure what her plan was from there. When the train stopped at Cape Town, he walked out into the station. Descending into the underground mall to avoid the now-heavy rain was like timetravelling back to the eighties. The smell of fried chicken mixed with the smells of public transport travellers, a bakery selling the biggest lamingtons he had ever seen, and the fresh gusts of air from the rain above. The floor tiles reflected fluorescent lights and shops sold artificial hair to women and imitation sneakers to men.
He ascended onto Adderley Street and walked to St George’s Mall. It was full of tourists holding umbrellas, looking at curios. There were plenty of carved soapstone and wooden ornaments, plenty more painted pictures of rural imagery on stretched canvas. A few shopkeepers erected plastic sheets to cover their goods, but some had given up already and were packing up. When he travelled with his mother when he was younger, they always purchased one curio per city. He still owned the mini Eiffel Tower and the picture of himself with a gladiator outside the Colosseum. He’d lost the photos of the falconer from Budapest and the view from the cathedral in Prague. They were probably in a box somewhere at his parents’ house, but he hadn’t been there since he started the study and was quite enjoying the time away from his mother. His dad wouldn’t have understood something like the study anyway. ‘Like a women’s knitting circle,’ he would have said. Soft.
Greenmarket Square was packed with more of the same things for sale, and browsing them were the standard tourists wearing khaki shorts and hiking boots despite the frigid weather. Walking through the square, he strained his ears to hear the voices of negotiators selling their goods for lower prices than they deserved. Long Street seemed depressed in the rain – too quiet. He looked into each shop as he walked. In one, an old Mediterranean-looking man watched, a bored expression on his face, as a young coloured woman on her knees mopped the floor with a cloth. In another, a woman read a first-hand book behind the desk of a second-hand bookstore, looking up furtively to make sure nobody was watching. Reaching the top of the street he bought a Big Issue from a vendor who smiled when he told her to keep the change and embraced him.
Nazma was waiting for him at the escalators up to the Warehouse but looking up the street the other way. She wore a pair of very short red shorts over black tights, with red high-tops over those. Her tracksuit top was navy blue and inside it her head was bopping to what he assumed was her iPod. She was in her own world and he almost paused, just to watch her, but she turned towards him and, seeing him, waved.
‘Morning, sailor.’
‘Morning, madame.’
‘Are you ready for this?’ He imagined the popular nineties track and had to stop himself from doing the Running Man.
‘I’m not sure what this is, but I’m feeling pretty good today. You?’
‘Ja, me too. Let’s go. You don’t even know how good this is going to be.’
They walked up the escalator to the second floor and into the Wellness Warehouse. Strange elevator-style, meditation-like music was playing. It sounded half like whale calls and half like someone playing a guitar built out of a tree, with palm fronds for strings. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it sort of made him need the loo.
‘First I want to take you on a sensory tour that will relax you. Then, we’re having a massage.’
‘Shit, Nazma. I didn’t bring much cash with me. You don’t have to spend money on me.’
‘Don’t you worry, Mr Edwards. We’ll be all right.’
They walked towards the candles and Nazma pointed out various scented candles and oils, instructing him to smell them. The first was a calming one. He could only recognise lavender but she identified the scents of rosewood, chamomile, geranium, clary sage, ylang-ylang and marjoram. Next, she showed him one that could help him sleep, made with lavender, orange, chamomile and ylang-ylang. She recommended an anti-stress inhaler that had chamomile, lavender, clary sage, geranium and ylang-ylang.
‘Everything seems to have ylang-ylang in it. How do you know all of this?’
‘Nice to see you’re paying attention. My sister is an aromatherapy nut. She taught me.’
‘Does she live around here?’
‘No, she lives in London. I haven’t seen her for a few years now.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t really afford to go there and she refuses to come here.’
‘Refuses?’
‘She’s not exactly on speaking terms with my parents.’
‘Why?’
‘Smell this one.’
She passed him a vanilla-scented oil, but his nose was in sensory overload and he could hardly smell it. She spoke about the oil but he was only half listening. It was so relaxing to be around her: she knew about calming oils and smells, and she listened to old comforting music.
‘Wait!’ She looked startled. ‘Why isn’t your sister speaking to your parents?’
‘Why don’t I tell you about it while we get massaged?’
Massages required taking off your clothes and standing in your underwear, and while that was something he wouldn’t mind doing with Nazma, he still didn’t know how it would be conducive to curing them of their phobias. He wasn’t afraid of nudity, but he couldn’t remember if he was wearing his good undies.
He distracted himself by thinking about her undressing as they walked deeper into the store, passing the vitamins and hair products and muscle-building protein shakes. Halfway through the walk he stopped, pretending to look at some biodegradable deodorant so he could readjust himself, his semi becoming uncomfortable. He reached into his pants for a quick rearrangement, thankful for the rain jacket that covered him.
‘Ta daaaa!’
Nazma pointed towards the massage chairs that were plugged into the floor next to the hula hoops, and promptly walked towards one, sat down in it and turned it on.
‘Let’s think and vibrate,’ she said, wincing as the chair massaged her shoulders.
He sat down for a minute and let the palm-frond music wash over him, closing his eyes. The massage chair kneaded slowly upwards from the base of his spine to his shoulders. It gave him goosebumps it was so good. The music changed to something with a triangle and waves. He opened his eyes slowly to look at her, but Nazma’s were closed.
18
Ruby
Thanatophobia: Fear of dying
Ruby had been scratching at her head all night and had to get up to cut her fingernails again to stop it from becoming painful. After two Calmettes, she gave up on sleep and sat in her lounge drinking tea with honey, watching the dormant city, a thick knitted blanket around her. A few red tail lights curved around the highway, but the roads were mostly quiet.
Nights like these made her feel alone. She wondered what time it was where Jeff was and hoped it was all going okay over there. Jericho’s threats of death made her go through mental lists of people who could potentially die soon, and with Jeff’s dangerous job he was top of the list. Her family laughed it off, but it was becoming scary to be a diplomat these days. None of the bad guys were afraid to target embassies, and they didn’t really have much protection.
She counted her fingers to see what her own chances of death were, and was relieved to find that she was pretty far down the list. She got out a notepad and wrote down some points to include in her pre-phone-call email to Janet. It included the vital services the Centre provided, the need to sustain the mental wellbeing of Capetonians, the number of staff they employed and trained, and the benefits to the Ministry’s image if it were seen to be doing something about mental health care when the world was going crazy around them. She wrote ‘Sorry for calling the Minister a thief’, but crossed it out. ‘Criss-cross, criss-cross, criss-cross,’ she said, tipping her head from side to side.
Writing the notes didn’t make her feel better, but she was relieved to have something to pass the h
ours between two and five, when she left home to swim again. Normally she didn’t swim twice a day, but today she needed it. She did her normal mile, and then added a few more lengths for good measure until her legs felt like they were moving through curds. Drying off and putting on her jersey to go back up to her flat, she looked around at the people running, cycling and swimming. It was a grim morning, and they looked like the living dead. Up early to greet the daylight that wasn’t coming. Winter was getting to her.
She arrived back home to a message from her mother, asking her to call her if she knew how to use her cell phone. Her tone got under Ruby’s skin – half accusing, half desperate. Her mother tasked herself with family communication; Ruby imagined a roster in the kitchen at home listing which family member to call on which day. She seemed to get called on Thursdays, when she was tired from the week and yearning for the weekend. Perhaps she should recommend that her mother called her on Mondays. Though then she’d probably feel like she didn’t have the time to talk to her.
The rain was falling heavily and at seven thirty Ruby chickened out of calling Janet and phoned instead to the office answering machine, faking a sick day. She always felt guilty for taking sick days when she wasn’t really sick, and sometimes so guilty that she gave herself stomach cramps from the stress of worrying that someone would see her when she was not at work and would accuse her of faking an illness. Who that person would be when there were only four of them permanently based at the office, she didn’t know. She put on the kettle, put her pyjamas back on, and stretched a while in front of the window, watching the cars as they tried to rush and failed in the traffic.
By twelve she had finished her book and developed pins and needles in her legs from sitting still on the couch for so long. The rain had eased and she decided to go out for a walk around the city. Putting on jeans and bright red gumboots, she braved the weather.
It wasn’t really as cold in winter as everyone made it out to be. It was just wet. What got to Ruby was a sense of constantly being damp. Moist, as her brother would have said, knowing the word made her scratch her head. He used to do it as a joke to test her resolve, but he realised eventually that she didn’t know she was doing it until it was too late and her head would bleed, so he stopped teasing her.
Ruby walked down Bree Street, away from the mountain, looking at the people having business meetings in coffee shops where the staff wore oversized glasses, seventies’ printed dresses and shirts, and rings in their noses. The parking lot that housed their cars had once been a slave market. She considered stopping in at one of the small art galleries, but decided not to. She turned down Wale, towards Greenmarket Square, stamping in puddles when she could, enjoying the protection of her wellingtons.
Bored flyer-flickers were flicking their flyers of false promises all the way down the hill. Can make money come to you. Magic wallet. Scare bad spirits. Penis can grow. Pain free abortion. Riches. Their headlines were belied by the flyer-flickers’ lack of enthusiasm, but she had to admit to herself the techniques they used were impressive. Some tapped their stack from beneath the flyer, causing the top paper to pop forward. Others curled the whole stack into a U-shaped bunch, held it tightly and smacked the whole pack on their hands. Still others held the flyers in one hand and hit them with the other hand. All of these moves produced a loud ‘crack!’ that got you to make eye contact. Once you caught their eyes it was too late, and you were soon walking away with a guide to your future riches from a sweaty-palmed promise-pusher.
Ruby’s cell phone rang again. It was the office. She ducked into a bookstore just off Long Street, and answered in her croakiest voice.
‘Ag sorry to bother you, Ruby.’ It was Mel. ‘Janet has been calling all morning and I didn’t want to give her your cell number because I know how sick you are, but I’m not sure what to do now. I told her you’re sick but she seems frantic. Can you maar maybe call her?’
Ruby groaned and Mel took it as a sign that she was feeling even sicker.
‘No, man. Sorry, Ruby. Don’t call her. Vergeet dit. You sound so ill. Let me tell her that she can wait for you to come back tomorrow or the next day. I mean, she can’t just expect that people can get better just so they can talk to her. Don’t worry. I’ll call her back. Feel better. Don’t let this weather get you down or anything.’
Before she could say anything Mel was gone from the line. Ruby had never been more grateful for her. She sighed and browsed the bookstore, looking for something light to distract her, but couldn’t find anything. Leaving the sound of the store’s entrance bell behind her, she walked up Long Street, beneath the awnings of the stores, without paying too much attention to the fat droplets of rain pounding the street. She crossed the road and went to a coffee shop she thought she had seen in an advert somewhere. Ordering a hot chocolate and water, she sat down by the window next to a potted plant in dire need of some love. She began to stroke its waxy leaves, humming and staring through the window, and pouring her water into its dry hard soil while she sipped her hot chocolate. It was creamy and dark, and left her mouth coated with flavour.
Sometimes there was nothing better than drinking hot chocolate. Her mom used to make it by melting a whole slab of milk chocolate into a pot of milk, with a few sprinkles of chilli and a few of cinnamon. It was their special thing to drink, sitting on the patio watching the grass grow. It always made her feel protected. She picked up her phone, and, uncharacteristically, called her mom back.
19
Nazma
Aviophobia: Fear of flying
Nazma opened her eyes, wondering if Sam was asleep. He looked relaxed enough to be sleeping, but winced whenever the machine massaged a sore area.
She thought about the session the day before, how they had begun to feel closer. As they’d sat in the boardroom, Nazma had been thinking she must have eaten a bunch of nail polish while chewing her nails and daydreaming, and had wondered if it could be digested, or whether it would accumulate in her stomach, painting her breakfast turquoise. When it had been time to do the exercise she had looked at Sam, knowing she hadn’t been listening. ‘So what’s the plan now?’
‘I could see you were far away. What’s up?’
‘Old stress making new wrinkles.’
‘Don’t I know that feeling. So we’re going to talk through the stuff we’re afraid of, which could take an eternity, and then we’re going to try and reverse that. Sounds easy enough.’
‘It always sounds easy. Do you think it will work though?’
His face revealed that he hoped so. She examined his bottle-brown eyes, looking at the light green fleck again, and then moved across his face to land on the fine stubble on the edge of his chin. His hair was floppy, and his cut-off denim shorts exposed a few grazes on his legs. His calves were muscular, and his legs hairy, but not too hairy.
‘So begin already, Sam.’
‘You first.’
‘So … I am afraid of driving. Being behind the wheel makes my hands clammy and my heart race in the way that falling in love could, but this is followed by nausea and black spots behind my eyes, which I hope falling in love doesn’t do. I feel terrified when I put my foot on the pedal, and worried that I’ll push the wrong one when I get going. The clutch feels like a catapult, waiting to bounce away from me. The accelerator is too sensitive to my touch, lurching forward when I mean to ease. The supposed balancing act you’re meant to pull makes me quake with the effort of it all. When I’m supposed to indicate I always put on the windscreen wipers, and the rush to correct that feels like it takes too long. I feel afraid when other drivers are behind me, convinced they know I don’t know what I’m doing.’
‘So … it’s not the driving you’re afraid of. It’s the failure.’
‘Thanks, Dr Phil, but could we just carry on with the exercise?’
‘Nazma, really. Listen to yourself. You’re scared you will fail at being a good driver – bump into someone, fuck it up. What you need is to go go-karting. Say fuck it to the ru
les that say you have to be good and just enjoy the experience of being behind the wheel.’
‘Negatory, Ghost Rider. That sounds like my worst nightmare.’
‘Exactly. That’s exactly why we should do it.’
‘Let’s just carry on, Sam, and we can talk about this later. It’s your turn. What are you afraid of?’
‘I’m afraid of being attacked. When I am alone in my house without an alarm I feel like someone will surely break in through one of the windows, or through the sliding door. Living in a house without an alarm is terrifying. Living in a house with an alarm is more terrifying. The exhaustion of waiting for one of the room sensors to go off and then to have to get up from my bed and see which room it is makes me feel paralysed. When the alarm actually does go off I leap from my bed and bound out of the room as though I am invincible, and it’s like I somehow know nobody is there. If they were, I wouldn’t leap. But it’s that constant on-edge feeling that makes me terrified – damned if I do protect myself, damned if I don’t. I don’t want to be vulnerable and for everyone to say, he was the guy who didn’t have an alarm, of course he was murdered in his bed, why was he so stupid?’
‘So you’re afraid of being vulnerable, or being blamed for your own vulnerability? Have you ever been broken into?’
‘Never. Not in all my life.’
‘Flip, you’re lucky.’
‘I know, but what if my luck runs out?’
‘It doesn’t work like that. It’s not like we’re on a waiting list to be murdered, Sam, and we just keep dodging our chance. Plus you live in Rondebosch for goodness’ sake. It’s not exactly the murder capital of Cape Town.’