The Peculiars

by Jen Thorpe

  ‘I know … but that’s how it feels. There are murderers there. It’s not un-murdery.’

  ‘So what if someone comes in and you can’t defend yourself? What then?’

  ‘That would be the worst thing that could possibly ever happen.’

  ‘What, the break-in or your … lack of kung fu self-defence skills?’

  ‘The latter.’

  ‘Well, mister, I think that’s what you’re afraid of. That one day you really won’t be able to do anything about it, alarms and all. You’re afraid of being vulnerable.’

  ‘In the words of Ms Nazma Matthews, Thanks, Dr Phil, but can we just get on with the exercise?’

  They laughed. As though their good humour could be sensed, it roused Simon across the room. He banged down his cane so loudly that the whole room went silent.

  ‘Can you stop with the noise so some of us can concentrate? Bloody hell. Why are you both so selfish? Keep it down …’

  He began to cough and splutter, still trying to shout despite his obvious lack of breath. His face, which had been mulberry, turned pale.

  ‘Simon.’ Ruby moved to put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Simon, I’m going to need you to breathe slowly and to calm down. Put your head down between your knees.’ She looked slightly panicked.

  He complied, leaning forward over his stomach, which showed years of accumulated beer drinking and biltong eating.

  ‘Now just breathe. In fact, everyone, lean down and let’s have a few deep breaths, shall we?’

  Nazma and Sam both leant forward at the same time, bumping heads, spurring them to more suppressed giggles. Maybe the moment had been in her head, but she felt in her heart that it hadn’t.

  Now, she looked over at him in the massage chair again and wondered if she could trust him. Unsure, she closed her eyes, feeling the massage chair roll between her shoulder blades, and then started to give the explanation he’d wanted a week earlier.

  ‘My sister got married a few years ago. I was still in school. The wedding was overseas – in London. That’s where they were going to build their lives, so they wanted us to see it. Even paid for the tickets for all of us. I had never been overseas before and was so excited. It was cold here but warm there and I was told to pack summery clothes for the wedding. I imagined seeing the sights, you know – Buckingham Palace, Madame Tussauds, the dinosaurs in the museums.

  ‘My dad was equally excited. He wanted to assess my sister’s prospective family, see if they were worthy. He wasn’t upset that they were white. I think he quite liked the idea of grandchildren with a British accent. He just wanted to make sure they understood where she came from, you know. To make sure they’d take care of her. Make sure they were good enough. Tell them stories of cane rats and fish eagles and rolling Natal mountains.

  ‘My mum was terrified. She was afraid of flying but had never had a reason to tell anyone. We’d always driven on family holidays, never being able to afford to fly. She even got carsick sometimes, so maybe she was just afraid it would be worse. Who knows what being afraid is really about?

  ‘Instead of just telling us what she was afraid of, she made it seem as though she didn’t want to go. My dad said she had no choice. He got angry with her, packed for her, and didn’t speak to her for weeks, furious that she would scorn her daughter who was doing so well. She stopped cooking for him to spite him, and he got so thin and constipated from only eating toasted cheese and onion sandwiches. He was uncomfortable with her fear, and she was angry at him for not understanding her better. She expected him to guess what was going on. She couldn’t say she was afraid. She simply didn’t know how to articulate it. She didn’t want us to be held back.

  ‘On the drive to the airport, the night we were supposed to be leaving … she was seething and shaking and crying – I wouldn’t say hysterical, but pretty close. She could hardly breathe and just pleaded with my dad in a frail voice to please let her stay behind, to just let her stay behind and not to make her go. I had to pull her hand to get her to stand up outside the car. She could hardly hold her own weight, her knees buckled with each step. Dad just told her to push the trolley for support, while he marched ahead, with another trolley loaded with luggage, to check us all in. I make it sound like he was being insensitive, but she was being intolerable and she hadn’t told anyone why. It seemed to us like she had lost her mind.

  ‘The airport was packed full of people waiting to catch flights. I couldn’t wait to get on the plane, to look out of the window and see if I could see the land as we passed over it. I imagined Kilimanjaro, Lake Malawi, and the Nile. It all seemed so exotic and magical. I tried to hide my own excitement from my mum, because I didn’t want her to feel worse or more alone. She was sitting in one of those metal chairs they have at the airport, swallowed by it. She refused the chocolate milk I offered her from the cafeteria upstairs. Refused a sandwich. Dad and I had no idea what to do.

  ‘We eventually stood in the line to go through to the boarding lounge. Dad handed us each our tickets and went through the scanner first. Then me. Then her. When she went through, the detector squawked and an awful siren sounded, and the security lady stopped her and asked her to go back through. It sounded again, and security explained they’d have to pat her down. I caught a flash of her eyes before they did and knew it was going to be bad. I remember saying “What have you done, Mum?” just as they pulled a silver butter knife from her pocket.

  ‘A butter knife. They questioned her about why she’d brought it and she refused to answer. They told her if she refused to explain they were not going to let her board, but she wouldn’t speak. Dad shouted at her, pleaded with her to say something, and the other passengers turned to see what was going on. The more she refused to speak the louder he got. He screamed and screamed until security became concerned about him and insisted that he be searched too. He lost his temper and pushed one of them away. I don’t think he even knew what he was doing.

  ‘Soon we were all being escorted to a room for questioning, and after five hours they released us. Mum still hadn’t said a word, but Dad convinced them she had simply lost her mind, or hadn’t meant to do it and was afraid, or one of those options. Our luggage was removed from the plane before it took off, and it was waiting for us when we walked out of the airport.

  ‘My sister never forgave them. Of course, news travels fast too. When you’re as involved in a community as my parents were, everyone knows you. My sister’s ex, Neelan, still bitter about their break-up, wrote a long letter to the local paper, complaining that my parents had cast a bad light on the community, having been seen as suspected terrorists.

  ‘The people who used to buy from us stopped coming to the store. Everyone knew what my mother had done, and would whisper in hushed voices whenever she passed. Of course, the story got inflated by gossip. It was a butter knife but in some versions it was a gun, in others a panga … you know how it goes. Business almost completely dried up.

  ‘At school people asked me about it and I didn’t know what to say. I only had a few months left, and, when they were done, I came home one night to find that we were moving. Dad had decided that Cape Town would be the best option, far enough away from home for nobody to know that my mother was mad, he said. They still hadn’t spoken and I was going crazy from playing messenger.

  ‘My dad hasn’t always been the way he is now. He wasn’t always this angry. His anger came from never talking about what happened. My sister doesn’t speak to them at all. They’re so stubborn that they hardly spoke that first year we lived here. They watched so much TV, not wanting to look at one another. I didn’t see them much because I was at college, you know. One day I came home and they were sitting together, talking about a You magazine, as if nothing ever happened, and it has sort of been that way ever since. Grandpa had died and left them some money. They’d invested it and continued to run the kiosk, though they could afford to relax for the first time in their lives.

  ‘I never expected to feel the same thing as h
er. I grew so used to being angry with her for making me miss my sister’s wedding. I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t just pull it together to do something so simple. But now I know.’

  She opened her eyes to find that Sam was watching her, head turned. He reached out his hand, took hers and kissed it. Then he closed his eyes again, turning back to the vibrations of the chair. She leant back into the weightlessness of a told story, her hand warm where he was holding it.

  20

  Ruby

  Politicophobia: Fear of politicians

  Ruby eventually called Janet after her second fake sick day merged into a weekend. They set up the meeting for the Tuesday morning before the third meeting at CIL, at the Ministry’s offices in Woodstock. Although all other government offices were in the centre of town, theirs were in a ramshackle U-shaped building that framed an overgrown courtyard. State priorities had dictated that Wellbeing was on the outskirts. Half of the building wasn’t rented out yet, and there were signs of squatters: broken windows, grey polyester blankets lying about, and the smell of urine. The rest of the air smelled like sea spray and fish.

  Against this grimy backdrop, the entrance to the Ministry in the used half of the building gleamed. Its double-thick glass doors were embossed with the government crest, and a huge chandelier hung from the ceiling above the polished wood desk. Ruby should have known which type of wood it was from her father’s many lessons when she was younger, but couldn’t remember. Inside, the reception area smelled like neroli and jasmine as a result of an air diffuser, placed discreetly on the floor in the corner. The tiled floor was polished and slippery.

  The receptionist greeted her with practised disdain, asking who she would like to see and instructing her to have a seat. She made no discernible movements while Ruby found her way to a deep leather chair and sunk into it. She flicked through the latest Psychologies magazine, not seeing anything of interest, but continuing to move her eyes across each page as though engrossed. In the old days her mother had read magazines while her hair was being done, her head stuck in a giant hair-drying egg. Then, too, Ruby had sat still and quiet, trying to emulate her mother’s casual flicking of the pages. She had never quite mastered it, but she liked the way the pages squeaked if you ran your fingers down them tightly enough, and did it a few times.

  The receptionist still didn’t speak or move. Eventually, without signal or reason, she stood up. Ruby wondered how she had known, or finally decided, to let her in, but before she could think too hard she was ushered towards the lift doors, the receptionist’s heels clicking on the floor. Ruby entered the steel mouth and pressed two as instructed. The lift made a humming sound, and, faster than she would have liked, she was there. The doors opened onto a carpet so lush she could imagine lying down on it.

  In the entrance to the second floor another receptionist greeted her and followed the same pattern, offering her a coffee as a bonus, which she gladly accepted, grateful for small pleasures. As she waited, Ruby reached up to scratch her head and felt the disappointment of short nails limiting her to only rubbing her favoured spot behind her ear.

  Janet walked in. Ruby hadn’t seen her for several years but it didn’t seem like much had changed. Her navy shoes were Louis Vuitton, her hair in the finest braids pulled tightly back to her scalp. She had long fingernails painted scarlet. Her dress was pleated, and starched, and egg-yolk yellow. Her eyebrows were drastically thin, and her eye make-up shimmered. She walked with the swagger that only political power could bestow.

  ‘Ruby, darling, so nice to see you, come through this way.’

  Through air kisses Ruby could smell perfume, sweet and rosy. Janet gestured to an inordinately long corridor. Ruby weighed up the odds that it could end in her walking a plank, but followed Janet’s wiggle walk for about a minute in silence until she indicated a room and moved aside so that Ruby could go in first. The room was painted gentle pink, with another door inside it on the right. They sat at the small round table, with a stack of croissants and apples in its centre.

  ‘Minister Cambada will join us shortly, but I just wanted to talk through some of the things we’d like to discuss with you so that you are prepared. You are aware that the Minister has a long-standing commitment to the mental wellbeing of all South Africans, as indicated by her previous service in the Ministry. The Minister wishes to improve on her past performance, and wants to make sure we are funding the best possible organisations in Cape Town. Yours is one of many we currently fund, and we are moving towards a policy of selecting core services, and working from there. Do you follow?’

  Ruby followed completely. This was a threat, not a briefing. She nodded.

  ‘The Minister is meeting with several organisations, so don’t feel like you have been put on the spot. Though you are the first, and remember, first impressions last. Do you follow?’

  Ruby nodded again. Janet looked at her with a mixture of pity and annoyance. ‘But please don’t forget, Ruby, that you and the Minister have already met – on paper. When we speak about public figures, we may not think that they themselves read what is written about them, but Cambada is different. She reads everything, and she is very … sensitive … to public opinion. You technically have already made your first impression.’

  Ruby’s mouth was dry, and she looked around the room for some water, seeing none.

  ‘Janet, I’m going to be frank with you …’

  As she said it, the door to the right of the room opened, and Cambada walked in. Ruby stood again in the half-hover of one trapped between a table and chair, feeling as though she should curtsy to complete the move. The Minister’s navy power suit, pearl-white blouse, and skyscraper heels conveyed the impression that she meant business. Her hair was cut in a short Afro, and several strands of bulky freshwater pearls hung loosely around her neck, just covering the moles.

  Cambada sat and clasped her hands together, finally making icy eye contact. Her nails were even longer than Janet’s, Ruby saw, and were painted a strange shade of beige that Ruby’s mother would once have called ‘skin colour’. Ruby wished she was dressed more smartly, and also perhaps that she was a mute and needed to communicate by way of Post-it notes.

  ‘Mrs Bates …’ Cambada spoke slowly, with long vowels.

  ‘Ms.’ Involuntarily, it sprang from her lips and she covered her mouth lest more corrections pour out.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Bates. Mzzzzz. Good. Never married, Mzzz Bates?’

  ‘Never, Minister, to my relief.’ Not even a smile.

  ‘Please, call me Minister Cambada.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Ruby wondered why she sounded so grateful. Her ears started to buzz, and she could hear the drone of an air conditioner or heater far away. She scratched her head, frustrated by her stubby nails, then pulled her hands away and folded them in her lap. She had just thanked Cambada for being rude to her, but didn’t know what else to do. Glancing back up at her, Ruby noticed that Cambada had flecks of yellow in her irises.

  ‘As I was going to say, Mzzz Bates, we are meeting today to discuss the funding that you have been receiving with some regularity from the Ministry. As finances become tighter in government, it is necessary for me to now assess whether our funds are being invested in the right places, whether we are getting the best returns on our investments, if you know what I mean. And so I have a few questions for you. But first, let us have a croissant. I do so love them.’

  Her strange emphases threw Ruby. They each took a plate and croissant. Janet offered them tea and coffee, and left the room to organise it. The only sound was their chewing and swallowing, punctuated by Cambada’s nails clicking against one another as they tore the pastry apart. They sounded like an electric fence with a short.

  ‘Does it feel good to be back, Minister Cambada?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied, eyebrow raised, ‘it feels as though I have never left. I feel as if everything is still fresh in my memory. The environmental ministry was so tense. Everyone worried abo
ut our energy future. Nuclear this, coal that, sun what what. This cause is much closer to my heart, much more intuitive for me. Have you ever worked outside the sector?’

  ‘Yes, but a long time ago. I have been with CIL for just over eight years now. I am incredibly committed to making an impact there.’

  ‘And what type of impact would you like that to be?’

  Ruby put her croissant down, wiped the crumbs from her lips, and looked Cambada in the eye. She paused there, letting the pressure build, thinking of the best way to phrase her answer.

  ‘I would like to run a centre that uses its money effectively to improve the lives of ordinary South Africans by empowering them with the information they receive during and after studies about their own wellbeing. We live in a fast, dangerous type of world. I want to make sure that CIL is a place where people can come to slow down and learn about themselves, and what might be causing their various ailments or conditions, and how to deal with those. Under my leadership CIL has conducted four studies a year, with excellent retention rates and encouraging results. This is the impact I have made, and would like to continue to make, and I believe the Ministry’s funding is an essential and appreciated part of my being able to do this.’

  Janet walked in with their drinks on a tray, and Ruby was relieved to break away from Cambada’s steely gaze. She couldn’t be sure whether her words would have any effect, but at least she’d got them out. Cambada picked up a second croissant and decapitated it, placing the top and bottom next to one another on her plate as she ate the larger portion. A flake of pastry was trapped beneath her index fingernail on her left hand, and Ruby couldn’t stop staring at it. Her fingers were distractingly long, and Ruby noticed her ring finger was bare. Janet didn’t move, as though waiting for her puppeteer to pull her strings. Before Ruby knew what she was doing, she was talking again.

  ‘We have some incredible participants in our latest study, Minister. It would be an honour if you could come and observe today’s session. We are halfway through a programme working with people who suffer from phobias.’