by Jen Thorpe
‘Thank you, Minister. I can’t tell you what this means to us.’
‘Thank you, Ruby. For everything.’
She finally looked up, her gaze deep and dark, a black hole of guilt. Then she nodded her head and looked down again, tears slipping from her eyes. Ruby waited to see whether she would be dismissed, or whether she was meant to stay. They sat there in silence, Cambada crying softly, for what seemed a very long time. At last, a knock at the door, and Janet walked in, somehow still able to get her heels to click on the thick carpet.
‘Thank you for coming, Ruby. I’ll show you out.’
Janet reached for Cambada’s shoulder, rubbed it and whispered something to her. She turned to indicate it was time for Ruby to go, and they walked in silence down the corridor to the reception area. Floyd wasn’t there and Ruby had the fleeting idea that he might already have been fired for his indiscretion.
Janet spoke. ‘Thank you for coming. I’ll be in touch soon to sort out all the paperwork. I’m sure you will appreciate the space and time we need to do this. I will contact you as soon as I can.’
Ruby nodded and turned away from her, listening for the clicking of heels to indicate that she was walking away. She looked up at the illuminated red downwards arrow on the lift, willing it to come faster. At the ping announcing its arrival she rushed forward, almost knocking over Floyd, who was exiting with clean mugs; Ruby pressed the ground-floor button over and over as though that would make it go faster. When the doors closed she allowed the wave of anger and sadness to swell around her. As she got to her car, she began to cry. She wasn’t sure who it was for, but she didn’t stop until much later that night, when the lights of Cape Town flickered through the drizzle in a murky sky, and she finally fell asleep.
33
Nazma
Ombrophilia: Love of being rained on
The drizzle continued the next morning, creating a sheen on the windows of the Matthews’ house, which Nazma observed with despair. It was nine o’clock on the day of her driving test, scheduled for exactly eleven-thirty, and the bastards at the South African Weather Service predicted rain until at least three that afternoon. She tried to remember a dance that she and Nafeesa used to do when it rained – a common occurrence in Tongaat – to send the rain away. She remembered it involved putting as many Nik Naks in your mouth as possible, and then singing a song by NSYNC. She couldn’t remember whether it ever really worked but searched the kitchen cupboard for a packet just in case. All she could find was a small bag of expired Fritos. Why didn’t her dad keep any of the shop extras at home? Probably for this reason. She didn’t have an NSYNC song anyway. Instead, she took a lot of Calmettes to try and kill the anxiety that was making her legs shake.
Abigail was as nervous as Nazma was. She paced around the kitchen, wringing a dishcloth and cleaning invisible dust from the glimmering countertop. She had developed an irritating habit of chewing her lip and sucking at the same time, making the sound of a baby bird searching for its mother. Calmettes not yet fully absorbed, Nazma lost her temper.
‘Mum!’
‘What?’
‘Stop already. Stop pacing and sucking. You sound like a vacuum cleaner sucking up a piece of paper. Pull it together.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m the one who should be stressed, not you. This is my test.’
‘Of course it is. I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. What were those pills you were taking? They’re not good for you.’
Nazma sighed and tried to stand but her legs shook like half-set jelly beneath her. She sat again.
‘Calmettes. They’re for stress. Do you want one?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘In that case, let’s both just have a cup of tea and take a deep breath. I can teach you the breathing exercises they taught us in the study.’
Nazma turned on the kettle and went to the cupboard for cups and some biscuits, throwing away the expired Fritos that were clasped in her hand. She pulled out the Matcha tea her mother bought from a shop in Woodstock. The woman who sold it told her that Buddhist monks used it for long hours of calm meditation, and to get clarity of mind. There didn’t seem to be a better time to drink a tea like this. Nazma scooped the leaves into the strainer and allowed them to steep, slowly counting back from three hundred. Her mother continued to polish the same section of the kitchen counter she had been polishing for at least half an hour.
Nazma got her mother to sit down, and they watched the drizzle, both finally calmer. She wasn’t sure whether it was the Calmettes or the tea, but when she heard Tony’s hooter outside the door she stood up feeling brave. She gave her mother a supportive look, put on her anorak and walked out into the rain.
Tony shifted over, and she climbed into the driver’s seat. He made generally positive remarks, saying things about the rain being a blessing because everyone would drive more cautiously. Then he turned on the radio, giving her sidelong glances to check that it was okay.
At the testing yard she walked casually into the bathroom and gave herself a stern look in the mirror. Then, as she walked to the car, she tried to imagine herself in a Tarantino movie, gravel crunching beneath her feet on the way to a duel. With this persona in mind, she sailed through the exterior inspection, and when the traffic cop told her to get into the vehicle for the interior inspection she eased in and recited the things she needed to.
The droplets of water on the windscreen didn’t faze her, and she flicked on the wipers as she buckled up for the hill start. She imagined the hill as a large speed bump, turned on the ignition, and the test really began. As she paused at the stop sign behind the line, she thought of Sam. He moved his hand with the wheel as though he was part of the machine. She took a deep breath, tried to channel that feeling of ownership over the car, and released the clutch. She gave a light touch to the accelerator and released the handbrake, easing over the hill without rolling. She was more than a bit tempted to high-five herself.
The alley docking went fine, so did her first parallel. The raindrops fell harder, and the traffic cop stood beneath a bright red umbrella, squinting at her and making marks on his paper. She wished she could see what he was writing – whether she was on her way to a pass or a fail. The wipers flicked back and forth, squeaking and groaning. Drops ran down the sides of her window, which was open so she could look into her side mirrors clearly. The noises started to feel like a pressure building up behind her eyes. The glare became worse. Her palms were sweating, and she forgot about Tarantino, suddenly back to being just Nazma again. As she was pulling into the second parallel, she heard a crunch, and saw a white pole bending over. She gasped, loud enough for the traffic officer to hear despite the rain.
‘Madam, that is one fault. You do have an opportunity to complete a second attempt at getting into the space. Drive forward, and begin again.’
Her mind went blank. She could see Tony watching her from across the yard, his hand over his mouth.
‘Should I keep the car running?’
‘If you hope to drive it, that would be a good idea.’
‘Ha ha, of course.’
Her voice sounded like bats communicating, it was so high-pitched and strained. She couldn’t breathe. Her leg bounced on the accelerator and she struggled to control it. She felt herself begin to panic. Putting the car into neutral, she tried to calm her leg, talking to it in a soft voice. It continued its kangaroo hopping, reluctant to obey her deep breaths or to remain still. The rain continued to pound, and slanted in through the window. The traffic cop squinted harder, walking towards the car.
‘Madam? Is everything all right?’
‘Just a bit nervous, officer. Sorry. My leg is shaking.’
‘Remember that this is a time test, madam. So the longer you take, the more likely that you will not pass. Try to remain calm. It was just one mistake. You have another chance. The law offers you two chances. One to make a mistake and one to learn from it.’
‘Okay.’
She eased out away from the pole, and took a deep breath. She was so tempted to close her eyes and hope for the best that she forced them wide. Reminded of the time she knocked over her mother’s favourite vase, she hoped that this mistake was at least able to be repaired. The rain was prickling her face on the right side, and she used it to focus herself into her body.
‘Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale …’
She edged into the spot, only releasing her final exhale when she knew she was in.
‘Well done, Ms Matthews. I will meet you outside of the yard for the rest of the test.’
She drove around and picked up the officer, turning on the heater to clear the windscreen. She caught the officer giving her a glance as though he was impressed, and it sent a tiny thrill through her body. They drove out into the traffic and continued to drive until they returned to the traffic office about twenty minutes later. She parked and sat silently as he marked the form next to him. There were so many markings, she wasn’t sure whether they were good or bad. The rain was fizzling out, and the wipers only squeaked every now and then. She looked out at the traffic, and realised that if she passed she would have to drive home on her own for the first time. Her stomach clenched beneath her ribs.
‘Well, Ms Matthews, there are a few marks here on my paper …’
‘Yes?’
‘And you know that you are only allowed to lose a certain amount of points, after which you unfortunately have failed.’
Tears pricked behind her eyes, pushing the creases of her eyebrows together. Her shoulders slumped. She felt the weight of her mother’s hope crush her.
‘But,’ the officer continued, ‘you were able to score within the points, and so you have passed. Just keep your eye out when you parallel, hey?’ He laughed a kind laugh, and gave her shoulder a pat. ‘Good job. You really had nothing to worry about.’
She opened the door into the drizzle, shaking out the jitters in her joints, and then, still seated in the driver’s seat, leant forward, lightheaded. The officer came around the side of the car and peered at her, worried something serious had happened. She looked up at him from between her legs. His feet were very big for a man his height. He extended his hand and she reached up for it, stood, and leant against the wet car.
‘Sorry, officer. A few leftover nerves.’
‘We just need to go inside for some paperwork, and then you can get your temporary licence and drive off into the sunset … or rain cloud … if you like. If not, you can always come back to the yard with me and do your test again?’
‘I think I’ll skip that, thank you.’
She followed, unsure of how to feel. When she was done she looked at the startled photograph of herself on her temporary licence. It was strange to remember how she had felt, all those months ago, when the picture was taken and she couldn’t imagine she would ever want to drive. Now she wished she had arranged to have new photos taken. She didn’t want to look startled forever. She didn’t feel that way any more.
‘Officer?’
‘Yes?’
‘If my licence gets stolen do I have to redo my test again?’
‘Of course. It is compulsory.’
‘Shit.’
‘No, I’m just joking with you. We just reissue you with a new one.’
‘Thank god.’
Tony was waiting at the testing station and drove her back home for old times’ sake, high-fiving her before he drove away in his car. She sat down in the driver’s seat, alone behind the wheel for the first time since the night with Sam. She felt relief oozing through her bones. Her mother appeared at the car door with an umbrella.
‘Nazma?’
‘Mum.’
‘Oh no. Don’t worry, you can do it again. We don’t have to let everything ride on this one test. I saw Tony drive you in so you don’t need to say anything.’
Nazma interrupted her, ‘I passed, Mum. I passed.’
She couldn’t tell whether the silence was positive or negative, but it was long and punctuated by deep breaths. Rain was dripping loudly off the tree above the car, straight onto the windscreen.
‘Mum?’
‘I’m here. Just give me a minute.’
‘Well? Do you want to go in?’ She watched the thoughts move across her mother’s face, shifting rapidly between fear and joy. Nazma got out of the car and led her mother to the house.
Inside the kitchen, Abigail’s slippers were still beneath the chair, as they had been when Nazma had left. Behind her chair, the television showed the repeat of Isidingo, the sound turned all the way down. Nazma put her hand on her mother’s shoulder. In a small voice, on the edge of cracking, Abigail spoke.
‘I’m proud of you.’
‘You don’t have to be scared, Mum. We can plan the trip and practise the whole process. There is no reason to be scared.’
‘Sometimes you don’t need a reason to be scared.’
‘I know.’
‘You are very special, my girl.’
‘You can do it too. Just give yourself a chance. Don’t hold yourself back because of a mistake so many years ago. What if, instead, you just say fuck them all?’
‘Nazma!’
‘Come on, Mum. You’re worried about what people will think, not whether you’ll be able to do this. You know you can do it. You are just worried about all those aunties a thousand kilometres away, moaning over their morning tea. Get over them. They’ve probably all died anyway.’ Her mother looked up at her. Too many years of silence had cemented her sense of shame in place. ‘Well, I held up my part of the deal. If you don’t hold up yours, the only person you’ll be disappointing is yourself. Not me. Not Dad. Not those old cows in Tongaat. You.’
Losing patience, she walked out of the kitchen and up to her room. She closed the door, locked it, and lay back on the bed. She put in her earphones and listened to the playlist she’d made for if she passed her driver’s. It sounded just the way she hoped it would. Her text to her sister read: We’re coming Nafeesa. Drivers passed. Give me a week or two to work on Mum. Can’t wait to see you. I have so much to tell you about.
34
Sam
Hormephilia: Love of shock
Sam decided to get back into his exercise regime. The end to the rainy season meant that he’d soon need to be back on call as a volunteer firefighter, and the fitter you were the better. He started inside his flat with push-ups, sit-ups and squats, and stretching on the steps outside. Warmed up, he put on his takkies and ran out into the light drizzle. The air smelled like kelp despite his being relatively far from the sea, and the cool mist felt good on his skin.
He began to time his breath to the rhythm of his feet on the tar. Nearly at the forest, he looked forward to the reprieve that the springy earth would bring to his joints and shins. The path into the forest was steep, but the sound of the streams as they rushed downhill made it worthwhile. Soon it would be summer and the streams would be gone, dried up to reveal the rocks and stones beneath them. He always made sure to have a sip from the top on every run.
He used to run with music before he began trail running. Now he couldn’t understand people who ran with it. Running gave him a chance to think. He thought about Nazma and wondered whether he’d blown it. But he wasn’t convinced that he should give up. There was something to be said for having someone who understands what it is like to be as afraid as you are. He knew she must have felt the same, or she wouldn’t have told him the story about her mother. He wondered how her test had gone and whether she would drive if she passed. Did that mean she was cured?
Inside the forest, it smelled like pine needles. The pines were exotic and were slowly being removed to make way for indigenous trees. Their needles almost prevented this, their acid drenching the soil, preventing anything else from growing. Even when the tree was gone, its needles and cones remained, slowly growing new trees to be removed. Sam understood why the pines had to go, but he loved their scent, especially o
n a hot day when it hovered in the air. Today the smell was gentler. He completed his route up the woodcutters’ trail, then ran down and back along the harsh grinding tar towards home. It was starting to get dark. The drizzle abated.
When he reached the steps to his flat he stretched his legs, using the stairs as props. Leaning over his leg in a hamstring stretch, he looked up towards his flat. His front door was ajar, but the alarm was still activated. When he saw it he wasn’t sure whether to scream or stop breathing. It seemed obvious to Sam that this should be impossible – if the door was open the alarm should be sounding. Or if it had stopped sounding the security company should be there. Somewhere along the way something hadn’t worked as it should. His brain experienced the fogginess of the disconnect between logic and reality. This time reality proved logic wrong. The door was open, but the alarm remained on.
He walked slowly up the stairs, and, like a magnet, his hand was drawn to the door. He pushed it open further to reveal that his sliding door was also open. It was dark inside, but the outside street lights illuminated an emptiness that was new and tangible. He pulled out the pocketknife, holding it tightly and flicking out the blade. It suddenly felt silly that he ever could have thought it would help.
‘Hello?’ he called in a shaky voice, but no voice responded. He flicked on the light at the door. Nobody was inside, but he had been robbed, and they had done a thorough job of it, given that he’d only been gone for an hour or so. There must have been more than one person. He realised that they must have watched him leave and possibly return. He got goosebumps when he grasped that he’d probably run past them as they’d prepared to rob him. He couldn’t remember seeing anyone suspicious-looking. But maybe they hadn’t been suspicious-looking. Maybe they’d just looked normal. With interest he walked around, careful not to touch anything. His house felt different without his things.