In A Strange Room: Three Journeys

by Damon Galgut

  He watches, but what he sees isn’t real to him. Too much travelling and placelessness have put him outside everything, so that history happens elsewhere, it has nothing to do with him. He is only passing through. Maybe horror is felt more easily from home. This is both a redemption and an affliction, he doesn’t carry any abstract moral burdens, but their absence is represented for him by the succession of flyblown and featureless rooms he sleeps in, night after night, always changing but somehow always the same room.

  The truth is that he is not a traveller by nature, it is a state that has been forced on him by circumstance. He spends most of his time on the move in acute anxiety, which makes everything heightened and vivid. Life becomes a series of tiny threatening details, he feels no connection with anything around him, he’s constantly afraid of dying. As a result he is hardly ever happy in the place where he is, something in him is already moving forward to the next place, and yet he is also never going towards something, but always away, away. This is a defect in his nature that travel has turned into a condition.

  Twenty years before this, for different reasons, something similar had come over his grandfather. Rooted and sedentary for most of his long life, when his wife died something inside the old man broke irrevocably and he took to the road. He travelled all around the world, to the most distant and unlikely places, fuelled not by wonder or curiosity but grief. Postcards and letters with peculiar stamps and markings arrived in the post-box at home. Sometimes he would phone and his voice would come up, it sounded, from the bottom of the sea, hoarse with the longing to be back again. But he didn’t come back. Only much later, when he was very old and exhausted, did he finally return for good, living out his last years in a flat in the back garden behind the house. He wandered around between the flowerbeds, wearing pyjamas at midday, his hair wild and unwashed. By then his mind was going. He couldn’t remember where he’d been. All the images and impressions and countries and continents he’d visited had been erased. What you don’t remember never happened. As far as he was concerned, he had never travelled anywhere beyond the edges of the lawn. Irascible and mean for much of his life, he was mostly docile now, but still capable of irrational rage. What are you talking about, he screamed at me once, I’ve never been to Peru, I don’t know anything about it, don’t talk rubbish to me about Peru.

  He leaves Greece two weeks later. He moves around from place to place for a year and a half and then he goes back to South Africa. Nobody knows that he’s arrived. He rides in from the airport on the bus, carrying his bag on his knees, looking through the tinted windows at the city he’s come back to live in, and there is no way to say how he feels.

  Everything has changed while he was away. The white government has capitulated, power has succumbed and altered shape. But at the level on which life is lived nothing looks very different. He gets out at the station and stands in the middle of the moving crowds and tries to think, I am home now, I have come home. But he feels that he is only passing through.

  He catches a taxi to the house of a friend, who has got married in his absence. She is happy to see him, but even in her first embrace he senses how much of a stranger he’s become. To her, and to himself. He’s never been to this house before and he wanders through it, looking at furniture and ornaments and pictures that feel intolerably heavy to him. Then he goes out into the garden and stands in the sun.

  His friend comes out to find him. There you are, she says, it’s such a coincidence you arrived today, this was in the post-box for you this morning. She gives him a letter which might have fallen from the sky. It comes from Reiner.

  They start writing to each other. Every two or three weeks the letters go back and forth. The German is dry and factual, he talks about events in his life from the outside. He went back to Berlin. He didn’t get married. He started studying at university, but changed his mind and dropped out. Later he went to Canada, which is where his letters are coming from now, he is on some forestry project somewhere, planting trees.

  He tries to imagine him, the dour figure in black with his long silky hair, putting saplings into the ground and tamping down the soil. He can’t remember him very well, not the way he looked, what he retains is the feeling that Reiner stirred in him, a sense of uneasiness and excitement. But he wouldn’t dare to express this, he senses a reluctance in the other man to talk openly about emotions, to do so is somehow a weakness. But however forthright Reiner seems to be about facts, there are still many details missing in his account of himself, with whom did he live in Berlin, who pays for him to go travelling everywhere, what brought him to Canada to plant trees. Somehow, even when these questions are put to him directly, Reiner manages not to answer.

  For his part, he has never withheld emotions, if anything he vents them too freely, at least in letters. Because words are unattached to the world. So it is easy to write to Reiner about how hard he finds it to be back. He can’t seem to settle anywhere. He stays with his friend and her husband for a while, but he is an intrusion, an imposition, he knows he has to move on. He takes a room in a house with a student, but he is miserable there, the place is dirty and full of fleas, he doesn’t fit in, after a month or two he moves again. He looks after people’s houses while they are away, he beds down in spare rooms. Then he moves into a flat owned by an ex-landlady of his, who occupies the three rooms adjacent and below. But this is a mistake. The landlady comes into his flat at all hours, her yapping poodle follows at her heels, she is going through a bad time, she needs to talk, he tries to listen but he is full of unhappiness of his own. He wants to be alone but she won’t leave him in peace, the dog sheds hair and hysteria all over his floor. At some point he writes to Reiner, I wish you would come here and take me on a long walk somewhere. A letter comes back, thank you for your invitation, I will be there in December.

  Don’t meet me at the airport, Reiner tells him, I will find you, there is no need. But he phones the airlines to find out the flight, he borrows a car from friends and is in the arrivals hall an hour before the time. He feels a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. It is two years since they saw each other, he doesn’t know how things will be.

  When Reiner comes through the door he isn’t expecting anybody and so he isn’t looking around. I stand a little way back to observe him. His appearance is the same. The glossy brown hair hangs down around his shoulders, he is dressed in black from head to foot, he carries the same black rucksack on his back. With a severe expression he goes over immediately to a row of plastic chairs to rearrange his bag.

  I watch for a minute or two, then try to look casual as I stroll over and stand beside him.

  Hello.

  Reiner looks up. The dark face clears for a moment, then closes over again. Why are you here. I said you should not.

  I know. But I wanted to come.

  Well.

  Hello.

  They are unsure of how to greet each other. He opens his arms and the other man accepts the embrace. But not entirely.

  Do you not trust me to find my way.

  I just wanted to welcome you, that’s all. Can I help you with your stuff.

  I have just the one bag. I prefer to carry it myself.

  He drives Reiner to his place. As they go up the stairs, the landlady, who is no longer on speaking terms with him, watches through her half-opened door. His flat is almost bare and empty, his few possessions packed into boxes, he will be leaving here at the end of the month. They go out to sit on the balcony, looking down on green trees, the Cape Flats spreading away to the mountains. For the first time he falls silent.

  So, Reiner says.

  Yes.

  I am here.

  It’s strange.

  They look at each other, both smiling. Till now the fact of Reiner’s arrival was unreal, he didn’t quite believe it would happen, but now they are both in the same place again. They sit out on the balcony, talking. At first they are nervous and awkward with each other, the words don’t come easily and are charged with ten
sion when they do. But after only a short while conversation starts to flow, they relax a little, they discover to their relief that they get on well, that they share a certain humour related to an alienation from things. This helps them to like each other again, even if the liking is based on nothing solid as yet, only a vague sense of affinity. It is almost enough.

  There is only one bed in his flat, which they have to share. But that night, when the time comes to sleep, Reiner says he doesn’t need a mattress.

  What do you mean.

  He watches while Reiner goes out onto the balcony and starts unpacking his bag. People need too many things, he explains, taking out a sleeping bag and a thin mat. People want to make themselves comfortable. It is not necessary. He unrolls the mat on the balcony and spreads his sleeping bag on top of it. This is all that is necessary. I prefer it. He takes off his shoes and gets into the sleeping bag and zips it up. He lies there, looking at his companion through the dark.

  It’s impossible to see any expression on his face. Perfect, he says.

  Now that Reiner is here he takes the atlas down and they both pore over it anxiously. They are looking for a country full of open space, with few cities. In the time they’ve spent talking about the trip they have agreed on the sort of conditions ideal for them. Neither of them is looking for lots of people or busy roads or built-up areas. So there is Botswana. There is Namibia. There is Zimbabwe.

  And what is this place here.

  Lesotho.

  What do you know about this place.

  He doesn’t know much, he’s never been there, nor have any of his friends. He knows it’s full of mountains and very poor and surrounded entirely by South Africa, but apart from this the country is a mystery to him. They both sit looking at it.

  Maybe we should go there.

  Maybe we should.

  These might not be the words they use, but the decision is as light and unconsidered as this, one moment they don’t know where they are going, the next they are off to Lesotho.

  They make their way to a government office in town the next day and are given a map, on which all the roads and settlements and altitudes are clearly marked. To me this map looks ideal, but Reiner studies it dubiously.

  What’s the matter.

  Don’t you think we should get bigger maps. With more detail. Four or five of them for the whole country.

  But what for.

  Then we can plan every part of the walk.

  But we can plan with this.

  But not enough.

  They look at each other, this is the first time they’re out of step. But the man behind the desk says that he doesn’t have more detailed maps anyway, this is the best he can do. It’s fine, I say, we’ll take it. But later in the day Reiner says, we must look when we get up to Lesotho.

  Look for what.

  For maps with more detail.

  These contradictions are confusing, here is a man who finds a proper bed unnecessary but for whom a perfectly good map is insufficient. The next day Reiner takes himself off to the local library to read up on Lesotho. This is a relief, at least we will know something about where we’re going, but when he gets back it turns out he hasn’t found out about the history of the country at all. Instead he’s researched the climate, the terrain and topography, everything coded into numbers.

  Numbers are some form of security for Reiner. When he is offered coffee in the evening he says no, I’ve had two cups already today, I don’t drink more than two cups every twelve hours. When they go walking anywhere he wants to know how many kilometres it is. If he doesn’t know, or if he doesn’t know exactly, then Reiner looks displeased.

  So even in the first few days I become aware of certain differences between them. But there is no time to worry about this. There are still two weeks before they leave and he has a lot to do, he must settle his accounts and put all his things into storage. He is feeling harried and under pressure and in this state he would prefer to be alone. But he is hardly ever alone. Even when he leaves his flat on the most mundane errand Reiner is always with him. He is worn down by the constant presence, like some kind of dark attendant angel, ironic and brooding, his face almost petulant. And Reiner in his turn seems irritated by all these tasks and duties, the requirements of a normal life are beneath him.

  Why must you do all these stupid things.

  I have to. They have to be done.

  Why, Reiner says, smirking.

  It is a mystery who attends to all the mundane necessities of Reiner’s life at home. When he thinks about it, he knows nothing about Reiner, but if he asks he doesn’t get anywhere. He finds out that his parents are deeply religious, but beyond that he has no idea about his family or his background. Though he is genuinely interested, he senses a deep reluctance on the other side to respond.

  Once he asks Reiner, what do you do for money.

  What do you mean, what do I do.

  How do you earn it. Where does it come from.

  Money comes. You shouldn’t worry about it.

  But you have to work for money.

  I got paid in Canada. For planting trees.

  And before that.

  I am a philosopher, Reiner says, and the conversation stops there, he is silenced by the idea, a philosopher, what does this mean. Are philosophers exempt from work, who supports them, what do they do exactly. He supposes that philosophers have no time for the ordinary errands of the world, and perhaps this is why Reiner is irritated by all his running around.

  What would you prefer to be doing.

  Walking.

  We do walk.

  Not enough. We should be in training for this trip. We must get into a routine, I can see you aren’t fit.

  Once Reiner makes them go on a long hike. We need a challenge, he says. To prepare us. They take a bus to Kloofnek, they walk along the pipe track past Camps Bay and almost to Llandudno, the landscape here with its grey stone and turquoise sea is very like Greece, the past echoes in concentric rings through time, they climb up over the top of the mountain and down the other side at Constantia Nek and from there through forest all the way back to Rondebosch, six or seven hours have gone by, their feet are blistered, they are dizzy with hunger. I feel faint, he says, I must eat. I also feel faint, Reiner says, it is an interesting feeling, I don’t want to eat.

  This is another difference between them, what is painful to the one is interesting to the other. The South African also loves to walk, but not constantly and obsessively, he is also drawn to extremity, but not when it becomes dangerous and threatening, he is incapable of examining his own pain like a spore on a slide and finding it interesting, interesting. If your own pain is interesting to you, how much more detached will you be from somebody else’s pain, and it’s true that there is something in Reiner that looks at all human failings with dispassion, maybe even with disdain. What has given rise to this coldness in him I don’t know.

  What Reiner wants is to be preparing with single-mindedness for this trip, he would like to dispense with all external trivia, the words he used on the balcony that night express some basic truth for him, people need too many things it is not necessary. He sits studying that map of Lesotho for hours, he has traced out in it a series of possible routes in red pen. I look at these thin lines with fear, they are like veins going through some strange internal organ, it feels at times that for Reiner this country is only a concept, some abstract idea that can be subjugated to the will. When he talks it’s in terms of distances and altitudes, spatial dimensions that can be collapsed into formulas, there is no mention of people or history, nothing matters except himself and the empty place he’s projecting himself into. What about the politics, I say, we haven’t looked at the human situation, we don’t know what we’re getting into. Reiner stares at him with bemusement, then waves a contemptuous hand. Even here in South Africa, where he has never been, Reiner has no interest in what is happening around him, when he goes on his long walks through the streets he has a pair of earplugs t
hat he pushes into his ears, he doesn’t want external noises to intrude, his dark intense stare goes out ahead of him but is in reality turned inward.

  But at this point there are only dim intimations of unease. He is excited about the trip. The little bit of friction between Reiner and himself will go, he is sure, when they are out of the city and alone together on the road. Neither of them was made for sedentary living.

  He borrows a tent from a friend. Reiner insists that they put it up in the garden outside the flat. It takes a long time, the poles and pegs are like a strange new alphabet they have to learn. Everything must be borrowed or bought, gas-stove and cylinders water-filter torch knives and forks plastic plates a basic medicine-kit, he has never travelled in this way before, the strangeness of everything scares him, but it thrills him too, the thought of casting away his normal life is like freedom, the way it was when they met each other in Greece. And maybe that is the true reason for this journey, by shedding all the ballast of familiar life they are each trying to recapture a sensation of weightlessness they remember but perhaps never lived, in memory more than anywhere else travelling is like free-fall, or flight.

  At some time in those last two weeks the question of money comes up. There are practical questions to be considered, such as how they will pay for themselves along the way. Reiner says that he has Canadian dollars that he wants to use up and so it’s best if he is in charge of money. But what about me, I say.