The Theory of Flight

by Siphiwe Gloria Ndlovu

  ‘I have never been a white farmer. Never been white. Never been a farmer.’

  ‘You look white.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. I’m Coloured.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I was never known as “The Messiah of the Streets”. They just called me Jesus.’

  ‘I know, but you have to admit that “The Messiah of the Streets” has a nice ring to it.’

  ‘It very well may have, but they just called me Jesus.’

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ Bhekithemba Nyathi asks, suddenly getting up. ‘Let me make us some tea. I have a good green tea. My wife sends it to me. She’s in England. It will calm you, help you relax.’

  ‘I don’t want to be calm. I don’t want to relax. I want you to print the facts. Vida de Villiers is back on the street because Imogen Zula Nyoni is lying in a coma in Mater Dei Hospital, and he refuses, absolutely refuses, to go home without her.’

  Bhekithemba Nyathi sighs heavily. ‘Look, Vida, I know about Imogen. There is no way I can print that story – a man driven to the streets because his wife is lying in a coma in Mater Dei Hospital?’

  ‘We are not married,’ Vida corrects.

  ‘We live in a time of HIV and AIDS,’ Bhekithemba Nyathi continues. ‘Everyone knows someone in hospital who is fighting to survive. That fact alone – that we all know someone who is struggling to be alive – should be the headline every day, but it is not. It is our reality, the way we live now, our truth. So of course we cannot acknowledge it, let alone print it. We cannot print what matters, we never print the truth, but we still have to sell the paper somehow. So in the end, all we have is sensationalism. And that is what your story had to be. I am really sorry … truly.’

  ‘I can’t go back to a home she’s not in …’ Vida says, realising with dread that he is dangerously close to crying.

  ‘I think I will go ahead and make us that cup of tea,’ Bhekithemba Nyathi says, leaving the office and making sure to close the door firmly behind him.

  Vida understands that he has been given a chance to cry in private. He appreciates it.

  ‘Jesus wept,’ Vida says when Bhekithemba Nyathi returns after a while with a kettle of boiled water in his right hand and two mugs – one chipped, the other slightly cracked – in his left. ‘Maybe that can be your headline tomorrow,’ Vida says with a sad smile.

  There are a few awards and certificates on Bhekithemba Nyathi’s desk. Vida examines them. Apparently, once upon a time this Bhekithemba Nyathi was quite the accomplished journalist. ‘Those are from another lifetime,’ Bhekithemba Nyathi says, handing Vida the slightly cracked mug. ‘The eighties and nineties. We had some room then – granted not much – but some room to do actual journalism.’ He puts a teabag in each mug and then pours the water. ‘Those were the days.’

  Vida sits down on the de-cushioned chair, suddenly feeling exhausted.

  ‘I’m the one who broke the Golide Gumede story in the eighties,’ Bhekithemba Nyathi says, his chest slightly puffing up with pride, a faraway look in his eyes. ‘Met Imogen, and her mother, Elizabeth … Very interesting family, that one. You could tell just by looking that something was different there. It was like they were inhabiting a world of their own. And happy – very, very happy. And Imogen was a revelation … so bright … intelligent … sharp. I think she actually interviewed me. Shame what happened … damn shame. I sometimes think that if I hadn’t written that story, then none of it would have happened … Well,’ he says, snapping back to the present, his shoulders sagging under the memory of it all.

  ‘Saved my life, Golide Gumede did,’ Vida says. ‘Found me in the bush listening to Janis Joplin.’

  ‘You were listening to Janis Joplin in the bush?’

  ‘I was seventeen years old and stupid – and very much in love with Janis. I took her everywhere. He had his AK-47 pointed right here.’ Vida points at his forehead. ‘Could have blown my head off. But he didn’t.’

  ‘And years later you married his daughter. I think that’s something worth drinking to,’ Bhekithemba Nyathi says, taking a sip of his green tea.

  ‘It certainly is,’ Vida says, also taking a sip from his mug and not bothering to correct Bhekithemba Nyathi this time. Choosing, instead, to take comfort in the fact that in someone’s world he and Genie are married.

  Galen House is populated with too many people, all ailing from something. The intake section is full. The corridors are full. Dr Dingani Masuku’s waiting area is full. The nurses look hurried, harried and hostile, the doctors seem absent-minded and aloof.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ the young nurse behind the desk asks without bothering to look up from the patient files she is working on. That is the other thing the waiting area is filled with, piles and piles of khaki and Manila patient files.

  ‘No.’

  The nurse twists her mouth. ‘Take a number. Take a chart. Fill out your name, medical history and what brings you here today. Try to be as brief as possible. Do you have medical insurance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The twist in the nurse’s mouth loosens. ‘With which company?’

  ‘I’m here to see Dr Masuku.’

  ‘All these people are here to see Dr Masuku. Some of them even have appointments.’

  ‘It’s about his … daughter. Genie.’

  The nurse looks at him then. There is a flash of recognition. ‘Oh. Jesus. Of course. I’m sorry. I thought … He’s with a patient now. But if you go into the second examination room, he will be with you momentarily.’

  In the examination room, Vida has no choice but to sit on the green pleather examination bed. The other chair, a rolling bar stool, is obviously the doctor’s chair. The room smells antiseptic – too antiseptic, as though it is afraid to entertain even a single germ or the notion of dirt. Instead of reassuring Vida, the smell worries him.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Sigauke,’ Dingani says, drawing open the white curtain as he reads from a chart. ‘The ticker still not ticking correctly, I see.’ Dingani finally looks up from the chart, with a smile that quickly dissipates. ‘Vida. You’re not Mrs Sigauke.’

  ‘I know I’m not.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to inform you that Genie is in a coma. She’s at Mater Dei Hospital. In ICU.’

  ‘I see,’ Dingani says. ‘I see.’ He sits down slowly. ‘I see.’ He looks defeated by something that he has been struggling with for a very long time.

  Dingani reminds Vida of a lion he once saw at a zoo in Stockholm. The lion was alone, in the snow, so very far away from the savannah. Its coat looked mangy and moth-eaten. It was the most miserable creature that Vida had ever seen. When he looked at it, it looked away, almost as though it was ashamed. Vida understood that the lion had lost its pride and that was why it was capable of feeling shame. But he did not blame the lion. He blamed the people who had removed it from its natural habitat.

  That is what Dingani, sitting there without his family, reminds Vida of: a lion without his pride.

  ‘Why?’ Dingani asks.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why is she in a coma?’

  Whatever sympathy Vida had for the prideless Dingani instantly disappears. The man is no lion, he is an ostrich.

  ‘Why is she in a coma?’ Dingani repeats.

  ‘Why do you think?’ Vida asks. He holds Dingani’s gaze until Dingani looks away.

  ‘I had heard something, of course, but one does not want to believe such a thing to be true.’

  Vida watches as whatever has been propping Dingani up gives way, leaving him hunched over and hollowed out.

  ‘What did you do?’ Dingani asks the question quietly, looking at the black-and-grey chequered linoleum floor of the examination room.

  Vida does not know whether Dingani has directed the question at himself or to him. He decides to leave before he finds out. He jumps off the bed and makes his way to the door.

  ‘This is your fault. Your fault.’ Dingani’s voice
is louder this time, but he is still looking at the floor, and so Vida still does not know whom Dingani is addressing.

  ‘Marcus will be so devastated,’ Dingani says as Vida opens the door. ‘They are so very attached to each other, Marcus and Genie, so very attached … Probably best not to tell him … not yet.’

  Vida closes the door firmly behind him, without turning around.

  MARCUS

  This is an ending. Marcus feels it in his bones. He can barely make out Genie through the dust. He sees her open her mouth to say something. The voice that comes out of her mouth is not hers but Karen Carpenter’s. She is singing the opening lines to ‘Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft’.

  Marcus wakes up with a start.

  Karen Carpenter continues singing. ‘Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft’ is his ringtone, it means his phone is ringing. Marcus reaches for the phone on his nightstand and answers it.

  On the other end is his mother’s voice, breaking.

  ‘I’m sorry, mum. We have a bad connection,’ Marcus says as he sits up in bed.

  She speaks louder, more deliberately, but all he can make out clearly is the word ‘coma’. It is 4.37 a.m. She lives in Belgium now; a new life for herself. He strongly suspects that there is another man in her life. If something has happened to him, this new man in her life, she should not have called.

  ‘Who is in a coma, mum?’

  This time the only word he can make out is ‘father’.

  ‘Is it dad? Has something happened to him? Is he in a coma?’

  ‘Not— father— sister—’

  Marcus’ wife, Esme, makes a contented sound in her sleep and snuggles closer to him. The alarm clock on the bedside table switches from 4.37 to 4.38 a.m. He gets out of bed and goes to stand by the window.

  ‘Has something happened to Krystle?’

  ‘No, not Krystle. Genie. Genie is in a coma.’

  This time he hears her clearly enough, but finds himself apologising again. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘Your father called me. Genie fell into a coma a few days ago. Of course Vida did not inform him as soon as it happened. Took his sweet time—’

  ‘Genie is in a coma?’ he interrupts, trying to sound calm, without succeeding.

  ‘Now Marcus, I don’t want you to worry. I’m sure she’ll be fine, of course.’ His mother says this in a rushed way that is not at all convincing or reassuring.

  ‘Of course,’ Marcus says, trying to sound convinced and reassured.

  ‘You know how Genie is … resilient.’ He can tell from the quiver in his mother’s voice that she is attempting to smile and not succeeding. ‘Your father and I have discussed it and have both decided that it is best that I go home. Your father is alone … And this is … Well, he shouldn’t have to be alone at a time like this.’ Marcus knows his silence is making her nervous. His mother has never liked silence. ‘Now I don’t want you making any rash decisions, Marcus. You do not have to go home. Your father and I will handle this.’

  ‘What exactly is it that needs to be handled?’

  ‘Not— home— Genie—’ His mother’s voice is breaking up again.

  ‘I’m sorry, mum. We have a bad connection,’ he apologises before clicking off his phone. All he can hear now is the sound of his heart beating – rapidly.

  Home.

  His fantasy of home always begins with the smell of something warm, welcoming, inviting … vanilla … and woodsmoke. Then the image. The moonlight comes in through the window and falls onto the narrow bed. Genie’s body is covered by a thin, threadbare blanket. Her back is turned to him. He knows that she is aware of his presence because her hand lifts up the blanket. She is not quite awake. She does not turn to face him. He climbs into the bed. The wire springs under the thin mattress creak – a comfortable sound. The saggy cushioning makes the bed sunken in the middle so that he naturally gravitates towards her. He interlocks his cold feet with her warm ones. She does not complain. He gathers her in his arms, pulls her to him. She says something delightfully domestic: ‘Did you remember to lock the chicken coop?’ ‘Mm-hmm,’ he replies. He looks up at the mosquito net hanging above the bed. Vanilla and woodsmoke are trapped in the mosquito net, the mattress, the thin blanket, her well-worn nightdress, her hair, her skin. He breathes in deeply. Without even trying he falls fast asleep.

  Home. A sanctuary. A safe haven. What would have been had his parents not come to take him away from the Beauford Farm and Estate.

  The dawn is breaking. How long has he been standing here? The alarm clock by the bed reads 5.42 a.m. He looks around the room. The four-poster bed, the vanity, ancient and heavy (it has been in Esme’s family for generations). The oak wardrobe. The oak wardrobe. There are two of them, identical – one for her and one for him. Both mostly function as decorative pieces since Marcus and Esme have and use a large walk-in closet. The ottoman – never used, but which looks useful next to the antique-looking but fully functional telephone, which is also rarely used these days. The travel-weary and weather-beaten set of suitcases in the corner that he had bought at an auction because they reminded him of something – a journey not taken perhaps – that made him nostalgic somehow.

  He goes to the suitcases, opens one of them and retrieves the copy of the 1965 world atlas that Genie had sent him. He tries not to think about why he has chosen to place the world atlas in this suitcase as he flips to the page he has turned to time and time again: the page with the small reddish-brown handprint on it.

  Marcus sees Esme move in the bed. He quickly puts the atlas back in the suitcase. Esme’s hand reaches out, searching. Not finding him there, she wakes up panicked, instantly fully alert. Her eyes quickly scan the room. They find him. She relaxes. He smiles at her reassuringly. ‘It is a beautiful morning.’

  Esme gets out of bed. ‘Having trouble sleeping again?’ she asks as she walks towards him.

  ‘A little.’

  Her arms steal around him. He takes one of her hands and kisses it. This is an old gesture, one that they have both grown accustomed to.

  ‘Was that a call you received earlier?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is everything okay?

  ‘It was mum.’

  ‘Is she still apologising?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Have you forgiven her?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Marcus?’ Esme tries to turn him around. Tries to make him face her.

  ‘All felled, felled, are all felled.’

  Who had he heard reciting that poem before? Genie? Chris? ‘All felled, felled, are all felled.’ That is what had happened to the trees of his youth. His mother had all the jacaranda trees in their yard cut down. She had the trees felled and then left her husband and her home for Belgium a few months later. What had been the point?

  Marcus disengages Esme’s arms from around his waist, taking great care to make the gesture not seem like a rejection.

  Thankfully, his phone rings. He waits for Esme to leave the room before answering.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Your mother told me she’d called you. I’d asked her not to. Didn’t want to worry you. You haven’t told Chris yet, have you?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Best not to. You know how Chris is. And really there’s nothing to worry about. Genie will be perfectly fine. You know how … resilient she is. She’ll bounce back. She’ll …’

  Something has crept into his father’s voice that Marcus does not like. Fear.

  At work, his father is always in control, always in charge. This man stumbling through words, blindly grasping at snatches of reassurance, is not his father. He loves his self-assured father. This man he does not like. This man he wants to hurt.

  Marcus says to this man: ‘If anything happens to Genie, it will be your fault.’ The words surprise him. Immediately he wants to take them back.

  But his father is not surprised by the words. He
even seems to have been anticipating them. ‘You’re right. Of course, you’re right. It is my fault. It is all my fault.’

  The line goes dead.

  A sudden silence.

  A feeling of terrifying loneliness overwhelms Marcus. He quickly punches in Chris’ number. The phone rings and keeps ringing. That’s Chris for you. She is probably angry with him over some perceived injury that he isn’t aware of having inflicted. ‘Hi. You’ve reached Krystle Masuku. Please state your business after the beep.’

  ‘Chris. Marcus here. Whatever is going on with you, you need to get in touch with the family. Genie is in a coma. I need to go home. I need to be with her.’

  KRYSTLE

  As Krystle nears her apartment complex, she fumbles for her keys that have, as usual, fallen to the bottom of her handbag. She ignores her ringing cellphone. Marcus. Third call from him. Not terribly good at taking a hint. The last time he had called her so obsessively, he had wanted to talk about the jacaranda trees that their mother had chopped down. ‘I want to be left alone,’ she says under her breath. And, almost as if having heard her, the phone stops ringing.

  Just then she almost steps on something. A shiver runs through her. She is briefly excited by the sudden occurrence of the unexpected.

  Something is lying on the ground. Dead. She begins to walk away but finds herself going back to check. A hatchling lies broken on the cement. The chest goes up … down … then up again. Breath. A beating heart. Life. She finally allows herself to exhale.

  She looks at the hatchling and immediately decides that it is a ‘he’, even though she has no way of knowing. He is very, very tiny. She looks up. Treetops, roofs, but not a nest in sight. Where could he possibly have fallen from? He must have fallen a great distance. It is remarkable that he is alive at all. She moves to help him and then stops herself. If she helps him will she really be doing more good than harm?

  Chink-chink.

  She turns to the sharp, metallic sound. Another bird. A full-grown California towhee is hopping along nearby. Ever-watchful. The mother. Krystle is suddenly filled with dread and uncertainty. Will the mother attack her if she moves him away from the footpath and places him in a safer place? Will the mother reject her baby if she, Krystle, touches him? She has heard that that happens, that mother birds reject babies that have been touched by human hands. But you cannot believe everything that you hear. Especially about mothers.