Thursday’s so-called rugby practice was about as useful to their rugby education as a pickaxe was for changing a light bulb. Only Pete and Barend did laps of the sports fields, while the other boys, who had now grown to a group of thirty-five, sat around ignoring the increasing shrillness of Mr Le Roux’s whistle. Later, with his rugby socks around his ankles, sports bag in one hand and schoolbag over his shoulder, Pete stood in front of Naidoo and Sons again. This time he saw an older Indian woman in the textile shop – probably her mom – selling a strip of green-and-silver paisley fabric to a smartly dressed woman. The darkness deeper inside the shop made it difficult to distinguish between what was fabric and what was possibly her. Before he could even start considering how strange it must have seemed for a teenage boy in sweaty rugby gear to be staring at saris and rolls of fabric, his feet had taken him halfway home again.
He started going to bed later and later in the desperate hope that, through pure exhaustion, sleep would find him and carry him safely away from Rudie’s incessant fiendish laughter and into the open arms of morning.
It didn't work.
He felt like a hamster trapped on a wheel, because it was Sunday again, and regardless of how much his intestines protested, his parents insisted he attend. Each week the walk up the church steps had become increasingly terrifying. That gaping black chasm into which he was herded like a lamb to the slaughterhouse was now, above all else – even dream-filled sleep – the thing he feared most. The two people in the world he wanted to avoid at all costs lay in wait in that dark place. Captain Burger: the reminder of the guilt that was slowly consuming his soul, like a waterfall of acid, spilling over everything he once believed, everything he once thought, eating away, corroding his being. And Rudie: the devil.
Thankfully, this Sunday the devil stayed away, and Pete sat in the Sunday-school class nodding every time Uncle Willie looked in his direction, but it was only his body that was there. His mind scoured every shadow he saw through the Naidoo and Sons shop window, or at least, what he thought he saw.
So here he was again. It was Monday afternoon, just gone three o’clock. The bus came and went, as did Barend and all the others. The streets were quiet, and a warm breeze dragged its feet across the melting tarmac. The blue-and-white sign gaped down at him. He heard Petrus’s words over and over again in his mind, “Please, you have to go see her, please, baas?”
Before his mind had time to react, he stormed into the textile shop. It was cool inside, and a strong smell of incense wafted through the dark interior. His eyes scanned the jumble of colour spun around him like a spider’s web, but he couldn’t see anyone. He turned quickly and grabbed the door handle, relieved to escape, but a voice from behind stopped him.
“Can I help you?” He turned around slowly and saw an Indian woman in a purple-and-orange sari, a bright-red dot on her forehead. Her hair was tied back in a plait; her glare was accusatory, as if she could read his mind.
“Nah, I’m okay,” he muttered, pulling the door open and escaping to the bright day and the warm breeze. She wasn’t there, what more could he do? He had tried his best; there was nothing more he could do. He couldn’t go to her house; he didn’t even know where she lived. Perhaps Petrus was wrong; perhaps she didn’t even work here. Maybe she had left town. Yes, that would make sense; maybe she’d gone to Durban, or even back to India. Yes, that would make a lot more sense. He blinked, shook his head and looked up. Through the spewing geyser of his thoughts, something appeared in the periphery of his vision. All his focus turned to the larger of the two Naidoo and Sons shops. He heard a muffled shout, followed by glass breaking. His thoughts jumped to that night, his mind’s eye already picturing Rudie pinning the girl down on the pool table, her hair draped over her face and his tall frame casting the shadow of the devil onto her. She lay there, hopeless, waiting for him to destroy her.
The shop’s door flung open. Two young Indian boys stormed out, laughing impishly. Behind them, an Indian man appeared. His long fringe flopped up as he ran to reveal the true extent of his baldness. He was a little overweight and his trousers sat high up on his belly. He waved a finger in the air and shouted something in a language Pete didn’t understand, as he set off after the kids.
Pete stood there knowing that at some point in his life the memory of this middle-aged man chasing down two kids would make him laugh, but now was not that time. He drew a deep breath, licked the corner of his dry mouth and walked to the shop entrance. The door was plastered with stickers of things for sale: fish licences, bicycle licences, firecrackers, fishing tackle, video hire, plumbing accessories. The list was long, but without realising it, his hand had pushed the door open, and he was inside.
It was not as cool as the shop next door and there was no incense burning. It smelled of old cigarettes and Fanta Orange. To the left, on the pool table, a few balls were scattered on the faded green baize, in between two light-brown pool cues. On the floor were a broken Fanta bottle and hundreds of tiny glass shards covered in bright-orange liquid.
A door swung open somewhere beyond the broken bottle. At first, he only heard footsteps, but then he saw a broom – in her hands. She didn’t see him. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the mess on the floor. Only with her second sweep did she look up. Her eyes were even lighter than he recalled, her hair was tied back in a plait, one long black strand swinging blissfully free from the others. She wore a blue apron over her school uniform: a plain white long-sleeve shirt, and a long grey skirt covering her ankles. She appeared different somehow, maybe even more beautiful. A warm flush began to glow in his ears, and something squeezed hard at his gut.
“Have you told anyone?” Damn it, again. His mouth was a traitor. A rude traitor. And this after everything he had wanted to say.
The girl came closer. She peeked anxiously in the shop door’s direction. Pete’s tongue turned into the Namib desert.
“Shhh, please, quiet,” she whispered. Her eyes were big, and her lips pouted in perfect symmetry.
“I mean ... are you okay?” Pete was slightly happier with this follow-up effort.
She nodded, but her gaze dropped to the floor.
“You can’t be here, my dad ...” she started softly, but her words were gobbled up by the silence.
“You didn’t, I mean, you haven’t?” Pete pictured his 1983 Junior Debate winner’s medal in his parents’ bedroom and wondered what had happened to that articulate boy.
Her gaze danced about feverishly.
“Of course not.” She finally looked him straight in the eyes. He wanted to look away but couldn’t.
“My family would kill me. Just the suggestion that I might have lost my—” Her hand shot over her mouth. “I will never tell anyone.” Her head dropped.
“But you’re okay?” Pete said. It felt as if his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth.
She looked up, her eyes anchored in his, then a smile slowly curled into her dimples.
The door swung open and a stream of warm air surged into the shop. Pete grabbed the video nearest to him. When he looked up, he saw the girl dutifully sweeping up the mess under the pool table.
“Can I help?” a voice behind Pete asked, out of breath and confused. Pete looked down at the Bollywood video in his hand, his eyes stumbled over its strange title, Dharm Aur Qanoon.
He cleared his throat. “Firecrackers?” he asked, slipping the video back into its slot and turning to face the Indian man.
The man – her dad – led him to the counter where an enormous sign read “FIRECRACKERS”. The man started taking out various rolls of crackers and tossed them in front of Pete. Pete didn’t make eye contact and fought every urge he had to sneak a peek at the girl over his shoulder. He took a roll of red firecrackers, handed over twenty-five cents and escaped into the daylight. It was only when he reached the tranquillity of the outside world that he realised he had just wasted half his weekly pocket money on firecrackers, something he detested, but today worth every cent.
The warm breeze had died down, and the afternoon sun lashed out at anyone breaking cover. Cool streams of sweat rolled down his back, and his schoolbag bounced uncomfortably against his hip. He tried to adjust the strap holding the bulging weight of his schoolbooks. His knees were weak as he walked, his thighs felt as though the muscles were simply going to peel off his bones, but there was a small smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. He didn’t want his mind to wander. Every time his mind started drifting, he would focus on something on the pavement or in the shop windows with renewed interest.
Amid this internal battle, a door suddenly flung open in front of him. It was Jeevan’s Corner Shop, the cheapest place in town to buy Mello Yello. A young Indian woman stepped out of the hazy shop into the bright sunshine. Her long black hair glistened and danced in the breathless afternoon and her chocolate-brown eyes smiled playfully at him. Her skin glowed like a light was burning inside her. Pete’s tongue was as dry as a bone. Actually, every part of him felt dry. His eyes were bound to her as she glided across the street, her perfect hair frolicking in the warm air, and then she disappeared. He pressed his thumb hard on the little patch of skin between his eyes. His head felt heavy and his schoolbag was busy tearing his shoulder in two. First her, now this one. What was happening to him? It wasn’t even natural; they’re Indians.
The breeze started up again, just like a movie after an interval, and a plastic bag rolled past him, followed by a puff of dust. But Pete could not move; only his shadow shifted as the sun inched closer to the horizon.