"Protea Eleven, I can confirm that we have received the funds,” Protea Ten said. Venny leaned against the hard backrest of his chair. A vein started throbbing on his forehead. Of course you received it, he thought. All that bloody money! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to convince people to relinquish their hard-earned cash, you damned whippersnapper! He’d had to fork out most of it from his own pocket. Blood, sweat and tears went into making that money, and then poof, it was gone, gobbled up by this “cause” no one thought he was ready to truly be a part of.
“Protea Eleven, this is goodbye from me. In the future, Protea Seven will be your handler. He will initiate contact. Don’t use this frequency again.”
“Does that mean ...?” Venny pulled the microphone closer.
“Affirmative. You are now Protea Eight. Protea Ten out.”
Venny jumped up. He wanted to shout but stopped himself. He danced a little on the spot and punched his ragged old cushion several times. His eyes were drawn to the photograph of the young Indian woman being beaten by a policeman. “I’m in,” he said. “The inner circle. Part of the action.” He swung the cushion through the air and released a hushed yelp through clenched teeth. This was one of the best days of his life.
“Venkatapathi, if you want to go and see that crazy mother of yours, we better leave now,” his wife shouted from behind the closed door.
He wanted to shout back at her, but nothing could douse the euphoria inside him – not even her nagging or her moaning about life and everything else. He would drive down to Glencoe, smile at his wife, and whisper the joyous news in his mother’s ear. No one would be any the wiser, but he simply had to tell someone: he was Protea Eight! He kissed his fingers and pressed them on the face of the woman in the newspaper clipping, turned off all his equipment and left his hideout.
He grabbed his car keys and whistled a song he couldn’t quite remember, or perhaps he was just making it up. It didn’t matter, life was good.
“You look happy, Pappa?” Sarita said.
“Just looking forward to seeing Dādī,” he smiled. “Now listen: last week you didn’t clean behind the counter.” His smile was instantly displaced by a solemn glare. “I don’t want to walk in there tomorrow and see a single speck of dust, you hear me?”
“Yes, Pappa, I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” Sarita said meekly, dropping her head.
“Correct, because if it does, you’ll be seeing a lot of Dādī again.”
“Yes, Pappa.”
Venny scanned the large sitting room, then turned in the direction of the hallway.
“For goodness’ sake, Achala, where did you disappear to this time? Typical, you hurry me up and then you just vanish,” he shouted.
“I waited for you for such a long time that Sarita has probably finished her school career by now.” Achala waddled into the room, kissed Sarita on the cheek, gave Venny a venomous glance and walked out of the house.
Venny shook his head in disbelief, also kissed Sarita on the cheek, and said, “Behind the counter.”
Pete looked at his Casio G-Shock watch; it was 15:02. Light-grey clouds filled the sky and there was a spiteful wintery bite in the air. Main Street was deserted and “Closed” signs watched over the dusty road, waiting for Monday to come around again.
Pete was standing on the steps outside the Eating House, hiding in the shadows. A fresh gust of angst blew right through him. He scoured the area, but all was quiet. He considered sitting down, but large patches of evaporated liquid of unknown origin discoloured the concrete pavement, and he didn’t want to risk it. Besides, he was too nervous to sit. He glanced at his watch again, barely registering the time. A whirlwind pushed past and sought him out in his hiding place. He pinched his eyes shut, but it was too late. Dust particles made it through his defences and became lodged in his eyes. He started rubbing.
“Pete,” a voice called from beyond the darkness of his closed, burning eyes.
When he peeked through his eyelids, he saw the familiar jaw, broad shoulders and bare feet.
“You’re late,” Pete said, still rubbing his eyes.
“Sorry, sorry. Eish, my parents waited a long time before they went to sleep.” Petrus gestured with his hands exactly how long.
“Mine didn’t look like they wanted to nap either. It’s almost like they can sense stuff,” Pete said, and Petrus nodded in agreement.
“She said she’s alone between two and four, so we better hurry in case her dad or someone decides to stop by,” Pete said.
“Are you sure I should go? Didn’t she mean you should go alone?” Petrus asked.
“No, no, it’s not like that. No, no, no. I didn’t make this story up when I saw you at the rock three days ago, you know. So, I’ll say it again: she didn’t say anything about being alone in the shop on Sundays until I mentioned your name.”
“You sure?” Petrus asked.
“Yeah, man, come on, we’re wasting time,” Pete said and started walking.
“It’s just ... a black boy out in town on a Sunday ... people will think I’m a tsotsi.” Petrus walked a few metres behind Pete, constantly looking over his shoulder. When Pete looked back at him, he saw beads of sweat on Petrus’s brow despite the chill in the air.
“Don’t look so nervous. If you look around every two seconds, it draws attention. Walk in the shops’ shadows as much as you can and relax – the town is dead.”
Petrus walked on Pete’s left, making sure he stayed out of sight, but he still looked around frequently and still looked like he was having trouble breathing, like a dying carp on a riverbank.
It wasn’t long before they arrived at the patch of tall yellow grass where Pete had seen the Indian girl just over a week ago. His mind shot back to the feelings that had coursed through him then. The strange and unsettling feelings, for someone like him, that had kept him from going the previous Sunday.
“What’s wrong?” Petrus asked.
“Nothing ... nothing,” was Pete’s curt reply. He wasn’t convinced that coming here was the greatest of plans any more. Why had he come? Why not let it be? Clearly the girl was safe and unharmed. She was fine. No, extremely fine. With her long, flowing black hair, and that smile ...
What if she did mean he should come alone? What if it was that kind of invitation? But she’s Indian. No, he was doing the right thing. Running to Uncle Gerrit’s farm on Thursday and telling Petrus to come along was the right thing to do. They were all in this together. That was all this was, three people together in this crazy thing. Yes, that’s all it was. And that was all she meant, probably.
“Pete?” Petrus said, struggling to hide his angst.
“Yeah, yeah. Um, it looks safe. Let’s go.” Pete hadn’t even realised that he was standing still, as if the tall grass had hypnotised him. He started walking purposefully towards the “Closed” sign on the door of Naidoo and Sons. It was dark inside, and a very large part of him hoped that when he hadn’t shown up the week before, after the invitation, she would have stopped waiting, stopped being alone in the shop on Sundays, was perhaps taking a nap at home.
“Looks like she’s not here.” Petrus’s eyes revealed the same fear that Pete felt.
“I guess ... we should go?” Pete said, relieved. This was a stupid idea anyway.
There was a loud click, followed by another one. Both boys looked at the sticker-covered shop door as if a lion were about to pounce. The door opened slowly and the Indian girl’s face appeared. She was smiling, but her eyes scanned the world behind them, in the direction of the street.
“Quick,” she waved them in. They looked at each other, then back towards the street before Pete slipped in first, followed closely by Petrus.
It was cold in the shop and the sweet scent of furniture polish filled the air. She locked the door behind them, and they followed her in silence past the pool table to a couple of tall shelves containing nuts, bolts and fishing tackle. She smiled but seemed very nervous, fidgeting with her long purple pants first and then with her plait.
“I’m sorry about last week. I ... uh ... I couldn’t make it,” Pete said.
She didn’t say anything, but something in her smile told him that she understood that it was fear that kept him away.
Her eyes went from Pete to the floor and back to Petrus, never really stopping for long. “Pete tells me your name is Petrus?” she said. Pete felt a fluttering in his stomach. She remembered his name! And it rolled so effortlessly off her tongue, with such relaxed familiarity, like ...
Petrus made no attempt to look in her direction. His eyes were fixed on a shelf containing reels of fishing line. He nodded. “Petrus. Yes.” He appeared to have a constriction of sorts in his throat, raised his fist to his mouth and coughed twice. He briefly glanced up at the girl. “I am so happy to see you.” He spoke breathlessly, looked down at his feet, shook his head. “I was so worried.”
“I’m fine.” She smiled shyly and examined a tub of small fishhooks next to her without picking it up. “No need for concern,” she said it automatically, without thought, like a response to a “how are you”. Then she pursed her lips, forcing another smile, this time painful in appearance. “I mean, I appreciate your concern. Thanks.” She struggled to keep the smile; it disappeared quicker than it had arrived. She fidgeted with the seams of her pants and then reached out to pick up the tub of fish-hooks.
Silence returned. The only sound was the tick-tocking of a wall clock somewhere in the shop. Even that seemed to whisper, too afraid to really break the silence. Pete knew he had to say something, take the lead, speak, chat, whatever – about anything – just so they could get out of there and never return. But he had lost all ability to speak or make a sound. His eyes were somehow glued to the ceiling, his body utterly bereft of feeling. Motionless. A sudden and intense urge filled him to make up an excuse and leave. But he couldn’t even blink, let alone move or speak, so he remained fixed in that one position, eyes on the ceiling.
It was the girl who disturbed this immense silence. “Um,” she said, placing the tub of fish-hooks back on the shelf. Whatever idea had formed brightened her face significantly, her eyes widened and the painful smile of earlier was replaced with a hopeful one. It caught the boys’ attention, perhaps mostly because of the relief to be rescued from the treacle-thick silence that was suffocating them. “Can I get you guys something to drink? It’s a shop, so we have everything ...”
The unexpected offer momentarily freed Pete’s voice from the muteness that had befallen him. Almost without realising it, he said, “A Coke would be great, thanks.” He wanted to add something, but his voice had already returned to its mute state.
He was thankful that Petrus was able to break the shackles of silence. “Me too,” he said hastily, before adding an uncertain, “please?”
The girl disappeared so quickly that for a fleeting moment Pete wondered if he had imagined her, the conversation, everything. But to his left, Petrus, hands in pockets, was the reminder that it was not just his mind playing ticks on him. They remained standing there, not looking at each other, not looking at anything, really. Waiting in silence. Waiting for the girl, or rather, waiting for time to pass so that this meeting of awkwardness would end, and life could return to the way it had always been.
When she returned, the boys accepted the ice-cold drinks with appreciative nods. Pete was thankful for the drink; it gave him something to do. Every time he felt the urge to say something or escape, he would bring the bottle to his lips and take a small sip. This happened every few seconds.
They were still standing among the shelves in the darkest part of the shop, hiding. From what, they did not know, possibly one another. The girl had picked up the same tub of fish-hooks she had previously inspected and was searching with her finger through the box. Then, as if addressing one of the fish-hooks, she asked: “English or Afrikaans?” Her lips formed the same painful, shy, almost apologetic smile. She raised her head just long enough to meet Petrus’s gaze before they both returned their attention to the objects they were pretending to inspect. “I mean, which one do you prefer, Petrus? Feel comfortable with?”
“Eish, it doesn’t matter too much,” Petrus’s voice sounded small, almost lost between the shelves, the constriction of earlier apparently still there, “but my Afrikaans is better.” He turned his head to the side and took a quick sip of the Coke he was clutching in his right hand, like he was searching for courage in the sweet bubbles. “Sometimes the English – it turns square in my mouth,” he said with slightly more power.
Pete cleared his throat. He was having trouble breathing, wondering if there was something strange in the air. Something both he and Petrus were infected with, causing their throats to contract, their lungs to stop working, and their hearts to race. Because he could see what he was feeling in Petrus’s face, hear it in his voice.
Then he dared turn towards the girl. Why he couldn’t have just kept staring at the bottle in his hands, he did not know. It was as if he sensed that she was looking at him. In that moment, he surrendered the ability to breathe, all air evaporated from his lungs, he almost gasped aloud. Even in the dim light of the shop, her hazelnut eyes still seemed to shine – and they were looking straight at him, trapping him.
He panicked. The first thought that crossed his mind was to put the bottle down and run out of the shop as quickly as he could. But he didn’t. Instead, his mouth opened. “I just realised ...” Pete started and scratched his eye, hoping he would be able to breathe again soon, “I don’t even know what your name is?” He raised his hand and pointed his thumb towards Petrus. “We don’t know what your name is.”
She broke eye contact. Pete immediately drew a breath, letting the stale air fill his lungs. Glad he didn’t pass out right there. “Sarita,” she said in a soft, sweet tone.
Sarita. The word echoed in Pete’s head. Suddenly it was all he could hear. Her name escaping her soft lips. Wow, he thought. Could it be the most beautiful name he had ever heard? Sarita. It continued to bounce around his thoughts. What a name, he almost said out loud. It suited her perfectly.
“It’s a really nice name,” Petrus articulated Pete’s thoughts and stopped the echo in his mind.
“Thanks,” she whispered, turning her attention to the fish-hooks again. “Another Coke?” she asked, which made both boys give the half-full bottles in their hands a quizzical look.
Some minutes later, Sarita had brought another round of Cokes even though their first round was not finished. They stood around the pool table, not knowing how and when they had moved from in between the shelves at the back to the centre of the shop. Pete rolled the cue ball around in his hand and Petrus inspected the pool table’s pockets.
Sarita took a step towards the opposite end of the pool table to where Pete was standing, Petrus to her right, and drew a deep breath. “Cokes okay? Cold enough?” she asked. The boys looked somewhat startled by the sound of her voice, and took a few seconds to register what she had said before they both nodded in their different ways: Pete’s long and slow, Petrus’s short and fast.
Sarita bit her canine into her bottom lip, then let out a short, tense puff of air. Pete couldn’t tell if it was a smile on her face or some kind of grimace. “This is awkward, isn’t it?” she said. “Look at us, pretending like this is normal. And not pretending very well at that.” She bit down on her bottom lip again. Pete wondered if she wished away her words.
For a moment, Pete thought Petrus was going to say something. He had opened his mouth and straightened up somewhat, but no sooner had his mouth opened, it closed again.
“I imagined it would be weird, but—“ She paused, appearing to consider her next words, but then she seemed to shrug it off, whatever inner debate she was having, almost smiling and no longer looking at the green baize of the pool table. “Not this weird!” The last words burst out of her mouth like a laugh, somewhat hysterical.
Pete was caught completely off-guard by her sudden quip and laugh, and he could not stop his guffaw. His outburst set Petrus off, and for a few unguarded moments the three of them laughed, until both Pete and Petrus tried to drown their hysteria in the bottles of Coke they were still clutching.
Sarita’s shy smile returned. “I find hysterical laughter to be a great tension breaker.” Petrus snorted and Pete chuckled. Somehow, he felt slightly more at ease, but within the context of incredible unease.
“You’re funny,” Petrus said, but then his face changed, like he was about to apologise.
The awkward silence that had briefly subsided was back again, like a self-closing door that just refused to stay open. The only thing occupying Pete’s mind was an exit strategy. Surely, he wasn’t alone in thinking that whatever this was had gone on for too long. The momentary burst of laughter hardly broke the tension Sarita was talking about. Or was she being sarcastic? He pondered that thought for a moment. Would an Indian girl be sarcastic? Was sarcasm something that was used in all cultures?
It was Sarita again who ventured to unlock the silence. Pete wished he had spoken first, excused himself, said his goodbyes, but her melodic voice beat him to it, again. “I just had a crazy thought,” she said. “Is this kind of gathering even legal? You know, with us being ...” She tilted her head as a gesture. Perhaps for Pete or Petrus to complete her sentence?
“Different?” Petrus said, his mouth continuing to move as he fought for words, tugging at his ear. “Different races, together, like this?”
Sarita nodded.
“I seriously doubt it’s legal,” Pete said with so much conviction that he surprised himself.
“The irony is if we were caught, we wouldn’t even be locked up together,” Sarita said in a light-hearted tone. But the words “locked up” were all Pete really heard. What was he doing there? Had he truly lost it? Just because some black guy planted a seed in his head, just because his thoughts were so messed up that he somehow thought an Indian girl was ... He couldn’t even allow himself to think it. No. He had to leave. He had to leave straight away. Perhaps this was like a variation of that Stockholm syndrome they learned about in history. Only this must be Dannhauser syndrome. And he didn’t want it – he had enough on his mind to last him a lifetime already.
“Listen, I, uh—” Pete mumbled, still uncertain of exactly what excuse he would use to get out.
His words dried up the moment he snuck a peek across the pool table. Sarita’s hazelnut eyes were on him, stifling all the other words he thought he might say. Rendering him paralysed. She seemed to see that, or perhaps he just imagined it, but there was the slightest twitch on her face, like a smile, deepening the indentation of her dimples for one heartbeat.
She looked away, not at anything in particular, her face angled towards the door. The skin on her face tightened, her eyes barely open, her jaw muscles flexed.
“Why couldn’t we have just been three rebel teenagers?” she said.
Petrus shot a confused glance at Pete. He could only answer with an equally confused shake of the head. Still Sarita looked away.
“Meeting up secretly for the pure thrill of it? Just because we knew it was illegal. Just because we were tired of society telling us what to do?”
Now she looked up. Her stare was somewhere between Pete and Petrus, her eyes glassy.
“But,” she said, and stopped. She frowned, casting her eyes downwards. “That is not why we are here. We are not rebels. We are not thrill seekers, law breakers, anything.”
She threw her head back, eyes closed, and let out a frustrated sigh.
“We are just—” she stopped again.
Petrus tugged on his ear. “Lucky?” he ventured.
Sarita let her head drop forward. Her chin settling on her chest, she peered up at Petrus.
“To be alive,” he added hastily. “We could have all died that night.”
She considered his words for a few moments. “I don’t feel lucky,” she said. “When I struggle to fall asleep at night, knowing that as soon as I start dreaming that monster will be back, that doesn’t feel lucky.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Petrus tried.
Sarita waved his words away. “I’m sorry, Petrus, that came out wrong. It’s just ... It’s so strange to have you guys here, you know?” It was obvious that she was trying to smile but couldn’t. “Some part of my brain had hoped that I was just going crazy. That all of this ... all of that night was just a story my mind made up.” The tears in her eyes glistened under the dim fluorescent light.
She threw her hands up. “But here you are.” Her smile was achingly painful to look at. Pete stared down at the fading green baize of the pool table. “A reminder that I am not crazy. A reminder that it did happen. That night did happen.” Her hand shot up to her face, where tears cascaded over her skin.
“We’ll go,” Petrus said. He put down his Coke. “Sorry, we shouldn’t have—”
“No!” she called out. “Please,” gesturing for him to stay, “now at least I know I’m not crazy, hey?” She smiled through the tears, wiping them away as best she could.
“Did you know that I was on my way to a friend’s house that day?” Sarita said, not expecting an answer. “I wanted to surprise her for her birthday. I even made jalebi, her favourite.” She must have seen the expression on the boys’ faces and quickly added, “Indian sweets.”
She tucked a loose dangling strand of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t even have time to react. Before I knew it, I was in his car. He had a gun. I thought he was going to kill me, but, in the car, just before we stopped, he told me exactly what he was going to do to me.” Tears spurted out of her eyes now; like a dam wall that had just broken, they gushed out, all at once. “I begged and begged him to shoot me, break my neck, whatever. He laughed, kept laughing.”
She buried her face in her hands. Her whole body shook. Petrus and Pete snuck a bewildered peek at each other, neither knowing if they should do or say something. Pete felt the blood drain from his face. His memories of that night, the demons in his mind and Sarita’s words battled in his head for a place where it all made sense. But nothing did.
Sarita took a deep staccato breath behind her cupped hands. Then she dropped her arms and raised her head. The enormity of her all-consuming pain needed no words. “You know what the weirdest thing is?” she said, her voice weak and trembling. “Some illogical, unreasonable, crazy part of my brain told me it was all in my head. Some hallucination or something. A thing my mind concocted. But—” Her face contracted; she was trying to fight it, but losing the battle. “Seeing you—” She couldn’t look at them. Her head flopped down and tears splashed onto the cold tiles at her feet. “It makes it real. It means I wasn’t hallucinating. It means he did ... That man did—” That was as far as her voice would go. Her hands covered her drenched face again and she shook violently, like a toy wound up too far, rocking to and fro until it knew nothing else.
Pete and Petrus looked at her, then at each other, eyes wide, damp.
A sudden realisation dawned on Pete: the pain slowly seeping out of Sarita’s face made his fears and anxieties seem completely trivial. To think he was worried about being publicly shamed as a kaffirboetie or for being called gay ... Those things suddenly seemed unimportant and very egocentric. He couldn’t believe that he had been so preoccupied with his own fears that he hadn’t even considered that her trauma was ten, even a hundred times worse. Guilt weighed him down. Why hadn’t he come sooner? And why was it that his curiosity and her bewitching eyes were the reasons he finally came here, rather than his concern for a girl who was viciously attacked by that yellow-moustached arsehole? Was he any better? Was he any better than Rudie, if all he wanted was to satisfy his curiosity so that he could feel better? What about her?
What ... about ... her?
“We should have come sooner. I’m so sorry, Sarita. No one has the right to do what he did, no one should go through what you did. I’m so sorry I didn’t ... do more.” The power in Pete’s voice dwindled. He hated himself. He wanted to make things better for her, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t do a single thing, he couldn’t undo anything. He wanted to scream. He wanted to bury his fists in Rudie’s execrable face and keep punching until there was nothing left. No memory of the yellow moustache, no memory of that odious laugh, no memory of that night. Nothing.
“You did so much. Don’t ever say you didn’t do enough. You stopped him, risked your own lives. No, you guys are amazing. I’m sorry, look at me: I’m a mess. You come to see me, and I blubber like an old lady.” She wiped the last few tears away with her thumbs and tried hard to smile.
“Oh dear!” she cried out.
“Who’s there?” Petrus whispered and swung his head in the direction of the door.
“No, the clock.” She pointed at the faded wall clock with a photograph of Prince Charles and Princess Diana on their wedding day.
“It’s ten to four, my parents could arrive any minute. They can never—” she spoke in haste and slapped her hands on her cheeks.
“We’ll go,” Petrus said and took a step towards the door.
“Yes, we’re off. Thanks for the Coke,” Pete aimed to say something else, but his legs had already taken him to the door.
She walked with them and peeked outside before unlocking the door as quietly as she could.
“Thank you very much for the Coke,” Petrus said, shaking his head. “I am sorry for your hurt.”
“Yeah, I ... ag, people like that—” Pete struggled.
Sarita took them both by the arm and for a few moments locked their eyes in hers. “Please come again. I know it sounds crazy, and this was all a bit awkward and weird, but please, I would love it if you came back.”
Those were the last words spoken that afternoon. Pete and Petrus nodded, both deep in thought, and walked side by side towards Main Street. Sarita remained standing in the open doorway until she saw Pete disappear to the left and Petrus to the right. Then she locked the door and stepped back into the darkness.