Claustrophobia: Fear of having no escape and being closed in small spaces or rooms
That night, in bed, Nazma couldn’t stop thinking about the goodbye. On the drive back she and Sam hadn’t said much, but when she got out of the car at the library he gave her a look that made her want to get back in with him and run away somewhere. It was a look that was held for too long and had too much possibility. Instead she said, ‘See you next week’ in a strange voice and slammed the door closed. He knew she wanted to say something and wound down the window, giving her the chance.
‘Thanks for today,’ he said, and she replied ‘Thanks,’ tapping the bonnet of the car like a gaatjie telling the driver to go. When she turned away she forced herself not to look back until she heard the car engine turn on and Sam drive away. The tar around the library parking lot was crumbling and made a satisfying crunch as she walked home. A train passed by, the screeching and creaking seeming louder than usual.
Back at home her mother was watching the Days of Our Lives omnibus and cooking supper. The tang of toasting coriander seeds in the air took Nazma back to when she was smaller and used to stand at her mum’s feet, learning the rules of the kitchen. She breathed deeply and walked up to her mother, hugging her for the first time in a long while. Unaccustomed to the touch of another, her mother jumped and gave her a puzzled look. Nazma released her and looked out of the kitchen window, wishing her sister was still living under the same roof. They had been so much more like a family then. Now it seemed as if they were all just pretending.
Her father had returned from the kiosk, moaning about having to work there and Nazma’s shirking of her responsibilities. Eating off trays on their laps in front of the television, they spoke to each other in short bursts when the adverts were on.
‘Pass me the salt, Nazma. Did you have a good day?’
‘Yes. I went to the forest. It’s beautiful.’
‘Shhhh. The news is back on.’
Tonight we find that service delivery strikes are taking place across large portions of Limpopo following …
‘I should have added peas to this for sweetness.’
‘It’s good, Mum. Nothing wrong with it.’
‘No, it needs something. Maybe peas or a pepper?’
‘Will you two shhhh, it’s time for the weather.’
As we move towards the end of winter, Cape Town will be seeing heavy rain in the coming week.
When CSI came on, the conversation died completely while they absorbed predictable storylines and fluorescent scenes of murder. When the CSI on one channel finished, a spinoff of the series in a different garish town began on another. Nazma excused herself and went to bed. She watched the ceiling for ages.
The next morning the wind was pumping full force. Nazma lay in bed watching the tree outside being rocked to and fro. She knew the leaves that would fall down into the pool would send her father into a frenzy, and was glad he’d have something other than her to complain about for a change. Heading down to the train, she was blown back and forth as though walking into a giant fan. She’d promised her dad a half day’s work at the kiosk before the second meeting. At least it would be a distraction from thinking about Sam, for a short while.
It was a slow morning and hardly any people came to the kiosk. She spent the morning stacking samoosas on top of each other, attempting to build a pyramid, but hadn’t been able to get past the fifth level. As soon as she did, the bottom potato ones started to crack and ooze their filling, the texture of mud squelched between toes. She ate a few, but grew tired of the flavour and wiped the rest of the squashed potato away with a serviette.
The threatening rain meant that the afternoon would be a different story – the platform would be crowded and the train doors would release steamy pungent air each time they opened at the station. Sometimes the doors were jammed open by people dangling from them, determined to get home at high risk and low cost. At least the other passengers got some fresh air. So far nobody had ever fallen off at their station, touch wood.
She had her bag with the first activity notes in it with her, and all she wanted to do was read them. She’d been thinking more and more about driving since the walk in the forest, which she supposed was a good thing, apart from the constantly sweaty palms those thoughts produced. It was all mind over matter. If she didn’t decide, she wouldn’t do it. Now she just had to decide to decide.
She sat behind the bars and held out her arms, picturing holding a steering wheel. She checked her five points of reference, put her fantasy car into first gear and slowly released her foot from the invisible clutch. Even in her imaginary car she released it too quickly and stalled.
‘Talk about low self-esteem,’ she said to herself and, unknowingly, to Julius, who was sitting outside on the bench trying to think of things to say to her.
She’d tried to work out why she didn’t want to tell Sam the story about her mum. It was as though she was carrying it around like a stone, and it was sitting on her chest, right beneath her collarbones. She didn’t feel it was her story to tell, and yet it was her story. If it weren’t for what had happened they wouldn’t be living in Cape Town at all and she wouldn’t be in this damn kiosk. Nazma couldn’t believe that her family still didn’t talk about it, so many years later. If they did, perhaps things would be different. It was all of their story – Nafeesa’s too.
She tried to bring herself back to the present moment by reading the sensationalist newspapers. Today’s news headlines were just as insane as the previous days’, and instead of being repulsed and fascinated, Nazma just didn’t care. They were ridiculous: it was impossible to know what was real and what wasn’t anyway. The news was just a cracked mirror reflecting someone or other’s bad luck, exaggerated or not.
The wind and the sound of litter scratching around on the floor outside made her feel restless and angry. The minuscule kiosk was even more claustrophobic than usual. She felt the ceiling pressing in on her from above, and the walls seemed to be moving closer and closer from the sides. Her heart was racing, and she stood up to get some air around her because she couldn’t breathe properly; there was a loud ringing sound in her ears. Her fingers were shaking. Her body was sweating.
She burst from the door of the kiosk, unable to stay inside any longer, and fell to her knees, panting. Her hands grazed the ground, tearing her palms and embedding gravel inside them. She gasped and coughed, feeling as if a wet cloth was in her mouth. On the ground, stompies and pieces of a woman’s weave were blowing around her hands, tangling in her fingers. The thin, shiny artificial hair looked macabre. Focusing on it, she gradually forced her breath to calm.
She stood up slowly. The ringing in her ears had subsided, and she sat on the station bench for a few moments, her eyes closed to stop the world from getting in.
‘Are you okay?’
It was Julius, the station guard. She nodded but her legs were still shaking too much to stand.
‘Do you need some water?’
She shook her head, searching for the Xhosa she should have known. ‘Andifuni amanzi enkosi. I think the wind made me feel a bit funny in the shop. It got very hot in there.’
‘Hayi, this wind. It is too much. Kumoya ngakulu.’
Nazma wanted him to go away but didn’t know the words to say so. Julius mistook her silence for his cue to sit down and start to talk. She didn’t listen to what he was saying but counted her breaths in her head. When she reached twenty she turned to look at him in his yellow high-visibility jacket and navy uniform. He was mid-sentence, but she wanted to move.
‘Thanks. I better go inside now. Enkosi again.’
He nodded, but stayed seated. She walked slowly back inside the kiosk, keeping the door open. The wind had blown the newspapers off the shelf and onto the tray of samoosas she was working with. They’d stained each other – the papers had triangular imprints of oil, and the samoosas had tiny newsprint letters on their crusts. Across one it said ‘fire pool for the community, not Number One’. She considered offering them as fortune cookies to customers but binned them all instead. Then she peeked through the bars and saw that Julius was still there.
She grabbed a Coke from the fridge, gulping it desperately. Angry and embarrassed, she looked down at the forms in her bag. Her hands were covered in dust, and as she washed them they began to sting.
‘Why’s this door open?’
She jumped at her father’s voice. He was clearly in the throes of a temper tantrum.
‘I wasn’t feeling well, Dad. I needed to let some air in here.’
‘But look at this mess. Now must I take my afternoon to clean it while you play around at some office? Who do you think will clean up your mess? Me!’
‘It’s not playing,’ she whispered, starting to shake from anger herself.
‘What is it then? Talk talk talk and everything will be fine?’
‘Talking is better than nothing.’
‘What are you saying? That I do nothing?’
‘I can’t do this now, Dad. Just let’s clean up and then I’ll go.’
‘Oh yes. Let’s do the silent treatment. That is what all this talking has taught you. To be silent.’
‘You’re the one who … You are impossible, Dad!’
‘Nazma, you don’t listen to me. Really, sometimes I wonder about the influence your mother has on you.’
‘Dad. I can’t do this now. Either I stay and help you to clean, and you keep quiet, or I go.’
‘Well, since when do you think you’ll tell me how things will happen in my own shop …?’
She grabbed her bag and ran out the door. She ran faster up the road and away from the kiosk, her lungs burning with the exertion, until she couldn’t run any more. Then she sat down on the wall of a playground, forcing her lips closed to prevent a scream. Instead she leant forward and mouthed a silent ‘FUCK’ to the ground, exhaling a hissing sound like a pressure cooker.
The cars in the street passed her by, weaving slightly in the wind. She watched mothers and schoolchildren, grandmothers, friends laughing and holding cigarettes through slits in the windows, and lonely people looking forlorn. She enjoyed watching strangers living their lives. It gave her hope.
She heard a car hoot nearby, and when she looked up, it was Sam across the road, waving at her.
Catagelophobia: Fear of being ridiculed
She climbed into his car, looking distressed.
‘Fancy meeting you here,’ Sam said.
‘I was thinking the same thing. Are you stalking me?’
‘Only a little bit. I was dropping off something for my company and just on the way home.’
‘Good to know.’
‘So where are we going?’
‘What would you suggest?’
‘I was going home, but I suppose we could just go for a drive before the meeting. Thought I might go and have a drink before – a coffee … or something a bit stronger.’
‘A bit stronger? Before noon?’
‘You know … an espresso.’
He winked at her. Happy to have someone else in his car, he turned back into the traffic. At midday it was mostly taxis and Jammie shuttles, ferrying students to and from the university. He watched an elderly woman cross the road, holding onto a hat that looked more like a tea cosy than anything else.
‘Looks like rain.’
‘Mmm.’
‘What were you doing sitting there all alone? You looked so … sad.’
‘Fight with my dad. I ran off and was out of breath. Note to self – get fit. I’m not sad, just pissed off.’
‘Anything serious?’
‘For for him at least it’s serious. I just feel a bit pressured living at home, but not being able to drive it’s much harder for me to get a job doing what I want to be doing. So no job means no money to live on your own. I wish I was working.’
‘Working doing what?’
‘I want to become a pastry chef. Maybe open up my own place one day.’
‘It sounds amazing. I love pastry – who doesn’t?’
‘Are you mocking me? I don’t have the energy to tell.’
‘Not at all. Promise.’
‘And you? What do you want to be when you’re grown up?’
‘Sad to say it, but I think I am already grown up. I’m writing for this company – it’s a form of Internet copywriting I guess. It’s not going to change the world, but it’s easy enough and the hours are flexible which really works for me – occupational slumming maybe, but maybe not. I mean, the thought of a nine-to-five makes me want to puke, and who said you had to work hard? Also, I can work from home which is obviously much safer.’
‘Safer than what?’
‘Out there.’
He looked outside. Even if she didn’t go anywhere, or learn to drive, all of these people would keep living their lives just as they always did. They’d go to church on a Sunday, send their kids to the nearby school, chaperone dance parties. He’d be locked inside his house, preserving his life, she’d be stuck in her family’s stupid kiosk, and the rest of the world would be out there living. He sighed with frustration.
‘But is that what you want to do forever?’ Nazma asked. ‘I don’t mean to sound judgemental. Just that you seem to like being outside a lot, but you’re choosing to keep yourself inside. And what about the company you want to start? Have you been working on it?’
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about it. I sometimes feel like I have too many ideas and not enough time to act on them. Can you ever know what you want to do forever?’
He heard how defensive he sounded, and wondered whether the defensiveness was to convince Nazma or himself. Sam watched her as she looked out of the window. He turned on the car radio and the Fine Young Cannibals began to play. He had made the mix-CD after the first session and put it in the car for the first time that day. Perfect timing. He swerved to miss a taxi, whose gaatjie flung his fist in the air, waving it at Sam. At the lights they waited next to vendors selling individual mints and jokes written on folded white paper, and then carried on over the highway and into Observatory.
Urban degradation commenced as you crossed over the boundary between suburbs and city – buildings peeling plaster, the signs outside them old and painted in dated fonts and colours. Sam turned down a tiny side road to park a block away from CIL. The street was narrow, and he noticed Nazma tense up as he parallel parked.
‘Don’t worry. I’m good at this.’
‘Parallel parking is so effing scary that I want to close my eyes.’
‘I don’t think I would suggest that as a strategy for passing your test.’
‘Thanks, Captain Obvious.’
‘So do you want that espresso?’
‘I could do with something a bit stronger.’
‘Like …’
‘A beer?’
He nodded and they got out, walking slowly down towards the Obz Cafe. They sat down and ordered a beer each. The drinks took a while to come and the silence was awkward after their easy conversation in the car. He undid his watch strap and did it up again, then stopped and reached for his pocket to hold the comfortable weight of it. Just having it there brought him relief. When the beer came Nazma savoured hers while Sam gulped his down faster than he should have.
‘So how did you find the other day?’ he asked.
‘I loved the forest, Sam. I thought it was great. Thank you. I …’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Never mind.’
‘So glad you liked it. It’s my favourite spot. I’m looking forward to your activity this week. Have you got it planned?’
‘Yup. All up here in my noggin.’ She tapped the side of her head with the neck of the beer bottle.
‘My dad used to say “noggin”. Use your noggin, Sam. Pull your lip up off the floor, Sam. Keep your chin up, Sam. He passed away a few years ago. He was a tough nut, my dad, but I’d still rather he was around. You know?’
‘I don’t want my parents dead, Sam – I just don’t want them around me. Just to clarify.’
He blushed and she looked sorry, and he reached into his pocket again. He used to carry around a can of Mace, which he would hold tightly in his pocket or in his hand as he jogged, enjoying its pressurised metal and how firm it felt between his fingers. He had carried it for four months without incident. Then one day he fell and the can got punctured, the fiery liquid oozing out and staining his running shorts. That was his most awkward visit to the doctor ever. Yes, doctor, my testicles are sizzling because I was trying to defend myself against the imaginary baddies at the Rondebosch Common.
The day after the visit to the doctor he rushed to the hardware store to buy another can of Mace, but the shop attendant told him it was illegal. She suggested carrying a can of deodorant with him. He tried it, but it felt too chunky in his pocket. That’s why Sam had the pocketknife. Would he be able to use it if someone attacked him? To hold the knife out and stab back? He hoped he wouldn’t have to, but felt safer with it in his pocket anyway. He was also glad since it was unlikely to burn his balls, and reckoned the chances it would slice them off were small enough.
They sat looking out onto the busy street, people-watching, and finished their beers. Sam glanced at his watch and realised they were running late.
‘We better go.’
They paid, and then walked up the road together. He wanted to reach for her, to comfort her, but he knew it wasn’t the time. He remembered his old girlfriend who’d fitted just beneath his arm. He could always smell her hair from there. He wondered what Nazma’s hair smelled like.
‘Wonder what we’ll do today?’
‘Ja. I dunno.’
He searched his mind for things to say to her to make her feel better.
‘I love pastry.’
‘You said earlier. What’s your favourite?’
‘Apple strudel. For sure.’
‘Mmmm, good choice. I love a simple butter croissant. I love tearing off the sections, bit by bit. I don’t like to add anything to them, just to slowly break them apart and savour them. There is something comforting about their hard outside and soft fluffy inside. They were the first thing I learned to make at college.’
Though he had never thought much of croissants before, he suddenly craved one. They reached the door and he pressed the buzzer, his mouth still filled with longing.
Mel ushered them in, looking frazzled and gesturing to them to make their own tea and coffee quickly. They went straight upstairs and found everyone seated there waiting for them.
Simon glared at them. ‘Glad you could join us.’
‘Sorry, we didn’t realise the time.’
Everyone looked suitably anxious for a study on phobias. Johnson was staring at Ruby. He caught Sam watching him and smiled, seeming embarrassed. Sam found a spot at the table and listened to Fairouz explain that day’s exercises. They focused on trust and secrets – on letting go of anxiety and being able to tell others what it was you were afraid of, which helped to lessen the stress of doing whatever it was you feared. It all made sense, but his head felt groggy from the beer and he looked around aimlessly from person to person. When his gaze landed on Ruby she looked away. He realised she’d been staring at him. He looked over at Johnson, hoping he hadn’t noticed, and tuned back in to Fairouz’s voice.
‘So we’ll be repeating the thing we’re afraid of in a couple of different ways, trying to work out exactly what it is that makes it feel so insurmountable. Then you’ll be talking about statements that are the opposite of how you feel. So, for example, if you’re afraid of heights you’ll be saying things like, “Heights are scary, I don’t like to be too high up, being up in a building feels like being unstable.” Then later you’ll be saying things like, “I love heights, I wish I worked on the top floor of a building, I want to go skydiving,” for example. The aim of this is to begin thinking about some of the things you are letting control you, and some of the things you are missing out on because of your phobia.’
Opposite Sam, Nazma chewed her nails with vigour. He looked out the window, imagining a robber climbing into it in the night, and wondered what exactly they were all missing out on. It was hard to concentrate: he kept thinking about Nazma, and pastry, and trying to think of things to say to her that would make her smile.
The next morning, Sam woke up with a fuzzy pressure in his chest. He lay there for a while, attempting to identify the feeling. It wasn’t fear or anger or sadness. It was something close to nervousness. He thought of Nazma and it intensified. He laughed at himself – it was the pressure of a crush.
He began to do some work on his articles for the week, and when Nazma called to arrange a meeting in town, he was relieved to be distracted from the tedious topics. An hour later he was waiting at the train station in a light drizzle, keeping an eye out for her parents in the kiosk. She had instructed him to avoid conversation with her father at all costs.
Sam watched her dad emerge from the kiosk, wondering whether he could be as bad as Nazma said. He looked old and frail, wearing pants that could have been for a woman, and Jesus sandals with loads of straps. Her dad was cooing at the pigeons with affection.
The train arrived and Sam climbed into the carriage, which was sweaty and full of people. Nobody ever opened the windows on a rainy day and he felt the condensation of the other passengers’ exhalations on his skin. At Mowbray still more people climbed on. Sam was folded like an egg in batter, further and further into the belly of the train, his proximity to the door diminishing with each second.
Next to him, oblivious to those around him, a young man was singing Christian hymns. People began to edge away, squeezing against one another. The man removed a small Bible from his pocket, and, in a round French accent, addressed the carriage.
‘Good morrrrning, good people of the Lorrrd. Frrrriends. The time has come for us to talk about Jesus. Let us prrrray.’
He spouted a prayer with passion, rolling his words around in his mouth. Droplets of sweat formed against his broad forehead, accumulating as he held up his hand to the carriage ceiling. His voice grew louder.
‘We must think about society collapsing. It is collapsing because of divorrrrce. It is collapsing because the ho-mo-sex-ewe-als walk free in the street. It is collapsing because the women are working and are not staying with the children. It is collapsing because …’
‘Where are you and your funny accent from?’ yelled a voice from the back of the carriage. People turned to see who it was but it was almost impossible because the train was so full.
‘Me and my accent are from the Congo, sir,’ the preacher replied. ‘The Democratic Republic of Congo.’
‘Then maybe the real reason our society’s collapsing is because foreigners like you are flooding the city,’ shouted the quivering voice. ‘You take our jobs. You are the ones who come here and make society collapse. You come here from your violent country and you tell us how to live our lives. Now maybe that’s the reason. I think you should just shut up and keep your prayers to yourself. We’ve all got our own things to pray about here in South Africa.’
The surrounding passengers mumbled their assent and dissent, and the atmosphere grew uneasy. People began to moan at both men, telling them to keep quiet – they were just on their way to work, and nobody wanted a fight. The preacher, as though delighted by the challenge, spoke even louder. The crowd grew more aggressive. When the carriage doors squeaked open at Woodstock, Sam jumped out even though he needed to get to Cape Town. His heart was racing.
Waiting for the next train, Sam fondled his pocketknife, feeling relieved he had escaped a possible close call. Holding his umbrella in one hand, and the pocketknife in the other, he imagined himself in a fight. He was glad he didn’t have to be part of the seething mob. He realised he might just have missed his opportunity to find out if it was as scary as he thought, but still felt relief, even though it meant he’d have to keep on waiting. He admired the preacher’s bravery. It couldn’t be easy to stand in a carriage full of people and try and convert them to a faith you were so passionate about. It wasn’t easy to find something to be passionate about in the first place. He’d once dreamed of becoming an inventor, wearing a white coat and goggles, concocting bright potions that would create safety shields and barriers – a force field. In reality, he had never done much with science, and he doubted he’d be any good at it.
The next train arrived and was pleasantly empty. The one he was on must have been delayed. He wondered if everyone on it was still all right. Even if there was a riot on the previous train, the people on this one would have no idea that anything was going on. Sitting down next to a gothic woman with a tattoo of a knife on her neck, he noticed that the elderly man opposite him wore hearing aids in both his ears, their white hairs wrapping around the jelly. He watched the cable station through an open train window as the cloud cover came over the top of the mountain, swallowing it whole.
Nazma had suggested they meet at the Wellness Warehouse on Kloof Street. He’d only been there a few times, killing time before going for a movie at the Labia, and he wasn’t sure what her plan was from there. When the train stopped at Cape Town, he walked out into the station. Descending into the underground mall to avoid the now-heavy rain was like timetravelling back to the eighties. The smell of fried chicken mixed with the smells of public transport travellers, a bakery selling the biggest lamingtons he had ever seen, and the fresh gusts of air from the rain above. The floor tiles reflected fluorescent lights and shops sold artificial hair to women and imitation sneakers to men.
He ascended onto Adderley Street and walked to St George’s Mall. It was full of tourists holding umbrellas, looking at curios. There were plenty of carved soapstone and wooden ornaments, plenty more painted pictures of rural imagery on stretched canvas. A few shopkeepers erected plastic sheets to cover their goods, but some had given up already and were packing up. When he travelled with his mother when he was younger, they always purchased one curio per city. He still owned the mini Eiffel Tower and the picture of himself with a gladiator outside the Colosseum. He’d lost the photos of the falconer from Budapest and the view from the cathedral in Prague. They were probably in a box somewhere at his parents’ house, but he hadn’t been there since he started the study and was quite enjoying the time away from his mother. His dad wouldn’t have understood something like the study anyway. ‘Like a women’s knitting circle,’ he would have said. Soft.
Greenmarket Square was packed with more of the same things for sale, and browsing them were the standard tourists wearing khaki shorts and hiking boots despite the frigid weather. Walking through the square, he strained his ears to hear the voices of negotiators selling their goods for lower prices than they deserved. Long Street seemed depressed in the rain – too quiet. He looked into each shop as he walked. In one, an old Mediterranean-looking man watched, a bored expression on his face, as a young coloured woman on her knees mopped the floor with a cloth. In another, a woman read a first-hand book behind the desk of a second-hand bookstore, looking up furtively to make sure nobody was watching. Reaching the top of the street he bought a Big Issue from a vendor who smiled when he told her to keep the change and embraced him.
Nazma was waiting for him at the escalators up to the Warehouse but looking up the street the other way. She wore a pair of very short red shorts over black tights, with red high-tops over those. Her tracksuit top was navy blue and inside it her head was bopping to what he assumed was her iPod. She was in her own world and he almost paused, just to watch her, but she turned towards him and, seeing him, waved.
‘Morning, sailor.’
‘Morning, madame.’
‘Are you ready for this?’ He imagined the popular nineties track and had to stop himself from doing the Running Man.
‘I’m not sure what this is, but I’m feeling pretty good today. You?’
‘Ja, me too. Let’s go. You don’t even know how good this is going to be.’
They walked up the escalator to the second floor and into the Wellness Warehouse. Strange elevator-style, meditation-like music was playing. It sounded half like whale calls and half like someone playing a guitar built out of a tree, with palm fronds for strings. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it sort of made him need the loo.
‘First I want to take you on a sensory tour that will relax you. Then, we’re having a massage.’
‘Shit, Nazma. I didn’t bring much cash with me. You don’t have to spend money on me.’
‘Don’t you worry, Mr Edwards. We’ll be all right.’
They walked towards the candles and Nazma pointed out various scented candles and oils, instructing him to smell them. The first was a calming one. He could only recognise lavender but she identified the scents of rosewood, chamomile, geranium, clary sage, ylang-ylang and marjoram. Next, she showed him one that could help him sleep, made with lavender, orange, chamomile and ylang-ylang. She recommended an anti-stress inhaler that had chamomile, lavender, clary sage, geranium and ylang-ylang.
‘Everything seems to have ylang-ylang in it. How do you know all of this?’
‘Nice to see you’re paying attention. My sister is an aromatherapy nut. She taught me.’
‘Does she live around here?’
‘No, she lives in London. I haven’t seen her for a few years now.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t really afford to go there and she refuses to come here.’
‘Refuses?’
‘She’s not exactly on speaking terms with my parents.’
‘Why?’
‘Smell this one.’
She passed him a vanilla-scented oil, but his nose was in sensory overload and he could hardly smell it. She spoke about the oil but he was only half listening. It was so relaxing to be around her: she knew about calming oils and smells, and she listened to old comforting music.
‘Wait!’ She looked startled. ‘Why isn’t your sister speaking to your parents?’
‘Why don’t I tell you about it while we get massaged?’
Massages required taking off your clothes and standing in your underwear, and while that was something he wouldn’t mind doing with Nazma, he still didn’t know how it would be conducive to curing them of their phobias. He wasn’t afraid of nudity, but he couldn’t remember if he was wearing his good undies.
He distracted himself by thinking about her undressing as they walked deeper into the store, passing the vitamins and hair products and muscle-building protein shakes. Halfway through the walk he stopped, pretending to look at some biodegradable deodorant so he could readjust himself, his semi becoming uncomfortable. He reached into his pants for a quick rearrangement, thankful for the rain jacket that covered him.
‘Ta daaaa!’
Nazma pointed towards the massage chairs that were plugged into the floor next to the hula hoops, and promptly walked towards one, sat down in it and turned it on.
‘Let’s think and vibrate,’ she said, wincing as the chair massaged her shoulders.
He sat down for a minute and let the palm-frond music wash over him, closing his eyes. The massage chair kneaded slowly upwards from the base of his spine to his shoulders. It gave him goosebumps it was so good. The music changed to something with a triangle and waves. He opened his eyes slowly to look at her, but Nazma’s were closed.
Thanatophobia: Fear of dying
Ruby had been scratching at her head all night and had to get up to cut her fingernails again to stop it from becoming painful. After two Calmettes, she gave up on sleep and sat in her lounge drinking tea with honey, watching the dormant city, a thick knitted blanket around her. A few red tail lights curved around the highway, but the roads were mostly quiet.
Nights like these made her feel alone. She wondered what time it was where Jeff was and hoped it was all going okay over there. Jericho’s threats of death made her go through mental lists of people who could potentially die soon, and with Jeff’s dangerous job he was top of the list. Her family laughed it off, but it was becoming scary to be a diplomat these days. None of the bad guys were afraid to target embassies, and they didn’t really have much protection.
She counted her fingers to see what her own chances of death were, and was relieved to find that she was pretty far down the list. She got out a notepad and wrote down some points to include in her pre-phone-call email to Janet. It included the vital services the Centre provided, the need to sustain the mental wellbeing of Capetonians, the number of staff they employed and trained, and the benefits to the Ministry’s image if it were seen to be doing something about mental health care when the world was going crazy around them. She wrote ‘Sorry for calling the Minister a thief’, but crossed it out. ‘Criss-cross, criss-cross, criss-cross,’ she said, tipping her head from side to side.
Writing the notes didn’t make her feel better, but she was relieved to have something to pass the hours between two and five, when she left home to swim again. Normally she didn’t swim twice a day, but today she needed it. She did her normal mile, and then added a few more lengths for good measure until her legs felt like they were moving through curds. Drying off and putting on her jersey to go back up to her flat, she looked around at the people running, cycling and swimming. It was a grim morning, and they looked like the living dead. Up early to greet the daylight that wasn’t coming. Winter was getting to her.
She arrived back home to a message from her mother, asking her to call her if she knew how to use her cell phone. Her tone got under Ruby’s skin – half accusing, half desperate. Her mother tasked herself with family communication; Ruby imagined a roster in the kitchen at home listing which family member to call on which day. She seemed to get called on Thursdays, when she was tired from the week and yearning for the weekend. Perhaps she should recommend that her mother called her on Mondays. Though then she’d probably feel like she didn’t have the time to talk to her.
The rain was falling heavily and at seven thirty Ruby chickened out of calling Janet and phoned instead to the office answering machine, faking a sick day. She always felt guilty for taking sick days when she wasn’t really sick, and sometimes so guilty that she gave herself stomach cramps from the stress of worrying that someone would see her when she was not at work and would accuse her of faking an illness. Who that person would be when there were only four of them permanently based at the office, she didn’t know. She put on the kettle, put her pyjamas back on, and stretched a while in front of the window, watching the cars as they tried to rush and failed in the traffic.
By twelve she had finished her book and developed pins and needles in her legs from sitting still on the couch for so long. The rain had eased and she decided to go out for a walk around the city. Putting on jeans and bright red gumboots, she braved the weather.
It wasn’t really as cold in winter as everyone made it out to be. It was just wet. What got to Ruby was a sense of constantly being damp. Moist, as her brother would have said, knowing the word made her scratch her head. He used to do it as a joke to test her resolve, but he realised eventually that she didn’t know she was doing it until it was too late and her head would bleed, so he stopped teasing her.
Ruby walked down Bree Street, away from the mountain, looking at the people having business meetings in coffee shops where the staff wore oversized glasses, seventies’ printed dresses and shirts, and rings in their noses. The parking lot that housed their cars had once been a slave market. She considered stopping in at one of the small art galleries, but decided not to. She turned down Wale, towards Greenmarket Square, stamping in puddles when she could, enjoying the protection of her wellingtons.
Bored flyer-flickers were flicking their flyers of false promises all the way down the hill. Can make money come to you. Magic wallet. Scare bad spirits. Penis can grow. Pain free abortion. Riches. Their headlines were belied by the flyer-flickers’ lack of enthusiasm, but she had to admit to herself the techniques they used were impressive. Some tapped their stack from beneath the flyer, causing the top paper to pop forward. Others curled the whole stack into a U-shaped bunch, held it tightly and smacked the whole pack on their hands. Still others held the flyers in one hand and hit them with the other hand. All of these moves produced a loud ‘crack!’ that got you to make eye contact. Once you caught their eyes it was too late, and you were soon walking away with a guide to your future riches from a sweaty-palmed promise-pusher.
Ruby’s cell phone rang again. It was the office. She ducked into a bookstore just off Long Street, and answered in her croakiest voice.
‘Ag sorry to bother you, Ruby.’ It was Mel. ‘Janet has been calling all morning and I didn’t want to give her your cell number because I know how sick you are, but I’m not sure what to do now. I told her you’re sick but she seems frantic. Can you maar maybe call her?’
Ruby groaned and Mel took it as a sign that she was feeling even sicker.
‘No, man. Sorry, Ruby. Don’t call her. Vergeet dit. You sound so ill. Let me tell her that she can wait for you to come back tomorrow or the next day. I mean, she can’t just expect that people can get better just so they can talk to her. Don’t worry. I’ll call her back. Feel better. Don’t let this weather get you down or anything.’
Before she could say anything Mel was gone from the line. Ruby had never been more grateful for her. She sighed and browsed the bookstore, looking for something light to distract her, but couldn’t find anything. Leaving the sound of the store’s entrance bell behind her, she walked up Long Street, beneath the awnings of the stores, without paying too much attention to the fat droplets of rain pounding the street. She crossed the road and went to a coffee shop she thought she had seen in an advert somewhere. Ordering a hot chocolate and water, she sat down by the window next to a potted plant in dire need of some love. She began to stroke its waxy leaves, humming and staring through the window, and pouring her water into its dry hard soil while she sipped her hot chocolate. It was creamy and dark, and left her mouth coated with flavour.
Sometimes there was nothing better than drinking hot chocolate. Her mom used to make it by melting a whole slab of milk chocolate into a pot of milk, with a few sprinkles of chilli and a few of cinnamon. It was their special thing to drink, sitting on the patio watching the grass grow. It always made her feel protected. She picked up her phone, and, uncharacteristically, called her mom back.
Aviophobia: Fear of flying
Nazma opened her eyes, wondering if Sam was asleep. He looked relaxed enough to be sleeping, but winced whenever the machine massaged a sore area.
She thought about the session the day before, how they had begun to feel closer. As they’d sat in the boardroom, Nazma had been thinking she must have eaten a bunch of nail polish while chewing her nails and daydreaming, and had wondered if it could be digested, or whether it would accumulate in her stomach, painting her breakfast turquoise. When it had been time to do the exercise she had looked at Sam, knowing she hadn’t been listening. ‘So what’s the plan now?’
‘I could see you were far away. What’s up?’
‘Old stress making new wrinkles.’
‘Don’t I know that feeling. So we’re going to talk through the stuff we’re afraid of, which could take an eternity, and then we’re going to try and reverse that. Sounds easy enough.’
‘It always sounds easy. Do you think it will work though?’
His face revealed that he hoped so. She examined his bottle-brown eyes, looking at the light green fleck again, and then moved across his face to land on the fine stubble on the edge of his chin. His hair was floppy, and his cut-off denim shorts exposed a few grazes on his legs. His calves were muscular, and his legs hairy, but not too hairy.
‘So begin already, Sam.’
‘You first.’
‘So … I am afraid of driving. Being behind the wheel makes my hands clammy and my heart race in the way that falling in love could, but this is followed by nausea and black spots behind my eyes, which I hope falling in love doesn’t do. I feel terrified when I put my foot on the pedal, and worried that I’ll push the wrong one when I get going. The clutch feels like a catapult, waiting to bounce away from me. The accelerator is too sensitive to my touch, lurching forward when I mean to ease. The supposed balancing act you’re meant to pull makes me quake with the effort of it all. When I’m supposed to indicate I always put on the windscreen wipers, and the rush to correct that feels like it takes too long. I feel afraid when other drivers are behind me, convinced they know I don’t know what I’m doing.’
‘So … it’s not the driving you’re afraid of. It’s the failure.’
‘Thanks, Dr Phil, but could we just carry on with the exercise?’
‘Nazma, really. Listen to yourself. You’re scared you will fail at being a good driver – bump into someone, fuck it up. What you need is to go go-karting. Say fuck it to the rules that say you have to be good and just enjoy the experience of being behind the wheel.’
‘Negatory, Ghost Rider. That sounds like my worst nightmare.’
‘Exactly. That’s exactly why we should do it.’
‘Let’s just carry on, Sam, and we can talk about this later. It’s your turn. What are you afraid of?’
‘I’m afraid of being attacked. When I am alone in my house without an alarm I feel like someone will surely break in through one of the windows, or through the sliding door. Living in a house without an alarm is terrifying. Living in a house with an alarm is more terrifying. The exhaustion of waiting for one of the room sensors to go off and then to have to get up from my bed and see which room it is makes me feel paralysed. When the alarm actually does go off I leap from my bed and bound out of the room as though I am invincible, and it’s like I somehow know nobody is there. If they were, I wouldn’t leap. But it’s that constant on-edge feeling that makes me terrified – damned if I do protect myself, damned if I don’t. I don’t want to be vulnerable and for everyone to say, he was the guy who didn’t have an alarm, of course he was murdered in his bed, why was he so stupid?’
‘So you’re afraid of being vulnerable, or being blamed for your own vulnerability? Have you ever been broken into?’
‘Never. Not in all my life.’
‘Flip, you’re lucky.’
‘I know, but what if my luck runs out?’
‘It doesn’t work like that. It’s not like we’re on a waiting list to be murdered, Sam, and we just keep dodging our chance. Plus you live in Rondebosch for goodness’ sake. It’s not exactly the murder capital of Cape Town.’
‘I know … but that’s how it feels. There are murderers there. It’s not un-murdery.’
‘So what if someone comes in and you can’t defend yourself? What then?’
‘That would be the worst thing that could possibly ever happen.’
‘What, the break-in or your … lack of kung fu self-defence skills?’
‘The latter.’
‘Well, mister, I think that’s what you’re afraid of. That one day you really won’t be able to do anything about it, alarms and all. You’re afraid of being vulnerable.’
‘In the words of Ms Nazma Matthews, Thanks, Dr Phil, but can we just get on with the exercise?’
They laughed. As though their good humour could be sensed, it roused Simon across the room. He banged down his cane so loudly that the whole room went silent.
‘Can you stop with the noise so some of us can concentrate? Bloody hell. Why are you both so selfish? Keep it down …’
He began to cough and splutter, still trying to shout despite his obvious lack of breath. His face, which had been mulberry, turned pale.
‘Simon.’ Ruby moved to put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Simon, I’m going to need you to breathe slowly and to calm down. Put your head down between your knees.’ She looked slightly panicked.
He complied, leaning forward over his stomach, which showed years of accumulated beer drinking and biltong eating.
‘Now just breathe. In fact, everyone, lean down and let’s have a few deep breaths, shall we?’
Nazma and Sam both leant forward at the same time, bumping heads, spurring them to more suppressed giggles. Maybe the moment had been in her head, but she felt in her heart that it hadn’t.
Now, she looked over at him in the massage chair again and wondered if she could trust him. Unsure, she closed her eyes, feeling the massage chair roll between her shoulder blades, and then started to give the explanation he’d wanted a week earlier.
‘My sister got married a few years ago. I was still in school. The wedding was overseas – in London. That’s where they were going to build their lives, so they wanted us to see it. Even paid for the tickets for all of us. I had never been overseas before and was so excited. It was cold here but warm there and I was told to pack summery clothes for the wedding. I imagined seeing the sights, you know – Buckingham Palace, Madame Tussauds, the dinosaurs in the museums.
‘My dad was equally excited. He wanted to assess my sister’s prospective family, see if they were worthy. He wasn’t upset that they were white. I think he quite liked the idea of grandchildren with a British accent. He just wanted to make sure they understood where she came from, you know. To make sure they’d take care of her. Make sure they were good enough. Tell them stories of cane rats and fish eagles and rolling Natal mountains.
‘My mum was terrified. She was afraid of flying but had never had a reason to tell anyone. We’d always driven on family holidays, never being able to afford to fly. She even got carsick sometimes, so maybe she was just afraid it would be worse. Who knows what being afraid is really about?
‘Instead of just telling us what she was afraid of, she made it seem as though she didn’t want to go. My dad said she had no choice. He got angry with her, packed for her, and didn’t speak to her for weeks, furious that she would scorn her daughter who was doing so well. She stopped cooking for him to spite him, and he got so thin and constipated from only eating toasted cheese and onion sandwiches. He was uncomfortable with her fear, and she was angry at him for not understanding her better. She expected him to guess what was going on. She couldn’t say she was afraid. She simply didn’t know how to articulate it. She didn’t want us to be held back.
‘On the drive to the airport, the night we were supposed to be leaving … she was seething and shaking and crying – I wouldn’t say hysterical, but pretty close. She could hardly breathe and just pleaded with my dad in a frail voice to please let her stay behind, to just let her stay behind and not to make her go. I had to pull her hand to get her to stand up outside the car. She could hardly hold her own weight, her knees buckled with each step. Dad just told her to push the trolley for support, while he marched ahead, with another trolley loaded with luggage, to check us all in. I make it sound like he was being insensitive, but she was being intolerable and she hadn’t told anyone why. It seemed to us like she had lost her mind.
‘The airport was packed full of people waiting to catch flights. I couldn’t wait to get on the plane, to look out of the window and see if I could see the land as we passed over it. I imagined Kilimanjaro, Lake Malawi, and the Nile. It all seemed so exotic and magical. I tried to hide my own excitement from my mum, because I didn’t want her to feel worse or more alone. She was sitting in one of those metal chairs they have at the airport, swallowed by it. She refused the chocolate milk I offered her from the cafeteria upstairs. Refused a sandwich. Dad and I had no idea what to do.
‘We eventually stood in the line to go through to the boarding lounge. Dad handed us each our tickets and went through the scanner first. Then me. Then her. When she went through, the detector squawked and an awful siren sounded, and the security lady stopped her and asked her to go back through. It sounded again, and security explained they’d have to pat her down. I caught a flash of her eyes before they did and knew it was going to be bad. I remember saying “What have you done, Mum?” just as they pulled a silver butter knife from her pocket.
‘A butter knife. They questioned her about why she’d brought it and she refused to answer. They told her if she refused to explain they were not going to let her board, but she wouldn’t speak. Dad shouted at her, pleaded with her to say something, and the other passengers turned to see what was going on. The more she refused to speak the louder he got. He screamed and screamed until security became concerned about him and insisted that he be searched too. He lost his temper and pushed one of them away. I don’t think he even knew what he was doing.
‘Soon we were all being escorted to a room for questioning, and after five hours they released us. Mum still hadn’t said a word, but Dad convinced them she had simply lost her mind, or hadn’t meant to do it and was afraid, or one of those options. Our luggage was removed from the plane before it took off, and it was waiting for us when we walked out of the airport.
‘My sister never forgave them. Of course, news travels fast too. When you’re as involved in a community as my parents were, everyone knows you. My sister’s ex, Neelan, still bitter about their break-up, wrote a long letter to the local paper, complaining that my parents had cast a bad light on the community, having been seen as suspected terrorists.
‘The people who used to buy from us stopped coming to the store. Everyone knew what my mother had done, and would whisper in hushed voices whenever she passed. Of course, the story got inflated by gossip. It was a butter knife but in some versions it was a gun, in others a panga … you know how it goes. Business almost completely dried up.
‘At school people asked me about it and I didn’t know what to say. I only had a few months left, and, when they were done, I came home one night to find that we were moving. Dad had decided that Cape Town would be the best option, far enough away from home for nobody to know that my mother was mad, he said. They still hadn’t spoken and I was going crazy from playing messenger.
‘My dad hasn’t always been the way he is now. He wasn’t always this angry. His anger came from never talking about what happened. My sister doesn’t speak to them at all. They’re so stubborn that they hardly spoke that first year we lived here. They watched so much TV, not wanting to look at one another. I didn’t see them much because I was at college, you know. One day I came home and they were sitting together, talking about a You magazine, as if nothing ever happened, and it has sort of been that way ever since. Grandpa had died and left them some money. They’d invested it and continued to run the kiosk, though they could afford to relax for the first time in their lives.
‘I never expected to feel the same thing as her. I grew so used to being angry with her for making me miss my sister’s wedding. I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t just pull it together to do something so simple. But now I know.’
She opened her eyes to find that Sam was watching her, head turned. He reached out his hand, took hers and kissed it. Then he closed his eyes again, turning back to the vibrations of the chair. She leant back into the weightlessness of a told story, her hand warm where he was holding it.
Politicophobia: Fear of politicians
Ruby eventually called Janet after her second fake sick day merged into a weekend. They set up the meeting for the Tuesday morning before the third meeting at CIL, at the Ministry’s offices in Woodstock. Although all other government offices were in the centre of town, theirs were in a ramshackle U-shaped building that framed an overgrown courtyard. State priorities had dictated that Wellbeing was on the outskirts. Half of the building wasn’t rented out yet, and there were signs of squatters: broken windows, grey polyester blankets lying about, and the smell of urine. The rest of the air smelled like sea spray and fish.
Against this grimy backdrop, the entrance to the Ministry in the used half of the building gleamed. Its double-thick glass doors were embossed with the government crest, and a huge chandelier hung from the ceiling above the polished wood desk. Ruby should have known which type of wood it was from her father’s many lessons when she was younger, but couldn’t remember. Inside, the reception area smelled like neroli and jasmine as a result of an air diffuser, placed discreetly on the floor in the corner. The tiled floor was polished and slippery.
The receptionist greeted her with practised disdain, asking who she would like to see and instructing her to have a seat. She made no discernible movements while Ruby found her way to a deep leather chair and sunk into it. She flicked through the latest Psychologies magazine, not seeing anything of interest, but continuing to move her eyes across each page as though engrossed. In the old days her mother had read magazines while her hair was being done, her head stuck in a giant hair-drying egg. Then, too, Ruby had sat still and quiet, trying to emulate her mother’s casual flicking of the pages. She had never quite mastered it, but she liked the way the pages squeaked if you ran your fingers down them tightly enough, and did it a few times.
The receptionist still didn’t speak or move. Eventually, without signal or reason, she stood up. Ruby wondered how she had known, or finally decided, to let her in, but before she could think too hard she was ushered towards the lift doors, the receptionist’s heels clicking on the floor. Ruby entered the steel mouth and pressed two as instructed. The lift made a humming sound, and, faster than she would have liked, she was there. The doors opened onto a carpet so lush she could imagine lying down on it.
In the entrance to the second floor another receptionist greeted her and followed the same pattern, offering her a coffee as a bonus, which she gladly accepted, grateful for small pleasures. As she waited, Ruby reached up to scratch her head and felt the disappointment of short nails limiting her to only rubbing her favoured spot behind her ear.
Janet walked in. Ruby hadn’t seen her for several years but it didn’t seem like much had changed. Her navy shoes were Louis Vuitton, her hair in the finest braids pulled tightly back to her scalp. She had long fingernails painted scarlet. Her dress was pleated, and starched, and egg-yolk yellow. Her eyebrows were drastically thin, and her eye make-up shimmered. She walked with the swagger that only political power could bestow.
‘Ruby, darling, so nice to see you, come through this way.’
Through air kisses Ruby could smell perfume, sweet and rosy. Janet gestured to an inordinately long corridor. Ruby weighed up the odds that it could end in her walking a plank, but followed Janet’s wiggle walk for about a minute in silence until she indicated a room and moved aside so that Ruby could go in first. The room was painted gentle pink, with another door inside it on the right. They sat at the small round table, with a stack of croissants and apples in its centre.
‘Minister Cambada will join us shortly, but I just wanted to talk through some of the things we’d like to discuss with you so that you are prepared. You are aware that the Minister has a long-standing commitment to the mental wellbeing of all South Africans, as indicated by her previous service in the Ministry. The Minister wishes to improve on her past performance, and wants to make sure we are funding the best possible organisations in Cape Town. Yours is one of many we currently fund, and we are moving towards a policy of selecting core services, and working from there. Do you follow?’
Ruby followed completely. This was a threat, not a briefing. She nodded.
‘The Minister is meeting with several organisations, so don’t feel like you have been put on the spot. Though you are the first, and remember, first impressions last. Do you follow?’
Ruby nodded again. Janet looked at her with a mixture of pity and annoyance. ‘But please don’t forget, Ruby, that you and the Minister have already met – on paper. When we speak about public figures, we may not think that they themselves read what is written about them, but Cambada is different. She reads everything, and she is very … sensitive … to public opinion. You technically have already made your first impression.’
Ruby’s mouth was dry, and she looked around the room for some water, seeing none.
‘Janet, I’m going to be frank with you …’
As she said it, the door to the right of the room opened, and Cambada walked in. Ruby stood again in the half-hover of one trapped between a table and chair, feeling as though she should curtsy to complete the move. The Minister’s navy power suit, pearl-white blouse, and skyscraper heels conveyed the impression that she meant business. Her hair was cut in a short Afro, and several strands of bulky freshwater pearls hung loosely around her neck, just covering the moles.
Cambada sat and clasped her hands together, finally making icy eye contact. Her nails were even longer than Janet’s, Ruby saw, and were painted a strange shade of beige that Ruby’s mother would once have called ‘skin colour’. Ruby wished she was dressed more smartly, and also perhaps that she was a mute and needed to communicate by way of Post-it notes.
‘Mrs Bates …’ Cambada spoke slowly, with long vowels.
‘Ms.’ Involuntarily, it sprang from her lips and she covered her mouth lest more corrections pour out.
‘I’m sorry, Ms Bates. Mzzzzz. Good. Never married, Mzzz Bates?’
‘Never, Minister, to my relief.’ Not even a smile.
‘Please, call me Minister Cambada.’
‘Thank you.’
Ruby wondered why she sounded so grateful. Her ears started to buzz, and she could hear the drone of an air conditioner or heater far away. She scratched her head, frustrated by her stubby nails, then pulled her hands away and folded them in her lap. She had just thanked Cambada for being rude to her, but didn’t know what else to do. Glancing back up at her, Ruby noticed that Cambada had flecks of yellow in her irises.
‘As I was going to say, Mzzz Bates, we are meeting today to discuss the funding that you have been receiving with some regularity from the Ministry. As finances become tighter in government, it is necessary for me to now assess whether our funds are being invested in the right places, whether we are getting the best returns on our investments, if you know what I mean. And so I have a few questions for you. But first, let us have a croissant. I do so love them.’
Her strange emphases threw Ruby. They each took a plate and croissant. Janet offered them tea and coffee, and left the room to organise it. The only sound was their chewing and swallowing, punctuated by Cambada’s nails clicking against one another as they tore the pastry apart. They sounded like an electric fence with a short.
‘Does it feel good to be back, Minister Cambada?’
‘Oh yes,’ she replied, eyebrow raised, ‘it feels as though I have never left. I feel as if everything is still fresh in my memory. The environmental ministry was so tense. Everyone worried about our energy future. Nuclear this, coal that, sun what what. This cause is much closer to my heart, much more intuitive for me. Have you ever worked outside the sector?’
‘Yes, but a long time ago. I have been with CIL for just over eight years now. I am incredibly committed to making an impact there.’
‘And what type of impact would you like that to be?’
Ruby put her croissant down, wiped the crumbs from her lips, and looked Cambada in the eye. She paused there, letting the pressure build, thinking of the best way to phrase her answer.
‘I would like to run a centre that uses its money effectively to improve the lives of ordinary South Africans by empowering them with the information they receive during and after studies about their own wellbeing. We live in a fast, dangerous type of world. I want to make sure that CIL is a place where people can come to slow down and learn about themselves, and what might be causing their various ailments or conditions, and how to deal with those. Under my leadership CIL has conducted four studies a year, with excellent retention rates and encouraging results. This is the impact I have made, and would like to continue to make, and I believe the Ministry’s funding is an essential and appreciated part of my being able to do this.’
Janet walked in with their drinks on a tray, and Ruby was relieved to break away from Cambada’s steely gaze. She couldn’t be sure whether her words would have any effect, but at least she’d got them out. Cambada picked up a second croissant and decapitated it, placing the top and bottom next to one another on her plate as she ate the larger portion. A flake of pastry was trapped beneath her index fingernail on her left hand, and Ruby couldn’t stop staring at it. Her fingers were distractingly long, and Ruby noticed her ring finger was bare. Janet didn’t move, as though waiting for her puppeteer to pull her strings. Before Ruby knew what she was doing, she was talking again.
‘We have some incredible participants in our latest study, Minister. It would be an honour if you could come and observe today’s session. We are halfway through a programme working with people who suffer from phobias.’
Cambada raised the space where her eyebrow had been pencilled on.
‘Phobias … really? That sounds very interesting. What do people have phobias about?’
‘Well, lots of things, Minister. I mean, Minister Cambada. Some are afraid of objects, others of actions, and others have become afraid after being victims of crime. It is varied, and thus the results will be incredibly useful in providing material for a general publication on what people with phobias can do.’
‘Mmm. Today is a bit too short notice, but perhaps Janet will be able to make it?’
Cambada glanced over at Janet who was hovering in the corner of the room. It was clearly an instruction, and Janet mustered some enthusiasm, giving Ruby a half smile.
‘Thank you for the invitation, but I’ll be working with the Minister today, with the other groups coming to see her.’
‘I’m sure I can manage without you, Janet.’
Cambada smirked. Ruby wondered what Janet had done to piss her off.
‘Janet, you would be most welcome,’ Ruby said. ‘It would be a great opportunity to see first-hand what we do, and to meet some of the people in the study to assess their progress so far. I understand, though, if you would prefer to come next week to allow yourself more time to prepare.’
Janet gave her a grateful smile and nodded. The air hummed as a vacuum cleaner started up in the distance. Ruby slipped off a shoe under the table, sinking her foot into the lush carpet, letting herself enjoy the sensation of it between her toes. It must be a huge effort to clean it: it was at least ten centimetres deep. It felt soft and luscious, a relief to the tension in the rest of her body.
‘Fine. I’ll be there. You’ll give me the details on your way out, and I will call you in the week to arrange the time for me to visit. Are we done here, Minister?’
‘We are, comrade. Thank you, Mzzz Bates. We’ll be in touch.’
‘Thank you, Minister Cambada. The offer to attend a session is always open.’
‘I will keep that in mind. You may go now.’
Leaving the building, Ruby wasn’t sure whether she’d just won a battle, or created a new one. She stepped out onto the pavement, and was confronted with the noise of taxis and traffic and the smell of rain on the way. She imagined lying down on the carpet at the Ministry and never getting up again.
Atychiphobia: Fear of failure
Nazma felt different after telling Sam her story. It wasn’t quite lightness, but perhaps something like it. On the train ride home they held hands like teenagers. And, like a teenager, she was overanalysing it. She wasn’t sure whether they were holding them as friends or not. At her station she let go and waved goodbye, wondering whether he would call. When she got home she immediately scheduled a driving lesson for the next day.
It went rather well: she made it around two blocks before her perspiration and aggravation forced her usual exit at the pedestrian crossing and an end to the session. Tony, her instructor, no longer wore a seat belt so that he could make the quick shuffle across the seat. She had the decency to leave the car running for him.
Sam didn’t call, but he did text. After her lesson she sat with her coffee rereading his texts. I had a great time today, he said. Me too, she replied. They began to message back and forth, as was so easy to do behind the protection of a screen. They didn’t go beyond mild flirtation, but she felt potential hovering between the lines. Most of the time she wasn’t sure if she should say more, and didn’t know what to say, so said nothing further. None of the ideas she thought of seemed right, and she didn’t want to cross the border from flirting to sexting on her own.
Her mother was already at the station on the early shift, and her father was practising tai chi in the garden, his pants undulating with his movements. He looked younger when he was practising, less hardened. The grass was getting long and she would soon be asked to cut it for him, his ‘sciatica’ an excuse for laziness sometimes. She leant out of the window to call to him.
‘Can I make you some coffee, Dad?’
‘I will be done in ten minutes. I will consider your offer then.’
Since she’d finally told someone about her mum, she felt it was time for everyone else to start confronting it too. She was secretly formulating plans to convince her mother to fly to visit her sister. She would need her dad’s help of course, but after the shame of the original event, she wasn’t sure if he would agree. Only her paternal grandmother ever called them from Tongaat, and she never spoke to Abigail, only to Nazma and Zubair. Shame was the knife that had severed all their vocal chords. On that day, her gran was already safely in England – because she’d chosen an earlier flight, she successfully made it to the wedding. Her photos made Abigail sob for days afterwards, and one of them – of her sister alone with her grandmother, the only family member who made it to her special day – was framed in the hallway of their Rondebosch flat.
Zubair walked in from the garden, toes turned out and elbows crooked, like a duck preparing to swim. The shape of their kitchen required that all movements orbited the table at the centre, and he performed the circular walk around it.
‘Nazma, it is a beautiful day outside. The rain has given us a brief respite and the lawn is not even wet right now. Perhaps you will take the opportunity to breathe some fresh air? Though the grass is getting quite long. You’ll need to cut it soon or I won’t be able to practise. If it weren’t for my hip, I would do it myself of course. Anyway, coffee? Yes, I will have one. Make it very strong. I’m doing the afternoon shift today and you know how the post-lunch air can drain you of energy.’
Nazma listened to him, waiting for him to finish, but as he showed no signs of stopping, she interrupted. ‘Dad. I’ve had an idea and I need your help with it. In fact, you are crucial to its success.’
She knew flattery and the thought of being central to a plan would pique his interest, and was tempted to time his response on her watch. He moved about the kitchen, putting things in their places. Pausing to take a sip of the coffee she’d made him, he asked, ‘A plan?’ He had a pinched expression and passed back the mug to her. ‘Put another sugar, Nazma. Nobody around here is a diabetic. What is this plan?’
‘I want us to go and visit Nafeesa, Dad. I need you to help me convince Mum that she can do it. If I can learn to drive, she can learn to fly.’
He coughed up coffee, little brown droplets spraying on the counter. Her question had made his face appear instantly older, and he slumped in the chair next to her, mumbling something. By bringing up the issue she had forced him to let go of the pretence that everything was all right.
‘What, Dad? I can’t hear you.’
‘It can’t be done. She won’t do it. She is as stubborn as a bullfrog.’
‘Not to be unsupportive, but I don’t think that’s a saying.’
‘It is, when you think about your mother. She won’t come. So we can never go. Or we have to wait for her to die, which are the same two things. And though it may not always seem like it, I prefer her alive.’
‘Don’t be crazy, Dad. We haven’t talked about it in all this time. Maybe if we talk about it, she will go? She must miss Nafeesa. You have to give her some credit.’
‘It isn’t due.’
‘Dad …’
They finished their coffees, both feeling dejected. The garden darkened as a cloud passed before the sun, making predictions of rain a certainty. Nazma thought about a flight overseas, tourism in London, all the things Nafeesa told her about when they emailed one another. She wanted to go somewhere new. She imagined travelling on her own but knew her mum would think of it as a betrayal. She wanted life to change and her dad was going to help her, whether he liked it or not. She sat for a while longer watching the leaves blowing outside.
‘I think it is, Dad. I think she can. Will you help me if I try? First of all, can we afford to go?’
He looked away from her and she felt sorry for him. His anger wasn’t real. It was pain. She’d always assumed it was he who’d suggested the move to Cape Town, but for the first time she considered whether it could have been her mother. He was so grumpy and rude half the time that she didn’t even try to talk to him. It was like a cycle: he was alone. He was angry he was alone. He got angry at Nazma and Abigail. He made himself more alone.
She noticed his hands begin to tap on his mug as though he was counting.
‘Of course we can afford it. It’s not an issue of money. I still have the money from your grandpa.’ He paused for a long time, seeming far away, his face made younger by thoughts of travel. ‘It would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?’
‘I think so. You’d look good on a red double-decker bus, Dad.’
‘I would, wouldn’t I? Or in the funnel. Is that what they call it?’
‘The tube.’
‘The tube! I would like to go on the tube. But do you think she will, Nazma? Do you think she will give it a try? I don’t want to get our hopes up. But what the hell are we waiting for, I suppose? I mean, what is the worst that can happen? She already makes me furious so there is really no downside. Let us try. What do you need from me? You know I can’t promise anything. You have discussed this with your mother, I assume.’
She hadn’t got that far and told him so. She made more coffee and they drank it in the garden, contemplating the rain that would fall later that day. With only a few more weeks of winter left, it was needed but not desired. Nazma was tired of holding umbrellas and wearing jackets. She wanted her legs to feel the sun again – that prickly sensation of heat on skin. But it was cold, and as soon as they were finished they went inside, he to do some paperwork for the kiosk, she to get ready to go to CIL.
Getting on the train a bit later, she allowed her mind to wander, imagining their future trip. While she gazed out the window, a man moved up the train towards her. He had a long scar extending from his forehead to his cheek. It crossed over the empty socket where an eye should have been but only a sunken hole remained. His hair was matted and damp, full of sand. The moisture and sand made a sort of paste, and it was holding some strands together at odd angles, giving him a crazed halo in the light. He smelled of overripe tomatoes and stale alcohol. The odour was overwhelming, and as he walked down the train people burrowed deeper into their shirts, scarves and jackets, some even placing their hands over their mouths.
He shook an old cup with some change in it to attract attention.
‘Money please’ – shake shake shake – ‘I’m asking, I’m asking for just twenty cents. Oh please god.’
Nazma looked up from her own scarf to find him standing right over her, too close for comfort, his smell burning her nostrils.
‘Money. Please.’ Shake shake shake.
He breathed his plea right into her face. The urge to be indiscreet and block her mouth to stop herself from retching was only suppressed by the desperation in his eyes. The passenger next to her covered up, not worried about his feelings. Nazma’s eyes began to water from the smell.
‘Sorry, man,’ she whispered.
He refused her apology. He shook his head erratically from side to side, its movements uncoordinated. The shaking loosened bits of dirt, which dropped around him. His long yellow nails extended towards her as he leant in closer. She said no again, with more force. His hand curled back around his wrinkled McDonald’s cup, and he walked on. The woman next to her released her nose, and exhaled.
‘Disgusting, isn’t it?’ She looked to Nazma for agreement. Nazma didn’t know what to say, so said nothing, but then felt guilty.
When she got out at Observatory, the walk up to the Centre felt longer than usual, and the darkening clouds made the journey less inviting. On the way up, she passed the homeless man who often stood outside CIL, sitting outside the bottle store. He screamed, ‘The end of the world is night,’ which made her laugh and feel marginally better.
As she passed the coffee shop she smelled cinnamon and vanilla and moved towards the scent. Apple strudels were being cooled on a table inside, looking soft and tasty. She reached for one, and selected another for Sam. One wall of the shop was covered in a beautiful mosaic, and shelves of biscuits covered the other. She ate her strudel, feeling the sweet apple fibres between her tongue and teeth. The pastry was just salty enough to complement it. She sat down and ordered a coffee to go with it. Within minutes both the coffee and the pastry were finished. Nazma asked the waiter to package Sam’s strudel before she polished that off too, and paid at the counter. Full of pastry and coffee, she felt better and walked the remainder of the way to the Centre wondering whether they served strudel in England.
Harpaxophobia: Fear of being robbed
Sam watched Nazma come into the room, feeling both relieved and nervous. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was for two people who had held hands goofily and smiled a lot a few days earlier, and had half flirted while messaging, but hadn’t seen each other since. He couldn’t be sure whether she hadn’t called to meet up again because she thought what happened was good or bad – or maybe she’d just been busy. He’d spent the days in between pouncing on every text, hoping it was her. Some texts had been from his mom, though, ending the peaceful absence of the past few weeks. He so badly wanted to send Nazma something saucy but always felt stupid about doing it – and also terrified of sending the message to the wrong person by mistake. The idea that he might send a sext to his mother made him want to die.
He watched Nazma move towards him, holding something behind her back, and, as she arrived by his side, she whipped out a box. The apple strudel inside was still warm and gooey. They gave each other a hug and sat facing the office where Ruby was working behind a desk, looking engrossed.
‘Want to go some place after this?’ he whispered to her while breaking off bits of strudel to put into his mouth.
‘Let’s do that. Where?’ she whispered back.
He thought about his bedroom, and then remembered that he couldn’t go anywhere with her after the session. ‘Oh shit, I actually have to go see my mom.’
‘You’re taking me to meet your mom? So soon?’
She smiled, but he panicked. His mother’s habitual racism wouldn’t accommodate him hanging around with an Indian woman, let alone falling for one. For all her dinner-party liberalism, there were very clear markers about what colour guests were and what colour the help was. He turned to Nazma to formulate an earnest response and saw that she was laughing.
‘Relax, Sam, it’s cool. I’m only teasing you. We can make another plan. No need to meet the parentals.’
He tried to laugh with her, but just felt embarrassed and guilty. Thankfully Ruby walked in then. She seemed paler and less sure of herself than before, her hair frazzled compared to its usual sleekness. He had hardly spoken to her since the first session and wondered whether she thought he was unfriendly. Reaching into his pocket, he played with the knife.
Instead of working in pairs, they worked as a group this time, conducting discussions by playing pass the parcel. As soon as the music stopped, the person with the parcel was supposed to discuss some element of their fear, and how it had evolved, improved or worsened since the start of the study. Sam was amazed at this group of strangers who were, for the most part, improving. They were honest and frank. He had never talked like this before. His father had made the parameters clear: in his house, talk of this kind was for the ladies.
Sam looked around at them all, feeling something like pride but less proprietary. Only Simon was not looking healthy. His skin had taken on the sheen of someone about to be sick. He looked moments away from vomiting. Perspiration dotted his forehead, and he mopped at it with a small handkerchief that was embroidered, though Sam couldn’t see what it said. Simon held tightly to his cane, and, as Sam looked more closely, he saw that Simon was trembling. Nobody had taken his coughing fit the previous week seriously, putting it down to his bad temper, but now Sam wondered if that was all it was. Simon was old after all, and suddenly Sam felt bad for giving him a hard time – at least he was at the study, trying. He was about to ask Simon if he was okay when the parcel arrived in his lap just as Freshly Ground’s ‘Doo bee doo’ stopped. He looked at the expectant faces and wanted to please them.
‘Well, I’m not sure how much you all know about my phobia, but it sort of began when my mother was mugged. As she pulled up to the gate of her house two men arrived and threatened her and she gave them all her money, her jewellery, and a phone, and they ran off. She recovered quite quickly, not really changing anything in her life. She saw it as a once-off thing and moved on. Anyway, I stayed with her at my family home for a while after that, just so she didn’t feel afraid, but then I started to get more and more fearful. I got an alarm system installed for her. The more systems I installed, the more scared I became, until each of us had an individual bedroom alarm with panic buttons right by our beds. Eventually she kicked me out, saying the alarm sensors felt like bedroom disco lights. She deactivated all but the perimeter alarms and gave me a speech about making her house a prison. But I still had that feeling, you know, of being unsafe. Of not being secure in my own flat. So I installed the same security outside my flat. And I’ve slept with an alarm on outside, an alarm on inside, and alarms on the doors and windows, as well as a panic button ready and waiting, for almost a year.’
People nodded empathetically, but looked at him in a strange way, as though he was naked in a school ground, as sometimes happened in his dreams. He wondered how many of them slept in well-armed houses, waiting for the shrill piercing of their home alarm to go off and to make that call to the police for help. Probably a lot of them. Maybe none. They were afraid of other things.
Ruby’s voice interrupted his assessment. ‘Thank you, Sam. Could you tell us a bit more about whether you actually feel less afraid, or what your goals are for the last few sessions?’
‘I guess my goal is to spend at least one night with all the alarms off. To see if I can sleep through the night. Or maybe just leave them off for a few hours. They say people are most likely to break in between the hours of three and four in the morning in any case. So if I just put them on during those times maybe. But then I would have to stay awake so late. I don’t necessarily feel less afraid when I’m at home just yet though. At least I don’t think I do. But it’s hard to tell.’
‘Okay, and have you found working with your partner helps? Tell us a bit more about that.’
He looked over at Nazma and couldn’t actually say what it was that she did that had made him feel better. It wasn’t the forms they filled in. It was just something about her being there – understanding what was going on – that helped. Maybe it was just that she’d shared all of her stuff and it felt as though that gave him power in some way. They were both equally scared, which somehow made them less scared. She balanced it all out.
‘Definitely. I think it’s been the perfect partnership. It’s really nice to have someone to talk it all through with … to get to the bottom of it. And we get along really well, which helps.’
He blushed. Simon snickered. The room turned towards him and collectively noticed his pallor.
‘Simon, do you have something you’d like to comment on?’ Ruby asked in a stern voice. ‘And are you feeling all right? You look a bit sickly.’
‘Just that it’s clear that there’s more going on than good partnership. Perhaps if we all got those perks, we’d all get better.’ His laugh was horrid and nasal. Johnson put his hand on Simon’s shoulder as if to stop him from saying more.
Sam felt anger send electricity to his knuckles. ‘Pull yourself together, Simon. Just because you’re too grumpy and lazy to make any effort doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t genuinely want to get better or aren’t working hard at that.’
‘I’m sure you’re working hard. Excuse the pun …’
Sam was standing before he could think about what he was doing and walked over to Simon. The rest of the participants shuffled uncomfortably. Some stood up as though they were going to run away.
‘I think you should just keep your mouth shut. All right?’
Instead of answering, Simon coughed and spluttered again, and Ruby went over to him, encouraging him to put his head down and breathe. Sam reached into his pocket, clenching and unclenching his hand around the pocketknife. He knew for certain that he wasn’t going to use it, and also that he needed to calm down. Nazma looked at Sam with wide eyes. He hoped she understood he didn’t want her to feel embarrassed – that he wanted to protect her. That Simon had no right to badmouth them or the effort they’d put in. He couldn’t just tar their stories and time together with the insinuation that they were only in it for the perks. Sam raised his eyebrows and shrugged at her, mouthing the word ‘sorry’.
‘I think let’s take a ten-minute smoke and tea break everyone. Sam, Simon, could you stay behind?’
Ruby looked at him, making sure he knew that it wasn’t a question. The others got up and went downstairs. Nazma cast him a glance but he couldn’t read her expression as she left the room.
‘What’s going on here, gentlemen?’
‘Simon is making inferences that I think are inappropriate and, quite frankly, rude.’
‘Well, if you weren’t having a bit of hanky panky with your partner there, you wouldn’t be offended.’
‘We’re not having … hanky panky! Or any kind of relationship!’ He hadn’t meant to shout and realised the rest of the group might be able to hear him downstairs, that Nazma might be able to hear him. He and Simon stared at each other, both unwilling to budge.
‘I need you both to calm down and to refrain from any more … aggravating behaviour in class. Simon, you keep your opinions to yourself. Sam, you don’t react, okay? We don’t have time for these types of diversions. You are upsetting the group and you need to think about them too.’
They nodded, and Ruby went out to call everyone back upstairs. When Nazma walked back in she didn’t make eye contact with Sam, and they didn’t have any partner work that day. He tried to catch her eye whenever he could, but either she was avoiding him or he was imagining things. She rushed out as soon as they were allowed to go, and, in the stagnation of everyone’s slow exit, he wasn’t able to catch up to her. When he got out of the door, she was gone. Calling his mom on his phone as he walked up the road, he looked from side to side, hoping to see Nazma.
‘Hi, Mom, I can come over now if you’re free?’
‘Sam. How unexpected. I was just about to … I was just going to, you know, rest a bit.’
‘You’ve been messaging me all week, Mom, asking me to come, and now I’d really like to visit you.’
‘I know, my boy. But I’m just very tired.’
‘It’ll be quick.’
‘Okay, just for half an hour. You remember the code at the gate?’
‘Of course, Mom. See you now.’
He got in and drove towards Bishopscourt, getting on the highway away from Observatory. The rain that had held off all day began to fall, and as he rounded the corner near Newlands it released a downpour. He could hardly see in front of him, and put on his headlights. Turning off just after Paradise Motors, he wound up a steep hill, surrounded by trees, to the gate of his mother’s house. He pressed the date of his father’s birthday into the keypad, and the large wrought-iron gates swung open. He cursed his mom for not replacing the gate. It was this slow opening process that made her liable to be mugged in the first place. Driving in and waiting for the gate to close, he lit a cigarette.
Dystychiphobia: Fear of accidents
The rain was falling hard, the mountain obscured from view by dense ash-coloured cloud. Ruby missed the thunder and lightning of a Highveld storm that made you feel in awe of nature and glad to be inside. There was hardly ever lightning in Cape Town. It was so rare that when it did happen it made news headlines.
Over chamomile tea, Ruby thought a bit more about how Sam had reacted. It was unlike his normally gentle demeanour. Opening the drawer in her office, she pulled out the folder containing the applications. She took out Sam’s and Simon’s, hoping there would be something in them that would reveal what she could do to calm the situation down. She reconsidered Sam’s application form, rereading the bit about his mom. Simon, the xenophobe, was very clearly stuck in his ways. Surely a fear of others was just a fear of oneself, of one’s own limitations. Maybe he was afraid of being misunderstood – of being disliked, disowned or displaced. Perhaps she could try to make him the centre of attention for a bit to make sure he felt included, make a bit of a fuss or something.
She began to write her review of the previous sessions. There were only two more to go before the final one, where the participants would fill in a questionnaire to assess their progress. Next week the staff would need to plan that questionnaire, and Ruby thought they would have to be particularly tactical about it in order to make a good impression on the Ministry. She wondered whether it would even make a difference, and drummed her fingers on the table in lieu of scratching her head.
The group was complex. They were becoming increasingly disruptive, and some had personal relationships with each other outside of the sessions. She knew the phobias study wasn’t going to be a hundred per cent effective – some fears were part of the very fabric of a person – but she was beginning to wonder if it would be as effective as they’d hoped. Obviously they’d never thought everyone could be fully cured, but in spite of all the distractions she hoped people would be able to take at least some good out of the process. These last two sessions at the Centre needed to work, or Cambada and Janet were going to whip the money right out from under her. They might do it anyway. Not being able to scratch her head was driving her mad. She called Mel.
‘Yes, Ruby?’
‘I want us to have a meeting tomorrow morning to discuss the next study, the progress on this study, and the Ministry. We’ll need to plan the evaluation questionnaire too.’
‘Okey-dokey. Must I order some cakes and things? Do you want a health one?’
‘Have a look at the budget, Mel, and exercise discretion. But don’t make a particular effort for me with the cakes. Maybe just get a packet of apples that we can all share as well as whatever cake you’d like.’
‘Apples, got it. Anything else?’
‘Not for now.’
Hanging up she wondered how she would get them out of the situation with the Ministry. It seemed hopeless. She hadn’t kept her mouth shut about Cambada, and now this study wouldn’t work, and the Ministry was going to stop their funding. She stood up, untied her ponytail, and bent forward to touch her toes, feeling the stretch in her neck and hamstrings. She imagined what her life would be like after the Centre closed down. Worst-case scenario, she would have to go and work for a corporate. Best-case scenario, she could become a swimming instructor.
Releasing her neck and shoulders, swaying from side to side, she felt how much tension she was holding in them. Then she stood up quickly and began to research Cambada online, looking for anything other than the obvious corruption scandals and failure to perform. Something juicier: a friendship with an opposition party member, an alternative identity, a third nipple. Ruby needed dirt – something that could be used as a bargaining chip. Dirt that would make sure Cambada was in her pocket.
Half an hour later she still hadn’t found anything. She debated calling Jeff to ask him to run a security check or two, but decided against it. She didn’t need her whole family dragged into it and facing ministerial sanctions, or for Jeff to lose his job. You could probably go to jail for that sort of thing.
Stretching her neck from side to side, she looked out the street window, rubbing her succulent plant, its furry texture pleasurable on her fingertips. She watched as Jericho yelled insults at some passers-by. He gesticulated wildly, the rain falling around him, swallowing the sound of what he was saying. She turned and walked quickly down the stairs and out onto the street.
‘Hey, you!’
He turned towards her with a sneer, looking aggressive. His hair was wild, the rain clustering on the tips, and his blanket was smeared with what she hoped was mud, though from the smell that seemed unlikely. His eyes were red, with popped blood vessels, his lips flecked with thick saliva.
‘What do you want today, princess? Come to fall in love with me? I don’t have time. I’ve got a date with Monroe later.’
She felt her own hair getting wet, and the water stung the old scratches on her scalp. ‘Not today, thank you. I’ve got bigger fish to fry in this weather.’
‘Mmm, I love fish. But I prefer it grilled. Especially snoek.’
‘The bones get me down. In any case, I came to ask you about something you said to me the other day.’
Jericho’s aggression turned to interest. As though he had become a distinguished gentleman, his eyebrows rose, and he pursed his lips with an academic air. The effect was ruined by the torrents of water pouring down his face, forcing him to blink regularly. She noticed the yellow in his eye colour.
‘And what was that? You know I can time travel, and I might not remember everything. Sometimes parts of me get left behind. Sometimes parts of me go to someone else and their parts come to me. I used to have breasts. In fact, I am actually living in the future now and this body is just a shell—’
‘Fascinating. I hope the weather is good there.’
‘In the future there is no weather. The oceans rose up and I only survived because I was on the top of Devil’s Peak. Everyone else except the quagga died. So now in the future it’s just me and the quagga. We just look out over the very close ocean and everything is the same. I eat grass. They eat grass. We are united …’
‘Great, Jericho. But focus. I want to talk about the past. Can we go and stand under the cover of the stoep?’
‘Thanks for asking, but no. I’m having a shower right now, so it’s a bit awkward for you to be talking to me. It’s like I’m naked.’
‘But you’re not naked.’
‘So you want me to get naked?’
‘No, focus!’
‘I am focused. You’re the one asking a man to get naked in the street. Perhaps you should focus.’
‘Come on, Jericho. Please. I want to know more about what you were saying. I’ll let you piss on the wall next week. No questions asked.’
‘A bribe … I like it. How far back would you like to go? I was born just after the sinking of the Titanic. Well, originally born. This time I was born around the fifties. But my original birth was just after the sinking. Well, my other birth, after that time I was born as Nostradamus’s brother.’
‘Last week. Not last century. Can you remember what you said to me last week?’
‘Last week was an ordinary week. I spent most of it sitting there beneath the stoep. On Monday someone gave me a boerewors roll from Spar. It was delicious. So juicy. That was the highlight of last week. So you’ll need to be specific, because our conversation, if there was one, was not a highlight. Because, my week revolved around the boerie.’ He made a lewd gesture that made her doubt he was talking about sausage any more.
‘You said to me that there would be financial trouble then death for me.’
‘Oh. Very interesting. What was the cause of that? Sounds scary.’
‘Do you remember it or don’t you, Jericho?’
‘What was my name when I told you?’
‘Nostradamus … your long-lost brother.’
‘Yes, he does like to visit my body from time to time. He was also a time traveller. That’s how he knew there would be a man on the moon, and could tell that the earth wasn’t flat, and all of those other things. I told him. But did I get any credit? No! Bladdy selfish. In any case, I can’t be held responsible for what he says when he’s here. But I could ask him, you know. If you were willing to assist.’
‘What do you mean, assist?’
‘I would love another boerewors roll. That would be incredible. I think if I eat the boerewors then Nostradamus will remember it and want to come back to my body. Hy hou van vleis.’
For all his bullshit, Jericho’s stories were gripping. She looked up at the sky as the rain continued to fall. She was asking favours from a madman as though he were the oracle. She felt her wet clothes clinging to her body. I’m becoming mad myself, she thought.
‘Let me just get my umbrella because I’ve already showered, and I don’t want to get any wetter. Then I’ll go get you a wors roll and we can chat.’
She ran inside to get the office umbrella and her wallet, Mel eyeing her suspiciously.
‘Be careful with him. You never know his moods. One minute he’s Michael Bublé, next minute he’s Marilyn Manson.’
Ruby walked back out into the rain, ready to head to the Spar, but Jericho was gone. She couldn’t see him on either end of the street, and the mist was moving up from the river, making the view hazy. She ran down the road, eyes searching every face. The cafés were full of Nordic-looking tourists in bandanas, their breath and coffees steaming the windows. A car screeched to her left, and she jumped out of the way, but a second later its brakes screeched again. Before she turned her head she knew it was screeching for him. She felt it in her core.
‘Stop! Help him!’ she screamed, and ran towards the car, and towards Jericho, lying on the pavement, his usual thick spit replaced by maroon blood oozing into the gutter.
Dialling for an ambulance from her cell phone, she waited by his side, holding the umbrella over him. The driver was still sitting in the car sobbing. Jericho looked up at her.
‘I was going to meet you at the Spar for my roll, and this tannie bumps me over. Just my luck. Now Nostradamus will never come. Sorry man! I hope they know how to braai in heaven. Well, at least they did the last time I was there so there is a chance.’
‘You’re going to be okay. Just relax, the ambulance will come.’
‘Nee man, Ruby, you shouldn’t worry so much. I’ll just be reincarnated.’
‘Pull yourself together. You’re not going to die.’
‘If not today then another day. Just like that man you know.’
‘Which man? Which man I know is going to die?’
‘The interesting one. He lives in his past. He is so worried because of his past. The interesting one is going to die for sure. Or perhaps just die inside … But we all die eventually.’
Jericho lay back, looking up at the rain as it fell around them. It was washing blood from his leg into a pool around her ankles as she crouched. She felt guiltily relieved for the wellington boots she was wearing, and then sick about thinking that. Sweat ran down her face even though the air was cold. The ambulance was taking forever. The only wound she could see was on his leg, and she wrapped her scarf around it.
‘Jericho, don’t freaking die, you asshole. You are part of the furniture around here. Who will piss on our wall?’
‘Ag, Ruby, it’s not the end of the world. That’s only in December, don’t panic. We still have a few more months to go. I just wish I could see my family. They’ve been lost in the forest for so long.’
‘The forest?’
‘I mean the jungle. The concrete jungle. It’s rough out there. Funny how I’m thinking of them now, when I haven’t thought about them in ages. I guess it is like they say – your life flashes before your eyes. Big J, Mommy, Daddy, Aunty Olive … Jissus. I feel a bit sore now, hey.’
She heard the sound of sirens, and he stopped talking, though his eyes still moved around, blinking every now and then. The paramedics finally arrived and lifted him into the ambulance, while one of them administered a sedative to the driver who had knocked him down. Ruby gave them her number so they could call her with his hospital room number, and in a flash of lights he was swept away. People stopped to stare at the scene but slowly resumed their daily activities, uncovering their mouths and absorbing their shock. By the next day, they’d probably forget that it ever happened.
Ruby stood up, her pants sopping from crouching in the rain. She looked back at the driver, still sobbing into her steering wheel as the remaining paramedic talked to her. She was misting up her windows with the force and steam of her wails. Ruby, shocked and unsure what to do with herself, walked down to the Spar, bought herself a boerewors roll, and ate it outside in the pouring rain.
Nostophobia: Fear of returning home
Sam’s mother opened the front door a little to look out and see who it was, even though she was expecting him. Then she opened it all the way to let him in as she walked away. This was typical behaviour from her. Her life was a series of artificial social encounters, programmed into her by her wealth, but the required etiquette did not extend to family members.
‘Wipe your feet. It’s pouring!’ she called back to him, almost in the lounge already.
The house looked the same as always. Thick carpets, white-washed furniture, ornaments in the appropriate places next to paintings by local artists. Dorothy, their live-in domestic worker and Sam’s former nanny, waved to him as he passed the kitchen, and he walked in to give her a hug.
‘It has been a long time, Dot.’
‘Too long, Sammy. Where have you been?’
‘Busy. And you know how Mom is. She doesn’t want me home all the time.’
‘You know you can come any time. We’ll sneak you in after cocktail hour and she’ll never know the difference.’
‘Thanks, Dot. At least you want me here,’ he laughed.
‘Ag, she does. She doesn’t know how to show it. Too much time around your dad … sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Do you want some tea, Sammy?’
‘I’d love some.’
Dot performed the ritual of tea-making. Saucers were put onto a tray. Tiny spoons were placed adjacent to china cups. Shortbread was laid out on a small plate, and a sprig of lavender picked from the window box to lie across it. Sugar cubes were stacked like pyramids in a bowl, honey placed in a pot. The kettle was boiling as Sam left the room to join his mother in the lounge.
He couldn’t remember a time when Dot wasn’t there, watching over him, while his mom and dad attended the parties and events required of people of their income level. They must have enjoyed them. He didn’t think they regretted not seeing his and Nadia’s lives progress as they grew from children to adults. When his father, Charles, passed away, his mother couldn’t wait to get them out of the house.
Gillian was stretched out in the day lounge, her slippered feet up on the sun lounger. Her pearls were strung around her neck as usual.
‘How have you been, Mom?’ He sat down opposite her in his dad’s old chair.
‘God. I’ve been so exhausted. It’s fundraiser season and I’ve been attending some or other event night after night. Last night I went to one for animals with disabilities. Incredible what they can do with three legs, dogs and cats. They are resilient. Much more resilient than people. Much more cheerful too. Affectionate little things. There was a cat with no back legs, but it had a sort of wheelchair attached, and it just rolled and rolled around chasing a ball. But yes, the charities never stop. So that’s what I’ve been doing, and of course I still play bowls twice a week. Bridge on Fridays.’
‘Well, I guess charities need support now more than ever, what with the recession and stuff.’
‘Some of them are just nonsense though, so you can save the lecture, thank you, Samuel. These organisations that spring up every day and spend a year waiting for their registration to be approved, only to find their original cause has disappeared, but now they must keep going for lack of better things to do. And I do know things are getting worse. It’s like a flea market at every robot.’
‘So you’ve been out driving then at least?’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I have been? In fact, I hired a driver. All that pushing in and out of the clutch is so tedious.’
‘You drive an automatic, Mom.’
‘Well, the indicating and things then. No freedom on the road to just turn where you want to. It’s like a police state.’ Dot placed the tea tray down between them. ‘Oh no, Dot, it’s too early for tea for me, that’s for after dinner. I’d love a gin and tonic, though. Extra lemon. Thank you.’
‘Yes, madam. I’ll bring it.’
‘On the sauce already?’ Sam asked when Dot was out of earshot, though she knew as well as he did that his mother was far too inclined to drink before dinner time.
‘What do you mean already? It’s after four. Twelve is acceptable – at four o’clock I’m already late to the party. It’s the only way I’ll survive the monstrous boredom. Anyway, my new driver’s name is Thomas. Lovely chap, comes from the Congo. They’re still warring there, I believe. I watched a video on Kony.’
‘That’s Uganda.’
‘Same thing.’
He poured his tea, wondering if she’d ever stop for a second to ask him anything about himself. Thinking it was unlikely, he took a sip of tea, and said, ‘I’ve been going for some group therapy, Mom.’ He sat forward.
‘Oh, thank god.’ The ice clinked against her glass as she placed the gin and tonic back down next to her. ‘For what exactly?’
‘How can you say “Oh, thank god” and not even know what you’re thanking him for?’
‘Just glad you’re seeing someone.’
‘Yes, but why are you glad? For what exactly do you think I should be seeing someone?’
‘Well, I’m waiting for you to tell me what you are seeing someone for, and when you’re done we’ll talk about that dreadful haircut. You look like a diaper baby, with your hair all swished to the side like that.’
‘God, Mom, you never change.’
‘Why would I?’
He sighed. ‘I’m going to therapy about my fear about security and stuff.’
‘Yes. You always have been a bit skittish. Probably too many of those damn TV games when you were younger, and all those orienteering outings. It was our fault really. We should never have let you stay indoors all day playing games. So much violence, and you were always a bit, well, sensitive.’
Sam remembered playing Doom when he was about ten years old, feeling strong and powerful. His dad had stood behind him, shouting at him, telling him what to do. He’d been in the private security business – a man of few positive words and lots of anecdotes about what a real man should do.
‘Don’t get carried away now,’ said Sam. ‘Anyway, I’m really enjoying it.’ He contemplated telling his mother about Nazma, but changed his mind. Gillian would either be overtly rude, or say something like, Oh, I have Indian friends – the one that sells me my spices is all right. ‘Have you had any more problems with security since the incident?’
‘God, Samuel. Why so formal? The incident sounds like you’re describing some time I walked around with toilet paper stuck on my shoe. I was mugged for goodness’ sake. Anyway, no, now that we’ve … I’ve hired that boy’ – Sam cringed – ‘with the bicycle down the road, we’ve had no trouble. He cycles up and down every now and then, and apparently that scares muggers away, though I can’t see how. He and Thomas get along well. I’m glad they can be friends.’
‘Good. Well, that makes me feel better.’
‘Honestly, Sam, there is no reason for you to worry about me. I was perfectly safe here for over fifty years, so I’m not sure why one blip should have upset you so much. Really, don’t overestimate yourself.’
‘I just wish I’d been there, you know …’
‘To protect me? What good would that have done? Would you have brandished your Mace? Whipped out your tiny army knife? Fought them to the death with the bottle-opener attachment?’
‘I don’t know, Mom! I guess I just feel like I should have been here at least to try. What if something worse had happened?’
‘Charles would have said just the same. You and your father acted like you were in the bloody military. At least you’ve got rid of that godawful trench coat you wore when you were younger. I was worried you were going to become a bomber or something. At least, I knew that’s what the other mothers were thinking. Those boots as well – Doctor Martin. God’s truth, those were murderous shoes.’
Sam reached for the pocketknife. He sat back in frustration on the huge high-backed chair and sipped his tea. Perfect Earl Grey. He looked across the lounge for Dot to thank her, but she had ferreted herself away somewhere.
‘And have you heard from Nadia?’
‘That spoilt child never calls me, so I never call her. I’m not going to be the first to cave.’
‘It goes both ways, you know.’
‘Nonsense. She’s the child and I’m the adult. It is her duty to call me.’
‘She’s not a child any more. And anyway, you have nothing better to do, do you?’
‘That was rude, Samuel. And even if you and your sister believe you are not children, you are still my children.’
‘Well, don’t feel special that you haven’t heard from her. I used to speak to her all the time but haven’t heard from her in ages. I’ll need to call her soon to find out whether she’ll be coming for Christmas.’
‘Oh, don’t bother. She’s become a Buddhist or vegan or some such nonsense, and won’t be celebrating. I think she’s going to a retreat in the Transkei to be silent for six weeks, so she doesn’t have her phone. I have to hear all of this through Dot! Lord knows what she’s planning on doing after that – you wonder if there is something a bit wrong with her. Why does she want to constantly search for some group or something to make her home in? She has a perfectly good community of people here.’
‘It’s who she is, Mom. In any case, it’s not like we’re such good Christians. What’s stopping us from having a different type of Christmas? We could have a vegan braai out on the terrace. We hardly ever use that side of the house any more. I drove past the aviary on the way in and it looks as if everything has died in there.’
‘Nonsense. Just hiding from the rain.’
‘So I’ll call her and tell her we’ll have a Buddhist vegan Christmas. That settles it.’
His mother looked over the top of her glasses at him with an expression of disbelief, as though not having a conventional Christian Christmas would be akin to riding an elephant through Constantia Village, or worse, walking in public barefoot.
‘Turkey, Brussels sprouts and roasted vegetables are the way Christmas is done.’
With the final placement of her glass on the table, she closed her eyes and flung her head back to signal the end of the discussion. Sam stood up to take the tray of tea to the kitchen, passing Dot, who was doing the ironing in the laundry. The room smelled of fabric softener. The radio was playing softly in the background. He sat down on a stool, where he had completed countless hours of homework as a child, and looked up at her.
‘Thanks for the tea, Dot. Have you heard from Nadia?’
‘She texted me yesterday. She’s at home. Just avoiding your mom as usual.’
‘I thought as much. I’m going to check out my room for old times’ sake.’
‘Don’t let her get to you.’ She patted him on the back as he stood up.
He walked up the staircase holding onto the banister he’d slid down a thousand times before. Now, there was nobody around who would tell him he wasn’t manly enough, or dare him to arm-wrestling matches he would certainly lose; but the threat of those challenges heaved in his memory, unwilling to settle. It didn’t matter how often he came here, he still felt like a child. Nadia had got off easily, Gillian having taken barely any interest in grooming her. Charles, on the other hand, had worked at his task of grooming Sam with gusto. Sam could hardly remember a school holiday when he hadn’t been orienteering, hiking, or doing survival exercises. All he’d wanted back then was to stay home and relax. Then there were the computer games he was encouraged to play to learn ‘tactics’ and ‘strategy’. What these skills were to be applied to Sam never found out. Charles died of a heart attack, at his desk, while playing solitaire.
Sam’s room was a living snapshot of the past. The TV that was way ahead of its time back then was still in place, with his old PlayStation connected to it. All the ‘latest’ CDs were in his rack, now dusty and outdated, and a signed poster of Jacques Kallis Prestiked to the wall above the bed. It was yellowed and torn from the hundreds of times he had re-stuck it after the Prestik expanded and contracted with Cape Town’s seasonal temperature changes.
He lay back on the single bed, his feet hanging over the end, and looked up at the ceiling that had been his view the first time he’d cried himself to sleep, when he’d dreamt of becoming an inventor, when he’d masturbated, and when he’d lost his virginity to his matric dance date. He closed his eyes and was asleep within minutes.
When he woke up it had stopped raining and the house was quiet. He walked downstairs to find his mother asleep on the couch, the second and third glasses of gin and tonic empty, on the table. He couldn’t find Dot, so left her a note to tell Nadia he’d like to chat, and then walked out into the fresh air. It felt saturated with possibility. He got into the car, lit a cigarette, and reached for his phone in the cubbyhole. There was a text from Nazma:
Hope you’ve recovered from today. Dinner tomorrow? I’ll drive us in my car if you meet me at the train station and will be my experienced driver?
He hoped this meant she hadn’t heard him say earlier that they weren’t in a relationship, because something about being at home again made him realise he did want to be grown up in all the important ways.
Deipnophobia: Fear of dining or dinner conversation
She didn’t know why she’d offered such a stupid thing. Especially when Sam had made it quite clear earlier that they weren’t together. She’d fled the session, confused and hurt. Running down to the train she had nearly collided with the homeless man, who’d stepped in front of her.
‘Sometimes we don’t mean what we say because we’re too scared to say what we mean,’ he bellowed.
‘Um. Thanks?’
‘It’s totally fine. This message was brought to you by David Bowie.’
‘That’s pretty impressive.’
He had given her a bow and walked away whistling. When she came home and thought about it a bit more, she decided it couldn’t hurt to give Sam another chance. Maybe he had only said that to shut Simon up. So in her haste to find out, she’d texted him, and now her message was out there in the world and it was too late to take it back. He took ages to reply and she composed several texts cancelling her previous one, but didn’t send them. When he eventually replied with Awesome idea. Can’t wait, she’d screamed and put her head under her pillow.
Nazma didn’t know how she was going to appear attractive when just the thought of driving caused her to perspire all over, made her palms damp, and gave her heart an erratic beat. She knew that sweat was pooling between her thighs because her antiperspirant deodorant was blocking its armpit exit; she could feel the tension exiting her body via her hair, which, she was sure, was standing on end. She felt like a popcorn kernel dropped into a hot pot.
But she still had to get through one more shift at the kiosk, taking the early one so that she could leave in time for her driving lesson and dinner. On her way to work, she walked across the Pick n Pay parking lot, which was was full of students and middle-aged women. Inside the Indian restaurant, which always smelled of curry spices and ghee, metal chairs and tables glistened. She had eaten there hundreds of times alone – so often in fact that a couple of regulars had even tried to fix her up with their oestrogen-enhanced son, whose breasts were bigger than her own. She’d politely declined over semolina pudding.
Taxis pulled up at the curb, calling passengers to them though they were already packed to capacity. She continued walking, wondering where she and Sam could go that was nearby for their date that evening. Was it a date? She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just the third work session. They had to try something that really scared them, and driving with a passenger was what terrified Nazma the most. Not only would she be unsure of her own safety while behind the wheel, but she’d have to worry about someone else judging her mistakes and criticising her driving. Of course, nobody ever did this out loud, but she just knew they were thinking it. It was all contained in the sidelong glances, the way they held onto the door handle, and the tension in their bodies. She hoped Sam would be different.
Time at work seemed to pass even more slowly than usual because she was waiting for it to be over. The trains were delayed and passengers were complaining and talking loudly on the platform. She longed for peace and quiet. On the bridge over the tracks someone had scrawled ‘love is all you need’, and someone else had crossed out ‘love’ and written ‘drugs’.
She packed up her things as Zubair arrived, questioning her placement of the pies and moaning about the weather and the wickedness of the world. They hadn’t had a chance to discuss further plans for getting Abigail on a plane, but, as she rushed out the door, she made him promise he would attempt to come up with something by the next day. He grimaced and said he’d try.
The afternoon air was dense with moisture, but it looked as if the evening would be rain free. Sun hit the mountain at just the right angle, so that it released rays in neat lines into the sky. When she arrived home her mother was watching soap operas and ironing, and they exchanged brief hellos. Abigail didn’t look up as Nazma went into the kitchen and made some tea.
Nazma called out to her, ‘I’m going out for dinner, Mum, so don’t worry about cooking for me.’
‘Out for dinner?’
‘Yes. Out. For. Dinner.’
‘With who?’ she said over the hiss of the iron releasing steam.
‘A friend from the study. His name is Sam.’
‘His name is Sam?’
‘Yes. He’s going to be my passenger, so I’m going to take my car. I’m going for a lesson now.’
‘You’re going to take your car?’
‘Are you going to repeat everything I say?’
‘It depends if you are going to be deliberately calm about this event, which sees you going for dinner with a man and driving the car you have until now scorned with relish.’
‘I am.’
‘You are?’ Nazma could tell that her mother was smiling.
‘Well, if you must know it’s a date.’
‘A date?’
‘A date!’
‘No need to get upset. I’m just interested to find out what is going on.’
‘Well, we are working together as part of the study and it was only recently that I realised he was … nice.’
‘What was he before nice?’
‘Mum!’ Nazma got up with a harrumph and walked out to the lounge, giving her mother a look that told her the conversation was over. While showering, she realised she was acting like a teenager with a crush. She selected a white jersey, grey skinny jeans, and navy pumps for the evening. She packed perfume and a spray deodorant into her bag, in case she got really sweaty at her driving lesson. Not wanting to seem overly keen, she didn’t apply the make-up Nafeesa would have told her to, even though she thought she could do with a bit of colour. Grabbing her favourite navy winter coat, she headed downstairs.
Abigail was still watching soap operas, one with subtitles, on mute. Nazma sat down on the couch and watched with her, the only sound the regular hiss of the iron. When Tony rang the doorbell, Nazma grabbed her car keys from the rack by the door.
‘Don’t tell Dad where I am. I’d rather fight about it tomorrow than have him calling me tonight.’
‘Why? Will you not be home later?’
Her mother looked like she was about to pull a muscle with the way she kept raising her eyebrows up and down, trying to wink. Nazma shrugged, making an effort not to look too hopeful. Abigail waved her away and she walked out to Tony’s car.
‘Can we use my car today, Tony?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ll need to stop at the station after, though, so you don’t mind the walk back here?’
‘Nope, you’re the last client for today. And at least it looks like it won’t rain. How will you get back, though?’
‘I’m picking someone up.’
‘Really?’
‘Yup. Let’s talk and drive.’
‘Wow – talking and driving! Big steps, Nazma. Come on then. Less talk more action.’
They set off at a sloth pace, Nazma concentrating extra hard on checking her blind spots and five points at each robot. It was the first lesson they’d ever had together where she didn’t get out and leave Tony stranded at a zebra crossing. When he jumped out at the train station an hour later, he reached into the car and gave her a high five.
‘I am impressed. Whoever has made you drive like this deserves a prize.’ Seconds after Tony walked away, Sam walked round to the passenger door.
‘Not sure what you’re worried about. You look like a fine driver to me. Who was he?’
‘My driving instructor. But don’t come over here with your compliments and put pressure on me. Get in before I change my mind.’
‘Should I tell you you’re terrible?’
‘Piss off, Sam. Get in the car!’ She put on the air conditioning, hoping it would prevent her nervous sweating.
‘Um, Nazma, I don’t know if you’ve noticed that it’s winter outside?’
‘It’s not that cold.’
She turned it off again, opening her legs a little wider to let some air between them. She waited until his seat belt was on before she turned to look at him. He seemed nervous too. She wasn’t sure whether to reach out for him or not, whether his gesture after the Wellness Warehouse was one of comfort or whether it was something more. Should they hold hands? Could you hold hands and drive?
‘So where should we go? Do you feel like pizza? Steak? Curry?’
‘Mmm … I’m not sure.’
‘That’s not very helpful. How hungry are you?’
‘Hungry-ish. Let’s do pizza. Where did you have in mind?’
‘We could do Col’Caccio’s? Or Morituri?’
‘Do you know of anywhere outside?’
‘Um, Sam, I don’t know if you’ve noticed that it’s winter.’
‘It’s not that cold.’ They laughed.
‘Okay, so what about that tiny Italian near the Labia? They have a patio, and an inside.’
‘I think I know the one.’
She made the turn onto Main Road, and they drove along slowly until they reached town. She didn’t think she could drive and sustain a conversation, and he seemed to intuit this, looking out the window, hands folded loosely in his lap. She allowed the taxis to weave in and out in front of her car, obeying the rules of checking the speedometer and rear-view mirror at intervals of exactly six seconds. Eventually they were there.
‘I’m not very good at parking in tough spots, so we may have to drive around for a while in the parking lot.’
‘I could help?’
She put on her hazards, and jumped out as he slid across the seat. He parked quickly and turned off the engine. The street was busy with end-of-day traffic and people heading out for after-work drinks. Most of the shops were closed but their lights stayed on, advertising their products late into the night.
‘I’m glad I’m here,’ Nazma said.
‘Me too.’
The smell of garlic drifted towards them as they walked down the road. She was glad they’d chosen pizza; it was just what she felt like. And it was quick – so if things went badly they didn’t have to wait too long. After a short debate about the temperature, they sat down inside the restaurant next to the pizza oven, which was warm after the night air. The waiter came and they ordered two glasses of red, and a starter to share. Italian music swirled around them. The wine arrived, breaking an awkward silence, and with the first sip things started to feel calmer.
‘Don’t drink too much – you’re the designated driver.’
‘Thanks, Mr Edwards.’ She crossed her legs beneath the table, bumping his. As they began to talk easily again, they ordered pizza, and sampled each other’s. A shared second glass of wine later, she felt bolder.
‘So now that I’ve successfully completed task three, confronting my fear, what will you do to complete it?’ She sipped her wine, hoping to appear nonchalant.
‘I’m going to try and sleep without the alarm on tonight. See if I can make it right through. I think I’m going to be able to.’
‘Big steps. How come you’re so brave all of a sudden?’
‘Because I’m hoping I won’t be sleeping on my own.’
‘Oh really. It’s a bit late to pick someone up now.’ She put her fork down and reached for her glass of water.
‘Don’t worry. I took this really cool woman out to dinner earlier and I’m hoping she’ll come back for a nightcap and a bit of this and that.’
‘I heard she doesn’t normally do sleepovers on the first date.’
‘I’m hoping she’ll make an exception. Or at least see all our other meetings as dates as well, making this, well … the third date.’
‘She doesn’t normally do that on a date-by-date basis either. Third dates are just things from the movies.’
‘That’s why I said we’d be sleeping.’
‘Just sleeping? She could do that at home, why would she come all the way to your house?’
‘Well maybe not just but mostly sleeping.’
‘I think she might be willing to negotiate.’
‘So shall we take the negotiation to my house?’
‘Only if you have good coffee there.’
‘I do, coincidentally. I have a pretty rad espresso machine.’
‘And only if we can stop talking about me in the third person.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
They left their money on the table, without asking the waiter to bring the bill. Her hands shook as they walked back towards the car, partly from cold and partly from nerves. On the way, he grabbed her hand, swung her around and kissed her, pulling her body tightly to his.
‘That’s the first part of the negotiation,’ he said when they stopped for air.
‘I look forward to the rest.’
The road was quiet on the drive back. He directed her to his flat, and waved to the security guards as he opened the gate for the car. She parked in the spare parking bay next to the stairs up to his flat and then had to go back to the gate to sign in. As they reached the door, Sam disarmed the alarms with a button and turned back towards her. Before he could open the door she leant forward and pressed herself against him, pushing him against the door, kissing him. His hands pulled her closer though there wasn’t much room to move.
‘Let’s get inside,’ she said.
‘Let’s.’
She was surprised that his flat wasn’t neater, though thinking back to his car she remembered he liked to hoard things. It was furnished simply, with a few family photographs on a bookshelf near the lounge window. There weren’t many books, but the ones there were included fantasy and science fiction. He made them some coffee, and they sat down on his couch. She put her coffee cup down on the table, and turned towards him. As he put his down, she leant over and straddled him.