“Heita brother,” I say.
“Dagga?” he offers. “Tik?”
He is thin and his skin is ash-dry.
“I need someone to help me with my car.”
“Blow job?” he blinks. I cough in shock, and shake my head.
“I need help with this car. I’ll give you money if you show me where to go.”
He looks worried and glances side to side. Probably thinks I’m a pervert, or a cop. But at the mention of money he opens the door anyway. Poor bastard.
As he climbs in, I can see how nervous he is. He slaps the dashboard and smiles. “Nice car!” he says. The stink of poverty fills the cramped space. His anxiety makes him animated: he motions with his hands and grunts to show me the way. We drive deeper into the darkness. I look over at him every now and then, trying to gauge how truly fucked I am. He has scars on his cheeks.
“This house,” he says, “here!”
It looks just like every other shack we have passed. There are lots of people milling around. I take a deep breath. When driving in here I thought the best possible outcome would be to do this job quickly and cheaply and then get the hell out. Now I’m hoping that I don’t get knifed. We get out of the car and I lock it, then on second thoughts I open it again and grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. We walk towards the house and before we go in the young man puts his hand on my chest to stop me. He motions for me to wait outside. I look around. People are glancing at me, some chuckling. The smoke in the air makes my eyes burn. I look down and try to stay out of trouble. I feel like a prat in this dinner jacket. Thank God I don’t have the Jaguar. Despite my circumstances I can’t help feeling this is an experience I’d like to write about. The feverish energy in the smoggy air, the young tattered boy. Between this and the taxi rank in downtown Jo’burg, which feels like years ago, I’ve really got some good material. I’m glad I have travelled all over the world for the sake of my writing but realise, now, I have largely ignored the dirtygritty beauty of my own country. Perhaps things do happen for a reason. Perhaps after this disaster of a year I really will have some good stuff in my pen.
The youngster comes out, trailing a handsome man behind him. He doesn’t look anything like a criminal. He walks right past me and up to the car, sizing it up.
“Hi,” I say, offering a hand. The man lifts his chin at me.
“You want to sell?” he asks.
“No,” I say, “I need…”
“It’s a good car, easy to sell. But not a lot of money.”
“No, I want to keep the car,” I say, “It’s my father’s car. I need to keep it to get home.”
He looks annoyed and whacks the kid hard on the back of his head, shouting at him in ambush language.
“Stop!” I shout. “I’ll pay you.” I take out my wallet and shake it at him. “I’ll pay you to take out the tracking system.”
“Tracker?” he says.
“Yes, take the tracker out, and I’ll pay you.”
“Five hundred,” he says.
“So you can do it?” I ask.
“Five hundred,” he confirms.
I look in my wallet. I only have four hundred and change. Plus I need to put petrol in the tank to get back to Jo’burg. And I need to pay the kid.
“I only have two hundred,” I say, “Can you do it for two hundred?”
He clicks his tongue at me and says something I can only guess is not complimentary.
“Please,” I say, grabbing him forearm.
“Nice watch,” he says. It takes a moment before I register what he has said. I look down at the wristwatch Eve gave me. Worth thousands, but that’s not why it’s my most precious possession. I close my eyes, sigh, undo the clasp and hand it over. He puts it on straight away and admires it, flashing his teeth at me.
“I’ll give you the rest when you’re finished,” I say. While he fetches his tools I slip the kid R100. He hops. The man gets to work on the car. The youngster hovers and learns. The man switches on his miner’s headlamp and starts inside the car, near the dash, then hoists the Merc up with a jack in jerky motions so that he can get underneath. I back away, looking for somewhere to sit for a few minutes. I have another long sip of whisky and sit with my head in my hands.
Out of nowhere time freezes in a big white flash. Then there is red and yellow – only then does the shattering blast strike me deaf. I am on the stony ground and there is no air. I can’t feel my arms or legs and for a terrifying second I think they have been blown off until I lift my leaden skull to check and they all seem to be there. My hearing trickles back but the screams I hear are dull. I roll my numb torso over and get a mouthful of sand. My brain has short-circuited from the shock. Finally I stagger to my feet where I feel the heat in the air. I am almost knocked over by people running past me. Some stay behind: wailing. Others are singed and sleeping. The car turns from a hot orange bloom into a black, smoking shell. I walk away.
40
BIRDSONG
I walk for hours until a car picks me up. They speak urgent Afrikaans to me, pointing to my bleeding ears and blackened face. Their voices are muffled. They want to take me to the hospital. They want to take me to the police station. I say no and try to get out of the car but they peel my hands away. They want to take me home to clean me up. I don’t have a home, I want to tell them, but my mouth isn’t working. I lose consciousness.
I wake up in a strange house. I am lying in a child’s bed, my feet hang over the edge. The walls are pink and there are fairies and decrepit stuffed toys. I can’t possibly imagine where I am. I close my eyes again. The memories come to me in startled flashes. The man wearing my watch. The young kid in the torn shirt. The blinding crunch of the bomb blast. Tears burn my eyes and leak down my temples, staining the pillow. I can’t help wishing I had been in the car. At this stage, death would be sweet oblivion. My body convulses and everything hurts, then I am again dragged away by sleep.
I wake up to birdsong. It’s difficult to move but I manage to swing my heavy body out of the miniature bed and try to open the bedroom door but it’s locked from the outside. The Deliverance song banjos my brain. Taking fright I rattle the doorknob and shout. Perfect, I think, to be kidnapped by the Deliverance Gang. What’s next? Hallways of chicken bones?
The door is unlocked by a woman I don’t recognise.
“Sorry for that,” she blushes, “we just locked it for safety.” She hands me a tray of breakfast food and leaves. Fried polony and margarine on white toast isn’t my thing but I can’t remember when last I ate and I inhale the plate in minutes. The coffee is instant and over-sugared but it is one of the best cups I’ve ever had. When I’m finished I take the tray into the kitchen. Everyone stops what they are doing to stare at me, including two cereal-mouthed, saucer-eyed children at the breakfast table. I look down to make sure I’m wearing clothes. My limbs are blackened so I guess my face is too, apart from the lines the tears left. One of the men gives me a threadbare towel and shows me where I can shower and, afterwards, on the way out, points me in the direction of the bus station. He tries to give me cash, some pink fifties, but I refuse, showing him my wallet.
I’m astonished at their hospitality. This would never happen in Jo’burg. The criminal climate just doesn’t allow for it. As I limp towards the station my breath is shallow. I wonder if I have broken a rib. Perhaps there is something to be said for backwater towns after all.
Once I am on the bus destined for home I feel safe, cocooned. I wait for the pylons to turn back into trees before I take out the letter from Mrs X and hold it in my hand for a while before opening it. It’s a little bent and marked and the gold wax is cracked. I think: This had better be good.