“I certainly will,” says Kristof. Off he goes, sports bag over his shoulder.
Two
Taxis are zipping along Claremont Main Road, veering from side to side, treating the dividing line as a meaningless spill of paint. The air is filled with hooting and emission fumes. Pedestrians bob between the Saturday morning traffic. An old woman serenely follows her own Zen path straight across the road, ignoring the cars weaving around her; a bus bears down on a trio of sauntering young men, who respond with comic running gestures, swinging their arms without speeding up.
Kristof’s small white car passes down the road. He is humming a musical piece, Short Ride in a Fast Machine, imitating highlights from the various instruments. Nearing the finale, he takes a neat left turn into the underground parking lot of a shopping mall.
He runs up two flights of stairs and emerges next to a shop that sells occult books and computer games. Then he turns left and strides past a bowling alley fronted by twitching fluorescent lights and a brace of loitering, scowling teenage boys. Near the alley is a café, Divine Muffin, and next to that is a post office.
As he approaches its glass doors, Kristof sees the Saturday morning queue, a conga line snaking back and forth until it reaches the counter, where five employees are attending to customers. He joins the back of the queue. The line is unusual today: it is visibly moving. In fact, the employees of the post office are handling customers at great speed. Behind the counter they bend to write, stamp blue messages onto black-edged forms, smile as they hand over packages. People walk away from the counter slightly dazed, as if they have just received an unexpected kiss.
In front of Kristof is a young woman whose strong back is covered by a cotton shirt, her dark skin visible as a shadow through the white material. She is wearing blue jeans, and as he stands behind her Kristof begins to whistle. It is an old hymn, yearning, intensely spiritual. His performance, while not showy, is uninhibited; he whistles as he would in his own bedroom. The woman turns and smiles.
“Wow,” she says.
He nods and continues whistling.
“That’s quite something.”
He stops and looks at her.
“Are you a musician?” she asks.
“I wish I were. I love music. And you – are you a musician?”
“I wish! But I’m a huge music fan too.”
The two music lovers smile. They are moving steadily forward, thanks to the hyperactive tempo of the post office employees.
“What’s going on with them?” asks the woman.
“Maybe they’re high on life,” says Kristof. She snorts.
Half a minute passes. “Can I ask you something?”
She turns to Kristof. “What?”
“It’s personal. You might not want to answer.”
“If I don’t want to, I won’t.”
“Do you come here often?”
She laughs. “As much as I need to.”
“Me too.” There is a pause. “I’m Kristof. Would it be rude to ask your name?”
“Umm,” – she bites her lower lip. “Nomsa.”
“I’m glad to meet you. Look at that, we’re at the front already.”
Nomsa goes left, Kristof right. The woman at the counter deftly takes his ID book, stamps a form, has him sign it, and passes him a package. Standing behind her is a grim man, heavily built, arms folded: a post office inspector.
As Kristof walks away from the counter, he neatly slits open the cardboard package with his car key and shakes out the hardcover book inside. It is called Under the Skin of the Earth, and is a collection of photos taken with powerful flashes in trenches at the bottom of the world’s oceans. Waiting for Nomsa while standing at the back of the post office, he flips through the book. There they are, all those miraculous beauties and horrors, captured by scientists deep in their exploration vessels, alone in the profound darkness. A metaphysical lesson reveals itself: reality outstrips the imagination. One sometimes encounters works of philosophy in which the author dismisses a possibility – some social arrangement, or state of mind – on the grounds that he cannot imagine it. But why be bound by his pitiful capacity to imagine the contents of the world? No philosopher could have conjured up the otherworldly physiology of these creatures, yet they exist in abundance.
As Nomsa arrives, Kristof slips his book back into its packaging. “Did you get what you wanted?” he asks.
She smiles and holds up a broad letter.
“I was thinking it would be nice to have coffee,” Kristof says. “Maybe at Divine Muffin. What do you think?”
“I shouldn’t. I have a lot to do.” She flashes him a smile of consolation, and turns to go. Her white shirt, her jeans.
“Are you sure?”
She turns back and nods. Sorry.
“Would you give me a minute? Then you can go. That’s all – just a minute.” She is silent, waiting, as he looks at her with his sharp green eyes. “I guess I’m older than you – by nine, ten years? – but I’m not experienced at this. Now and then I’ve met someone by chance, and thought, well, this could mean something. I’ve never done anything about it, though.”
Her eyes are made up, curves of black, and her hair is braided. She looks like a woman of ancient Egypt.
“I don’t want that to happen again. Just a cup of coffee.”
Nomsa appears to be working something out. A variety of expressions pass across her face; she is performing a kind of moral calculus. Then she reaches an appearance of anxious pleasure. “Fine.”
She is a tall woman, nearly his height. She walks with a strong stride, two silver bangles on her left wrist tinkling. His glide is smooth and quiet.
Divine Muffin is almost empty. On Saturday the students lie in late, and it’s too early in the morning for shoppers to be taking a break from their chores. “Here?” Kristof asks, pointing to a small round table. On the floor he sees a squat portable bar heater, its three strands glowing red, peeping up like an obliging dog. Capetonians are never prepared for winter; their response to the long annual cold season is improvised and patchy.
The waiter comes over to give them a pair of laminated menus, slightly sticky. He is a middle-aged man with a grey ponytail and muscular arms. Even on this cold day he is wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Along his forearm is a tattoo that says “Baby, don’t cry.” Kristof watches the message undulate slightly as the man wipes the table. Punctuation is arresting in a tattoo: skin mutilations usually neglect this aspect of language.
“You know what I like about this place?” Kristof says. “They don’t flood you with choices – only a few flavours, but they’re all good.”
