an eyebrow.
“I’ve learnt some things about you already. For instance, you’re ambitious.”
“Oh, really.”
“And also sensitive.”
“How do you know this?”
“People are what they seem to be. You just need to watch. For example, the way you move – I can see you’re on your way. Also, you’re open to the world.”
Nomsa laughs. “You’re making it up.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
She ruminates. “Well, I have a career in finance.”
“There you go.”
“And other interests, social concerns.”
“Exactly: a woman of substance.”
“One day – when I’ve made enough money for it – I want to produce documentaries. Real South African documentaries, you know.”
“Oh?”
“To show South Africans to each other. Deep down, beneath our differences, we’re all the same.”
“Unity amidst variety,” says Kristof, nodding. “Do you know Francis Hutcheson’s work? Hutcheson thinks that unity amidst variety is beauty. That’s just what beauty is.”
“Wow,” says Nomsa. “I mean, that’s exactly – that’s what I want to do.”
“Are you from Cape Town?”
“Joburg.”
“Is your family still there?”
“My dad is.” She rolls her eyes.
“Looks like it’s not bad having some distance from him.”
“Oh, he’s not so terrible. I mean, he kind of is.” They both laugh.
Kristof says, “Now I know what kind of muffin you should have. Coffee caramel. Coffee because you’re strong, capable, alert. And caramel because you’re also kind of a sweetie.”
“Oh my God. You’re such a flatterer.”
“It’s not flattery if it’s true.”
The waiter comes over to take the order: two coffee caramel muffins.
Half an hour later, Nomsa has told Kristof about her job, recently begun, as a junior analyst at a stockbroking firm; the pressure she feels from her father, a tycoon in Johannesburg, for his only child to succeed spectacularly in business and to start a family and raise children, especially now that she is already twenty-seven; and the feeling on some days that she is on top of the world and on others that she is a failure. He nods, grimaces, laughs and shakes his head at the right places.
“You’re a good listener, you know?” she says. Then she adds, “Look, I should have said something earlier. I have a boyfriend.”
“I’m sorry,” Kristof says, grinning, comically slapping his head with his hand. “I should have known. Lucky guy. I’m not going to try anything. I respect your choice.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course, you didn’t know me when you met him.”
Nomsa swats at Kristof with a serviette.
“Just kidding. Anyway, at least I can be your once-off muffin friend.”
The waiter comes for their plates. “Can I interest you in anything else?”
“No thanks,” says Kristof. “I’m happy with what I’ve got here.”
“You’re bad, you know that,” says Nomsa, briefly placing her fingers on Kristof’s forearm.
He allows himself to be touched, but does not offer any physical movement in return. Along with his muffin, he has drunk two strong black coffees. His eyes are sharper than before, his gaze more intense.
“Since we’re only here for coffee, once and never again,” says Kristof, “there’s a kind of freedom in that. I can speak my mind.”
Nomsa waits, her hands now clasped around her cappuccino for warmth.
“Life is short and tough, and there aren’t many moments of grace. But here we are, and there’s that rare electric spark when two souls touch. Even if we don’t see each other again, I’m grateful for that.”
Divine Muffin is getting busier. The tattooed waiter and his colleagues are taking orders, juggling plates on their forearms. The air smells of bitter coffee and baked goods.
“Okay,” says Kristof quietly. “Well, that’s off my chest. It was lovely to meet you, to have coffee with you. And so, goodbye.”
When he gets up to pay the bill at the counter, he puts his hand down on hers for a moment. Her hand is warm, the same temperature, as if they are two parts of the same creature.
Kristof turns off Main Road and drives for a few minutes until he is on the street containing Maria’s house. Two days ago he took this road to the departmental counselling session with her.
He does not see Maria on the street. She is probably in her house; her car is in the driveway. But he drives more around the area – wide roads with broad tar pavements, patches of trees and grass. The streets are calm compared to Main Road: there are few drivers and no hooting. Kristof moves slowly, cruising. The white light of this winter morning sharpens the scene, delineating every tree, rendering the green wire fencing of Paradise Primary School dramatic. In a cul-de-sac, protected from cars by a bollard, three kids are playing piggy-in-the-middle with a tennis ball. He gives them a wave as he passes them. Polite children: one boy waves back, smiles, before throwing the ball high over a girl’s head. Then Kristof sees Maria. He often experiences coincidences of this kind; sometimes he regards himself as a locus of unlikely events. She is wearing a pair of black jeans and a green shirt this morning, an arresting combination with her short blonde hair. Maria is walking up the street, weighed down with shopping bags. Her pregnancy is a subtle curve. It seems that the other philosophers did not notice it at the session – at least, no one mentioned it afterwards – but to Kristof it is quite obvious.
“Hi,” he says, opening his car window and leaning his head out, smiling. “Would you like a lift?”
“Oh, hello,” she replies after an uncertain moment, her hand above her eyes to shield them from the morning light. “Sorry, I didn’t see you at first. That’s very kind of you –”
“Not at all.”
“But I’m happy to walk, thanks.”
“I think that’s great,” says Kristof. “That’s the right decision.”
She laughs, lowering her shopping bags to relieve her fingers.
“That’s the way to exercise
