and was standing outside the store waiting for me to return.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Yes, Byron.’
‘No, I said I would. I can afford.’
‘So can I, Byron, so can I afford.’
‘I’m a manager. I’m a manager and I can afford my own shoes.’
‘Oh, Byron, you really are, you are really so very silly. Sometimes. You are silly. You can buy them from me if you want!’
‘Fine.’
‘Or I’ll give them away.’
‘To who?’
‘To someone else. There are, Byron – actually, in case you didn’t know – there are other people.’
‘With what?’
‘With feet, Byron. With feet.’
And suddenly as I stood there in the centre of the shopping mall drenched in sunlight and surrounded by strangers, a thought occurred to me. A thought that stayed with me the whole drive home. Somewhere, perhaps not too far away, there must indeed be someone else with feet: my type of feet.
I dropped Victoria at her flat and went home. It was late afternoon when I pulled into my driveway and parked underneath the old carport. The driveway looks directly onto my bedroom, and although the cover partially blocks the sunlight, at this time of day my room is well lit. It gets more light than the rest of the house, which exists in almost perpetual darkness. The long passage with the old thick wooden beams, cracked and lined with dust never gets a drop of light. The ceiling is three metres up and decorated with intricate designs. This theme runs through most of the rooms in the house, but not mine.
I dropped down on my bed and sent a cloud of dust floating into the air. I dropped the packet with the two shoeboxes onto my table and opened up my clothes cupboard. It was pretty much empty. All my clothes were lying in a pile in the corner of the room. It smelt dirty. But the afternoon sun was just right: not that furnace-like heat enjoyed by cunts who go to beaches. I took the right shoe out of the size eleven box and the left shoe out of the size seven. I put them in the lowest section of my shelf alongside the other pairs, then put the remaining two shoes in the same box and placed them in the other section of my cupboard alongside all the other unused shoes I’ve collected through the years. The boxes have literally been caked by a thick layer of dust which I now unsettled as I added the new arrival to the pile. I sneezed.
Then I set off through the streets to the Spar. It moved one building down about a year earlier and the old building still stands there, unused. The old delivery zone has become a favourite hangout for the large number of hobos who live in my area, Observatory. Behind the new Spar is a pay-per-month parking lot, a butchery and a second-hand clothes store. A lazy-looking car guard was sitting on a plastic chair beneath a gum tree. The world felt tired. Nothing much was happening: even the hobos were sitting in silence.
I bought myself a pack of cigarettes and a Cape Ads, then went back home and paged through to the personals section. No one had beaten me to it. Or at least not this week. I scribbled down the advert I wanted to place, phoned the Cape Ads, and dictated it to a lady at the call centre:
Byron: I’d like to place an advert in the personals.
Operator: OK, sir, have you used the Cape Ads before? Do you have a reference number?
Byron: No.
Operator: Name please, sir.
Byron: Byron.
Operator: And what is your ad, sir?
Byron: I have a right foot UK size 11 and a left foot UK size 7. I’m looking for someone who has the opposite problem to swap unused shoes with, or go shoe-shopping with. Contact Byron on 082 995 2381.
Operator: OK, sir.
The operator giggled a little. I’d never have had the courage to place the advert if Victoria hadn’t helped ease my self-consciousness a little. Not to say it was gone. But at that moment, at least, I felt OK.
I hung up. Rolled myself a joint, kicked off my shoes, and waited for a response.
* * *
A dozen guests who’d come independently of the German tourist bus were the last to leave. One of the underling chefs threw a container of dirty water on the fire, sending a thick cloud of grey smoke into the air and causing the coals to sizzle.
I sat at the bar beneath the palm overhangs sipping a Black Label and smoking the second-last cigarette in my box. From the parking lot I could hear Charlie starting up his motorbike. He hadn’t bothered to say goodbye.
I wasn’t sure if he’d made a mistake, or if it was a setup. It could have just slipped his mind; alternatively he and Vusi could be in cahoots, and the reason he’d told me we wouldn’t be using praise routine number four was simply to lull me into a false sense of security. Whatever the story, I knew what awaited.
Lindi came walking toward me from the girls’ change room; she was wearing a tight grey top that hugged her large breasts. She looked up from writing an SMS and said: ‘Vusi wants you in his office, Byron! Cheers, babe!’ she called out to the barman.
I knocked back the rest of my beer, took a long drag of my cigarette and stubbed it out.
The entrance to Vusi’s office is next to the service bar. It’s a simple security gate that he’d obviously just unlocked after stashing away the cash. I walked down the wooden stairs toward his office, which doubles up as a storeroom. As usual there were empty kegs, unwanted promotional goods strewn across the concrete floor. His desk is in the far corner, illuminated by a single halogen lamp. He was typing on a laptop that he now folded flat.
‘Sit down, Byron.’
I pushed the skins between my legs, placed the shield on the floor. He’d undone the top three buttons of his shirt, he looked stressed. He ran his hand over his bald head, then started playing with the curly stubble on his chin. He always does this before lecturing me. He wants me to believe that I’m in the presence of a sage.
‘Let me ask you something,’ he finally said. He continued to play with his beard and stare over my shoulders at an invisible point in the distance. ‘Where do you see yourself in five years?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Not sure. Do you still see yourself here? At Bhakhuba?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Wearing the skins? Translating praise poetry?’
‘I don’t really know right now.’
‘You only have to remember five routines.’
‘Charlie said we wouldn’t use routine four tonight.’
‘It’s only a few lines. Why do you keep forgetting it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He doesn’t know.’ He started scratching his head. ‘Tell me, Byron,
