The Ghost-Eater and Other Stories (16 page)

The wind teases the bottom of her dress but the material is too heavy to reveal more to weary eyes than the back of a withered calf. Here and there on the dusty tar around her, an empty plastic wrapper and bottle, a corner of throwaway cardboard and a dirty cigarette butt, are nudged by the breeze.

Then she sees it – a spiral of cloud that is too close by, too dark and ominous. She quickens her pace, scenting a waft of smoke on the breeze. As she gets nearer she can make out the flames gently licking the air above the roof of a shack like a lion tasting its kill. The steady roar of the fire increases in volume as she gets closer. She can see it rapidly gaining momentum, heat producing heat before the restless wind.

The clouds move to the background; the fire has become her centre stage. Her heart beats faster and more strongly as she walks on toward the blaze.

An audience is forming quickly, positioning themselves in a bend of wide road where the fire cannot reach. People are walking from all directions but most are coming from Mew Way and some have their work satchels over one shoulder.

Paraffin stoves explode – bang! bang! bang! – as she arrives at the back of the crowd and stops walking. She stands and watches, consumed by the scene.

The fire has become a beast that no one can tear their eyes away from. The sight and sound of it are hypnotic. No cliques of family, friends or neighbours have been formed, just different members of a community thrown together by calamity. She stands there, feeling some comfort in numbers. It does not matter to her that she is alone in this crowd – she feels a part of this spectacle, a part of something big that involves everybody here.

She realises that the fire has actually made her feel better. At least it is over there, ruining the lives of others, instead of mine.

The paraffin stove explosions continue. The fire is jumping wildly from shack to shack, pushing back the frontline of bare-chested young men tossing bucket after bucket of water into the flames from the roofs of neighbouring homes. Although she silently acknowledges their courage, it is clear they do not stand a chance against the fire.

‘Here comes the helicopter,' a man beside her shouts, looking into the sky in the direction of the Indian Ocean as the ear-splitting whine gets louder.

It is the first time she notices him. The stranger is short and stocky. The little nose and mouth and narrow eyes look strange on his round face. He is wearing a security guard's uniform with shiny black shoes.

‘I was wrong,' he says, ‘It's an aeroplane.'

She does not know what to say. It is as if she has lost the ability to speak. Can I only feel pain? she wonders. Has my soul already abandoned me?

She turns away from the little man and looks at the aeroplane swooping in towards the centre of the flames. It is unreal. Whoever is flying that plane must be crazy, out of his mind. She cannot see into the cockpit; the plane is moving too fast through the thick smoke. Is it a white man there in the sky above a township on fire? For a moment the plane actually disappears into the furnace completely and even she holds her breath. Then he is gone, the crazy white man and his noisy machine, and the crowd is sprayed with water.

‘Here comes another one!' shouts the little man.

He is not the only one enjoying himself; the crowd is whooping as the second plane drops towards the eye of the fire. The howling climaxes as the plane comes out the other end.

‘Never made a difference!' yells the man.

She nods, seeing for the first time the fire engines and hoses, police, traffic department and other officials that now make the crowd appear smaller than it is. Everything is being controlled except the fire, which is determined and has nature on its side. The heat has made the fire angry; no one can have any doubts about that.

As the minutes after the departure of the tiny planes pass, she realises that the fire hoses alone will not put out this fire. To make matters worse, it is going in the direction of the canal, into an area where the roads are too narrow for the fire fighters and their trucks.

She can see that some of those who have lost their homes are in the crowd with her. She can see by their faces. They have that look of resignation – ‘We must accept that these things happen,' their look says. As she looks around at these faces she feels relieved that she is here, standing in this crowd, watching this fire with these people. I am not alone, she thinks. We are together in this. The fire is our common enemy. I will do what everybody else does and accept. Not only because I do not have any other choice, but because God put me in this position. He made the rules and I have lived by them. I cannot see why my undying faith has led me to this fire, but He knows the reason.

‘They're back,' announced the man, pointing enthusiastically in the direction of the two planes.

‘It took them so long to turn around.' His voice is heavy with accusation. ‘It is too late; the fire is going to win. This is going to be a humanitarian disaster.'

He says ‘humanitarian disaster' in English, slowly and clearly, for effect. He isn't finished speaking yet.

‘Eish,' he adds. ‘Really, a humanitarian disaster.'

‘What was it before the fire?' she asks him, the anger suddenly too strong to keep inside.

‘What do you mean?' he is studying her closely.

‘Nothing,' she says.

‘No, what are you trying to say?' he asks again.

‘Never mind.'

‘Where are you from?' he asks her.

All of his attention has moved from the fire to the strange woman beside him. He has turned to face her full-on.

‘I am from here,' she answers.

‘Has
your
home ever burned down in a fire, sister?' he asks her.

‘No, my brother,' she answers. ‘But let me tell you something I have learnt in my short life – not all fires have flames.'

The little man with the round face watches her go. He does not follow her. It is not that he does not want to, he has the urge to walk after her, but he has heard enough. Besides, it has begun to rain.

 

She is thinking about the rain too as she makes her way out of the back of the crowd. The rain is hitting the tar before her with such force that it is bouncing back up to waist height. If it continues like this for a few minutes it will put the fire out. Nature decides these things, she thinks. Or God, perhaps.

The water falling from the heavens is being sent on its way with ear-splitting thunderclaps. She lifts her handbag over her head. The rain is warm, even hot, and makes her think of Idutywa. She hardly notices that she is wet through from top to bottom. Instead, she finds comfort in the familiar smell of the thunderstorm.

As a child, she and her twin sisters would run naked through the rain, ignoring the warnings of their grandparents. Now she can smell the cow dung and thatch of her grandmother's hut. Her grandmother built it with her own hands.

 

Wearily, she makes her way through the revolving gates and in the direction of the steps. The rain has long since stopped, but everything has a plastic sheen in the late-evening sun.

She is in a courtyard of sorts. Looking at the bolted gate of the security office, she sees that no one is on duty. She is not in the mood for questions.

There is a half-moon in the clear sky. The clouds and wind are spent and the evening is noisy with the sound of cars crossing chaotically at the busy intersection below.

She begins climbing the stairs. She counts each step … eleven, twelve, thirteen missing, fourteen, fifteen missing, sixteen … She stops to rest, leaning against the railing with her back bent. The panic is still in the back of her mind; I am getting used to it, she thinks. When she reaches the top she stops with her hands on her knees, out of breath. She is at the highest point for many kilometres around.

It is by now very dark, but she can see that more than half of the floorboards are gone. Treading carefully she makes her way to the side of the lookout point closest to the railway station. When she gets there, she closes her eyes, leaning forward against the wooden railing. Then she catches her breath, allowing her body to sway gently.

She knows that if she opens her eyes and moves her face slowly from left to right, all the way from one side of the great city below her to the other, she will be able to take in the sea of lights from the hundreds of thousands of shacks and houses. But she is too tired to do it; she is not a tourist here. In her mind, everything since the sweltering clinic in Wynberg has passed in a flash. The nurse had apologised for the broken air conditioning, and then told her the news.

Eyes still closed, she turns around and sits down against the crossbeams. Leaning her head back against the wood, she looks up at the night sky. Tired of thinking, of feeling, she breathes in and out, in and out, slowly. The few stars she can see are almost completely drowned out by the reflection of the city lights and the bright half-moon.

She sits that way for what feels like hours, finally drifting off to sleep.

 

She is lying sprawled on her side on the warm wood when she is awoken by a scraping sound from over on the Endlovini side of the platform. Peering drowsily through the darkness around her, she wonders if she is alone.

Only a tsotsi or a crazy person would be up here at this time of the night, she thinks. Smoking drugs and stealing floorboards and stairs.

Then she remembers that she does not care.
I
am crazy, she thinks. I am already dead.

She carelessly takes her phone out of her bra and switches it on. It takes a long time to start. One thirty-three in the morning, it says. Thirty-nine missed calls and thirteen text messages. All Wiseman. Everything. The hatred rising in her chest takes her by surprise – the dead do not expect to hate. Am I not meant to love my own husband?

She quickly switches the phone off and slips it back into her bra, cocking her head to one side.

A few seconds pass. Then she hears the scraping sound again.

A crazy person like me? A tsotsi?

Once again she is distracted by the memory of the sister at the Wynberg Clinic.

‘Sisi, I am sorry to have to tell you that your test results show that you are HIV positive.'

She peers up at the sinking half-moon, her pain turning quickly to anger as she hears the scraping sound again. It is getting louder.

‘Ndidlwengule ufe,' she says boldly into the darkness. Rape me and die.

 

It is after nine p.m. when Doron arrives at the house in Blairgowrie. The sensor clicks on the floodlight and the driveway is bathed in a sterile glow as he parks the Volvo in front of the garage door. He sits in the car for a while, unable to bring himself to reach for the door handle. His legs feel heavy, immovable. At times this heavy feeling is very real, and at other times, like now, there's also a tightening in his chest that makes him nervous. He considers for a moment simply starting the car and driving away. But, then, of course, he stays … of course.

This is the house where Doron grew up. The lawns are big and take a lot of mowing. In autumn the leaves from the syringa trees would cover the yellowing grass like a blanket. They're doing that now. The gutters filled up quickly and waterfalls would cascade down in front of his bedroom window when the freakishly late summer rains fell, as they always did. The house stretches like a centipede in the middle of the property, dividing it into front and back.

He sits in the car for a while longer, and studies his reflection in the rear-view mirror. The lines around his eyes are no longer just lines. He shaves his head every three days, but it still sprouts more grey hairs than black ones when he neglects his schedule. It's the thought of Maria that eventually gets him going. So very impolite to keep her waiting after everything she's done for them.

He lets himself in and finds her in the kitchen, hurriedly zipping up travel bags.

‘Good evening, Mr Howie,' Maria says. ‘Thank you for coming. I am so sorry to have to go, but I am grateful for you letting me go.'

Doron leans against the edge of the kitchen counter, as far away from Maria as the room allows. He clears his throat, a stuck word turning into a cough. ‘Of course, Maria. Of course. You must take care of your family. I mean, obviously. I could … Do you need a ride somewhere? I could drop you off. Let me drop you off. It's the very least I can do.'

Maria is putting on lipstick, doing it by her reflection on the oven door. It's the caramel-coloured lipstick she always wore, the one that he kept telling her does not suit her complexion; she's not putting on the bright red L'Oreal that he bought her. Once she's satisfied with her appearance, she stands up and looks at him. ‘No, Mr Howie. You can't leave him here alone. You need to stay with him.'

Doron looks at his own reflection, elongated and disproportionate, in his shiny shoes. He had yet to change out of his office clothes when Maria had telephoned with the news that her mother had died.

She drops the lipstick in a bag and zips it up. She comes over and gives Doron a peck on the cheek. ‘I'll take a taxi, Mr Howie. I'll be fine. Your looking after him is a big help.'

‘Look,' Doron says. He runs his hand along his bald scalp, composing his thoughts. That dull, uncomfortable feeling in his chest bleeps again like a submarine's sonar from the deep. He feels compelled by Maria's sweet presence – her perfume in his nostrils, her breath so close to him – to be clear with her, to make right. ‘I know we haven't spoken since what happened. And I'm sorry, I don't really know what to say or do. You must allow me to help in some way.'

‘I'll take the taxi, Mr Howie. I'll be fine. You look after him. We don't need to talk about it now. We both have more important things to deal with.'

‘How is he tonight?'

‘He's bad, Mr Howie. Not going to lie to you; he's not having his best night. He's out in the garden.'