Small Things

by Nthikeng Mohlele

  We are too stunned to eat, to think, or make sense of anything. Amazu returns from his bedroom perfumed, his bulky self wrapped in a cream evening gown. Something is amiss. There is a sudden unfriendliness about him, a seething moodiness. To warm the frosty demeanour, I suggest we go to the hospital either now or first thing in the morning; Desiree’s next-of-kin paperwork. He does not answer but continues to pace about the house, picking up and throwing things around, searching. In silence he turns couch pillows upside down, moves furniture and peers underneath it, packs and unpacks newspaper stacks in quick, sweeping motions. He begins to sweat, the frostiness replaced by visible anger; anger that soon grows into hisses, then bursting rage. ‘I was this close –’ he demonstrates with his index finger and thumb, ‘this close! Why don’t you have respect for other people’s things? I told you to leave everything as you found it, just the way it was, no matter how dirty you judged it to be. How hard is that? There is greatness in this mess! Why do you insist on changing things that don’t belong to you?’

  I always suspected that Amazu was the kind of man you ran to when life dealt you evil cards, but that his generosity hid a failure battling to redeem himself. That despite his temporary offers of sanctuary, he would always be a predictable disappointment. Burdened by the news of Desiree’s demise, the helplessness of my homelessness (how quickly the hesitant body gets used to other people’s beds), all I can do is ask what sin I had committed to warrant such grandstanding and abuse. The crime, as I soon learn, is in having moved the yellowing newspapers, swarming with ants and pizza crumbs, from the couches into the dustbin – from there (today being Friday) to be ground under the crushing blades of municipal refuse removal trucks. The yellowing newspaper, says my accuser, had scribbled on it the closest, most elaborate and refined mathematical formula that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that life is meaningless. Everyone solves for x, the unknown. Mathematically, you can calculate all the way to your grave; someone, somewhere, is bound to disprove your hard-earned insights, create new problems and confusions along the way. Meaninglessness is impossible to reduce to a single formula. I feel sorry for Amazu. Such passion, such relentless, disjointed inquiry, noted on newspapers, milk cartons and pizza boxes.

  The fact that Amazu is so serious, that he does not even pause for breath, means only one thing: Amazu Ogbedo believes his theory. I find the entire episode depressingly sad but at the same time hilarious. I break out into muted laughter that soon gives way to a wave of howling gasps that leaves my head pounding, my ribs sore. I completely lose my composure, forced to keep laughing even when I desperately want to stop. My laughter – dangerous laughter – only worsens Amazu’s anger. Unhinged by the news of his lover’s death, enraged by the loss of the greatest mathematical formula ever calculated, he walks past me to the front door which he holds open and, in the most polite manner, says: ‘Please leave my home.’ Not house; home.

  I have no luggage to pack. All I have to do is fetch my trumpet and retrieve the dog from the indoor kennel, say my profound thanks and face the persistence of my vagabond life; the impending implosion of a brittle existence. The phone rings. Amazu ignores it while I, trumpet case in hand, go in search of Benito. The caller is persistent. Some eleven attempts later, he finally picks up: ‘Amazu.’ The conversation is brief, the effect immediate. There has been a terrible confusion, an unfortunate misunderstanding. Amazu clasps his hands together, unable to contain his joy. It was Desiree’s ward mate who died, from surgical complications. A computer error. Our Desiree is still very much barely alive, continues to lie staring into space, her once-vibrant beauty daily eroded by time and disease.

  Once broken (‘Please leave my home’), some things can never be fixed. It does not help that my views on Amazu have always been muddled, never quite settled. I am grateful for the guaranteed meals and hot showers – yet remind him that it was never my intention to abide with him for eternity. There is no doubt that, thanks to him, I am well fed, no longer the gaunt corpse that entered 184 Jan Smuts Avenue six months earlier. The regular baths and grooming have somewhat lifted my spirits, though I cannot deny that the yoke of advancing age reminds me of my imminent collapse. You cannot be a vagabond forever, the yoke says. So I suffer blinding headaches, my joints creak and my mouth is often salty.

  Apart from those afflictions, there are the humiliating accidents of an unreliable bladder, not to mention bowels that seem so erratic that I never know when I will need to sprint for the bathroom – only to be further embarrassed by the squeaky meows of bowels in turmoil. If breaking wind were an elixir, I would be the healthiest soul in the southern hemisphere. There is also the problem of memory: I say and do things with good intent, only to be stunned by tearful gratitude or rebukes, days later. It is peculiar, and disconcerting, how I often wake irritable and upset, yet unable to remember the reason for my sullen mood. Amazu knew how to deflate my wanton feelings of anger (like dogs snapping at hands that pull them by the tail), by saying pedantically: ‘There are many kinds of suffering in the world. Some are self inflicted.’ I envied his barren analysis of life, hated his matter-of-fact views on things requiring feeling; loathed his manner of living, his mathematical existence.

  In reality, I tell Amazu, my going has little to do with the fact that he explicitly kicked me out of his home and more to do with me breathing freely under Johannesburg’s tempestuous skylines. Observing the little things: beggars pulling shopping trolleys filled with all manner of useless possessions; the trusting pigeons pecking at bread crumbs in my palm; shadows rising and falling as the sun scorches the clouds brewing rain.

  I walk out into the sweltering heat – no destination in mind. Along Jan Smuts Avenue the traffic crawls, the numerous luxury automobiles making it clear that there is a world within a world: two Johannesburgs – one for vagabonds and the other for senior executives speaking animatedly into smart phones while cruising in Mercedes Benzes as big as boats. In this other Johannesburg, the one of plush, air-conditioned cars, the revolution is without the slightest meaning. The executives collect revolution memorabilia on the struggle: coffee-table books and BBC documentaries. But their lives are no struggle. They simply throw money at things. Uncomplicated. Benito whimpers, sniffs my heels as we walk purposelessly towards Oxford Road, past Rosebank, towards Melrose.

  Johannesburg thunderheads hint at the possibility of rain. I, hungry dog in hand, trumpet slung on my right shoulder, walk in the afternoon sun. Where could I possibly go to avoid the coming storm, if not to loiter around, looking suspicious? Corlett Drive takes me past unremarkable sights, the occasional belch of diesel smoke from construction trucks and metro buses. I walk downhill, weak at the knees, freed from Amazu’s generosity, his silent judgements. Blue lights flash in the distance. I see police frisking people, lining them up against walls. An impromptu detour, an early right turn, lands me at Melrose Arch, passing beautiful women throwing their heads back in staged laughter. Bentleys and Lamborghinis are parked in front of the Melrose Arch Hotel, friends, lovers and sophisticated thieves dining at sidewalk restaurants. Someone picks guitar strings (acoustic) in the hotel lobby. He is not trying to milk money from people; he is making his playing exactly that: playing. He plays to create mood, a receptive ambience, and can be instructed to stop any time the hotel management deems fit. Through the revolving doors I see him grinning and nodding to passing guests dragging their bags on wheels; casually tuning and retuning his instrument amid the courteous applause from those resting on the reception couches. Youngish good looks, well-tailored grey suit. How do I tell him: on my shoulder is a trumpet, ready to accompany your strings? How do I say to him: take a bow, rest, go for a walk, meet the daughters of famous fund managers? Envy eats at me. I imagine the prospects: trumpeting in an air-conditioned hotel lobby for a set salary! How receptive his audience is, knowing nothing is expected of them but to sip good wine, free from moral obligations.

  A man, unbeknown to me, observes me from an outdoor restaurant. He, moments
later, walks towards me, taps my shoulder, offers me a handshake. ‘Couldn’t help noticing,’ he says. ‘Francois de Wet. Just thought I could be of assistance.’ I am stung. What he means is, this is not a place for vagabonds, craning their necks into hotel lobbies, spying on strangers. Your dog, he wants to say, is sure to offend my patrons who have escaped the drudgery of less plush Johannesburg social nests to come and dine in peace. Don’t you see you don’t belong here? This is what he wants to say. I, not seeking pity, tell him my story without passion or emotion, acknowledging that it is possible that my very existence will offend some people here. And what’s more, with a dog in tow, amidst dining places. I was not even intentionally coming to Melrose Arch, I tell him, it just happened. Will I blame him if he thinks I am a bloodsucker in search of hand-outs? I compliment his well-trimmed moustache, joke that it reminds me of famous writers. He is a leech, sucking me for clues so as to dissect me and hang my remains in public squares to hisses of: vagabond! My bowels growl, an embarrassing, needy growl, a growl of famine.

  But I am wrong about Francois de Wet. The manager-owner of Café Mesopotamia, eleven years strong, he is no stranger to hardship himself. Thrice divorced, with grown children, the girl a commercial pilot and the son a recovering drug addict, paralysed in a motorcycle accident. ‘I am short of waiters; if it’s something you want to consider …’ he says. I thank him for his kindness, and we walk past dining exhibitionists into his modest office. He gives me a form, dials a number, requests two plates of lamb shank, for Benito and I. Legitimate guests! He lays out the road ahead: an introduction to Café Mesopotamia menus, three weeks’ training (difficult customers, wine lists, Café Mesopotamia etiquette), and ‘many other things as we go along’. I notice photos on the desk; there they are, the pilot and the drug addict. But not a single picture of wives past. I eat like a runaway slave.

  There is a twist to my good fortune: I need, having completed the forms, to finalise everything with Tony, a tattooed giant impatiently clapping hands, sending waiters jetting in all directions: ‘Table 2, Mandy. Move!’ ‘Come Fred, keep them coming. You forgot lemon slices for Mr Douglas.’ ‘There you are Celeste. Happy birthday sweetheart, but you are fucking up my orders today.’ Celeste is offended – the way she smiles with her teeth only, the small pouchy mouth trained to suppress revolt. Speed. Precision. Hippopotamus-hide-thick temperament, in defence of the Café Mesopotamia reputation.

  What is Tony going to say to me? I am getting tired of your leaking bladder, old man, go tend tomato plants and leave my tables alone? Put that fucking trumpet away before I impale you with it? Are there no lesser demands: dishes, floor-mopping, bar-associated errands? I shudder to think what awaits me. But when did things get so fast, where one is not even permitted a moment to think about the task at hand? Is eighteen years that long, that existence seems to be turned on its head? Or is it aftershocks of prison life that have slowed me, all those weeks in solitary confinement when it mattered not whether time moved or didn’t? Everyone in this city seems programmed to be in a hurry, to hop on the speed train to nowhere. Benito licks his plate clean.

  Francois bids me farewell (the daughter’s wedding meeting), welcoming me to Café Mesopotamia in advance. On my way out, walking past animated conversations bathed in self-indulgent laughter, I am confronted by a furious biker (long, curly black hair, leather pants and jacket): ‘Hey! That’s Raisin. That’s my dog. Hey mister – have you any idea what you have put me through, stealing my dog? Dog thief!’ He yanks the dog from my embrace, full of hostile intent. Numerous pairs of condemning eyes cut me to shreds, before forks and knives resume slicing pork and whatever else on multiple plates. All these faces, chewing gum, smiling into cellphones, getting kissed. Who are these catastrophically stupid, soul-deprived people dining in hordes?

  The biker, Benito firmly in his hold, strides to a Harley Davidson parked nearby. He fires the engine, and with an explosive rumble, Benito disappears into the afternoon sun. I am a welter of emotions: Shocked. Embarrassed. Offended. A woman exits Club Kilimanjaro, offers to walk me ‘wherever you are going’. We head back along Corlett Drive. She is thirty or so, maybe older, wears tight jeans and a floral blouse. Her make-up boasts all sorts of precisions: eye liner, mascara, lascivious lips painted an oppressive red. A beautiful, younger version of herself lurks somewhere inside her; a self far from the schemer that pursues me.

  ‘I saw you with Francois. He is a nice man.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I interest you in some pleasure? I am Catherine. But friends call me Brutal Kate.’

  ‘I am not interested in pleasure,’ I protest.

  ‘I don’t sell my vagina, if that’s what you think. You can get that from your wife. I sell the mysterious. I make lewdness possible.’

  ‘I don’t care if you sell space rockets. I am not interested.’

  ‘It is not only pleasure; I expose you to other worlds.’ I snap at her: ‘Have I asked to be exposed to other worlds? Stop following me, please!’ Her face contorts, works itself into a confrontational mask: ‘Timid old shit – choke on your miserable life!’ she spits. I ignore her and quicken my pace, leaving her sulking and dejected. My thoughts are with my dog friend, so callously taken from me, without any discussion. I walk back to 184 Jan Smuts Avenue, to negotiate a few more nights under Amazu’s roof.

  Tony is, as I have predicted, unpleasant. My training at Café Mesopotamia starts at dawn, and ends after midnight on most days. The demands of the wealthy, existing in a bubble of their own, are worse than the occasional rude remarks I endured at Mary Fitzgerald Square. It seems to me that the patrons’ nights out have little to do with eating, and much to do with showing off expensive cars and promiscuous lovers. I have trouble remembering orders (they sound to me like insolent instructions), even when I write them down. My shifts are gloomy, polluted by irritable remarks and ‘call your manager’ ultimatums. It is not unusual to hear a patron explode: ‘Are you deaf? I said absolutely no pork!’ ‘Strawberry milkshake is not the same as a tot of vodka – she’s eight years old, for crying out loud!’ ‘I said well done for my lamb chops – three times – why are you serving me raw, bloody meat? Do I look like a vampire to you?’ I am not like Celeste, skilled in silent revolt. My suppressed temper leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, the more so because such lapses mean I have to answer to a raving Tony, bent on chewing me up alive. Francois de Wet offers no protection.

  14

  The dark figure is, after years on the run, finally arrested on charges of multiple murder. He refuses a lawyer, and sits through an eleven-month trial without raising so much as a whisper in his own defence. The newspapers soon coin a name for him: The Silent Terror. He finally pleads temporary insanity when confronted by twelve life sentences, citing manic-depressive behaviour resulting from grief and mourning for his beloved uncle, mistakenly shot dead by police on suspicion of drug trafficking. His arrest and subsequent conviction brings me no relief from my persistent angst.

  Amazu and I watch the trial on his black and white television: the legal wrangles, the conflicting interpretations of grades of madness, the burden on the state to prove beyond reasonable doubt that The Silent Terror is a sadistic killer. With his future looking gloomier than the fires of hell, he hangs himself on Christmas Day. News crews capture moving shots of distraught families weeping on the steps of the Supreme Court at answers denied them by the troubled young man with beautiful teeth. ‘Psychotic coward,’ despairs Amazu. ‘Maybe not,’ I tell him.

  The Sphinx greets you at the Café Mesopotamia entrance. You are led by an archway through crimson walls guarded by Pharaohs. The floor is decorated with an assortment of hieroglyphics, anything from lone eyes to people with animal heads. The passage to the bar is a simulation of the Nile, with water pumped under the walkway to create an impression of dining over a river. Café Mesopotamia service awards are mounted on scrolls tinged with gold and blood-red detail, doubling as wall art. The private dining suite, two floors under
the restaurant, is the most expensive. It is adorned with plush furniture and terraced seating, surrounded by pictures of famous people photographed next to the pyramids, with Egyptian locals leading their camels across vast landscapes.

  Unlike the other waitrons, I find waiting tables wounding work. ‘This is the service industry,’ Nico barks at me, ‘you have to put your heart in it.’ Hard as I try, I find I cannot accustom myself to the monotony of perpetually grinning into the faces of strangers, feigning interest in their self-indulgent stories. There is this aura of self-importance about them, an arrogant expectation that disregards the wishes of others. Life’s absurdities continue: Ms Tobin and her religious friends frequent our bar, on ‘girls’ nights out’. A touch of shame washes over me as she watches me running around with steaming plates, wiping ice cream off spoiled brats, waiting on diners discussing French perfumes instead of ordering their meals. The look in her eyes is one that I read as relief and pity; until she, weeks later, calls me to Table 6, reaches into her handbag, and hands me three letters. She had to open them, she confesses, couldn’t contain her curiosity. I am both annoyed and grateful, and smile in the way only an annoyed, grateful waiter should. My entire library sustained irreparable water damage, she tells me, so bad, the books all had to be thrown away. The poetry notebooks, too. Ms Tobin confesses to reading the poetry to her book club and, as if to redeem herself for her prying eyes, says: ‘We all agree you are immensely gifted. Look on the bright side: you don’t have to pay storage fees anymore.’ I feel numb.