by Thordis Elva
Shamelessly fishing for a compliment, really. With his handsome looks, exotic accent, and worldly ways, he could’ve chosen from a big group of admirers at our school.
He replied: ‘It was the first time I saw you. You were wearing that red sweater. I can’t resist a blonde wearing red.’
Opening my eyes, I look down at my bright-red coat. For years, I avoided this color. I reach for the beer and make a toast as the water gushes loudly from the tap. The color of love, passion, blood, and fire: Here’s to taking it all back.
DAY TWO
28 March 2013
During the plane ride to Turkey, I cry over a film about a boy who loses his family in an accident at sea and is forced to share a lifeboat with a ferocious tiger. The airport in Istanbul smells of spices and cheap soap. Stagnant perfume hangs in the air and ‘Macarena’ seeps out of the speaker system in the Duty Free, where I munch on a chocolate bar before boarding yet another plane, this time to Cape Town.
By the time Johannesburg flickers by at a wild velocity below me, I’m squirming with unease. The questions pile up at the same speedy rate as the distance between us decreases. What am I going to say? Work kept me so busy in the last few days that I hardly had time to breathe, let alone think. I wonder if the lack of time for proper mental preparation was a good or a bad thing. Am I perhaps as prepared as I can get, after half a lifetime of reflection?
Outside the window, breathtaking mountains rise out of wispy clouds. Incisive thoughts tear holes in the cloudscape. Should I tell him how deeply he hurt me? I’ve avoided going into detail about that in our correspondence. Dwelling on the pain is hardly helpful when trying to close the wound. On the flipside: Can I reach forgiveness if I avoid illustrating the full consequences of his actions — and in turn: how can he own up to something he isn’t even aware of?
Relax, I tell myself. This was your initiative and nobody but you is pushing this envelope. Now let go and undertake the journey. Meet up with the man who changed everything and see what it leads to.
But where? In my mind, we meet on a beach, under clear African skies. Our past is ugly enough, no need for our surroundings to be dreary too. As Cape Town approaches at five hundred miles per hour, my rosy ideas turn more realistic. Perhaps it’s smarter to ask him to meet me at my hotel, instead of me trying to find my way to the beach alone in a strange city?
I break out in a cold sweat when I realize that I don’t know if I’ll even recognize him. It’s been thirteen years since we last saw each other, when he returned to Iceland in the summer of 2000. After our brief relationship ended in 1996, we went our separate ways without exchanging so much as one word about the dark deed that had preceded our breakup. I’d surrendered to the thought that we’d never see each other again and that the truth would never be uttered out loud, which is why my heart pounded wildly in my chest when the phone rang four years later and a familiar, husky voice on the line told me he was coming back to spend the summer. Could this be our chance to confront the past? That hope seeded a twisted, broken interaction between us. My rationale muzzled my rage, because I wanted to get it right. I wanted a chance to explain in grueling detail how he’d hurt me and what the consequences had been, placing the responsibility squarely on his shoulders where it belonged. My own personal trial, of sorts. So I waited, planned, and calculated. After years of suffering in silence, this was too important to be furiously spat in his face on some heated spur of the moment. Despite my best efforts to the contrary, that’s exactly what happened. One August night, on a weekend trip with friends to the Westman Islands, it all came boiling to the surface in thundering fury. Four years of toxic silence got the better of me and I shoved the past in his face, only to have him drown my truth in the Atlantic Ocean, blind drunk and covered in blood. The disappointment cut so deep that it took another five years and a conference invitation to Australia before I gathered the courage to break my silence again.
I balance my laptop on the tray in the seatback in front of me. The folder with our correspondence is still open when I turn it on. Following my train of thought, I find myself searching for the words ‘Westman Islands’ in his emails, coming up with the following match from June 2007:
I’ve resorted to running again. Because facing up to that mountain of evil … is at this stage still too much. This point is where I traditionally turn inwards, cut all ties without regards to the damaging outfall, and run. It gives rebirth to the feelings I had in the Westman Islands, and that is a place I never wish to revisit.
The current relationship I have with myself is tainted with self-hatred and detachment, which is manifesting itself in some pretty damaging behaviors. Perhaps once I can separate myself from my actions that night, without disowning them in any way, I can address the void in myself that looked to fill itself by stealing from you.
I skim through my reply, noting how I broke off the correspond-ence by saying that I couldn’t invest so much of my heart in something that sent him running off in the opposite direction without warning. It was too big an emotional risk for me and made further healing impossible. It took years and life-altering events for us to get in touch again, and here I am cruising at 550 mph towards another event that will most likely be life-altering too.
My father’s words echo in my head: ‘You don’t have to travel all the way to South Africa for some symbolic gesture.’
And yet I’ve always known, in my heart, that I must. There are things that can’t be handled in writing, things that shouldn’t exist in print. Vaporous things that are best whispered into the dusk, in a strange country where they can be dispersed by the desert wind.
The screen in the seatback in front of me shows a blinking plane over a map. According to the timer, Cape Town is just twenty-nine minutes away. The butterflies in my stomach nosedive, as the time seems way too limited considering how many questions are left unanswered. Goddamn it, what if I can’t forgive him? Am I ready to let go? If the answer is no, will a week suffice to find peace with the rape that changed my life?
Frustrated, I scroll through the folder on my laptop, searching for something to calm my nerves. I was levelheaded enough when I suggested this trip, wasn’t I? In an attempt to recover my faith in this risky undertaking, I read through my own proposal:
You may need a lifetime to forgive yourself for what you did to me. That is up to you and you take however long you need, independent of anyone else.
I, however, am climbing a different mountain. And I am getting very close to the top.
I propose that in six months’ time, we meet up with the intention of reaching forgiveness, once and for all. In person.
It is the only proper way for me to do it, I feel. No letter can ever compare with face-to-face communication. And after all we’ve been through, I think it is the most dignified and honest way to finish this chapter of our story.
I sound so calm, so fucking reasonable. How is it possible that this was written by the same person now hyperventilating in a plane 30,000ft over South Africa, full of nerve-racking doubt?
Reading through his reply, I’m somewhat comforted that he, too, felt conflicted:
I’ll admit that I was floored by your request to meet up. Fearful, anxious, cautious, paranoid. You name it, it all came swarming in. But you’ve asked, and you sound like you are making vital ground towards something very special for yourself. So of course I’ll agree to see you. After much thought I do think it will be beneficial, and an opportunity for myself to air, face to face, some long held words and for us both to look to close some doors.
I want it for you, Thordis, as you seem strong, open, and ready to see me and move forward. I want it for me because I’m so very sick of being sick and seeing myself as unlovable, and believe I can move on if I could just look you in the face, own up to it, and say I’m sorry.
Forgiveness is the only way, I tell myself, because whether or not he deserves my forgiveness, I
deserve peace. Because I’m doing this for me. The way forgiveness has been hijacked by religion and turned into a sanctimonious concept by the keepers of the moral high ground infuriates me. What a load of conscientious crap. My forgiveness is not selfless, not sacrificial, and certainly not heroic. It doesn’t come with an angelic chorus and a fuzzy feeling, nor does it offer the other cheek. My forgiveness is white-hot from the whetstone, and its purpose is to sever the ties because if I can let this go, once and for all, I’m certain that my overall wellbeing will benefit greatly. Self-preservation at its best.
I close the laptop as my seatmate leans shamelessly over my lap to admire the fast-approaching landscape out the window. Staring at the back of his head, I decide to surrender to the questions because there are no answers. The only way to find out what lies ahead is to shove my thoughts aside and enter the present.
When the plane bounces on the landing strip in Cape Town, I take a deep breath. No turning back now.
My back is throbbing after thirty sedentary hours as I stumble into the airport. An agitated bank clerk exchanges my Icelandic krona for South African rand. Counting the bills, I realize that the exchange rate did me no favors, but I can’t be bothered with that now. All I want is to check into my hotel room and take a hot shower. One step at a time.
The sky above Cape Town is overcast. Clouds cover the smooth top of Table Mountain and spill over the slopes like a fluffy tablecloth. A mist of rain hits my face as I climb aboard a downtown bus. It starts with a grunt and I look out the window, mesmerized by strange vegetation like the Icelander I am. Pretty much every country in the world beats Iceland and its measly vegetation. As a result, an Icelander with a thing for trees is like a kid in a candy store on foreign ground. I look at the giant creatures rising out of the ground with majestic canopies swaying in the wind and think: Amazing. I really am in South Africa.
I’m dutifully sending out text messages that I’ve arrived safely in Cape Town when the bus stops at the Waterfront, the famous shopping area by the harbor. Having trotted around these parts in Google Earth until my feet actually felt tired, the place feels familiar. As I struggle with my suitcase, armed with a belt pouch stuffed with crispy bills, I feel like a decidedly vulnerable tourist target. Taking a deep breath of fresh ocean air, I send out a silent plea for a taxi. And make it fast.
‘Ma’am, do you need a cab?’ someone yells from the other side of the street. Mumbling thanks to the universe for instant delivery, I wave.
The voice belongs to a man in his fifties, sitting behind the wheel of an old Toyota. I read the sticker on the side of the car, trying to remember if it’s one of the trusted taxi companies. My first friend on South-African soil doesn’t beat around the bush and walks up to me with a smile, ready to help me with my luggage. I feel torn. Should I try to find a taxi recommended by the tourist sites? My doubt disappears as I see a uniformed traffic conductor strike up a friendly conversation with my new buddy. As I climb into the backseat, he takes off with a well-rehearsed tourist speech about the lookouts on Lion’s Head mountain, which towers over us. I’m in the midst of thanking him when a uniformed bellboy from the Ritz hotel pulls my suitcase out of the trunk. Signs welcome me in English and German as I walk through the black revolving doors of the hotel at half past three local time. The 34-hour long journey is starting to take its toll and the marble floor billows beneath my feet. Much like my laptop and cell phone, I’m dangerously low on battery.
My hotel room turns out to be on the twelfth floor of twenty-one. It’s spacious and bright, its double bed adorned with a silver blanket. I throw everything on the bed, kick off my shoes with a relieved sigh, and walk straight to the window. Sheer curtains obstruct the view and I pull them aside. My heart skips with joy at the discovery that the ocean is visible from my room, even though the glass is smudgy with sea salt. I lean against the cool windowpane and drink in the view. The garden stretches out below. Rain beats down on deserted tanning chairs, which look like little matchboxes scattered across the lawn. A neon-blue swimming pool cuts through the gloom. The wind carries faint squawks from seagulls.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. All right, Cape Town. The game is on.
My phone beeps and I pick it up, certain it’s from my beloved who is relieved to hear I’ve landed safely. I catch my breath when I realize that the text isn’t from Vidir. It’s from him, the man I’ve come here to meet. An army of butterflies hatches in my stomach, hijacking my heart and flying it to the back of my throat. I sink down on the bed. The text asks whether I’ve arrived safely at the hotel and when I’d like to meet up.
Okay, focus. It’s raining outside. You don’t know the neighborhood.
‘Let’s meet up in the lobby of the Ritz at five o’clock,’ I type with trembling fingers.
Moments later, the reply arrives.
Sounds good. See you there.
One hour to go. Baby steps. Now take that shower and remember to breathe.
Instinctively, I check if there’s a keyhole on the bathroom door while an echo of muffled moans seep through a keyhole in my mind. I automatically start to hum, drowning out the dreaded noise in my head while concluding to my relief that there is a simple latch on the door. Breathe, Thordis.
As I undress, a rock falls out of my pocket and bounces on the carpeted floor. It’s still warm when I pick it up. He gave it to me years ago, in a moment of uncomplicated bliss, before everything changed. The rock, he explained, has special needs that call for its return to its natural habitat, on Australia’s shores. ‘Now I’ve guaranteed that you’ll come to Australia one day,’ he added, and the teasing look on his face made my knees go weak.
Nine years later, when attending the Australian conference for young playwrights, I took the rock with me. I’d accepted the fact that the desired face-to-face confrontation wasn’t going to happen during my trip, but I still wanted to leave something behind in his country, something that was symbolic of the hurt I wished to separate myself from. Filled with mixed emotions and heavy memories, I walked down to the beach one night. The moon was full, sprinkling silver on the foamy waves that were frothing between my toes. When I tried to leave the rock on the shore, I realized that I couldn’t, I wasn’t ready. Funny. In reality, a rock is nothing but weight. If life is a journey taken on foot, one would like to keep the baggage at a minimum. Harboring negative emotions such as anger or resentment is like walking through life with a bag of rocks. For years, I held onto his rock, allowing it to weigh me down until I discovered that it isn’t my burden to carry. Time to unburden, I tell myself.
After a long-awaited shower, my hair gets to hang free and my makeup is barely there. Contrary to what I had hoped, Cape Town is chilly today, so I put on a cardigan over shirt and jeans.
It’s 5.02pm, and I’m pacing in front of the hotel elevator. I reach for the elevator button only to drop my hand again, my heart pounding. After calming myself, I press the button. Seconds tick by. Finally, the elevator arrives and the doors slide open. My stomach churns as if I’m staring down a cliff, not into an empty elevator car.
Whoa.
On second thought, I’ll take the next one.
The elevator glides back down, without me. I muster the courage to press the button once more and pace the floor while I wait. The elevator comes to a halt and opens, standing before me a second time like a chrome-plated cell.
Come on now.
I breathe deeply and take a step forward, but before I get any further my feet take a sharp and unexpected turn to the right.
The doors slide shut and the cell glides down again without me. Shit.
Every minute that passes feels like a file rasping across my nerves. If I don’t get my act together soon I’m going to be embarrassingly late, with my accompanying tendency to begin the conversation by apologizing. And wouldn’t that be typical? Having waited sixteen years and traveled thousands of miles to face a man and h
ear him say ‘I’m sorry’ — that I should beat him to it by saying, ‘I’m sorry I’m late’?
NO, bloody well no.
The elevator opens a third time and I walk straight in. As the backlit digits count down the floors, my heart climbs the opposite way up my ribcage and into my mouth. When the doors finally open, I’m regretting it all. All I want to do is run back to the airport and board the next flight home. Why oh why didn’t I just get myself a therapist and a bottle of vodka like normal people do?
I hold my breath and scan the lobby. There’s a small souvenir shop opposite the elevators. Cheerful chatter fills the air. So far, I can’t see him. I feel like the boy in the film that I watched on the plane, stuck in a rowing boat on a sea of hopeless ideas. On his way to meet the tiger with whom he’ll be forced to share the boat for the coming week.
I steel myself and walk towards the desk, where I give the receptionist a mechanical smile and ask if I can borrow a power adaptor for my laptop. And then the man who changed my life forever emerges from the west wing of the hotel.
Our eyes meet. Time builds a suspension bridge between us, with steel cables that stretch sixteen years over the Atlantic into a darkened bedroom, a stolen kiss, a shattered moan.
The smile freezes on my lips. I indicate that I need a moment and turn back to the receptionist, who is bending over a box of plugs. Every hair on the back of my neck is standing on end. Shaking her head, the receptionist looks at me and advises me to go to the corner store where they sell converter plugs. Acutely aware of his presence, I can barely make out what she’s saying. His presence. After all those emotions, all those letters, all that goddamn counseling, all the pain — here we are.
