by JT Lawrence
Her watch beeps. It’s a bump from Keke, wanting to meet up for drinks next week. Says she has something to celebrate. Somewhere dark and clubby, she says.
‘Affirmative,’ Kirsten replies, ‘Congratulations in advance for whatever we’re celebrating. Let’s bask in our mutual claustrophilia.’
Bumps, or chatmail messages, are getting so short nowadays they can be impossible to textlate. Sometimes Kirsten uses the longest word she can think of, just to rebel against the often ridiculously abbreviated chat language.
She realises that this probably makes her old, and wonders if it is the equivalent of wielding a brick for a cellphone. Even her Snakewatch is now old technology. She doesn’t have the energy to upgrade devices every season. Maybe she is more like her mother than she has ever realised.
She flicks the card back into the box and sucks the side of her thumb, where the skin is dual-sliced, and waits for the red to stop. She feels hung over, even though she didn’t drink that much the night before. Another sign of aging? She sometimes feels like she’s ninety. And not today’s ‘90 is the new 40!’ but real, steel, brittle ninety. Grey-hair, purple-rinse, hip-replacement ninety.
So far she had flipped through what felt like hundreds of files and documents, most written in jargon that she doesn’t understand. She had to page through a library of notes before she found her birth certificate. Onionskin paper, slightly wrinkled, low-resolution print, ugly typography, but there her name was in black and white: Kirsten Lovell; daughter of Sebastian and Carol Lovell. Born on the 6th of December 1988 at the Trinity Clinic in Sandton, Johannesburg.
So she does exist, she thinks, even though it should seem clear. Cogito ergo fucking sum.
Perhaps the autopsy report was wrong? They could have mixed up her mother’s body with someone else’s, easy enough to do when so many people are dying of the Bug. Or the discharge note from the hospital could have been wrong; they got the date of her hysterectomy wrong. A sleep-deprived nurse on her midnight shift could easily have written down the wrong year. Perhaps absent-mindedly thinking of her own surgery, or the birth of one of her own kids.
Getting tired of hunting through the boxes now, she finally finds the one she had come all this way for. It’s a bit squashed on the edges, and grubby with handprints. Sealed with three different kinds of tape, it has clearly been opened and closed a number of times over the years. ‘PHOTO ALBUMS’ is scribbled on the side in her mother’s terrible handwriting. When Kirsten catches sight of the scrawl she feels a twinge of tenderness and has to sit down for a breath.
She opens the box with a little more care than she had the others. Twelve hardcover photo albums take up the top half of the box, and the bottom is lined with DVDs. They only started taking digital photos when she was in high school, so it was safe to say what she was looking for would be in one of the paper albums.
There is a specific picture of herself as a baby that she wants to find. She guesses the photo was taken when she was around six months old, somewhere outside in the sun with a tree, or trees, in the background. A silly, fabric-flowered headband decorates her hairless moon of a head. Her back is slightly arched and an arm is outstretched to someone off-camera, a pale pink starfish for a hand.
Slowly she pages through each album, trying to not get caught in the webs of emotion they contain: rhubarb crumble, ash grey, peppermint (the colour, not the taste), coconut sunscreen, soggy egg sandwiches (Sulphurous Sponge), some kind of flat sucker with a milky taste – butterscotch? Butterscotch with beach-sand. Marshmallow mice – available only at a game-hall tuckshop at a family holiday resort in the Drakensberg. Ammonia, baby oil, cherry cigars. Silk carnations, flaking slasto, ants that taste like pepper. She snaps shut the last album and looks for another box of photos.
This can’t be all there is. We’re missing three years. The first three years.
Kirsten, now driven by a fierce energy, attacks what is left of the boxes. Her mind races with possible explanations. Maybe they didn’t own a camera. Maybe they believed it was bad luck to photograph a baby. Maybe the photos were lost, stolen, burnt in a fire. There are no baby clothes either. No baby toys, but she’s sure they must have been given away—there were hundreds of orphans in those days—abandoned babies: unheard of today. Wet patches bloom under her arms as she scrabbles through the contents. Her hair begins to bother her and she ties it up roughly into an untidy bun. As the boxes start to run out, her anxiety builds. She finds no more albums, but in the second-last box she opens she discovers some framed photographs. Of course! It was framed! That’s why it’s not in an album. A calming finger on her heart.
And there it is, almost exactly how she remembers it. She clutches it, searching it for detail. The heat of her hands mists the silver frame: heavy, decorative, tasteful, the picture not exactly in focus, but close enough. A blue cotton dress (Robin Egg) puckered by the tanned arm holding her up. She has no aunts, no grandmothers; that must be her mom’s arm, although she doesn’t recognise it.
She expects the photo to make her feel some kind of relief, but it has the opposite effect. Some small idea is tapping at her, whirring in her brain. Something feels off the mark. She scans the picture again.
What is it? The texture. The texture of the paper is wrong. It isn’t printed on glossy or matt photo paper, the way it would have been in 1987. It’s grainy, pulpy. Kirsten turns the frame over in her hands and pries loose the back. A quarter of a glamorous cigarette print ad stares back at her, its bright blue slashing her vision.
Kirsten turns it over and over again, battling to understand, not wanting to understand. It’s not a photo of her. It’s not a photo at all, but a cutting from a magazine. The autopsy diagram flits into her mind with its careless cross over her mother’s lower abdomen.
She glances over at the cheap-looking birth certificate then down to the piece of paper she holds. Perhaps her photo was published in the magazine for some reason? Living & Loving, the cutting says, ‘New Winter Beauties,’ July 1991. She was three years old when this issue was printed.
Chapter 7
Organic Arse Carrots
Johannesburg, 2021
‘Oh,’ his new manager says, greeting Seth with an awkward smile, ‘I thought you would be wearing a suit.’
At the behemoth reception of Fontus, the walls are covered in digital 4D wallpaper of waterfalls, streams and lakes. White noise gushes through the sound system: water splashing and birds chirping. Seth doesn’t shake his proffered hand.
‘I don’t wear suits.’
Heavy security guards the front door, which is at odds with the holograms of rising mist and darting digital hummingbirds. Men with concealed guns and pepper-spray look serenely on as employees and visitors enter through the metal detectors.
As they make their way through the building, the moving images change according to which section they are in: the waters Anahita, Tethys, Hydra, followed by the carbonated soft drinks. Anahita is platinum and crystal, blond hair, and pale, skeletal models. Diamond drops and sleek splashes of mercury. Tethys is dew on grass, rainforests, intelligent-looking people wearing spectacles, good dentures, hands on chins. Cool, humidified air streams past them as they walk.
Wesley doesn’t back down. ‘It’s company policy.’
Hydra is smiling black children, barefoot, dusty. A gospel choir. Fever trees. Optimistic amateur vegetable gardens. Dry red earth. Seth gets thirsty just looking at them.
‘No, it’s not,’ says Seth. ‘I would never have signed the contract.’
There is an awkward silence until they reach the section where he will be grinding: Carbonates. As expected, there are bubbles frothing and fizzing all around them. Wesley slows to a stop in the red area: CinnaCola. The décor is like a large tin of red paint has exploded.
‘It may not be in the actual contract…’
‘Well, then, there’s no problem. Is this my office?’ Seth strides in and slips behind the desk, surveying his stationery. Shrugs off his black hoodie a
nd slings it over his chair. He’s never had a proper desk job before; he’s used to being in a lab of sorts. He uncaps a brand new permanent marker and sniffs it. Wesley looks at Seth swivelling in his chair and purses his lips. Strokes his soul patch with two fingers.
‘We have an 8AM meeting every Monday morning to set up our week’s goals,’ he says.
Yeah, I won’t be making those, Seth resists saying.
‘A goal not written down is just a dream. What is measured is managed. CinnaCola assembles in the Red Room.’
Seth inspects the contents of his desk drawers. Wesley tries to get his attention.
‘But it’s not all work-work-work here! On the last Friday of the month, we do a teambuilding activity, where we compete against the other FCs.’ Wesley fingers the red lanyard around his neck. ‘FC. That’s Flavour-Colours,’ he says. ‘It’s teambuilding and fun and all that but it’s also a serious competition. It’s important that we win. What are you good at? You know, apart from maths? Paintball? Boules? Triathlons? Firewalking? Extreme Frisbee?’
The distaste must have shown on Seth’s face because Wesley stops talking and looks uncomfortable. He puffs out his chest and says ‘It’s compulsory.’
Is it also compulsory to walk around with a carrot shoved up your arse? Do they hand out complimentary organic arse carrots here?
Wesley’s cheeks colour, and for a second Seth thinks he said it out loud, but then realises it’s because Wesley has caught sight of his sneakers. They’re limited edition, by a local graffiti artist, and have the word Punani emblazoned on the sides. He guesses they’re worth more than Wesley makes in a month. Seth is tempted to put them up on the desk, but then thinks better of it. Best not to push him too far, too soon. Managers are assholes at the best of times and he can’t have anyone deliberately obstructing him. As a peace-making concession he takes out his eyebrow-ring and puts it in his pocket. Rubs off some of the Smudge on his eyes. He sees Wesley soften. It works every time.
‘Okay, then,’ says Seth, pointing at his giant flatscreen Glass, ‘I’d better get started.’
Wesley attempts a smile, and looks immediately like a rodent: his nose crinkles up and his lips reveal his large front teeth. Perfect, Wesley the Weasel. At least now he won’t forget his name. A welcome pack on his desk contains his access/ID card, to be clipped onto his very own red lanyard, a CinnaCola shirt in his size, complete with animated fizzing logo, and a blue book of Fontus rules of conduct. The Fontus logo is, unimaginatively, a stylised illustration of a fountain, and the word ‘Fontus’ is set in a handsome font, uppercase. He turfs the lanyard into his drawer and slides the card into his pocket.
‘You have to wear it,’ says The Weasel. ‘The lanyard, and card. It’s for ID as much as it’s for access.’ He points to the camera in the corner of the room. ‘Security, you know.’
Seth retrieves the red lanyard and clips his card onto it. Reluctantly puts it around his neck. The Weasel chortles.
‘Besides, we can’t have those Greens sneaking around the red section, stealing our brand strategies!’
Posters on the walls feature pictures of the Fourteen Wonders of the world on dark blue backgrounds with slogans like: ‘It’s Not a Problem, it’s a Challenge’ and ‘Opportunities are Everywhere’.
He waits for The Weasel to go before he dumps the rest of the welcome pack into the bin. The shirt continues to fizz. He swivels his ergochair around, stares out of the window. Someone laughs in the corridor. The grounds are immaculate: the lawn grass smooth and green; perfectly tended bright annuals burst with complimentary colours under canopies of handsome indigenous trees. Cheerful employees pass each other with a smile or a wave. The campus is like a hotbed of high spirits, cleanliness, and efficiency, a bright island in the dark fuss that is the rest of the country. Seth pops a pill. Yes, he thinks, there is definitely something very odd going on around here.
Journal Entry
28 September 1987, Westville
In the news: Two bombs explode at the Standard Bank Arena in Johannesburg. John McEnroe is fined for his antics at the US Open. Star Trek: The Next Generation debuts on (American!) TV.
What I’m listening to: Michael Jackson’s Bad album. Superbad!
What I’m reading: Misery by Stephen King: injured and drugged, an author is held captive by a psychotic fan. So-o-o creepy. Make P get up to switch the lights off!
What I’m watching: Fatal Attraction. Not the best movie to watch in the week before your wedding! Totally scary, I loved it.
We got married today at a tiny ceremony at Westville Magistrate’s Court. P’s best man (Whitey) was there, and both of our parents. I totally thought my folks would boycott the wedding but they were troopers. Dad put on a brave face and Mom took turns crying and fussing with my dress in front, as if a piece of fabric could cover my huge pregnant belly. I mean it’s totally gigantic! I never thought it was possible to get this big! The ONLY thing that fits me apart from this big meringue of a wedding dress is my old ‘Sex Pistols’ T-shirt. I practically live in it!
When I wrote to Dad about it (the pregnancy) he was very cross and I didn’t hear from him for ages. Mom phoned me and told me to be patient, and that he would come around. If not before the wedding then definitely once the baby was born, she said. His first grandchild! She was right. When I saw him he hugged me (carefully avoiding the bump), and said: “There’s nothing to do but to make the best of a bad situation.” I wanted to say to him: a lovely baby is not a ‘bad situation’, but I was so totally grateful to be forgiven and to feel loved that I just kept quiet and kissed him.
The ‘wedding photos’ are going to be so funny. We got a certificate right away saying that we are husband and wife. Me, a wife?! Ha! I’m so sure! Our wedding song was our favourite song by Bryan Adams: ‘Hearts on Fire’. I got quite emotional, think it’s the raging hormones. But when I looked at P I could tell that he had a lump in his throat too.
We went to a seafood restaurant afterwards and my dad ordered lots of platters and sparkling wine. I couldn’t, like, have seafood or wine in my state but I didn’t feel like eating anyway. I toasted our marriage with Grapetizer in a champagne glass. Totally the Best Grapetizer I have ever tasted.
Afterwards, in bed, exhausted but happy, P lay with his hand on my stomach and we could feel the baby moving.
Happiest day of my life, and I can’t wait to meet my baby.
Chapter 8
Mary Contrary
Johannesburg, 2021
Kirsten catches the waiter’s attention and motions for another round. She’s sitting on her own in Molly Q’s, a retro-restaurant, the only one in Johannesburg that still serves molecular cuisine.
It’s her best, and James had booked a table for them for his first night back home. Kirsten’s favourite gastroventure, she loves the purity of the flavours here; the shapes she sees and feels are so vivid and in focus.
She is drinking their signature cocktail, an unBloody Mary-Contrary. The purest vodka swirled with clear tomato water and essence of pepper. They serve it with a long, slender frozen piece of celery-green glass. Kirsten takes a sip and feels the crystalline shapes appear before her. Not as strong as the first drink, but quite clear nevertheless.
Damn the law of diminishing returns.
They’ll get stronger, more palpable, later in the evening; alcohol always makes her synaesthesia more pronounced. Suddenly she feels lips on her forehead, a warm hand on her back, and she blinks past the crystals to see James.
‘Kitty! I missed you.’
She springs up to hug him, inhales the tang of his neck. He smells like Zimbabwe: hand sanitiser and aeroplane cabin. Also: miswak chewing gum that has long lost its flavour. They hold onto each other for a while.
‘I missed you too.’
Kissing James is always orange: different shades of orange depending on the mood of the kiss. Breakfast kisses are usually a fresh Buttercup Yellow, sex kisses are Burnt-Sky, with a spectrum in between of, among others, lovin
g, friendly, angry, guilty (Pollen, Polished Pine, Rubber Duck, Turmeric). His energy is warm yellow-orange-ruby, sweet, with a sharp echo. Marmalade James.
They sit down, and Kirsten orders a craft beer for him, a hoppy ale; he doesn’t drink cocktails. He always laughs out loud when they watch old movies and James Bond drinks a martini.
‘How’s the clinic?’
He has a slight tan, despite his usually fanatical compulsion to apply SPF100, and crumpled cotton sleeves. He looks tired, but well.
‘Understaffed, underfunded, and bursting with sick people: sick children, sick babies. It was difficult to leave.’
Something small in Kirsten splinters. He grabs her hand.
‘Of course, I’d rather be with you than anywhere, but there are just so many—’
‘I understand,’ she says, looking away. It’s easier to be with people you can help.
‘So many of the babies there are hungry and neglected. Not like here,’ he says.
‘Not like here,’ she agrees. How can you neglect a baby? How come those creeps are fertile, she thinks, when I’m not?
‘I mean I can see how the border-baby trade is thriving. When you see kids like that you get the feeling that their parents would gladly part with them for a couple of hundred thousand rand.’
‘Awful,’ says Kirsten, pulling a face. ‘They should write it into law that you need to qualify for a parenting license before you’re allowed to procreate.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ James says, but she kind of does.
They order the set menu, and an amuse bouche of wooded chardonnay gelée with pink balsamic caviar arrives, then Asian crudo with a brush of avocado silk, and wasabi sorbet. They keep quiet for the first few bites, allowing Kirsten to appreciate all the shapes, colours and textures of the flavours. The wasabi sorbet in particular sends cool ninja stars into her brain. It feels good.
