The Ghost-Eater and Other Stories

by Diane Awerbuck

  After the drive to Cape Point, I picked up the only person I knew from 1973 who was still in Cape Town, Pia Seymour (Canetti, that was). I reminded her of Johnny B, a mutual friend, who, about ten minutes after first meeting her, joking about as he always used to, ran his fingers up her spine and teased her because she wasn’t wearing a bra. We all had laughed, but the moment passed. So, I am driving with Pia in the car next to me, talking of this and that, when she suddenly leans forward (we were driving down Belvedere Road), and points at the tall A-frame house and says, ‘Do you remember that house? That was the Nusas house, where Barry and Phillipe and John F had lived before they were banned. We went there a couple of times, do you remember?’ And she looked across at me, and I struggled all of a sudden to drive the car, to focus on the task at hand. ‘What?’ she said, and put her hand out to steady the steering wheel. I recovered my composure and assumed control again. ‘What was that about?’ she asked, looking at me with a strange expression on her face.

  ‘No. Nothing serious. I get sort of little moments of dizziness every now and then – something to do with blood pressure,’ I lied, and made light of it when Pia pressed me. ‘No, I’ve got the pills and I just have to exercise, and that is something I haven’t done here in the last four or five days. It’s fine; it’s gone now.’ Pia seemed reassured and we went on to Starlings and had coffee. It was great to see her again. She was older, but just as sexy as she had been all those years ago.

  Later that night, alone in bed, I allowed my mind to sneak into those back rooms where memories are stored. You see, when she pointed out the house, I had lost all composure absolutely because that house was inseparable in my memory from Darren, who had taken me there for the first time, and through whom I had got to know the people who lived there. I had forgotten about Darren for so long. Darren was special, a handsome, well-built guy with such charisma and charm, no other words do it. He could talk about everything, and was so full of knowledge, gossip, insight. Coming from the Eastern Cape, I was a country bumpkin but he never made me feel like that – it was I who marvelled at everything he said, and did. He dressed well, carried himself well, moved with fluid grace – oh, my goodness, I could go on and on – I hadn’t thought about him for years, and now the memories came tumbling out, like an overfull cupboard that breaks the restraint of the doors and leaves a huge mess on the floor. What puzzled me a lot was how completely I had forgotten that whole episode in my life. How could it be so far hidden, and yet one little trigger and out it all came, broadsiding me in an embarrassing way? Darren and I went out together on a number of occasions – he knew so many interesting people, arty people; he knew so many gorgeous girls who all seemed to dote on him, and then they also included me. I had never had such good fortune with the opposite sex until then. We had such parties, all over the place. I got married to a great girl from Cradock soon after I finished at Rhodes, but it was the parties with Darren that had got me started.

  I didn’t sleep so well that night. Mostly I couldn’t drift off – there were too many things going on in my head. Then when I did get to sleep, memories and dreams attacked me, and I woke up sweating and unhinged, and I couldn’t calm myself down.

  It was okay once the sun came up, and it was a lovely Cape Town day, temperature in the upper twenties, not a cloud in the sky, and no wind to talk of. I kept busy with meeting some more friends, I went to the Iziko National Gallery and the Goodman and the Michael Stephenson galleries and that new little place called Blank Space – I had a great time. Nothing like a bit of culture after being starved of it in Grahamstown but I must confess that I was deliberately missing the Festival this year, so that’s not really very fair. I was so busy I could hardly think, and that was fine.

  But you see, the next day, I decided to come home. Cape Town was great, but there was stuff I had to do, now I remembered, and so I came home. I did miss seeing some folk I had made arrangements with, but I told a couple of white lies and promised to keep in touch, and that was that – goodbye, Cape Town.

  But it doesn’t really work like that, does it? I mean you, can bring your head back to Grahamstown, but what is in your head also tags along with you, and some things you can’t always get back in the toothpaste tube, as my late mother used to say. So when I got back to Grahamstown, with suddenly a whole lot more days to have to deal with because of cutting the Cape Town holiday short, I found myself keeping on going back to the Nusas house, to Pia, and to Darren. Which is why I said at the beginning that I have to make a confession. Not a confession, really. I don’t think I have committed big sins, you know, but like to a psychologist, you have to talk about some stuff and then you can let go of it. Well, that is what they say.

  So, you see, it’s about Darren. I said all those nice things about him because they were all true and I liked him, so why not, but I must also say there were some things I wasn’t so sure about. He could be very moody, especially when he wasn’t with other people. He would also sometimes just disappear – not literally, but he’d get a phone call and he would be gone. Sometimes he was even rude about it, and would just leave me and go off somewhere. And he would never tell me about where he was going or what he was doing. And sometimes, he would get really depressed, I mean really, really down – and when he was like that, he used to say, ‘What’s the fucking use? Does anything matter? Why go on?’ I didn’t know what to do in those moments, but even if I did know, it wouldn’t have been enough. I was pretty useless.

  But old Darren would pull through, and the next day he would be Cheerful Charlie himself, and it was almost like he didn’t remember the downs. When I think back, I was only in Cape Town for about two and half weeks that time. I don’t know how it all fitted in, all the things I now remember about that time. I did spend most of the time with Darren, after I met him at the Nusas house with Pia. I did also see her a couple of times, mostly when Darren wasn’t there.

  Anyway, I suppose I have to go through this next bit, but I will let you know I am not comfortable about it. But it is the confession, so here goes.

  This is what happened. We were out in Sea Point, at a restaurant called the Olympia, I think. When the party started going off home, Darren said we should go back to his house which was not far from the Nusas house. He’d been in a bit of a funny mood, sometimes being very nice, and sometime saying some quite ugly things. He had been in a foul temper that afternoon, he told me, and it was like there were still bits of it floating around at the restaurant. When we got to his place, he was restless, kept walking around instead of sitting down and relaxing with the coffee. Then he came and sat next to me, and looked at me intently, without speaking, which kind of freaked me out. And then it happened. He reached over and put his hand on my knee, no, on my thigh, and his expression changed, almost like he was asking me something. Anyway, I brushed his hand aside and jumped up away from him – I was too shocked to talk – and we stared at each other, it seemed like for ages. Then I left.

  I drove around for about an hour. I was so distressed. Why had he done that to me? Did he think I was … I was shocked. Anyway about an hour later, I thought, No, I must go back and have this out with him. I didn’t tell you this earlier, but when he put his hand on my leg, I said some things to him which I probably shouldn’t have. So I drove back to his place, and knocked on his door. It wasn’t locked, but Darren didn’t answer to the knock, so I went in. I found him lying on the couch, asleep. But he was lying at a funny angle, so I thought maybe he’ll be really sore when he wakes up, but when I took hold of his arm to move him, it was stone cold. Like they do in the movies, I felt for his pulse, but there was none. So I left again, quickly.

  I tell you, it was a shock to discover someone you know like that. I packed up my stuff and left the next morning. I found that there were all sorts of ways of forgetting. Of cutting stuff out of your mind. Things are a lot easier that way. I got married the next year, when I started teaching, and we have had a great life. Three kids, all at university now. Rhodes, y
es. And next year, the wife and I are going to retire down to Kenton; we’ve got a house there. Nice quiet place. But confession is not as easy as I thought.

  The Fool

  Mia Arderne

  Sure as I am about what needs to be done, I feel my hands trembling.

  ‘I’d like to pursue criminal charges against one Junaid Jafda, as provided for in terms of The Protection from Harassment Act. I want to launch an application to the High Court in order to obtain an interdict against the aforesaid.’

  The attorney raises an eyebrow at me. Did I use too much jargon? Did I stutter? Can I be blamed for knowing my shit? He takes a form from his desk drawer and puts on his glasses. Designer spectacles, tweaked to fit the nose on his face.

  ‘Have a seat, ma’am. You will need to provide a list of this man’s offences. What has he done? Be as specific as you can.’

  As I speak, the attorney scribbles shorthand on the page and fixes me with an impassive stare. He has that sickeningly clinical air of a rich and busy adult.

  Junaid Jafda persistently text messaged me on my mobile phone with degrading insults and threats;

  After I changed my number in a final attempt to sever all contact, he found my new number from a mutual friend and continued to send me insults;

  On occasion, he came to my place of work and plagued the receptionist for information regarding my whereabouts and harassed her for my details;

  Called my house-phone up to seventeen times a day, causing a disturbance to my family;

  Refused to leave my place of residence after I told him to vacate it and also prohibited me from leaving my own place of residence by holding me down. This act resulted in various bruises of which I have current evidence;

  Smashed through the window of my place of residence while I stood on the other side, after refusing to let him in;

  This resulted in cuts on my legs and feet as well as damage to my house and a future security hazard;

  Burned and destroyed items of my personal property;

  Threatened my safety by pulling up my handbrake from the passenger’s seat while I was driving over a hundred kilometres an hour;

  Caused damage to my vehicle, which required repairs for which he did not pay;

  Slammed my head against a cupboard;

  And needless to say, caused me immeasurable anxiety, pain and suffering.

  My foot taps the floor as I wait for a response.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do for you, ma’am.’

  Police procedures will be lengthy and I know I’ll have to go to court if I really intend to get this restraining order. But the courts are backlogged for months and I am reluctant to leave my fate in the lax and idle hands of the South African justice system. I am done with men, I decide, and drive to the pub to get myself a drink. Tapping my long nails against the wine glass, I feel a sense of pride. I’ve finally done it. I’ve finally taken serious measures to get rid of the fucker.

  In an act of typical human idiocy, I allow myself to get blink drunk and divulge my problems to a complete stranger. I’m in a pub where the brandy’s R16 a double and the DJ’s a Northlink College dropout. The music’s kak. The middle-aged toppies are getting hard just watching the Stormers score. What a shithole of an establishment. And yet, there she stands. A goddess among slurring idiots. My stranger.

  From across the table, her large blue eyes stare their empathy my way. Witticisms roll smoothly off her tongue. She smokes with a flourish. She is class among the classless. She is all subtlety and mystery. Me, I’m all wretchedness and dismal revelations.

  ‘So why did you stay with him?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, you know how it is when you love someone. You stay when you should leave. It comes with the territory –’

  My rambling is cut short by the pub full of men cheering for the Stormers. How dare these beer-bellied excuses for men drown out her lovely voice? Unfazed, she slips a hand up my thigh, reassuring me that she is still there. She’s still listening. No need to worry. She takes my hand in hers and leads me to my car.

  Warm thighs, tangled hair, curling toes, breasts on breasts, ripping silk, swelling clit, tongues in slits, multiple, multiple, multiple orgasms.

  I feel my mouth twist into a smile as my eyelids lift and the morning sun seeps through my blinds. I lick my lips and I can still taste her. My thighs are sticky with satisfaction. What a perfect night. Pity I can’t remember too much. Aside from my hangover, I’ve never felt so relaxed. But where is the body that fell asleep next to me? I burrow my head in the pillow and hand myself over to second sleep. She’ll be back.

  When I wake up again, I glance at the clock and an hour has passed. Ja. She’s gone. I feel a slight sting. Everybody is somebody’s fool, right? Right? Well, I hope so. I hope I’m not the only one. I can’t be the only one. Come to think of it, I didn’t really mind being her fool. But she could’ve said goodbye.

  I need to feel some warm water on my skin. But not yet. I’m too freshly abandoned to get up and shower. I will sit in silence and accept that, today, I am a fool. A deeply, warmly satisfied fool. But a fool nonetheless.

  Nothing will invade my silence. Not even the clock that’s ticking way too loudly, trying to get my attention. It will not be acknowledged.

  Fuck Junaid. And fuck – what was her name again?

  My fingers search the bedside table for my phone, but it’s not there. Damn it. With parched tongue and imploding skull, I glance at the clock and it stares back in triumph, ticking on, measuring the time I’m wasting. I will not be moved by it. I will console myself in silence, unmoved by time. Maybe she’ll still come back. I close my eyes and drop my shoulders, searching for Zen. But the goddamn ticking is growing louder. I’ll have to create a superior silence. Where’s my iPod? I scan the room for it. Not anywhere in sight. Fuck knows I don’t feel like getting up to look for the thing.

  My eyes fall back on the clock and it claims my stare for a full five minutes. At 9.35 my consciousness stirs into fuller existence. She must have taken it. I shut my eyes and clench my thighs. I am such a fucking idiot! Whimpering at my hazy realisation, I follow the long hand of the clock. Each passing minute sees my glance. She’s not coming back. She will not return with my phone or my iPod. But, most terribly, she won’t return to me.

  I try and retrace my steps. Try and remember the evening in sequence, but it’s just too hard. I keep getting sidetracked and turned on by the haphazard flashbacks. Two thighs straddling me. Her body tensing up. The view from the bottom, of the contours of her breasts … No. My memory is doing me more harm than good. I put the evening out of my mind.

  I stroke my cigarette box, showing it how much I appreciate its presence. I cherish those inanimate objects that aid my survival. They never judge or betray me. They never abandon me or smash out my windows. They’re simply there when I need them. Deserving of my affections.

  I weigh the box in my hand. Ja, she’s definitely taken a couple of cigarettes. I open the box. There are only two left. She stole my cigarettes and left me two smokes in the box for when I wake up. What a bitch. Steals my smokes, and leaves me two. Like a consolation prize. My phone and my music – fine – I understand those. She could sell those, or whatever. I should have been wiser about locking them up. But my smokes! Now, that’s just fucking cruel. Insult to injury. How am I supposed to get through the morning?

  I pull out one of the two smokes left in the box and stare at the cigarette’s long, white figure. I can’t help being reminded of her long, white figure. Naked and whole, the cigarette glares back at me. Don’t look at me like that. I light a match to break its well-tailored, smooth length. It seems to squeal at the approaching fire. I can almost hear it screaming at me: You lit me! You bitch! How dare you?

  Oh dear. I venture a drag and watch the lazy smoke drift up to my ceiling. Immediately, I recall the smoke floating from her lips, up past her arched back, to the pink zenith of her nipple. A fool’s paradise. Still, I want to slip her into a glass of wine, p
our her into my mouth, curl my tongue around her and drink her down. I’m gonna need another smoke after this smoke. My eager hand edges towards the box. No. It’s my last one. I’d better save it.

  To get to the kettle, I will need to cross the floor on which her lingerie lies taunting me. The morning light streams through the lace. Her silk panty is inside out. The cotton triangle, that covered her sweetest part, is facing me in the middle of the room. I will have to get up off my sheets that she’s smudged with her perfume. How unfair.

  My heart is pounding. The truth is taking its time to settle in. I have to take things slowly. I get up and place each foot delicately in front of the other, stepping over her lingerie, taking care not to touch her traces. I make my way to the kettle, put it on and listen to it rumbling, enjoying the warmth of the steam rising up to my skin. I make myself a cup of instant coffee with seven spoons of sugar.

  I glance over at my coffee table. The ashtray is full. But my wallet is missing. So is my bag with my lipstick, my car keys and my asthma meds. My laptop is also missing from the table. My stomach turns and I stare at the clock, trying to figure out exactly when she left. When exactly did I fall asleep?