Being Kari. Qarnita Loxton
Читать онлайн книгу.
I ran. There was no more puke. A strong smell of that expensive eco-friendly kitchen cleaner he always bought. The tiles were clean and dry. He had even tidied away the mixing bowls that I meant to load into the dishwasher, and had put food out for Marsh. The table was still laid for two. Just the candles on the coffee table were out. I wondered if he had cleared away the rose petal heart on the bed upstairs.
“My brother Dhanyal phoned to say that Ouma died of a heart attack tonight.” I just blurted it out. “Look, you know Muslims wash their own dead and then bury them within twenty-four hours? They want me to come help and get ready for the funeral in the morning.” It was easy not to answer him, not to talk about Eva. At least with Ouma I knew what I had to do.
“Ai, Kari.” His eyes were round with shock and sadness, and I knew it was real. “I am so sorry. That is terrible. I know you loved her very much.”
Even now, as angry as I am with him and with all that I don’t know about him, somehow I think there is still one thing that is true about Dirk. It’s weird, I guess, but I believe Dirk is always straight with me. He doesn’t say things just to make me feel better; he tells the truth even when I don’t like it. He will not lie to me now, not about Ouma, I am sure. Dirk never knew my ouma, but I believe he really was sorry for what I lost. Ag. What do I know? Maybe I just have to believe that Dirk is still straight, otherwise how will I ever believe anything he says? How will I believe that Eva was a mistake?
That it was Just Once.
Dirk moved closer as if to hug me but ended up just touching my arm. He was afraid of me! That was a shock. I had never seen him afraid of anything before, least of all me.
First time for everything. Cheating even.
“I am just coming to get dressed so that I can go. Not sure when I will be back,” I said. It was easy to ignore everything else, to ignore the hand soft on my arm.
“I can go with you. You don’t have to go by yourself. It’s been a long night already.” I saw a please in his eyes as he talked.
“Dhanyal said to come alone.”
I threw it at him over my shoulder as I took the stairs.
Fuck you, Dirk, my ouma is not going to be your get-out-of-jail-free card.
It took a long time to find halaal clothes in my cupboard. For someone who wore her first tank top at twenty-one, her first bikini at twenty-two, how is it possible to have so many dresses without sleeves? I ended up in my long black sleeveless knit dress with a black cardigan over it. It covered my body if not my shape. Granted, up and down is not really a shape, but still a bit too clingy for full madrasah marks. Where’s that burka when you need one? God. I hadn’t thought about having to cover my shape in forever; all my clothes looked the very opposite of halaal now. Definitely haraam, not allowed at all. Too short, too tight, too sleeveless, too low cut, too everything.
Wear a scarf.
Crap. I was pretty sure Dhanyal did not mean the woolly things I use to keep my neck warm in winter, but that was all there was so it would have to work. And I only had bright colours. I wasn’t ready to try and spread the thing around on my head – it wasn’t big enough to cover all my hair anyway – so I just stuffed the scarf into my bag. I grabbed some more clothes and a toothbrush, and shoved everything into Dirk’s empty bag lying next to our bed. I would probably have to stay overnight. A roomful of shoes to choose from but no time – the shoes lying next to the bed would have to do. As I packed I disturbed the damn rose petals still on the bed. I ignored them.
Just like I ignored Dirk, who had quietly appeared and stood watching in the doorway.
“Come, let me drive you. It’s late to go by yourself and a lot has happened tonight. I don’t have to go inside; I can always come get you whenever you need me to.” Please, Kari, his eyes seemed to say to me again, Please let me.
“Yes, a lot has happened, Dirk. You had sex with Eva. Ouma died.” I wanted to be mean to him but the other stuff came out too. Big fat tears, my chest was aching-heaving-bursting, my mouth full of spit. “Ouma is dead. There is no chance of ever seeing her again, no chance now for things to just come right. It’s all over. I can never fix things with her. I can never get another chance to make it right. She is gone.” I blubbed on without words and Dirk put his arms around me. Despite myself I was glad to have him. In all our time, no matter what, every single time he put his arms around me I felt like we fitted, that we matched each other. Even if we didn’t look like it to anyone else, when I closed my eyes and felt his arms around me I felt we belonged together. But this time the feeling lasted only a minute and for the first time I pulled away first.
Those arms had last held Eva.
“I have to go. I’ll let you know.”
I didn’t look at him as I ran away from my husband for the second time on Valentine’s Day.
4
Just thirty-five minutes from Eden on the Bay in Blouberg to Eden Road in Walmer Estate. I drove on autopilot in the in-between zone, an easy place for my brain to rest between Dirk and Ouma. Such a short drive from one Eden to another. So close actually, but it could have been two separate planets. My Eden was about Dirk and me, our home in Beach View, my friends, my work, the sea. Shops, bars, the beach and bikinis. No one knows me from before. I am just who I am.
You know that girl from Beach View Development, looks a bit Indian or what, I am not sure, long hair, greenish eyes, almost like Pocahontas, but could do with more boobs. Something Du Toit, married to that hot blond guy you always see on his bike on the coastal road. Woohoo, gimme some of that John Smith any day!
I’d howled with laughter when Di told me this was how Shelley had first described me. (And I got a push-up bra pronto.)
But in my old Eden, I am not just who I am. It’s like that TV show where the regulars in the bar think they know everything about each other. The Cheers song swirled in my head as I passed Paarden Eiland. Of course my old Eden Road Walmer Estate hasn’t got a bar. There it’s a mosque and some houses and so many regulars who think they know everything about me. There it’s all about the people. And they know my name, all right. But it wouldn’t be happy hour when I got there. No cheers at all.
It was past eleven when I crossed the bridge over the M5 into Walmer Estate. Same hills, so steep it’s as if you are driving right into the mountain, although my Mini automatic means no more hill starts, at least. But the same narrow roads with cars squeezed in tight, same corner shops locked up for the night. It was a bit like going back to high school. Everything looks more or less the same, and you sort of know how to get everywhere. But some things were different enough to know it was not the same at all. New one-way streets for a start. Bigger cars squashed on the side. Do the same people still live in the same houses? Surely not. I knew there would be some people at the house. They would come and pray through the night. It’s like that if the person dies at night. God. Would they know it’s me? That’s all I could think.
I went so damn slowly down Eden Road, all the time thinking how bad it would be if I bumped someone’s car or one of the men standing around talking in the street. Not the entrance I needed to make. But as slow as I went I still drove right past our house – number 12. Drove right past before I realised it was our house. The rose pink one-storey house I’d lived in for twenty-one years had grown up into a sleek white triple-storey glass-fronted monster. Garages at ground level where the garden used to be. Double front door.
The door was standing open to the road, with men in keffiyehs standing in front. All the lights were on, and from the road I could see the gold-framed Allahus on the wall in a front room. Just about all the houses in the road seemed to have grown up, but if you looked closely you could see how they’d started out. Except for Rafiq’s house, all the way down Eden Road, which was where I ended up parking. Yes, karma, she is a bitch. His house was still the same. Brown facebrick with a stoep, the front garden still full of the flowers Rafiq’s mother liked to grow. The same flowers he would pick for me when she wasn’t watching. I never knew what they were but they looked like the flowers you saw on old lady swimming