Dirinda and I usually hugged on parting but something stopped me. Several thoughts flew into my mind, simultaneously. I did not want to give Dirinda false hope – I had not decided to take her son, and a hug might have given that impression. I did not want to be a hypocrite either, pretending to care for her when actually I was about to let her down. In addition I did not want to stimulate my emotions for I certainly did not trust them to decide actions that could so radically alter the course of my life.
Dirinda and I stood at the street corner on the main avenue, where the trams rattle noisily in the day but were now stationary, silent.
“Well, call me tomorrow,” said Dirinda.
She turned right down the avenue towards her home in the city’s eastern suburbs. She was not showing the love either. Perhaps she felt physical closeness might confuse me and she wanted me to make a clear decision. One that I could stick to.
My home was near, a few turnings away, in a comfortable old house once belonging to one family but now apartments for many more. I unlocked the heavy door to the building and closed it quietly behind me. In the ground floor gloom, I walked the few paces to my flat. Once inside I felt guilty knowing I was safe while Dirinda was still making her way home at night.
She would have found her bike by now and be pedalling furiously, with her scarf flattened under her cap, looking more like a boy than a woman, and so (we hoped) unlikely to be stopped.
I went into my kitchen and lit a ring to boil a kettle. Oil was so expensive now but nothing soothed like a glass of hot tea. I made a pot and covered it with a knitted cover to keep it warm for longer. I cut a slice of dark rye bread and, standing at the kitchen counter, I tried to eat it as slowly as I could. Perhaps if I slowed my life down to a basic act like chewing, clarity would come. You can’t argue with a bodily function.
I noticed how tight my stomach was clenched and I breathed out, to help it relax. I tried another mouthful, but my thoughts were not slowing. I was worried about the soldier having a record of us being together. He had inserted our ID cards, one after another. Our names would be logged at a similar hour. Unless Dirinda went on a separate database because of her religion?
If I did take Natal to live with me, and anything happened, then my contact with his mother – if it came to light – might incriminate me. I would be a suspect, observed, under scrutiny. It would make having Natal here impossible; it would endanger us all.
At this stage losing liberty was my fear. I cleaved to the security of my flat, with its kettle on the hob and cupboards with grains and spices. Its wooden floorboards, with beat-up lino in the kitchen. Shelves weighed down with stacks of books. Carpet, worn in places, leading to my bed, and its duck-feather duvet.
I longed to speak to someone, to lift off the top of my head and let out its compressed thoughts. I was still standing at the kitchen counter, taking sips of warm tea. All this was at risk. Was there anyone I could unburden myself to?
Kheila was my first choice because she knew what was going on. I would not have to waste time filling in the background details. But I had a feeling I knew what Kheila would say.
“It’s too late. You are already in too far. You might as well go the whole hog and do something to be proud of,” said the Kheila voice in my mind.
“You don’t have to play the revolutionary martyr,” said another voice. “Be sensible, think of yourself. Charity begins at home.” That last sentence gave me a strong clue I was listening to my Grandmother.
My grandmother and Kheila stood at opposite ends of the spectrum. One was the voice of passion. The other the voice of reason. How could I reconcile these two disparate views into one whole that I could unite behind? My mind was in pieces, going in different directions.
The soldier had unnerved me too. I had never been up close to a rifle before, let alone the naked steel of a bayonet. I reminded myself that nothing bad had happened, yet. But inside my core was trembling.
A sip of schnapps might settle this tremor and I poured myself two fingers worth, feeling its fire go straight into my belly. I wanted to help Dirinda. But this was set against my fear of doing something reckless I may live to regret. I wanted to be brave enough to do it. I wanted to be sensible enough not to.
“Between a rock and a hard place,” went another voice in my head, noting my dilemma from afar, a commentary that did not do justice to the turbulence I felt inside.
As the schnapps took effect, my analytical self came to the fore. I had to admit that I was excited by the prospect of helping Dirinda, of taking a central role. If I bowed out, saying, sorry I can’t help, I would lose that feeling. I would feel empty again.
Ever since I had met Dirinda I somehow felt more essential to life. I had a purpose. I felt sad at the thought of losing that. Losing what, I asked sternly? Was it an illusion, and I merely getting caught up in the drama of someone else’s life.
I went into my bedroom. It was too cold to get undressed so I lay down under the duvet with my clothes on. I left the bedside lamp on, and soon, without realising it, I had drifted off.
Tags: fiction, future story, liberty, Mystery novel
