{"id":2507,"date":"2013-04-14T01:39:26","date_gmt":"2013-04-14T01:39:26","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2507"},"modified":"2013-05-15T10:38:37","modified_gmt":"2013-05-15T10:38:37","slug":"a-season-in-paradise","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2507","title":{"rendered":"A Season in Paradise"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"basement\"<\/a>
\n 
\nAn extract from the novel \u00a0<\/em>
\nCall It Dog<\/strong><\/p>\n

I find him in Empangeni. My father lies on his back at the edge of the sugar-cane valley, one arm under his head, the other flung out, fingers plaiting scrub and yellow weed flowers. The camera next to him is shuttered and blind. He squints at the wavering sky, which moves with heat if not with wind. Empangeni rises behind us: tin shanties glint through the sugar-mill smoke and dusty tracks cross the red hills to mark mission churches, now crumbling. In front of us, the green swarm of cane stretches to the horizon.<\/p>\n

\u2018When did you get here?\u2019 I ask.<\/p>\n

\u2018Just now.\u2019<\/p>\n

I stand over him, waiting. We\u2019re quiet, at right angles to each other. I close my eyes and lift my face to the sky as though hoping to feel rain. But the early-morning sun burns through my eyelids, red light suddenly inside my head.<\/p>\n

\u2018How did you know I was here?\u2019 I ask. The heat touches my shoulders and chest, a blessing.<\/p>\n

\u2018I read your stuff online. By Jo Hartslief in Johannesburg, South Africa.\u2019 He speaks in a British accent, mispronouncing my surname the way they all do. His would be no easier for them, the rolling r of Roussouw something only the Welsh would be able to attempt. \u2018The articles were good,\u2019 he says.<\/p>\n

His compliment surprises me. \u2018Thanks.\u2019 I look down at him, the sunspots fading from his skin and clothes as my eyes adjust to the light.<\/p>\n

\u2018Well, not too bad anyway. A bit \u201chuman interest\u201d for my liking.\u2019 He doesn\u2019t move to put air quotes around the term, and he doesn\u2019t need to. \u2018Too many interviews with crying refugees.\u2019<\/p>\n

Lying down, my father\u2019s belly slopes up from his ribcage. I wonder if it will hang over his waistband when he stands up. He\u2019s grown a beard, which is red and grey in patches, and his nose has been broken since I last saw him. It\u2019s hooked now, but at fifty-three, he\u2019s too old for it to be handsome.<\/p>\n

Before I can decide whether or not to get irritated, he asks: \u2018Were you staying near Alexandra?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018No. I\u2019ve been going into the townships with Tumelo, the photographer I\u2019ve been working with. He knows where to go.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018He\u2019s good,\u2019 he says, nodding his approval. \u2018He\u2019s taken one or two nice shots.\u2019<\/p>\n

Tumelo\u2019s a war correspondent and has been taking photos much longer than my father has. Even now, I sometimes search in stock-photo libraries for the pictures my father takes \u2013 of steaming bowls of pasta and sauce, moist slabs of cake. I want to ask how his slathering shoe polish onto raw meat and frosting grapes with hairspray qualifies him to judge, but I know better, even after so many years.<\/p>\n

\u2018Most of the other journalists out here from overseas, it\u2019s obvious they\u2019re staying in nice hotels in Jo\u2019burg,\u2019 he says.<\/p>\n

I too have been staying in a nice hotel in Jo\u2019burg, spending the money my grandmother left me on swimming pool access and a queen-sized bed. But I haven\u2019t been able to sleep in it.<\/p>\n

\u2018And using copy from the news wires anyway, getting the local photographers to do all the difficult work for them,\u2019 he scoffs. This is something he\u2019s always banged on about, that photographers never get enough recognition. I don\u2019t let on that I agree with him. \u2018But your stuff is different.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Thanks.\u2019 I wonder how long he\u2019ll let me have this.<\/p>\n

\u2018Of course you\u2019d be stupid enough to go there. They warned the press that it\u2019s too dangerous, especially for a woman, and of fucking course you went anyway.\u2019 He looks at me for the first time, his eyes triumphant slivers in the glare. \u2018I hope those kaffirs roughed you up a bit, put their pink hands all over your pasty skin. That\u2019d teach you.\u2019<\/p>\n

I gather fistfuls of my skirt at my sides to steady myself against what I know is coming. \u2018Teach me what?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018That you can\u2019t just come back here after ten years and still know how it is \u2013 how bad it\u2019s gotten \u2013 or how to stay safe.\u2019 He turns his frown back on the sun. \u2018You can\u2019t come back after ten years and have it be your home anymore.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I never said it was.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I bet they only picked you to come out here because of your surname. That and the nostalgia for swimming pools and Mandela that you whip out when you\u2019re trying to be exotic and interesting.\u2019<\/p>\n

I force myself to breathe in for four counts and hold it just as long. But my voice wavers with the heat that has come to my face nonetheless. \u2018You don\u2019t know why I came out here, or what happened when I was in Alex.\u2019 The words are wet. And he can hear it, has always been able to tell when he\u2019s scored a point, even over the phone. In spite of myself, I want to tell him about the fires, the bloody blankets on the side of the road. That before I left London two weeks ago on assignment for a magazine, I\u2019d called a few of my other contacts to see if they\u2019d be interested in a series of articles about corruption and cronyism in South Africa. When the riots broke out, I was a cheap source of copy; \u2018already in-country\u2019 was how they put it. But I know that my father doesn\u2019t care about how I ended up in Alex, and if I try to explain it to him he will have won. Right now, I want to hurt him with something trite and true. \u2018You have no idea who I am.\u2019<\/p>\n

He looks at me and smiles, his forehead moving upwards with the force of it. \u2018If you\u2019re anything like me \u2013 and I know you are \u2013 you probably need a cigarette right about now. Why don\u2019t you sit down?\u2019<\/p>\n

Before I can stop myself, I straighten my shoulders and neck to stand taller. My father laughs.<\/p>\n

\u2018When did you dye your hair?\u2019 he asks.<\/p>\n

My hand wants to make a hiding place for my fringe, but I will my fingers to be still. \u2018I dunno \u2013 two years ago?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Don\u2019t ask me \u2013 I dunno the answer.\u2019 He watches a hadeda hang in the air above us. It drops lower, lazy with early morning. Its feet rake the cane leaves before it lands near the old Mercedes I rented in Durban. \u2018Red doesn\u2019t suit you. And you\u2019ve gotten thin. Too thin.\u2019 He waves his hand at me as though wiping a mirror. \u2018Did you do all this for that boy?\u2019<\/p>\n

I think he means Dan, the only boyfriend I\u2019ve ever told him about. \u2018No.\u2019 I broke up with Dan long before I changed my hair.<\/p>\n

\u2018For a girl, then.\u2019 I wonder if he\u2019ll flick his tongue through the V of his fingers. He\u2019s done it before. \u2018Did you let your underarm hair grow out so you could dye that as well?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yeah. I stopped wearing make-up too \u2013 oh, and I burned all my bras.\u2019 He doesn\u2019t react and I keep going, even though I know better. \u2018And of course I hate all men and love Ani DiFranco.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Who\u2019s that?\u2019<\/p>\n

I shrug. \u2018It doesn\u2019t matter.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Every time I see you, I wonder if you\u2019ll look like your mom,\u2019 he says, his eyes on me again. \u2018But luckily, my genes were stronger than Karen\u2019s.\u2019 He laughs again.<\/p>\n

\u2018Look, Nico, what do you want from me?\u2019 I hope the name hurts him. \u2018I have to get back and, you know, do my job.\u2019<\/p>\n

He turns his head away from me and spits into the grass. \u2018I\u2019m honoured you\u2019d, you know, come out to the bundus just to see me.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Don\u2019t be. You begged me to come.\u2019 Without looking, I find the right key in my handbag and hold it ready for the ignition. \u2018And it\u2019s the first time you\u2019ve ever needed anything from me my whole life, so that\u2019s why I\u2019m here: to satisfy my curiosity, and then bugger off back to the arrangement we had before.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Kak, man. We haven\u2019t seen each other in three years\u2014\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Three and a half.\u2019 I sound proud, like a child bragging about how long she\u2019s held her breath underwater. There are so many ways for him to win.<\/p>\n

\u2018OK, three and a half years. Not since that shit-hole pub in London.\u2019 He smiles, baring teeth too far back in his mouth. \u2018So you came here today after three and a half years just out of curiosity?\u2019<\/p>\n

I shake my head, not wanting to admit that after his phone call I was actually worried about him, but I can see now that he\u2019s fine, the same as always. I shouldn\u2019t have come.<\/p>\n

\u2018Good,\u2019 he says. \u2018I needed to get you here, and what I need from you now\u2026well, curiosity isn\u2019t enough to make you give it to me.\u2019 He pauses. \u2018Why don\u2019t you sit down?\u2019 He stares at me, not really asking.<\/p>\n

I sit this time, legs crossed. Sweat is already pooling under my thighs. I bought the skirt at the airport in Johannesburg, an orange, sequinned cocoon; there\u2019ll be two damp ovals on the back of it when I get up.<\/p>\n

The hadeda hunches closer.<\/p>\n

\u2018How\u2019s your grandmother?\u2019<\/p>\n

He doesn\u2019t know she died a month ago. I should tell him. But he turns his head. A check on his to-do list. \u2018She\u2019s fine.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Your accent\u2019s changed,\u2019 he says. \u2018You sound like a proper pommie now.\u2019 His fingers are motionless as he watches the bird. I stop pulling at grass and watch it too.<\/p>\n

In Benoni, where I grew up, hadedas were dull and grey as closed oysters. Mornings I would see them preening in the garden and let the dog out to sprint circles into the frosted grass, driving the squat birds onto aerials and streetlights. There, they complained in mournful kazoos about the Maltese terrier and the pale brunette child too slow to run after them herself. But here, in the sun, the bird is suddenly beautiful, its wings skating the spectrum from green to purple, like the inside of a shell, as it moves towards us.<\/p>\n

\u2018In case you haven\u2019t been paying attention, the bird\u2019s name is Frank,\u2019 my father says. \u2018We\u2019ve been watching each other since I got here. It seems he\u2019s finally decided to come down for a smoke.\u2019 From the pocket of his shorts, my father edges a pack of Peter Stuyvesant and a box of matches. His fingers, quick with habit, extract three cigarettes. Frank moves towards us. My father puts two cigarettes on his stomach, motioning for me to take one.<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m going to light a match using just one hand,\u2019 he brags from around the cigarette between his teeth. The tip bobs as he talks, punctuating his sentence.<\/p>\n

The match catches and Frank cocks his head, wary of the flame. But my father and I both breathe it in. He turns his head towards the creature. It stares, curious and suspicious.<\/p>\n

\u2018Come on, dickhead.\u2019 My father waits for Frank to fetch the cigarette off his stomach. But the bird is still, almost judgemental. \u2018Well, fuck off then, Frank,\u2019 he says, blowing smoke at the bird.<\/p>\n

Frank, made grey again, objects: \u2018How-how-he. How-how-he.\u2019 It\u2019s almost as though he\u2019s lamenting: I thought we were friends \u2013 how could he speak to me like that?<\/p>\n

I laugh.<\/p>\n

\u2018I said, fuck off, Frank!\u2019 This time my father sits up, and Frank\u2019s cigarette rolls into the scrub, bent. Frank glares, first with his left eye and then with his right, the red on his beak suddenly angry. My father glares back, the ember on his cigarette glowing as he takes a long drag.<\/p>\n

I sit quietly, a good audience.<\/p>\n

Calmly now: \u2018Frank, let me make myself clear. You are not welcome here. I need to talk to Jo and I won\u2019t have you butting in. Your points are trite, your vocabulary kak and you always try to make every conversation about you. Now, if you know what\u2019s good for you, you\u2019ll go.\u2019<\/p>\n

Frank huddles lower, his neck folded away like a beach chair in winter.<\/p>\n

\u2018And don\u2019t even think about making your displeasure known by shitting on my car on your way out.\u2019 My father turns, his back now to the bird. Frank pauses and begins to preen himself. In my sunglasses, my father sees Frank\u2019s disobedience. He whirls, shouting, \u2018Hamba!\u2019 Go.<\/p>\n

The bird spreads out, grey and suddenly other, in a running start, and I\u2019m strangely afraid of it as it takes off. I duck, but its feet skim cane not skin. It circles the field once, slowly, before straightening out and heading towards the mountains.<\/p>\n

My father\u2019s shout has stirred the wind; sugar cane clack an objection to Xhosa words so deep in Zululand.<\/p>\n

\u2018When you put your cigarette out, do it properly,\u2019 he says. Serious now. \u2018It hasn\u2019t rained here in months.\u2019<\/p>\n

I wonder how long he\u2019s been in Natal, if he\u2019s moved here. Last I knew, he was living in Cape Town. But I don\u2019t ask and we sit silently. Beyond the road into town, soil turns into sand and later into red rock. Sparse outcroppings of weeds and abandoned mud huts dot the hillside.<\/p>\n

On the way up from Durban this morning I crossed the Tugela River, where the water slows after its long trip and aloes bloom succulent spikes. There, the redcoats had crossed, bringing guns and white man to Zululand. Neither had left yet.<\/p>\n

And there I was, a turncoat, making the same trip.<\/p>\n

\u2018What\u2019re we doing here?\u2019 I ask, straightening Frank\u2019s cigarette. The paper is wrinkled and dusty.<\/p>\n

\u2018I wanted to show you this because I think you\u2019ll appreciate it.\u2019 My father is being deliberately obtuse, trying to pique my interest.<\/p>\n

I won\u2019t ask again, so I wait. A bumblebee undresses the daisy weeds.<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019ve been here once before.\u2019 He straightens his legs out in front of him and points his toes. Both of the shoelaces on his leather walking boots are tripled-knotted. \u2018Walked through the furrows in between cane fields. Sat in their shade.\u2019<\/p>\n

I think he\u2019s quoting, but I don\u2019t know where from.<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019ve been here before but I must describe it to myself, shape it new each time, to remember it. This whole field is an instrument and every stalk is drink for a thirsty traveller.\u2019<\/p>\n

I lean back, my hands in the scrub behind me. Waiting out his preambles has always made me feel lazy.<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m wanted for murder.\u2019<\/p>\n

I\u2019m awake and upright again. \u2018What?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018There\u2019s a warrant out for my arrest on suspicion of murder.\u2019 He pulls at his beard, twisting the hair between his fingers.<\/p>\n

\u2018Wait \u2013 what?\u2019 I can\u2019t yet tell if this is part of the performance.<\/p>\n

\u2018A week and a half ago, I saw a police car pull up outside my flat, and I knew. So I threw some stuff in a bag and got the hell out of there.\u2019 He waves his flat away from his face as though it were a fly. \u2018Thank fuck blacks are so lazy \u2013 they had a smoke first.\u2019 He gives a tight half-smile.<\/p>\n

\u2018Are you having me on?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Fuck you,\u2019 he says loudly and spits into the grass right next to me. \u2018Why would I lie about this? Are you really such a self-obsessed cow that you think I would make this up just to get you to speak to me again?\u2019<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know what to say. I want to drive away and leave him here but I\u2019ve never seen him like this, so agitated. So scared. The few times we\u2019ve met up since I moved to the UK, and in our occasional emails, he\u2019s been expansive, showy. Even when we fought, as we always did \u2013 at some comment of his too offensive for me to leave alone, about women or affirmative action or how he would\u2019ve raised me differently \u2013 he\u2019s never been this raw. \u2018No\u2014\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Look,\u2019 he says, bending forward, his hands stopping short in the grass just in front of me. \u2018I\u2019m sorry.\u2019 He stares into the black pools of my sunglasses; something makes me fold them into my lap. \u2018Please. Running has made me look guilty \u2013 I know that. I can\u2019t get out of this alone. I need your help, Jo.\u2019<\/p>\n

I force my hands to be still in my lap. \u2018Tell me what happened.\u2019<\/p>\n

He sits back, scrub between his fingers. \u2018Back in April, two cops turned up at my flat and started asking questions about a black man that disappeared back in eighty-three \u2013 abducted, probably dead.\u2019 He shrugs with only one shoulder; it\u2019s not unusual enough for two. \u2018They showed me this shitty photo of him but I\u2019d never seen him before. I mean, all blacks look alike to me anyway.\u2019<\/p>\n

He\u2019s always liked to provoke me but I won\u2019t react this time. Otherwise, it\u2019ll be hours before he tells me his real reason for calling. \u2018So what happened then?\u2019<\/p>\n

He looks away. \u2018I could tell they thought I was lying.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018But why?\u2019<\/p>\n

He stubs out his cigarette until there\u2019s dust under his fingernails. \u2018Apparently, it happened two years before I met your mom. Things were difficult for me then. Not the kind of life that would give me a good alibi. I was just about to tell them to fuck off, but then they said there was a witness that saw me with the man.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Who\u2019s the witness?\u2019<\/p>\n

He picks at the cuticle on his thumb.<\/p>\n

I push myself forward over my knees and put a hand on his shoulder, the way I would anyone else. It feels wrong, touching him. \u2018Look at me,\u2019 I say.<\/p>\n

When he does, I can see his eyes are rimmed in red. \u2018I dunno. They wouldn\u2019t say.\u2019 He rounds his back. My hand isn\u2019t welcome. \u2018And now they\u2019re investigating me.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018But why would they think you had anything to do with it?\u2019<\/p>\n

He looks at the Drakensberg, purple and hazy on the horizon. The skin on his nose is peeling and his hair is short to stave off the grey where it\u2019s coming in in a thick band. Bony knees now pulled against his chest, he seems old and vulnerable.<\/p>\n

\u2018Because I\u2019m Afrikaans, a white man living in a black man\u2019s country.\u2019 He scratches at a scab on his calf. \u2018Because they don\u2019t want any truth or reconciliation anymore, just someone to blame.\u2019 Another speech.<\/p>\n

\u2018Can\u2019t you just tell them where you were the night he was taken?\u2019 I ask.<\/p>\n

\u2018You think I wouldn\u2019t just have done that if I could of?\u2019<\/p>\n

I shrug, but he doesn\u2019t look up to see.<\/p>\n

\u2018Eighty-three was when I\u2019d just gotten back from travelling \u2013 after the army?\u2019 he prompts me.<\/p>\n

\u2018Right.\u2019 He told my mum that after finishing his minimum compulsory military service in 1979, he\u2019d travelled up through Africa and then across Europe without a passport, crossing rivers and borders under cover of darkness. He\u2019d grown a beard and pretended to be Dutch to fool the Europeans, who\u2019d already begun their sanctions and travelling bans. She thought it glamorous, even admirable, avoiding the required annual conscription duties. Those three years were filled with imagined snapshots of a young man pulling the peace sign in front of the Eiffel Tower, patting a stray dog next to Gaud\u00ed\u2019s Sagrada Fam\u00edlia in Barcelona, teaching himself Latin in Rome. My mum believed him when she was twenty. I wouldn\u2019t make that mistake.<\/p>\n

He shakes off the fly that has landed on his forearm. \u2018This hole in my story is all they need. Never mind that the only reason it\u2019s there is because I was objecting to the whole war thing.\u2019<\/p>\n

Even though I don\u2019t really believe his passport-less European tour, I won\u2019t let him have this. \u2018Didn\u2019t you go AWOL because they were increasing the number of compulsory years of service and you would\u2019ve had to do more time?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Ja, that too.\u2019 He shunts the cigarettes towards me with the back of his hand.<\/p>\n

This doesn\u2019t make sense. Every white man my father\u2019s age will have spent time in the army. Surely he wouldn\u2019t have been the only one to react to it by falling off the map, as he likes to call it. \u2018What else?\u2019<\/p>\n

He hesitates. \u2018I have a record.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018What for? The shoplifting stuff?\u2019<\/p>\n

He laughs. \u2018I didn\u2019t know you knew about that. Your grandmother tell you?\u2019<\/p>\n

I nod.<\/p>\n

\u2018Of course. No, this was something else. Assault.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Jesus.\u2019 I hold a cigarette between very straight fingers. \u2018What the fuck did you do?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018A couple of years ago, in Cape Town, I got into a fight with a bergie.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018What\u2019s a bergie?\u2019 I hate having to ask.<\/p>\n

\u2018A hobo. They sometimes sleep on the slopes of Table Mountain.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Why\u2019d you fight him?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018It was getting dark and I was running along the sea there by Clifton. The man was going through the bins at the top of the stairs down to the beach and just throwing shit everywhere. So I stopped and told him to pick up all the rubbish and that I knew he was looking for food but littering was bad for the environment. He swore at me \u2013 coloureds have the best swear words \u2013 so I was just standing there taunting him because what he was calling me was really funny. Jou ma se slapgenaaide bees-poes.\u2019 Your mother\u2019s fucked-loose cow cunt. He laughs again. \u2018And then, out of nowhere, one of his friends came over and broke my nose.\u2019 He pinches the crooked bridge. \u2018I was halfway to killing him before I was pulled off.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Fuck.\u2019 I don\u2019t know what else to say. The man that did this, the man laughing about it now, is my father, the only family I have left. Dry-mouthed, I put my half-smoked cigarette out against the sole of my sandal.<\/p>\n

\u2018Afterwards, they tried to say it was racially motivated, but that\u2019s a load of horseshit.\u2019 He rolls his eyes. \u2018I saw a guy who punched me, first; a black guy, second.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m sure all your nice talk about kaffirs really helped the situation.\u2019 This is the first time I\u2019ve used that term and I can\u2019t help but say it more quietly than the other words, as though someone might hear me, or I might hear myself. I sound too much like other white South Africans with it in my mouth.<\/p>\n

\u2018No,\u2019 he says, pulling out handfuls of grass. \u2018Probably not.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Why\u2019d you run? Why didn\u2019t you just answer their questions?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I panicked. But I swear to you, Jo, the day before I left, I came back from work and my whole flat was different. Everything was about a centimetre to the left.\u2019 Clumps of red soil dangle from the roots he\u2019s pulling up.<\/p>\n

\u2018What do you mean?\u2019 Instead of putting my hand over his, I watch his grass-stained fingertips.<\/p>\n

\u2018The police\u2019d been there, going through my stuff when I was at work.\u2019 He rubs his eyes. There\u2019s dust in his eyebrows. \u2018I knew they were going to come for me, and that when they did it would be serious.\u2019<\/p>\n

I throw the pack of cigarettes into his lap. I\u2019ve smoked more on this trip than I have since university and already I feel sick. \u2018Why do you think I can help you?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I need someone who can think like them.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Do you mean rationally?\u2019 I can\u2019t help myself.<\/p>\n

\u2018Fine. Whatever.\u2019 He looks away.<\/p>\n

I wonder if I should apologise.<\/p>\n

\u2018Actually, I\u2019ve run out of money,\u2019 he admits.<\/p>\n

\u2018Of course you have.\u2019 I knew there\u2019d be another reason for calling me. Maybe this is the real reason, the only one.<\/p>\n

\u2018Everyone\u2019s taking their own sepia pictures of food now, so work\u2019s been slow.\u2019 He reaches for the sunglasses in my lap and puts them on.<\/p>\n

\u2018Can\u2019t you go back to taking photos of lions and Table Mountain?\u2019 He used to work for a tourism agency, rich white people in every shot.<\/p>\n

\u2018That\u2019s not the point. I can\u2019t use my cards, obviously, so I\u2019ve been sleeping in my car the last week.\u2019<\/p>\n

I look away from the reflection I can now see in the lenses on his face. The eyes too big and the cheeks too hollow, as though the last two weeks have left me permanently shocked, never hungry.<\/p>\n

\u2018I was in Port Elizabeth last week, sleeping in my car, and some fucker tried to break in and I woke up with the glass exploding over me like some Jo\u2019burg firework.\u2019 He runs out of breath by the end of the sentence.<\/p>\n

I look back at him. \u2018You don\u2019t look cut up.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Don\u2019t believe me?\u2019 He lifts one side of his t-shirt. A bruise stretches from his armpit to his waist, textured and granite-blue. The right side of the bruise is almost perfectly straight. He smiles, but I can\u2019t see whether it reaches his eyes. \u2018It looks like a tidemark, doesn\u2019t it?\u2019 He lets go of the shirt and sits upright. \u2018At least it\u2019s not on my face, hey.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Jesus.\u2019 His t-shirt is bunched just above the waistband of his shorts. I can still see a slice of skin, creased and yellowing like an old sheet. \u2018I\u2019m sorry.\u2019<\/p>\n

He catches me looking and tugs at his t-shirt. \u2018It\u2019s not too bad; nothing\u2019s broken, or if it was, it\u2019s healed now. But I realised that I couldn\u2019t just keep driving around, without a plan or a good cup of coffee, until they caught up with me.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018When did you last eat?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Probably the day before yesterday, but it\u2019s not a big deal.\u2019 He pinches the fat on his belly. \u2018I\u2019ve gone longer.\u2019<\/p>\n

I want to ask just when that was, but now isn\u2019t the time. \u2018OK, well, that\u2019s the first order of business then,\u2019 I say, hoping that the executive-speak will make me feel more in control of the situation. Hoping that after a trip to the nearest Nandos, and, later, an ATM, he\u2019ll drop the wanted-man act.<\/p>\n

\u2018No.\u2019 He takes a cigarette from the pack in his lap and rolls it between his fingers. \u2018We have to go to Durban airport so I can get rid of my car and you can get a new one.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Why do I need a new one?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018In case anyone sees our two cars together before I dump mine.\u2019 He pulls off the sunglasses and rests them on the grass in front of me. Looking down, he says: \u2018Will you help me, Jo?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I dunno, Nico. I can lend you some money.\u2019<\/p>\n

He shakes his head. \u2018No. Please, Jo. I don\u2019t have anyone else to ask.\u2019 He looks at me. \u2018I don\u2019t want to be alone with this. And it would be good to spend some time with you.\u2019<\/p>\n

When I was younger, he\u2019d call and say he was coming to visit that weekend. I\u2019d wait on the steps outside the house, in my only dress, until it got dark and my mum dragged me inside. He never came.<\/p>\n

\u2018Nice try,\u2019 I say.<\/p>\n

He stiffens and I wonder what comeback will follow. But instead he repeats: \u2018Please, Jo. I know I have no right to ask.\u2019<\/p>\n

However obliquely, it\u2019s the first time he\u2019s ever acknowledged his absence from my life. I close my eyes. Even here, hundreds of miles from the Alexandra, I can still smell burning rubber. I open my eyes and look at him scratching at the scab on his knee. If I go with him, out of the two people in the car, I won\u2019t be the worst one. Maybe I\u2019ll be able to sleep again.<\/p>\n

I sigh. \u2018OK. I\u2019ll help you.\u2019<\/p>\n

He grips my shoulder. \u2018Thank you,\u2019 he says, smiling.<\/p>\n

He curves his back against the wind to light his cigarette, and I busy my hands gathering butts from the grass around us, his still wet at the tip, older ones fuzzy and innocuous. It\u2019s a habit formed at school, when any stray butts would land the entire boarding house in detention, but I realise that if he is telling the truth, it\u2019s probably a good idea to cover our tracks.<\/p>\n

He takes a deep drag and looks the ember in the eye. \u2018Fuck, man, the wind\u2019s so bad it smokes half of your cigarette for you.\u2019 He lies back again, one arm behind his head to give him a view of the horizon.<\/p>\n

I wait. \u2018I\u2019ll cancel my flight back to Jo\u2019burg, then,\u2019 I say when he closes his eyes.<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes.\u2019 He scratches his crotch. \u2018I hate Jo\u2019burg. It\u2019s really becoming one of those typical black African cities, you know?\u2019<\/p>\n

I shake my head \u2013 he doesn\u2019t see it \u2013 and lie down next to my father. I watch the one cloud in the sky change shape in the wind.<\/p>\n

\u2018Like the kind of place that uses mosquito coils,\u2019 he says.<\/p>\n

I look at the mountains in the distance. \u2018What\u2019s wrong with mosquito coils?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Instead of sprays or those plug-ins? Modern-day technology?\u2019 He turns, scowling at me. \u2018You\u2019re so fucking irritating. It was a metaphor. For how Jo\u2019burg\u2019s becoming like somewhere in Ghana or something.\u2019<\/p>\n

I drop my arms to my sides; the noise of keys in my hand seems out of place.<\/p>\n

\u2018Christ.\u2019 He sits up, the sweat on his back an hourglass on its side. \u2018You know, sometimes you remind me so much of your mom. So literal and so fucking blas\u00e9,\u2019 he says, standing up and glaring at me. He\u2019s always taller than I expect, and rather than softening him, his belly has made him seem stronger, more solid. \u2018You\u2019ve ruined it now. Let\u2019s go.\u2019 He slips a folded baseball cap from his pocket and pulls it low over his face.<\/p>\n

I close my eyes against the words, familiar as they are. \u2018OK,\u2019 I say, getting up and beating red dust from my clothes. The sun is suddenly closer, before it sifts out of the sky.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I find him in Empangeni. My father lies on his back at the edge of the sugar-cane valley, one arm under his head, the other flung out, fingers plaiting scrub and yellow weed flowers.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":56,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[292],"tags":[8],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nA Season in Paradise - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2507\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"A Season in Paradise - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"I find him in Empangeni. 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