Blind Date at a Funeral by Trevor Romain Page A

some?’ said the driving granny. ‘Lots of jars in those boxes in the back.’
    I looked over my shoulder, through the back window at the wooden crates on the bakkie.
    â€˜Uh, not for me, thanks,’ I said with a chuckle.
    I did not drink any more of that rocket fuel, but we did have a great conversation during the ride. Those little old hooch-hawking tannies were a riot and so sweet.
    An hour later, they turned onto a dirt road off the main road and stopped.
    â€˜This is where we turn off,’ said the driver. ‘As we tell all the army boys, when you get home, remember your family still sees you as the boy you were when you left. They have no idea how much you have changed. You look the same. You smile the same. You even hug the same, but you’re different. You have experienced things you may not ever be able to explain.’
    I nodded.
    â€˜Don’t blame them for expecting you to be the person you were before you left.’
    She waved and started to pull away. Then she suddenly stopped and leaned out of the window.
    â€˜And don’t drink too much!’

Now You See Him, Now You Don’t
    (Soundtrack: ‘Starry, Starry Night’ by Don McLean)
    I was sitting at an outdoor café in Paris just after I got out of the army. I was having breakfast and nursing a terrible hangover. It was a stereotypical café, just like you see in the movies. It had round tables and yellow umbrellas. The early morning sky was an incredibly deep blue.
    I looked up from my plate and noticed an artist setting up an easel nearby. I watched him preparing his paint and getting the canvas ready. Then he started painting in my direction.
    He looked up and noticed me watching him. He waved.
    I grunted.
    It was too early to be cheerful. I went back to my French toast. More coffee came. I needed it. I had spent half the night drunkenly trying to find my way back to the little hotel I was staying at. I only got a few hours’ sleep.
    The meal helped. It made me feel half human again, although I must have looked like an animal. I was unshaven with mussed hair and a wrinkled shirt.
    When I finished eating, I sat back and stretched. The morning made things a little easier. It was beautiful and fresh.
    The artist was still painting.
    I paid my bill and stood up. I smiled at the artist. I was feeling better.
    â€˜Sit!’ he said.
    I looked around.
    â€˜You,’ he said, pointing a brush at me.
    I touched my chest with my thumb.
    â€˜Yes,’ he said. ‘You sit. I paint.’
    I sat.
    â€˜Where are you from?’ he asked in a thick French accent.
    â€˜I’m South African,’ I said.
    He nodded.
    â€˜Where are you from?’ I asked in return.
    No answer. He painted.
    I sat and made notes about my trip in my travel journal.
    â€˜You don’t mind?’ he said, pointing his brush at me again.
    â€˜I’m quite flattered,’ I replied.
    â€˜Okay,’ he said and went back to the painting.
    An hour and a few more coffees later, he took a step back and put down his brush. He rubbed his hands together.
    â€˜I like,’ he said, tilting his head to the side. He wiped his hands with a paint-stained cloth. ‘You like?’
    I put money on the table for the bill and walked across to the easel.
    His painting was beautiful. The man was obviously a master. But there was something missing from his painting.
    Me.
    I wasn’t in the picture.
    â€˜Why did you make me wait while you painted?’ I said.
    â€˜I like zee company,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘I don’t like to paint alone. No. Zat I don’t like.’
    I was a little put out.
    â€˜Why didn’t you put me in the picture?’ I said.
    â€˜Turn around,’ he said, pointing at the café behind me.
    I turned and looked at the scene behind me.
    â€˜Are you in the picture?’
    â€˜No,’ I replied, looking at the empty table where I had been sitting a few seconds