you, Benny.
Pissed away, systematically, like everything.
He yearned. Where were the days, Lord, could he ever get them back? He wondered what she did when the desire was on her? What had she done the past two or three years? Did she see to herself? Or was there . . . ?
Panic. What if there was someone? Jissis, he would fucking shoot him. Nobody touched his Anna.
He looked at his hands, clenched fists, white knuckles. Slowly, slowly, the doctor had said he would make emotional leaps, anxiety . . . He must slow down.
He unclenched his fists and drew the magazines closer.
Car. Margaret Joubert had brought him mens magazines but cars were not his scene. Nor was Popular Mechanics. There was a sketch of a futuristic airplane on the cover. The cover story read, New York to London in 30 Minutes?
Who cares, he said.
His scene was drinking, but they dont publish magazines for that.
He switched off the light. It would be a long night.
* * *
The woman at the Internet café in Long Street had a row of earrings all down the edge of her ear and a shiny object through her nostril. Thobela thought she would have been prettier without it.
I dont know how to use these things, he said.
Its twenty rand an hour, she said, as if that would disqualify him straight away.
I need someone to teach me, he said patiently, refreshed after his afternoon nap.
What do you want to do?
I heard you can read newspapers. And see what they wrote last year too.
Archives. They call them Internet archives.
Aaah . . . he said. Would you show me?
We dont really do training.
I will pay.
He could see the synapses fire behind her pale green eyes: the potential to make good money out of a dumb black, but also the possibility that it could be slow, frustrating work.
Two hundred rand an hour, but you will have to wait until my shift is over.
Fifty, he said. I will wait.
He had taken her unawares, but she recovered well. A hundred, take it or leave it.
A hundred and you buy the coffee.
She put out a hand and smiled. Deal. My name is Simone.
He saw there was another shiny object on her tongue.
* * *
Viljoen. He was not tall, barely half a head taller than she was. He was not very handsome, and wore a copper bracelet on his wrist and a thin gold chain around his neck that she never much liked. It was not that he was poorhe just had no interest in money. The Free State sun had bleached his eight-year-old 464 pickup until you would be hard pressed to name the original color. Day after day it stood in the parking lot of the Schoemans Park Golf Club while he coached golf, or sold golf balls in the pro shop or played a round or two with the more important members.
He was a professional golfer. In theory. He had only lasted three months on the Sunshine Tour before his money ran out because he could not putt under pressure. He got the shakes, the yips, he called them. He would set up the putt and walk away and line up and set himself up again but always putted too short. Nerves had destroyed him.
He became the resident pro at Schoemans Park. I found him that night on the eighteenth green with a bottle in his hand. It was weird. It was like we recognized each other. We were the same kind. Sort of on the sidelines. When you are in a hostel, you feel it quicklythat you dont quite belong. Nobody says anything, everyone is nice to each other and you socialize and laugh and worry together about exams, but you are not really in.
But Viljoen saw it. He knew it, because he was like that too.
We began to talk. It was just so . . . natural, from the beginning. When I had to go in, he asked me what I was doing afterwards, and I said I had to catch a lift back to the hostel, so I couldnt do anything and he said he would take me.
So when everyone had gone, he asked me if I would caddy for him, because he wanted to play a bit of golf. I think he was a
Pissed away, systematically, like everything.
He yearned. Where were the days, Lord, could he ever get them back? He wondered what she did when the desire was on her? What had she done the past two or three years? Did she see to herself? Or was there . . . ?
Panic. What if there was someone? Jissis, he would fucking shoot him. Nobody touched his Anna.
He looked at his hands, clenched fists, white knuckles. Slowly, slowly, the doctor had said he would make emotional leaps, anxiety . . . He must slow down.
He unclenched his fists and drew the magazines closer.
Car. Margaret Joubert had brought him mens magazines but cars were not his scene. Nor was Popular Mechanics. There was a sketch of a futuristic airplane on the cover. The cover story read, New York to London in 30 Minutes?
Who cares, he said.
His scene was drinking, but they dont publish magazines for that.
He switched off the light. It would be a long night.
* * *
The woman at the Internet café in Long Street had a row of earrings all down the edge of her ear and a shiny object through her nostril. Thobela thought she would have been prettier without it.
I dont know how to use these things, he said.
Its twenty rand an hour, she said, as if that would disqualify him straight away.
I need someone to teach me, he said patiently, refreshed after his afternoon nap.
What do you want to do?
I heard you can read newspapers. And see what they wrote last year too.
Archives. They call them Internet archives.
Aaah . . . he said. Would you show me?
We dont really do training.
I will pay.
He could see the synapses fire behind her pale green eyes: the potential to make good money out of a dumb black, but also the possibility that it could be slow, frustrating work.
Two hundred rand an hour, but you will have to wait until my shift is over.
Fifty, he said. I will wait.
He had taken her unawares, but she recovered well. A hundred, take it or leave it.
A hundred and you buy the coffee.
She put out a hand and smiled. Deal. My name is Simone.
He saw there was another shiny object on her tongue.
* * *
Viljoen. He was not tall, barely half a head taller than she was. He was not very handsome, and wore a copper bracelet on his wrist and a thin gold chain around his neck that she never much liked. It was not that he was poorhe just had no interest in money. The Free State sun had bleached his eight-year-old 464 pickup until you would be hard pressed to name the original color. Day after day it stood in the parking lot of the Schoemans Park Golf Club while he coached golf, or sold golf balls in the pro shop or played a round or two with the more important members.
He was a professional golfer. In theory. He had only lasted three months on the Sunshine Tour before his money ran out because he could not putt under pressure. He got the shakes, the yips, he called them. He would set up the putt and walk away and line up and set himself up again but always putted too short. Nerves had destroyed him.
He became the resident pro at Schoemans Park. I found him that night on the eighteenth green with a bottle in his hand. It was weird. It was like we recognized each other. We were the same kind. Sort of on the sidelines. When you are in a hostel, you feel it quicklythat you dont quite belong. Nobody says anything, everyone is nice to each other and you socialize and laugh and worry together about exams, but you are not really in.
But Viljoen saw it. He knew it, because he was like that too.
We began to talk. It was just so . . . natural, from the beginning. When I had to go in, he asked me what I was doing afterwards, and I said I had to catch a lift back to the hostel, so I couldnt do anything and he said he would take me.
So when everyone had gone, he asked me if I would caddy for him, because he wanted to play a bit of golf. I think he was a
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