Untitled

I

THAT’S A GOOD OMEN thought Eli, proudly. Over his hand of cards, and across the table, he saw his brother’s right eye twitch. That meant James didn’t like what he was looking at. Eli wondered for a moment what bad news his brother’s hand held. Perhaps a cosmopolitan combination of suits, or maybe no direct line of ascension? Doom, written in the pictures. Either way, it obviously wasn’t good for James, but that meant it was good for Eli. Eli looked at the other players, hoping that their expressions might betray them too, as often our faces do. First he looked at his mother. Nothing. Then at his Ouma. Nothing.
Eli, and James, it seems, had forgotten that those two women had been playing this game long enough to know that the starting hand was not a reliable indication of how the game would end, something the boys still had to learn. Eli re-organized his cards. The Smiling Black Knave, thirteen other little black shovels, and two broken hearts. Not bad, he thought, he’d just have to put down a set of his own early on, and buy carefully, and then add where-ever he could. This formula, though, was actually how he should always play this game, regardless of the cards at hand, but that too was something he would learn, with time.
‘Alright, James, you’re starting.’ James followed his mother’s order and the game began. Ouma lit a cigarette.
Eli looked at the face-up card on the yellow-wood table. It was the Outcast Queen; the one who looked to her left when all the others looked right. He would have bought it, but he wasn’t quick enough. His brother picked it up and disposed of a Lonesome Gem.
Although the boys’ card-counting and people-reading skills suggested otherwise, this was how Eli, James, and their mother would spend most Friday nights. They would head over to Ouma’s house, have coffee, play a few games of cards at the kitchen table and then James and Eli would retire to the lounge while their mom and Ouma discussed things that women privately discuss in the confines of kitchens.
It was a comfortably mild night, and the family had all the windows in this part of the kitchen open. The orange and white checkered curtains flicked at the smoky air that surrounded them, and as the zephyr breezed around the room, the smell of Ouma’s freshly baking rusks tickled their nostrils after the air had swept it about from the white cast-iron oven. Around the  round yellow-wood table it swam, first past James, then the boys’ mother, then across their Ouma’s face and above her cigarette, swirling, it gently picked up their scents, and at Eli, it paused, so that he experienced a terrific sensation of smell that was a combination of smoke, coffee, rusks and family. A smell he would never forget. The cards and their pictures and meanings temporarily slipped his mind as he shut his eyes and sniffed in that odour. He smiled. He felt safe.
The game eased along. No one seemed particularly focused on winning, except James, and the scent did not bring him much ease, as it did Eli. He struggled to keep up with the number of cards that everyone else was laying down. Their pictures haunted him. Something needed to be done.
‘Ouma, you seem a bit down tonight?’ It was James’ attempt to distract the other players with the hope that they might play foolishly for at least one round.
‘Ja, my seun, I’ve been having bad dreams again.’ After this statement, Eli, who had been immersing himself in the smell of shelter, had to bring his cards down a bit to see Ouma speaking. She was dwarfishly short, but her vertical disability was definitely made up for in more than one way. He became uneasy. The safety of the rusks escaped him as he gave his attention to her. Ouma’s bad dreams were never good omens.
Not the knock. Please, not the knock, he thought.
It must be said that Eli’s connection was not all together correct here. Ouma’s dreams never contained knocks; in fact she heard them while awake and aware. However, Eli had eavesdropped enough to know that most times a knock was accompanied by an upsetting dream.
His mother put her cards face down on the table and looked at her mother. All attention was now on Ouma; the distraction had worked, but too well.
‘Age nee, Ma, what did you dream this time?’
‘Oh, come on!’
‘James, behave!’ their mother ordered while shaking her agitated head. ‘Tell me what you saw, Ma.’
‘Ag, dit was sommer niks, my kind. Los dit maar eerder.’
Women have always seemed to possess the gift of understanding each other, and with that understanding came the knowledge of each other’s code words.
‘Boys, go on to the lounge,’ their mother ordered. Ouma didn’t like discussing her troubles in front of the boys; she felt that they might worry about her too much. She never had to say it, but she was a proud lady and for her nothing upset pride more than the feeling of being worried about.
‘Yes, Ma,’ said the boys. Their mother rose with them and went to switch on the kettle. This was coffee talk, she thought. Ouma lit another cigarette and exhaled a plume of blue-gray smoke that swirled into nothingness above the table.
James apologized to his Ouma for being rude and she replied with her standard ‘Dankie’ and a smiling nod, which had the effect of making the culprit feel worse. She was a clever woman.
T he boys left the kitchen where the women, the cards and the dreams were, and continued into the passage towards the lounge.
‘You know,’ James began, still feeling bad, ‘as much as I think they’re gifted, Ouma and Ma can’t have any kind of precognition. It’s all rubbish. I hate it when they get each other all excited about their dreams and visions.’
‘I call it premonition,’ Eli replied. In fact they were both right in their choice of word. But Eli was more inclined to words that he felt sounded more dramatic. ‘What’s your problem today anyway? You’ve never said anything about it before?’ James had been in a bad mood all day, and although Eli did want to know, he didn’t give James time to answer; he had to get his point across. ‘You know that their visions always mean something and alwa–’
‘Bullshit.’ James was not in the mood for this. He made himself comfortable by lying on the largest couch with a few cushions stacked behind his head, and his legs crossed at the ankles. He switched on the television, changed the channel and Animax prevailed over TCM.
Eli claimed the smaller couch. He occupied it awkwardly; half-lying half-sitting on it, his legs dangling over the arm rest, but he was comfortable in that position. He felt no offence at having to take the smaller couch; his brother was taller. Eli resumed, ‘always come true. Between the two of them they can decipher –’
‘Guess.’
‘Fine, James, they can guess what their visions mean. And then those deciphered, guessed meanings actually happen. They become proven. It’s not mere coincidence; it’s a talent.’
‘Eli, I really can’t believe that you think that. It’s so naïve. It has to be chance. Precognition just can’t be possible.’
Eli knew it was possible. He thought of his no-nonsense mother and lively little Ouma as mini Nostradamuses; they had a gift that allowed them to see things before they happened, although those things were only things that affected the family directly and personally. While he conceded that they weren’t ever to predict something of epic, world-wide proportions, what they did predict, inevitably would change his world, epically.
‘It is possible! Just look at the facts: before Aunt Sarah found out she had cancer, one of them dreamt it would happen. Before Kelly knew she was pregnant, one of them saw it,’ Eli spoke animatedly in their defence, and then added sarcastically, ‘and before you began to claim to be able to see ghosts, they said that one of us would.’ James sat up quickly, aggressively defensive.
‘I do see ghosts! I’ve seen them in this very house! In that exact passage!’ He pointed to the passage.
‘Okay,’ Eli said, putting his hands in the air and shrugging his shoulders. ‘But didn’t they predict it?’
‘Yes, and they also predicted that one of us would get the gift of the knock.’
The knock.
Eli swallowed and leant forward.
‘Do you have it? Have you got the gift of the knock? Is that why you you’re so tense today?’ Eli felt that he was piecing it together. ‘Did you have–’
‘Oh, thank God no! What the hell would I want with something I don’t believe in?’
Eli’s near finished jigsaw puzzle fell apart. He sat back, disappointed, and scared. He didn’t want that gift either. He knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it.
‘Well, you might have to start believing in it; you already have a connection with the other side.’ Connections were important, much more important than no connections at all.
‘Shut up already,’ said James, shaking his head, ‘or I’ll flippin’ knock you!’ He threw a cushion at his brother.
Eli caught it and laughed.
‘Fine. I’m going to the toilet,’ he said, rising and throwing the cushion back at James.
James caught it in return and replaced it behind his head, which he shook again, with a grin.
‘Whatever, just don’t come back and tell me what they’re talking about.’ He changed the channel again and turned the volume up slightly. Wolf’s Rain had ended and Horton had just heard a Who.
Eli chuckled. His brother knew him too well and had realized that at some point Eli’s feline curiosity would get the better of him.
‘And don’t get caught.’
He didn’t plan to, so he took off his shoes at the entrance and put them against the wall of the lounge as he stepped into the beige passage. He then maneuvered slowly and softly towards the kitchen entrance. He stopped a little way before it and leant uneasily against the wall. The horizontal wooden rail halfway up it made him arch his back. It was worth it, he thought. He was close enough to hear them. He could smell the rusks again. He heard his mother, a safe, short distance around the corner.
‘So you think the warning’s for Harry?’
‘Ag, I’m not heeltemal sure, Santjie. No signs say different yet. Wanneer laas het jy van hom gehoor? Het jy al iets van hom gesien?’ His Ouma sounded upset and he could hear her shuffling about on her chair. As she spoke, the red embered end of the cigarette moved with her gesturing hand: to and fro it went, like a lantern blown about in the night-time wind.
‘Nee, nog nie. Maar, ek het hom die ander dag gebel, Woensdag dink ek, en hy’t gesê dat dit goed gaan; geen kak of drama. Hy het nogals heel happy oor die foon geklink.’
‘Blykbaar nie vir te veel langer nie.’
‘Apparently not. You said that in the dream he was with Hunter? And that there was a girl as well?’
‘Ja. Harry, Hunter, and a girl. Maar wat van hulle?’
‘Well, were they all celebrating?’
‘Ja, but most of it was done by Harry. He was the one spraying champagne everywhere. But they all danced and were happy. The only three happy ones. Everyone else was just standing there, drooling. Statues.’ Ouma took a final and long drag from her cigarette, then stubbed it. The smoke swirled.
That was a bad omen, Eli thought. He remembered his mom once told him that their dreams worked ‘backwards’ in certain ways; if they dreamt of a celebration, then it meant something sad would happen, and vice versa. His most vivid recollection was one she had told him about with great excitement and cheer, while leaving him scared and confused. In the dream, the family was all crowded around his cousin, Kelly; they were all of them crying and some of the tearful ones were trying to save his dying cousin, but they failed. A week after his mother had told him, news came that Kelly was in fact well, much to Eli’s relief. She was literally well enough for two: she was healthily pregnant.
‘What did they say, those three?’ his mother asked Ouma, not unsettled by the image of drooling statues.
‘Ja, baie. Meeste van dit was “bly julle kon dit maak” strooi. Maar ek kon nie alles verstaan nie. Hulle het vir ‘n rukkie in ‘n ander taal gepraat. En geskreeu. Dit was ‘n vreemde taal, jong.’
‘But you said you went to talk to them?’
‘Ja, I walked out from the middle of the family. When I got to Harry-them, they told me that there was no time for talk. They must leave. I looked back at all of you. The statues still stood drooling. Ek het gehuil in my droom, want almal, behalwe jy en een van die seuns, het nie oë gehad nie. Dit was as of iemand hulle oëdoppe deur ‘n nymasjien gesit het. Toe ek omdraai om die drie te vra daaroor, toe loop hulle, en dis toe ek wakker geword het.’ A truly disturbing sight: almost the entire family’s eyes were stitched closed and they stood, mouths agape and drooling. Yet Ouma stayed dreaming through all that. But such was the nature of her dreams and she had become accustomed to such sights, sights which would have scared the thin-blooded awake with claims of night-terrors.
Good, no knock, Eli thought.
         ‘Which of the boys was it? Which of them could see?’ Eli’s mother asked excitedly. She so wished to know which of them it would be, so that before their first visitor knocked, she could prepare them. Eli wanted to know too, for the same reason.
         ‘I’m not sure. Eers dink ek dit was die een, dan is ek seker dit was daai een. You know how I confuse them. Even if I told you that it was James, I could not tell you that I was vir seker thinking of him and not of Eli.’ The women chuckled, briefly.
‘Vertel my van die meisie, Ma.’
‘Ek kon haar nie goed sien nie, jong. Jy weet mos hoe dit soms is: the dream wouldn’t let me nicely see her face.’ Ouma held her hand in front of her own face and shook it lightly. ‘Her build was not the family’s,’ Ouma continued, ‘her legs were very long. Too long. We don’t have such long legs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. Op haar hemp was daar drie letters: “M T F”. Maar ja, Santjie, I, I don’t know what that means.’
‘That is strange. It means nothing to me either.’
‘They worry me, those three letters and that girl. I can connect them nowhere.’
‘Hopefully we’ll find out soon enough.’
‘Ja, maybe. I also worry about the drooling. Is ons regtig so honger vir dit?’
‘Ek weet nie, Ma. It could be a hunger for something else. Do you think the visitor was for all of them?’ The ‘visitor’ was the euphemism used by Eli’s mom and ouma for the same event that he described as ‘the knock’. He knew this, and felt himself become despondent at its being mentioned. The visitor’s knock; the very worst omen, he thought. Miserable and angry, he wanted to hit his fists on the wall. Hard. Hard enough so that it felt his disappointment, his dejection. But he found restraint in clenching both jaw and fists.
‘Nee. I think it just for Harry right now.’
‘Hoe so?’
‘He was the happiest. And I just heard three knocks. Not six or nine. Just three.’
‘Okay, and they were on the front door?’
‘Ja. Three knocks, front door. Knock. Knock. Knock.’ She became the knocker, the table the door.
Eli flinched with shivers.
         He heard his mother pick up the coffee cups and in a reflex-action he backed up a bit towards the lounge. As he was moving, he knew that he did not have enough time to move all the way there before she would see him. The space between him and the lounge seemed to extend within milliseconds. He had to improvise. The large kitchen sink was directly opposite him. His mom would definitely see him. There was no point in trying to hide. There was nowhere to hide. The room on his right had its door closed. In a moment of modern brilliance, he took out his cellphone and stepped away from the wall into the middle of the passage. He began walking slowly, apparently engrossed in his cellphone.
‘And there was – Eli, what are you doing there?’
Eli looked up from his cellphone as he walked down the passage towards his mother.
‘Huh?’
‘I asked what you’re doing,’ she said. He stopped and looked at her.
‘Oh, I’m just going to the toilet.’ He put his phone in his pocket. ‘Ma, will it be okay if you drop me off at Janine’s on the way home? Remember I told you about her party?’
‘And how will you get home?’ Her question ended with the sound of ceramic on steel. She needed to make sure. She always became more worried than usual about her boys after she or her mother had had a visitor. Eli took his phone out again, moved toward her and made as if he was re-reading a message.
‘She says that her older sister will drop us off.’
‘Will she be drinking?’
‘No, she’s studying for a test. On Monday,’ he said and looked up from his phone. He was now three steps from the kitchen entrance. ‘So she won’t drink, but will drop us off later.’
‘Oh okay, that’s fine then.’ She turned around and walked away from him, towards the kitchen table. Eli exhaled relief and turned right towards the toilet.
‘Oh, Eli!’ she called from the table. He paused, scared by the thought that she knew he had been listening.
‘Ja?’ he asked, trying not to sound cautious.
‘Remember to not forget that you have to wiggle the handle on that toilet,’ she said. Yet again, he breathed relief. He heard her open the oven door. The rusks were ready.
‘I won’t!’ he said as he heard the baking-pan connect with the stove-top. He moved closer towards the toilet, but he stopped short. He hoped that he could get just a little more from them. His mom was talking again.
‘And did you check that it wasn’t someone playing a prank on you?’
‘Ja, natuurlik, San! Sodra ek dit gehoor het, het die honde mal geblaf. Ons was toe buite toe met die flits. Daar was niks. Niks of niemand daar nie.’
‘Shit, Ma... Darem het ons ‘n bietjie tyd om good-bye te sê. Agterdeur onbeskof maar voordeur is oordentelik.’
‘Dis reg, ons het tyd om voor te berêi.’
The front-door knock of death. That meant that in a few months Eli would have to attend the funeral of Uncle Harry. He went into the bathroom and softly closed the door.



II

THE LIGHT FLICKERED SPORADICALLY and ever so slightly as Claire began preparing for the party. Usually a flickering bulb, fighting for its life, irritated her, but that night she enjoyed it. It made her feel as though her room was glittering. She was sitting in front of her mirror, trying to start her make-up process. She hated having to decide which face of the hundred possibilities in front of her she would wear. Foundation, eyeliner, eyeshadow, lip-gloss; all had to be considered, and each had at least four variants. What she hated was the effort of it, the tediousness of applying it all. But she really enjoyed its fruits. She loved feeling that she looked appropriately pretty. Everyone had said, for a long time, that she was pretty enough without make-up, and so, over the last year or so, she had decided to settle for a more natural look; softer colours, less artificial. No excess. Only what was essential. But even with that limit, she still had a huge decision ahead of her. She weighed up her options as she applied the moisturiser. She did it carefully, thoughtfully, purposely making sure that she covered the surface of her face.
         After all, she thought, Eli would be there, and he must never think her anything but gorgeous. She picked up a container of liquid foundation, opened it and examined its colour, then put it down and picked up the next one. She repeated the process until the fourth one, and this she applied. As she picked up the eyeliner, her sister walked in.
         ‘Hey, Bunny!’ Claire said, looking at her sister through the mirror.
         ‘Hey, Bear.’ Elizabeth flopped down on her sister’s bed and stared at the roof, Claire’s room was her safe-house. The place where she could let it all out and know that it wouldn’t move past the door. And it always smelt good there. She exhaled a dramatic sigh, the kind that reeks of attention-seeking.
         ‘What’s wrong?’ Claire asked as she leaned close to the mirror, and applied the eyeliner to the base of her lashes. She was used to her sister’s need to be responded to, attended to. But besides that, she could see that Elizabeth’s reflection was dispirited; something was getting her down.
         ‘You see I really like this boy in my class but I don’t know if he likes me and I don’t know what to doooo.’ Elizabeth hit her hands down on the bed. The impact made the entire mattress shiver. She rolled over onto her side, and stared at the wall. She then took the deep breath that she should have taken somewhere in her explanation.
         Claire put her make-up down and stared at her sister’s Doppelgänger in the mirror. Normally she had no trouble giving her advice. But, she had trouble giving her little sister any advice about this. What could she say? She was in the exact same position. How hypocritical would it be to give advice when she herself couldn’t follow it, or even worse, had not even realised it herself? She then found herself asking Elizabeth questions which she, Claire, should have asked herself long ago.
         ‘Has he ever done anything to make you think that he doesn’t like you?’
         ‘No, he hasn’t. Not exactly. You know how boys my age are! They’re so scared of us. They’re ridiculous!’
Eli had never done anything to make Claire think that, he was always sweet and gentle, but the problem was that he never did anything to make her feel like he really liked her as more than a friend either. Was he still intimidated, like the fifteen-year old boys in Elizabeth’s class? She doubted it.
         ‘I do know how they are. I’m sorry, Eliza.’
         ‘I dunno what to do. I like him, a lot, but I don’t know how to tell him,’ Elizabeth punctuated this with another sigh, and then suddenly began again, sitting up. ‘Is it even okay for me to tell him? Are girls allowed to do that? Oh, Claire!’ Elizabeth fell down into the foetal position, half sobbing.
         ‘It’ll be OK’ Claire said, standing up from the chair and moving toward her bed. ‘Just tell him.’ She lay down next her sister and looked up at her roof with its fake glow-in-the-dark stars that now just barely stood out against the white ceiling. Probably out-grown those, she thought. ‘Have you ever done anything to make him think that you really like him?’ Her sister turned to face her.
         ‘No.’
‘Then maybe you should,’ Claire said, stroking her sister’s hair. ‘Give him a sign. Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for? Write him a letter or something, and make sure you give it to him when he’s alone, or put it somewhere where he’ll find it when he’s alone. Boys sometimes aren’t the same with their friends around.’ She imagined her sister sneaking around a classroom during break-time to plant a little letter of love in this young boy’s bag. Poor boy, she thought; he doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into – her sister would probably be a lot of work. Even at this age.
‘Maybe I will, but what if it doesn’t work? What then? What if he thinks I’m being a slut by telling him I like him and making all the moves?’ Elizabeth grabbed a pillow and hugged it, held it close to her, tightly, trying to keep away her tears away.
‘You’re not a slut!’ said Claire, curbing her sister’s desperation. ‘If it doesn’t work, then he’s not good enough. And you should feel confident enough about yourself to move right on, there and then.’
The bulb suddenly found some reserve of life and shone brightly and constantly.
Claire had just had an epiphany. She would tell Eli that night how she felt, and if he didn’t return her affection, then she would move on, there and then. She thought it was a bit cold-hearted, but it was what she needed to do. She wouldn’t do it out of spite, just out of self-preservation, but that was a word her sister wouldn’t understand.
‘You can’t spend your life running after one boy that might not even suit you,’ Claire said, ‘and you’ll probably hurt yourself more if you kept running after him.’ Her sister was playing with the tassels of the pillow, mulling over what had just been said, and then she looked Claire in the face and, with a flash of resolve in her eyes, Elizabeth replied.
‘Thanks Claire, I needed that.’ She kissed her sister on the cheek and got off of the bed, still clutching the pillow. ‘I’ll try what you said, but then if it doesn’t work,’ she paused to smile, ‘you better have a whole box of tissues for me.’
The bulb began flickering again. It was waging war with an enemy that it couldn’t escape from. Time always prevails.
‘Of course, my baby,’ Claire said, smiling. Her sister left the room with the pillow.
Claire remained on the bed, watching her artificial stars. They seemed to be moving, shuffling in the flicker of the burning out light. The stars outside had not begun to shine yet. She wished that she could talk to someone and tell them that she was in a weird space with the whole Eli thing. They were friends since kindergarten, their parents were friends. He was, and she would admit to it, a big part of her life, even if they were just friends. But she wanted more, and that was made difficult because they knew each other for so long. She didn’t want to jeopardise their friendship, but she knew that it was a risk that she would have to take. That scared her – that it was the only option.
Break a few eggs to make an omelette, she thought. But she knew immediately that this was not the same. If she broke the eggs of their friendship, there would be no relationship omelette. She had to be very careful, but tonight, no matter what, she would speak to Eli and let the truth out.
She washed her make-up off and got dressed for the party. Her over-night bag, already packed, was by the door, and she grabbed it as she left the room. She was already in the passage when the little bulb lost the fight and its life, and blew.
Claire didn’t even notice.

‘Hey, Claire!’ Janine said as she opened the door. Her smile made Claire immediately feel welcome. Claire smiled back. It was good to see her old friend again; they had grown apart since going to different universities. At least Claire thought so. But she nonetheless jumped at the opportunity to attend this party.
‘Sorry if I’m too early!’ She hadn’t noticed any other cars in the driveway, and so assumed that the rest of the guests hadn’t arrived yet.
‘It’s never too early,’ said Janine, mockingly offended. She linked her left arm through Claire’s right and they walked through the house, straight to the bar, by-passing the lounge where Janine’s parents were. ‘How have you been?’
‘I’ve been good! And you?’
‘Amazing! Well, except for today, nothing wanted to go right and I was running around like a rabbit on heat and on steroids.’
Claire laughed. ‘Really?’
‘Ja! It’s been a crazy day, but I don’t want to talk about it right now; I’m so over it. I just want to party now.’
Claire wanted to find Eli, but as they reached the bar, she noticed that he wasn’t there. A party would do in the meantime, she thought.
Janine, Claire and their group of friends all loved a good party – those all-night-watch-the-sun-come-up parties, the laugh-all-night-and-not-realise-how-drunk-you’re-getting parties and even those dance-all-night parties. But more than that, they loved being together, and at their age, their being together usually meant there was alcohol involved. And yet not one of them was ashamed of that. Perhaps it was a sign of the times, perhaps it was a condition of the times; none of them really cared, as long as they were having fun.
That was enough justification.


III

HE TWIRLED THE SNOOKER CUE under the chalk as he thought about the party. He was worried about how well, or unwell, he would fit in. He’d heard a lot about Janine’s hometown friends but hadn’t met many of them. She had seemed sure enough that they, her friends and he, would get along. Well. They would get along “well”, was that it? She was confident and emphatic about it, but was “well” the word? He was still, nevertheless, anxious about meeting all these people. Being around new people scared him. At times it was similar to the kind of anxiety he felt before showing someone a new piece of writing; he could never, never be sure how it would be received. And at other times he felt like he was in the company of wolves, wolves which had just recently consumed some flesh, marrow and bone, but with a hunger still burning in their yellow eyes. A hunger that would soon spread to their stomach and it would only be a matter of time before they turned on him. Yet, somehow both added to the excitement; he thought of it as performance anxiety. His dad interrupted his thoughts.
         ‘Alright Pat, it’s your turn. Now try to start thinking about the next shot, before you play the first.’
         Patrick nodded to his dad as he bent down. He wasn’t ever much of a forward thinker, he was more a man of the moment; his plans were produced either for the now or for the immediate future. But when he played snooker, he at least tried to think ahead. He took a breath and bent down. His torso became parallel with the cue. He hit the cue ball, and it sunk a red; one point. The white ball ricocheted and came to a stop on the green carpet almost exactly where he wanted it to.
         ‘Black,’ he nominated. He needed big points to catch up to his dad’s team’s score. He took a breath and played. The cue ball shot off the end of the cue and collided with the black ball, which was then sucked into the corner pocket. The cue ball rolled away; seven points. His partner clapped, and then replaced the black ball onto its spot. Patrick played the next shot, but didn’t sink the red. His partner told him not to worry; he’d scored eight points and somehow the cue ball had stopped awkwardly. His dad was snookered.
         ‘How’s that, Dad?’ It only received an approving smile.
         Charmingly. That was her exact word for just how well she thought he would get along with her friends. He hadn’t thought about it much at the time, but now he chuckled at it. He stood against the wall, watching his dad looking for an angle to play from. Charmingly? Who still used that word? Probably the Queen, saying something like “This cheese gets along charmingly with my stomach”. He chuckled to himself again. He was glad that he had not declined the invite, despite his anxiety. Not only did new people really scare him, but they also made his inhibitions stronger, more difficult to overcome. It normally took him a long time to become comfortable enough around people before he could truly be himself. Most people thought he was extremely shy at first, introverted and unmemorable. That changed as soon as he felt he could just be himself, amplified inhibitions aside.
         ‘I think it’s your turn to fetch drinks, Pat,’ his dad said, still looking for a playable shot. ‘Here’s my wallet. I’ll just have a coke this time.’
         ‘Sure Dad. Don’t cheat now!’
         ‘I’ll come with you; I need a new pack of smokes.’
         Patrick turned. It was his dad’s partner and new friend – Uncle Avi, the Chairman of the Club.
         ‘Good shot you played there just now,’ he said as they went from the well-lit snooker-room into the bar with its dimly glowing lights. The T.V. closest to them was showing highlights from that day’s cricket match. The bartender was at the far side, in front of the other television. He was probably watching horse-racing, Patrick thought. There were some miners sitting around the bar to the left of the two from the snooker-room.
         ‘What, that last one? Aha, that was just luck’ Patrick said, as they reached the thick dark-wood bar. He waved to the bartender.
         ‘Hell, you have some good snooker luck then.’
         ‘Apparently! How’s your son doing, Uncle Avi?’
         ‘Who, Eli? Ah, he’s good. He’s off to another party tonight, just out of town.’
         ‘Ja, the kids, ey, they party too much these days.’ The bartender winked at Patrick as he handed him the round of drinks.
         ‘Thanks Jafta,’ Patrick said as he gave Jafta a note, ‘Win anything today?’
         ‘Haai, haven’t made anything on these donkeys!’ Jafta waved a dismissive hand and then gave Patrick the change, mostly notes; he knew he would get a good tip at the end of the night, he always did – quick service and a decent memory went a long way, into his tip jar.
‘I think I’m going to the same party tonight, actually,’ Patrick said, picking up the change and then the drinks. Uncle Avi bought his cigarettes. The two players turned and walked back to the snooker-room.
Patrick and his family had only recently moved to the little town. His dad had been transferred and now worked with Uncle Avi. Patrick was very pessimistic about the move – brand new place meant all new people. People he wasn’t comfortable with yet. His family had made the move shortly after his classes at university had begun. He started the semester coming from one town and when it finished he was on his way to another. At least he didn’t have to do any of the packing up or packing out.
Strangely enough, the university he had begun classes at was the same university that many of the kids from the new town attended. Eli was one of them, and Janine another. He’d actually seen Eli at the club earlier that week, but they’d only been briefly introduced by their fathers as they met at the door. Patrick remembered then that Janine told him Eli would be at her party tonight. He was surprised that he had forgot, she always talked with such passion about her friends and was particularly insistent about the two becoming good friends. She felt that they were very similar and reminded her of each other.
His dad hadn’t cheated, but Patrick knew all along that he wouldn’t have to. The snooker he had caught his dad in merely delayed the inevitable – that Patrick’s team would lose. And they did lose. They all finished their drinks. Patrick and his dad made their way out of the bar. The other two men stayed.
Outside the Snooker Club, Patrick and his dad climbed into the SUV. The carguard stood behind and away from the car, he signalled how he thought Patrick’s dad should reverse.
‘I can see, and reverse, thank you,’ his dad said while looking the carguard dead in the face, through the rear-view mirror. Patrick loaded a CD with ‘They are Golden – The Oldies’ scribbled on it. The music of the older generations always put him in a good mood. His dad paid the carguard. Five bucks: two rand fifty an hour.
‘Do you know where to go, Pat?’
‘Ja,’ Patrick replied and gave his dad directions. The car turned left onto the road. They made it to the robot while it was still green, crossed Mark Street and carried on, past the abused, unused municipal baths and a hostel, Patrick wasn’t sure which school it belonged to, all the way to South Street, where they turned left again.
‘So how did you and this girl meet?’
‘At varsity. She’s in some of my classes.’
‘Oh. That’s nice that you already know some people from here,’ his dad replied. Patrick thought about how exactly they had met. It was earlier that year, when they had run into each other at the bottom of the stairs after Creative Writing class.
Patrick and his dad spoke about how they were getting on in the new town. Both agreed it was good so far, but Patrick still didn’t feel at home.
‘Give it time, my boy. You’ll come around.’ They turned right, onto the concrete driveway off the main road; the large farm house was staring down at them in all its gabled glory. ‘So this is it, hey? Nice place.’ The car stopped.
Patrick climbed out and grabbed his bag from the back seat; he closed the back door and stood in the open passenger door.
‘Alright, Pat. Just call tomorrow when I can pick you up,’ his dad said.
‘Cool, I will. Don’t you want to come in?’
‘No thanks, I’m going to head home.’ His dad was looking in the rear view mirror for Patrick didn’t know what. No carguards here.
‘Okay, thanks, Dad,’ Patrick closed the door. His father let the window down.
‘Cheers, boy,’ his dad said, and then added with a grin, ‘Just behave.’
‘I’ll try. Cheers, Dad.’
‘Bye.’
His father reversed as Janine opened the front door.
‘You should have told him to come in, my parents wanted to meet him,’ she said, walking towards Patrick and waving at his retreating father.
‘I’m sorry, I did,’ they hugged. ‘How are you?’
‘Good, thanks!’ She smiled a smile so big that that could have been the only state she was in. ‘I’m so glad you came. Now come in, come in.’
They walked towards the house.
Patrick put his bag in the spare-room and took a packet out of it. The packet held twelve beers and a little cardboard box. Janine took him outside and introduced him to her friends around the bar. It wasn’t a big party, yet, and so the introductions went by quickly. Next, Patrick and his new acquaintances played one or two (it was actually four) drinking games. Jason, the one who had tried to teach them all four games, had lost three of them and had to be “excused”. They stopped playing and began to chat, rather loudly of course. Once or twice the music was turned up a little too loud, and whoever was closest to the volume control was told to turn it down, while everyone else looked innocently on as Janine’s dad requested that it be made softer.
After a whole bunch of talking and mingling, whether it was the beer or the anxiety, Patrick became withdrawn; he would argue that he felt reflective. Armed with his cardboard box, he made his way to the fire. It was still early and most of the guests were still congregated around the bar area. Janine made mean melktertjies and they were rather addictive. And free.
He stood alone as he watched the bonfire that was a few metres in front of him. The flames flapped as they tried to lick the darkness away from around the stars. But the purpose of the bonfire was more than just for light or warmth. It was to allow all the party-goers the chance to watch as the fire consumed what they no longer wanted. The useless, the never-used, the broken and the unwanted were all sent into the blaze. It wasn’t necessary to bring anything, but it was advised. Everyone can do with a bit of purging now and then, Janine had said.
Patrick had taken a box, that little cardboard box. He was glad that he had remembered it. Before they left for the Snooker Club, he had run back to his room and picked it up from his red and black desk. His dad thought it weird that they had to take something with when it wasn’t a birthday. As he walked closer to burn it, someone stopped him.
‘So what are you gonna be burning?’ His interrogator was a girl, and she stood between him and the fire. He had not met her with the other friends; she must have arrived while he was occupied with ‘buffaloes’ or ‘pyramids’. She had a lulling, sweet voice. But that could have been the beer, he thought.
‘Just a box’ he replied hurriedly. He hoped that that would be enough.
‘But what’s in it?’ she asked, intrigued, pulling at the arm that held the container. Patrick became anxious; his intention was not to intrigue her, but he decided to entertain her, for a while at least. He hadn’t actually meant for anyone to ask about the box, and he desired even less that someone would question him about its contents, but something made him want to tell her. That was definitely the beer.
‘Take it and then tell me what you think’s inside,’ he said, handing the box to her. She was already holding something, Patrick couldn’t make out what it was, but it was small enough for her to hold the box as well. She took it gently, carefully.
‘Well, er…’ She weighted the box in her hands and then shook it by her ear. ‘It’s so light, and sounds as if it’s empty. Is there actually anything inside this thing?’ She had her one hand on her hip and Patrick almost felt like a child who had been caught out before the trick was played. Naughty. Naughty.
‘Careful. Yes, there is something inside. It’s actually full,’ he said, taking the box from her. He sighed; she was staring at him, waiting to hear more.
‘Well,’ he began, after a gulp, ‘um, it’s full of... memories that hurt, and pain that I don’t want to feel anymore, and dreams that...’
She grabbed the box and stepped back, offended.
‘Dreams? How could you dare burn your dreams?’
With the thought of a pending slap, Patrick stepped back, just in case.
‘Well, they’re dreams that I, that I think are stupid now. Dreams that I dreamt up as a kid: to have the most amazing toy collection, to ride on a gryphon’s back, to be the world’s greatest banker,’ he said.
‘No dream is stupid enough to burn!’ She opened the box and made as if she took something out of it. Patrick thought he saw her put the other object she had been holding inside the box. She then placed her handful of air into the back pocket of her cut-off jeans.
‘Except maybe the dream about being a banker; bankers are so boring!’ She smiled and threw the box into the fire. They watched it burn, when suddenly the remains of the box gave a little POP and a few embers skipped out of the flames. Some of the embers landed just in front of them. They jumped back, laughing.
‘Did you put a cracker in my box?’ Patrick asked. He knew that he hadn’t, and was rather upset at that.
She laughed and grabbed him by the hand and started walking away from the fire.
‘So now that your pain is gone and your very important dreams are safe and intact,’ she patted her pocket of air, ‘I’m sure you can give me a smile.’
He couldn’t help but oblige.
‘Thank you, um…’ She was smiling inquiringly.
‘Patrick, my name’s Patrick.’
‘Ah yes, you do look like a Paddy!’ She laughed again, probably more at the disgust on his face at being called “Paddy” than at anything else.
‘Well Paddy, thank you for the smile. My name is Claire, and I am now The Keeper of Your Dreams.’ She had put on a terrible imitation of a regal sounding voice for her “title” and he laughed at it.
‘And my first decree as Keeper of Your Dreams is that you shall not laugh at my accent.’
‘You’re allowed to make decrees?’ He was not well versed in law-making.
‘Of course, and you had better adhere to them if you’d like your dreams to remain safe.’ She said it with such nonchalance that he felt as though he should have known this as a universal truth since childhood.
‘Yes, Madam Keeper,’ he saluted, finally feeling a bit more comfortable.