The Pickup

Chapter 2

The young woman was down in a thoroughfare, a bazaar of all that the city had not been allowed to be by the laws and traditions of her parents’ generation. Breaking up in bars and cafés the inhibitions of the past has always been the work of the young, haphazard and selectively tolerant. She was on her way to where she would habitually meet, without arrangement, friends and friends of friends, whoever turned up. The L.A. Café. Maybe most people in the street throngs didn’t know the capitals stood for Los Angeles; saw them as some short version of the name of a proprietor, as the old-style Greek corner shop would carry the name of Stavros or Kimon. EL-AY. Whoever owned the café thought the chosen name offered the inspiration of an imagined life-style to habitués, matching it with their own; probably he confused Los Angeles with San Francisco. The name of his café was a statement. A place for the young; but also one where old survivors of the quarter’s past, ageing Hippies and Leftist Jews, grandfathers and grandmothers of the 1920s immigration who had not become prosperous bourgeois, could sit over a single coffee. Crazed peasants wandered from the rural areas gabbled and begged in the gutters outside. Hair from a barber’s pavement booth blew the human felt of African hair onto the terrace. Prostitutes from Congo and Senegal sat at tables with the confidence of beauty queens.

Hi Julie—as usual, beckoned. Her welcomers saw a graceful neck and face, naturally pale, reddened with emotion of some sort. Black and white, they fussed about her: Hi Julie, relax, what’s up with you. There were two of her friends from university days, a journalist out of work who house-sat for absent owners, a couple who painted banners for rallies and pop concerts. There was indignation: this city. What shits.

— All they care about is getting there …—

And where is it they think they’re getting to — this from the hanger-on with a shining bald pate and a cape of grey locks falling from behind his ears; still unpublished but recognized from childhood as a poet and philosopher, by his mother.

— Nothing gives a white male more of a kick than humiliating a woman driver.—

— Sexual stimulant for yahoos—

— Someone else shouted something … like Idikaza … mlungu … What’s that, ‘white bitch’, isn’t it? — Her question to the black friend.

— Well, just about as bad. This city, man!—

— But it was black men who helped me, of course.—

— Oh come on — for a hand-out!—

Her friends knew of a garage in the next street. With a wave from the wrist she left them to take the necessary practical step.

She feels hot gassy breath. Steel snouts and flashing teeth-grilles at her face. Inside her something struggles against them. Her heart summons her like a fist under her ribs, gasps rise within her up to her collar-bones. She is walking along the street, that’s all, it’s nothing. Walking round a block to a garage. It’s nothing, it was nothing, it’s over. Shudder. A traffic jam.

There’s the garage, as they said. As she walked in she saw its ordinariness, a landing on normality: vehicles as helpless, harmless victims upon hydraulic lifts, tools on benches, water dispenser, plastic cups and take-away food boxes, radio chattering, a man lying on his back half-under the belly of a car. There were two others preoccupied at some noisy machinery and they signalled her over to him. The legs and lower body wriggled down at the sound of her apologetic voice and the man emerged. He was young, in his greasy work-clothes, long hands oil-slicked at the dangle from long arms; he wasn’t one of them — the white man speaking Afrikaans to the black man at the machine — but glossy dark-haired with black eyes blueish-shadowed. He listened to her without any reassuring attention or remark. She waited a moment in his silence.

So could you send someone to have a look … the car’s round the corner.

He stared at his hands. Just a minute while I clean up.

He carried a bulky handleless bag with a new battery and tools and it was awkward to walk beside him through the streets with people dodging around them, but she did not like to walk ahead of the garage man as if he were some sort of servant. In silence, he got the car going and drove back to the workshop with her as his passenger.

There’s still some — I don’t know — in the ignition. Your car will stall again, I think.

Then I’d better leave it with you. I suppose it needs a general service, anyway.

When was the last time?

She was culpable, smiling, I don’t remember.

How long?

I suppose I just drive until something goes wrong.

He nodded slowly, did not speak: of course, that’s your way.

I’ll give a call to find out when it’s ready — you’re Mr …? Ask for Abdu.

She allowed the garage two or three days to do whatever was needed. When she called and asked by name for the mechanic who had taken charge of her car she was told he was out but it was certain the car was still under repair. This didn’t matter, there was her father’s third car at her disposal, a handsome old Rover he’d bought at a Sotheby’s auction and had refurbished, then seldom used. It was a car from The Suburbs, of a kind that wouldn’t be ventured down in the quarter of the EL-AY Café. When it was parked there under the admiring care of a well-tipped street man, people stood around to gaze at it, a denizen from another world, affluence as distant as space. She was not over-concerned that it would be stolen — it was too unique to be easy to get away with undetected, and too grandly obsolete to be a profitable source of parts, if broken up. She was only uncomfortable at the idea of its exposure — and hers, as its family occupant — before her friends. She did not live in The Suburbs, where she had grown up, but in a series of backyard cottages adapted from servants’ quarters or in modest apartments of the kind they favoured, or had to, being unable to afford anything better. On the Sunday when she came to dose on therapeutic mineral water and coffee with the friends after a night at a club in Soweto where one of them was blowing the trumpet, she found three happy children and a baby in arms sitting on the gleaming bonnet and playing with the silver statuette of Mercury that was its figurehead. Her father just might have been amused by this new game on his vintage plaything, but she did not relate it because it wouldn’t do to reveal to his young wife that the car was being driven around in unsuitable places — that one was vigilant in protection of his possessions.

In the week that followed — she had not yet bothered to call the garage again — when she got out of her father’s car there was the mechanic, in the street, turned looking at it.

That’s a car … Excuse me. As if he had accosted someone he did not know.

It’s not mine! She claimed her identity: I’d like to have my own old one back! And laughed.

He seemed to recall who this was among clients under whose vehicles’ bellies he lay. Oh yes—. Ready by Thursday. They have to get a distributor from the agent.

He was looking at the Rover from another angle. How old? What is the model?

I’ve really no idea. It’s borrowed, I don’t own it, that’s for sure.

I never saw one before — only in a photo.

They used to be made in England ages ago, before either of us was born. You love cars? Even though you work with their insides all day?

‘Love’—I don’t say. That is something different. It’s just it’s beautiful (his long hand rose towards his face and opened, to the car). Many things can be beautiful.

And mine certainly isn’t. What else’s wrong apart from the whatever-it-is you have to get from the agent? Sounds as if it’s going to be a major overhaul.

Why do you keep it. You should buy a new car.

He was turned from her, again looking at the Rover: the evidence gathered that she could afford to.

She lobbed the accusation back to him. Why should I when you can get it going again for me?

He screwed his eyes, very liquid-black in the sun, authoritative. Because it can be a danger for you to drive. Something can fail that can kill you. I can’t see (he seemed to reject a word, probably that came to him from another language — he paused uncertainly) — know to stop that, in my work.

And if I were driving a new car, someone else on the road could fail in some way, and that could kill me — so?

That would be your fate, but you would not have — what do I say — looked for it.

Fate.

She was amused: Is there such a thing? Do I believe in it. You do, then.

To be open to encounters — that was what she and her friends believed, anyway, as part of making the worth of their lives. Why don’t we have coffee — if you’re free?

I’m on lunch. He pulled down the corners of his mouth undecidedly, then smiled for the first time. It was the glimpse of something attractive withheld in the man, escaped now in the image of good teeth set off by clearly delineated lips under a moustache black as his eyes. Most likely of Indian or Cape Malay background; like her, a local of this country in which they were born descendant of immigrants in one era or another — in her case from Suffolk and County Cork, as in his from Gujerat or the East Indies.

EL-AY Café.

The friends probably at their usual table inside. She didn’t look, and made for a corner of the terrace.

In casual encounters people — men and women, yes, avoiding any other subject that may be misunderstood, compromising— tell each other what they do: which means what work is theirs, not how they engage their being in other ways. A big word had been brought up from what was withheld in this man—‘fate’— but it was simple to evade its intimate implications of belief, after all, steer these to the public subject: the occupations by which she, driver of the Rover (even if, as she insisted, it was borrowed), just as he, his place the underbelly of other people’s vehicles, gained her bread. Whatever his ancestry, as a local of the same generation they’d share the understanding of ‘bread’ as money rather than a loaf. Nevertheless she found herself speaking rather shyly, respectful of the obvious differences in ‘fate’ between them: she in her father’s (having lied by omission about this) Rover, he trapped beneath her small jalopy.

What I do, what you do. That’s about the only subject available.

I don’t know how exactly these things work out. I wanted to be a lawyer, really, I had these great ambitions when I was at school — there was a lawyer aunt in the family, I once went to hear her cross-examine in that wonderful black pleated gown and white bib. But with various other things on the way … I quit law after only two years. Then it was languages … and somehow I’ve landed up working as a PRO and fundraiser, benefit dinners, celebrity concerts, visiting pop groups. Everyone says oh great, you must meet such famous people— but you also meet some awful people and you have to be nice to them. Sycophantic. I won’t stick to it for long. She stopped short of: I don’t know what I want to do, if that means what I want to be. That was a lead into the confessional, even if the ethic were to be open with strangers.

It’s good money, isn’t it?

Commission. Depends what I bring in.

He drank the coffee evenly in swallows and pauses, as if this were a measured process. Perhaps he wasn’t going to speak again: it was patronizing, after all, this making free encounters out of other people’s lives, a show of your conviction of their equal worth, interest, catching the garage mechanic in the net, EL-AY Café. When he had taken a last swallow and put down the cup he’d get up and say thank you and go — so she had to think of something to say, quickly, to mend, justify, the pickup.

What about you?

It was the wrong thing — there! She’d done it, it came out god-awful as Showing Interest, and she thought she heard him take a breath in order to deal with it, with her; but he only put out his hand for the sugar-bowl, she hastened to hand it to him, he helped himself to another spoonful for the dregs in his cup. He would keep silent if he wanted to, he could speak if he wished, it wasn’t up to her.

Many things, different countries.

Perhaps that’s the way.

It is if they don’t want you, say it’s not your country. You have no country.

Isn’t this our country. That’s a statement, from her.

For you.

Oh I thought you were — like me — this’s home, but it’s good to get out of it. I was in America for a year — some other country would have been a better idea, for me.

I go where they’ll let me in.

And from … She was tentative. It couldn’t be avoided now.

He named a country she had barely heard of. One of those partitioned by colonial powers on their departure, or seceded from federations cobbled together to fill vacuums of powerlessness against the regrouping of those old colonial powers under acronyms that still brand-name the world for themselves. One of those countries where you can’t tell religion apart from politics, their forms of persecution from the persecution of poverty, as the reason for getting out and going wherever they’ll let you in.

Things were bad there. Not really knowing what she was talking about.

Were, are.

But you’re all right, here? Are you?

Now he neatly replaced cup in saucer, placed spoon, and did get up to leave.

Thank you. I have to go back to work.

She stood up, too. Thursday?

Better if you call before you come. Thursday.

It’s Julie.

But he said, Who, who d’you want to speak to.

I’m the one whose car you’re fixing, you said Thursday.

Sorry, there’s a lot of noise — yes, it’s all ready for you.

At the garage he handed some sort of work-sheet over to the owner at the office, and she paid.

Everything okay now? You’re sure.

He gave the slight shrug of one accustomed to dealing with customers’ nerves. You can try it out with me if you want.

He got into the passenger seat; she reversed swiftly between obstacles on the workshop floor, to show him she could do it. They drove around the quarter, splashing through overflowing drains, pulling up behind the abrupt stops of minibus taxis, nimbly squeezing between double-parked vans, avoiding pedestrians darting in and out of the streets like a school of fish. She was at ease; now she was part of the stampede, riding with it, chattering.

You still think I should buy a new one.

It makes sense. Next time something else will go wrong; you’ll have to pay again to keep the same old thing.

I’d buy a good second-hand car. Maybe. Maybe it’s an idea? D’you think perhaps you’d vet it, if I did? I’d have to have it seen by someone who’d know what to check under the bonnet.

If you want. I could do that.

Oh wonderful. Do you perhaps know of someone who would have a good car they’d like to sell? You might get to hear …

People sometimes come to the garage … I can look around. If you want. What kind of car?

Not a Rover, you can bet on that!

Yes, but two-door, four-door, automatic — whatever.

There was a space before the EL-AY Café. She obeyed the man-child who signalled her in with his glue-sniffer’s plastic bottle in hand. Arguing about the model of car, the level of possession appropriate for her, they left hers and took the steps to the terrace. This time went inside, this time he was taken to the friends’ table.

Hi Julie; a rearrangement of chairs. — This is Abdu, he’s going to find new wheels for me.—

Hi Abdu. (Sounds to them like an abbreviation of Abdurahman, familiar among names of Malays in Cape Town.) The friends have no delicacy about asking who you are, where you come from — that’s just the reverse side of bourgeois xenophobia. No, not the Cape. They have his story out of him in no time at all, they interject, play upon it with examples they know of, advice they have to offer, interest that is innocently generous or unwelcome, depends which way the man might take it — but at once, he’s not a ‘garage man’ he’s a friend, one of them, their horizon is broadening all the time.

So that’s where he’s from; one of them knows all about that benighted country. The ‘garage man’ has a university degree in economics there (the university is one nobody’s heard of) but there isn’t a hope in hell (and that place is a hell that, because of god knows what, probably the religious and political factions he did or did not belong to, or lack of money to pay bribes to the right people) he could get an academic appointment. Or a job of any kind, maybe; no work, no development, what can you grow in a desert, corrupt government, religious oppression, cross-border conflict — composite, if inaccurate, of all they think they know about the region, they’re telling him about his country. But then she hears an explanation for something he had said to her she hadn’t understood. He’s telling them: —I can’t say that—‘my country’—because somebody else made a line and said that is it. In my father’s time they gave it to the rich who run it for themselves. So whose country I should say, it’s mine.—

With them, his English is adequate enough and they have not been embarrassed to ask from what mother tongue his accent and locutions come. One of them enquires hopefully of this foreignness, since she has adopted the faith that is a way of life, not a bellicose ethnicity. — Are you a Buddhist?—

— No I am not that.—

And again, he has risen, he has to leave them, he’s a mechanic, he belongs to the manual world of work. One of them ponders, breaking a match over and over. — An economist having to become a grease-monkey. I wonder how he learned that stuff with cars.—

Another had the answer.

— Needs must. The only way to get into countries that don’t want you is as manual labourer or Mafia.—

A week went by. She would never see him again. It happened, among the friends, with the people they picked up: —Where’s that girl you brought along, the one who said she’d been a speech-writer for some cabinet minister who was sacked? — Oh she seems to have left town. — And the other guy — interesting — he wanted to organize street kids as buskers, playing steel drums outside cinemas, did he ever get that off the ground? — No idea where he landed up.—

Two weeks. Of course the man from the garage knew where to find her. He approached the friends’ table on a Saturday morning to tell her he had found a car for her. The garage workshop was closed on Saturdays and now he was wearing well-ironed black jeans, a rose-coloured shirt with a paisley scarf at the neck. They insisted he must have coffee; it was someone’s birthday and the occasion quickly turned the coffee to red wine. He didn’t drink alcohol; he looked at her lifting her glass: I’ve brought the car for you to drive.

And the friends, who were ready to laugh at anything, in their mood, did so clownishly — O-HO-HOHOHO! — assuring him, — Julie has a strong head, not to worry! — But she refused a second glass.

— The cops are out with their breathalysers, it’s the weekend.—

The car was not to her liking — too big, difficult to park— and perhaps it was not meant to be. He had a contact who was on the lookout, he would bring another the next weekend. If that was all right.

First she said she didn’t know if she’d be free; and then she did it, she told him her telephone number. No paper to note it on. The celebration with the friends was still warm upon her, she laughed. Put it on your wrist. And then was embarrassed at her flippancy because he took a ballpoint out of his pocket, turned his wrist face-up, and was writing the number across the delicate skin and the blue veins revealed of himself, there.

He called, brief and formal over the telephone, addressing her as ‘Miss’ with her surname, and the arrangement was for an earlier date, after working hours. That car, again, was not quite right for her. They drove a short way out of town to confirm this. It was as if freed of the city it was not only the road open to them; with her face turned to that road ahead she was able to ask what the friends had touched on— needs must. How does a graduate in economics become a motor mechanic? Wasn’t that quite a long training, apprenticeship and so on? And as he began to speak, she interrupted: Look, I’m Julie, don’t call me anything else.

Julie. Well, Julie. His voice was low although they were alone, on the road, no-one to overhear. He was hesitant, after all, did he really know this girl, her gossiping friends, the loud careless forum of the EL-AY Café; but the desire to confide in her overcame him. He was no qualified mechanic. Luckily for him he had tinkered with cars since he was a small boy, his uncle — mother’s brother — fixed people’s cars and trucks in his backyard … he learnt from him instead of playing with other boys … The garage employs him illegally—’black’, yes that’s the word they use. It’s cheap for the owner; he doesn’t pay accident insurance, pension, medical aid. And now the seldom-granted smile, and this time it rises to the intense, solemn eyes as she turns her glance a moment to him. All the principles of workers’ rights I was taught in my studies.

What an awful man, exploiter.

What would I do without him. He risks, I must pay for that. That’s how it works, for us.

The next car was the right one — size, fuel consumption, price — and perhaps it had always been available, kept in reserve for the right time to be revealed. She was pleased with the car and also had the satisfaction (although she could not say this to him) he surely would get some sort of kick-back from whoever the owner was — unqualified, working ‘black’ he couldn’t be earning much.

We must celebrate. Good you convinced me it was time to get rid of the old rattle-trap. Really. I’m just lazy about these things. But you don’t drink wine …

Oh sometimes.

Fine! Then we’ll christen my new car.

But not at the café.

He had spoken: with this, a change in their positions was swiftly taken, these were smoothly and firmly reversed, like a shift of gears synchronized under her foot; he was in charge of the acquaintanceship.

At my place then.

In quiet authority, he had no need to enthuse accord.

Even though it passed muster with the whites among the friends that her ‘place’ was sufficiently removed from The Suburbs’ ostentation to meet their standards of leaving home behind, and was accepted by the blacks among them as the kind of place they themselves moved to from the old segregation, her outhouse renovated as a cottage was comfortable enough, its under-furnishings nevertheless giving away a certain ease inherent in, conditioned by, luxuries taken for granted as necessities: there was a bathroom that dwarfed the living-cum-bedroom by comparison, and the cramped kitchen was equipped with freezer and gadgets. It was untidy; the quarters of someone not used to looking after herself; to seat himself he removed the stained cup and plate and a spatter of envelopes, sheets of opened letters, withered apple-peel, old Sunday paper, from a chair. She was making the usual apologies about the mess, as she did to whoever dropped in. She opened wine, found a packet of biscuits, sniffed at cheese taken from the fridge and rejected it in favour of another piece. He watched this domesticity without offering help, as her friends would, nobody lets anyone wait on anyone else. But he ate her cheese and biscuits, he drank her wine, with her that first time. They talked until late; about him, his life; hers was here, where they were, in her city, open in its nature for him to see in the streets, the faces, the activities — but he, his, was concealed among these. No record of him on any pay-roll, no address but c/o a garage, and under a name that was not his. Another name? She was bewildered: but there he was, a live presence in her room, an atmosphere of skin, systole and diastole of breath blending with that which pervaded from her habits of living, the food, the clothes lying about, the cushions at their backs. Not his? No — because they had let him in on a permit that had expired more than a year ago, and they would be looking for him under his name.

And then?

He gestured: Out.

Where would he go? She looked as if she were about to make suggestions; there are always solutions in the resources she comes from.

He leant to pour himself some more wine, as he had reached across for the sugar-bowl. He looked at her and slowly smiled.

But surely …?

Still smiling, moving his head gently from side to side. There was a litany of the countries he had tried that would not let him in. I’m a drug dealer, a white-slave trader coming to take girls, I’ll be a burden on the state, that’s what they say, I’ll steal someone’s job, I’ll take smaller pay than the local man.

And at this last, they could laugh a moment because that was exactly what he was doing.

It’s terrible. Inhuman. Disgraceful.

No. Don’t you see them round all the places you like to go, the café. Down there, crack you can buy like a box of matches, the street corner gangs who take your wallet, the women any man can buy — who do they work for? The ones from outside who’ve been let in. Do you think that’s a good thing for your country.

But you … you’re not one of them.

The law’s the same for me. Like for them. Only they are more clever, they have more money — to pay. His long hand opened, the fingers unfolding before her, joint by joint.

There are gestures that decide people’s lives: the hand-grasp, the kiss; this was the one, at the border, at immigration, that had no power over her life.

Surely something can be done. For him.

He folded the fingers back into a fist, dropped it to his knee. His attention retreated from the confidence between them and escaped absently to the pile of CDs near him. They found they did share something: an enthusiasm for Salif Keita, Youssou N’Dour and Rhythm & Blues, and listened to her recordings on her system, of which he highly approved. You like to drive a second-hand car but you have first-class equipment for music.

It seemed both sensed at the same moment that it was time for him to leave. She took it for granted she would drive him home but he refused, he’d catch a combi ride.

Is that all right? Is it far? Where are you living?

He told her: there was a room behind the garage the owner let him have.

She looked in — didn’t allow herself to ask herself why.

Looked in on the garage, to tell him that the car was going well. And it was about the time of his lunch break. Where else to go but, naturally, the EL-AY Café, join the friends. And soon this became almost every day: if she appeared without him, they asked, where’s Abdu? They liked to have him among them, they knew one another too well, perhaps, and he was an element like a change in climate coming out of season, the waft of an unfamiliar temperature. He did not take much part in their unceasing talk but he listened, sometimes too attentively for their comfort.

— What happened to Brotherhood, I’d like to ask? Fat cats in the government. Company chairmen. In the bush they were ready to die for each other — no, no, that’s true, grant it — now they’re ready to drive their official Mercedes right past the Brother homeless here out on the street.—

— Did you see on the box last night — the one who was a battle commander at Cuito, a hero, he’s joined an exclusive club for cigar connoisseurs … it’s oysters and champagne instead of pap and goat meat.—

The elderly poet had closed his eyes and was quoting something nobody recognized as not his own work: —’Too long a sacrifice makes a stone of the heart.’—

No-one paid him attention.

— Doesn’t make sense … why should people abandon what they’ve believed and fought for, what’s got into them between then and now?—

What was he thinking, this intelligence dressed up as a grease-monkey — when he did have something to say it would puncture one of their opinions or trim one of their vociferous convictions. If he did speak, they listened:

— No chance to choose then. Nothing else. That porridge and for each one, the other. Now there is everything else. Here. To choose.—

— Hah! So Brotherhood is only the condition of suffering? Doesn’t apply when you have choice, and the choice is the big cheque and the company car, the nice perks of Minister.—

— That is how it is. You have no choose — choice — or you have choice. Only two kinds. Of people.—

And they choose to laugh. — Abdu, what a cynic.—

— So come on David, what kind are you, in his categories—

— Well at the moment my choice is pitta with haloumi.—

— There’s no free will in a capitalist economy. It’s the bosses’ will. That’s what the man’s really saying. — The political theorist among them is dismissive.

— You say that because you’re black, it’s old trade unionist stuff, my Bra, and meanwhile you’re yearning to cop out and be the boss somewhere.—

The two grasp each other by the shoulder in mock conflict.

They all know one another’s attitudes and views only too well. Attention turns to him, among them, again.

— You agree about the capitalist economy?—

— Where I come from — no capitalist economy, no socialist economy. Nothing. I learn about them at the university …—

And he’s made them laugh, he laughs along with them, that’s the way of the table, once you’re accepted there.

— So what would you call it — what d’you mean ‘nothing’?—

He seems to search for something they’ll think they understand, to satisfy them.

— Feudal. — He raises and lowers elbows on the table, looks to her, his sponsor here, to see if the word is the right one; to see if, by this glance, she will be ready to leave. — But they call themselves ministers, presidents, this and that.—

The friends watch the two make their way between other habitues masticating, drinking, crouched in a scrum of conversation, cigarette smoke rising as the ectoplasm of communication not attainable through the cellphones clasped to belt or ear. — Where did Julie pick him up? — A member of The Table who had been away when Julie caused a traffic jam had to be told: that garage in the next street, that’s where.

Her companion had paused a moment on the terrace and she turned to see: a girl with sunglasses pushed back crowning her hair, thighs sprawled, stroking the Rasta locks of a young man passed out, drink or drugs, on her lap.

He walked away with a face closed in distaste. Her: Well? — was more tolerance than an enquiry of his mood.

People are disgusting, in that place.

She said, as if speaking for them: I’m sorry.