An Exerpt from the novel : "SoulMate"
By Vusumzi Matomane on Thursday, January 6, 2011 at 4:33pm
The Nurse and the Architect
“I’d like two sandwiches and an apple.” The gentleman made his order.
“Then you’re in a wrong place. This is not a spazza-shop.” The lady announced.
“You’re not going to finish all those by yourself, are you?” The man enquired.
After a quick and careful scrutiny about the newcomer, the lady opened her mouth again,
“What is going to happen to these must not concern you. Now, mister, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to read.” She was, now, beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable around this dude who had interrupted her lunch. How she wished he would just go away. But the dude kept on nagging:
“I’d also like a cup of coffee. Make it black with three sugars, please.” The dude was determined not to go by this pretty woman without some conversation. Even some small-talk would serve him well for; at least, he would have said something worth a response.
“Now, I don’t like your behaviour, I feel I should tell you that. And who told you it is coffee in the thermos?” The lady had, unaware, engaged John into conversation.
“It must be tea, then. I don’t have a problem with tea, but make it with two sugars—I’ve changed my mind.” Some conversation or small-talk was taking some shape and John knew it.
“It’s a cool drink in the thermos and you’re having none of it. Now, do you always intrude upon others like this?”
“No.”
“So you thought you should try me?”
“Yes… but I…”
Once upon a time, the young lady had a name, a career, and an address: a Miss Ntombi Matu, a private nurse of number-four Monte Vista Avenue. She had an identity, an identity that could be proven by an identity-document book whenever occasion demanded. She had a life. A life adorned with: shopping-sprees, appointments in hair-saloons, nights-out with girlfriends, special treats to restaurants and cinemas, meetings with blind-dates, more special treats of ice-cream and chocolate and solitary Sunday outings to the city-park with a basketful of goodies and a thermos filled full with a cool drink.
“I meant no harm—only trying to make conversation. Is that a crime?” John continued and enquired.
‘Yes. It’s rude to intrude upon others in a park.’ Her inner voice was remarking.
“No, it’s not a crime. It’s just that you must learn new ways of making conversation. Decent ways, I mean.” The nurse advised.
“I’ll remember that. I’ll definitely remember that… you’re a tough cookie, did you know that?”
“So you’re used to soft cookies?”
“No, but a soft cookie is always appreciated though. A soft and warm cookie is admired everywhere.”
“So you’ve been everywhere?”
“Yes, my job takes me everywhere—been in England, Portugal, Spain, France, Italy, Japan, Argentina and Brazil.” John gloated, for, now; his conversation was running smoothly like a sewing-machine. So far, he had managed to sew together the tattered rags of rejection into a beautiful garment; his conversation.
“Ever been in... in Haiti?”
“No.”
“Jamaica?”
“No.”
“Congo?”
“No.”
“Kenya?”
“No.”
“Ethiopia?”
“No.”
“Sudan?”
“No.”
“Zimbabwe?”
“No.”
His machine was, abruptly, losing efficiency. John was losing control of his conversation in an embarrassing way. The clever nurse had torn apart his garment once more and was determined to continue doing so by asking further:
“So how do you know this information about soft and warm cookies everywhere; if you have not been everywhere?”
“Well, I made some assumptions and came to my conclusion.” Edgar tried to mend his tattered rags once again. He had to in order to keep the conversation going.
“Everywhere means everywhere. It’s literally incorrect to say ‘I’ve been everywhere’ when I haven’t been everywhere. In fact it’s a lie. And lies have a tendency of getting people into trouble.” Ntombi wrapped-up the small-talk and finished the last of her sandwiches, afterwards, closed her book that had been faced down ever since John’s arrival.
“Well, I suppose you’re right—you’re right. You’ve enlightened me, a great deal…but you still strike me as a tough cookie.” Edgar tried to put together pieces of a broken conversation whilst the nurse was packing; readying herself for departure.
“Well, mister, sometimes you get tough cookies, and sometimes no cookie at all. That’s life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve to be somewhere.” By now, Ntombi was all packed up and ready to go—and so she did.
Such a life; she had—full of interruptions and disappointments. Disappointments, especially with men who always: broke her tender heart, arrived late for a date, went carousing on her birth-day, kept damp towels in the bathroom, mixed clean and dirty laundry in the same basket, left tools lying about in the house, piled-up a mountain of dirty dishes until a squadron of cockroaches invaded the entire kitchen, came late into bed with cold hands and feet; demanding close attention…
‘Where did all the gentle-men go?’ One chilly Monday morning she pondered.
In Ntombi’s book-of-standards; a gentleman had to be sweet, polite, kind, understanding, honest, friendly and spiritual. But for five years, attempts to identify and get hold of such a cultured and refined gentleman proved hard to accomplish.
‘Well, I guess I’ll just grow old alone—tend to my flowers full-time—do some charity-work— take in a hungry cat, or maybe two— have cake and chocolate everyday…’
Such thoughts comforted and haunted Nurse Matu. Thoughts of happiness and misery in old-age; blended together. Her chain of thoughts was broken by a ringing doorbell.
‘That should be Thabo.’ Discovering at the door, that it was not the plumber on her doorstep, she exploded;
“It’s you, again! Are you stalking me? I’m calling the police.” It was the same dude from the park.
Downtown at the police-station; Detective Booi, an elderly man in his mid-fifties, and whose speech was punctuated by a loud crunch and a clumsy munch of a raw carrot, was cross-questioning John Edgar;
“Stalking is a serious crime nowadays Mr. Edgar,” the Detective was saying, “so serious a crime that you could be sentenced for an l-o-o-o-ong time.” Booi emphasized the ‘long time’ by an imaginary line he drew in the air with his half-eaten carrot that he always started to crunch from the bigger end.
The fury was building-up inside the bowels of John Edgar and contained in his chest. He felt his blood boil. He wanted to explode but Booi started at every instant convenient for John to interject. All that John could do was to wait for the Detective to give him the go-ahead-and-explain-yourself signal.
“Now it says here,” the man of law continued, and a piece or two (or maybe three) of finely-ground carrot came shooting out of his mouth like tiny meteors, “Not twice, not thrice; but four times…” Booi recited a list of places where John Edgar allegedly stalked Nurse Matu—from the art-gallery, to the public library, further on to the city park and, finally, into the nurse’s home.
“We can wait for your lawyer if you want to call him or her. We can even arrange one, especially for you if you wish.”
In a town characterized by racial segregation; (in the dusty ghettos, in the lavish suburbs, in learning institutions, in sporting codes, amongst professionals in the workplace and in religious denominations) Booi wanted to see Edgar go down simply on the basis of Edgar having a different colour-of-skin from him and Ntombi.
Already, he saw the headlines in black and bold, reading: Saint Booi Saves a Sister, Stalking Saga in Fortgale, Nowhere to Run or Hide, Devil on The Doorstep and The Saint Puts Closure to A Stalking Case. Booi always thought himself a maestro in the field of detecting. He believed he was an uncelebrated celebrity in the detecting fraternity.
“Now, what do you say?” Booi finally gave the long-awaited signal.
“You must arrange with my office for another architect. Besides, I was never interested in this project, I don’t do small buildings. And this! This is an embarrassment. I don’t work like this.” The furious architect was being sincere. His line of work (which had gained him international recognition) included structures such as universities, libraries, theatres, museums, cathedrals, monumental structures, world-class shopping-malls and residencies of the presidency from country to country.
Now it dawned to Nurse Matu, who had been quiet all this while, that the dude who had been ‘stalking’ her from the art-gallery…was the same architect whom she had been communicating with over the telephone during the previous week.
“You’re the architect! I completely forgot. Please, Mr. Edgar, accept my apology.” Solemnly, the nurse begged the pardon of the architect.
Detective Booi’s gaze shifted, like a lazily swung pendulum, from John to Ntombi, saying, “Well—in that case, there’s no case then,” and back to John, “Mr. Edgar you’re excused. And I’m sure that the good nurse here will make it up to you,” and finally to Ntombi, “…kiss and make-up, mh?” Booi dawdled out of the room. He left the twosome mumbling with Ntombi doing the most of the mumbling.
“No, I want no coffee, neither cookies nor sandwiches. I’ve a better idea. We’ll make it dinner instead. Tonight, half-past seven, at the Beau Monde Cuisine and I’ll pick you up at seven.” When they were outside, John voiced it clearly that he was not interested in coffee. Dinner would serve him well for an apology.
“Oh, and you can’t refuse. You can’t refuse because you owe me. Now, that being that, I’ll see you at seven. Look good and put on a smile.” John Edgar sealed the deal with a wink. Nurse Matu stood there dumbstruck as the architect went away whistling a tune.Copyright © Vusumzi Matomane 2009
[...to be continued... ]
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