Janita Lawrence - The Memory of Water

As the moustache drones on I make a note to self: to write my own funeral ceremony. Think out of the box: as in turn creative, not zombie. In some countries the dead are buried in theme-shaped coffins according to which profession they pursued while alive. So a gardener would be buried in a flower-shaped box, a priest in a cross, and a carpenter in a… well I guess a carpenter would just be buried in a regular coffin. I wonder what writers are buried in? Caskets that look like books? It would be appropriate, especially when they close the lid.

In another country they dig out their dead once a year, dress them up in their finest silks and jewels, and have a rocking party in their honour. That’s more my style.

I was once sent to Mexico on a journo assignment to report on the Festival of The Dead. The piece was actually supposed to be about how different cultures experience grief and death, but I was captivated by El Día de los Muertos and ended up staying a week longer than I was supposed to. I found the concept of celebrating death so intriguing and after eating my first sugar skull I was hooked. The locals I interviewed believed that All Souls Day was the time when it was easiest for spirits to contact them. They would entice their deceased into visiting by laying out offerings and treats: toys for dead children and bread and bottles of tequila for adults. Also, blankets for everyone, so that they could rest after their long journey. An all-night vigil ensued, where the living ate the offerings but said they were left with hollow stomachs, because the goodness of the food had already been appropriated by the spooks. My memories of Mexico are orange. There are thousands upon thousands of marigolds strewn everywhere during the festival. They are known as the Flor de Muerto , Flower of the Dead, and are believed to attract the souls of the sleeping.

We left toys out for Emily. Her favourite dolls, a trike, a giant Pink Panther, a plastic tea set and some little ponies. We kept her bedroom just as she left it. The room’s cheerfulness breathed cold on my neck; sometimes I would close the door.

I fight the memory of Emily’s funeral. I knew this would happen. I close my eyes to keep it out, breathe deep, curl my fingers into fists.

I think of Emily’s coffin and how tiny it was. Stunted, like her life. Small and white, seemingly inconsequential. White lilies. Everything else in black: a moratorium on bright colours lest they remind anyone that she was just a child.

I loosen my collar and swallow, trying to fend off the assault of the memories I know so well. Not calm, like this ceremony. Loud and wet and cold and hot. Everyone stroking me on the day I felt allergic to touch. Strangers saying how handsome I looked in my ‘little suit’, as if the size of my clothes saddened them, as if the clothes I was wearing mattered. As if anything mattered.

I start to feel claustrophobic. A trickle of sweat runs down my ribs.

Just before the pastor says his closing words I’m out of there, out into the new air and fresh sky. I take off my jacket, sling it over my arm and stride to my car, where I sit for a while with the aircon on full-blast, staring through the windscreen, not seeing anything.

I have a hand-drawn map of how to get to the wake, which I crumple up and throw out of the window. I don’t want to go. I don’t know any of these people and I’m in pain. I want to be in bed with a bottle of Glenfiddich and the curtains drawn, not eating soggy canapés and making small talk with old, fat, swollen-eyed women. But I know I can’t not go, so I start my engine and pull away. The streets I drive along are dappled and pretty once I get out of Braamfontein. My GPS takes me into Orange Grove, where I narrowly miss hitting a Homeless Talk man running towards my car looking like Gollum. I hoot at him and show him the finger. Surely he knows that people in sports cars don’t buy The Big Issue ?

I drive past a tombstone showroom. Only in Africa. Death is such a huge business, what with the violence and AIDS. It reminds me of a main road in Lagos that stretches past the major hospital. I called it Funeral Town. There are people standing by the side of the road selling cheap coffins. They display them, looking like cardboard cut-outs. Billboards plastered on the bridge supports and perimeter walls advertising discount funerals, as if when someone you love dies your priority is finding a bargain. If that’s what it looked like outside I can’t imagine the chaos inside the hospital. Scamming suitcase undertakers poised to pounce, like hyenas.

It’s a bustling road and people swarm around my car. There are hawkers selling avocados and peaches, wire sculptures, lighters, fake designer shades and cold Cokes. The robot is still green; maybe I’ll make it through. The junker in front of me is driving so slowly it may as well be going backwards. The taxi beside me is an inch away from scratching my paintwork and the bakkie behind is so far up my arse I feel violated. Cocky, greasy, pedestrians weave their way through the traffic, touching the cars as they go. I hate it when people touch my car. The robot turns orange. I can still make it. I hoot at the car in front to accelerate but it has the opposite effect. The robot turns red and I shout and bang my steering wheel. I hate red traffic lights on these roads in particular. They may as well hand out firearms to the hijackers. I’m a sitting duck. As soon as the red light appears the hawkers hit the road in a well-practised, choreographed invasion. The Homeless Talk guy catches up with me and hits my roof twice – hard – to show me he’s back. I feel my heart banging loud and fast, hammering away at my breastbone. The noises around me become amplified; I hear people shouting at me and cars hooting. My lungs feel like they’re filling with water. I can only breathe in short, sharp breaths. I start hyperventilating. Am I having a heart attack? I hit my chest and cough hard, twice, just in case. The man is dancing for me and smiling. He knocks on my window, leaving oily knuckle marks behind. I need air but I don’t want to get out of my car on this unfriendly street. My legs are unsteady.

The robot turns green, the hawkers disappear and I put my foot down.

The house is a golden oldie, probably built in the 50s. Sturdy and squat, built with red bricks, a green tin roof and plaster which is now crumbling away. The floors are polished Oregon pine throughout, the walls are varying shades of nutmeg and vanilla, and the house smells like unwashed dogs and tobacco. The original pressed ceilings and grubby walls remind me of my father’s house, and that I should go and see him again. This could have been his funeral and my last memory of him would be that stuttering phone call on the night of my party.

I am shepherded through the house and out the back door into the bright heat of the midday sun. A dainty cup of tea is pressed into my hand. Oh God, I hope this isn’t a dry wake. I’m still sweating from the panic attack in the car. Somehow I don’t think that this tepid tea will do a good enough job of settling my jangling nerves. I dodge and sidestep to a downcast potted palm in the corner and surreptitiously empty my tea into it. Probably do the plant more good than it would me.

The garden is overgrown and parched. Tired branches, dusty leaves, desert sand. Patches of old damp blister the garden walls. The garden looks the way I feel. I abandon the empty teacup on the refreshment table. As I turn around, an old lady in a floral shift accosts me.

“Who are you?” she barks. Indigo eyes drill into my face.

“I am… I was a friend of Eve’s. She designed one of my book covers. That’s how we met.” The way she looks at me makes me want to tell her more, but I can’t think of anything else.