Masande Ntshanga - The Reactive

We sit facing the packed beer fridges. The vodka and brandy bottles reflect the dim light, and my eyes feel dry as they glide over the whiskey and sherry. Green swathes fall across the counter in a soft pattern, the result of a soccer match playing on the sets.

I use my sleeve to wipe the sweat off my temples. I can hear my heart tapping inside my chest. I recall what I know about the pharmacology of tik: in one of Olive’s stories, a baby was born with its intestines unspooled outside its body.

Maybe we should get a drink, Cissie says.

I lean forward and raise my hand for help. The woman tending the bar smiles under a helmet of bleached hair. We watch her standing at the other end of the counter, her back turned to us. From our place at the bar, we can see her texting on her phone. Now and then, she raises her head to laugh with a man in a cowboy hat. The man looks around fifty. He’s wearing a white shirt under a brown suede blazer. On close inspection, his features are unremarkable, and I discount him as a candidate for our client. The match blares on a set above him: a game between Sundowns and Chiefs.

Our throats dry, the three of us fall silent. We spend the next minute leaning over the counter. I remind myself to take in normal breaths, which reminds me of Olive: the damage that makes her throat whistle.

What would you drink on your last day on Earth?

This comes from Cecelia, and it’s timely as always.

She says, what if Last Life was moved up to now?

Ruan and I take a while to answer. Cissie plays with the strings under her chin.

I don’t know, Ruan says eventually.

I don’t either, I tell her. Maybe it is now.

The bartender works the other end of the bar. She’s wearing a blue halter top over a pair of stonewashed jeans, and her short legs drag her feet across the floor. She serves the man in the hat another brandy and he beams at her.

I don’t think I have any more money on me, I say.

Me neither, Cissie says.

Ruan pats his pockets. I might, he says.

Eventually, the bartender sees him waving. She approaches us, using one hand to wipe down the counter while the other holds up her phone. When she comes to a stop in front of him, Ruan takes out his money and places it on the rubber spill mat. It’s enough for three quarts of beer.

We take small sips from the tall brown bottles. I swivel on my chair to catalog the patrons present at Champs. I try to convince myself that our client isn’t here: that he would’ve approached us by now. Or we would’ve noticed him. Then I take another sip.

The bartender returns with Ruan’s change, a combination of green notes and bronze coins. Placing the money on the counter, she pauses and looks up from her phone.

He’s upstairs, she says.

The three of us look up and the bartender sighs.

The man, she says, turning to me, the strange one, the handicap. He told me to tell you he’s waiting for you upstairs. He has the floor blocked off, but you can tell Vincent at the door and he’ll let you in. Tell him you’re the three guests. He’ll see your friends, anyway, she says, pointing at Cissie and Ruan. Then she shrugs, done with her message.

I thank her as she sends another text from her phone. She doesn’t respond, and I watch her walk back to the man in the cowboy hat, who orders another brandy.

Jesus, Ruan says, this guy booked the whole floor.

The whole floor, Cissie echoes.

My brain gives me nothing to add to this, so I ask them if we should finish our beer or take it up with us.

We need to revise our strategy, Ruan says.

Yes, we need to do that, Cissie says. Let’s decide on a plan.

I tell them again that we shouldn’t volunteer any information.

Ruan asks if we should mention seeing the money.

Not until he mentions it first, I say.

Then Cissie takes a long sip from her beer and we do the same. Fuck it, she says. What can he do to us here? She pushes back from the counter. This is a public place, isn’t it?

It is. We’ve really done all we can to prepare, I say.

Ruan agrees, and in my head, I think: if he’s Bhut’ Vuyo then he’s Bhut’ Vuyo.

We just have to keep a cool head with him, I say.

Right, Ruan says. He gets up and stretches his arms. I need to take a leak. Don’t sneak off without me.

Like you’d mind that, Cissie says.

Then Ruan takes a gulp from his quart, and, wiping the foam off his lips, stalks off to the bathroom. Left behind, Cissie and I slouch on our seats.

During a free kick, she turns to me and says, be honest, Nathi, are you afraid?

I tell her honestly, I don’t know.

Me neither, she says. I have no idea what to think any more.

I got stabbed once, I tell her.

Really? Where?

I was in Obs.

The ghouls gathered around the plasma screen roar at another missed goal. For a while, Cissie and I drink in silence. Then Ruan comes back and leans on the counter.

He sighs.

I’m ready, he says, clasping his hands together.

He takes another sip from his beer, and when he’s done, I say we should go up and see what happens to us. Ruan and Cissie try to laugh, but it doesn’t last long. I can tell it’s only to humor me.

We leave the counter just as the game hits half-time. The soccer louts rush back to the bar, each of them griping and cheering over their glasses of brandy. I guess it gets hard to pick them apart, sometimes, the winners and the losers, but in any case, the three of us don’t stick around to find out who’s who.

We take our beers and walk up the staircase next to the men’s room, where we find Vincent, the resident bouncer, arranging his face into a scowl. To get a clear image of Vincent, you’d have to imagine five slabs of braaied beef, all arranged in a pile and wrapped up in a beanie and a black dress shirt. Then you’d have to think of a pair of black jeans and black desert boots. None of them new, but pressed and buffed to look it.

I slow my friends down. Keeping myself at a distance, I tell the bouncer that it’s us and that we’re here for a meeting.

Vincent looks dubious.

He faces down and creases his brow. Naturally, he asks me who we are.

We’re here to see the guy, I say, and point at the door.

He eyeballs us. Prove it, he says. Vincent centers himself in front of the door. I guess it’s a bouncer maneuver or something.

I look at him and all I can think of is, whatever, I concede.

I tell Vincent we’re here for hospital work; that we’re working in the field as volunteers. The three of us, I say, we’ve all got jobs in a ward at Groote Schuur. That’s what we have to talk about with the man inside. We’re consulting.

He clicks his tongue. Consulting, he says. Still staring at us, Vincent raises a beefy paw to his face and draws a slow, tight circle in front of his forehead.

Was his face eaten by pigs? he asks.

I don’t know what to tell him. To my right, Ruan says we can’t disclose that.

Then Vincent nods. He sizes up Ruan before his eyes glide down to the quarts in our hands. Tell me, he says, what kind of hospital meeting is it where you have three children holding bottles of beer?

I sigh. I can’t think of anything else.

Then the door cracks open and a woman approaches Vincent from behind. She lays a thin hand on his shoulder, and her voice flows out of her like a whisper.

Vincent, the man says to let them in, she says. You can collect your tip at the bottom till. Her hand drops and she disappears back into the room.

Vincent considers us a moment longer. Then, slowly, he starts to nod.

Okay, he says. You’ve convinced me. Feigning reluctance, but clearly pleased by his tip, he opens the door to the upstairs bar and waves us in like a butler.