Masande Ntshanga - The Reactive

Ruan, Cissie and I step over the threshold one after the other. Then we stand there holding our quarts, our eyes adjusting to the dimness.

I realize I’ve stopped breathing. That’s when I hear his voice.

Please lock the door after you, he says. You’ll soon learn how much I’m devoted to my people, but I’m afraid I’m not very fond of their intrusions.

It’s strange, but when I hear him, I feel I have no choice but to do as he says. There’s a strange, but commanding quality to the man’s voice, and not only in volume, but also in texture. It has a metallic ring around its loudness, like a recording pushed through a speaker.

I take a shallow, faltering breath. Then I lock the door and trace his voice to a corner in the far left, where there’s a silhouette of a man leaning back on one of the leather couches, one leg bent at the knee and crossed over the other. Above him, ribbons of smoke curl against the ceiling light, forming a mist in front of the windows overlooking St Peter’s Road.

I’m over here, he says, waving his hand.

My head clears and my nausea thins out. I look through the room and locate his head, a long narrow face in silhouette against the large road-lit panes.

Please take a seat with me, he says.

Ruan, Cissie and I move towards him.

The woman behind the bar stares at us with a blank expression. She’s also pressing the buttons on a cellphone. I watch its blue glow playing up her neck, a light that reveals a sharp jaw moving around a wad of gum. The three of us move past her.

You can’t possibly still imagine I’m the law, the man laughs.

This is how he talks. He booms in a register that’s picked out from two centuries ago. His tone sounds tired and tickled at the same time.

Ruan, Cissie and I find our seats opposite him at the low table.

Here we are, I guess.

Here’s the ugly man. Here’s our client.

He has his head down, his face covered in shadows. You get the feeling his features are nondescript, even in sunlight, and that his skull, closely shaven and dimly reflecting the street glow, looks like the skull of any other man. It’s almost as if, in calling himself ugly, he’s erased his features, drawing attention to something that isn’t there. There’s no way to describe him above the V of his white shirt. I lean back, confused.

Please allow me a moment, he says.

We do. We watch his fingers prod, fussing over a black PDA device on the coffee table. It’s thick, about the size of my hand, and he’s set it flat on its back. It’s probably what he used to send us the emails, and the scanned IDs he intimidated us with. It has a dim screen light that illuminates only his wrists and cufflinks. More than once, he cracks the knuckles of his right hand as if in frustration at its speed or, I think to myself, as if to ground a stray current. Either way, I wouldn’t be surprised.

The man clears his throat. He doesn’t look up at us, but we watch him as he bunches his fingers around a stylus pen. He swipes a gray icon across the small screen.

I should tell you I’m rather pleased you were able to find your way to me, he says. I was beginning to wonder if I might’ve been the cause of too much trouble. I understand I called for us to meet at short notice and for that I should extend an apology, and believe me when I say I do. However, as you’ll soon learn for yourselves, the matters which bring us together bear their own sensitivities regarding the dictates of time, and for that reason alone, I’m confident that our arrangement, as hasty or as modest as it might seem, is perhaps the one that could serve our purposes best.

Done, he pushes his PDA aside. Clicking open his gold cigarette case, he pauses for a moment. Then he weaves his head and trains his eyes through the dimness, raising his right hand to signal to the bartender.

My dear, he says, might we have the lights back on?

I hear the bartender closing her till. Her silhouette saunters around the counter and approaches the entrance. It turns a knob and a mist of yellow light settles over us.

Finally, here he is, I think to myself. He’s wearing a three-piece suit, a deep red that matches the hat on the table. The hat is a long-brimmed fedora. It has a feather tucked inside the band.

This is when I realize what’s unsettling me about his face. He’s wearing a mask.

The man clears his throat and starts talking again.

You’d be shocked, he says, sounding both surprised and amused, how little science has accomplished for the facial prosthetic. The field’s first and, by my humble estimate, truest visionary was a man born in the year of 1510. He was a Frenchman by the name of Ambroise Paré, who used to shear the hair off kings to earn his keep in the royal courts. He had as his regular clients Henry II, Charles IX and Henry III. Francis II is also said to have sat under his blade during his short kingship. In his work as a surgeon, however, he was a man at home on the battlefield. He made limbs for soldiers maimed during the wars, you see.

Here he pauses. He taps his cigarette filter on the gleaming case, his long fingers pushing the air out of the stick and compacting the tobacco leaves.

I see you’ve already helped yourselves to something to drink, he says. It’s no bother, but should you want more, I beg you only to mention it. I should say, also, that Nolwazi here holds my vote as the best bar maiden this side of the mountain. He turns his head towards her, then back to us.

Now, he says, where was I? Oh, yes, we were discussing Ambroise Paré, weren’t we?

He goes on like this. It turns out it’s from the First World War, this mask he has on. That’s what he tells us, anyway. He says nothing about his voice, but I can detect a hum whenever he takes a moment to breathe. I keep my eyes settled on his mask.

Well, he says, the technique itself is from the Great War. I’m afraid this hunk of tin isn’t quite as old as that. You’ll have to forgive me my indulgence. I tend to have a desire to get the face and mask out of the way as soon as I can. It’s the only way I can guarantee myself anyone’s attention. My face is somewhat of an attraction, you see. I myself am no stranger to its oddities. However, I invited you here for matters unrelated to my appearance. Now, friends, if you don’t mind, may I?

He raises his hands to the sides of his face and holds them up against his ears. Ruan, Cissie and I sit with our hands by our sides, staring at him in silence.

The man’s mask is painted the sandy color of his hands and his neck, with two round holes for eyes and two piercings at nose level for breathing holes. Just above the chin, it’s carved into three narrow slits for him to speak through.

Cissie says, so there’s a reason you didn’t get plastic surgery?

This doesn’t surprise us, me and Ruan, that Cissie would be the first to break through our silence.

I reach down for my beer again. The sip I take from the bottle tastes warm, and it causes my mouth to fill up with saliva. The bitterness clings to the sides of my tongue, trickling down my throat and knotting my stomach. I put the bottle back between my knees.

The man, as if noticing my discomfort, drops his hands.

He shakes his head and says, Monsieur Paré. The first men he patched up from the wars broke his big foolish heart. He gave them back their arms and legs and they took their own lives. They didn’t favor their looks, you see. I’ve never understood those men. If you ask me, a man is given his scars as a consequence of his spirit, his battles out in the world.

He shakes his head, his answer to plastic surgery.

Then, following a brief pause, he says, now, I do trust I have your permission?

The man’s hands pull at the sides of his mask and he lifts the tin off his face. Leaning back on the couch, with his arms set apart and his one leg over the other, his hands find the arm rests and his face reveals itself. If he’s smiling, then none of us can tell.