The Satanic Mechanic (11 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Ricus sat down and introduced himself and Ousies. She was pouring water from the black kettle into a smaller red teapot. She added ingredients from the silver tin: cinnamon sticks, cardamom pods and other spices. Ricus said he and Ousies had met years ago in Hotazel in the Northern Cape.

‘Is it really as hot as hell in Hotazel?' Dirk asked.

‘In summer it is, ja,' said Ricus. He rested his hands on his hairy knees. ‘This is a private space, where we must all feel free to speak. Everything we say here stays here. Please tell the group your name, but you don't need to say your full name, or even your real name. Just what we can call you while we're together.'

We each said our names and where we came from. The woman in the headscarf spoke quietly. Her name was Fatima, and she was from Somalia but had lived here for a few years. The old man was Tata Radebe, from the Eastern Cape. Lemoni was a Greek South African, visiting from Johannesburg. Dirk was Dirk, and I was Maria. We had both always lived in the Klein Karoo.

‘One of the things I have found with PTSD,' said Ricus in his big deep voice, ‘is that we become disconnected. Our trauma is in our bodies, and we try to escape it by cutting off from our bodies.' Then he lowered his voice, so we had to listen more carefully. ‘This means we cut off from ourselves, from our senses, from our surroundings. An important part of our healing is to feel our senses again. That's why I like to do these groups outside.' He reached his arms out, spreading his fingers wide. ‘Where you can feel the sun and the wind on your skin, and smell
the smoke from the fire.' He closed his eyes a moment, taking in a big sniff of air. ‘It's also why we eat and drink as part of our sessions.'

As Ricus spoke, Ousies poured from the red teapot into white enamel mugs, and Fatima handed them around.

The hot drink had a strong, spicy smell. Fatima must have seen the question in my eyes, because as she gave me my cup she said, ‘This is shaah, the tea we drink in Somalia.'

Her voice was soft, close to a whisper. The tea was milky and sweet, and I could taste nutmeg and cloves.

As we drank our tea, Fatima used a match to light what looked like a piece of plastic on a small silver dish. It started smoking and gave off a lovely smell.

‘So, let's just sit for a while,' said Ricus, ‘and enjoy the taste of the shaah and the smell of the frankincense.'

It was delicious and comforting: the flavour of the tea together with the sweet smell. I closed my eyes, and my nose and mouth took the comfort into my belly and lungs.

‘Enjoy the feel of the air, the sun and clothes on your skin,' said Ricus.

The air was still but fresh. The afternoon sun was low and warm, like Ricus's voice.

‘Notice what you see around you,' he said.

I opened my eyes. Lemoni's left hand was stroking her handbag. She wore turquoise nail varnish, and there was a white line on her tanned ring finger. I wondered why she'd taken off her ring. I noticed all our shoes. Fatima's were smart and clean; so were Tata's and Lemoni's. But the veldskoene that Dirk, Ricus and I wore were dusty, like the ground. The dry earth was seasoned with red, white and brown stones, and had well-nibbled patches of green and gold grass.

The light was sparkling on the panel vans that surrounded us. The shade of one of the thorn trees cut across our circle and made sharp patterns on the Renault van. The big white thorns on the tallest tree were a lot like horns, but of what kind of animal I did not know.

Then I saw the spiral black horns. The kudu walked from behind the thorn tree, between the panel vans, towards us. It came to the fire and stood in the line of frankincense smoke, next to Ousies. She was
squatting beside the fire, staring into the flames. The kudu turned its head towards her, and she looked up at it, right into its eyes.

I sucked in my breath in surprise, and Ousies glanced at me. I took a sip of tea and closed my eyes. I opened them again; the kudu was still there. Maybe all people with PTSD saw the same strange things . . . But no one else in the group was looking at the kudu.

Something moved at Ricus's feet. The copper anklet had come to life. There was a thin snake curling its way around his veldskoen. I sighed and had another sip of tea. My hallucinations were getting worse. I didn't mind the kudu, but now, with snakes too, it could get out of hand.

‘Panagia mou!' shouted Lemoni, pointing at Ricus's feet. ‘Mother Mary! A snake!'

She jumped up, spilling her tea onto the ground. She was trying to climb onto her chair, but the chair was not a strong one. Dirk came forward to steady her, and Tata Radebe stepped towards Ricus and the snake, ready to swing his wooden knobkierie.

Ricus held up his hand to stop Tata and leant down to pick up the snake.

‘Ag, Esmeralda, my liefie, you are skrikking the people here.' When I realised the snake was real, I wasn't scared, but Lemoni certainly was.

Ricus stroked Esmeralda gently on her head, and the snake wrapped herself around his hairy arm and entwined with the spiral of his metal bracelet. She had patterns of golden brown and pale olive. Her little tongue was shooting in and out of her mouth as if she was tasting the air and, in her tasting, was learning everything about us all.

‘It's only a skaapsteker,' said Dirk to Lemoni. A sheep-stabber.

‘Ja, but the name isn't fair,' Ricus said. ‘These snakes couldn't harm a rabbit, let alone a sheep. Mice and frogs, yes.'

‘Johannes,' he called, then to the snake he said, ‘Don't worry, hartjie, they won't hurt you.'

Johannes popped up from underneath the yellow Combi panel van.

‘Esmeralda got out again,' said Ricus. ‘I think she's lonely. Put her in with Dickie, please.'

The snake twirled around Johannes's wrist and started to head up the sleeve of his blue overall. Johannes left our circle of cars and walked along the dirt road towards the farmhouse.

‘Sorry about that,' said Ricus, smiling. ‘They are quite harmless.'

Lemoni was pale and breathing fast. Dirk patted her shoulder and went to sit down again, and Ousies poured a fresh cup of tea, which Fatima handed to Lemoni. There was no sign of the kudu.

‘Signomi. Sorry, I'm a bit jumpy,' said Lemoni. Her hands were shaking, but the tea stayed in her cup. ‘
They
, you said
they
, are there more of them? Do you have a whole snakepit?'

‘No, not a pit.' He laughed his warm belly laugh. ‘But I have a few as pets. They usually stay by the house.'

‘Is it part of the satanist stuff?'

Ricus smiled and shook his head. ‘I just love them,' he said.

He finished his tea and set the cup on the ground. Then he rubbed his hands together and looked around at us. Ousies was sweeping the sand in a slow circle behind our chairs with her soft thatch broom.

Tata said, ‘Bhuti.' Brother. ‘Are you now a man of God? A Christian?'

‘My . . . the man and woman who raised me,' said Ricus, ‘were Christians and took me to church. They . . . didn't treat me well.' His hand went to the inside of his wrist, and his thumb stroked it gently. There was no hair growing there, and I could see small round white scars. ‘I don't go to church these days.' Ricus looked up; a black bird was flying above us, towards the Swartberge. A raven.

Lemoni crossed herself and said, ‘Xriste mou.' My Jesus.

‘Allahu akbar,' Fatima said quietly. God is great.

Tata polished the knob of his walking stick with his palm.

‘But nature feeds my spirit,' Ricus said, reaching out, grabbing at the air. ‘It helps me and heals me. We all find our own ways . . .'

The old man nodded. Lemoni was now stroking a crucifix that she had fished out from her cleavage. Dirk was paying attention to her crucifix too. Ousies was squatting at the fire, looking at the coals.

‘Ritual is a powerful thing,' said Ricus. ‘The fire, the circle.' He hand swept out to include us all. ‘When we act with awareness, we can change ourselves, and the world.' He clapped his hands together.
‘Enough theory. Let's take three easy breaths.' He put his hands on his ribs. ‘Just watch the breath going in and out of your lungs.'

I let my mind settle as I breathed. Ousies stood still beside her broom.

‘Now,' said Ricus after a while, ‘what is your intention? You don't need to say it out loud. Just decide: why are you here?'

I closed my eyes. I am here to make my relationship right with Henk, I thought. To be able to . . . be intimate with him. But more than that, I'm here to wash myself clean of the bad time I had with Fanie. To wash away what he did, and what I did too.

‘Sit a little while, holding your intention clearly,' said Ricus.

I wanted to free myself, somehow, of the shame and the guilt that I had carried all those years. I didn't really think it possible, but I so wanted to be free.

I opened my eyes and watched a bird of prey gliding across the sky. Its wings were grey and white. It landed on the top of the tallest thorn tree and looked down at our laager of panel vans.

‘Valk,' said Dirk, pointing at it. Falcon.

‘Ja, a pale chanting goshawk,' said Ricus.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

‘My intention,' said Ricus, smiling, ‘is that we all heal; that we become the best of ourselves.'

Ousies dropped a twig of wild camphor onto the coals.

‘Now, back to our senses,' said Ricus, clicking his fingers. ‘Most of us experience flashbacks. It is one of the common PTSD symptoms. Things that have happened before seem to be happening again.' He frowned. ‘Like a nightmare, but we are awake.'

‘Ewe, Bhuti,' agreed Tata Radebe, and Dirk nodded.

‘What makes the memory so powerful,' said Ricus, tapping his temple with a fingertip, ‘is that it's not just visual. There are other senses that make it seem present and alive: feelings, smells, sounds.' He touched his nose, his ears. ‘When we bring awareness to these sensations, we begin to see and accept them. Only then can we let them go. It is hard to drop something if you don't know you are holding it.'

He looked up at the goshawk. It was sitting very still, but I could see its white chest-feathers ruffling in the breeze.

‘One of the things that I still experience,' Ricus said, ‘is a burning sensation on the inside of this wrist.' His fingertips touched those white scars again. ‘Where my so-called father would hold the cigarette. I say so-called because I believe I was snatched as a baby from a supermarket, but that's another story . . .'

He brushed a hand across his knee, as if cleaning off some sand.

‘When my wrist starts to burn,' he said, ‘I can hold it under running water, or put ice on it, but the pain stays. My father would hold the lit
cigarette there and say that I had to tell my mother – the woman he called my mother – that I loved her.'

‘Eina,' said Dirk. Ouch.

‘But I never said it. Never,' said Ricus. He made a movement with stiff hands, as if he was cutting the air. ‘I've never said it to anyone. Even to the man with the panel van who rescued me, the one I grew to love like a father; or to the woman I later fell in love with . . .'

‘It is a big thing to tell someone you love them,' I said, thinking about Henk's words to me.

‘Ja,' said Ricus. ‘It is.'

He looked into the fire as Ousies added another twig.

Fatima said, ‘You say you loved a man? Who was he?'

Ricus smiled. ‘His name was Ted; he was delivering a vacuum cleaner. I escaped from my home by hiding in the back of his van. A panel van was my first place of safety.' He reached out towards the white Renault van. ‘By the time Ted found me, we were far gone. He saw my burns and let me stay. I drove around the whole country with him. My interest in mechanics came from fixing his cars. Years later, when Ted died, he left me his transport company. I sold the business but kept some of the vans.' He looked round at his circle of beloved cars.

‘And who was the woman you loved?' asked Dirk.

‘Enough about me,' said Ricus. ‘The point I was making is about the burning on my wrist. How the memory of trauma often comes with a physical experience. Maybe some of you have strong sensations that are part of your flashbacks?'

The goshawk in the thorn tree watched us as we sat in silence for a while. Johannes was rattling quietly under the Renault.

‘For me it is the smell,' said Fatima, in her gentle voice. ‘I went back with my uncle to the village. It was black. Burnt. When we got to the huts . . . It was hot. The . . . bodies had been under the sun for too long . . . The smell stuck to my skin.' She pulled the cloth of her dress away from her arms. ‘And stabbed deep up here.' She poked her fingers towards her nostrils.

She gasped as if she could not breathe, and then put her elbows on her knees and hid her face in her fingers. I reached out and put my hand
on her back. Her shoulders shook as she cried. Ousies brought her a paper napkin, and Fatima wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

‘Then we came to South Africa,' she said, ‘and I thought I'd never smell that smell again. But then they attacked the Somali shops and that man. They burnt him . . . I was there.'

She buried her face in her hands again. Then she looked up and into the fire.

‘The frankincense.' She took in a big sniff. ‘It cleans the smell out. From the inside.'

Ousies leant her witch's broom against the black Defender and went to the fire. She threw some dried herbs on the fire and lit another piece of frankincense. The thin line of smoke headed straight for Fatima. She pulled it around her like a shawl.

After a while, Lemoni said, ‘I can smell the Psari Plaki. That divine smell of baked fish just from the oven, tomatoes, garlic and parsley. It's steaming, and on the table. But before we start to eat, the men break through the door and come in with their guns. My husband can do nothing. They steal everything.' Her hand went to her left ear. She had pierced ears but no earrings in them. ‘All my jewellery. My precious . . . I was so frightened.'

Lemoni took a handkerchief from her bag and scrunched it up in her hand. She looked angry. I shook my head sympathetically. Foei tog. I would have been angry too. Not only did they steal everything, but they ruined a good meal.

Lemoni wiped her hands and polished her turquoise fingernails with her handkerchief, then put it back into her handbag. Again there was silence, apart from the soft sound of Johannes clinking under a car and Ousies's broom on the sand. She was sweeping again.

I waited for our leader, Ricus, to say something to comfort her, but it seemed he was allowing the quiet of the group to do the holding. The silence was not awkward; it was full of caring and understanding. We had all suffered. We were all there to heal.

‘The wet canvas bag over my head,' said Tata Radebe. ‘Eish. Like drowning. It comes back to me in the night, and I cannot breathe.'

He made a clicking sound with his tongue and shook his head.
He picked up his stick and put it across his thighs, then carried on with his story.

‘Tyhini. They did a lot of kinds of torture. No sleep. Shocks, and other things . . . that I cannot say in front of ladies. But it is that bag that I can't get off me. When it happens, I must get outside or get to a window, or I will die. I must find air. When I can feel the air moving, I drink it and drink it. Awu. I am afraid that one day I will not get the air and I will die.'

He was sweating. Ousies gave him a napkin, and he used it to wipe his forehead.

Ricus said, ‘I would like to show you a breathing exercise that calms the mind and helps the air flow easily.' He put his furry hands on the sides of his big belly. ‘Hold your hands here, on your lower ribs. Breathe in through your nose.' Tata Radebe put his stick beside him and did as Ricus was doing. ‘Let your fingers feel the ribs rising, as the air fills up your lungs. As you breathe in, count inside your head. Notice what number you get to. Then as you breathe out, count again and notice the number. Let's all do it.'

We put our hands onto our sides. Apart from Ousies, who was poking some coals under Fatima's aluminium pots.

I counted to four in, and five out, and the next time it was five in, and six out.

‘The in-breath and out-breath don't have to be the same length,' said Ricus. ‘But allow the rhythm to become the same.'

I relaxed into five in, and six out, and I kept that rhythm. After just a few breaths, I felt quite calm. My mind open and my muscles soft.

‘Practise this just for a few minutes every day,' he said to Tata. ‘Then, if there is a time when there's no moving air, this breathing will be your window.'

Tata Radebe closed his eyes, a frown of concentration on his face. After a while, the frown relaxed and there was a soft smile on his lips.

He opened his eyes and said, ‘Ewe, Bhuti. Yes, I can see it. The window. Camagu. Thank you.'