GINGER AND BUBBLES

10| PLATTEKLIP GORGE

Take stock of your life...get direction and find answers. That's where you are. I look at the reflection of my face in the mirror as I speak to it. You've been walking a thin rope with him for a while now. Slit is off, erratic, inventing his own rules as and when he is on one of his trips. Then there's Suzan...will you be the breadcrumb that leads him to her? I shake my head to expunge the thought.

I grab my backpack and head out to the City. A quick hike up Platteklip always helps. I must create distance between me and my troubled state of mind.

The fragrant smell of fynbos and the concomitant silence greet me at the starting point in Tafelberg Road. From the northern slopes, I zig-zag my way up, all along the stair-like rocky path. Gazing one last time across the sleepy metro.

I turn my back on the sprawling urban development that lies at the foot of the table-topped mountain draped beneath a thin layer of sheer, white, drifting clouds. It appears tame from where I stand, but I would never dare to underestimate it, for it, too, is a wild place that left many corpses in its wake. The frigid morning mist cuts through my thin multi-pocketed, khaki jacket as I ascent the prominent landmark that hides the skeletons of many an adventurer in its secret folds and inaccessible cliffs.

The ledge between the gorge and ravine demands my attention and forces me to take every step with vigilance but, my preoccupation with the unit sneaks up on me, unexpectedly. Midway through I pause to look down. The mysterious depth below draws me in and momentarily holds me captive until I feel vertiginous. I funnel all my energy towards clearing the treacherous ledge.

Instead of drawing vitality from the serenity of the fecund terrain teeming with life I find my equilibrium altered and I know what is the cause-It is Slit. He triggered my disdain, disturbed my balance, and jolted me out of my plateaued state of existence. Now I'm growling with a hunger for more than merely following someone else's agenda.

The brief altercation with the unit unleashed an emotion, a foreign one, which I wrestled with in the early hours of the morning. I tried to douse it with alcohol, in vain. It just kept flashing and flashing and flashing until it morphed into the image of one beautiful, sunny day on the Parade...

Further and further I advance until the path crisscrosses, leading me up the steep incline to the gorge with its large, flat rocks and sandstone cliffs. At the point where the cliffs split the angle restricts my view and dims my expectation of panoramic scenery. I go down to the cool waters of the river that passes through it and take the bag off my back.

A sudden flood of regret causes my heart rate to increase. I inhale deeply and fill my lungs with the crisp mountain air. For some weird reason, all my journeys and choices brought me a fork in my life that reads: Suzan this way. All the rest that way.

When I reach the top of the mountain I look across the outstretched landscape which almost automatically steers my thoughts to Suzan and that fateful day...

Maybe it was the grey, well-fitted formal suit and perfectly matched accessories that set her apart from those around her. Or maybe it was the pitch-black, shoulder-length hair that shone like a raven's tail as it cascaded onto her upright shoulders and around the slim neck. The neck that craned with an air of aristocracy, showcasing the needle-sharp nose set in that unforgettable face when she looked up, smiled, and impaled my troubled heart with her big brown eyes...She seized my attention the instant I lay eyes on her as she came strolling down Adderley Street...soaking up her surroundings with such glee...She filled me with a moment's joy. Filled me with such peace...and for the first time, I experienced a glimmer of hope for the future.

That was then.

Now I'm here at this juncture staring down my demons. Why can't I touch the screen of this phone, open the Google Maps application and ask the robot to navigate me out of this inferno? However, the longer I tarry at this crossroad and the longer I trace my steps and confront my mistakes the clearer and more obvious my choices become, I will not be the dog that returns to my vomit and laps it up out of fear for what lies ahead.

My raven with the broken wing is in grave danger. That realisation descended on me when she was in a coma. It gnawed at my blind loyalty to a cause I did not fully comprehend and replaced it with an unexplained urgency to get out, no matter the costs.

I must go back and check on her. What if something happened in the night? What's wrong with me? I promised I would be back in the morning. I can't just leave her. I can't.

When I get to her apartment I'm not sure what to expect. Was my decision to change my routine under the guise of the hike up the mountain a test of my commitment? I don't know. I suppose it served a dual purpose.

If Slit had me tracked I must resume my day-to-day habits. That means I must return home after the completion of a job. I must sleep and step out or do whatever the hell I used to do before Suzan.

I knock for several minutes on her door, but it remains locked. I press my ear against the door, but don't hear any movement from the inside. I dial her telephone and wait for her to pick it up, but she doesn't. I shout her name to no avail.

The lady next door to her apartment comes out and directs me to the office of the estate manager situated at the entrance of the building. His name is engraved into a little brass plate screwed to a piece of driftwood hanging on the outside. I knock and enter. He is poring over a pile of documents strewn all over his desk.

"Excuse me, Mr. Esterhuizen? Johan Esterhuizen?"

He looks up, clearly agitated by the the intrusion.

"Yes?"

"I'm here about a tenant. Can you assist me?"

"Which one?"

He pulls out a folder waiting on me to proceed.

"Miss Delheim."

He closes the folder again, his brow lifts. His interest is piqued.

"What about her?"

He looks at me over the top of his extraordinary thick glasses, overly interested in me.

"I can't—"

Before having a chance to finish my question he stops me.

"Excuse me, this is not some low-class motel. Who are you?"

He gets up and folds his arms, he studies my face, waiting on a reply.

"Her brother, Lester. She was hospitalised and—"

"Come," he says as he takes the spare key off the hook and walks with me to her apartment. "The ambulance was here early this morning. They took her away. Shame. We didn't know about your sister's accident—"

"What? What happened? which hospital?"

"The neighbour heard screams around 4 am this morning. Poor thing. She ripped the bandages from her face..."

"No, no, no! Which hospital?"

"Follow me. Let's check with Anne. She's in nr 12."