Free The Reactive by Masande Ntshanga Page B

I can no longer predict.
    Looking out over the cobblestones on Greenmarket Square— each orb cut from a slab of industrial granite, connecting the cafés on the right with the Methodist Mission on Longmarket, where hawkers and traders from different sectors of the continent erect stalls and barter their impressions of Africa—I feel my thoughts branch out and scatter, grow as uncountable as the cobblestones beneath us, as if each thought were tied to every molecule that comprises me, each atom as it moves along its random course.
    Ruan waves to the security guard. I ring Julian’s intercom and we get buzzed to the eleventh floor. On our way up, we stand apart, the mirrors in the lift reflecting the fluorescent lights. We remain quiet, facing ourselves as our bodies get hauled through thick layers of concrete. I lean against the lift wall and think of Greenmarket Square again, and how, not too far from here, and less than two hundred years ago, beneath the wide shadow of the muted Groote Kerk, slaves were bought and sold on what became a wide slab of asphalt, a strip divided by red-brick islands and flanked by parking bays where drivers are charged by the hour; behind them, yesteryear’s slave cells, which are now Art Deco hotels and fast-food outlets. I think of how, despite all this, on an architect’s blueprints, the three of us would appear only as tiny icons inside the square of the lift shaft, each suspended in an expanse of concrete.
    Then the lift doors slide open.
    Cissie walks out of the lift and Ruan and I follow a step behind, trailing her down a long open walkway. We don’t say anything else about her aunt. The three of us don’t mention our meeting with the client, either. Instead, we reach Julian’s flat in silence, propping ourselves up in front of his white door.
    Cissie knocks.
    Julian’s door has a silver number: an eleven hundred with two missing zeroes. In the corridor, voices mill together in a growing murmur over the music, while shadows dance behind the dimpled window. Outside, a couple sits on the fire escape behind us, a few steps below the landing, holding bottles of Heineken and sharing a cigarette. Cissie and Ruan face straight ahead, focused on getting themselves inside the party. The music seems to get louder, too, and the weather grows colder, but that doesn’t seem to bother us.
    Loud footsteps approach on the other side of the door, and before long we hear someone struggling with the lock.
    Looking back down, I notice that the couple, both in black winter jackets and thick woolen beanies, have a large cardboard cut-out leaning over the steel steps behind them. The placard bears a detailed illustration of the female anatomy.
    Eventually, Julian manages to get his door open. He greets us from the threshold, his face painted bright silver. He’s both tall and peppy tonight, so tall, in fact, that we have to look up to see his face. Smiling, he uses his long arms to wave us in.
    Please, guys, he says, come inside.
    Ruan, Cissie, and I file into the hallway and then into the kitchen. It’s a small space, with brandy boxes lying flattened across the tiles. The three of us try to walk around them as Julian follows behind.
    We went to a farm earlier, he says, waving his hand across the kitchen counter. From one end to the other, the surface is packed with raw vegetables. Liquor bottles emerge intermittently from the grove.
    Help yourselves, Julian says, and we do.
    Cissie takes our quarts from me. We bought them with a bottle of wine at the Tops near Gardens. I keep the Merlot and rinse out three coffee mugs in the sink. The brown water inside the basin looks a day old, so I yank the plug-chain. Then I stand there for a moment, watching as the fluid swirls out.
    I’m not surprised to find the drain half-clogged. I’ve been in and out of places like Julian’s for most of my adult life. One year, Cissie brought a colleague over and we played