Blue is my escape

I lock the car and run the few steps to the front door. This apartment building is 75 years old, and in this weather all tenants just hope and pray that it remains standing for another night. It is always darker inside, as if the developers built the entire structure under a tent. As if it was meant to be seen only when completed.

I took a left, purposefully avoiding the lift.  My apartment is on the third floor and the adrenaline will keep me going. To my right are the letter boxes. My number is second from the door. I glance towards it without slowing down. I’m about the put my foot on the bottom stair, when it catches my eye.

I have mail! Who wrote me, and what did they say? Expecting more junk mail, I search for the little key on the key ring. I opened the letter box, and a blue envelope with two red stars fell at my feet. I completely froze.

It was more than 25 years ago that I last held one of these in my hand. I still experience the joy, even today, of having received one. The familiar smell and weight of the envelope. And all of a sudden, the memories of a short and long summer came flooding back.

I was 15 years old and bored as hell. It was the longest summer break I ever had. Now that it was almost over, I had to endure this last weekend with stupid, pimpled cousins. 

‘Go and catch the last rays of the sun. You will miss it.’ My mother, always pushing for the smallest benefit.

I started this summer frustrated. I worked on a school project for four months.  ‘The negative impact of the use of oral contraceptives for teenagers.’  I was the fun-spoiler, the kid no one invited to parties, the church-goer, the church youth leader, the school paper editor, and now my new focus was the work of our school nurse.

Earlier in the year, the school governing body that all reiterated a governmental notice that all young ladies could exercise choice over the use of oral contraceptives. These choices could be made for medical reasons or otherwise. I vehemently protested. My Life Orientation teacher sent me to the Nurse, who sent me to the Principal, who sent me back to the Nurse. It is then that I received the task: I can compile a report outlining these negative impacts I so religiously disapprove of. My report will then be shared with the usual circle of decision-makers, and if my findings proved valid, they may be published in the school newspaper.

My final report was submitted well in advance. I was told that the green light has been given for publication. However, it will only go into the edition ear-marked for later in the year. It will only appear after the summer break. I sulked around the house for eight weeks. There are still 72 hours to go until this torture ends.

‘Dee, this is Matthew. He goes to Eastern Border High. And guess what? He is also a journalist, like you.’ The narrator is my dear cousin, two months younger than me. His companion is a wide-eyed, tall and very pale young man. Did he say ‘High’, as in ‘High school’? I tried to remember.

‘Hi’, the Matthew says. ‘I’m actually just the photographer……great to meet you.’

And so, it was that I became schooled in the art of lines, shapes, forms, patterns, space and texture.

Matthew could talk for hours about things he was passionate about. And there were plenty: sport, flowers, music, technology, animals. There were times that I felt that I didn’t need to pay attention to. He will just talk. His only requirement was a human presence at the beginning of the conversation. Thereafter, he is comfortable speaking to no one in particular. He even showed periodic signs of bewilderment, when after such heated monologues, he realised I was listening to him.

We decided to exchange addresses, both having a feeling that perhaps we are just being polite.

But as it turns out, not only is Matthew a prolific talker, he could also write. Long letters.

I smiled the first time I saw the envelope: light blue, with two red stars in the right corner. In my reply I joked that he must have borrowed his younger sister’s stationery. He replied that it was the only envelopes left in the shop at the time.

Our letters were not , or romantic or in any way uncomfortable. They were just conversations. Conversations about everyday things. For both of us, it was a way of holding on to the reality of being young and in our teenage years. At least we were doing something normal for teenagers.

We talked about other people, our dreams, our fears, and what it must be like to be in a state of public disaster. Like a war. Or a pandemic.

We conveyed to each other, conspiratorially, our views on religion. And love. And death.

We believed in God. We believed in Darwin. We believed in Icarus.

Together we were free.

Eight months later, and at the beginning of Autumn, we had a small break for two weeks. I decided to surprise Matthew. Without warning, I bought a bus ticket, traveled 120 kilometres, and was deposited at the bottom of his street at 5 pm on a windy Saturday afternoon.

The road was eerily quiet. The cars looked as if they haven’t moved for years from the spot, as rust threatened to consume their roofs. Cats lazily performed bathing rituals without feeling threatened by my presence. On this day, there were no children on the road.

All these thoughts were pushed aside, as my eyes found no 67. The house appeared neglected.

I slowly climbed the steps, pressed the bell, but could not hear any sound. I walked to the side of the house, hoping to find another entrance, or some movement from just anywhere. The garage door was slightly ajar. I touched the rusted knob, and pushed the door. Once inside, it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. The dust was everywhere, and I immediately started to cough.

There was a sudden movement to my immediate left. A window illuminated a long silver table.

It took a while to see clearly, and then I saw him. A man dressed in a navy- blue tracksuit pants, and white t-shirt turned his gaze towards the door. He had short cut hair, and a full- grown beard. Seated next to him was a highly pregnant lady with a toddler on her lap. The man rose.  I then recognized the bushy Van Dyke beard from research done on a different project. The man came closer. Matthew was staring at me.