Delmas again. (See the post Christ plays in ten thousand places)
The young receptionist and I enjoyed the
silence that settled around the two of us in the waiting room. She was paging
through some files and I was busy filling out the form with all my dad’s
information. In one of the procedure rooms I could hear the dentist chatting
with my father while working on the problem tooth.
The bell at the security gate rang. The
young woman on the outside struggled to open the gate as the receptionist
pressed the release button. I got up to help her. In a strange blend of
confusion and determination she stepped into the room and walked towards the
reception counter. Her thin dress did not provide much protection against the
chilly winter morning.
Neither the receptionist nor I understood
what she was saying when she started talking. By the sound of it it must have
been one of the foreign languages from another part of Africa. The receptionist
tried through gestures to tell her to come in the next day when the other lady
working there could communicate with her in a black language. She just stood
there in the middle of the floor, looking around and at the walls. I asked her
in English whether she wanted to make an appointment or whether she was there
for an appointment. I got no response.
Suddenly she walked to the security gate, stuck
her head through the bars and shouted into the street: “Mandela! Hey, Mandela!”
A slender young man in an oversized dirty
sweater and a pair of trousers of more or less the same description came
walking towards the office, hands in his pockets. As he entered he went straight
to one of the couches and sat down. He smiled at me. His wife or lady friend
was still standing in the middle of the floor. The receptionist and I looked at
each other.
I tried my linguistic limitations on the
newcomer. Did they want to see the doctor or did they want to make an
appointment? He didn’t understand my exact words but was more responsive than
the young lady. “23?” he asked. “Yes, it’s the 23rd” I answered. He
got up from the couch and after saying something to her, she brought forth an
old patent leather purse. She opened it, took out a pink folded leaflet and
handed it to me. Unfolding it I read: “Pregnancy Crisis Clinic. Free
consultations, Tuesday 23 July.” I held it out to the receptionist. “Oh, that’s
around the corner” she said after looking at the leaflet.
I took them to the door, pointed to the
piece of paper and then gestured that what they were looking for was around the
corner. “This is a dentist” I pointed to my teeth. “No clinic.” He laughed at
me as if the two of us shared a joke. Then he was out and on his merry way, without
even looking in his companion’s direction.
With a name like that Mr. Mandela was sure
to draw attention. But it is the quiet young woman who trailed way behind on
the sidewalk that I am constantly thinking of. The one with the old soul that’s visible in
her eyes, and with loneliness draped around her shoulders. Whose hope is pink
and is carried in an empty purse.
George
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