The Corners Of A City

Freedom is wandering through Port Elizabeth unencumbered by the burdens of the day, the sounds of the city a distant orchestra.

Photo by Chris Allen

Beautiful old buildings in Central are used for many different kinds of businesses, second-hand bookshops being one of them.

By Kate du Toit

There are books everywhere.

He looks British. Mostly bald, red chubby face, veins protruding, broken capillaries around the eyes and nose, a puffy bag under each eye. Tall-ish. Overweight. In his late 50s. A half grin and slightly too much interest but for the weary watchful eye of his wife in the background. She isn’t quite as friendly. Took Jane a few visits to realize why. She still assumed all motives pure. Innocent. It never even occurred to her.

Old books. Words. How beautiful.

She wanders slowly through, eventually coming to a creaky old staircase at the back that leads to an attic. More books. More words. Dust covering every open space like a ground moss growing daily. Adding to the nostalgia. She could spend forever here.

She is in a little bookshop in the centre of her home city, Port Elizabeth. It is an old original building her ancestors would have commissioned not long after they first set foot on this soil. Taking over, one beautiful piece of architecture at a time.

Trying to bring home to this foreign, harsh land.

As she comes out the door, the little bell tinkles to let them know, and the sun glares directly at her, leaning forward to remind her of where she is. But she doesn’t care. This is her freedom, wandering through her city. Finding little curves and corners no one else seems to know about.

It is quite a day. Warm. Slight breeze. Comfortable. Today Jane is in jeans, sneakers, a little summer top. She has no bag, just some money in her pocket. Long blonde hair loosely tied in a high ponytail. No cellphone.

Just a desire for some adventure.

She has been told to be careful in the city. But this is her city. If she cannot explore in her own city, she has no true freedom. Of course, she has never experienced anything bad. So her innocence, bold spirit and curiosity drive her.

She has no true sense of what “‘bad’ ”means.

She strolls along the road and around a corner onto a street filled with cafés and bars.

“Every morning I get here I have to pick up half a dozen bottles from outside the door before I can even get to it. Last Saturday when I arrived there was vomit.”

Anthea’s long veiny legs are crossed, protruding out from under the side of

Books in a second-hand bookshop in Central.

Photo by Chris Allen

the table. She is leaning against the wall, looking out at her tiny coffee shop. Right elbow on the table, coffee cup just to the left, cigarette held high between her long wrinkly fingers, smoke rising to nowhere.

Jane is at a table just a bit further into the smoky void, newspaper open in front of her, unread. It was so dark when she walked in she couldn’t see for the first 20 seconds. The first thing she did see was a very large African Grey sitting on top of his cage next to the public telephone. There is no one else there except the waitress , w ho wonders over lithely with a cup of coffee and a scrappy-looking notepad.

“Eating?”

“Yes, thanks, I’ll have a curry chicken mayo tramazzeni.”

She didn’t actually order coffee. She drinks it anyway.

“It’s disgusting. I know.”

He has a dog at his feet. Large Husky, striking blue eyes, looking sleepy with his chin on his paws. Every time someone walks in his ears perk up, eyes widen. Doesn’t bother to actually lift his head off his paws. His owner has a very healthy bush of grey hair, a beard to match and a face that looks like it has seen too many cigarettes come and go.

“I know I don’t own the pavement, but this is my shop. Would they vomit outside their own front door? Actually, don’t answer that.”

Takes a drag, slowly, precisely pushes the smoke back out again.

“And don’t ever try to drive down this street at night. They might as well just get rid of all the buildings and make it a public drinking park. I don’t know why any of these places pay rent. Everyone just stands on the street.”

Soon, a young couple wander in, sit opposite Jane at a table next to the wall. Both light up, half leaning against the wall. She is wearing a ‘50s style floral dress that goes in at the waist and falls just above her knees, flat black schoolgirl sneakers and an open button-up cardigan. He has wild curly hair fighting against a black trilby hat. Skinnies, button-up shirt and veldskoen-type shoes confirm that they are probably part of the art crew now living for R1 a month in one of Denton’s recently done up houses on Military Road. An Irish property mogul. Known for

Photo by Chris Allen

Steps leading up towards a beautiful old church in downtown Port Elizabeth.

deliberately leaving the numerous buildings he owns to degenerate. Now, he’s trying to make living in the city cool again. A very unpopular man in Port Elizabeth.

“Did you get hold of The Cottonfields?”

“Yes, they’re stoked.”

“Good. What other bands have we confirmed?”

“Jack Rabbit Slims. Still working on the others.”

“Awesome. It’s gonna be sick. A gig at the Donkin. What an insane idea.”

Jane stands and walks toward the counter at the entrance. She will ask the guys about the gig. She smiles. As usual, she’s the last to know. But she doesn’t mind. She loves watching them play.

She steps back out into glaring sun and fresh air.

She begins walking again.

She eventually finds herself next to a seemingly endless Anglican Church. Wrought iron fencing all around. Gate locked. She can hear the organ being played inside. Is there a lone man sitting there, playing hymns of old? Too afraid to leave the gate open, as a church should? Little stone steps stretch out in front of her. The path forward clearly laid out. She hears the chiming of the city clock and turns to look, the city square below her. The back of Queen Victoria’s head towering above every passer-by seems less ominous from here. What a strict lady she must have been. Did she ever love anyone? Jane wonders.

She can see where the steps are leading, to a street above. But before she gets there, she finds a little alleyway to the right she simply can’t resist. She strolls along and soon comes to the end. Turning around, she notices small steps going down. Stepping lightly, silently, she follows them and emerges into an astonishing Lewis Carroll style garden. In the middle of the city. Completely overgrown, green, luscious. It doesn’t seem to belong to a house.

It just is.

Jane sits for a while. The sounds of the city a distant orchestra. It is so close. And yet the trees and bush of the garden seem to wrap around the visitor.

A protection.

A brief respite.

She realizes she loves it all.

The screeching of the hadedas cheekily telling the city it’s time to wake up.

The yelling of the gatchi as he hangs out the taxi window, “Town. Town. Town.” So fast you can barely hear what he’s saying, but you know.

The mamas sitting, legs out flat in front of them, on the patch of grass on the side of the street they have claimed as their own outside the house they will never live in, will always work in. Their loud, genuine, infectious laughs.

A coffee shop on popular Parliament Street.

The silence of the waves crashing, then rolling in to say hello before sheepishly pulling back. Teasing.

The vastness of the sun’s deep orange hands stretching out as an invitation for all to see, a declaration, “Come, let us say goodbye to the day.”

Photo by Chris Allen