letra de lauren beukes’s “zoo city, excerpt #1 (early chapter 13)” - lintz may x
he insists that we take our faintly charred hot-dogs up to the roof, leaving the critters behind. he’s even bought paper plates and napkins, and two bottles of beer. he also brings out his camera, a battered and hopelessly outdated korean generic, barely a megapixel, and held together with duct tape. it’s seen a lot, that camera. whole doc-mentaries’ worth. but the only photos benoît has shown me are the ones he takes of himself
he’s obsessive about it. he’s recorded every step of his journey from kinshasa to joburg, photographed every major landmark, every significant crossroad or place he stayed for the night, every person who showed him kindness. but it’s not enough to photograph the people or the places. he has to be included in the frame. like it’s not only evidence that he was really there, but that he exists at all
by the time we reach the rooftop, i’m out of breath. people don’t come here a whole lot, especially since the elevators died, except to hang laundry out on a sunny day. sometimes they’ll be a party on the roof, to celebrate a wedding or both or when one of the local gangs feels like buying some community goodwill with spit–braaied- sheep and grilled offal. it can get ugly if people are drunk, at new year especially. it’s practically tradition for people to send appliances crashing to the street, stories below. there are reasons the cops and ambulances are slow to respond to “incidents” in zoo city — if they respond at all
benoît ducks under a laundry line, sheets and dresses and shirts flapping like tethered kites. everything takes on a muted quality fifteen floors up. the traffic is reduced to a flow and stutter, the car h-rns like the calls of mechanical ducks. the skyline is in crisp focus, the city graded in rusts and coppers by the sinking sun that has streaked the wispy clouds the colour of blood. it’s the dust in the air that makes the highveld sunsets so spectacular, the fine yellow mineral deposits kicked up from the mine dumps, the carbon dioxide choke of traffic. who says bad things can’t be beautiful?
“why don’t we come up here more often?” benoît says, uncharacteristically wistful
“too many stairs.”
he gives me a reproving look, and i feel bad for spoiling the mood
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