Beauty in the Broken

Standing over the display, I stare at the static little train that’s going nowhere in the window and everywhere in my heart.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” a woman’s voice says next to me.

I turn to the owner of the voice. She’s pretty and sophisticated, old enough to have firsthand experience of the joys of toy trains.

“It’s wood, not plastic,” she says. “Hand-crafted. Locally manufactured. We only stock community products. Ten percent of the profit goes back to the township.”

Drawn to the toy, I look back at the wagons. There are twenty-six. Each carries a letter of the alphabet.

“How old is he?” she asks.

I glance at her again. “What?”

Her smile is patient, as if we have time, as if everything else can wait. She makes me want to cling to the illusion that inside here the world is on pause.

“The boy you’re shopping for,” she says, “how old is he?”

“Two years and three months.”

“Then this is the perfect gift. I’m sure he’ll like it.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “He will.”

“Shall I wrap it up?”

“Yes. Please.”

One by one, she wraps the wagons in tissue paper. With much care, she packs them into a paper bag, and rings them up.

“Six hundred rand,” she says.

Reaching inside the hidden zip compartment of my bag, I take out the money Reyno has paid me. I hold the stack of hundreds in my hand. For the first time in my life, I count out six notes, and place them reverently on the counter. The moment is sacred, and it seems fitting that it’s here, in this place where smiles are patient and time stands still. It’s fitting that my first purchase with money I and no one else has earned is a silent train that can spell many unsaid words. My heart floats up from the pain in my chest. What I’ve bought is not a piece of handcrafted wood. It’s a gravestone. It’s a gift for a boy who exists only in my heart.

“Thank you.”

The woman hands me my receipt. “You’re welcome.”

Clutching the parcel to my chest, I turn back to the glass doors. Outside, Brink waits. He stares at me peculiarly. His expression is a mixture of pity and concern. The light in his eyes is hesitant, as if he’s not sure what he should do. Inside, I’m safe. Answers will be demanded when I step out of here. Why did I buy a toy? Who am I going to give it to? Where did I get the money to pay cash?

Swallowing hard, I straighten my spine and ready myself to walk back into my reality. There’s no escape from it. Brink already has his telephone in his hand, no doubt calling Damian. I push through the doors when his attention is on the call, using his distraction to compose my features. A cold breeze tunnels down the walkway. The smell of fried corn dog and onion mixes with the bustle on the pavement.

Someone bumps hard into me from behind. The heel of my boot twists inward. Loosing my footing, I go down. The parcel slips from my fingers as I use my hands to break my fall. The concrete scrapes the skin off my palms. The bag splits open, and the pieces spill out. No! On my hands and knees, I crawl to get to them. A black shoe falls in my vision. The sole lifts even as I scream. A crunch shatters the air. The heel lifts. The tissue paper is torn down the middle.

No.

I reach out with a trembling hand, but someone jerks me up by my arm before my fingers can make contact. More feet hurry past, people bumping and onions burning. The tissue paper parcels scatter over the concrete as anonymous feet kick them in all directions. No one stops.

“No!”

As I fight the painful hold on my arm, one hand stretched toward the ground with splayed fingers, my gaze connects with Brink’s. His face is horizontal, his cheek resting on the pavement. Next to him, the red locomotive lies broken in pieces.

Chapter 22

Damian

The air is thin this high up. It’s spring in Switzerland, but snow still covers the mountaintops. After getting off the train I took from the airport, I store my overnight bag in a locker at the station and go into the village on foot. I need the walk to clear my mind and decide on a course of action.

At a tourist shop, I buy a Swiss Army knife. Slipping it into the pocket of my summer coat, I make the steep descent to where the wooden house stands alone on a stretch of property. A cowbell rings somewhere on the hilltop. The unkempt lawn is full of yellow wildflowers.

The gate pushes open without a squeak. There’s no doorbell. I use the knocker.

A lady with white hair wearing a housecleaning overcoat opens the door. I recognize her from the photo. In real life, Dora Riley looks older than her age. No surprise registers on her face as she takes me in from head to toes.