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Rain - Richard Rive. Essay on a short story we did in my English Studies class [5]
The Short Story:
Rain - Richard RiveRain poured down, blotting out all sound with its sharp and vibrant tattoo. Dripping neon signs reflecting lurid reds and yellows in mirror-wet streets. Swollen gutters. Water over-flowing and squelching on to pavements. Gurgling and sucking at storm-water drains. Table Mountain cut off by a grey film of mist and rain. A lost City Hall clock trying manfully to chime nine over an indifferent Cape Town. Baleful reverberations through a spluttering all-consuming drizzle.
Yellow light filters through from Solly's 'Grand Fish and Chips Palace.' Door tightshut against the weather. Inside stuffy with heat, hot bodies, steaming clothes, and the nauseating smell of stale fish oil. Misty patterns on the plate-glass windows and a messy pool where rain has filtered beneath the door and mixed with the sawdust.
Solly himself in shirt sleeves, sweating, vulgar, and moody. Bellowing at a dripping woman who has just come in.
'Shut'e damn door. Think you live in a tent?'
'Ag, Solly.'
'Don' ag me. You coloured people can never shut blarry doors.'
'Don't you bloomingwell swear at me.'
'I bloomingwell swear at you, yes.'
'Come. Gimme two pieces o' fish. Tail cut.'
'Two pieces o' fiesh.'
'Raining like hell outside,' the women said to no one.
'Mmmmmm. Raining like hell,' a thin befezzed Malay cut in.
'One an' six. Thank you. An' close' e door behin' you.'
'Thanks. Think you got 'e on'y door in Hanover Street?'
'Go to hell!' Solly cut the conversation short and turned to another customer.
The northwester sobbed heavy rain squalls against the windowpanes. The Hanover Street bus screeched to a slithery stop and passengers darted for shelter in a cinema entrance. The street lamps shone blurredly.
Solly sweated as he wrapped parcels of fish and chips in a newspaper. Fish and chips. Vinegar? Wrap? One an' six please. Thank you! Next. Fish and Chips. No? Two fish. No chips? Salt? Vinegar? One an' six please. Thank you! Next. Fish an' chips.
'Close 'e blarry door!' Solly glared daggers at a woman who had just come in. She half smiled apologetically at him.
'You also live in a blarry tent?'
She struggled with the door and then stood dripping in a pool of wet sawdust. Solly left the counter to add two presto logs to the furnace. She moved out of the way. Another customer showed indignation at Solly's remark.
Fish an' chips. Vinegar? Salt? One 'an six. Thank you. Yes, madam?'
'Could you tell me when the bioscope comes out?'
'Am I the blooming manager?'
'Please.'
'Half pas' ten, tonight,' the Muslim offered helpfully.
'Thank you. Can I stay here till then? It's raining outside.'
'I know it's blarrywell raining, but this is not a Salvation Army.'
'Please, baas!'
This caught Solly unawares. He had had his shop in that corner of District Six since most could remember and had been called a great many unsavoury things in the years. Solly didn't mind. But this caught him unawares. Please baas. This felt good. His imagination adjusted a black bow tie to an evening suit. Please, Baas.
'Okey, stay for a short while. But when 'e rain stops you go.'
She nodded dumbly and tried to make out the blurred name of the cinema opposite, through the misted windows.
'Waitin' for somebody?' Solly asked. No response.
'I ask if yer waitin' fer somebody?' The figure continued to stare.
'Oh go to hell,' said Solly, turning to another customer.
Through the rain blur Siena stared at nothing in particular. Dim visions of slippery wet cars. Honking and wheezing in the rain. Spluttering buses. Heavy, drowsy voices in the Grand Fish and Chips Palace. Her eyes traveled beyond the street and the water cascades of Table Mountain, beyond the winter of Cape Town to the summer of the Boland. Past the green grapelands of Stellenbosch and Paarl and the stuffy wheat district of Malmesbury to the sun and laughter of Teslaarsdal. A tired sun here. An uninterested sun. Now it seemed that the sun was weary of the physical effort of having to rise, to shing, to comfort, and to set.
Inside the nineteenth-century, gabled mission church she had first met Joseph. The church is still there, and beautiful, and the lamps suspended from the roof, polished and shining. It was in the flicker of the lamps that she had first become aware of him. He was visiting from Cape Town. She sang that night like she had never sung before. Her favourite psalm.
'Al ging ik ook in een dal der schaduw des doods ... Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death ... der schaduw des doods.' And then he had looked at her. Everyone had looked at her, for she was good in solos.
'Ik zoude geen kwaad vreezen ... I will fear no evil.' And she had not feared but loved. Had loved him. Had sung for him. For the wide eyes, the yellow skin, the high cheekbones. She had sung for a creator who could create a man like Joseph. 'Want gij zijt met mij; Uw staf, die vertroosten mij.'
Those were black-and-white polka-dot nights when the moon did a golliwog cakewalk across a banjo-strung sky. Nights of sweet remembrances when he had whispered love to her and told her of Cape Town. She had giggled coyly at his obscenities. He lived in one of those streets off District Six, it sounded like Horsburg Lane, and was, he boasted, quite a one among the girls. She heard of Molly and Miena and Sophia and a sophisticated Charmaine, who was almost a schoolteacher and always spoke English. But he told her that he had only found love in Teslaarsdal. She wasn't sure whether to believe him. And then he had felt her richness and the moon darted behind a cloud.
The loud screeching of the train to Cape Town. Screeching loud enough to drown the protest of her family. The wrath of her father. The icy stares of Teslaarsdal matrons. Loud and confused screechings to drown her hysteria, her ecstasy. Drowned and confused in the roar of a thousand cars and a hundred thousand lights and a summer of carnival evenings that is Cape Town. Passion in a tiny room of District Six.
And the agony of the nights when he came home later and later and sometimes not at all. The waning of his passion and whispered names of others. Molly and Miena and Sophia. Charmaine. The helpless knowledge that he was slipping from her. Faster and Faster. Gather momentum.
'Not that I'm saying so but I only heard ...'
'Why don't you go to bioscope one night and see for yourself ...?'
'Marian's man is searching for Joseph ...' Searching for Joseph. Looking for Joseph. Knifing for Joseph. Joseph. Joseph. Joseph. Molly! Miena! Sophia! Names! Names! Names! Gossip. One-sided desire. Go to bioscope and see. See what? See why? When! Where!
And after he had been away a week she decided to see. Decided to go through the rain and stand in a sweating fish and chips shop owned by a blaspheming Jew. And wait for the cinema to come out.
The rain had stopped sobbing against the plate-glass window. A skin-soaking drizzle now set in. Continuous. Unending. Filming everything with dark depression. A shivering, weeping neon sign flickered convulsively on and off. A tired Solly shot a quick glance at a cheap alarm clock.
'Half pas' ten, bioscope out soon.'
Siena looked more intently through the misty screen. No movement whatsoever in the deserted cinema foyer.
'Time it was bloomingwell out.' Solly braced himself for the wave of after-show customers who would invade his Palace.
'Comin` out late tonight, missus.'
'Thank you, baas.'
Solly rubbed sweat out of his eyes and took in her neat and plain figure. Tired face but good legs. A few late stragglers catching colds in the streets. Wet and squally outside.
'Your man in bioscope, missus?'
She was intent on a khaki-uniformed usher struggling to open the door.
'Man in bioscope, missus?'
The cinema had to come out some time or other. An usher opening the door, adjusting the outside gate. Preparing for the crowds to pour out. Vomited and spilled out.
'Man in bioscope?'
No response.
'Oh, go to hell!'
They would be out now. Joseph would be out. She rushed for the door, throwing words of thanks to Solly.
'Close 'e blarry door!'
She never heard him. The drizzle had stopped. An unnatural calm hung over the empty foyer, over the deserted street. Over her empty heart. She took up her stand on the bottom step. Expectantly. Her heart pounding.
Then they came. Pouring, laughing, pushing, jostling. She stared with fierce intensity, but faces passed too fast. Laughing, roaring, gay. Wide-eyed, yellow-skinned, high cheekboned. Black, brown, ivory, yellow. Black-eyed, laughing-eyed, gay, bouncing. No Joseph. Palpitating heart that felt like bursting into a thousand pieces. If she should miss him. She found herself searching for the wrong face. Solly's face. Ridiculously searching for hard blue eyes and a sharp white skin in a sea of ebony and brown. Solly's face. Missing half a hundred faces and then again searching for the familiar high cheekbones. Solly. Joseph. Molly. Miena. Charmaine.
The drizzle restarted. Studying overcoats instead of faces. Longing for the pale shirt she had seen in the shop at Solitaire. A bargain at £1.5s. She had scraped and scrounged to buy it for him. A week's wages. Collecting her thoughts and continuing she search for Joseph. And then the thinning out of the crowd and the last few stragglers. The ushers shutting the iron gates. They might be shutting Joseph in. Herself out. Only the ushers left.
'Please, is Joseph inside?'
'Who's Joseph?'
'Is Joseph still inside?'
'Joseph who?'
They were teasing her. Laughing behind her back. Preventing her from finding him.
'Joseph is inside!' she shouted frenziedly.
'Look, merrim, it's raining cats an' dogs. Go home.'
Go home. To whom? To what? An empty room? An empty bed?
And then she was aware of the crowd on the corning. Maybe he was there. Running and peering into every face. Joseph. The crowd in the drizzle. Two battling figures. Joseph. Figures locked in struggle slithering in the wet gutter. Muck streaking down clothes through which wet bodies were silhouetted. Joseph. A blue shirt. And then she wiped the rain out of her eyes and saw him. Fighting for his life. Desperately kicking in the gutter. Joseph. The blast of a police whistle. A pickup van screeching to a stop.
'Please, sir, it wasn't him. They all ran away. Please, sir, he's Joseph. He done nothing. He done nothing, my baas. Please sir, he's my Joseph. Please, baas!'
"Maak dat jy weg kom. Get away. Voetsak!'
'Please, sir, it wasn't him. They ran away!'
Alone. An empty bed. An empty room.
Solly's Grand Fish and Chips Palace crowded out. People milling inside. Rain once more squalling and sobbing against the door and windows. Swollen gutters unable to cope with the giddy rush of water. Solly sweating to deal with the after-cinema rush.
Fish an' chips. Vinegar? Salt? One an' six. Thank you. Sorry, no fish. Wait five minutes. Chips on'y. vinegar? Ninepence. Tickey change. Thank you. Sorry, no fish. Five minutes time. Chips? Ninepence. Thank you. Solly paused for breath and stirred the fish.
'What's 'e trouble outside?'
'Real bioscope, Solly.'
'No man, outside!'
'I say, real bioscope.'
'What were 'e police doin'? Sorry, no fish yet, sir. Five minutes' time. What were 'e police doin'?
'A fight in 'e blooming rain.'
'Jeeesus, in 'e rain?'
'Ja.'
'Who was fightinn'?
'Joseph an' somebody.'
'Joseph?'
'Ja, a fellow in Horsburg Lane.'
'Yes, I know Joseph. Always in trouble. Chucked him outta here a'reddy.
'Well, that chap.'
'An' who?'
'Dinno.'
'Police got them?'
'Got Joseph.'
'Why were 'ey fightin'? Fish in a minute, sir.'
'Over a dame.'
'Who?'
'You know Miena who works by Patel? Now she. Her boyfriend caught 'em.'
'In bioscope'
'Ja.'
Solly chuckled deeply, suggestively.
'See that woman an' 'e police?'
'What woman?'
'One cryin' to 'e police. They say it's Joseph's girl from 'e country.'
'Joseph always got plenty dames from 'e town and country. F-I-S-H R-E-A-D-Y!!! Two pieces for you, sir? One an' six. Shilling changes. Fish an' chips? One an' six. Thank you. Fish on'y? Vinegar? Salt? Ninepence. Ticky change. Thank you. What you say about 'e woman?'
'They say Joseph's girl was crying to 'e police.'
'Oh, he got plenty 'e girls.'
'This one was living with him.'
'Oh, what she look like? Fish, sir?'
'Okey. Nice legs.'
'Hmmmmm,' said Solly, 'Hey, close 'e damn door. Oh, you again.' Siena came in. A momentary silence. Then a buzzing and whispering.
'Oh,' said Solly, nodding as someone whispered over the counter to him. 'I see. She was waiting here. Musta been waitin' for him.' A young girl in jeans giggled.
'Fish an' chips costs one an' six, madam.'
'Wasn't it one an' three before?
'Before the Boer war, madam. Price of fish go up. Potatoes go up an' you expect me to charge one an' three?'
'Why not?'
'Oh, go to hell! Next please!'
'Yes, that's 'e one, Solly.'
'Mmmm. Excuse me, madam' - turning to Siena - 'like some fish an' chips. Free of charge, never min' 'e money.'
'Thank you, my baas.'
The rain now sobbed wildly as the shop emptied, and Solly counted the cash in his till. Thousands of watery horses charging down the street. Rain drilling into cobbles and pavings. Miniature waterfalls down the sides of buildings. Blurred lights through unending streams. Siena listlessly holding the newspaper parcel of fish and chips.
'You can stay here till it clears up,' Said Solly.
She looked up tearfully.
Solly grinned, showing his yellow teeth. 'It's OK.'
A smile flickered across her face for a second.
'It's quite OK by me.'
She looked down and hesitated for a moment. The she struggled against the door. It yielded with a crash and the northwester howled into Solly's Palace.
'Close 'e blarry door!' he said grinning.
'Thank you, my baas,' she said as she shivered out into the rain.
Instruction:
Read the topic carefully and write a carefully structured response in the form of an academic essay. The essay should be between 1300 - 1500 words in length. Make sure that you support your argument by referring to the story where relevant and if necessary quoting from it.
TOPIC:
Write an essay in which you examine the elements of a short story, such as plot, characterization, setting, dialogue, etc and how these elements are constructed in such a way by Rive so that they reflect the basic theme of love, betrayal and compassion.