Howard drove to work every day. I had driven, that day.

THIS TIME I had a dentist appointment in the city. It was a simple enough drive for me, through the winding, treed streets, to Oxford Road, soon I’d see the city’s buildings up ahead, and a haze on the horizon, and then . . . into the streets, the grey streets, the traffic lights, of the city centre.

eGoli, city of gold.

Not that large a city; not a beautiful city.

I parked at a meter.

The dentist was in one of the tall buildings, it had an old stairwell with iron railings, and there was the smell of the dentist’s office, so strong. The receptionist behind glass said, when will you bring the children in again, Mrs. Kline, and I stood there and scheduled the children’s appointments, arranging to bring them next time.

I emerged into the bright sun on Rissik Street after my appointment and decided to go up to Howard’s office a few doors down, I’d surprise him. I’d never done such a thing.

‘1906’ was carved into the stone on the lintel of Howard’s building. A colonial city, as I said. I walked through the tall stone doorway, into the hallway, and to an old elevator with brass doors, a white man in a dark maroon uniform operating it. Middag, mevrou, he said. Middag, meneer, I said, as I stepped across the small iron gap and into the elevator. Six, please, I said, as he pressed the large button, a faded numeral six on its face, and pulled the lever, the heavy brass lever, down. I love those old elevators now, my own apartment has one. But in Johannesburg, then, they alarmed me. Perhaps I was vulnerable to a kind of claustrophobia, something like that. I would walk, I thought, not take the elevator when I was coming down. I stepped out into the dim corridor of the sixth floor, thank you sir, dankie meneer, I said behind me to the operator, as he moved to pull the gate shut.

And then a heavy dark door, wood. A brass nameplate:

Benator, Jones, Kline

Attorneys-at-law

I pushed it open.

Ah, Mrs. Kline, the receptionist said, at once, as she looked up and saw me, standing uncertainly at the door, the wide reception room and its soft chairs in front of me. She was a young woman, carefully dressed, I’d met her at a company Christmas party, perhaps the one just past. She stood and came right to me, so lovely to see you, she said. I smiled, thank you, Candace, it’s nice to be here. I was just at the dentist’s and thought I’d drop in. Oh, please, Mrs. Kline, will you have some tea? Not at all, not at all, thank you, I said. Perhaps if Howard is free? Have a seat, she said.

I sat on a low green-covered chair, the day’s Rand Daily Mail was on the table in front of me, I remember it because that morning I had read of a mine accident, another mine accident, like the ones I’ve mentioned, before. There were some quiet prints on the walls, no art or paintings, an old map was one. I stood to look at it. It was an old — almost antique — map of Johannesburg, it had thin black lines, and faint cursive, I traced the lines with my eyes, to Rissik Street, where we were. And then I heard Howard’s voice, I turned to see him striding down the passage, ahead of Candace, towards me.