Double-bill fiction

They were complete opposites but their friendship turned out to be something special

THE first time I met Mitzi was at a gala celebrating my book’s success. “You don’t look like a bookish type,” she told me by way of introduction. “I can see how your name, Jess Carter, would look good on the cover of your book, though.”

She paused for a beat, as if contemplating this, and nodded in approval.

“Everyone here looks so stodgy and plain – except you. It’s just your hair. I don’t like this muddy brown. I think you’d make a great redhead. So I’m going to call you Red. I’m Mitzi, by the way. I speak three languages: English, sarcasm and some other language I can’t quite remember right now.”

My hand was taken and pumped enthusiastically. I couldn’t decide if I should be shocked or amused. I settled on amused.

Mitzi had written “The Great Novel” about 10 years previously. She was well known in writing circles and had many monikers, the most polite being “Oddball”. She’d infused all her royalties into children and animal rights groups, and these days trawled as many gala events as she was allowed entry into, guilting people into making donations.

I’d heard about her, and had been warned about her crassness and doggedness. Nothing prepared me for how genuine she was and how invested she was in her beliefs and her cause. I liked her immediately.

A few days after the gala, she videocalled me. “Red, I’d like you to accompany me tomorrow.”

Now, I disliked going out unless I absolutely had to. I had a list of excuses at the ready for such occasions. It was easy to deflect invitations via text message and phone calls, but on a video call? No place to hide.

What I had trouble with was neutrality of facial expression while I was essentially lying. Mitzi seemed to be scrutinising my face across the airwaves.

“Don’t let me down, Red. I like you, and I don’t like many people.”

“Er . . . mmm . . . I’ll . . . er . . .” Not very eloquent for a writer.

“Hmmm. I can tell how swamped you are. So I’ll pick you up at 10 tomorrow morning. Wear something comfortable.”

‘W

HERE are we going?” I asked her. She’d picked me up in an old van that had boxes packed into the back. “All in good time, Red.” We arrived at an orphanage about an hour later. Hordes of children rushed out to greet us, chanting Mitzi’s name. I watched, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat, as she hugged each

and every one of them. “This is my friend, Red.” This was followed by a chorus of “Hi, Red”, and then I almost toppled over as little arms and legs wrapped around me.

“How do you remember all their names?” I asked, trying to maintain my balance.

“We remember anything if it’s important enough,” she said with a smile.

On the drive back, Mitzi suddenly turned to me and said, “I was orphaned when I was 10, and grew up in a home. I always prayed that if I ever had the means, I’d take gifts for orphans because the sheer joy of receiving something that hasn’t already passed through a thousand hands before yours, is indescribable.

“I try to do this about once a month. I’ve been lucky. People have been generous. And I don’t give up.” “I noticed that about you,” I laughed. “Next week, animal shelter. Same time. With me?” she said as she pulled up outside my front door.

I looked her in the eye and replied. “With you.”

I

THINK if the dogs and cats could talk, they too would have been chanting Mitzi’s name. She handed over a large envelope discreetly to the shelter manager, who hugged her and left a damp patch on her shoulder.

didn’t mind cats too much but was a bit wary of dogs, having been bitten on my leg when I was little.

“What’s the matter, Red? They sense your fear, you know. These babies would never hurt you.”

I was still reluctant, but when I followed Mitzi’s example and sat in the cages with them, their warm heads resting on my lap, sad eyes gazing at me, I wept.

“You feel it here, don’t you?” Mitzi asked, tapping her chest. “I’d say that the visit was a success. Don’t you think so, Red?”

I agreed, casting a look at the two labradors and two cats in the back of the van, who would now share their forever home with me.

“You look like you’re plotting something,” she said.

“I am, actually. I know quite a few friends who, with a little persuasion, will find themselves pet owners soon.”

“I knew I was right about you,” she laughed.

O

N ONE occasion I tried asking Mitzi about her family. I had never interacted with her outside of our trips. “I’ve lost touch with uncles and aunts, cousins and the lot. I’ve never married, and I have no kids.” “Don’t you get lonely?” “Sometimes. When I do, I go to the movies and pretend that the person I’m sitting next to belongs to me. I get my dose of human contact and I’m good for another couple of months.”

By this time, nothing about Mitzi surprised me.

“What about you, Red? Anybody special?”

“Actually, yes. I’m getting married next month, and I’d love for you to be there.”

“I’d be like that aunt people have to invite because it’s the right thing to do, in case any awkward questions get asked, and then five minutes later, they want to lock her up in the closet.”

“Then I’ll be sure to have a closet installed at the venue.”

I

SPOTTED her at the back of the hall after the ceremony. “Has Mitzi convinced you to make a donation yet?” By the embarrassed looks that her table companions gave me, I knew I was right. “You look beautiful. told you you’re meant to be a redhead.”

I touched my hair selfconsciously. I was still getting used to the colour but from the admiring looks of my husband and wedding guests, I think I was pulling it off.

Mitzi and I continued our meetings and fundraising campaigns. We successfully brought attention to the plight of orphans and animal shelters, and expanded into cancer research, with Mitzi’s urging. My adventures with her were the inspiration for many of my books.

Besides attending my wedding, Mitzi was reluctant to accept invitations to my house for dinner or a braai – until my daughter was born.

“She’s such a tiny mite of a thing.” We were sitting by my pool, the baby snoozing in her bassinet, while Mitzi and I sipped lemonade.

“Her cheeks are like velvet,” she said, gently tracing a finger down my baby’s tiny face. Then Mitzi was seized by a fit of coughing. “Too many cigarettes?” I asked. “Yeah. That, and cancer.” She smiled. “Don’t look so shocked, Red. Every time I drop the C bomb people look like you do right now. Eyes bulging, faces pale. The truth is I’m dying, Red. Oh, I know we’re all dying even as we’re living and all that crap. But I’m dying soon.” “How soon?” I whispered. “Doctors have given me about six months. But you never know with these things. I could be gone tomorrow.”

“How long have you known? I mean, you haven’t said a word until now.”

“I’ve known for a couple of years now. It was already stage 4 lung cancer when I found out. Opted not to do chemotherapy. I didn’t want to lose my hair.”

She laughed harshly. “Besides, we’ve had fun doing the things we’ve been doing. I didn’t want to drag you down with this cancer business.”

“Is this why you wanted to raise money for cancer research?” “Yup.” “You should have told me, Mitzi. I could have . . . I could have . . . I don’t know what I could have done, but I would have done something.” I burst into tears. “It’s all these hormones floating in your bloodstream. Red, look at me. You’ve given more meaning to my life these past 10 years that I’ve known you than I had in the other 50 I’ve been alive. Never lose your spirit, or your kindness, or your drive. And teach this little one the value of kindness and compassion. There’s too little of it out there.”

I tried to see Mitzi as often as I could, but as her condition worsened she avoided it. “No offence, Red, but I want to die as I’ve lived: alone. Besides, why spend your precious time with a dying woman? Go. Be with your family. Convince people to part with their money.”

Mitzi chose to spend her last days at a hospice. The very last time I saw her, I had to put my ear close to her lips to catch what she was saying.

“The third language I speak, Red, is love. Learn it well. Everyone understands it.”

‘THE THIRD LANGUAGE I SPEAK, RED, IS LOVE. LEARN IT WELL. EVERYONE UNDERSTANDS IT’