Thomas, a client at the Scalabrini Centre and a physiotherapist from DRC, has been asking me to have coffee with him for weeks. His situation is difficult because he is fully qualified to practice in DRC, but he has to go through the training all over again if he ever wants to practice in South Africa. As it is, the law forbids him to even volunteer as a physio in SA. I find him to be very interesting to talk to, and he exudes gentleness and compassion. We always speak in French because he is insecure about his English and he knows that I like to practice, so he usually says about twice as many words as I do. We’ve chatted on topics ranging from our families to welfare to Jews. He is fascinated by Jewish history, and he knows much more about it than I do.
“Tu prends du café?”
“Quoi?” I want to make sure what he is asking me before I respond, but he refuses to ask it in English.
“Desolee, mon ami, mais ca c’est interdit.” He looks confused. I say professional with a French accent and he nods, understanding. He tries again each week, though.
“Tu prends du café? Ou the vert?”
“No Thomas, je suis desolee.”
“N’est pas une crime.” To me this sounds like pahs oon cream. I don’t remember telling him that I’m vegan. How did he know I don’t take cream?
“Right, even without cream, I can’t have coffee with you. I’m sorry.”
And then it clicks. Pas une crime. Not a crime. He’s right. It’s not a crime.
“Ok Thomas, ok.”
“Ok?” He wasn’t expecting me to say yes.
I write on a piece of scrap paper. I don’t want to make a scene of this. J’ai un petit ami, ok? Nous nous rencontrons a quinze heures, vendredi. (I have a boyfriend, ok? We meet 3pm Friday.) The lie is the only way I will feel safe meeting him, and I don’t feel bad about it.
“Ou?”
“Um, how about Nino’s on Plein St. You know it?”
“Oui, ca c’est bien.”
“Ok, see you then.”
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