From the book
In the corner of my eye, I detected a shop that was still open. It was the local Indian guy with his night shop. It’s a place of last resort for many of us. The lifesaver when you're out of cigarettes or a lighter. When you had gone through your last roll of toilet paper, Sanket was your saviour. I remembered that Sanket always had some wine stored in his shop. I had seen it many times when I ran out of cigarettes. They could be stored there for years, that is true, but that was of least importance at this moment. I had to bring something that looked like a red wine bottle. It didn’t matter if it was from Argentina or Chakalaka. She wouldn’t notice the difference anyway, I thought. That way, I could save my skin and avoid the deadly injection, and who knows; see my body lotion once more.
I went into the store and took a look around. There was no wine in sight for miles. I asked Sanket, hiding a knot in my throat, why there was no wine. He said it was confiscated last week by the police because his license had expired. My head dropped between my shoulders and I fell to the floor on my knees. I raised my arms into the air, threw my head backwards and yelled: nooooooooooooooooh! The echo of my last cry kept reverberating in the shop for a good while. Sanket looked at me a bit weird and asked me what was going on. I explained to him what my girlfriend wanted and what I had forgotten. And that the guests were already on their way to our place. He said in his Indi-English way: “O mister Jan, you are in big shit.” I was thinking: my dear Sanket, big shit is not the word. I’m a dead man.