At six o’clock the pool began to rain.
It started in lane four, where a small white cloud gathered above the water. The swimmers had gone home. Their kickboards were stacked in the cupboard; their footprints dried on the tiles. Only the cloud remained, turning slowly over the lane as if it had forgotten what it was there to do.
Fara had mopped the deck twice. She had checked the roof for leaks, then the skylights, then the roof again because Mr Pillay from Maintenance had said she was welcome to prove him wrong. It was June. Outside, the sky was a hard, colourless lid over the town. Inside, a drop struck the blue tile beside her shoe.
She looked up. The ceiling shone with dry fluorescent light.
Another drop hit the floor. Then another. A narrow rain fell into lane four, making a round of dark rings on the water.
“Not my job,” Fara said.
She put a yellow warning sign beside the pool and went to fetch the book where they wrote down things that were not her job.
At the counter, Thami was eating a cheese sandwich over the till. He had been watching the cloud from the doorway.
“Did you see it yesterday?” she asked.
“I saw you see it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It rained on your head.”
“One drop.”
“You still looked up.”
She opened the book. The last entry was from the swimming club: One child left a green sock in the shower. Do not throw away. Fara wrote the date, then stopped. She could hear rain tapping the lane. The cloud had moved over the deep end.
“What do I write?”
Thami considered this. “Pool has weather.”
“They’ll make us pay for the weather.”
She wrote water falling from ceiling above lane four; roof dry. The sentence looked like a complaint. She underlined roof dry.
For three evenings it rained at closing. The first evening, Fara emptied a bucket beneath the cloud. The second evening, Thami stood under it with his mouth open until she told him he was an idiot. On the third, they found a small puddle in the shallow end, though the cloud had not gone there.
On Thursday the cloud appeared at five past five, while the pool was still open.
Fara was counting the last swimmers when the water in lane four rose into a thin, trembling sheet. It lifted above the lane ropes, clear as glass, and held there. A woman swimming breaststroke passed underneath it, unaware. The sheet folded over itself and settled. A rain of bubbles came up from the black line on the pool floor.
“Everyone out,” Fara called.
The swimmers clambered from the water. A boy dropped his goggles. His mother snatched them from the deck before they slid in. Fara checked the lane, then the deep end, then the lane again. The water was flat. A few drops fell from the cloud and broke against the surface.
Her supervisor arrived at a run, keys clattering against his belt. He looked at the ceiling, at the floor, at Fara.
“I did tell Maintenance.”
“You told them a cloud was raining.”
“The roof’s dry.”
“We’re closing lane four until the inspection.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
The club had a gala on Saturday. Lane four was where the younger swimmers practised their starts. Fara knew because she had watched them for months, though no one had asked her to coach. She knew which child always held her nose before diving, which one swam with one sock on, which one looked at the clock every length.
Ayanda had been assigned lane four for the gala. She had practised her start there for weeks, waiting for the swimmer in lane three to kick off before pushing from the block. She called it a better start. The coach called it a habit. Fara had seen her do it every time.
After the pool closed, she found Thami at the shallow end, peering into the water.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I’m looking.”
“Look from there.”
He pointed to the cloud. “Maybe it’s just trying to get out.”
“It can use the door like the rest of us.”
The cloud drifted toward the changing rooms. A fine rain began to fall across the empty deck, then stopped at the edge of the tiles. The puddle was no longer there.
On Friday, the inspector came with a clipboard and a tool that beeped at the water. He tested the chlorine, the temperature and the ceiling. The roof stayed dry. The tool gave a long, offended beep when he lowered it into lane four.
“Could be electrical,” he said.
“There’s no equipment beneath that lane,” Fara replied.
“Could be a pipe.”
“There are no pipes in the ceiling.”
He closed the lane. A strip of red-and-white tape went across its steps. The club’s coach shook his head. The children took their kickboards to lane three, where they bumped elbows and argued over who had to swim at the wall.
The smallest swimmer, a girl called Ayanda, sat on the starting block with her feet in the water.
“We’ll practise somewhere else,” the coach said.
“I can’t start there.”
“You can start anywhere.”
“Not the same.”
In lane three, with lane four roped off, Ayanda had no swimmer beside her to make the sound she waited for. Fara had watched that pause for weeks. “Come early tomorrow. Before the gala. I’ll give you a start.”
The coach looked at the tape. “It’s closed.”
“I know.”
At five the next morning, Fara unlocked the pool. The air smelt of chlorine and wet concrete. The cloud waited over lane four, no bigger than a bedsheet. It had not rained yet.
Ayanda came in with her mother, carrying a towel around her shoulders. She stared at the tape.
“Lane four stays closed,” Fara said. “Take the block in three. I’ll give you a start.”
Ayanda looked across the water. “I can’t start there.”
“Wait for my splash.”
Ayanda climbed onto the block in lane three. She flexed her toes over the lip, then stepped down.
Fara checked that the tape still held across lane four. The water in three lay flat. “One start here. If the water changes, you come straight out.”
She struck the surface with her palm. The sound went cleanly down the pool.
Ayanda climbed onto the block again. She leaned forward and let her hands find the water. Her feet followed. She entered without a splash, then surfaced laughing, hair slicked back from her face.
The cloud shivered. A cool wind crossed the pool, though every door was shut.
“Out,” Fara said.
Ayanda climbed out. The lane ropes quivered. Water rose from the pool in threads, a slow fountain with no source, lifting into the cloud. It darkened and spread until it covered the red tape, the starting block and half the deck.
Fara reached for Ayanda. The girl was safe beside her mother. The water above lane four thickened, gathered, and let go.
Rain fell through the pool hall.
It struck the tiles, the blocks, the warning sign. It fell on Fara’s shoulders and ran down her back. The air filled with the smell of dust after a storm. She did not move. Then she laughed, loudly enough to surprise herself.
Ayanda laughed too. Her mother covered her head with the towel. The coach ran out of the changing room, half dressed, and stood with his mouth open.
The rain stopped. The pool held its ordinary shape. Lane three was empty, except for the girl’s goggles, which floated just beyond the rope.
The inspector returned at nine. He looked at the dry ceiling, the dry deck and the dry lane. He tested lane four again; the tool beeped once and then went quiet. He checked the other lanes. Their readings sat inside the usual range.
“I’ll have to close it until we understand what happened,” he said.
Fara glanced at the children gathering by the blocks, each in a cap, each holding a towel. Ayanda had her toes against the edge again. Her supervisor stood beside the inspector, two towels over one arm.
“For giving Ayanda her start, I’ll take responsibility,” Fara said. “Keep lane four shut today. I’ll watch the others, and if the water moves again, everyone gets out.”
Her supervisor looked at the children. “We can run the gala in three lanes. Fara takes the deck.”
“Lane four stays closed until we know more,” the inspector said.
Fara pressed the tape across lane four’s steps. Ayanda climbed onto the block at lane three and bent at the waist. She glanced at the empty lane four, then back at Fara. For a second she held that shape, balanced between the tile and the water.
Fara raised her hand.
Ayanda waited.
Fara struck the surface with her palm. Ayanda went in cleanly. The pool closed over her and opened again.
No published comments yet.