*
“Hey Mathilda,” Denzil shouted leaning out of the window of the Chev. “Come, I have a surprise for you.”
It had been one of my rare days at school and I was just pushing my bike out of the school yard, talking to Kim about a horse ride to Cape Crab.
“A surprise, you lucky bean. I hope you can use your split panties for the occasion.” Kim winked and walked off grinning, towards the Jamesons’ bakkie.
“The best surprise is to see you,” I said to Denzil. “What’s the other one?”
“My sister Bianca, an ardent feminist and opponent of matrimony, phoned an hour ago from Jo’burg to announce her engagement to a guy called Paul, and she wants her brother and his lover to go and celebrate today. So we’ve got 50 bucks to spend on grogs and grub. What d’you say?”
“Wow, that’s very generous of her.” I helped Denzil to load the bike on the Chev.
“What do you think made her change her mind about getting engaged and married and all that?”
“Oh, who knows. All she said was that today is a good date because 6 is her lucky number.”
“Mmh, today is the 16th of the 6th 76. She won’t have a date with more 6s in her lifetime.”
We went past Ludwig’s shop because Denzil wanted to order a book. Ludwig suggested we go and have dinner at the Three Sisters Hotel in van Riebeeck Street, where they made the most fantastic seafood and it also had a ladies’ bar.
“What’s a ladies’ bar?” I asked.
“Well, as the name indicates,” Ludwig said with a smile, “a bar into which ladies are admitted.”
“So does that mean there are bars into which ladies are not admitted?”
“Ja,” Denzil and Ludwig replied simultaneously.
“I’d say the majority of bars in South Africa are only for guys,” Ludwig said.
“Hell, have they never heard of the equality of the sexes and women’s rights in this country?” I couldn’t believe it. “And what’s so special about a ladies’ bar that the ladies are allowed to put their feet in there?”
“In a ladies’ bar drinks may not be poured in front of a lady,” Ludwig said.
“And there must be a carpet on the floor and no spittoons,” Denzil added. He turned to Ludwig. “Do you really think I should take Mathilda to a bar? I mean she turned 17 the other day but she is still a minor…”
“One drink hasn’t killed anybody yet, and if they let you in, you could see it as a cultural field study. The job of an exchange student, after all, is to delve into the culture of the host country.”
“I’ve never heard of a bigger load of crap than that ladies’ bar thing. Looks like some sexist 18th century regulation. Why can’t just everybody go into the same bars?”
“Don’t forget that the women in Switzerland only got the vote in the 1940s,” Ludwig said. “And about the bars in South Africa, it could have something to do with the fact that when places like Barberton and Jo’burg started during the gold rush, there were hordes of guys around and only a few ladies, and the ambiance was as rough as a goat’s knee, so it was logical to reserve a special place for the ladies, where they could have some peace.”
“That was something like 100 years ago. Times have changed.”
“Not here,” Ludwig said. “Not when it comes to ladies’ bars.”
From the book shop we went to Denzil’s place to make a model of a library, a project Denzil had to finish by the end of the week. We didn’t get very far because we mainly made love.
“Every day should be like today,” Denzil said stretched out on his bed.
The last bit of the sun disappeared with a deep red glow behind the casuarina trees.
“Are you ready to hit the ladies’ bar, Mathilda?”
The Three Sisters Hotel was one of those old places where the ox waggon drivers of yesteryear had popped in to have a dop. Nobody stopped us from going into the ladies’ bar. There was a green carpet, no spittoons and the waiter disappeared behind a partition to pour our gin and tonics.
The place slowly filled up with people. 2 middle aged couples chose the table closest to us. Before the men had pulled out the chairs for the ladies, the taller guy said twice: “It’s a total catastrophe.”
The ladies nodded gravely and the smaller guy said: “The situation is alarming, but the Minister of Justice assures us that everything is under control.”
“Well Lionel, I hope Kruger knows what he is talking about,” the taller one replied. “10.000 people are no small matter even if most of them are only youngsters.”
The ladies nodded gravely. Denzil and I pricked our ears up.
“The police sent their crack anti terrorism unit into Soweto,” Lionel said lighting a cigarette,” but they haven’t called in the troops yet, so the situation isn’t totally out of hand.”
“Well, it’s spreading all over the country…”
Denzil choked on his drink. When he got his breath back he turned to the men and their mute wives. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing…uh…has anything serious happened?”
The taller man’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline. “Don’t you listen to the news, young man? The blacks are on the rampage. It started with high school kids who don’t want to be taught in Afrikaans. In Soweto the police had to hurl teargas into the crowd, but that didn’t stop those blacks. On the contrary, they began to throw rocks and other things at the police, so the cops had to shoot. Some people are dead and quite a few are in hospital.”
“Oh,” Denzil said, white in the face.
That’s it. The pressure cooker is going to explode.
We left as soon as we had gulped down our drinks.
“We’ll celebrate some other time,” Denzil said racing to the car.
“What are you planning to do?” I could hardly keep up with him. “What can we do about something that’s going on in Soweto?”
“Those guys in the bar said it was spreading all over the country. I’ve an odd feeling…” He unlocked the Chev and never finished his sentence.
The streets were calm. Nothing out of the ordinary. We took Old Ontdekkers Road over the hill. The lights of the airport spread out below us and, beyond above the township, the sky was red with fire.
Denzil turned into the industrial area with screeching tyres. Tall orange lights illuminated the fronts of the warehouses; the rears disappeared into obscurity. The light in front of the furniture warehouse was broken. Denzil had a key for the gate. There was another car parked in the yard.
“Looks like Larry is also here,” Denzil said.
“You mean Larry with the… cat?”
“Ja.”
“Oh.”
The last time I had seen Larry had been at Victoria’s funeral.
Denzil took a torch out of the cubby hole. “Come.”
Inside the warehouse at night, it looked even more chaotic than in daylight. The beam of the torch threw spooky shadows across piles of rusty bedsteads and pyramids of clapped out chests. After we had walked through a tunnel of shelves and drawers, a faint light appeared through the gaps in the junk. We turned at a row of cheval mirrors. I thought I could hear voices. Denzil whistled 3 notes and opened a curtain suspended between a cupboard and a fake marble column.
In the ‘classroom’ of iSkolo, stacks of kids were huddled on foam mattresses and mats. Fright and shock covered everything like a leaden blanket. It felt like walking into some underground bunker – the real horrors happened outside, but everybody’s internalized horrors were concentrated within these walls and punched you in the guts.
Larry was busy pouring some hot stuff into tin mugs. It was cold in the warehouse and steam rose from the mugs towards the 2 bare bulbs illuminating the place. I saw Agnes, the black teacher, wrapping a bandage around a small child’s leg and in the semi darkness on the far side, 2 black men were shifting furniture around and putting more mattresses on the floor.
Larry looked up and waved at us. “Great to see you,” he said. “In the
township all hell is popping loose. Look at all these kids seeking refuge here.”
“How many are there?”
“About 50,” Larry filled the last empty mug with soup. “And we’ve only got 10 mugs here.”
“We’ll organize some more just now,” Denzil said. “But what the hell is going on in the township?”
Larry opened a bottle of milk. “Apparently it all started in Soweto. High school kids went on a protest march; they refuse to be taught in Afrikaans because it’s the language of the oppressor. The police went in and threw teargas into the crowd. The kids threw rocks at the cops. The cops fired shots and 3 black kids, 2 black men and 3 whites died. There were cars set alight all over the show and also something like 20 government buildings, and from what we hear, the situation is still out of control.”
“That’s not what we heard,” Denzil frowned.
“Of course not. The official version is that the police are in charge.” Larry topped up the soup in the mugs with milk. “The people of the V.B. townships also went on the streets to protest. It was supposed to be a peaceful march, but the cops tried to stop it with teargas and then the crowd set the Bantu Administration Building and a black high school on fire…now scores of people are in hospital and stacks have been arrested. It’s a total fuck up.”
“You can say that again…and there are more kids coming,” Denzil pointed to the curtain.
5 dishevelled children walked in, none of them older than 10. One was bleeding from a graze in his leg and one was carrying a toddler on her back.
“Keketso and Noah,” Larry said. “They’ve brought some other kids along. Let’s get them organized.”
Denzil got stuck in distributing food, and I took the injured boy over to Agnes. I noticed that the windows had been covered up with newspapers and that the 2 guys shifting the furniture around were Moses and Julius, who had been at Denzil’s house when the brick came flying through the window. The ambiance was totally weird, like in a refugee camp with a whiff of holiday camp thrown in. Some kids were just sitting staring into space, some were crying, some were playing and some, especially the older ones, had an expression of anger on their faces so intense, that it made me shiver.
Agnes smiled her big smile at us. She inspected the boy’s wound, took some gravel out with tweezers and applied Mercurochrome.
“We are running out of this stuff. We’ve been using a lot of it today.” She shook the bottle as if she hoped that by doing so the bottle would miraculously replenish itself. “It’s been a hard day,” she said cleaning the tweezers. “A lot of those children are very traumatized. They’ve seen people beaten up and people being arrested. They don’t know if their families are in hospital or in jail or in hiding…”
“Things like that shouldn’t happen to anybody and they are only kids,” I said. “But at least they could come to a safe place here, where they are being looked after and get a bite to eat.”
“Ja,” Agnes took one last disillusioned look at the Mercurochrome bottle and chucked it in the bin. “Ja, for sure.” She slumped down on a chair. “I’ve been praying all afternoon that we’ll manage. We need so many things – everything. Medicine, blankets, food – and nobody knows for how long we’ll have to stay here.”
“It’ll be all right,” I said, wondering how many times I had said and heard this during the last few months in the most unlikely situations.
“I’ll get you a mug of soup, Agnes, that’ll make you feel better.”
After Agnes had had her soup we patched up 2 more new arrivals; a teenage boy with burns on his arm, who didn’t say a word, and a little girl with a cut on her foot, who didn’t stop sobbing.
Denzil came over. “How’s it going, girls?”
“We are doing our best,” I said.
“All the medicine is finished,” Agnes sighed exhausted.
“Ja, just about everything is finished,” Denzil answered. “Mathilda, we’ll go and get more mugs and bowls and food. Agnes, what do you need?”
Agnes started with the Mercurochrome and rattled off a whole lot of things.
We made our way through groups of sleeping children, 3 or 4 cuddled together per mattress. Some older girls were looking after the little ones who were still awake. About a dozen teenage boys were sitting in a circle, talking in low, intense voices, raising their fists every now and then in barely suppressed rage.
Our first stop was a café in town. “We’ve still got 40 something bucks from Bianca. “ Denzil inspected his wallet. “I reckon she’d appreciate us spending them on the kids.”
We bought 15 loaves of bread, the last 6 bottles of milk and their whole stock of sausage rolls.
As we crossed the CBD the streets were quiet as on any other night. The suburb of Fairview didn’t show any sign of disturbance. We turned into a drive way lined by rosebushes and stopped in front of an impressive 2-storey house. Several dogs approached wagging their tails and a young blonde woman opened the front door.
“Hi Bev,” Denzil greeted her. “Larry says you managed to organize things for the kids.”
“Ja, Bessy dropped off blankets, mugs and bowls and some bulk bags of biscuits, and John brought more blankets and food and I don’t know how many rolls of loo paper, and you can have my electric kettle and the 2 hotplates out of the cottage.”
“Great,” Denzil said. “Do you have any plasters, bandages, Mercurochrome…?”
“Is anybody hurt?”
We gave her an update of the situation.
“I wish I could do more,” Bev sighed. “But you know with my job and 2 kids I just can’t.”
“You’re doing fine.” Denzil grabbed a pile of blankets. “I think we must get going. They are waiting for this stuff.”
“Okay,” Bev said. “Just let me get our first aid box.”
There were hardly any lights on in any houses when we left. V.B. had gone to sleep.
“It’s getting late,” Denzil said. “I better take you home. The Winters will be wondering where you are.”
“But I want to help…”
“The best way to help is to behave as if nothing had happened. Not a word to anybody. Remember you are coming back from a delicious dinner of curried perlemoen.”
“Hell Denzil, I’ve never had curried perlemoen in my life. I don’t even know what a perlemoen looks like…and I never put a foot into the Three Sisters’ dining room…and I’m a lousy liar.”
“Hi guys,” Ludwig was still sitting up reading The Wooden Boat. “I was wondering if you had fallen over the edge of the world. Not that I mind you staying out late Mathilda, but there has been trouble in the townships.”
“Ja, we heard about that,” Denzil said calmly. “But V.B. is quiet. We didn’t see anything in the streets.”
“Ja, the police are controlling the situation, but still, this is South Africa. One must use one’s brains and not expose oneself to potential danger. This whole thing can flare up again any minute.” Ludwig closed his mag and put it on a pile of other mags next to his armchair. “You’re welcome to sleep here pal, if you don’t want to drive out to the plots in the middle of the night.”
“Oh no, thanks. I’d better get going.” Denzil made a fast retreat.
“And I’d have thought the guy would jump at the opportunity,” Ludwig murmured.
He locked the front door and said: “Tell me how your evening was, my girl. Did they let you into the ladies’ bar?”
“Ja.” This was safe territory. “We had a gin and tonic there. I still find it idiotic that women can’t just go to any bar in the country. I mean I’m not going to faint if they pour a drink in front of me. And when it comes to carpets…”
“You can’t fart against thunder. Places like that, you just go in there and enjoy. And how did you like the Three Sisters’ seafood?”
“Oh, it was the best I’ve ever eaten. Curried perlemoen. Delicious.” Already I felt cold sweat down my back with all that lying.
“I personally prefer their yellowf
ish with that lemon butter sauce…thinking of it, we haven’t been to the Three Sisters for ages. What d’you think of their décor?”
“Uh…it’s got a lot of uh…ambiance.”
“Ja, and didn’t you like that painting of the 3 sisters when they were young?”
“Which one?” Denzil hadn’t told me anything about paintings.
“I thought there was only one. The big one hanging above the fire place. The girls walking on the beach with V.B. in the background. You can see the street in which the book shop is with all the little houses that were still there in the 20s.”
“Uh…ja, very interesting.” This was getting too complicated. I produced a humongous yawn. “I think I’ll go to bed now.”
“I’ll also hit the sack. And Mathilda, don’t worry too much about the riots. Most probably you won’t hear or see anything of them except in the news.”
“You’re taking a mighty lot of sandwiches to school today, Mathilda,” Greta observed at breakfast.”
“Ja, I lost a bet and now I have to bring lunch for 5 people in my class.” The real reason was that I planned to throw my weight in at iSkolo, where any kind of food would be greatly appreciated.
“It wouldn’t do you any harm to eat a bit more yourself,” Ludwig said. “After nearly a year in the land of the braaivleis and the melktert you still look like a skinny jumping stick.”
“What was the bet about?” Joshua wanted to know.
“What bet?”
“The bet you lost and that’s why you are making all those sandwiches.”
“Oh, that bet.”
“You know, Mathilda, that nuts are good for your brains,” Julie grinned. “Your short term memory, your long term memory, your ability to concentrate…all those things.”
“So what was your bet about?” Lolo asked.
“It was about uh…how many beans make 5.”
“Come on,” Ludwig said. “As the suppliers of the prize we are entitled to the truth, don’t you think?”
Hell, how much does he know?
“Ja, and don’t forget to put bread, peanut butter and sandwich spread on the shopping list,” Julie said.
“Okay. Uh…I bet…uh…I could walk 10 metres on my hands and uh after 6 metres Mrs Davies shot out of the woodwork and told me to stop immediately because anything that exposes bloomers to the public is verboten and I didn’t even wear bloomers…”
“Telephone,” Lolo jumped up. “I’m going.”
Ludwig looked at his watch. “Nearly time for the news. Mathilda switch the radio on, please.”
“Dad,” Lolo yelled, holding the receiver. “There’s a weird man on the phone. He says he’s a farter and he wants to talk to Mathilda.”
“Let me get that,” Ludwig chucked his napkin on the table. “It’s bound to be one of those wacky fuckers. Wait until I’m finished with him. Has anybody been bothering you, Mathilda?”
“No. No, not at all.” I had no idea who the guy could be. I switched the radio on and some schmaltzy duetto floated through the room. Just when they got to their refrain Ludwig exploded into a monumental blast of laughter. He doubled up gasping for air and managed a faint: “It’s for you, Mathilda.”
Who on earth can that be?
“Hier ist der Vater,” my father’s voice sounded through the line. How are you Mathilda?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “We hear the revolution has broken out in South Africa. You take the first flight back to Germany. Take any flight out of South Africa.”
“But Pa, there were a couple of marches in the townships. Where I am everything is okay.”
“That’s not what we see on TV. They tell us the whole country is on fire. Entire streets where there are no 2 bricks left on top of each other, exploding cars, teargas all over the show, bullets flying everywhere. You can’t stay in a place like that.”
“But Pa I’m fine. I haven’t heard any explosions or gunshots. I’m just getting ready for school like on any other day.”
“No ways. You go straight to the airport, as long as there still is an airport, and get out as fast as you can, and…” There was a big noise in the line and then the engaged signal.
Gott sei dank. Sometimes the imperfection of modern technology can be of great help in life.
”So who’s the farter?” Lolo asked as soon as I put the receiver down. “Dad hasn’t told us yet. He first wanted to listen to the news.”
“It’s my dad.”
“Your dad! Why does he call himself a farter?” Greta giggled. “I’ve heard of old farts but usually it’s other people who call them that.”
“The German word for father is Vater and to you guys it sounds like farter.”
“I always told you the Germans are a weird bunch,” Joshua said with a big grin.
On the South African news they reported that there had been more uprisings that had been suppressed successfully, with the rabble-rousers getting what they deserved and the government having everything under control.
The Chev was parked in front of the Chinese shop. Denzil was lying on the bench in the cabin, fast asleep. I knocked softly at the window. My lover didn’t stir. After a lot more knocking and a guy asking me if I had locked myself out, Denzil woke up with a start.
“What’s up?” He looked around not having a clue where he was. Slowly he put 2 and 2 together. “Hi Mathilda. I’ve been here since 5 this morning. I was hoping you’d come past.” He rubbed his eyes. “If it’s all right with you, we need you to do some stuff…which means you can’t go to school today.”
“I didn’t plan to anyway. What do you want me to do?”
Denzil produced a tremendous yawn. “Cook food. We’ve got 80 kids to look after now…that was when I left this morning…plus about 5 adults…and everybody needs to eat.”
“Ja sure, I can do some cooking. By the way, I’ve got a bag full of sandwiches here. D’you want one?”
Denzil dropped me off at his place. Mastermind helped unload a mountain of meat and veg and said it wasn’t a problem for him to peel a bag of potatoes, and that it was always nice for people to have a big party with a lot of nyama.
“Where does he get the idea of the party from?” I asked Denzil while he got changed.
“I guess a party is the first thing that springs to mind being confronted with such quantities of food. Where is a clean shirt?” He rummaged around in his cupboard. “Shit, the last one’s gone and the maid only comes tomorrow.”
“Famous words of a freedom fighter.” I passed him an acceptable sweatshirt from a heap of clothes on his desk.
Denzil stared flabbergasted at the uncovered model of the library. “Hell, I totally forgot about my project. I’ll never get it finished.”
“Maybe I can do it if you show me how to do it.”
“Ja,” Denzil checked his watch. “Oh hell, I’ll be late for my lecture, and then I’ll have to leave early to collect lunch and drop it off at the warehouse. Mebbe you should get cracking in the kitchen, Mathilda. I’ll see you at about one.” He gave me a big hug and a big kiss. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I’m sure.” I gave him one last squeeze.
Mastermind and I spent the whole morning preparing chicken stew, listening to an African radio station. I nearly did my nut because there was not one sharp knife in the house. At 10 I tuned into Radio SA to get the latest news on the riots, but all they said was that the situation was under control. At 1 there was nothing new on the news.
Denzil had exactly 15 minutes to instill the finer details of one and a half years of academic model making into me. “You just have to stick to the scale on the plan, and to make a dome you draw a circle and cut it into triangles and glue them together…easy as pie.”
I was in the middle of making the dome when the Chev pulled up the drive with screeching tyres. Denzil had said he’d only be back later that afternoon. My stomach turned into led.
Something’s gone wrong…the cops are hot on his heels…
I ran into
the lounge and, hidden behind a curtain, watched what was going on outside. Denzil parked the car in front of the stoep, got out, went round to the passenger side and unloaded a big box.
Gott sei dank. They need more food, of course; he’s come to drop off more vegetables and stuff.
Denzil smiled into the box and started to talk to the groceries.
Poor guy. Total lack of sleep. He must take a rest. Otherwise he’ll go bananas.
Denzil grinned like an idiot at the vegetables. I was getting worried. I sprinted to the front door.
“Look what we’ve got here.” Denzil shoved the box into my hands. “You better phone the Winters and ask if you can stay over tonight.”
I had to look twice before my brain registered what my eyes were seeing. “A baby!” I gazed at the tiny sleeping bundle. “Gee Denzil, where did you get this baby from?”
“Somebody dropped it off with us. The mother got arrested yesterday. She is one of our pupils. Her mother is in hospital with 3rd degree burns and the father of the baby has vanished a long time ago. There is no one to look after the little one and we can’t keep him in the warehouse. We’ve got our hands full with all the other kids; there are more than 90 now…I thought mebbe you could do it.”
“Me? Look after an abandoned baby?” The sudden onslaught of responsibility nearly knocked me off my feet.
“Ja, you know how to give a bottle and how to change a nappy.”
“I got some practice 7 years ago when my brother was small.”
“Changing nappies is like riding a bike, once you’ve learned it you never forget it.”
“Okay, I’ll do it.” I had no idea if I was up to the task.
“I knew you would,” Denzil smiled.
I phoned Ludwig at the book shop and asked him if I could stay at the Fenesseys’ for 2 or 3 days to help Denzil with a project he had to finish; that was only half a lie.
“I know you are a responsible person, Mathilda,” Ludwig said. “And I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t stay there. Have you got enough condoms?”
The baby’s African name was Tshepo and his English name was Jim. I covered him up with Denzil’s thickest woolen jersey and put the box in which he was sleeping on the washing machine next to the stove, the warmest place in the house.
Mastermind didn’t ask any questions about Tshepo. He was used to Harriet bringing black kids to the house and teaching them how to swim or give them lunch, things most other white people would never do. But when Mastermind saw the mountains of groceries Denzil had brought for another stew, he wanted to know what kind of party all that food was going to.
“A double wedding,” Denzil said quickly.
“Hau! 2 wives one shot.” Mastermind was amazed. “And I thought the white men can only have one wife, not 4 like us.”
Denzil had to go to another lecture and Mastermind and I set about the stew. Tshepo slept until everything was in the pots; then he started to wail.
“Good strong lungs,” Mastermind commented.
“Strong smell too,” I said and took Tshepo to the bathroom to change the nappy.
I didn’t have much time to work on the model. Tshepo howled for sustenance and I gave him the bottle. He wasn’t used to it and howled some more. His mother probably breastfed him. He howled until he got the knack of the bottle and after his meal he wanted to be carried around. He had enormous eyes, little bobbles of hair on his head and the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet were pink. He was the cutest thing I’d ever seen in my life.
Tshepo was sleeping and the sun was setting dark red into a raging ocean when Denzil came back. The wind was howling around the house and whistling through gaps in the walls and the windows that the curtains were moving.
“How’s it going?” Denzil passed me a big packet of disposable nappies. “How is our little man?”
“He’s fine. He’s much easier to handle than I thought. At first I wasn’t quite sure how to hold him. He is so small; but it’s easy. I gave him the bottle and we did the whole burp thing…he’s so cute.”
Denzil grabbed a basket full of baby clothes and formula and smiled at me. “I hope you’re not getting broody, honey.”
Mastermind had lit a fire in the fireplace in the lounge. Tshepo’s snoozebox was on the settee. The curtains were billowing more and more, and single big raindrops plonked on the corrugated iron roof.
“It’s lekker cosy in here,” Denzil sighed falling into an armchair.
“I guess just now you have to go out into the big uncosy world again.”
Denzil nodded. “I must drop the food off; but tonight I won’t stay long, there are other people to look after the kids. By the way, here is a postcard from Wendy the sandwich maker.”
“Oh, how is she?”
“All right I guess. Playing golf somewhere in Scotland.”
“I find the kind of double life some people lead quite amazing. “
A log collapsed and a shower of sparks danced around the fire place.
“What do you mean?” Denzil asked.
“People who seem to be totally conformist, ‘normal’ people; somebody like Wendy for example. On the one hand she is an upper middle class wife, who doesn’t have to go to work and travels the world to play golf and spends a lot of time at cocktail parties and telling the gardener how to trim the roses, and on the other hand she is in the Black Sash and she is an enemy of the state…quite similar to Victoria.”
“Come and sit here.” Denzil clapped his thighs.
I sat down sideways on his lap and he wrapped his arms around me.
“Mmmh, you smell good,” I said nozzling his neck.
“Victoria’s inquest is over,” Denzil said holding me tight.
“Oh.” A heavy lump sat suddenly in my guts.
“The police say her car hadn’t been tampered with, there is no suspicion of foul play, and she probably fell asleep while she was driving and then hit a rock.”
“And what do you say?” The lump in my guts was getting bigger.
“I say it’s weird that somebody like Victoria should fall asleep at 7 in the morning. Alistair told me she had an early night, and Victoria was a morning person. She loved to get up early and walk on the beach and watch the sun rise.” Denzil’s body got all limp all of a sudden and he whispered: “We’ll never know the truth.”
The ringing of the phone startled us out of our embrace and woke Tshepo. Denzil went to answer the call. I took Tshepo out of the box and carried him around in front of the fire place. It was dark outside now, and the wind was shaking the trees and hurling sheets of rain against the windows. We hadn’t lit any lamps in the lounge and the fire was throwing eerie shadows across the room. Tshepo woke up properly and began to cry. I went to the kitchen to get another bottle for him. In the passage Denzil was talking on the phone. When I walked past him he smiled at me and stroked my arm. My heart lurched.
How will I ever be able to live without him? I’ll probably shrivel up and die.
Denzil came into the kitchen with a serious face. “That was Bianca on the phone. Looks like up in Jo’burg the ambiance is much more tense than here. Bianca says some of her neighbours are afraid to go out in the street, and people have raided the shops for basic stuff like flour and sugar and gas bottles. Some are shit scared everything is going to collapse and the electricity will be cut off. And apparently all the whites have been evacuated from Soweto.”
“I didn’t know there were whites in Soweto.”
“There are a few Bantu Administration officials and priests and doctors, who work at Baragwanath Hospital. Bianca did a practical there. It’s the biggest hospital in the southern hemisphere.”
I manoeuvered the teat of the bottle into Tshepo’s mouth. “What do you think is going to happen, Denzil?”
“That’s anybody’s guess. All I know is that we are having the worst racial clashes since Sharpville, when the blacks protested against the passbooks.”
We sat for a little while in f
ront of the fire and watched the flames and listened to the storm.
“I’ll be back round about 9.” Denzil kissed me goodbye.
And then he disappeared into the night.
Outside all hell was popping loose and the house was full of noises. The rain was drumming on the tin roof, the windows rattled, and every now and then the whole place groaned and creaked while icy puffs of wind invaded the rooms. I put some more logs on the fire, switched on the 2 ostrich egg lamps and settled down on an armchair. Tshepo snoozed in his box and I dreamed of a life of adventure with Denzil, traversing the Australian outback on camels, discovering ancient wrecks in the deep blue sea…and making love every day. Tshepo began to wail the second the electricity went off.
That’s it. The revolution has started for good.
I picked Tshepo up; my knees were shaking.
Where is Denzil? Why isn’t he back yet? It’s nearly 10…
I carried Tshepo around wondering if Denzil was all right. Tshepo didn’t stop crying.
He wants a bottle, the little mite. No electricity – no lights, no stove, no hot water…phhhhh
I remembered the candles in the candle holders of the ancient piano. Mastermind must have used the last match in the matchbox at the fireplace, so I had to light the candles in the flames. There was a ready mixed baby bottle in the kitchen but it was ice cold. I warmed it between my thighs while singing German lullabies to Tshepo. He didn’t calm down and he didn’t want his bottle. It was only luke warm and probably not very appetizing on a cold winter’s night.
Where is Denzil?
I ventured to the kitchen again, a candle in my hand, and looked for a pot and filled it with water.
Please God, let Denzil be all right.
I scraped together a heap of embers in the fireplace and put the pot with the water and Tshepo’s bottle on top of it. Tshepo had 3 schlucks and then he started to cry again. I was in the middle of changing his nappy when the phone rang.
Denzil…it must be him.
I grabbed a candle and the baby, dirty bum and all, and raced to the phone.
“Hello,” an unfamiliar voice said.
Oh shit, it’s not Denzil.
“Who is speaking?” My nerves were shot.
“A friend,” the guy said. “Denzil asked me to tell you that he won’t be able to come home before tomorrow morning.”
Oh hell.
”Why not? What has happened? Is he okay?” All I heard was a click. My legs were wobbly.
Where is Denzil? Mebbe they arrested him…but then why would he say he’d be back tomorrow morning? Mebbe the Chev has broken down and he’s sleeping in town…but then why didn’t his friend tell me that?
While I washed Tshepo’s bum with the warm water out of the pot, my head nearly exploded with worry. On top of that the baby screamed fit to raise the dead. The temperature seemed to drop by the minute. The logs stacked next to the fireplace were nearly finished – and the piano candles too. Hells bells.
I found 3 candle stomps in a kitchen drawer. They would have to do for the night. The house was so chilly and damp, that I didn’t even contemplate to sleep anywhere else than in the lounge, as close as possible to the dying fire. With all the blankets from Denzil’s and Bianca’s beds arranged into a kind of nest it looked quite cosy. I stuck Tshepo into the warmest romper I could find and took him into the nest with me. The storm was still raging with all its power; the fire died down to an orangey glow.
“Good morning, Miss. Sleeping on the floor, hau!” The maid woke me up after what seemed like 5 minutes. “Oh what a beautiful baby. Is it a boy or a girl?” She had picked up Tshepo already. “Do you want tea, Miss, or coffee? And what must I make for breakfast? Scrambled eggs, porridge?”
“I’ll start with some coffee please, Nandipha.” I surfaced with a frozen nose and icy ears.
The electricity was back on and I had a mug of coffee and about a litre of hot soup. The lawn was covered in leaves the storm had thrashed from the plants, and big branches had broken off the trees. The sky was blue again and the sea sparkled under a bright sun. It was a beautiful day – but where on earth was Denzil?
Nandipha washed the dishes and put the laundry into the washing machine with Tshepo sleeping strapped to her back.
I worked on the model of the library, concentrating mainly on possible phone calls or the sound of Denzil’s Chev coming up the drive way. At 10 he wasn’t back yet and I felt sick with worry. By 11 I had phoned Larry about 20 times and his phone just rang and rang and rang. There was nobody I could talk to. I was at the end of my wits.
After having cut out the elements of the library’s spiral staircase incorrectly for the third time, I quit and went into the garden. Nandipha was hanging the washing on the line. Tshepo woke up and, from the height of her back, he bestowed a toothless grin on me.
“Nandipha, can you show me how to strap the baby on my back?”
“Hau Miss,” Nandipha nearly dropped a shirt. “White people don’t strap babies to their backs.”
“That’s because they are sometimes stupid. I think it’s a sensible thing to do, but how do you get him up there without him falling off?”
“It’s easy.” Before I could say Cock Rubinstein she was holding Tshepo in her arms. “You bend over like this Miss,” Nandipha sort of folded into a 90-degree angle in her hip, with her back parallel to the ground. “A small baby you can lift up over your shoulder and you put him on his tummy on your back, like this, and then you take a blanket and you wrap it around the baby and yourself, and then you fasten the blanket with a safety pin.” Nandipha got back into an upright position. “When the baby is bigger, 7, 8 months old, you lift him up over the side and the rest is the same.”
I was impressed. “And you pull the blanket quite tight?”
“Not too tight; otherwise they look like me when they are grown up.” Nandipha laughed and pointed at her bandy legs.
With her help I had Tshepo on my back in 3 seconds flat.
“The children they love it,” Nandipha said.
“I bet they do. It’s so much more snug than to lie in a pram all by your lonely self.”
I went on a tour through the garden telling Tshepo about fairies dancing on patches of moss and Heinzelmännchen living in mushroom houses. I heard a car. My heart nearly stopped. Denzil? I hardly dared look in case it was somebody else.
It was the Chev.
Denzil flashed an exhausted grin at me and waved like a madman. I ran as fast as I could. Denzil jumped out of the Chev and we had a major hug. I didn’t know if I was laughing or crying.
“I see you are doing things the African way now,” were Denzil’s first words after we let finally go of each other.
Tshepo gave a happy gurgle and we burst out laughing. Denzil took my hand and we walked into the house.
“I had the most incredible night,” he said. “You won’t believe what happened.”
I handed Tshepo back to Nandipha, who was busy in the kitchen cooking another stew. Denzil and I made ourselves comfortable on the ancient sofa on the eastern part of the stoep, where it was warm and wind protected.
“I thought I’d never see you again.” I snuggled up to him.
“I know, it must have been terrible for you, but the only thing I could do was to ask Peter to phone you when he got a chance.”
“So Peter is your mysterious friend? He didn’t even mention his name. All he told me was that you’d only be back in the morning, but he never said why.”
“He couldn’t. He was in a major hurry using a phone that could be tapped.”
Du lieber Himmel! What’s next?
“So what happened? I thought the cops had locked you up. I dreamed they hanged you for treason.”
“It wasn’t quite that bad,” Denzil said with a weak smile. “We got a tip off that the cops somehow found out about the warehouse, so we had to move as fast as we could.” He squeezed my hand. “I spent the night ferrying kids in a clapped out old furniture l
orry to our new place. Moses drove the other lorry.” Denzil squeezed my hand again. “Relax baby, everybody got there in one piece. 99 kids, 3 adults and stacks of mattresses and blankets, all the cooking stuff and about half a ton of spare clothes.”
“And where is that new place?”
“I would feel much better if I didn’t tell you, but I guess you’ll feel much better if I do.” He sighed. “It’s at the airport. In one of those disused old sheds they built during the Second World War.”
“It must be cold in there.”
“Ja, and we’ve only got one tap and one toilet.”
“Good heavens. Mebbe we should organize some buckets. It’s better to pee in a bucket than to kneip and stand in a queue for 3 hours.”
“Ja, I think we’ll have to do that. We can’t even send the guys out to piss in the veld.”
“There must be other people around,” I said horrified. “Denzil, somebody will see you and then what?”
“We are right at the far end of the airport. Hardly anybody ever goes there. There is only one guy, 2 sheds away. He’s building a boat in his shed and he’s okay. He sometimes teaches science at iSkolo. It was his idea that we move to the airport.”
“And how long do you think this whole hiding business will still go on?”
“Haven’t got a clue. But things are moving. The cops have released Tshepo’s mom. She is still a kid – only 16.”
“That’s younger than me.”
“Mmh.” Denzil produced an elephant yawn. “I’ll take Tshepo back into town this afternoon, but first I need a snooze. I’m dead tired.”
While the sun glided through the western sky, I went for a walk with Tshepo on my back, wondering what it must be like to have a baby at 16. I felt much too young to be responsible for somebody else, and then, what would happen to my life of travel and adventure? I sang Es waren zwei Königskinder to Tshepo and thought that after nearly a year in Africa I didn’t know much about African culture…and it was bloody difficult to get some non propagandist information about it.
The only time blacks and whites ‘socialized’ in this country was when they were small kids and lived on a farm, like Christo and his Sotho pals in the Freestate; Hein and Debbie had already been a little Baas and a little Missis.
My first host mother, Marieke, was convinced she had a great knowledge about Africa because she had a black maid and a black gardener, and everybody knew anyway that these blacks needed a kick in the backside every now and then, you just had to look at the rest of Africa, where they weren’t so lucky as to have a whole lot of God’s chosen people around to keep the place going. Marieke didn’t even speak a black language.
Ludwig spoke Xhosa and Zulu and he had grown up on a farm where the blacks had given him a nickname, Komiyahlaba – ‘be careful, that bull pokes’. And Ludwig sometimes shook his head in disbelief: ‘I thought I know the blacks but there are times when I think I’ll never understand them’.
Denzil said, a lot of African culture had been destroyed by the colonialists, and that people, who have been cut off from their roots, with their social net and their values and their dignity shred to pieces, lived in extreme circumstances, and to learn something about black South African culture now, was like going into a British village during the time of the industrialization – when half the population had left and everybody’s life was upside down – and to try and study their traditional agrarian lifestyle.
Tshepo crowed on my back. I went back to the house to finish the model of the library. Mastermind was raking the leaves on the lawn into heaps and Nandipha was cleaning the kitchen.
“Master Ludwig phoned,” she said. “He wants you to phone him back.”
“Hello Ludwig, it’s Mathilda. How are you?”
“100 percent, my girl. Thanks for returning my call. I’m sorry to tear you away from your sweetheart but we absolutely need you to baby sit tonight.”
Phhh. Now I can’t go to the airport…
”Ja sure, I’ll baby sit. Denzil can drop me off just now.”
“Thanks, my girl. Can you be here before it gets dark? Julie is going to an Arts Council meeting and I’ve been allocated to do patrol.”
“Patrol? That sounds like a war thing to me. What are you going to patrol?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
I put the receiver down, flabbergasted. Were there new developments in the riots I didn’t know anything about?
On the way into town everything looked normal. I gave Tshepo a last hug and Denzil a big kiss and waved until the Chev had disappeared round the street corner.
Julie had already left for her meeting. My host father was sitting in his favourite armchair in the lounge with a revolver in his hands.
“Gosh Ludwig, what do you need that revolver for?”
Ludwig turned the barrel and looked through the empty chamber on top.
“This my girlie, is a .357 Magnum. I’ll take it with me on patrol.”
“Oh, and what is that patrol all about?”
Ludwig took a cartridge out of a box and put it into the chamber. “We got phone calls from our kids’ headmasters. Looks like the blacks are getting ready to burn down the white schools now they’ve burnt down their own.”
“Oh.”
Ludwig turned the barrel another couple of degrees. “The plan is to have a patrol car on each street corner around the schools so that one can watch what is going on.”
“So you have to be there the whole night?”
“No, it’s divided up in shifts of one hour.” Ludwig smiled. “Don’t look so horrified, my girl. It’s no big deal. From 8 to 9 I’ll sit there in my car and keep my eyes open, and then the next guy will take over.”
“But if anything happens…would you really shoot somebody?”
“Damn right I would!”
When Julie came back from her meeting the kids were sleeping and I was writing a letter to Friederieke about the riots and Ludwig’s patrol. I caught myself several times nearly starting a sentence about Denzil and his pals on the run from the cops with 99 kids in tow; but I had to absolutely shut up about the things that preoccupied me most. Instead I told Friederieke how astonished I had been to see on the box that amongst the police fighting the uprisings, there had been stacks of black cops. Why were they helping their oppressors fight their own black brothers?
“The black cops aren’t very popular with the rest of the blacks,” Ludwig had explained. “But they get a good salary and free housing. And South Africa needs black cops; it’s a sheer matter of numbers. Less than 20 per cent of the population are white. And when the police want to arrest somebody in Soweto or in the Transkei they send the black cops. By the way, black cops are not allowed to arrest white people.”
“But aren’t the whites scared that the black cops will turn on them one day?”
“I don’t see how they could. Only the white cops are armed. The black cops carry batons.”
Julie fell into an armchair a glass of kir in her hand. “You won’t believe what a bunch of idiots are sitting on our town council.” She took a good schluck and put her feet up on a stool. “Can you imagine that those Philistines have now decided to knock down V.B.’s only art-déco building to make space for a petrol station. Can you believe it?” Julie was just about pulling her hair out. “Not that I’m a great fan of art-déco myself. I find it’s a bit too…heavy’ but still, it’s an expression of human culture. Of course those bureaucrats couldn’t give a hoot about subtleties like that.” She downed her drink and stretched out her arm in my direction. “Would you pour me another one, please.”? I took her glass. “A petrol station,” Julie sighed. “Next thing they’ll think up is to destroy the Art Museum and put a bloody censorship bunker in its place.”
I passed her the kir. “Aren’t you worried about Ludwig out there in the night armed with a gun, ready to confront people who want to burn down the school?”
Julie cast a quizzical look at me. “I’m proud he is out there,
” she said at last. “You see, our friend Lewis had to come and give me a lift to the meeting tonight, because since the riots started it’s too dangerous for a woman to drive around by herself after dark. Who wants to live like that?” She put her glass down with a bang. “Ja, I’m proud that Ludwig is out there doing his bit for the country.”
The next morning Denzil popped in on his way to varsity. He had spent the whole night at the airport with the kids and was exhausted. After a hot shower and some breakfast he flopped onto my bed a sigh of contentment on his lips.
“There is nothing like a real mattress, those thin sponge things are a pain in the butt.”
“How’s the ambiance in your airport shed?”
“Quite good. Looks like things have calmed down in the townships. Most kids are back home. We’ve only got 15 left. I guess another night or 2 and we can get back to our ‘normal’ lives.”
“Until the next uprising.”
“Ja,” Denzil bit his lip. “South Africa is a bomb waiting to blow up. Last night I listened to the older boys. They are extremely angry and I think they are becoming more and more militant. They regard their parents as week-kneed and say they won’t put up with the white man’s shit. I hear that a lot of the pupils who took part in the riots belong to the SA Students Movement – a black consciousness movement. I’m telling you the winds of change are blowing through southern Africa. Mozambique has got a black government now. That must do something for the self confidence of the black South Africans.”
Zebra Horizon Page 50