by Ekow Duker
Mrs Harrison already had her violin out of its case. As usual, she struggled with the piece, fumbling over the notes from the very start.
‘Mrs Harrison?’ André said after a while.
‘Call me Claire. I won’t tell you again.’
He tried not to sigh. ‘Your posture. It’s all wrong. May I?’
He came around her and adjusted the angle of her arms, gently pushing her forearm and prodding her elbow until he was satisfied. It was slightly disconcerting to be in such close proximity to the woman. Her odour was warm and mildly unpleasant, with a piquant undertone of stale perspiration.
‘And please, Mrs Harrison,’André said. ‘No vibrato.’
She had taken to wobbling her fingers on the fingerboard of her violin whenever she played. It was an unfortunate habit she had picked up from television.
Mrs Harrison stuck out her lower lip. ‘None at all?’
André shook his head and motioned for her to play.
‘Oh, I’ll never be any good!’ Mrs Harrison exclaimed after a few minutes. She fell back into the padded cane sofa, which belched loudly under her weight. She looked despairingly at André.
‘Play for me?’ she said.
‘Of course.’
André began to play the first few bars of the nursery rhyme, only for Mrs Harrison to interrupt him.
‘I don’t mean that silly piece! Play me something proper.’
Dropping the bow to his side, but the violin remaining wedged against his neck, André looked at her. ‘Proper?’ he asked.
‘Yes! Something a real violinist would play. You know – Beethoven or Mozart. Or Brahms.’
André pointed the end of his bow at the music stand. ‘We really need to concentrate on your lessons,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how my playing a more advanced piece of music will benefit you.’
‘You’ve never played anything proper for me,’ Mrs Harrison said with a pout. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you couldn’t play the violin at all. At least not anything proper.’
A wave of heat sped up André’s neck and engulfed his face alarmingly.
‘That’s absurd!’
‘Then show me.’ Mrs Harrison drew her legs up on the sofa and settled back to wait.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Here’s something proper for you.’
He played a few bars of Beethoven’s ‘Für Elise’. He found the piece repetitive, but he thought Mrs Harrison might recognise it. As he played he looked up at the ceiling fan above his head. It turned slowly, with languid revolutions that barely stirred the air.
‘Well?’
There was a look of rapt attention on Mrs Harrison’s face. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t sound right without a piano, does it? Play something else.’
This time André let out the sigh he’d been incubating for so long. ‘We really should get back to our lessons, Mrs Harrison.’
Mrs Harrison folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. ‘I want you to play me something proper,’ she said firmly. ‘Or I’ll find myself another teacher.’
‘Very well.’
André didn’t think it wise to remind her that there were no other decent violinists within a radius of fifty miles. He’d learned that Mrs Harrison could be very determined when she wanted to and the look on her face was suddenly stern and forbidding.
‘Tchaikovsky,’ he said and it wasn’t a question.
Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D major was one of André’s favourite pieces, one that required all his concentration. The fingers of his left hand moved swiftly up and down the fingerboard and with the other he made the bow caress the strings with barely restrained ferocity. This was the only time he did not feel ungainly and uncoordinated – when he was playing the violin. One of his teachers had often said that his dexterity when he played was at odds with the clumsiness of his frame. André closed his eyes as his features contorted with pleasure. It was as if he were dreaming and playing in his sleep. With an impetuous slash of the bow, his upper body began to spasm with an almost sexual ardour … and that was when he saw them.
There were three of them. They swept in from over the cornfields, their wings beating powerfully like large birds, and came to a gentle stop at the edge of the patio. There they hovered, staring directly at André, without making a sound. It became noticeably cooler and the air tingled as though a storm were about to break.
André’s fingers stumbled momentarily but he dared not stop playing. These weren’t picture-book angels, all radiant in white robes and with pink, chubby cheeks made for blowing golden trumpets. No, the angels assembled in front of him were not like that at all.
The first angel was so pale his skin was almost translucent. Blood, because it could only be blood, coursed through a filigree of veins that ran up his calves and lost itself in the dark shadow between his legs. His chest was as broad and muscled as his arms and as he drew closer, his wings twitched powerfully, as if he might take flight at any moment. His wings were not a virginal shade of white as one might expect an angel’s wings to be. They were speckled with grey markings and heaved gently as the angel breathed, like two bunched, feathered creatures crouching on the angel’s back.
Then the second angel unfurled his wings with a sound like a heavy sheet snapped by the wind. André’s nose crinkled as a strong gust of air buffeted him. This angel’s wings were like a dragonfly’s but with none of the insect’s fragility. His wings split the sunlight into a million shards of iridescent colour that fell on the angel’s body in a brightly jewelled sheet. His penis was thick and hung in an imperious knot between his legs. He was perfection itself, a sculpture in mosaic into which some passing god had kissed life.
Suddenly André heard a voice growling in his ear.
‘So you think you’re a Christmas shepherd, my boy?’ His father – Trevor Barnes. ‘You see fucking angels, do you?’ Then the slither of leather on cloth as his father released his belt from his trousers and wrapped it around his fist.
André’s fingers stumbled again but now the third angel was above him. Unlike the other two, this angel’s forehead was criss-crossed with deep lines. His wings beat slowly and deliberately as though he were treading water. He had the look of a man who had seen too much and did not like much of what he saw. Then he tipped forward slowly from the waist, his feet lifting behind him as if there were a metal rod pinned through his hips. He turned unhurriedly through the air and stopped when his face was level with André’s.
They stared at each other for a long, drawn-out moment and André thought he saw a deep sadness in the angel’s eyes. Then the angel reached out his hand. To cup André’s chin or to draw him closer, André couldn’t tell. He shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the angels, all three of them, were gone.
Mrs Harrison rose to her feet and clapped with unrestrained enthusiasm. As she clapped, the folds of skin beneath her arms wobbled uncontrollably.
‘Bravo, André!’ she cried. ‘Bravo!’
‘Did you …’
‘Did I like it?’ Mrs Harrison exclaimed. ‘I loved it! You shouldn’t hide such talent, you know. I might only be a beginner but I must say, you’re bloody good.’
‘Thank you.’
André looked out across the fields where the heads of corn began their silent march to the horizon. The sudden chill had disappeared and he leaned against the wall to catch his breath.
‘Come and sit for a while,’ Mrs Harrison said in a kindly tone. ‘You look like you’ve run a marathon.’
André looked up at the clock on the wall. Like everything about Mrs Harrison, it was oversized and showed its age.
‘I’m afraid we’ve run out of time, Mrs Harrison. I really must be going.’
‘Won’t you have some water at least?’
‘No, thank you.’ He wanted to get away as soon as possible so he could be by himself. That was what he liked about Mthatha. Solitude was never far away.
‘You’re an odd little bugger, A
ndré Potgieter,’ Mrs Harrison said as she escorted him to the front door. She gripped his arm as if she might keep him with her a while longer. Her odour had changed. Now it was redolent of over-ripe fruit and freshly tilled earth.
‘Next Thursday then?’ she said.
‘I’ll let you know, Mrs Harrison,’ replied André.
CHAPTER 5
Karabo stood in the doorway watching her father. Teacher was huddled over a thick hardcover book that lay half in and half out of an oblong patch of yellow light cast by a reading lamp on the kitchen table. The book was so thick the pages arched ponderously under their own weight.
It was quiet in the house, with no sound other than the distant rumble of a passing truck and the crinkle of pages turning. Karabo liked watching her father. The way he peered at each page over the top of his glasses and followed the text with his finger made him look very clever. Sometimes he would tap the page twice with the tip of his forefinger and cast his eyes up at the ceiling. Or he would reach for the piece of paper he always had at his side and scribble on it. She watched him do this several times, then turn the paper over and begin again on the other side.
‘What are you doing?’ Karabo said.
Teacher whipped around and for a few startled moments, he did not look like Teacher at all.
‘Shouldn’t you be in school, Karabo?’ he asked. He snapped the book shut and turned it over hurriedly with the cover facing upwards.
‘What are you reading?’
In any other family, such questioning of an elder would have drawn a sharp reprimand and a slap, but Karabo knew Teacher didn’t mind her being inquisitive.
‘Nothing.’
Karabo stared at her father until he let out a sigh. ‘It’s just a book I borrowed from the library.’
Karabo read the title on the spine, then said out loud: ‘Teacher, what’s genetics?’
He glanced at the book, then pushed it away. Then he dragged it back towards him and patted the cover as if it were a child and he needed to console it.
‘It’s a bit too complicated to explain.’
‘But you told me nothing’s too complicated. Not if you take it step by step.’
He turned around in his chair and drew Karabo into him. He wrapped his legs and his arms around her and nuzzled her neck until she squealed with delight.
‘Do you know why I love you, Karabo? You’re much too clever for your own good.’ He kissed her lightly on her shoulder. ‘Genetics is the study of how genes get passed from generation to generation.’
‘What are genes?’
‘The things that make us what we are. Like the coarseness of my hair. Or the sound of my voice.’
Karabo pressed her hand against his forehead. ‘Or the colour of your skin?’
She felt Teacher’s arms loosen around her.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Like the colour of my skin.’
Karabo reached across the table for the piece of paper Teacher had been writing on. It was covered with crude pictures of what looked suspiciously like mice.
‘You need to give them whiskers,’ she said with a happy smile. ‘All mice have whiskers, Teacher. Everybody knows that.’
He nodded and touched her face with his finger. Then, gently, he drew a diagonal line across her cheek.
‘I was trying to figure out a sequence,’ he said. ‘You remember what a sequence is, don’t you?’
Karabo nodded. ‘An ordered progression of numbers,’ she said slowly. ‘Is this for a new class?’
‘No. It’s not for a new class.’ He took the paper from her and crumpled it in his hand. ‘Come,’ he said. He freed Karabo from the cocoon his limbs had made around her. ‘That’s enough for one day.’
Karabo puffed out her cheeks and held her breath until he relented.
‘All right,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Let’s play the old-school game. You go first.’
Karabo thumped a fist on Teacher’s chest. ‘I always go first! It’s your turn.’
‘Very well,’ Teacher said. ‘I’ll start.’
He stood her on the floor in front of him and screwed up his face as if he were deep in thought.
‘You know this is a man’s world, Karabo,’ he said at last. He looked at her gravely and waited for her to respond.
Karabo smiled brightly. She knew this one. ‘But it wouldn’t be nothing without a woman or a girl,’ she said.
‘It wouldn’t be anything,’ he corrected her. ‘Not nothing. Anything.’
Karabo stamped her foot impatiently. ‘You’re spoiling the game! That’s not how James Brown sang it.’
‘I know, but we should stick to the rules of grammar.’
‘Then it wouldn’t be the old-school game anymore!’
Teacher lifted his hands in defeat. ‘You know what? You’re right. Not everything needs to change.’
‘Times are changing, Teacher,’ Karabo replied. ‘I see it all the time.’
Teacher raised an eyebrow in appreciation. ‘Brass Construction. Very good,’ he murmured, then countered with another line, this time from Frankie Beverley and Maze. ‘That’s why the things that make us happy …’
Karabo looked at Teacher as if she’d expected better from him. She finished the line with a theatrical flourish. ‘ … also make us sad.’ She paused and screwed up her face. ‘Do I make you sad, Teacher?’
Her father took her hands in his and said, ‘On the contrary, you make me extraordinarily happy.’
Karabo wriggled out of his grasp and, giggling, launched into another round. ‘Don’t blame it on the sunshine,’ she sang. ‘Or the good times. Blame it on the …’ She leaned forward expectantly, waiting for Teacher to complete the line from the Jacksons but he seemed suddenly distracted.
‘What’s the matter, Teacher?’ she asked.
Teacher rubbed his nose. He sniffed loudly as if he’d caught a sudden cold.
‘Your mother loved that song,’ he said in a faraway voice. ‘We used to dance to it.’
‘All night long?’ Karabo asked eagerly and Teacher looked away.
CHAPTER 6
After the violin lesson with Mrs Harrison, André did not go home straight away. He drove until he had left Mthatha behind and the land began to lift and fold itself into a crumple of green hills. He guided his mother’s car off the road and parked on the bank of a small river. He sat in the car clutching the steering wheel as if he dared not let it go. As always, the sight of the angels had filled him with delight. He had seen them too often to be afraid but he still shivered with the sheer wonder of it all.
He sat in the car until the sun was high in the sky and the reflection of the trees in the water took on a silvery hue. It grew warm. He unbuttoned his shirt, and then took it off altogether. Then, with a shyness as if someone were watching him, he reached for his violin and stepped out of the car.
At first he played with great care and tenderness, as if that would coax the angels back. He’d give his life to see them again. He played the same piece he’d played for Mrs Harrison, Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D major. The notes he played mingled with the soft gurgle of the water and together they caressed him, teasing and soothing his senses. But the angels did not return and André’s passion grew dark and intense. Why wouldn’t they come? With a wild cry, he flung the notes into the treetops. The birds scattered and fled from him in screeching clouds of black confetti. Enraged, André hurled the violin away from him and fell to his knees on the river bank. He put his face in his hands and began to weep.
It was late afternoon by the time he got home. He was hardly out of the car before his mother was upon him.
‘André!’ Marietjie cried, her voice shrill with anxiety. ‘Where have you been? Mrs Harrison said you left her house hours ago!’
‘I went for a drive.’
‘A drive? By yourself?’
‘Who else would I go with? I went for a drive, that’s all.’ He busied himself with his violin case and the music stand and the leather briefcase
that contained his sheet music.
‘I was worried about you.’
‘Why? No one bothers us here. That’s what you always say, don’t you?’
She ran across and blocked his path. She stared at him for several seconds, her eyes searching his face. Then she gasped and seized him by the arms.
‘You saw them,’ she whispered. ‘Jy het die engele weer gesien.’
‘Not now, Ma. Please – not now.’
But she held onto André and would not let him enter the house.
‘I’ll call Doctor Viljoen right now! He said to call him if you ever saw them again.’
‘They’re gone,’ André replied with exaggerated tiredness. ‘There’s nothing Doctor Viljoen can do.’
‘At least he gave you medicine.’ She looked at him suspiciously. ‘You’re still taking his tablets, aren’t you?’
‘I threw them away.’
Marietjie’s face fell. ‘Oh, André!’ she exclaimed. ‘You know what happens to you when you don’t …’
‘When I don’t what, Ma?’ he interrupted her rudely. ‘Doctor Viljoen is nothing more than a quack. The pills he prescribed were shit. They made me so sleepy I couldn’t play anything properly.’
‘At least they kept the engele away.’
‘But I don’t want them to stay away!’ André roared. When he saw his mother’s face twist in fear, he grew suddenly embarrassed. He knelt and spoke to her in a more gentle tone. ‘I’m not sick, Ma, and I don’t need medication. And certainly not from Doctor Viljoen.’
‘At least he gave us answers,’ his mother said stubbornly.
‘No, he didn’t. Everything he told us he read up on the internet. I could have done that myself.’
‘But he’s a doctor!’ his mother cried.
‘He’s a paediatrician, Ma, not a neurologist. He should stick to diagnosing babies with colic and nappy rash.’
He stood up and walked into the house. Marietjie followed him, chirping like a small bird in distress. They said little to each other over dinner and just passed the dishes back and forth in silence.
‘This can’t go on much longer,’ André said quietly.