This I saw during our visit to Kate, the day I witnessed Columbus wounded by his mother’s disloyalty. We debated whether Kate ever loved Pete, and concluded that it was possible that she did, but that she reserved greater love for money and Dr Coetzee, a man whose life mission was to stop drooping breasts and buttocks, drain human fat from well-fed housewives, target eye bags, stretch unwanted lines to enforce youthful looks, declare war on facial moles and imperfect noses, attack facial hair with laser beams, chop ballooning bellies. Dr Coetzee also had a network of fellow doctors and specialists qualified in correcting the omissions and excesses of nature. Dentists. Nutritionists. Dermatologists. Psychiatrists. Kate looked very happy in her new palace on Money Boulevard. It was not hard to see that she gave no thought to Pete and his 1970s’ Datsun. She had eyed Dr Coetzee’s millions under the guise of D-cup transplants, while Dr Coetzee saw a cougar with legs that warranted ferocious nibbling, fondling. Pete lost. Columbus was wounded. Father and son, at different times, confided in me with similar resignations: people are unknowable. Little did Kate know that she would perish from massive internal bleeding, following botched tummy-tuck surgery. Her passing charred Pete, who had still not recovered from her walking out of a sixteen-year marriage. Columbus’s passing, barely six months later, was too much for Pete to bear.
I observed Pete as we sat on the verandah of 103 Avalanche Drive, chewed by loneliness and grief. He never said a word about Kate, and only a few about Columbus. There seemed to be permanent tears in his eyes, as he brought tea and biscuits, did his utmost to be a good host. Yet family pictures attested to happier times: Kate smiling in Pete’s firm embrace during some game drive, Columbus chasing Pete with a hosepipe, evidence of hysterical laughter at Columbus in Elvis Presley attire during a birthday karaoke session. I know it meant something to Pete that I shared my Columbus moments with him; though I never knew for sure what level of solace Pete felt I availed.
He had questions: what did the lecturers think of Christopher’s IQ? Because he was so private, how was he with and around girls? What did he believe was his greater purpose in life? Girls adored Christopher, I told him, though Columbus remained ambivalent in matters of love and courtship. It was as if he knew he had limited time. IQ? Columbus had a mind that reasoned beyond known possibilities. The lecturers loved this, of course; they encouraged him, learnt from him. The answer to Columbus’s greater purpose in life remained elusive, suffice to say that he believed in happiness. That drew a lone tear from Pete, before he said, ‘Giving. My boy was a giver, not a taker. My boy gave, by the bucketful. I am not sure this world deserved him, if it repaid him for being such a fine soul.’ Most of the time, Pete wrestled his grief, and there were occasions when not even the sweetest details about Columbus’s life reached him. He sat on that verandah. Unshaven. Perspiring. Sorrowful. Like he had swallowed rust. Events at Chris Hani High, where he was headmaster, added to his misery. Not only did he have to deal with a disloyal dead ex-wife and son, but had to stomach shepherding uninspired teachers, cautioning learners who were increasingly living on the edge, calming enraged parents who suddenly discovered their sweet little angels were whoring drug peddlers.
It was his problem if the plumbing was blocked, his problem if teachers suffered marital fallouts, his problem if some school bully overplayed their hand, his problem if some kids were dull and stupid. It was his headache if the same raging parents left loaded guns within reach, his nightmare if bullies experimented with the real effects of gunshot wounds. No one praised him when Chris Hani High earned splendid grades, yet most blamed him when thunderstorms gutted school property: ‘When last did he bother to check the school’s insurance policy?’ they charged. Didn’t he know that life was synonymous with acts of God? How could they be sure that he cared for their children, if the school was under-insured? They complained about overcrowding and, through the PTA, mandated him to review exorbitant insurance premiums in favour of more classrooms, and when the storm hit turned around and accused him of reckless investment. Some sued him. Some wagged fingers in his face. Some sent hate mail. Some demanded written public apologies. Others stood firm, defended his blotless, selfless commitment to Chris Hani High.
Kate slow roasted him with her very public affair, her unmistakable affections for Dr Coetzee. Bankrupted by legal fees (sued twice), the sheriff and a multitude of collections agencies also began leaving embarrassing ‘Final Notice’ letters with blood-red stamps on his gate. Debt counselling followed shortly after, followed by Kate moving out. It had been a dark time in Columbus’s life, too. The History of Art class mistook his silence for drug-induced brooding – only to discover, months after his funeral, what the silence was truly about.
Pete, in not so many words, begged that I sleep over, share a meal with him. It was an odd request, somewhat out of place, yet not entirely unimaginable. It was obvious his very marrow throbbed with loneliness and surrender: how his garden was choking with weeds, how the verandah was invaded by leaves, how he paid no heed to a letter box jammed with mail, how his newspaper subscriptions lay yellowing on the overgrown lawn, how the dustbin in Columbus’s room still held blackening orange peels from months ago, how he turned a blind eye to teachers slacking off.
His grief was engraved on old and neglected potatoes growing green offshoots in the pantry, palpable in his unpolished shoes, hovering in the swimming pool green with algae, in the broken kitchen windowpane that invited rain and dust into the house, in the hollowness of his many Best Headmaster Awards. Our meal, roasted Woolworths chicken, rye bread and wine, was a rare glimpse into Pete’s desperation, how he was increasingly drowning in insomnia, crawling through life with a mouth full of clenched teeth.
It was over the rye bread dinner that Pete, his tongue loosened by red wine, divulged that there was a visitor in his bedroom. Mmabatho, a Geography teacher he had admired, hired and fired, now visited him once a week, for company and advice at first, followed by fond sitcom rituals, the vivid possibility and necessity of therapeutic sex, the pursuit of which always ended in self-conscious fondling and shallow excuses: the pillows being too hard; the fluorescent bulbs flickered a little, thus disrupting sustained lust; or Mmabatho’s nine-year-old knee surgery, from which she had made a full recovery.
Mmabatho was, according to Pete, 43, full-figured, with smallish brown eyes, youthful facial features. She also taught Life Skills to Grade Nines, the first black teacher on his staff compliment post-1994. Pete skirted details of why he had fired Mmabatho – except to say ‘unfortunate and inappropriate things happened’. He quickly changed the topic, asked more Columbus questions: what was closest to Christopher’s heart, if he intended on getting married, his views and sensibilities about children. About politics. The more Pete probed, the more he dug, for the fading glitter of his deceased son, the more the grief froze his Adam’s apple, the more he swallowed words, courted obvious lapses in composure.
Were his questions, his gentle yet relentless interrogations, testimony to Columbus having been too private a child, pleasant, yet unknowable? Why did he not simply ask him: Son, what is the closest thing to your heart? What good were my second-hand answers to Pete? Was I at liberty to ask him what Mmabatho was doing, hibernating in his bed? What exactly were the ‘unfortunate and inappropriate things’ that warranted dismissal yet encouraged siestas in his bed? Columbus and I never discussed children or politics, I told him. No matrimonial debates, either. I felt burdened, by this resurrecting Columbus business.
‘It is just that things have changed,’ he said in mild drunkenness. ‘This has become a very admirable but brutal country. The politics matter: who you marry matters, because it is ultimately about children who will be born in 2088. Our lives are their inheritance. How certain are we that the South Africa of 2088 will survive our current malaise: nine-year-olds giggling at obscene video clips on cellphones, cocaine addicts masquerading as meek loners, Grade Eights flirting with amused teachers? That was unheard of in our times! Teachers were beaco
ns of enlightenment, bastions of authority! Not any more. Which is horrifying, because most life lessons are learnt at school. You think these things are simply misguided urges, until teachers start getting crumpled notes, crude overtures.
‘And the parents? It’s always the school’s fault, me being asleep on the job. Why are children allowed to sniff their teachers’ bottoms as they correct mathematical mishaps from dull and uninspired would-be dropouts? It’s as if they’re born knowing, their lives acts of being and not of becoming. Perils of the information age, a world without secrets. Yet the parents refuse to acknowledge this – still expect that schools are bubbles of innocence. But bubbles burst. I have seen many bursts. Stabbings. Abortions. Emotional meltdowns. Even rapes.’
Pete bid me a good night at 11:45 pm, stood to attend to his mysterious visitor, a visitor sidelined from our dinner. I took a leaf from Pete’s suffering: why do people, whole societies, look suspiciously at unmarried people if getting married implied untold dilemmas? I, on closer inspection, after days of fasting and lucid reflection, also concluded that there was, in fact, little whoring taking place on campus. That such acts pointed not to a second sexual revolution, greater in proportion and daring to that which, in the sixties, erupted from the pill and rock ’n’ roll. What seemed from a distance like rampant fornication were, in fact, voyages of self-discovery, expressed with youthful arrogance and daring, crude enough to be mistaken for something far more sinister. What did young adults know about sex and its place in the greater scheme of existence? Did their pursuit of newly discovered sensations, their God-given right to pleasure, so blind them that they only managed elementary secrets of the carnal universe, a universe fraught with thrills and condemnations as to wreck whole lifetimes? The attainment, the temporary possession of sensual powers, fooled both participants and onlookers that the campus was under siege – polluted by ambitionless imbeciles more concerned with campus porn (Return of the Fucker Boys seemed a favourite) than learning important world treaties.
Did they not know, I debated with myself, that there were far greater and profounder reasons for living? I reflected: was Pete’s despair, his eminent collapse, his helpless rage, what is meant by life in the Real World? Was growing old a sadistic noose that choked life out of the Pete Wentzels of this world, a millionth of a breath at a time? That, amid breathtaking beauty, moments of tenderness and discoveries, existence was also about fate, of which there is absolutely no control? Was it Pete’s fate to, at 73, suddenly discover a class with African children alongside the Krugers and Cloetes, to in his twilight years be held responsible for triumphs and tragedies affecting the Smiths, Mositos and Kubekas? Was it his fate to speak through translators to overjoyed or weeping next-of-kins; for cultural shocks that awaited him at Indian funerals and celebrations?
He, Pete, was like a giant shock absorber, soaking the minutest Chris Hani High tremors, echoing in his own Real World. His neck was always under the guillotine. Learner fights. Health scares. Toxic teacher love affairs. Even acts of God. Sleep came easy for me in Columbus’s old room. I thought I was dreaming, but wasn’t. I heard it. Every bump against walls, the furniture, the almost muted shrieks of gleeful gasps. Sixto Rodriguez drowned most of the details, but some sounds are primal, instinctive, unmistakable. Pete groaned like a wounded beast, mounted Mmabatho like his existence depended on it, the brutal routine momentarily lapsing into low-key murmurs, before erupting into extended, ferocious, erotic acrobatics. I feigned coughing, clearing my throat. Finally! I thought. Something to ease Pete’s misery, to rid him of his lethargic decay.
The blinking, blood-red numbers on Columbus’s digital clock said 3:08 am. I was once again seized by towering sleep, sleep that reduced me to a log. I was awoken by a loud explosion. My bewilderment was rocked by yet another explosion, followed by Mmabatho’s uncontrolled hysteria. I ran to Pete’s room, dazed and naked, kicked the locked door open, and right there, my misery began.
Consultation Seven
I should have slept, rebelled, pretended I was not awaited at Dr West’s rooms, Room 143B, Sandton Medical Towers, 11:30 am, eight weeks after the explosions. A small wooden speaker whispered orchestral music, barely audible. I lay on the couch, completely numbed. Audrey, Dr West’s receptionist, offered me filter coffee, which only worsened the situation, the caffeine setting my nerves ajangle. Audrey indicated Dr West would see me in a moment. He soon entered, glancing at his wristwatch, notepad in hand, smiling as he settled on a rocking chair opposite me.
Glass-walled consultation rooms. Portraits of influential persons on the walls. Juvenile tree-fern pot plants. Silver-lettered bluish medical journals, filing cabinets brimming with patient files: all manner of anxieties and disorders. I could smell a trace of incense. On the walls were degrees earned from notable universities: Cape Town. Oxford. Melbourne. Harvard. It was evident that Dr West was handsome in his youth, a privilege that has only matured with age: tall, slim built, in expensive suits and fruity cologne, a wealth of greying hair, and spotless fingers that occasionally dragged the Parker across the pages of the leather-padded notebook, that once in a while adjusted his rimless John Lennon spectacles with small, gentle, unobtrusive movements.
‘Let’s go back a bit. You heard the gunshots, the lady screaming, ran to Pete’s room, and …?’ I shivered: ‘I saw blood, a little pinked out, like strawberry yoghurt on the walls. I only realised moments later that I was looking at brain matter, too.’ Dr West did not wince one bit: ‘Go on … Describe the scene as you remember it. No pressure, and, you can stop anytime if you need to.’ I sipped coffee.
‘I was shocked. Scared. Traumatised. I had heard them being intimate at around 3 am, but nothing seemed … well … obvious, that something was wrong. I mean, I didn’t know Mr Wentzel that well; I was friends with his son. Dogs were barking. I triggered an alarm en route to his room. It was all confusing and bewildering. Mmabatho was huddled in a corner, hiding behind a laundry basket, also in the nude. There was a spilled wine bottle on the floor, Mmabatho’s sandals. I ran to the kitchen and rang the police – but wasn’t sure if it was a murder or suicide. I learnt everything else from newspaper reports, from Mmabatho’s statements to the police. That it was both attempted murder and a suicide. Mmabatho was herself fast asleep at the time. One bullet wound to the stomach, the fatal one through the temple. 3.6 Magnum. An officer on the scene said: “It blasts a crater into its victim’s head.” He was right. A whole portion of Pete’s head was blown off. Like Kennedy. I was then taken to the hospital by paramedics on the scene and treated for shock. That’s when Dr Moroka gave me your card, said he recommended I come and see you.’
‘How are the nightmares, since you began taking the anxiety and sleeping tablets?’
‘Better. But I’m dizzy most of the time.’
‘Are you eating properly?’
‘No.’
‘What would you say is your level of nervousness, on a scale of one to ten?’
‘Nine and a half.’
‘After the medication?’
‘Maybe seven.’
‘You dream about Columbus?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘What dreams?’
‘Walks. Talks. Lecture-hall scenes.’
‘And your disagreements with Rusty?’
‘Catastrophic.’
‘Why do you think Rusty and you fight, or rather disagree so much?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are you intimate with her, in the physical sense?’
‘No.’
‘What does such intimacy mean to you, personally?’
‘It is relentless fumbling in pursuit of erotic electrocutions, meant to imprison and magnify pleasure. It seldom does, though, this search for carnal sanctuaries. Men allow gross violations of their lives. All the pleading, the bribery, the gifts – all the cajoling and inward rage of wanting, beseeching and thirsting to be between the legs of women is depressing.’ The Parker pen recorded salient points.
; ‘A heartfelt definition,’ said Dr West. ‘But what if I told you, not my words but words of a Yemeni poet, not famous, Yael something, who says that sex is the closest thing to eternity, a vibrant tapestry of the rarest sensations that torches the soul in abundant ways, giving that freeing, fruity, fuzzy feeling?’
I did not answer, except to say that I didn’t know anything about Yemeni poets and fruity, fuzzy feelings. The session ended with Audrey bringing some bottled water and dried fruit, while Dr West scribbled notable observations in his calm, reflective manner. Amazing how he asked seemingly unrelated questions, only to join the dots three sessions later, with devastating clarity and detail; strange how we kept going back and forth on things, what I thought to be negligible details.
There was one observation I kept from Dr West, a detail I found particularly interesting. I had noticed, in passing, amid the police sirens and alarm pandemonium, that Pete had discarded the see-through glass plate and tall wine glass, from which I had the Woolworths chicken and red wine just hours earlier, into the garbage bin. Would he, when he had sucked her dry, have discarded Mmabatho, too?
Not a single day passed when I did not think of Columbus. It was not grief, but a sense of mild depression; a sudden loss of interest in campus thrills known and confirmed to engender purpose in boys. Even Rusty Bell was spared my word tap, which dripped to a halt, leaving an echoing silence. There were times when I held her tight, so tight that I feared I would crush her, but then there were moments when I wanted nothing but absolute silence, solitude. I sealed my ears with cotton wool, blocked off unwanted sounds. I left the world, one sound at a time: Rusty yelling at me, stirring her coffee, a teaspoon tossed into the sink, Rusty slamming the door. She, in her frustration, spurred by dictates of a raging heart, accused me of many things; things she soon learnt were not only hurtful but impossible to prove.
Rusty Bell Page 4