These were not hollow speculations, for when not reading encyclopaedias and aviation literature, Frank’s other passion was reading about famous army generals. Westmoreland. Smuts. Rommel. Shaka Zulu. Yamamoto. MacArthur. He had, fleetingly, mentioned famous battles with deceptive interest: the firestorm of Dresden, the Battles of Moscow, Barbarossa and, with almost feverish delight, Operation Desert Storm. He must have observed I was puzzled by all the strange-sounding names, for he quickly mentioned, nodding to himself, that all he wished to share was that every battle has its tempo. Its horrors. Moments of beauty. A distinct smell. He paused, nodded some more, and said: ‘Life is very much like that. Like war.’ This, unbeknown to him, once again propelled me to the Military History section at the Wartenweiler Library. I read about the fall of Berlin, the Red Army’s rampage across Germany’s ruins, the scale and terror of which got me thinking about Rusty Bell and her long fingers. It occurred to me that, as early as the 1940s, war-fatigued soldiers dished out not only bullets, but soiled German and wartime wombs with disdain, not because of any real need for sex, but because there were in abundance plump spinsters, widowed housewives and shell-shocked virgins whose only crime was being born with vaginas, into the depths of which the Russian infantry deposited the last tremors of Stalinism. Rusty Bell’s crime was not committed in ruins, with my wrists pinned above my head, my protests silenced with gun-butting to the head until unconscious, until the last of fifteen-eighteen-maybe-twenty infantry men, pink buttocks squeezed tight to the magnetic pull of seeds defiling a body, then silence. And yet, Dr West’s notes said nothing about such incidents, not even a lone footnote. How was he to be trusted, if he paid no attention to the minutest screams, even if these came from cupped mouths of Jovitas and Yettas, German mouths, ravaged as fleeting trophies of war?
It seemed Frank was not that dull after all, that there were some valuable secrets to his nodding, his Did-You-Know antics. ‘Life is very much like war.’ What does that mean? It was with these life-war speculations, Frank muttering some displeasure at having no glasses that fitted his image, that there was a knock at the door. The visitor looked burdened, remorseful. We sat around the now spacious wooden kitchen table, committed to samp and brown beans, our palettes assailed by the symphony of mother’s beef stew. The visitor, whose conscience no doubt plagued him, declined a plate, requested a glass of water instead. As was normal in Alexandra, a tradition uprooted from the villages – Nongoma, Qunu, Ga-Mashashane and thousands of others – the visitor spoke about everything else other than what had brought him to our home: spiky bus fares, a toothache that had assailed him for the past three days, why did Father let the noble Idi Mercedes rust and waste away, a cautious compliment to mother’s age-defying figure, some reflections on the sinful price of red meat, before some absent-minded remarks on how by ‘computerising everything’ motor manufacturers were putting old-school mechanics out of work. That today’s cars talk back, and know what ails them before the owner knows, warning that old-school practitioners in oily overalls were simply whiling away time with Ford Cortinas and Nissan Skylines with chronic carburettor ailments, for the hunger days ahead.
The ice-breaker conversations out of the way, Mr Mofokeng lowered his voice a decibel or two into grave mode, for discussion of matters both weighty and important. He told Frank and his Maria what they already knew, except that he had come to profusely apologise for nearly gouging my eye out, for acting so instinctively without foresight. He turned to me, said he had heard of the noble towel work I had been undertaking, that he was uninformed as to the true nature of my relationship with Palesa, that now that he knew he felt most ashamed for the euro currency predicament.
If I could find it in my heart, in my own time, which did not mean that he encouraged youthful and blind romance, he would be most humbled to be pardoned for the screwdriver mishap. What I and my family did not know, something he wished to inform us, was that he had been under extreme strain for years now, sleeping with one eye open, ears pricked, listening out for Palesa gasping in the dark. To my father he pleaded for pardon, to his Maria understanding, to me ‘unreserved permission’ to sleep better come night, knowing no one bore him any vengeance. My father turned to me, mentioned I was the wronged party, asked what my views were on Mr Mofokeng’s apology, which sounded to me like practised grovelling.
‘I forgive him,’ I said without thinking. ‘As long as he stays away from Palesa and me,’ to which he, teeth clenched, perspiring, said he permitted that, within reason, but wished to retain a veto vote, to – like Truman – drop the Big One if he so wished.
That is how I always remember Mr Mofokeng: a grovelling mechanic facing extinction, masking cowardice by throwing screwdrivers at strangers. It was only after Frank had walked him out, that creature on the extinction list, his head hanging in shame, that Father returned to share a few choice words – no doubt inspired by our visitor, the grovelling Ford Cortina expert who insisted on retaining veto votes: ‘I have no one in mind in saying this, Michael, but I would much prefer, if it’s within your nature, your sensibilities, that you pay particular attention to any man who walks around with unpolished shoes, laces undone, to say nothing of a beard left to run amok. It might not look like much, but the world has little sympathy for such characters. Love is blind, I know, but you will be surprised the number of headaches you will avoid, ten-fifteen years from now, by simply observing this seemingly insignificant detail. Just a thought.’
It was two years after leaving Harmony that Father studied past midnight, that Mother agreed it was worth risking all the family’s lifetime savings (banknotes stuffed into an assortment of teapots), that Mother fixed those ties, kissed Father’s forehead, her eyes searching his face for elusive charms, before her face eased into a loving, quavering smile. It was that routine, Father having walked away from the trucks, securing a wristwatch for fifteen years’ service, that he almost flew aeroplanes, trained as an air traffic controller at the then Jan Smuts Airport. It was because of his crack-of-dawn departures, his guiding pilots to land on which runways, to circle above Johannesburg in holding patterns, to delay take-offs, to anticipate hailstorms, that I finally stopped sleeping under tables, that father built a three-bedroom brick house, a house in which Columbus would be a tearful guest years later.
When Columbus visited, barely months before his passing, Frank sponsored an afternoon of good food and guarded conversations: that it was ‘strange’ that the Wentzels had no helper, Frank’s friendly yet firm admonishing of misbehaving children that rained sand in Columbus’s curls, the indiscreet questions Columbus asked: ‘If you only had one room, one bed, where did Michael sleep?’ Frank paused, composed himself, said, ‘Under the table.’ Then Father added reflectively, ‘It’s a tragedy of sorts, not bloody, but equally tragic.’ It was the first time I ever saw Columbus bewildered, almost mute.
I knew no person, living or dead, as patient as my father. It was puzzling, heart-warming and at times infuriating how he – that Marvin Gaye lookalike – slowed time, crystallised it, to allow himself cerebral voyages, tranquil silences, too much time to listen to and not answer things. It was a peculiar patience, not without motion, not unlike that of aged fishermen brooding over fishing lines. In his siestas with time, slowing existence to endless shoe polishing and gardening passions (carrots, mushrooms), long evenings on the verandah on that squeaky rocking chair, his afternoon love affairs with Mother’s roast beef, chunky portions of hours spent on leeches explaining that they had no money to pay him back year-old debts, Sunday mornings pouring over newspapers, followed by a game of cards and handholding with mother, the love of his life and envy of restless men. My father exuded the calm of a priest administering last rites.
I thought, brooded, reflected. Once my father qualified, nothing would give me greater pride than filling bureaucratic demands: Father’s Name. Age. Occupation. It would have been magical, liberating, noble even, writing ‘Trainee Air Traffic Controller’, and not ‘Truck Driver’. Bur
eaucrats silently sneered at truck drivers and, I suspected, dismissed my previous applications out of hand. What could a truck driver possibly offer the world? Not so with ‘Air Traffic Controllers’! There would be curiosity, humility, misplaced familiarity in how questions will change from ‘You do know such-and-such is not cheap …’ to ‘Excuse me, but what do air traffic controllers do?’ I will always go for the most dangerous-sounding of answers, and watch as medical clerks and student accommodation administrators took note of the full implications of my enlightening them on the true value of air traffic controllers. There will always be a long pause, before I say: ‘They prevent plane crashes.’
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: On Criminal Conduct
Rusty Bell,
There is no shred of doubt in my mind that you are a strikingly beautiful woman, and are yet to be even more so once you settle into a life of adulthood, which I suspect is an attempt at solidifying looks and character. A question has engulfed me in flames for years now, so much so that I cannot always tell when its tortures are of the mind or the soul. Or both. I am unsure what to call it, but Shakespeare has shed light on the insignificance of names: ‘… a rose by any other name …’
This question, or what I referred to in my previous email as Lifetime Quests, is in my view nothing complicated. I wouldn’t, however, go so far as to say that its granular sparks, its essence, the very thing that makes it a fiery question, is not complicated. The question, which has in many ways deformed the person I suspect I was destined to be, has over time compelled me to think of myself in isolation from the universe. It might be worth your while to consider thinking of me not as you would a normal person with whom you almost pursued thunderous erotic ramblings. Think of me as a leaf, a healthy leaf glistening in the afternoon sun, brimming with pride, but at once defenceless against leaf-eating worms, against hailstones, windstorms.
That leaf, which hides the nakedness of trees, which with the change of seasons wilts away and dies, is sometimes all I perceive myself to be. I am yet to, if ever, make sense of what is to be expected from life, at once vibrant yet so unknowable. I think there is some beauty in that, in the elusiveness. Or is it just me, stewing in stupidity? I am in my fasts – or starvations, as you call them – capable of reaching the furthest frontiers of being, a journey so far into the depths of feeling I sometimes fear it will trigger madness. How majestic and addictive that feeling is, which – like space travel perhaps – seems so profound as to swallow me whole!
My journeys, the descent into unknown worlds, tunnels lit by streaks of purplish blue light, in total silence, is the most beautiful thing. It might very well be proven, in time, that our lives, the fleeting years we spend hypnotised by nipples and suffering, is but an insignificant footpath to delusion, for life is, or at least seems, elsewhere.
I am not, to my mind, beholden to life as you know it. The flame that has been seeking me, yanking me out of burrows of the mind, warming me with unexpected tenderness, charring me with relentless disdain, is the same question I wish to put to you – like a pin pricks skin, drawing blood, but not requiring that morticians be notified. The question is this: what is a leaf like me doing meddling in the affairs of the universe? If it is destined to wither and die, be trampled underfoot, unnoticed, shouldn’t the leaf determine the extent and manner of its being, which is, as I have noted, too brief and vague? Why is it that my pursuit of new ways, to be a leaf on my terms, seems so futile? Haven’t you seen paintings of ancient Rome, of the Caesars, with their elaborate robes and gold ornaments, their stately heads crowned with leaves? Or leaves to accentuate flower gifts. Leaves on wreaths. A leaf to cover Adam’s discovery of the treasures and terrors of nudity.
Have you ever truly looked at a leaf, Rusty Bell, closely observed the minute pores that help it breathe? Have you run your fingers along its skin, let its tiny hairs, invisible to the human eye, caress your fingertips? Have you, on early mornings, noted dewdrops on leaves, droplets leisurely travelling down their veins onto the thirsty ground below? Have you, with undivided attention, observed your own eye reflected in bigger dewdrops, the size of infant palms? Have you ever noticed, during your morning waltz with nature, the slightest rustle from leaves rubbing against leaves in almost muted conversation? If you have, or at least thought about it, you will know that I am as delicate as a leaf, only much more fragile. In my burrowing, in pursuit of life elsewhere, of undiscovered beauty, there exists another world so tranquil, so fleeting, like invisible visions that momentarily make newborns wince, even smile in their sleep.
So I am not capable of offering you what you want and perhaps deserve, because the path to such benefits is fraught with starvation. That said: why did you rape me? A savage, bleak, puzzling and hauntingly profane thing to inflict on another human being.
Conflicted,
Michael
Maria went to church every Sunday, returning late afternoon. It was the only time she stopped mending faulty zips, replacing missing buttons, fencing tyrannies on the garments of strangers. It was the only time she did not sketch pencil drawings, mind maps that would before our very eyes evolve into beautiful curtains intended for Melrose mansions, evening dresses for notable people, including a pretty young actress made famous by pretending to be a mother in a bath soap television advertisement. It was the only time that her sewing machine fell silent, that needles and colourful threads were stored away. It took time before she stopped accepting tailoring work, for the varied scents that accompanied strangers’ clothes, odours that denied our house its distinct fragrance. The conflicting smells, on assorted garments, were eventually replaced by the inviting scents of rolls of new fabric: in creams, royal blues, in golds and shades of turquoise, their newness made prominent by patterns (leaf and flower impressions) yet to be burnt and flattened by nanny irons.
On those Sundays, when Mother was at worship, Frank and I sat on the verandah, he on his rocking chair, encyclopaedia in hand. He studied each entry with methodical familiarity, nodding, occasionally reaching for the teacup on a small table, on which lay World War II pictorials.
Then, one Sunday, he spoke out of the blue, as if addressing someone from the future. His tone hinted at sombre thoughts, moulded and sequenced, pressing in their immediacy, cautious while gently instructive. ‘A Dr West telephoned me,’ begun his address. ‘Mentioned a lot of things, which I suppose are normal for a young man finding his feet in the world. Including the starvations – not an everyday occurrence, I admit, but not unthinkable. I was also telephoned by a Mr Bell, an uncouth and self-important man, impatient and inquisitorial, who alleges you are or were seeing his daughter, that you are refusing to take responsibility for a pregnancy. To Dr West I proposed closer examination of the facts; for I don’t think you have become a madman overnight. He mentioned a salient point, which worries him greatly, that you believe a cat named Clinton something spoke to you? I imagine that is why he called me, in confidence, to fill in broad strokes, get a sense of your upbringing, the “home environment” as he put it.
‘I’m not sure what to make of the cat incident, or the pregnancy, or the fact that you have been having difficulties, are under counselling, or why you chose to bear the burden alone, refrained from telling either me or your mother.’ He paused, sipped his tea, said: ‘I’ve known for some time, yet could not reconcile your calm persona with the apparent lunatic in waiting, as intimated by your psychiatrist. What I would like to say, should say, is that you can talk to me about anything, including speaking cats, whenever you are ready. Maybe cats speak, to particular people. I admit it is mind bending, but I suppose not unthinkable. Parrots speak, so why can’t cats? By way of general comment, and I suppose unsolicited advice, the terrain of women can be ruthless business, or glorious existence, Michael. I suppose it’s not too late to mention a few charms and pitfalls; perhaps out-of-date lessons on the vast courting empire.
‘We were very lucky, my gener
ation, in that the world had rigid expectations of women. Lucky is the wrong word. Perhaps it is better to say we benefitted from the misery of our wives, sisters, mothers – because our times enforced their unquestioning suffering. “You are a woman. Master the household. Open your legs. Shut your mouth.” Maybe not that crude, but the sentiment holds. You wouldn’t expect a traveller who has crossed a desert to, when water in presented, drink slowly, would you? So it’s possible that your young lady, Busty or Musty, is not uncouth; that her lapses are the expression of your times, of women of your generation: a sudden gush, an unexpected explosion of water from neglected and rusting pipes, an outburst of freedom to do as one pleases – with unintended excesses.
‘Most women, if not all, want to be loved – but for that love to be affirmed and recommitted over time, even when they don’t, in certain moments, deserve it. Grounded companionship with your Busty, if you conclude she is the one, is not the hierarchy of opinions, yours over hers or vice versa, but the silences in between. Put plainly: grant her all her desires, without appearing to mould them to fit your sensibilities. Say she likes peach interior paint, you like berry red. Paint the house peach. You have no idea the lengths to which she would go to make you feel treasured. There are psychotic devils, of course, with whom you will never win, but generally speaking, women are not as impossible as they are made out to be.
‘But I digress … There is no denying that some are capable of predatory acts, but that is generally a compliment, if a woman pursues you. She sees something in you, though she does not yet know it by name, its promise, its endurance. If there is one thing that you may consider learning, it is this: don’t spend your life chasing lights. Dance in the shadows – you will soon see the deceptions of light.
Rusty Bell Page 12