‘That is all I wanted to say. Think about it; use whatever has value, no matter how small. Lastly, don’t tell Dr West or that Mr Bell person that I snitched on them. Things could get untidy. It’s chilly out here, let’s go back into the house.’
Finally, after 24 years of utter uselessness, Eugene found what seemed like a true gift, a talent of sorts. He quickly became the standard against which everyone else was measured, promoted, ridiculed. He was, to my knowledge, one of only a handful of people who travelled with the National Commissioner of Police to tense and daunting crime scenes, televised scenes requiring conciliatory and warning words from the highest authority. It was at such scenes, which demanded zero margin for error, that Eugene came alive, that he lay on his belly on adjacent buildings (behind chimneys, air-conditioning systems, solar panels); that he narrowed his eye into the scoped R1 rifle and, with a single shot, blew hostage-takers’ heads to shreds. In banks. In homes. On city streets.
Those dirty green pupils of his were apparently able to see through anything – to anticipate the slightest movements, to – with a single squeeze of the trigger – ensure hostages live another day. But it didn’t just happen. When Boni gave him grief and trashed the flat, Eugene blew off steam at The Cowboys, a shooting range off Louis Botha Avenue in Orange Grove. It was there that the owner, Big Ears Gouws, took notice, kept saying: ‘Fuck! Been in this business for decades, and I never seen shit like this! D’you have lasers in those computer eyes of yours, Eugene?’ Word got round. Bets were placed, money lost. How could this tall, bony, uninspiring creature pull off shots like that? How could he shoot tips off syringes suspended on twine, from such distances? He made money by ending lives, all the time shrugging off that his skill had become the stuff for sniper training manuals. Eugene was, when interviewed on those dreary crime-beat documentaries, equally uninspiring, his stock answer to the intricacies of his lauded marksmanship always a deflating, ‘I just shoot the bad guy.’ Peculiar that such trigger talent did not scare Boni; she spoke her mind, yelled at him if she felt she needed to, and loved her Eugene ever so tenderly.
Rusty Bell, who claims she lost her virginity to a tampon, derailed my life in ways I could have never imagined. There she came, in silk pyjamas, a mother, breasts surging with human milk, her face light years away from maternal happiness. That face mirrored a cocktail of feelings. Shock. Guilt. Fatigue. Uncertainty. Faint expectation. A turquoise scarf wrapped her dreadlocks, framing that round forehead of hers, those compliant eyebrows. I watched her eyes gather courage with every step she took, courage to, with a wifey, mature, strained smile, say: ‘Hello, Michael.’
She joined us around the bed, where Catherine and Abednego sat side by side, not holding hands! How did they not do that, something that in some households came so naturally? Trapped in that maternity ward where Michael Junior was born three months premature, where I saw him battle to stay alive, I had a strange urge for violence. Michael Junior struggled on, oblivious to the soul exhaustion his father endured: fatigue of the very worst kind. Poor thing – besieged by drips to the fragile head, tubes and oxygen masks (feeding, ventilation), beeping machines monitoring blood pressure and heart rate, and the subdued lecture from Matron Khumalo, a lecture on the terrors of Respiratory Distress Syndrome, on neurosensory pitfalls that guaranteed a gloomy and expensive future, real and possible rails of cerebral palsy and attention deficit disorders.
‘But,’ she added, ‘it’s not a given. Most of the risks can be contained, even eliminated, thanks to advances in medical technology.’
I looked at Michael Junior. He looked like an electrocuted rat, head all veins with hints of tortured hair, scrawny body entangled in wires, in patches detecting and reporting things. He looked nothing like the babies back in the maternity wards, the readily lovable ones who didn’t break your heart, brimming with newness and innocent scents.
‘Why?’ asked Abednego.
The lecture continued: ‘Premature rupture of membranes, foetal abnormalities are also contributing factors – though some cases are triggered by lifestyle and environmental risks.’
My heart sank. Poor thing: hanging onto life by the fingernails.
Incidents at Milpark Hospital landed me back on Dr West’s couch. I had been eating, I told him, slowly at first, until the body started recovering, blossoming. I had not fasted for 90 days straight – and looked forward to the home-cooked meals Palesa brought. She was seeing a young music executive at the time, Quentin, a well-mannered gentleman with an infectious laugh.
Three days a week Quentin’s Volvo stopped off at the Johannesburg Zoo and picked up Palesa and her succulent dishes, a Palesa who was growing to be quite an obvious catch, whose epilepsy had decided she had suffered enough. My protests that she not continue bringing food was met with firm resistance, and Quentin, in his religious ways, insisted that service of others pleased the Lord. So they fed me, Palesa and her Quentin, to a point that I completely stopped going to the dining hall, and became oblivious to the Cheese Committee and their charades.
As I lay on Dr West’s couch, counting ceiling partitioning, my palms resting on my belly, I suddenly had questions. I let him speak at length about his understanding of the issues at hand, assure me that the Michael Junior issue was not of my making, talk about giving oneself permission to accept the world as it is. Audrey brought mint tea, which only sharpened questions that had been tormenting me for days. They weren’t questions in the strictest sense, but thoughts that like a shoal of fish sped past my mind, each thought its own, but also part of the black mass that twisted and turned at alarming pace: why did I have a sudden predisposition to violence? What did he understand by the concept of a pure soul? Was a soul, clear as light, one with moral authority? Wouldn’t he, I asked him, agree that Rusty Bell’s coup d’état constituted a moral Problem, that that being so, my troubles were existential rather than psychological? He sweated. Winced. Fidgeted.
‘A pure soul? I don’t know, Michael. You would have to speak to a priest about that. I wouldn’t, in all honesty, know where to start. Moral, existential and psychological crisis? Those are very difficult questions. I suppose you’re right, if you feel resolute and strong enough about what you say. I cannot be quick to affirm or deny. That is not how I work. My wish is to give you tools to help you cope with these setbacks, without harm to you and those around you. I believe we’ve made tremendous progress. As for violence, the urge to be violent is often times an expression of frustration, though the triggers are numerous and varied. That can partly be overcome by channelling those negative and destructive thoughts into positive and pleasant experiences. Something as simple as enjoying a meal. Look at you – you’re a picture of good health.’
I thought about his answer, and then countered: ‘Camus says there is but one truly philosophical question and that is suicide.’
‘He says that?’
‘Yes. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.’ That couch was comfortable, massaging me to further ask: ‘What d’you think about that, Doc?’
He fidgeted a little more and, taking notes, said: ‘I suspect that that’s not all branches of philosophy. I am not a great fan of Albert, Michael, so my answer would be biased. It is a loaded statement no doubt, but I’m not sure I share the same sensibilities. What does it mean to you?’ I said I would think about it, after which that brilliant bastard hinted that our time was up, confirmed by Audrey, who stated that a Mr Rabinowitz was already waiting. I shook his hand and left. Rabinowitz? What could possibly be bothering him: what depravities, which raging appetites, what persecutions?
I was traumatised by the hospital visits, yet still felt guilty if I didn’t go to see Michael Junior, that creature with its fast breathing, those defective lungs overworking, the little stomach rising and falling at alarming speeds. Matron Khumalo said he was doing very well, growing faster than expected, said he was a little fighter. It was hard to understand what she wa
s talking about, for in my eyes the poor thing was suffering. No amount of assurance changed the fact that I knew suffering when I saw it. Doing very well? What could that possibly mean, for even in grades of distress, for which there are no reliable measurements, the least serious remained solemn, surely?
Matron Khumalo was perhaps comparing Michael Junior to similar or worse cases she had seen, which was for me a problem. This particular suffering, of this evidently handsome mouse, a snoozing work of art, at once repulsive but increasingly adorable, was his and his alone. Mathematics could not apply to suffering; it simply was not divisible, comparable. ‘He is doing supremely well,’ reiterated the matron, as if reading my thoughts. I was aware, as I contemplated the matron’s assurances, that some if not most of Camus’s thoughts would be outdated, irrelevant, that quoting them from memory meant nothing and that, as with all well-meaning people before and after him, such thoughts remained precious but out of touch, their subdued potency a mockery of philosophy itself. Life, ideas – as that brilliant bastard pointed out – had a lot to do with sensibilities: accords and denials of a personal and secretive nature.
There was, in my excavations of the mind, another distressing discovery: that my life’s arc had, until then, resembled that of my father. Was Frank’s advice sound simply because he had walked the same path, or was it genius from another source? I wished he could be forthright in his counsel, firmer, more conclusive. What were those open-ended positions of theirs, his and Dr West’s?
Comparatively, you couldn’t fault Rusty Bell in her positions: ‘I have no more lectures for the rest of the day; you can have me if you want.’ Failing which I would just rape you. And then be both delighted and genuinely remorseful. But Rusty Bell had new concerns, obscure ‘wife’ apprehensions, warnings of which were expressed with devastating clarity: ‘I know you’re very intelligent, Michael. But that’s not always a good thing. You’re going to think yourself to death.’
The matron had been right. That electrocuted creature was blossoming to good health before our very eyes. Then one day Rusty, ever so slightly, reached for my hand; held it in a not-so-tight, not-so-limp clasp, leant her head on my shoulder, smelt me in a silent, non-intrusive way. She raised her eyes from the comfort of my shoulder, released my hand, embraced my waist, and rubbed the ribs, the space between armpit and waistline. She smiled, and those dimples sank in their programmed sequence, their distinct duties of making her absolutely stunning: the one to the right of her lower lip, then the one left of her chin and, finally, the two wells that momentarily dissolved the centre of her cheeks. Something shifted inside of me, something important. It seemed a permanent shift, a movement both sudden and profound. Was it forgiveness, love maybe? It could have been defeat, surrender, but one never knows with these things. I could not rule out loneliness, suspected fatigue, and yet knew, instinctively, that the answer would take time, become apparent, on its own terms.
My 44th consultation was not without beauty. Audrey seemed sad, nervous, in shock as she ushered me into Dr West’s room, where he sat waiting. His right arm was in a plaster, his fingers trapped and swollen in a cast. A bruise smudged his right temple, his lower lip swollen. He stood, limped past his desk, taking a pen and notebook from his table. He seemed rattled yet jovial, at times distracted and introspective. There was a cut (four stitches) on his shin, one he gently scratched as he sat down for the session. He, to manage curiosities I suppose, mentioned in passing that he had received a sound beating from one Mr Rabinowitz, the trigger unknown. ‘Rabinowitz with the rabbi beard and one short leg? Walks with a stick, fidgety, grass-green suit. That Rabinowitz – here this past Wednesday?’ I asked.
Dr West smiled, a crooked swollen-mouthed grin: ‘Yes, him. That stick of his proved particularly handy, in almost fracturing bones. He believes I’ve ruined his life, at least that is what he kept saying as he rained blows on me. But you must understand the man’s unwell, mentally questionable. Risky business, psychiatry. You never know.’ Witty, that Dr West, the understated charm expressed in a controlled, circumstantial lisp. ‘Yes, Michael, I guess there is a time to help, one to be beaten up for helping. My ribs. That Mr Rabinowitz sure knows how to kick.’
‘Will you continue seeing him?’
‘Oh, yes. Rather me than innocent bystanders. He’ll come around. Most eventually do.’
I was stunned. And, as a way of easing into a taboo subject that hovered over my consultations, that of my rape, asked him if there was a difference between moral Problems and Questions. He smiled, said he did not know, but supposed moral Problems were more immediate – that is, both Problem and Question in one. He believed Questions implied that there was some time to reflect, debate. Protestors filled streets chanting for rights to abort unwanted babies. That, he said, were moral Questions. It could not be compared with Jews, Rabinowitz’s ancestors, being gassed to death in their millions. That, he said, was a moral Problem that needed immediate correction. He asked me, when I had shared my readings on Red Army atrocities, if I thought Rusty Bell was a rapist. I couldn’t say for certain, I told him, but supposed true rapists would not rest their head on your shoulder, smell you, readily admit to their crimes. Strangely, madly perhaps, I had in an odd kind of way reasoned that my episode, the Rusty Bell coup, was perhaps karma gone wrong, that I was perhaps, wrongly, being held accountable for the 1940s’ plunder of Yettas and Wilmas by the Red Army. Those screams, those ready tears against defilement, the midnight sobs under beds, in crammed and dusty attics, against an advancing plague: dresses ripped with army knives, breasts licked and faces spat upon, in payment for the Führer’s sins. He, Adolph, did not seem to be bothered, smiling meekly in those grainy black-and-white documentaries, pinched cheeks of child soldiers last in line to defend Germany, against men with red flags and itchy groins. It must have been payment for muted screams of Uwimanas and Mukantagaras, Rwandans, ravaged in refugee camps, hacked and defiled, a fee I was paying for an ancient crime dating as far back as biblical times. Did it matter, numerically and statistically, if one Rusty Bell had her way with me?
‘Yes,’ said Dr West, emphatically. ‘Two wrongs do not make a right. But there is such a thing as burying the hatchet. I’m sure Stalin was embalmed never having heard of you. You were not even born. How could you possibly pay for old sins not remotely linked to you in any way, shape or form?’
‘But isn’t the world connected across time and place?’
‘Michael …’ he said, a touch impatient, ‘should I now blame the Pope for Rabinowitz’s enthusiasms?’
We both laughed. He winced with pain, said he believed Rusty Bell was good natured and kind, that though not explicitly saying he recommended matrimony, he believed it was worth careful examination, worth considering. He was also quick to remind me that it was now a three-way decision, that fatherhood also implied that, by his mere presence, Michael Junior could force my hand in ways I never thought possible. This turned out to be a roundabout way of him asking if I loved the child, to which I, with brutal honesty, said: ‘I have my moments.’
‘Meaning what exactly? Does it perhaps mean you’re warming up to Rusty?’
‘You’re asking me to define, to draw a line between multiple, conflicting feelings. How is that possible?’
‘No. I am asking you if you love the child?’
‘Love has its burdens. So, in so far as children are innocent creatures, yes.’
‘Let’s try a yes or no answer, please.’
I felt cornered, thirsty, and said: ‘No.’
Dr West took off his spectacles, rubbed his eyes. He felt his swollen mouth with the back of his hand and, strained but composed, reiterated: ‘That Rabinowitz fellow sure knows how to express his displeasure.’ He adjusted his broken arm, cradled in a sling and, almost inaudible, said: ‘I hear you. But keep in mind you’re only 24 years old, Michael. Shouldn’t such finality be reserved for 70-year-olds, with little or nothing to lose?’
But he was wrong, yet again. Seventy-year
-olds have a lot to lose: memory, libidos, other 70-year-olds. It was only, with the session ending, that I saw two men in suits and dark shades sitting hawk-eyed in Dr West’s waiting room: bodyguards. Against that unpredictable Rabinowitz. Maybe. I had only one thing in mind: sleep.
I lay in bed thinking. Grill Restaurant Lucy. Airport Prune-Boobed Isabella. Midnight Dulcinea. Did these names, distinctly separated by place, time of day and body parts, point to Dr West’s other, discreet life? Or were they innocent friends? It was, to me at least, unthinkable that Dr West was a typical man, defenceless against female charms. Or did Isabella assign herself more functions, other than checking the Doctor’s flight tickets and luggage? Did she look him in the eye, coy and suggestive, her chest positioned for prominence, a sustained smile on her face and say, ‘Enjoy Barbados, Dr West. Come say hello sometime. It can get very lonely around here.’ Would such vague, open-ended words have been enough to ensnare or arouse him? Would he have, unlike me, paid attention to Isabella’s discreet invitation: Enjoy. Come. Say. Hello. Very lonely. It will never be known what he or she said, but it was a confirmed fact that she was employed at or passing through the airport, with breasts that made the doctor think of prunes, thus transforming her into a muse. And yet the same man, skilled in milking airport encounters, nudged me to accept arrangements, a lifetime with Rusty Bell, for which I had neither passion nor control. ‘There is such a thing as burying the hatchet,’ he had said. What hatchet? Why was I supposed to be burying hatchets I had nothing to do with? I would have none of it!
Love has its burdens and, in so far as children are innocent creatures, yes – I had my moments. I knew what was coming for me: the dreadful names, the judgements, the cutting stares. The prelude was already in Dr West’s eyes, his discreet search for parental affirmations: do you love the child? Why was there – as if my burdens weren’t back-breaking already – an expectation, of preordained love demands, a yoke that would grind my neck with each step I took?
Rusty Bell Page 13