The Curator

by Jacques Strauss

  ‘Excuse me. I just need to lend my mother a hand in the kitchen.’ The men nod and drink their water. In the kitchen his mother asks how it is going. ‘Fine,’ he replies breezily. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Everything is under control,’ she says. ‘You talk to your guests.’

  He puts a selection of wine and beer on the table and puts a new tape in his cassette player. He dims the lights a little and goes to the bathroom to check himself in the mirror. In the kitchen his mother has started dishing up. He carries the plates heaped high with food and places them on the dining-room table. Petronella takes off her apron and hurries to the bathroom to check her make-up while Werner seats Ezenwa and Udo at the table. They are still drinking their glasses of water and decline his offer of beer or wine. Werner introduces his mother and they all sit down to eat. Petronella looks to Werner, not sure if they should pray. Werner extends his hand to Udo on his left and his mother on his right. Udo immediately takes his hand and bows his head. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’

  ‘Amen,’ the table choruses. They eat their food and say little.

  Werner grabs one of the Nigerian beers and opens it. ‘Are you sure I can’t offer you something to drink?’ he asks. The men decline.

  ‘So what brings you two young men to South Africa?’ Petronella asks. Werner looks at his mother, but she ignores him.

  ‘We are here to study,’ Ezenwa says.

  ‘At the university?’ Petronella asks. ‘Werner works at the university.’

  ‘No – at the college.’

  ‘Which college?’

  ‘The Bible college. We are missionaries.’ After a few minutes Ezenwa says, ‘Thank you for the food, Mrs Deyer, it is very tasty.’ She nods and smiles.

  Werner finishes his bottle of beer and opens another. His mother looks at him sharply. He is capable of embarrassing her even in front of a bunch of foreign bantus. Udo, he thinks, looks far too shifty to be a missionary. Missionaries? What better cover for drug-dealers? How can he signal to these people that he is not a pious Christian, that they should feel free to disclose the truth to him? How can he say: Please do not concern yourself – I am a future customer.

  ‘Your Nigerian beer is very good,’ Werner says.

  ‘I would not know. I don’t drink,’ Ezenwa says. Liar, Werner thinks. In the pit of his stomach a rage is brewing. He has gone to considerable effort to make this man and his friend welcome. He has bought them Nigerian beer, a fact that has gone unacknowledged. What did they think? That Star and One Lager were for sale in the local OK store? That he and his mother would have eaten plantains and yams for dinner, irrespective of whether these two men were here? Do they not see that a historical accommodation has been made in having these two men in their flat, at their dining-room table? He pokes his chicken with his fork. He and his mother, in whom he suddenly has a new-found pride, have been brought low, but are living lives of quiet dignity, being servants of the state, mopping up the sick and dying and poor blacks, dragging them through the system, raising them up on their own tired, broken white backs. Do these men not see the quiet grit of the Boer?

  He finishes his beer and opens another. All three people at the table look at him. ‘It’s good,’ he says. ‘And cheers – to new friends.’ Nobody joins him in the toast.

  When they have finished eating, Petronella gets up to clear the plates. She tries to take away Werner’s half-finished beer, but he wrestles it out of her hand. Udo and Ezenwa look at her sympathetically. Werner scowls and takes another sip. He feels light-headed and indifferent to the hostility he senses. Petronella comes from the kitchen carrying two bowls of Neapolitan ice cream. It is the first time that Udo smiles. Werner gets up to go to the bathroom. He’s unsteady on his feet and bangs the table. His bottle of beer falls over. Ezenwa reaches over and quickly rights it. ‘Werner!’ his mother shouts and runs to the kitchen. The beer runs over the table and starts dripping on the carpet. Werner uses his serviette to try and pool the beer. The two Nigerians pass him their serviettes and he creates a sodden mess of beer-soaked linen. ‘Oops,’ he says and smiles at the men. Petronella uses a roll of paper towels to mop up the mess and then sits down to finish her ice cream. By eight-thirty dinner is finished. The Nigerians do not want tea or coffee. They sit quietly at the table with their hands folded, waiting to be dismissed. They thank Petronella and Werner for the invitation. As they are about to leave, Werner insists that he walk them to their door. Petronella rolls her eyes, but the men wait for Werner, who goes to the kitchen to take a final swig of wine. He follows them up the stairs. At the flat, Udo takes the keys out of his pocket, unlocks the security gate and front door. He turns uncertainly to Werner. ‘Thank you,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Ezenwa says.

  Werner nods and smiles. Ezenwa gestures to Udo to go inside. Something in Werner breaks. The Nigerians are trying to run away from him. He needs something. Something must come about as a result of tonight. It is not possible to make bold, reckless gestures without something in return. Do they not understand? His life is slipping away from him. Can they not help steer him on a different course? Will they not even accede to friendship? He steadies himself with his left hand. ‘Ezenwa?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you not have something for me?’

  ‘What?’

  He does not know what to say, so he touches his nostril with his right index finger and sniffs. The man walks into the flat and slams the security door behind him, locking it as quickly as he can. Werner stares at him through the bars, pleading.

  ‘Go!’ the man shouts.

  ‘Please,’ Werner says. Ezenwa slams the door. Werner can hear him locking the door from the inside and speaking anxiously to Udo in his native tongue. ‘Ezenwa!’ Werner shouts.

  ‘Go away or I will call the police!’ the Nigerian replies.

  ‘Arseholes,’ Werner mutters and walks down the stairs. The front door of the flat is open. He can hear his mother in the kitchen washing the dishes. He cannot, will not, spend his Friday night with her. But where to? He walks down the stairs, out of the security gate and down their small suburban street. Not far from here are the bars and clubs of Sunnyside where the students spend their evenings. Young men and women are drinking beers and laughing. He looks into one of the bars. A handsome couple are seated at a table. Werner stares at them. The couple notice and look away. Humiliating. This gesture is what is reserved for homeless people. We have seen you and unseen you. Do not approach. Werner keeps staring. Indignity is the emotional napalm of the beautiful; beautiful people knowingly exude great big clouds of it to fuck you up. The boy looks up. Werner is impossible to ignore. He scowls, but Werner smiles. The boy gets up from the table, leaving his beer, and walks towards Werner. ‘What the fuck is your problem?’ The people in the bar are watching. He thinks about saying, ‘I’m sorry. I am an aesthete and you are very beautiful.’ But he does not say this and hurries away. ‘Fat cunt!’ the boy shouts after him. Some people in the bar giggle.

  The street, which moments ago seemed joyful and welcoming, is now hostile. Werner’s breathing quickens and he feels a panic attack coming on. Ahead, a menacing group of black men walks towards him. He feels afraid, turns around and starts walking home. He walks faster, but the men keep up with him. He must not break into a run for he could not keep up for long. He wonders whether he would be safer going into a bar, but he’s left his wallet at home. Home, he thinks, he should get home. He turns right into his street. It’s only a few hundred metres to his building. The men behind turn right also and follow him towards his building. He walks quickly towards the security gate. He fumbles with the keys. The men are right behind him. ‘Boo!’ one of the men shouts. Werner gets a fright and drops his keys. The men laugh and carry on walking. When he gets into the flat he pours himself a large whisky. Measures must be taken against an increasingly hostile world. If he did not drink, he would collapse under the constant aggression, the assa
ult of humanity. He lies on the settee with his head propped up on the armrest, sipping his drink, fantasising about what he’d like to do with that boy.

  ‘What the fuck is your problem?’ the boy shouts.

  ‘You are very beautiful,’ Werner replies. ‘Is it a crime to gaze upon beauty? And I would watch my tone, if I were you.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it, fat cunt?’ the boy asks.

  Werner reaches out and grabs the boy by the neck. He squeezes and the boy chokes. ‘I am a murderer,’ he says. ‘And I will murder you.’ The people in the bar scream as Werner strangles the boy. To be a murderer is no bad thing.

  7

  HENDRIK HAD ONLY been to Moedswill once before. They’d been invited to a party. He spoke to Labuschagne briefly. They stood by the braai, drinking.

  The Datsun struggled to maintain speed on the uphill and he geared down to third. The engine whined. ‘Ag, fok!’ he said. That was the problem with the Datsun. It didn’t have enough power in fourth and it was too slow in third. He changed back into fourth and put his foot flat down on the accelerator. Perhaps he should have taken Maria with him. When he was drunk he would boast about how he could speak Xhosa, but it wasn’t really true. Maybe as a lightie he could make himself understood, but he certainly couldn’t have a conversation any more. But then he couldn’t trust Maria. Who knew what she would say to them? Was it foolish to leave Steyn in charge when the man reeked of alcohol? When he’d stopped by the rondavel that morning he could smell that Steyn had sweated through his sheets.

  ‘Steyn – get up, man. Jissus, you look rough.’

  Steyn sat up in bed and rubbed the back of his neck. The man was nervous. Hendrik noticed that every time he knocked on Steyn’s door, the man looked at him as if he expected to be fired.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s five. Can you handle things this morning?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘I need to sort out some stuff.’

  ‘Fine.’ He coughed and rubbed his face with his hands.

  ‘Steyn – take a shower, man. And shave.’

  Steyn reached for the cigarettes next to his bed.

  ‘What time you back?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nine – nine-thirty.’

  Steyn swung his legs out of bed, stood up and stretched. Since he’d started working here he’d developed a small roll of fat around his back and sides, but his stomach was flat and hard. He had thick hair on his forearms; his upper arms were smooth and muscled. He turned to see Hendrik still standing in the door and staring at him. ‘What?’

  ‘I need you to keep it together, Steyn.’

  Hendrik slowed down now behind a truck. There was no way he could overtake. A large white Mercedes drove close behind. ‘Jissus – get off my arse,’ he said. The Mercedes pulled into the right lane and overtook both him and the truck on a blind rise. He was annoyed with himself. If he hadn’t been thinking about Steyn he would have seen the truck in the distance and picked up enough speed to overtake, but now it was too late. It was easier just to trail the truck all the way to Moedswill. He wasn’t really worried about Steyn. He made a big deal of the drinking and the hangovers to keep Steyn in his place. One night Petronella said that Steyn had more feeling for the land in his left pinkie than Hendrik had in his entire body. He knew this was true, but it hurt that Nellie knew it; hurt even more that she said it. If it wasn’t for the drama with his wife, Steyn would probably be better at the job. The Labuschagne business put everything else into perspective. If a man just chose to drink too much because his wife cheated on him, it seemed noble in comparison.

  Up ahead he could see the turn-off to Moedswill. A long line of traffic had backed up behind him.

  ‘I’m turning soon, man. Just wait.’

  The tar gave way to a gravel road. The Labuschagne brother was wealthy. Some people said he was going to turn the place into a game farm. The idea had met with hostility. But it was more likely he’d sell the farm. House, tractors, livestock, bantus. Hendrik didn’t care. Perhaps a game farm would be good. He hadn’t yet decided what to do if the brother was there. He’d say he had some additional work at the camp and that it might help if he took a worker or two off their hands for a few months. Would that sound like scavenging? If there was one thing South Africa had an excess of, it was blacks. He wouldn’t need to drive all the way to Moedswill. If anyone was there, he’d turn around and drive home.

  Hendrik pulled up to the main farm gate. It was closed, but not locked. He hopped out of the Datsun, opened it, drove the car past the gate, hopped out again and closed it. He drove slowly towards the farmhouse. All around, on trees, on the stoep and to metal stakes in the garden, pieces of broken yellow police tape were tied. When the wind blew they fluttered, like streamers. Labuschagne’s old Mercedes was still parked next to the house, but the two Land Rovers were gone. The curtains in the house were drawn. Hendrik parked the car a short distance away and got out. The garden was already overgrown. That’s the way it is, he thought. Nature doesn’t give a fuck. The taste of spilt blood and she’s rising up, ready to tear everything apart and suck it back down into the earth. He walked to the front door and raised his fist to knock, but then thought better of it. In the back garden an open bag of charcoal leant against the braai. There was a small mound of grey ash and on the grill bits of burnt meat and fat. He sniffed it and could still make out the smell of boerewors. Two outdoor chairs lay on their sides and the remaining six chairs were arranged in a circle. There wasn’t any police tape in the back garden. Perhaps it blew away. Perhaps no one was shot here. He bent down to right one of the chairs.

  ‘Baas?’

  ‘Jissus!’ he shouted as he dropped the chair. He turned to see a yellow-toothed bantu standing behind him. The old man was blind in one eye, but he was tall and still looked strong. He leant on his knobkierrie. It was not like the hunting clubs they sold in tourist shops. His was crudely made and the heavy knob was weathered and cracked.

  ‘God, you nearly gave me a heart attack.’ The man said nothing. ‘You mustn’t creep up on a man like that – you will give me the horries: the heebie-jeebies.’

  The man put his knobkierrie in front of him and pressed on it with both hands.

  ‘Do you work here?’ Hendrik asked him.

  The man answered in English. ‘I am the guard.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Security – for the baas.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry about me. I am here looking for the workers.’

  The man pointed to a collection of huts some way beyond the house.

  ‘Do you talk Afrikaans?’ Hendrik asked. The man nodded. ‘Are those your people?’ he asked in Afrikaans.

  ‘Yes. My people.’

  ‘Come with me then. I need to talk to them.’ They strolled towards the huts. ‘Have you been here a long time?’ Hendrik asked.

  ‘I was born here.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘I was born 1897. My father work for oubaas’s father.’

  ‘And you? You worked for oubaas?’

  ‘I work for Oubaas and Baas Labuschagne. Foreman.’

  ‘What’s your name, chief?’

  ‘Joseph.’

  ‘Always with the Bible names, huh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The women were tending to fires, and the children, barefoot and dirty, were running around chasing each other. When they saw Hendrik approach, the children stopped playing and the women went into the huts to call their husbands. The men, dressed in overalls, came out to see what was going on. They spoke to Joseph, but he just shrugged.

  ‘Joseph, can you tell them I’m looking for Lettie. The one who use to work in the house.’

  Another man, wearing yellow overalls and gumboots, stepped forward and said, ‘Baas, is baas from the police?’

  ‘The police? No, I’m not from the police. I’m from the camp.’ He pointed. ‘I’m looking for Lettie. Or maybe you call her Lerato.’ The men looked at each o
ther.

  ‘They want to know why for.’ It was Joseph. For a moment Hendrik did not know what to say. Why for?

  ‘They want to know why for?’ Hendrik said.

  ‘Yes, baas. Lerato – her heart is very sore for this thing.’

  ‘Ja, no, I understand. Well, the thing is, Joseph, my maid – she is family of Lerato. Maria.’

  ‘Maria?’ the man in the yellow overalls said.

  ‘Yes – Maria, you know her. Lerato is her cousin or her niece, I think. Maria is worried about Lerato. So I said to Maria that Lerato could come and work for me. We have a nice job in the kitchen: at the camp. Mmm? Cooking and cleaning. She can live with Maria for a while.’

  One of the women spoke to the man in the yellow overalls. He shook his head and said something in return that sounded sharp. She started arguing and he said, ‘Haai!’

  ‘Now listen here. I just came for Maria because she was worried about Lettie. Who knows what’s going to happen to this farm now? Joseph, do you know?’

  ‘No, baas.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. But if she doesn’t want a job at the camp – a nice job – that’s fine. I don’t care.’

  ‘Let me talk to her father,’ said Joseph.

  ‘Which one is her father?’

  ‘That one,’ he said, pointing to the man in the yellow overalls. ‘This thing is too bad. These people are very scared after this thing. Some people say Lerato is telling lies.’

  ‘Which people?’

  ‘The other people.’

  ‘You mean white people?’

  Joseph did not answer this directly. He said, ‘I explain. I explain you give Lerato a good job. Let me explain these people.’

  ‘Okay – I will wait for you in the car.’

  Could they sense his curiosity? Was it vulgar? Was there something unsettling about him insisting on Lerato? He would have to call her Lerato. It might provide some measure of comfort. Or, if she preferred, they could come up with a different name; a new Afrikaans name. Lizelle? Lisbeth? He waited for twenty minutes before Joseph made his way to the bakkie. Following a few steps behind was a young black girl who could not have been more than eighteen. She was wearing a cotton dress with a floral print, threadbare and two sizes too small. She carried a small suitcase. Hendrik got out of the car.