He looks to see if she goes into Pa’s room to say goodnight to him. She doesn’t. Is that something she will regret for the rest of her life? Will he be inflicting unnecessary pain on his mother? He tells himself to stop thinking this way. He’s not actually going to kill his father. He’s going to sit with him. He is going to sit with him and, even though now there is not only opportunity but urgency too, he will do nothing. He watches the American sitcom. It’s about a group of friends living in an apartment building in New York. It makes him smile. He wishes he could have friends like that. He wishes that he lived in New York. At nine-thirty he gets up and stands outside the front door. Now that he and his mother are getting along better, she feels comfortable enough to ask him not to smoke inside. So he stands in the open-air passageway and smokes. Upstairs he can hear the Nigerians. He has managed to avoid them so far, but he knows a time will come when they will walk past each other on the stairs. Or he will call the lift and one or both of them will be inside, and he won’t have any choice but to get in with them. He will nod, they will do the same, and nothing else will be said. He hopes the Nigerians leave soon. It is not fair that he feels unwelcome in a building in which he has lived for twenty years.
He flicks his butt over the side of the balcony. It lands in the parking lot below and makes a shower of sparks. He pours himself a double whisky, adds an equal amount of water and stands at the living-room window, sipping his drink. From here he has a good view of the Union buildings. It is not New York, but the view is nice. He finishes his drink and pours himself another. The first did not have the effect that he’d hoped for. He is still feeling anxious. By the time he’s finished the second drink he feels much calmer. He takes the bottle of whisky and the glass and goes into his father’s room. The television is still on, but the sound has been turned down. It looks like he’s sleeping, but Werner has learnt not to assume. Sometimes Hendrik lies with his eyes closed and, even if he is sleeping, he wakes up often. Werner sits down in the wicker chair by Hendrik’s bedside and looks out at the city. When he turns to look at his father, the man is awake. Is he smiling?
‘Hello, Pa,’ he says. The man groans. ‘You want some?’ He pours his father a whisky and helps him take a sip. He puts the whisky down on the bedside table. On the ten o’clock news there is footage of violence in KwaZulu-Natal: ANC and IFP supporters having it out. He thinks about the last conversation he should have with his father. In the modern parlance, Werner and Hendrik have many unresolved issues. He needs to become more accustomed to the nearness of the deed, so he goes to his room and fetches the syringe, the three vials and a glass of water. He tucks the syringes and vials up the sleeve of his sweater and sits down next to his father. I am sitting by my father, he thinks, with the means to kill him. Should I so choose, the thing could be done in a matter of minutes. If only the bantu who’d hit his father on the head had used a little more force, had inflicted a second blow, he would not be sitting here. The circumstances surrounding the attack remained mysterious, but his mother was stubbornly incurious about it. She said to Werner at the time that she could not concern herself with what happened; what mattered was that it did happen, and what to do next. What mattered was that his father made the fullest recovery possible. Hendrik maintained that the bantu was trying to steal his car. Petronella never seemed interested in the fact that the bantu was arrested, or what happened to him afterwards. And whatever case there was fell apart because Hendrik wasn’t well enough to identify the man or testify or anything else; and Werner thought, but did not say, that there was the question of his fitness, but there was also the question of his disinclination – which was not to say that he didn’t want the man tried. In fact Hendrik said he wanted the miserable kaffir to hang, which of course he didn’t and never would, but he did die in custody and the circumstances around that remained mysterious too. In all probability, Werner thought, the police or the prison guards or the authorities were not of a mind to release a bantu who had attacked a white man, because where would that leave things? He reaches for his whisky and the murder weapons rattle in his sleeve. His father is still awake. He’s looking to the whisky bottle. Werner cannot give his father another drink with, and he laughs at the phrase, everything up his sleeve.
‘Okay, just a minute, Pa, I need to go to the bathroom.’ He gets up and goes to his room. If the thing were done, he’d be best to prepare the syringe in his room. It is good to have a dress rehearsal like this. He places the syringe and the vials under his pillow, goes to the bathroom, pees and flushes. The glass of water is still in the room. He has not considered the details of how he performs the secondary operation to remove any trace of evidence. Think about that tomorrow, he tells himself. In his drawer, from beneath his underwear, he takes out a foil pack of sleeping pills, in capsule form. He removes one capsule. Within a few seconds it feels sticky against his fingers. Tonight he will practise dosing his father – see if the thing can be done. His father is still awake, waiting for his whisky. Werner puts the whisky glass on the window sill. He turns his back to his father. His hands shake a little as he breaks the capsule into the whisky glass. Most of the powder dissolves in the moisture, but a small trace remains. In his hurry to hide the evidence he nearly knocks over the whisky bottle. He pours a generous shot and stirs it with his finger.
‘Here we go, Pa,’ he says as he turns to his father with the glass of whisky. He holds up the man’s head and brings the glass to his lips. Hendrik sips greedily. He smacks his lips. ‘More?’ Werner asks. His father smacks his lips again and says, ‘Tathtes thunny.’
‘Huh?’
‘Tathtes thunny. Whisthky. Thunny.’
‘Tastes funny?’ he says, trying to keep his voice even. He takes a small sip, opening and closing his mouth with an audible smack to show that he’s tasting. He’s surprised that the taste of sleeping pill is faintly detectable in the drink, though his father’s sense of taste must be more acute than he could have guessed. ‘I can’t taste anything, Pa. You want some water?’ Werner swallows.
‘Thunny!’ Hendrik shouts.
‘Calm down, Pa. I’ll get you some water.’
‘Thunny! Thunny! Thunny!’
He takes a glass of water and tries to give his father a sip, but the man keeps his mouth closed. ‘Pa, look!’ Werner says and swallows some of the water. ‘You want some water?’ The man relents and takes a few sips. ‘Jeez, Pa, you’ll wake up the whole neighbourhood.’ Hendrik leans his head against the pillow and closes his eyes.
Werner is shaking. What, he thinks, is his father feeling now? Can he feel his limbs becoming heavier? What sensation does his father have left in his limbs anyway? Has he, in this rehearsal, gone a step too far? What will happen tomorrow? The garbled accusation, which his mother will piece together eventually – with more interest, more feeling, more understanding, than she ever showed towards the original crime committed by the bantu all those years ago. His father is sleeping. Werner has another shot of whisky. He remembers as a child, standing at the edge of a pool. The water was very cold. He was unable to jump in. His body, in a willed prescience, erupted in goosepimples. Do it, he tells himself. Do it. Do it. Do it now! He does not move. Do it now or never do it. He gets up and goes to his room. He lifts up his pillow. The syringes and the vials are lightly pressed into his duvet. His hands shake uncontrollably. He balls his hands into fists and presses the side of his head. He removes the plastic casing of the syringe. He is still shaking, but somewhat less so. Let’s just see, he says to himself, if I can fill the syringe. It is still a rehearsal? A rehearsal? A game! A childish fantasy. He punctures the vial and draws out the insulin. There, it can be done. There is sufficient insulin to be able to throw this syringe away. He places it on his bed. He takes another sip of whisky and closes his eyes. Then he removes the plastic casing of a second syringe and fills it with insulin. He places it next to the first syringe. It is not, he tells himself, by any means certain that he will do the thing tonight. He fills a third syringe.
It is strange how he hadn’t managed to work out the exact details of the act, given its relative simplicity. He goes to the kitchen, fills a glass with water and returns to his bedroom. He then removes another two syringes, draws a black dot on them with permanent marker and fills them with water. He taps each syringe and squirts out a small amount of water. He gathers up the syringes and walks to his father’s room. Before entering, he puts them behind his back. He closes the door. He wants to look at his watch, but the syringes are in his left hand. His mother must be fast asleep by now. He is standing on the edge of the pool. He stares at his father. He wants to laugh. How ridiculous! Is he on the verge of committing murder? Hendrik is in a deep sleep. His skeleton is a body-sized coat hanger on which is draped tissue-thin skin. The drug must be like a fistful of ball bearings coursing through his neurons, extinguishing consciousness. Bam-bam-bam. Lights out. As he has done many times before, he watches the steady rise and fall of the old man’s chest, powered by his own life, sucking it dry until all that remains are two brittle shells. Do it. Do it. Do it! He does not move. He closes his eyes and realises how much he’s had to drink. He feels unsteady on his feet. Perhaps, he thinks, when he opens his eyes, the man will be dead. And in this thought, in the strange tumult of emotions, he finds a strand of unexpected colour: disappointment. If he opens his eyes and his father is dead, he will be disappointed. He will have lost an opportunity to act decisively and with great consequence. Of course, he would also feel immense relief and joy and sadness and some guilt, but he cannot deny that part of him wants to know whether he is capable of this. If he is capable of this, surely he is capable of anything. He opens his eyes. His father is still breathing. He walks towards the man, places the syringes on the bed; first the three filled with insulin, and then the last two with water. Boy on the edge of the pool. One. Two. Three. He picks up the first syringe. He is shaking terribly again, but he steadies his hands by resting them on the mattress. He puts the needle into the Hickman line. The deed is still not done. His father’s eyes flicker. He injects the contents into the tube. He works quickly; for a fraction of a second he enjoys something like the professionalism of the doctor-assassin. He injects the remaining insulin and then the water to clean the line, on the off-chance that someone performs a test. He is not sure how long it will take for his father to fall into a coma, but he is clearly still breathing. Next door he hears his mother stir. He takes a few deep breaths. He takes the spent syringes, the vials, the bottle of whisky and the glasses to his bedroom. He puts the bottle of whisky and the glasses next to his bed; the syringes and vials are hidden at the bottom of his underpants drawer. These he will dispose of tomorrow in a dumpster a few blocks away. He feels nauseous and is shaking again. ‘Oh my God,’ he whispers. ‘O Jesus, O Jesus, O Jesus! What have I done? What have I done?’ He lies down on his bed and closes his eyes. Is his father dead yet? Not yet, he thinks, not yet. But soon, very soon, if there is an afterlife, Hendrik will know that his instincts were right and that his son murdered him, but – blessed with supernatural understanding – will forgive him. He must be dead, Werner thinks. He now knows the most important thing of all. No. He knows nothing. He is gone. There is nothing to know. He gets up and takes two sleeping pills out of the foil. He drinks them with whisky. It is set in motion. When he wakes up, things will have progressed further. He cannot sleep. His limbs are heavy. His eyes are scratchy. He lies like that for an hour. Every few minutes he begins shaking uncontrollably. This thing cannot be undone. At three o’clock he gets up. By now, the thing must be done. If he is not dead now, then the insulin vials were filled with water. He is desperate for a cigarette. He opens the window as wide as possible and smokes in his room. He feels faint. He is certain he will be able to sleep now. He wonders: tomorrow, will his mother scream? He lies down on the bed, but sleep does not come. He closes his eyes and thinks about the plastic tube running into his father. He imagines droplets, clearly visible. His mother says, ‘Why is the line still moist?’ He sits up with a start. Could you see moisture in the line? What did it look like after his mother injected the antibiotics? He begins to panic. Why did he not look? How could he do this thing? He is going to be caught. Only his mother can save him. He is flooded with a deep affection for his mother and with terrible guilt for doing this to her. He has murdered her husband, but still she will hide this from the world, because he is her son and there is nothing to be gained from ruining his life. He tries to calm his breathing. It is five o’clock. His mother will get up in half an hour. Half an hour or an hour? He must sleep. What will she think if he is awake? It will be suspicious. He closes his eyes. The effect of the pills and the whisky is strong. He dozes off. He dreams that his mother walks into his father’s room to discover a rotting corpse. She shouts, ‘Murder! Murder! It must be murder for it to have happened so fast!’ He wakes up and looks at his watch. It’s just before six. His eyes are burning and he can feel the beginning of a migraine. Not today, he thinks. Please not today. He can hear his mother get out of bed. She goes to the bathroom. The walls and doors are so thin that he can hear her stream of urine. It’s strong. Like a horse, he thinks. Like a horse taking a piss. She flushes and washes her hands. He closes his eyes. His heart is pounding. His mother opens her bedroom door and closes it; the pad of bare feet on the carpet. She opens the door of his father’s bedroom. He listens. She makes a noise. He can’t hear. He wants to get out of bed and press his ear against the wall. He moves and all he can hear is the rustling of his sheets. But then softly, wafting, like music, he can hear the sound of his mother’s sobs next door, and he knows: the thing is done and they are both free. He is overcome by grief and begins to cry too. He turns his head and cries gently into his pillow.
At six-thirty there is a gentle knock on the door. ‘Werner, Werner?’
‘Mmm,’ he says, feigning sleep.
His mother opens the door. Her face is tear-stained. ‘Werner, my dear,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘Your father died last night.’
He sits up. ‘What?’
She starts crying. ‘He died.’
‘Oh God,’ he says. ‘Oh God!’
He runs to the bathroom and vomits. He does not know whether it’s the headache or the sleeping pills or the whisky or the shock. Probably it is all of these things. His mother waits outside the bathroom door.
‘My darling,’ she says. ‘My darling, I am so sorry. I’m sorry.’
He has chunks of last night’s food in his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Ma,’ he shouts into the toilet bowl. He’s crying. ‘I’m sorry, Ma.’ He vomits again.
‘I’m going to sit with your father a bit,’ she says.
Werner and Petronella sit at the kitchen table. He’s had four Disprins and two glasses of water. His mother smells strong. It is something he has noticed more and more as she ages. Her smell has a trace of urine. He wonders if this signals the beginning of incontinence. She has not brushed her teeth and her breath is rank. She has made a large pot of filter coffee and placed a steaming mug in front of Werner. She has a small notebook in which she writes all her important numbers. The telephone is in front of her. For a moment Werner considers that this arrangement is not unlike a scene from a prison film. She sips her coffee, blows her nose and then stuffs the wet tissue back into her dressing-gown pocket. She flips through the notebook, picks up the phone and dials the doctor. They have a brief conversation in which she manages to hold it together. He will come in an hour. She looks at her watch. She calls the undertakers. Again there is a brief conversation and she arranges for them to collect the body at ten. She telephones her hospital to explain. Werner can hear the voice on the line: a black nurse. ‘Hau, my sister! I am so sorry. Oh! This thing is terrible! I pray to God for you, my sister!’ His mother’s voice is tight. ‘Thank you,’ she says and puts the phone down. But then she starts crying again. She puts her head in her hands and pushes the phone towards Werner. He calls the university. The conversation is embarrassing. People e
xpressing their condolences is deeply embarrassing. ‘Thank you. Thank you. Yes. Thank you very much. No, we’re fine, thank you.’ He puts the phone down.
‘Will you phone your brother?’ his mother asks. Werner nods. He looks up the number in her notebook and dials. It rings, but goes straight to answerphone. There is no point in leaving a message. There are other people to be called, but the list is not very long. Petronella says she will go and tidy herself up before the doctor comes. He has not yet been into the room. ‘Werner,’ she says, ‘you should say goodbye to your father.’
Should he? He picks up his coffee and goes to his father’s room. His mother has left the door ajar. He hesitates for a moment and walks in. On the floor he sees something glint. He bends down to pick it up. It’s a piece of foil from the sleeping pills. He quickly puts it into his pocket. How did the foil get there? He remembers removing the capsule in his own bedroom. This discovery has made him uneasy. How many other pieces of foil are littered around the house, glinting, calling out to his mother, the doctor, ‘Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!’ He takes a last look at his father. His mother has taped the man’s eyes shut and she has used an old scarf to tie his jaw in place. Trussed, he thinks. My father has been trussed. As his body stiffens, those dentures will finally be locked into place. The thing is done. There is nothing else to be done. The thing is done. He goes back to the kitchen to try to reach his brother.
11
JOHANN AND HIS sister were sitting on the stoep eating sandwiches. It was already dark out and the light that hung from the afdak attracted mosquitoes. Every now and then Johann would slap his neck or his leg, but his sister, being more squeamish, brushed the insects away. It was nice, Werner thought, to stand here in the dark just watching them. The front yard was scattered with old motorbikes and the rusted shells of two Volksies. Some of the bikes had begun to sink into the earth. Werner could make out Johann’s father inside the house. He didn’t want to go inside. He’d never spoken to Johann’s father, he’d only ever seen him in town. He would just sit outside here on the stoep for a while and talk to Johann. Werner stepped forward. Johann, hearing something, looked up.
The Curator Page 9