‘Denmark – but I haven’t lived there for a long time. First we stayed in London and then in Boston. And now here.’
Werner nods as if these are places he knows well, though he has never left South Africa. He has barely been outside the borders of the old Transvaal; painful the way a child can make him feel so benighted.
‘I’m going for a swim,’ Aleksander says. ‘You want to come?’
Werner does not know what to say. He thinks for a moment. What will it look like, viewed from the hotel, this fat man following a boy into the bushveld? He has, for the most part, given up guarding against indignity, though he does what he can. He is careful, however, about appearing obscene.
‘Well,’ Werner says, ‘I might dip my toes in the water.’ Immediately he regrets the words. They sound avuncular. As they walk down the path the boy says little. He has the self-possession of the beautiful. Werner sits on what he has come to think of as his tree stump and removes his shoes. He tries not to look as the boy strips off his clothes. This time the boy does not bother to put on his swimming costume and wades into the water naked. When the water is up to his knees he turns around to face Werner. Aleksander is at that point in adolescence when he still has the body of a boy, slim hips and shoulders, a slight softness between his nipples and his armpits that is rapidly being absorbed, with the cock of a man, like an organ borrowed from the future, so that he can play at being his father or his coming self. There between his thighs is the epicentre of change rippling through his body. Werner knows the boy is offering himself for a moment, as a token of thanks. He thinks that if this were a photo, it would be considered objectionable, possibly illegal. It is a good thing the police cannot see into his mind. They would find a good deal there, other than murder, which is not to their liking. If the gesture is strange, it is, he thinks, in keeping with the man-boy who makes it. Only a boy, a child, could believe that the whole world of adults has his welfare at heart; that Werner had any intention of taking his parents aside and warning them, for Aleksander’s own good, of what he was up to. If the boy was buying heroin from North African drug-dealers and injecting himself with needles from the rubbish dump, Werner doubts it would have moved him to intervene. And yet from their brief encounter – from some gesture Werner made, from something in his eyes – the boy knew instinctively that there was something darker about Werner’s interest in him; hence his standing here naked, in thanks. Is that not the understanding of an adult? Does that not speak to a certain kind of sophistication? Perhaps not. If there is one thing we are born knowing about, it is sex. The boy turns around and dives under the water.
Werner takes a nap to escape the heat. His dreams are vivid. He is living in the apartment with his father and Aleksander, except that the boy is called Johann. When he is told this, there is a moment of recognition and he wonders why he did not realise before. Of course, he thinks, it is Johann. That’s why the boy was looking at me like that. His father says, ‘Thank God you injected that adrenalin. You turned my life around.’ When Werner asks where his mother is, his father says, ‘Don’t be silly. She’s living in East London now.’ And Werner remembers that this is true too. Adrenalin, he thinks. At least he is not a murderer, and he feels a surge of relief. He thinks to himself that the relief is like adrenalin, and this makes sense too. There is an order and a logic to these things. It is nice that Johann is living with them, but he wonders why his father now likes the boy. That must be why his mother is in East London. She refused to live with white trash. When they sit down to eat lunch, he sees that Johann has a prosthetic arm. ‘What’s that?’ Werner asks.
‘He had to have it,’ his father said.
‘Why?’
‘To protect him from you.’
Johann raises his prosthetic arm above the table. He snaps the hook open and shut in front of Werner’s face. ‘Ja,’ he says, ‘to protect myself from you.’
His father laughs. ‘You’d better watch out, Werner. He’ll tear your little tottie right off with that thing!’
The boy laughs and Werner smiles at this little joke, though they have hurt his feelings. He was happy to have Johann here – why is the boy being so cruel to him? When they return to the table for dinner, the boy grins to reveal his sharp steel teeth. ‘What have you done?’ Werner asks.
His father says, ‘He insisted. He asked me to do it. We went to Boston. The man there put them in for him. Top-of-the-range. It’s the only way he feels safe.’
When the boy speaks, his words are slurred by the sharp, ill-fitting, steel dentures. He spits and hisses and cuts his tongue and lips. A little trickle of blood runs down his chin. ‘Ja, you’d better watch out, Werner. I’ll bite your tottie right off with these things.’ He grins and his teeth glint with spit and blood.
Werner starts crying at the table. ‘Please,’ he begs them, ‘where are Johann’s teeth? There is still time to put them back. Why are you doing this?’
‘Don’t be silly Werner,’ his father says. ‘Look what you did to me. Who knows what you’ll do to the boy? He’ll get used to his teeth in time.’
Werner knows he cannot argue with this. He did kill his father, after all. He is still a murderer. When he wakes up he is drenched in sweat. He gets up and looks out of the window. It is strange how in dreams there is an implacable logic, even in the illogical, so that his father sitting before him, living, breathing, could remind him that he was murdered. The vision of the boy with the prosthesis will stick to Aleksander and be conjured up next time they meet. He takes a shower, shaves and puts on clean clothes. He puts gel in his hair and sprinkles himself with cologne. I’m not going on a date, he thinks. Soos a fokken laventelhaan – like a fucking dandy. He takes a towel and tries to rub it off. He can still smell the cologne, but it’s not as strong. He runs his hand through his hair to try and hide the fact that he has dressed up. He decides to walk. This will help clear his head.
The bushveld smells good: burnt grass and flowers and rain. Fresh. He had forgotten how good it smells. On the way he passes tourists who have been out for a hike; they smile at this man, dressed in his best trousers and a white shirt – reeking, he worries, of cologne. As he approaches Johann’s house he gets nervous. It is not clear what he is doing here, or what he is going to say. He peers through the bush. Johann, wearing an old pair of jeans but no shirt, is working on a motorbike. ‘Still a piece of white trash,’ he says to himself. He takes a breath and steps out into the clearing. Johann does not see him. He remembers the danger in doing this previously, when the old man had a gun. He must be careful not to startle Johann. No doubt he carries a gun too. When he is a couple of metres away, Werner clears his throat and says, ‘Hello.’
Johann turns around and shields his eyes from the sun. ‘Hello,’ he says. He wipes his hands on his jeans and gets up. He squints a little as he looks into Werner’s face. ‘Werner?’ he asks. Werner nods. ‘Fok, man – Werner! How long has it been?’
‘A long time.’
‘Shit, man. It’s good to see you.’ His face breaks into a broad grin and Johann extends his hand. Werner shakes it. He can feel his own face is hot and he is smiling too, beaming perhaps, at the sight of his old friend. Johann’s shirt is hanging over the seat of the bike. He takes it and slips it on. He puts his nose by his armpit and takes a whiff. ‘Whoa! I’m a bit ripe, man. It’s so fuckin’ hot.’ Using one hand he does up three of the buttons. ‘Come inside. Let me get you a beer.’
He follows Johann into the house. Not much has changed. There is a new settee, but some of the old riempie chairs from before are still there. The place is tidier, though. The floor is not scattered with rubbish and the carpets no longer smell. Johann is living a life of dignified poverty. He first goes into the bathroom and Werner can hear him take a long piss as he lets out a sigh of relief. Werner is unused to these situations; being with another man who can unselfconsciously take a leak while still continuing a conversation: ‘Make yourself at home, boet.’ The intimacy is exciting. The pop of a d
eodorant can being removed is followed by the hiss of the spray. When Johann comes out of the bathroom, Werner sees that he’s even fixed his hair. He goes into the kitchen and returns with two cans of Castle lager.
They sit on the stoep and crack open the beers. ‘Werner,’ Johann says with real feeling, ‘I heard about your pa, man. I’m so sorry. I wanted to phone, you know – but . . . it’s been so long I didn’t know what to say.’ Werner shakes his head, dismissing the necessity for an explanation, but Johann continues. ‘No, man, I feel bad. I should have found your number. I should have called.’
Sitting heavily between them is the question of the money. There is a great big wad of cash in Johann’s throat, making it difficult to speak. He drinks his beer thirstily and goes to the kitchen for another two. Werner asks about Johann’s family. The parents are both dead. His mother died only two years after Werner last saw her. His father drank himself to death before Johann finished high school. Is it reassuring or frightening, when a person’s life takes the course you expect it to, that the unexpected direction is so rare? And of his own life? Is he living the life people expected? Would Johann at least have the good grace to be disappointed with how things have turned out for him? Werner keeps his answers vague. He works for the university, he tells Johann. ‘The university, huh? You always were the clever one.’ And what of Charlize? Pregnant in high school to one of Johann’s friends. ‘Jissus, I wanted to kill that guy.’ Johann shakes his head. ‘I had him, man – right there – up against the wall.’ He points to the wall. ‘I was going to punch his fucking lights out, but Charlize was screaming.’ Johann imitates her girlish hysteria: ‘“I love him! Leave him alone, you arsehole!”’ He shakes his head and laughs. ‘She always had a mouth on her. Anyway this guy says – no, he wants to take care of the baby. He’s going to take care of Charlie. All the usual kak. Of course, after the baby is born, that poes is gone. I told her. I told her that ’oke is a fokken drol – a real piece of shit. She’s all right now. She’s trying to get her kak together in Durban – four kids – huh?’ He laughs. ‘You know I told her: Don’t be like your fuckin’ family. Don’t marry some blarry stupid mechanic. You know – not even a real mechanic, just some fucking arsehole that can hardly do an oil change. Worse than her useless brothers.’ He lights a Chesterfield and offers one to Werner.
Johann makes a living fixing bikes, working in the shop and delivering drink to shebeens around the area. His tone is rueful. He fetches another two beers. He hands one to Werner and then ruffles his hair, laughs. ‘It’s so good to see you, man.’ It is a strange gesture, more paternal than brotherly and one that could only be done after a few drinks, but it brings forth such a powerful surge of affection and longing that Werner has to turn away. Johann belches and laughs. How good it is, to have a friend again. How very good. He takes a sip of beer. They both laugh. How good it is, to be touched like that. They sit quietly for a while. This is what happens when old friends are reunited; they must both take stock, trot out the narrative each has constructed of the last twenty years. It is frightening how little remains, frightening that one can so easily give an account of everything. To turn twenty minutes into twenty years, all they need add is: I got up. I went to bed. I brushed my teeth. I boiled some potatoes. I watched television. I read the newspaper. I cleaned the car. I mowed the lawn. I slept. I slept. I slept. When Johann says, ‘So, I suppose you’ve come to talk about the money?’ it is as if he has coughed up that wad of cash; it lies there between them, covered in spit and phlegm and a little blood, this distasteful thing, lying there between two friends, that had to come out. What would it take, to reach down and pick it up? What would Johann do? He looks his friend in the eye. What an intimate thing it is to do. How difficult it is not to blush and smile. ‘No,’ Werner says. ‘I haven’t come about the money.’ What has he done? No, I have not come about the money. I have come about my life. I have come about the life that was taken from me. It just so happens that my life coincides with that money, it coincides with that money which my feckless fuck of a father, so thoughtlessly, so cruelly, gave to you – the one person I know who could conceivably give it back; the same person I cannot bear to take it from.
Johann insists that, unless Werner has other important business to attend to, he stays for supper. He tries to reach Marleen at the supermarket where she works, but by the time he phones she’s already left for the day. ‘No worries, boet – Marleen can whip something up.’ He takes a shower while Werner waits in the lounge. Werner hears a car pull up outside and a car door slam. Marleen, he guesses, must be in her early thirties. She is pretty enough, but there is a hardness around her eyes and mouth. The roots of her hair are a mousy brown. She struggles with grocery bags and keys. Werner opens the door for her. ‘Hello – can I give you a hand?’
‘Who are you?’ she asks.
‘Werner. I’m a friend of Johann.’
‘Oh – Werner. Hello.’
They shake hands.
‘Can I help?’
‘Please. Can you take these?’ she asks, handing him some of the bags. ‘Just put them there.’
Johann comes into the kitchen showered and shaven. He grabs Marleen from behind and nuzzles her neck. ‘Hon, this is Werner,’ he says, letting her go.
‘Ja – we’ve met,’ she says. ‘Are you staying for dinner?’ she asks Werner. Werner looks to his friend.
‘Of course he is,’ Johann says.
‘Seems like you two have been having a good time already.’ She picks up the empty beer cans and stuffs them into the rubbish bin.
‘Couple of beers, skattie – my little treasure.’
She unpacks the groceries. ‘Well, I was going to make spaghetti with mince.’
Johann pulls a face and opens the chest freezer. ‘Let’s have a braai. There must be some stuff in here. Couple of steaks or some wors. Or maybe some lamb chops.’ He digs amongst the bags of frozen vegetables and fish fingers to find some meat.
‘You’re making a mess,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you go and make a fire and I’ll find something.’
‘Bliksem – we don’t have any charcoal. Werner, you want to come with me? We’ll go to the shop quick.’
‘Sure,’ Werner says.
Marleen shoots a glance at Johann. ‘Why doesn’t Werner stay here with me? He can help me make the salad.’
‘Ag, man – he’s the guest. He doesn’t have to do anything.’
‘Johann, it will be nice for me to get to know Werner a bit. Werner, you don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of course not. Let me help with the salad.’
Johann sighs. ‘Okay, I’ll be ten minutes. Werner, grab yourself a beer. Hon, you want me to pour you a glass of wine?’
‘I’ll help myself – thank you,’ she says. Johann stands, beaming at the two of them. ‘Go and get the charcoal, Johann. We want to eat before midnight.’
He takes his car keys and goes out of the front door. Werner smiles at Marleen. She turns to the fridge to take out some tomatoes, lettuce and onions.
‘Would you like me to chop those for you?’ Werner asks.
‘No, I am fine. Let me get you a beer.’ She puts down a can of Castle on the kitchen counter and pulls back the tab. The beer foams over the side of the can and pools on the counter. He grabs a cloth and mops it up. ‘Werner,’ she says as she arranges lettuce leaves into a bowl, ‘I’m sorry to hear about your father.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s never easy, losing a parent. It doesn’t matter how old you are.’
‘No, I suppose not. But my father had been ill for a long time.’
She nods. ‘So what are you doing back in Barberton?’
‘I don’t know really. I guess, after my father died, I thought it would be good to see the place again.’
‘I see.’
‘And Johann, of course. I thought it would be good to see Johann.’
She turns the tap and fills the bowl of lettuce leaves with water. ‘Now you want to see h
im?’ she asks. Werner is cautious. She is smiling, but there is a note of anger in her voice.
‘Yes. I want to see him.’
‘For all these years you don’t ever come to visit him – you don’t phone him – now suddenly you want to be chommies again?’
How does he explain this, to this woman? He remembers a day in Pretoria walking down the street with his father. Hendrik was half-paralysed and dragged his foot as he walked. Some children from Werner’s new school walked past and his father greeted them in his slurred speech. ‘Come, Pa,’ Werner said. ‘Come.’ The boys stared and said nothing, but the next day the children in his standard were walking around dragging their feet, drooling into the dry Pretoria earth and shouting, ‘Weernaaah! Weernaah! Ima weeeeetaard!’ How can this mousy little woman know what it is like to leave your home and your school and your friends, and everything you’ve known and loved, and find yourself in a cramped flat – your father transformed, disfigured, revolting; your mother so full of rage that her days are an endless cycle of stony silence and hysterical screaming, and your own mind, twisted and bitter with grief for your former life? This woman is angry at a child who no longer exists; a child who died twenty years ago.
‘I don’t know what you want me to say, Marleen.’
‘I don’t want you to stand here in my kitchen and pretend that you want to be friends with Johann.’ She slices the tomatoes with such ferocity that she cuts herself. ‘Fuck!’ she says, scooping up those with blood on them and throwing them in the bin. She runs her hand under the cold tap and then sucks the cut finger.
‘You’ll need a plaster,’ he says.
‘I can see that.’
‘Let me finish. Go and put a plaster on your finger.’
He chops the remaining tomatoes and onions while he thinks about what to say to Marleen. Of course I want the money. I need the money. But I want Johann too. I love Johann. You love him, she says. Like a brother, he says. I love him like a brother.
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