‘I like zee company,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘I don’t like to paint alone. No. Zat I don’t like.’
I was a little put out.
‘Why didn’t you put me in the picture?’ I said.
‘Turn around,’ he said, pointing at the café behind me.
I turned and looked at the scene behind me.
‘Are you in the picture?’
‘No,’ I replied, looking at the empty table where I had been sitting a few seconds earlier. ‘Obviously I’m not in the picture but …’
‘Well,’ he interrupted, shrugging his shoulders in typical French fashion, ‘then how can you be in zee picture?’
My Lonely Dancer
(Soundtrack: ‘Dancing Queen’ by Abba)
I saw her the day I moved into the little flat.
In fact, I saw her within the first thirty seconds of being there. My new little home, above the Spar grocery shop, was the first place I lived after leaving the wonderful nest I shared with my parents for twenty-five years.
It was quite by chance really. I was looking out the bathroom window and I spotted her in another block of flats down the road. It was a little too far away to see her face, but I could tell she was pretty.
It was the movement of her white dress that caught my eye when I first spotted her. She was dancing. Right there in her lounge.
And that girl could dance. She was so uninhibited. I mean she didn’t know I was watching, but still.
I think she danced for PACT Ballet or something, because her movement was very fluid and she was obviously a professional.
I looked out of the window a number of times during the afternoon like a real pervert. I kept on looking, mainly because I am a typical male, but also because I have a thing for ballet dancers. And apparently, from what I can gather after a bit of self-diagnosis, I have certain voyeuristic tendencies to boot.
At that stage in my life, I hadn’t figured out that I needed glasses for seeing at a distance and I thought everybody saw the world through a sheer silk cloth like I did. So I couldn’t quite make out if she was as attractive as I thought she was.
I went to my parents’ place for dinner later that afternoon. (Yes, I still went home for dinner with my folks, even though I lived in my own place. You did too, right?) While I was at my folks’ house, I looked through some of my old stuff and found exactly what I was looking for. My grandpa’s antique Boer War telescope. It was a small device wrapped in leather and it extended out to about a foot long.
It would do the trick.
I drove back to my flat, accompanied by a typical Transvaal storm, which was hammering Johannesburg with thunder and lightning.
I got home and – yes, you guessed it – I went straight to the window with the telescope to check out my lonely dancer.
She must have been inspired by the thunder and lightning because she was dancing across that floor, back and forth, like a woman possessed. Actually, she danced with such passion, it looked like she might rip herself apart.
I put the telescope to my eye.
I held my breath.
I closed one eye and tried to focus on her. All I saw was a blur of white. The telescope was so old it was almost impossible to focus.
I could hear a symphony in my head and everything was happening in slow motion as she slowly came into focus.
Now I saw her clearly. I looked up from the telescope, shaking my head in disbelief.
I could not believe my eyes.
Then I bent down and looked at her again.
The girl was not a dancer, although her moves were so incredibly balletlike. She was a white lace curtain, dancing in the Transvaal breeze.
Never My Idea
(Soundtrack: ‘The Dambusters March’ by Jethro Tull)
How come, when I was young, it always seemed like someone else’s idea that got me into trouble?
And how come, when I was a kid, the word ‘consequences’ had no meaning just before some extremely dangerous, dumb, downright stupid fun was about to be had?
And how come we were scared of getting into trouble with our parents for doing something wrong, but we still did it anyway? Just for the hell of it.
Things like playing tok-tokkie, making bombs out of HTH and chlorine, putting firecrackers in the fishpond, jamming potatoes in the next-door neighbour’s exhaust pipe, creating home-made foefie slides and exploring caves created by erosion on mine dumps, even though mine dumps were made of cyanide! And let’s not forget jumping off the double-decker bus just before your stop … for FUN.
One of my dumbest, bright-spark decisions was when Mark Campbell, may his dear soul rest in trouble-free peace, decided that it was a great idea to make a cannon.
Yes, a cannon.
Mark was a smart kid. At thirteen, he figured out how to make gunpowder. At fourteen, he figured out how to get his dumb next-door neighbour, namely me, to help him use the gunpowder to make said cannon.
We made gunpowder by emptying firecrackers, roman candles and skyrockets, then mixing the powder with firing-caps from an ammunition reloading hut at Huddle Park Firing Range, whose door just ‘happened’ to be unlocked one time when we were there collecting bullet casings.
I should have learned not to trust Mark when he once talked me into stealing honey from a bloody beehive situated on the hill above Sylvia Pass.
The beehive was in a little cave on the path that the neighbourhood kids took up the hill on our way to playing war. Those bees were not that thrilled about us little bastards walking past every day and poking sticks and branches into their quaint little home. They particularly didn’t like it when balloons filled with water were thrown into the hive.
One day, in his wisdom, Mark Campbell decided we needed to get honey out of the hive.
‘It’s easy,’ he said. ‘We’ll make a chlorine bomb and stink the bees out.’
Chlorine bomb? Who knew how to make a chlorine bomb? Apparently Mark did. And who knew that we’d not only get stung but also berated and chased down the hill by Mr Little who owned the property? Obviously, bright spark here did not.
So, for some reason, even after the failure of his great beehive bonanza, I agreed to help Mark build a cannon.
So he got a piece of pipe from some building site up the road, plugged the bottom with lead and drilled a small hole with his dad’s drill.
We called it the Gavelot, which I believe was a brand name of some small arms ammunition company. At least that’s what he told me and, apparently, I believed everything he said.
We were ready.
Game on!
I have some choice words that aptly describe the responses I heard from adults shortly after the cannon incident. Idiot. Mampara. Bloody fool. Yes. That would be me.
So, once said device was ready, we prepared for the firing. We bright sparks got some cardboard and painted a red target on it. Actually we did a very good job making the target. Even Mark’s sister said so.
Then we taped the target onto the garage door. Perfect.
Finally, we rolled a ball bearing down the barrel.
Mark got ready with the matches, while I proceeded to place my fingers in my ears and turn away from the cannon.
I closed my eyes and waited.
Nothing.
I opened my eyes and the firecracker fuse was smoking but not sparking like it should have been.
Mark handed me the matches. Good old Lion matches in the yellow box with the red writing. And here’s the kicker. I actually took the matches from him!
I lit the fuse. Oh my God. It started sparking like crazy and I saw the flame snaking down the fuse towards the little hole. I ran like crazy. Mark bolted too. We were round the corner by the stone fences and …
Silence.
BOOOOOOMMM!
Holy shit.
Windows were shaking. Pigeons were taking off. The dog was barking and the word, ‘Hau,’ came from the servants’ quarters.
We rushed back to the cannon. It had fallen ov
er and was smoking from both ends.
Mark checked the target. No holes. Damn. Missed entirely.
Then we saw it. A hole in the garage door right next to the target, and, unfortunately, on the other side of the door, a huge dent in the boot of Mark’s father’s car, parked inside the garage.
I think I’m still banned from the Campbell house.
Do You See What I See?
(Soundtrack: ‘My Eyes Have Seen You’ by The Doors)
I was a hopeless romantic when I was a young man. Actually I was more hopeless than romantic. Which has become painfully obvious in this book.
After I completed my two years of national service, I decided that I was going to write a novel.
Yes, a novel. Which I did indeed write but it was never published. Still have it in my files, mind you.
So I took myself off to Morgan Bay near East London, where my dad was born, and stayed at the Morgan Bay Hotel. It is a great spot, right on the beach. The weather was awful and I did more red-wine drinking than writing.
On the third day, I was sitting on my balcony and looking at the sea. I had my clunky portable typewriter. It was raining. The sea looked grey and depressing. So did my writing.
I ripped the paper out of my typewriter, crumpled it up and tossed it through the air. The paper ball arced easily across the deck into the rubbish bin, basketball style.
Score.
The only time I scored all day.
I looked at the ocean. The wooden railings that jailed the sea were a brilliant white against the dark water.
I sat back in my chair. That’s when I saw her. She was running along the beach. Long red hair flowing in the wind.
I slowly sat up and watched her as she ran. She was beautiful. I was surprised that she was alone.
Her body was perfect. Her running motion was dreamlike. So smooth and comfortable. It looked as if she were gliding along the beach. Although she was moving quickly, she was running in slow motion.
I stood up. She didn’t see me.
I hopped over the railings onto the sand and kicked off my shoes.
I was lonely. It was off-season and there were hardly any people at the hotel. I was actually feeling quite depressed. So I decided to run with her. I certainly needed the company and thought that making friends would help the way I was feeling.
She looked so relaxed. There was no tension or pressure governing her stride. I needed to share that vacuum with her.
I started running towards her.
She saw me and slowed a little.
I yelled for her to stop.
She didn’t.
I yelled again.
Nothing.
I tried to catch up with her, but she was too quick for me.
I tripped over my own feet and fell.
I must have looked like a complete idiot.
I was just about to walk back to the hotel when she acknowledged my existence.
It was classic. She just kicked to the left and without altering her stride, moved in a long, lazy arc towards me.
I smiled and jogged towards her.
We met where the water meets the sand.
I didn’t know her. She didn’t know me, but there was some strange kind of understanding. We bumped into each other and tumbled onto the beach together, half in and half out of the water.
A wave splashed over me and I got soaked.
She waited patiently for me to remove my wet clothes.
The weather was so awful that nobody else was on the beach. And to be honest, I didn’t care if anyone saw me running on the beach, almost naked, in my Jockey Slimjan underpants.
Besides, in essence, she was pretty much naked herself and I wanted to move with the kind of unencumbered freedom she appeared to be running with.
So I left my clothes in a pile on the beach.
And we ran.
And ran.
And then she suddenly turned and ran back down the beach to where she came from and she disappeared.
I never saw her again.
But someone at the hotel who also saw her that day tells me she was probably an Irish Setter. He said her red hair was a dead giveaway. Probably a show dog.
She could very well have been an Irish Setter for all I know. Or some kind of Pointer. I don’t care what kind of dog she was though, because she was good company on a bad day.
Sweet Esther
(Soundtrack: ‘Two of Us’ by The Beatles)
I was five years old and enjoying a walk in the neighbourhood with my nanny, Esther.
Esther was a large, cuddly Sotho woman, who was very generous with her hugs and warmth. I always felt safe with her.
It was a beautiful afternoon and Esther was holding my hand as we walked. The sky was a deep blue and the jacaranda trees were draped in a patchwork of purple blossoms.
As we strolled along the street, Esther chatted to many of the domestic workers who were sitting on the grassy sidewalks during their lunch breaks. Esther knew almost every person we passed on the street. I loved to listen to the passionate chatter, even though I could not understand what Esther was saying because she was talking in Sotho. I was having a great afternoon nonetheless.
Then everything changed.
A South African Police van screeched to a halt beside us. Two police constables jumped out of the van and started chasing a number of domestic workers, who got up and tried to run away when the vehicle arrived.
Esther and I watched in horror as the police rounded up five or six women and threw them into the back of the police van.
Esther put her arms around me, shielding my eyes from the goings on. Then she started slowly edging away from the van.
I tried to look over my shoulder. ‘What are they doing?’ I asked, bewildered.
‘They don’t have passbooks,’ said Esther, turning my face away. ‘Come, we must go quickly.’
She grabbed my hand and started walking back down the street.
‘Hey, you!’ came a voice from behind us. It was one of the constables. ‘Stop.’
Esther froze.
‘Let’s go,’ I urged.
‘Haai eh-eh,’ said Esther, grabbing my hand and breaking into a run.
‘Ek gaan jou moer as jy nie stil staan nie!’ yelled one of the policemen.
Esther stopped and faced the policeman.
‘Waar is jou donderse pas?’ said the constable, in Afrikaans. ‘Where is your damn pass?’
‘My pass is at the house,’ pleaded Esther. ‘We can fetch it.’
‘You don’t have a bleddy pass,’ said the constable. ‘Don’t you know you can’t just walk around here without a pass?’
The constable grabbed Esther and half pushed, half threw her into the van. I saw her grimace as she scraped her knee on the threshold.
The door slammed shut, trapping Esther inside.
‘You can’t leave this boy here by himself,’ she shouted through the mesh bars. ‘He is only five years old.’
‘Laat waai,’ said the second constable, ignoring Esther and getting into the van.
I’ll never forget the horrified look on her face as the van pulled off.
I stood there frozen. Not knowing what to do.
The van suddenly lurched to a stop and the constable got out and opened the van door again. He pulled Esther out.
‘Go,’ he said. ‘And make sure you have your pass next time, né?’
Then he got into the van and they disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Esther, ever the stoic woman, brushed her apron off, straightened her doek, clucked a few times in disgust, took my hand and we walked home.
The Old Man and the Boy
(Soundtrack: ‘Slow Train Coming’ by Bob Dylan)
It was December.
I was on the train to Cape Town for the December holidays. In the Karoo, an old man and his grandson got onto the train. They sat opposite me in the compartment without even saying hello.
The old man was wearing a hat with some kind of feather
tucked carefully into the band. The boy seemed extremely angry. He would not look at his grandfather. He tapped his foot incessantly. Neither of them spoke and the silence was rather uncomfortable.
The grandfather looked straight ahead and the boy stared out the window at the empty Karoo. The grandfather looked uneasy. He kept on pulling his jaw forward and adjusting his collar and tie.
The old man looked at me once and nodded.
I smiled.
The boy stared out the window at the empty Karoo.
The old man wanted to talk. I knew this because he kept making eye contact with me. He’d open his mouth as if he were about to speak. Then he’d clear his throat and close his mouth again. I did it for him. I asked him where they were headed.
‘Bellville,’ he said
I nodded. We sat in silence again.
Later, I asked him if they’d been on holiday. I saw the boy grimace slightly. The grandfather looked over at the boy. The boy stared out the window at the empty Karoo.
The old man suddenly leaned forward. I did the same. He spoke as if the boy wasn’t there. He told me how the boy had run away from home, got mixed up with the wrong crowd. I saw the pain in the old man’s face.
It seemed like the old man needed to talk. To release the dull ache that had welled up behind his sad eyes.
‘I had to force him to come with me,’ said the old man, nodding his head in the boy’s direction. ‘The little bastard, he escaped twice, but I’m fast for an old man. I played for Griquas under-20.’
The boy flashed him an angry look and then stared out the window at the empty Karoo.
The old man said nothing for a while. Then he spoke again. He told me he’d gone to fetch the boy, snagged him in Bloemfontein, and now they were on their way home to spend Christmas with the family. The old man managed a smile. He looked at the boy again.
The boy stared out the window at the empty Karoo.
I dozed off.
I don’t know how long I slept, but the slowing of the train woke me up.
The boy was gone.
His grandfather was sound asleep. The old man’s mouth was open and his head was tilted back against the seat. His hat had fallen off and was resting awkwardly against the armrest.
Blind Date at a Funeral Page 9