‘We should camp out here sometime,’ he says. ‘It’s so still.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We should do that.’
‘It’s great to be away,’ he says. ‘From them.’
He’s speaking of his family; his home. He often speaks of them this way. I don’t know what he means by this: they all seem nice enough. They live in a huge, two-storeyed house made out of wood, about half an hour’s ride from us. They’re further up the valley, though, out of sight of the lake. There are five of them: Robert, his parents, his two brothers. I’m alone in my home, I have no brothers. Perhaps it’s this that makes their house a beautiful place to me. Perhaps there really is something ugly in it that I haven’t seen. Either way, we don’t spend much time there. It’s to my home that Robert likes to come in the afternoons when school is done. He’s familiar to us all. He comes straight up to my room, I know the way he knocks on my door. Bang-bang, thud.
My mother has spoken to me about him. At least twice that I can remember she’s sat on my bed, smiling at me and playing with her hands.
‘But what’s wrong with it?’ I say. ‘Everyone has friends.’
‘But lots,’ she says. ‘Lots of friends. You do nothing else, you see no one else …’
‘There’s nothing else to do,’ I say. ‘Other people bore me.’
‘There’s sport,’ she says. ‘I’ve seen them at the school, every afternoon. Why don’t you play sport like other boys? You’re becoming thinner and thinner.’
It’s true. I am. When I look at myself in the mirror I’m surprised at how thin I am. But I’m not unhealthy, my skin is dark, I’m fit. We ride for miles together, Robert and me, along the dust roads that go around the lake.
‘It’s him,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it? It’s him you don’t like.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘It isn’t that. I like him well enough. It’s you, you that’s the matter.’
I don’t want to upset them, my parents. I want to be a good son to them. But I don’t know any way to be fatter than I am, to please them. I do my best.
‘I’ll try,’ I say. ‘I’ll try to see less of him.’
But it doesn’t help. Most afternoons I hear his knock at my door and I’m glad at the sound. We go out on our bikes. This happens at night too, from time to time. As now – when we find ourselves at the edge of the lake, staring at the moon.
‘D’you want a smoke?’ he says.
I don’t answer. But he takes one out of the box anyway, leaning forward to light it in the fire. He puffs. Then he hands it to me. I take a drag, trying to be casual. But I’ve never felt as easy about it as Robert seems to. The smoke is rough in my throat, it makes my tongue go sour. I don’t enjoy it. But for the sake of Robert I allow this exchange to take place, this wordless passing back and forth, this puffing in the dark. I touch his hand as I give it back to him.
‘Are you bored?’ he asks. ‘Why’re you so quiet?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’ I think for a while, then ask, ‘Are you?’
‘No,’ he says.
But I wonder if he is. In sudden alarm I think of the places he might rather be, the people he might rather be with. To confirm my fear, he mutters just then:
‘Emma Brown – ’
‘Why are you thinking about Emma Brown?’ I say. ‘What made you think of her now?’
He’s looking at me, surprised. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth. ‘I was just wondering,’ he says. ‘I was just wondering where she is.’
‘Why?’ I say.
‘I just wondered if she was also watching the moon.’
‘Oh,’ I say, and smile bitterly into the fire. I don’t know what’s going through his head, but mine is full of thoughts of her: of silly little Emma Brown, just a bit plump, with her brown hair and short white socks. I remember a few times lately that I’ve seen her talking to Robert; I remember him smiling at her as she came late to class.
‘I was just thinking,’ he says, and shrugs.
I finish the cigarette. I throw the butt into the fire. We don’t talk for a long time after that. I can hear the dogs licking each other, the rasping noise of their tongues. I begin to feel sad. I think of my anger and something in me slides, as if my heart is displaced.
He reaches out a hand and grazes my arm. It’s just a brief touch, a tingle of fingers, but it goes into me like a coal. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Nothing.’ I want to say more, but I don’t like to lie. Instead I say again, ‘Nothing.’ I feel stupid.
The fire burns down to a red smear on the ground. Across the water the lights have started to go out. Only a few are left. I look off to the right: the lights in my house are still on. My parents keep watch.
When I look back, Robert is on his feet. His head is thrown back. I don’t stand, but I gaze over his shoulder at what he’s watching: the white disc of the moon, from which a piece has been broken. While we were talking, the great shadow of the earth has started to cover the moon. If you look hard enough, the dark piece can still be seen, but only in outline, as if it’s been sketched with chalk.
We stare for a long time. As we do, the shadow creeps on perceptibly. You can actually see it move.
‘Wow,’ he says.
Sensing something, one of the dogs throws back its head in imitation of us and begins to howl. The noise goes up, wobbling on the air like smoke.
‘Sheba,’ says Robert. ‘Be quiet.’
We watch the moon as it sinks slowly out of sight. Its light is still coming down, but more faintly than before. On the whole valley, lit weirdly in the strange blue glow, a kind of quiet has fallen. There is nothing to say. I lower my eyes and look out over the water. Robert sits down next to me on his heels, hugging his knees. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘there’s times when everything feels … feels …’
He doesn’t finish.
‘I know,’ I say.
We sit and watch. Time goes by. The trees are behind us, black and big. I look across to my home again and see that the lights have gone out. All along the far shore there is dark. We’re alone.
‘It’s taking a long time,’ he says. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It is.’
It’s hot. The dogs are panting like cattle in the gloom. I feel him along my arm. A warmth. I spring up, away. ‘I’m going to swim,’ I say, unbuttoning my shirt.
I take off my clothes, and drop them on the sand. The dogs are standing, staring at me. Robert also watches, still crouched on his heels, biting his arm. When I’m naked I turn my back on him and walk into the lake. I stop when the water reaches my knees and stand, arms folded across my chest, hands clinging to my ribs as if they don’t belong to me. It isn’t cold, but my skin goes tight as if it is. One of the dogs lets out a bark. I walk on, hands at my sides now, while the water gets higher and higher. When it reaches my hips I dive. It covers my head like a blanket. I come up, spluttering. ‘It’s warm,’ I say, ‘as blood.’
‘Hold on,’ he calls. ‘I’m –’
As I turn he’s already running. I catch a glimpse of his body, long and bright as a blade, before he also dives. When he comes up, next to me, the air is suddenly full of noise: the barking of the dogs as they run along the edge of the lake, the splashing of water, the shouts of our voices. It is our voices I hear, I’m surprised at the sound. I’m laughing. I’m calling out.
‘Don’t you,’ I say, ‘don’t you try –’
We’re pushing at each other, and pulling. Water flies. The bottom of the lake is slippery to my feet, I feel stones turn. I have hold of Robert’s shoulder. I have a hand in his hair. I’m trying to push him under, wrenching at him while he does the same to me. He laughs.
Nothing like this has taken place between us before. I feel his skin against me, I feel the shape of his bones as we wrestle and lunge. We’re touching each other. Then I slide, the water hits my face. I go under, pulling him with me, and for a moment we’re tangled below the surf
ace, leg to leg, neck to neck, furry with bubbles, as if we’ll never pull free.
We come up together into quiet. The laughter has been doused. We still clutch to each other, but his fingers are hurting me. We stand, face to face. While we were below, the last sliver of moon has been blotted out. A total dark has fallen on the valley, so that the trees are invisible against the sky. The moon is a faint red outline overhead. I can’t see Robert’s face, though I can feel his breath against my nose. We gasp for air. The only sound to be heard is the howling of the dogs that drifts in from the shore: an awful noise, bereaved and bestial.
I let go. And he lets go of me. Finger by finger, joint by joint, we release one another till we are standing, separate and safe, apart. I rub my arm where he hurt it.
‘Sorry,’ he mutters.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
After that we make our way to shore. I wade with heavy steps, as if through sand. By the time I reach the edge and am standing, dripping, beside my clothes, the moon has begun to emerge from shadow and a little light is falling. The dogs stop howling. I don’t look up as I dress. I put my clothes on just so, over my wet body. They stick to me like mud.
I wait for him to finish dressing. As he ties his shoelaces I say, not even looking at him, ‘What d’you think will happen?’
‘What d’you mean?’ he says.
‘To us,’ I say. ‘D’you think in ten years from now we’re even going to know each other?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he says.
He sounds irritated as he says this, as if I say a lot of things he doesn’t understand. Maybe I do. I turn away and start to walk back to the bikes.
‘Hey,’ he calls. ‘What you … don’tcha want another smoke or somethin’ before we go?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not me.’
I wait for him at the tree where the bikes are leaning. He takes his time. I watch him scoop water over the coals. They make a hissing noise, like an engine beneath the ground. Then he walks up towards me along the bank, hands in his pockets. The sight of him this way, sulking and slow, rings in me long after we’ve mounted our bikes and started back up the path.
By the time we rejoin the dust road a little way on, the soreness in me is smaller than it was. One of the dogs runs into his way and he swears. At this I even manage to laugh. I look off and up to the left, at the moon which is becoming rounder by the minute. Its light comes down in soft white flakes, settling on us coldly as we ride.
THE CLAY OX
I stood at the roadside for perhaps half an hour before she stopped for me. I looked around. Countless cars went past. There were pebbles next to my boots. Yellow grasslands shimmered away on either side. I turned my head once and spat – a little star of gob that began to sizzle gently on the tar.
Then she pulled up. She drove a white Volkswagen beetle. There was a rubber skeleton dangling from the mirror.
‘Where to?’ she said.
‘Where are you going?’ I opened the door before she could answer. I didn’t actually know where I was, what road precisely I had stood beside for a forty-eighth part of a day. Harrismith was the last town I’d seen. I didn’t know in what direction it now lay. I slid in beside her and closed the door. The window was open, so I rested my arm along it. I stared straight in front of me.
‘Hey,’ she said. Her voice was furry, the words lifted from her lips like soap-bubbles. I must confess I liked it immediately. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘You must be going somewhere.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ I said. Ever the cynic. I suspect she smiled then, I can’t say for sure; I wasn’t looking at her. But it was then that she put the car in gear and swung out onto the road. As we gathered speed, warm corrugations of air pushed against my face. On either side of us the landscape spread like a silent yellow foam. I put on my seat-belt.
Much later she confided that she’d been afraid of me. A little, anyway. My browns were filthy, stiff with dew and sap and other excretions that I’d collected nightly in roadside hollows. It seemed that I was doomed to inhabit the edges of roads until I reached the end of mine. I stank. My hair was unbrushed. Bristles covered my chin. The skin of my hands had been broken by thorns. But it didn’t occur to me that I may have been frightening to look at. Perhaps it was just that I didn’t care much for the feelings of others after a thousand kilometres of desert and veld.
‘I thought soldiers were supposed to be neat,’ she said after we’d driven for five minutes in silence. Then: ‘Aren’t they?’ when it became clear I wasn’t going to agree.
‘I’m not a soldier,’ I said shortly and looked out of the window.
‘No?’ She glanced at my bedraggled uniform and discoloured boots. Then she leaned forward and pressed a tape into the deck below the dashboard. Beethoven. The Moonlight Sonata. Even in the interior of the Volkswagen those moth-soft notes were perfect enough to be painful. I smiled, not quite at her.
‘You like?’
I nodded and looked in front of me again. In the swift sideways turn of my head I’d caught a peripheral glimpse of white-blonde hair cut raggedly short.
‘What’s your name?’ she said.
‘Guy.’
‘Don’t you look people in the face, Guy?’
‘No.’
Before us the road ran grey. Hillocks heaved up from the plain here, like mounds covering the mass graves of men killed in fighting.
‘Don’t you want to know my name, Guy?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘You’re weird, aren’t you?’
So I looked her in the face. I think it was the first face I’d met with my eyes in more than a month. She smiled at me. Her teeth were uneven. She wore no makeup and the angles of her cheeks and jaw trapped small smears of shadow in her skin. I smiled thinly back at her.
‘Where are you going?’ The second time I’d asked.
‘I’m going to the mountains,’ she said. ‘To the Drakensberg for a day or two.’
It was agreed between us, though not with words, that I would accompany her. I turned away and looked out of my window again.
As a child I had lived among green hills and like a hummingbird had craved the sweat of flowers. At night I walked through plantations where leaves fell quiet as scent across the white moon. Now I carried behind my forehead the discord of barbed wire, of boot-battered parade grounds, of human eyes like those of dogs flickering redly from the dark. Flight had promised to accelerate my descent towards the thrilling detonation of my own extinction. Having begun, one cannot stop. Foot before foot, wrenching the prison of the tattered soul endlessly forward, one staggers across deserts to get away.
If I had been asked, I would have said that I was raised in Tzaneen and that I had been a boarder at Pretoria Boys’ High School. I was an anonymous boy, one among many. I would have admitted that my parents were divorced and, if pressed, that my mother had remarried. But that would have been the limit of any confession on my part. To say any more would be against the values taught me by my father, who is a good man. He allows me to call him by his first name. He is Geoff. Geoff fought in the Second World War and carries a distinctive scar on his back.
Before he left there were many pleasurable evenings when Geoff would play his records. We would sit on the outside stoep and listen. The sweetest voice I’d ever heard came to me through the open windows and through some more secret opening in the four decades that prised us apart. Geoff told me her name was Vera Lynn. Vera sang to us on those evenings such delicious vows as ‘I know we’ll meet again some sunny day’. I trusted Vera. I believed her. ‘There’ll be peace and laughter,’ she sang, ‘forever after, tomorrow, when we are free.’
My stepfather is not like Geoff at all. I know from the start that stepfathers are by tradition formidable and cruel and so I try to accommodate this man by saying it is difficult for him and I must be patient. In reality he is formidable and cruel. He is short and squat with reddish hair. His lips are like pink slugs. Also, I
can’t understand him. He speaks Afrikaans and he speaks it very quickly. His arms are long and his hands are hard. He strikes me often with his fist against my head.
On a certain day, for reasons too complex for me to comprehend, he locks my mother in her room. He stands outside the door and listens to her cries. By now I have run and am sitting on my bed, shaking. I can feel violence colouring the air. I have seen it growing like this before. My stepfather tolerates nothing and lashes out with his hard fists on their long arms. He has knocked down our black gardener when he becomes impertinent. I have heard him break my mother’s nose and blacken her eyes. And, as I have said, he strikes me often with his fist against my head. I am terribly afraid of him.
‘If you don’t let me out,’ my mother says, ‘I’ll break the window.’
He does not reply. But I sense him standing darkly at her door, folding up his thick red fingers into a fist.
‘One, two, three,’ my mother cries.
I hear glass break. Hanging out of my window, I see her lunging with a wooden walking stick. The noise is jagged and harsh. It goes on until she has knocked every last fragment from the frame. The shards lie jumbled and sharp among the brilliant blooms that blaze like fire outside their room.
Now my stepfather twists the little stub of metal in the lock and swings open the door. ‘Take your son and get out,’ he says.
This is a violence of a different kind. Weeping, my mother stumbles with me to the car. I sit in the back seat, unable to comprehend why she is not as joyful as I am to be leaving. She doesn’t start the engine. ‘Wait here,’ she says and goes back inside. I am afraid for her, but I do as I am told. I wait. I wait. After an hour has passed I get out and go inside, expecting death. The house is quiet. I tiptoe to my mother’s room. Through the crack in the door I see them both, side by side on the bed. Their hands are joined. Cold winds blow in through the broken window, passing over and between them as they lie sleeping.
My first impression of those mountains was not overwhelming. Dusk was already falling as we approached along abominable dust roads, following obscure signposts on either side. I’d never been to the Drakensberg before, though I’d heard of them. They were a part of our history. The Boers, I knew, had crossed them on their trek into the interior. I looked forward to seeing them, I was ready to be impressed. But there was nothing to see. After a while I gave up straining my eyes.
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