One by one the small group of mourners filed past Kyle. Commiserating. Nodding. With muted interest Kyle noted which of the mourners avoided making eye contact.
Little towns. Man!
And then it was just he and tannie Koekie. Alone around the hole that was being gradually filled with soil by two black workers wearing blue overalls. A few minutes later, they were sitting around tannie Koekie’s kitchen table, eating cake and drinking Rooibos tea. They spoke, as old acquaintances always do, about the old days. About how things had changed. And how they had stayed the same.
Eventually Kyle made his excuses and left, careful to conceal his growing restlessness. Since early that morning an itch had been growing. And unless he scratched right away, there would be no telling where he would end up. Less than five minutes later Kyle pulled up outside one of Hope’s two bottle stores. It was the one closer to the Coloured township. Frequented mostly by the residents of that township. He didn’t need any of the town’s white residents to see him enter a liquor store. There was enough reason for them to despise him. And although he didn’t live there anymore. Although he would be gone by the following morning, somehow ... he still cared what they thought. Moments later he stepped out with a case of Windhoek Lager, a bottle of Glen Grant’s Whiskey, two bottles of Schweppes soda water and a large bag of ice.
And then his phone rang. It was Angelique. He stared at her name on the cell phone screen for what seemed like ages before he answered. ‘Hello Angelique.’ He tried to keep his voice as emotionless as possible. He tried to sound as cool and distant as possible. But even to himself his voice sounded strained. And tight.
There was a hesitation on her end. ‘Kyle?’ He said nothing. Regretting that he had answered. ‘Kyle. I’m so sorry. I heard ... about your mom. Oh God, I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.’ Hiding amongst her words the unstated implication. I dumped your ass. Your career wiped out. And now your mother dies. You poor pathetic bastard.
Kyle felt the sun bake down on his neck. People stared at him. Balancing the case of beers and the bottle and the bag of ice awkwardly. ‘Yes.’ What else could he say? What else was there to say.
‘Kyle, are you okay?’
‘I’m good.’ He had been dreaming of this moment for so long. Thinking of all the things he would say. All the hurtful comments he would make. And here he was. As ineffectual as ever. In the face of her cool and clipped words. As ineffectual ... and insipid as ever. How dare he assume that she could ever be his? ‘I have to go, Angelique.’ He killed the call. If he had lacked a reason to get slaughtered that day, he had just found it. Not that he really needed an excuse.
He headed straight for the guest house. He could, of course, have stayed in his dead mother’s house. The house of his youth. But that wasn’t even an option. Too many memories there. Way too many awful and unexorcised memories. No. He wanted nothing to do with the dreary and plain house. Just after noon of that day, blearily watching the little 54cm colour television in his room, Kyle had finished two six-packs and two-thirds of the scotch. The rest of the day was a blur. To put it mildly.
The next morning, as the sun burnt a slow finger across his face, Kyle awoke with a start. For a split second, his head thick with hangover mist, Kyle didn’t know where he was. And then. The previous night’s drinking. The funeral. His mother’s death. The call. And his entire miserable life came into sharp focus. Kyle fell onto the bed. Groaning. Wishing he didn’t have to wake up. Wishing he didn’t have to face the day.
For a few minutes he lay in a dishevelled heap. Dark thoughts whirling about his milky mind. Unpleasant memories racing through dusty aching corners. Wanting nothing more than not to exist at all. Or at the very least, an easy painless way out.
Out.
And then. Like a lightning bolt through a cloudy sky. An epiphany. So bright. And beautiful. So simple. And brilliant. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.
He would change. Yes. He would change everything.
Everything.
He would sell the house. Quit Davis Corke. Even leave Johannesburg. Maybe go to Cape Town. Or even the Wild Coast. Why not? It was his life. And it needed some serious changin’, mama.
Yes. He would change. Maybe even leave advertising. And finish that book he had always wanted to write. Yes.
And so. With renewed vigour. And a new goal. And a new vision. Kyle jumped out of bed and ran into the shower. As the warm water washed the bleariness from his mind, his head swam with wild vivid images of a new life. A new purpose. And yes. Of course. A new love. Yes, a new love! Honestly. What else was life good for? If not that.
In the mirror Kyle stared at himself with growing intensity and became so excited he almost choked on the lemon menthol toothpaste. Rushing about this room he collected all his belongings and hurriedly stuffed them in his suitcase. At the front desk he tapped on the counter with impatience as the manager slowly settled his bill. And then he was outside. Eager to make his escape. And get the hell out of this town. As he cruised out of the grounds of the guesthouse he spotted one of the employees and told him to grab the remaining booze in his room before the manager got his hands on it. Smiling from ear to ear the old Coloured man sprinted inside.
Kyle drove slowly through the meandering main street of Hope. Glad that he would soon call this place history.
He stopped only for cigarettes. In the middle of the sidewalk Kyle paused. And looked around. Taking in the dirty, litter-strewn streets for the last time. Glad to finally wave this place goodbye.
Good riddance. He felt like standing in the middle of Wide Road and flipping the bird to the entire town.
If he had taken the time or the effort to look closely he would have noticed that there was something different about Hope that morning. Something gloomy. And electric. As if a dark thundercloud had descended over the little hamlet. Everywhere little groups of people were clustered. Whispering. And gesticulating.
But Kyle was too relieved at leaving to notice. He walked slowly to his car. Oblivious. He was about to climb in. When his entire world collapsed into a dirty little heap.
Shocked. And awe-struck. He reeled back. His heel struck the hard edge of something. And he fell onto the pavement. Across the road, a group of Coloured men laughed and heckled. A woman steered her son clear of the ‘drunk’ white man and stared back at him with disgust. Inside the bank, one of the tellers looked on with concern.
Heedless of the stares. And without bothering to rise from the dirty sidewalk. Kyle stared in a daze at the newspaper headline. Under his breath he groaned in bitter dismay.
The posters for that morning’s edition of the Hope Gazette had been plastered all over the place. Its headline screamed five words only.
DADDY LONG LEGS IS BACK!
Four
Little Kobus van Jaarsveld was the man.
Hell yeah.
It was a dark and gloomy Tuesday. Above, a gray sky splattered with wispy stratus clouds heralded the first cold front of May. In the winter-empty trees that lined Erasmus Street, Ring-necked Doves called to each other while in the distance an impatient driver leaned heavily on a car horn. Besides that, there were no other sounds in the southern residential sector of Hope. And an eerie quiet hung over the suburb that lay immediately to the south of the Hope Primary and Secondary School.
But Kobus could not have been less concerned about the curious quiet. He ambled slowly down the dusty backstreet of Hope. His Grade-six school satchel slung over his shoulder with measured carelessness. He was, after all, the man.
Well...
He stopped and pulled a handful of Chappies from his pocket. And ripping the wrappers from the cheap bubblegum he stuffed a few in his mouth. He may have been sporting some serious attitude. But mom was mom. And she would not appreciate the smell of cigarette smoke on her eleven-year old boy. Satisfied that this final anti-mom counter-measure would kill the last traces of the Chesterfield, Kobus resumed his leisurely swagger. Chomping hard on the impossibly larg
e wad of chewing gum in his mouth.
Immediately his mind wandered back to his favourite topic. Marietjie Delport. Aaaah. Marietjie. Despite his stuffed mouth, Kobus managed a dreamy smile. Marietjie was like, the coolest girl in the world. Ever.
Hell yeah.
Kobus kicked a rock lying in the dusty dirt road and watched it skitter into someone’s backyard with great satisfaction. Yeah. Marietjie was like ice cream on a hot day. No wait. She was like ice cream on a hot day. With a tot of rum. Yes. Yes! Kobus smiled at his metaphor. Yes. Marietjie was exactly like ice cream with a tot of rum. Or whatever alcohol it was that went well with ice cream.
After all, wasn’t she the one who was teaching Kobus how to smoke?
Hell yeah.
Kobus repeated the phrase to himself. Hell yeah. He wasn’t sure exactly what it meant. But it conjured up images of gangsters in big sprawling American cities, driving big ‘ole Cadillacs or whatever they drove while listening to rap music and pulling out gats on people. Like so much else from the last few weeks, it was a phrase that Marietjie had taught him. She had learnt it from (where else?) American movies. The kind of movies Kobus’s mom would never let him watch in like, a million years. But Marietjie’s mom let her watch whatever she wanted. And let her stay up ‘till whatever time she wanted. Marietjie said her mom didn’t care what she did. As long as Marietjie didn’t bother her and her boyfriends.
Wow. Marietjie’s mom was so cool. Kobus wished his own mom was more like her.
In the distance, Kobus could see the corner of their house. Suddenly, with the prospect of seeing his mother, he became less sure of himself. For good measure, he stuffed another two Chappies into his mouth. And smelled his school shirt.
Blikskottel. That was the thing he really loved about Marietjie. She always made him feel like a man. Not like a stupid little Grade-six boy. And so what if the other kids in class thought Marietjie was a bad girl. Kobus knew that none of the girls wanted to be her friend. And he knew what they whispered behind her back. He didn’t care. No ways. And so what if Jannie Beukes said she had lifted her skirt and showed him her thing behind the woodwork class. No, sir. He didn’t care. In fact, he would be proud if Marietjie showed him her thing.
Hell yeah!
Kobus thought Marietjie was super cool. She was like ... wise. Like a grown-up in the body of a twelve-year old. (She had failed Grade-six last year). And she was funny. Oh yeah. Marietjie was so funny. Even funnier than Gert Fritzburger who made milk come out of his nostrils. Hahaha. Yeah. Marietjie was really funny. In like, a clever adult way.
If Kobus hadn’t been so caught up in his thoughts he would have seen a dirty car with tinted windows come to a stop a few metres behind him.
But instead Kobus thought back to their meeting at the water tower earlier that day. Marietjie had stolen two cigarettes from her mother’s new boyfriend. The creepy one who was always so eager to touch her. And they were sitting on a large boulder. Smoking.
A tall man climbed from the interior of the car. And with surreptitious quiet began following the young boy.
Despite trying his best not to cough on the acrid smoke, Kobus couldn’t help watching Marietjie with slavish admiration. She had the coolest way of smoking. Just like an adult. She would throw her head back and bring the cigarette slowly to her lips. With the cigarette slightly tilted she would take an exaggerated drag. Eyelids fluttering shut. And then. With delicious intent. Slowly opening her eyes. She would release the smoke in the air. Forming her lips into a perfect ‘O’. Kobus had an idea she was doing it all for his sake. But with a girl like Marietjie you could never be sure. Whatever the case, it was so, so .... what was the word? Well, whatever it was. It always made Kobus feel a tiny explosion in the pit of his stomach. Wow. Marietjie was soooooo cool.
Undetected. With dark stealth. The man moved closer to Kobus.
With the cigarette in his right hand. Trying his level best to be cool ... and adult. Kobus had moved closer to her. ‘Hey, Marietjie,’ he said. ‘You smell nice.’ She had smiled at him with those droopy eyes of her. Trying to go in for the kill, he had continued. ‘So, what is it?’
In a way that only Marietjie could pull off she smelled her armpits. Then said, ‘Cat pee.’
The two of them had rolled about on the cluster of boulders, laughing hysterically. Oh man. Marietjie was so funny.
The Van Jaarsveld residence was now fast approaching on his right hand side. And Kobus steeled himself for the inevitable meeting with his mom. If only –
And then.
Kobus heard a twig crack under a heavy weight. And smelled a sharp chemical odour. And before he could turn around. Before he knew what was happening. A sordid darkness had enveloped his world. And his childhood was forever at an end.
Hell.
Yeah.
Five
Little butterflies.
Little tweetie birds.
Cute little kitty kats. With pink whiskers and purple stripes.
With a good lacquer, the correct application of crackle polish and a little Swarovski here and there. Well...
Sigh.
It felt so good to be an artist. A real artist. Not like that little Pep Stores tart, Lorraine. With her kômmin designs straight out of the advertorial pages of Huisgenoot.
Mitzi Croukamp held her left hand aloft. And twirled her fingers this way and that. So that the afternoon light could illuminate and enliven the leopard prints on her nails.
Leopards were all the rage in Hollywood. Magda at the salon said at least two of the Kardashians (God, how many were there?) were sporting leopard manis this summer.
Yes, she thought, surveying the alternating black and tan lines on her nails, it sure did feel good to know you were a real artist. She had every reason to think that she had finally found her destiny. This was real. Nothing like that Bedazzler fiasco a few years ago. Even Magda said she had real potential to go ‘pro’.
Sighing with self-satisfaction, Mitzi re-positioned her chair behind her desk and eyed the wall clock for the hundredth time, wondering when this dull day would finally see its behind.
God. It had been one of the most boring days ever. Right up there with a church sermon on Easter Friday. Or one of those National Geographic shows. Oh well. What could you do, she thought, consoling herself. Even the great artists like Ina Myburgh had to have a day job at one stage or other. And for now, she supposed, a dump like the Hope Gazette would do.
In the office behind her, Gerhard Volkers (son of the deceased Johan and Susan Volkers) farted. This was followed by a grunt. Then he vigorously moved his swivel chair to and fro behind his desk, making the old chair creak and groan under his considerable weight. He always did this after farting. To try and conceal it. As if, after seven years of working for him, Mitzi didn’t know the difference between a Volkers fart and a leather swivel chair.
Sigh. You had to suffer for your art. It was true.
Mitzi pulled the red lace panty from her sweaty crack. Of course there was that too. As if working in the dreary confines of the Hope Gazette office wasn’t bad enough. There was that too. The panties had been a gift from Gerhard. Like virtually her entire lingerie collection had been. And it was a collection to be sure. In addition he kept at least another three of her panties in the various cluttered drawers of his desk. Well-worn. Had been his instructions. Make sure they’re well-worn. ‘I want at least three days of pussy,’ the sophisticated instructions had been. He liked to pull one from his desk drawers and, shoving it against his pudgy face, inhale deeply. And then, invariably, she would be ‘summoned’ to the office, where with sweaty hands and the lingering reek of KFC on his breath, he would rip her red panties (yes, he had a thing for red panties, our Gerrie) from her tight little tush and fuck her from behind (Mitzi insisted). She sighed. The travails of an artist never ended. Well ... Okay. Maybe it wasn’t that bad, she thought, as she stroked the expensive Fossil watch on her wrist. The gifts and the month-end bonuses sure did go a long way. And
it wasn’t as if Gerrie was such a bad lover either. Though, of course, his true talent lay further north. In that muscled tongue of his. Lean and mean. Strengthened with years of American-style fast foods. Oh yes. Gerrie could give head like no-one else. Not even that Coloured boy she used to see during her Matric year could bring her to climax like Mr Volkers. Okay. So maybe it wasn’t all bad, she thought, wondering if it was too early in the day for some oral exploration.
The phone rang. And changed her life forever.
Mitzi looked at the thing as if it had made a negative comment about her lacquer mix. Oh God, really? It was almost lunch time. Couldn’t this wait?
The phone rang.
‘Can someone get the blêddie phone,’ Gerrie shouted from behind his desk.
Mitzi threw him a disparaging look. And taking her liberal time, slowly picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ she said. It was less of a greeting and more of a reprimand. A schoolgirl reminding a friend that she had just said something ludicrous and totally uncool. Hellooooo. If Mitzi thought her trained disdain would intimidate the caller or maybe impress upon him
that a call after lunchtime would be much more appropriate, she was sadly mistaken. If anyone could have viewed Mitzi’s face at that moment, they would have been confronted with the comical sight of her gaping mouth, frozen halfway through a word. Her large bulging eyes. And a face instantaneously drained of all colour. What they wouldn’t have seen was her right leg, shaking uncontrollably.
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