My father had broken into a trot with me following a few steps behind. As we drew closer, I heard the man with the tattoos say, ‘I catch you on this beach again and—’ The rest was drowned by the sound of a wave breaking on the sand.
The old Zulu was trying to answer. I could not make out the sense of it, but the word ‘sir’ came into it more than once. The one with the tattoos leant forward and drew back his right fist with the obvious intention of hitting him again.
‘Stop that! Stop that immediately!’ I heard my father shout.
This was clearly unexpected. Tattoos turned his head towards my father, the raised fist still pointing at his victim. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.
The tattooed arms were heavily muscled, clearly the result of much weight lifting, and he was at least twenty years younger than my father, but my father pushed him away from the man on the ground. For a moment the younger man’s eyes were hot with anger, but my father’s pointing finger was almost touching his face. ‘My name is Bernard Vorster and I am a director of the Department of the Interior. I saw what happened here. I’ll give you one minute to get off this beach or face assault charges.’ Although he had run some distance and his heart must have been beating fast, he spoke evenly and without any trace of breathlessness, but with an emotionless coldness that was not lost on Tattoos.
There was something so forbidding in my father’s tone that, for a moment, the other man was unable to respond. By the time he did, my father had turned his back on him and was helping the old Zulu to his feet.
‘This is a whites only beach,’ Tattoos complained. ‘He was on our beach.’ I do not think that I imagined the plaintive sound in his voice.
My father paid no attention to him. He was dusting sand off the old man’s clothing.
‘He shouldn’ta been here.’ Tattoos tried again. ‘He had no right to be here.’
‘Are you hurt?’ my father asked the old man. His voice was stern. Its tone suggested to me that, while he would put up with no further nonsense from the assailant, he did not see the victim as guiltless either and that it would be in his interest not to be hurt.
‘No, sir. I’m not hurt.’
‘Fucking coon shouldn’ta been here.’ But it was Tattoos last bit of bravado. He was already retreating up the beach towards his friends. ‘Let him have his kaffir friend if that’s what he wants,’ he shouted to them, but loud enough for it to reach us. ‘Fucking government bloke, whose side is he on?’
My father spoke softly to the old man. ‘I apologise for this attack on you,’ he said. ‘It was uncalled for.’
‘It wasn’t you, sir.’
‘I know. But he was right that you should not be here. So you also please leave the beach. Wait until those people are gone, then leave.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
My father nodded unsmilingly at him and started to move away. ‘Wait till you’re sure they’ve left.’
Up at the parking, Tattoos and his friends were trying to save face by scowling back at us as they got into a car and drove away. It was a wonderful thing to me that, with only a few words, my father had scared off this muscular bully and his friends. I looked at his face as we walked on in silence, but all I saw was the same look of deep inner absorption I had seen there so often. When he spoke, it was to explain his actions. ‘Those low-class men are a disgrace to the white race. They are the real racists. We do what we have to do for a reason. We don’t take pleasure in pain being inflicted on others.’
To the best of my knowledge, this was the first time I had heard the word ‘racist’. I would have liked to discuss its meaning, but another thought got in the way. Was this the time? I wondered. Could I not just explain that I had a friend and that it would be a big thing to me, his son, if her identity number could have a 00, instead of whatever it was now? It would be the greatest gift he could ever give me and why not, after all? And I, although I already loved him dearly, would love him still more, if only he could do this one thing. Any fool like Snake Wilson who got in the way would be firmly dealt with. My father was not a man to be trifled with by people like Snake or Tattoos and his friends. We were closer now than ever. There was the music that we now had in common and he was even seeking me out for companionship. If ever there was a time to ask this of him, surely it was now.
He spoke before I could put my request to him. ‘I will always be grateful to you for this wonderful music. It has brought us closer together.’ I was a big boy, full of the urges of young manhood and already deeply disturbed by the very premise according to which my father lived his life and desperately anxious when I thought about the possibility of what he could do in my life and Ruthie’s, but my eyes filled with tears. I felt as if my heart would burst, but for precisely what reason I could not tell.
thirty-eight
Through many nights I lay awake. I had been accepted by Ruthie’s family and had apparently achieved acceptance by my own father. By any normal assessment of happiness, my life at that time should have been a joyous one.
If the music I now shared with my father was a surprise to me, it was an even bigger surprise to our womenfolk. ‘The tunes are nice,’ Mama said, ‘but I’d rather be able to understand what they’re singing about.’
Annie treated the whole thing as a plot I had conjured up to embarrass her. That lasted until I brought home a disc of songs by Joan Sutherland. With the music playing, I got up to go to the bathroom and found her in the passage with her eyes closed, listening. When she realised she had been discovered, she scowled at me and started for their bedroom. ‘This one’s not too bad,’ she said.
As for Michie, the day came when my father brought home a complete recording of Aida on three records. It was accompanied by a booklet that had all the Italian words and, opposite them, an English translation. She played the entire opera, reading the English words. When it was over, she said, ‘Now it makes sense. I like the story. It makes me cry.’
This is not to say that the Jim Reeves and Slim Whitman recordings and those of our own Jurie Ferreira were packed away entirely. We were still treated to their plaintive offerings from time to time. Mama especially loved to play her country-and-western songs while she was alone in the house and working in the kitchen. Often, if I came home unexpectedly, she would be listening to one of them as she prepared dinner, sometimes singing softly along.
My father even invited me to a concert, just the two of us. The Natal Performing Arts Council was holding an operatic evening. Singers from other parts of the country had been invited and it promised to be quite a grand affair. I saw Ruthie on the Saturday, but before I could tell her about my father’s invitation, she was telling me about the concert and how she thought we might be allowed to sit together.
‘My father’s invited me already.’ Ruthie looked so disappointed and I would so much rather have gone with her that I immediately said, ‘I’ll tell him I can’t come. I’ll make up a story.’
But Ruthie was always more level-headed than I was. ‘And what if we go and he’s also there and he sees us?’
So it was decided that I would go with my father and Ruthie would try to persuade Auntie Pearl to go with her. That is the way it would have been, except that Annie and Michie both decided that they also wanted to come.
So it came about that I attended the concert with my father and sisters, while Ruthie went with Auntie Pearl. The Performing Arts Council had made a point of it that all people were welcome, regardless of race. Their decision may have had to do with declining audience numbers or it may have had to do with principle. I never discovered which.
We sat in the stalls, about halfway back, Michie and me on either side of my father, with Annie next to Michie. The music was wonderful and the singers were pleasing. Both girls seemed to be enjoying it too.
It was during intermission that I saw Ruthie for the first time that evening. We had gone to the foyer where my father had bought cold drinks for us and a glass of wine for him. I remembered
the champagne Ruthie and I had drunk when we saw La Traviata. The foyer was crowded with concert-goers seeking refreshment. Ruthie and Auntie Pearl were on the far side. They had glasses of wine, Ruthie too.
When my eyes found them, they were both looking at me. Ruthie was wearing her sad look, the one that said: Why is the world doing this to us? Auntie Pearl was just looking at me and my family with a face that revealed no emotion at all. On reflection, I think that she was perhaps seeing our relationship clearly for the first time, while Ruthie was only allowing herself to see that there was a barrier between us. Neither of them made the slightest gesture of recognition.
‘Who is that girl?’ Michie’s voice was barely above a whisper.
I looked round sharply, but my father had moved away to a quieter corner, safely out of earshot. ‘Which girl?’
‘That pretty coloured girl, the one you’re looking at.’
‘I’m not looking at anyone.’
‘I think she’s the one who used to be at the flea market,’ Annie interrupted. ‘We used to sell vases to her. That’s her, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Let’s go and talk to her,’ Michie said.
‘No, I don’t think it’s her,’ I said.
‘Well, I’m going to talk to her.’
‘Me too,’ Annie said.
They set off, weaving their way between the patrons, and I went to join my father. ‘Where are the girls going?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I croaked through a throat that suddenly seemed constricted. ‘Maybe to the ladies’ room.’
On the far side of the foyer, Ruthie and Auntie Pearl had seen the girls coming towards them. The first signs of panic had appeared on Ruthie’s face. She averted her eyes and said something to Auntie Pearl. Next to me, I heard my father saying, ‘I’m not enjoying this as much as I thought I would. The singers are not as good as those on our recordings.’
I almost answered that, if they had been, they would also have been world famous, but I was too absorbed by what was happening across the foyer. Michie and Annie were about halfway and squeezing through a tight knot of people in loud and friendly conversation, when Ruthie and Auntie Pearl suddenly put down their glasses and went back into the theatre. The girls stopped, watched them go for a moment, then returned to us.
‘They went back in,’ Annie said softly to me.
I spoke to my father. ‘Yes, the singers on the recordings are definitely better.’
As we went back in, I saw that their seats were a few rows behind ours. That was why I had not seen them before. I settled into my seat, but now the music was empty and lifeless. For the first time, I felt dirty about my relationship with Ruthie. I knew I was not ashamed of her or of Auntie Pearl, but I could no more have crossed that foyer to their side than I could have waded across Victoria Falls. Strangely, it was Auntie Pearl’s look that I remembered most clearly, her blank, emotionless face and searching eyes. Dear God, she could have been thinking, there he is and here we are and there is no crossing the space between.
The next Saturday a new car, a small sedan, perky in its bright yellow paint-work, was parked outside the Peterson home. Auntie Pearl was with Ruthie. The first thing Ruthie said was, ‘Do you like Auntie Pearl’s new car?’
‘The yellow one?’
‘Auntie Pearl’s been saving up for it.’
‘It’s nice. I love it.’
Auntie Pearl was clearly very proud of her car, but trying not to show it. She had put down the soft-back novel she had been reading. ‘I saw your father and sisters,’ she said. ‘Pretty girls. Your father is a good-looking man too.’ The precise words had little meaning for me. She was looking at me, as if expecting a response, but not to the words. Perhaps she was expecting an explanation about how exactly my life worked, but she stopped short of asking.
Ruthie sat down next to me. She was clenching and unclenching her hands in quick little movements. I could see something in her eyes that looked like a plea. When Auntie Pearl spoke again, it was to both of us. ‘You know, kids, this is lunacy. You, young man, you stood there with your real family and you didn’t dare come anywhere near us. And you, young woman, you knew damned well that you couldn’t go anywhere near him.’
I took Ruthie’s hand, but it felt cold. Auntie Pearl had not finished with us yet. ‘I have something for you two,’ she said. ‘It’s just a suggestion and it comes from one who knows about these matters and has had plenty of experience in them.’ She took a flat circular object, wrapped in some kind of foil, from her bag. ‘Here,’ she said, holding it out to us. ‘Take this, go into Ruthie’s bedroom and get it out of your systems, then call it a day. Chris, you go back to your family. And, Ruthie, you forget about this white boy. He knows he can’t have you.’
Ruthie and I were staring at the object in her hand, as if hypnotised. ‘Is that—’ Ruthie did not get to finish her question.
‘Yes, it is,’ Auntie Pearl said.
To me, it was the most wondrous and mysterious thing on earth. Here, in a little bit of silver foil, was the answer to all problems. Ruthie and I could do what we both wanted so badly to do and there would be no pregnancy or other unhappy consequences. Here was joy unfettered by responsibility. And here was Ruthie, or here Ruthie could be, naked and wanton as on the day we had run through the sugar cane, but this time I could do with her, although I was only a boy, what a man does with a woman. I reached for the shiny treasure, but Auntie Pearl withdrew her hand. ‘Not so fast, boy. There’s a condition, remember.’ Seeming to study my face, she said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever used one of these?’
I shook my head.
‘It’s quite simple. You unwrap it and slip it on. Do you want it? Your ma would kill me for this, Ruth, but do you want it?’
‘I can’t believe this, Auntie Pearl.’ Ruthie had covered her face with her hands. ‘You told Ma—’
‘I told your ma I’d see you didn’t get pregnant.’ She shrugged and looked at Ruthie with eyes that had become gentle. ‘Listen, Ruthie, looking the way I do, don’t you think I’ve been screwed by white boys? Of course I have. But I knew that if they found out where I lived and what my family looked like, it would be over. So I always ended it before it got to that stage.’
Ruthie’s hands still covered her face, her blushes showing between her fingers. ‘Auntie Pearl, I can’t believe the way you’re talking.’
Auntie Pearl rose and tossed the condom to me. ‘Make up your own minds. I’ll be in the kitchen.’
I held the little silver treasure tightly in the palm of my hand. It felt like a source of intense potency, seeking to burst out between my fingers, sending beams of vibrant energy into the air around it until its power enveloped both Ruthie and me. With a little help it was going to make itself felt, or help me to make myself felt. Its very presence was causing familiar changes in my body. I had to make hurried adjustments to my trousers.
Auntie Pearl laughed and shook her head. ‘Oh God, boy, I’ve got you going, have I? Don’t expect much foreplay, Ruthie.’
Ruthie’s hands had slipped down until the only part of her face they were covering was her mouth. She spoke through the network of her fingers. ‘Auntie Pearl, you’re terrible. I’ve never heard you talk like this before.’ But her eyes had also fixed on the spot that so amused her aunt.
With the merriment it had afforded Auntie Pearl, my erection was already disappearing. ‘I didn’t mean it,’ I stammered. ‘It just happened.’
Ruthie’s attention was back with her aunt, who was having difficulty reigning in her laughter. ‘You’ll be here in the kitchen and we’ll be in my bedroom?’ Ruthie asked.
‘Right. I’ll keep watch.’
It was only with the greatest restraint that I could stop myself from trying to lead Ruthie towards her room. I knew she wanted this as much as I did and I was already telling myself that we could use the condom for what it was intended and go on as before. After all, Auntie Pearl was
unlikely to report the matter to her sister.
My reasoning was interrupted by Ruthie snatching away the offending item, rushing to Auntie Pearl and pressing it into a pocket in her dress. ‘I could never, I could never, while you’re sitting in the next room.’
Auntie Pearl nodded in my direction. ‘He would – like a shot.’
‘I could never, not like this.’
Auntie Pearl sighed. ‘You kids complicate things so.’
Not me, I thought. There was nothing complicated about my thinking on the subject. In fact, no thought process could be more simple. But Ruthie, oh Ruthie. What difference did it make if Auntie Pearl heard the bed springs creak? She had heard bed springs before.
We played some rummy instead but the afternoon was not a great success. Every time my eyes met Auntie Pearl’s she seemed to be seized by an irresistible surge of amusement. Her chuckles punctuated the entire afternoon. A few times Ruthie looked at me almost apologetically, each time repeating, ‘I’m sorry, Chrissie, but not like that.’
The Monday after that, twelve of our class were going into town for a special lesson on plants, mostly cycads, at the botanical gardens. We had to assemble at the bus stop on the Old North Coast Road where we were met by the teacher who was to accompany us. From the bus stop on the Red Hill side of the road, you looked straight up the road that led into Greenwood Park.
Our class had assembled and we were waiting for our teacher and the bus when I saw two women coming down the hill from the Greenwood Park side. Almost immediately I realised that I was looking at the stocky form of Ruthie’s mother and the more elegant outline of Auntie Pearl. It was only when they were much closer that I realised that they had moved apart. Auntie Pearl was walking more quickly than Ma Peterson and was ten or fifteen steps ahead of her sister. They showed no sign of knowing each other.
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