The Classifier

by Wessel Ebersohn

‘Family matters.’

  ‘The ex-wife and your son?’

  ‘No. They’re not there.’

  ‘Must you go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It had not been a successful outing and clearly she had found my explanations unconvincing. I had already packed: clothing, laptop, some CDs and the manuscript on which I had been working. If I chose not to come back, the decision would not be complicated by mounds of possessions. But I did keep the house. If I returned, I would have accommodation waiting for me.

  Perhaps it was more than just having accommodation. Sharon came to my house the evening after our visit to the cove. To help me pack, she said. But the packing that had taken less than an hour had been done long before. ‘Are you giving up the house?’

  Until that moment I had not realised just how small she was. Whenever I had seen her, even mopping away tears at her grandfather’s funeral, she had always seemed strong and in control, but now she looked uncertain, vulnerable and smaller. And I had said nothing to her except to repeat that I had to go back to Africa. Without doubt, Nathan would have told her everything I had said to him.

  It was inevitable that the moment would come when she asked the question I had been fearing. ‘Are you coming back?’

  I am not at my best at such moments. Exactly how I replied escapes me. I only remember that I stuttered and stumbled through an explanation that left her distressed and me hating myself. She left almost immediately after that and did not come to the airport.

  My flight to Johannesburg landed in the early morning and the connecting flight to Durban left a few hours later. A sleepy-looking Michie had coffee with me. ‘Something we seem to do in airports,’ she said. ‘I was beginning to doubt that we’d ever see you on this side of the Atlantic again.’

  I have never known how to respond to that sort of thing. ‘Well, here I am,’ I said.

  ‘And the future?’

  ‘I’m having enough trouble with the present. Let’s leave the future to look after itself.’

  I do not know why that was funny, but Michie released her always accessible burst of laughter.

  Later that morning, I arrived in Durban on the sort of glorious day I remembered. It was warm, the air moist but not excessively humid. On some Durban days the humidity was so great that, without air conditioning, you were sweating even if you were doing something as physically undemanding as reading.

  From the air, the surrounding countryside was green and the sea an even deeper blue than I remembered. The city, not usually a tidy one, was gleaming white as if it had just been washed.

  Annie, who had lived in Durban all those years, was at the airport to meet me. She was wearing slacks, a white blouse and a broad-brimmed hat. She was still, after all those years, a good-looking woman. She threw her arms around me and held me as if she had not expected to see me again. ‘You big lump,’ she said. ‘You’re quite tanned. You look much better than the last time I saw you.’

  ‘You look great,’ I said.

  ‘You’re here. That’s the important thing.’

  Annie’s house looked out over the bay. From the windows on one side you could see the freighters lying at outer anchorage. It was by seeing those ships that Snake Wilson had guessed that guerrillas were slipping into the country under the protection of the sailors’ identity books. You could also see a corner of the harbour, not far from the place where Rocha’s body had been found floating in the oily water. The old Indian Council building where my father’s office had been situated, if it still existed, was out of sight now, encircled by taller buildings. I remembered how Snake and the other passport-control officers had stood at the windows from which they could see most of the harbour, watching for any ship movement that was not accounted for. Also out of sight was the Sandock Austral quay where foreign craft arrived with arms for the apartheid regime. If I looked north, I could just see the first trees in the gardens of La Lucia where Ruthie and I had been seen rolling in the sand. Beyond that was Umhlanga and the hotel Uncle William had once managed. All of it seemed to have taken place far more recently than it had.

  Remembering my addiction to coffee, Annie had made some. She came and stood next to me. ‘Brings back memories, does it?’

  ‘Hell, yes.’

  ‘You know I’m living alone. I’ve got the spare bedroom, so stay as long as you like.’

  Annie had really worked on our dinner that evening. She had made a veal dish flavoured by a tomato-and-onion sauce. It was delicious and I told her so. ‘You were always one to appreciate eating, though,’ she said.

  She asked about the year I had spent overseas, whether I enjoyed working there, and had I made any friends. She spoke about almost everything, except Mama. Annie had never been good at concealing anything. From the moment we met at the airport, I was aware of something in the way she was looking at me. Eventually she said, ‘I don’t know what you expect, but Mama’s changed.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A lot. I think you should wait until you see her. It happened suddenly, about a month ago.’

  ‘What is she like now?’

  ‘She has a full-time nurse living with her. But wait till you see her.’

  The visit to Mama waited till the next day. We did not say much at breakfast. Annie knew what I was bound to be thinking about and I knew that there were questions she would want to answer. I did not want to be told again to wait until I saw her.

  We drove up in her cheerful cabriolet with the top down. It was as beautiful a day as the one before. As we turned into the street where we had once lived, I asked who was living in Uncle Stefan, Auntie Virginia and Abraham’s house.

  ‘Strangers, complete strangers.’

  Annie’s remote control opened the motor gate. She drove round to the back of the house and parked in front of the garage. A woman, a big-bosomed Zulu auntie, came down the steps from the kitchen. Annie introduced her as Iris and me as her brother.

  The walk from the car to the back door of the house, then through the kitchen and into the living room was no more than twenty-five paces. For such a short distance, it seemed to take a long time. My last memories of Mama were of her tear-stained face after she had been told about Ruthie and me, and of her heavy movements, a tired shadow through the kitchen window, on the day Annie brought me my savings book. If I have ever feared anything, I surely feared meeting an old lady of seventy-five that day, one who had changed in some way in the last month.

  From the kitchen door, I could see her feet. She was seated in an armchair, her legs stretched out in front of her, covered by a light blanket. I cannot say why, but I expected her to be busy with the sort of handiwork that had always occupied her during my childhood. As I drew closer, I saw that she was looking out of the window, but her hands were folded in her lap. There was no knitting, crochet or macramé to be seen.

  We entered the room, but her concentration remained with something beyond the window. Annie bent over her. ‘Mama.’ She was speaking very softly. ‘Mama, I have brought a visitor for Mama.’

  Iris had followed us into the room. She spoke behind me. ‘We are not talking much today.’

  ‘Mama.’ Annie tried again to draw her attention. ‘Mama, look at me. Look at me, Mama. I have a visitor for Mama.’

  Annie had to speak to Mama a few more times before she turned to look. Her face had been smooth and unlined thirty years ago. Now it was puffy and uneven, but without the wrinkles I had expected. She found Annie’s face and she looked at her through eyes that had difficulty focusing. ‘Hello, young woman,’ she said. ‘You’ve come to see me again.’

  ‘It’s Annie, Mama. I’m Annie, your daughter, remember?’

  ‘That’s good,’ Mama said slowly. ‘It’s good of you to come.’

  From behind me, Iris spoke. ‘I’ll make tea. We’ve got cookies.’ I heard her going back to the kitchen.

  ‘That’s good,’ Mama was saying. ‘That’s good. Let’s have cookies.’

  Annie drew a straight-bac
ked chair next to hers and sat down. ‘I’ve brought someone, Mama. You remember Chrissie?’

  ‘Where are my cookies?’ Mama asked a little plaintively. ‘The ousie said I was getting cookies.’

  ‘The ousie’s name is Iris, Mama. You can call her Iris.’

  ‘Is she bringing my cookies?’

  ‘Yes, she is. But I’ve brought a special visitor for you. He’s there, look. It’s Chrissie. I know you remember Chrissie.’ She was gesturing with one hand. ‘There he is, over there.’

  At last her eyes found me. She smiled vaguely. ‘Would you like to sit down?’ She leant towards Annie and whispered, but loud enough that I could hear. ‘We should use the good silver.’

  ‘I’m sure Iris will use the good silver,’ Annie said. ‘But Mama, you do remember Chrissie, don’t you?’

  She was looking at me and smiling in that way that was both friendly and lost. ‘Please sit down, sir,’ she said.

  I was suddenly struck by an absurd confusion as to the way to greet her. Should I kiss her as she would ordinarily have expected or shake her hand or hug her? Perhaps I should take one of her hands in both of mine and pat it, a stunt I had learnt when I wanted to pretend warmness towards a woman, but did not feel it. Eventually, I just sat down on a seat near hers and smiled at her.

  ‘Thank you for coming to visit me,’ Mama said.

  ‘It’s a pleasure. I’m happy to come.’

  ‘Do you come here often?’

  ‘No, Mama,’ I said, ‘not often enough.’

  ‘You must come more often. It’s very nice in Red Hill.’ Our small talk seemed to make her happy.

  ‘I must certainly come more often.’

  She looked for Annie, seeming to take a little while to find her. ‘I like this man.’ She was using her stage whisper. ‘He’s not young. He’s got grey hair like you. Do you plan to marry him?’

  ‘No, Mama. He’s my brother. He’s Chrissie.’

  But if she did not understand her relationship to Annie, there was no chance of her understanding Annie’s relationship to me. That I was a stranger to her now was a relief. The pain was obscured, a wisp of memory blanketed by a cloud of confusion. ‘Thank you for coming to visit me,’ she said to me. ‘I don’t get many visitors.’

  ‘Do you still grow orchids, Mama?’ I tried. On the way in I had not noticed any of her wonderful blooms.

  ‘Orchids? They are very difficult to grow, much too difficult for an old lady.’

  ‘You used to grow them.’

  I thought her smile deepened in warmth. ‘Do you know how to grow them?’

  ‘No, I don’t, but Mama did. You used to have them growing under the trees outside.’

  Mama tried to rise, but Annie put a hand on her arm. ‘Wait, Mama. Where do you want to go?’

  ‘I want to see the orchids under the trees.’

  ‘There are no orchids now, Mama. Chrissie meant you used to grow them and your bromeliads and other flowers under the avocado pear trees and under the rubber tree. The rubber tree is gone now, but you remember it was in the front garden. Do you remember that?’

  Mama had managed to rise only slightly. Now she sank back in her chair. Iris was returning with the tea and cookies. ‘Where are my flowers?’ she asked Annie.

  ‘We sold them all. There was no one to look after them.’

  Mama started crying. A little globule formed at the bottom of her nose. Annie produced a handkerchief and wiped it away.

  Annie had turned to look at me. ‘If you want to talk to her, you’d better do it.’

  I leant towards her. ‘Mama, don’t you remember your flowers? I sometimes helped you with them. I would carry the pots and the bark when Mama transplanted them. When they grew too big, Mama would plant them in bigger pots.’

  She had been resting back in her chair. Now she looked into my face and for the first time the pupils of her eyes seemed to focus. The smile was replaced by a far more intense and serious expression. ‘Chrissie,’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes, Mama, it’s me.’

  ‘Oh, Chrissie.’ She barely breathed my name. I thought Annie moved in her chair. ‘Oh, Chrissie, you must not go so far away again.’

  ‘Mama, I—’

  But she was beyond hearing me. ‘Don’t ever go so far again. Promise me you won’t go so far again.’

  ‘Mama, you see I felt—’

  ‘No, it’s too far. I want you to put your hand over your heart and promise me you will never do that again.’ It was clear she had made up her mind. I was looking for an answer when she spoke again. ‘Anything could have happened along that road. It’s just too far.’

  I looked at Annie, but she was as puzzled as I was.

  ‘You must never do that again. I’ve told Oupa and he said he will talk to you. Your father also agrees.’ Her eyes were focused on me, revealing an apparent lucidity I had not seen since Annie and I had arrived. ‘Chrissie, you must listen to me. You can’t go all that way alone on your bicycle. Anything could happen along the way. The farm is too far.’

  ‘I won’t, Mama. I promise I won’t do that again.’

  ‘Thank you, Chrissie.’ The eyes relaxed. The dreamy, vague quality returned to her face. ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘You always were a good boy.’ She seemed to think about it, then murmured softly, more to herself than us: ‘A very good boy, we’re very proud, a good boy.’

  Iris had put down the tea tray. She was using the good silver. Now she poured the tea, including one for herself, and handed each a cup. Mama went back to looking out of the window. We drank the tea and tried with little success to engage Mama in further conversation. The tea was warm, but a little weak. After a while, Annie nodded to me, her signal that we should go.

  sixty-one

  On the drive to Annie’s house, she said very little. She had put up the top of the cabriolet. By this time the commuter traffic had started flowing. ‘Isn’t it amazing,’ she said, ‘remembering things of thirty-five years ago and forgetting everything in between. How does it work?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know how it works.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it matters. How it happened is not important, only that it happened.’ She glanced at me with a little half-smile she sometimes has. ‘She remembers you as a kid, nothing since then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s better.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ But there was something that I could not let rest. ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘About a month ago, a little less, maybe.’

  ‘How did it happen? Was there something that triggered it?’

  ‘Nothing really.’ Annie is possibly the most honest person I know and I could see she was not comfortable with what she had said.

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Nothing I can put my finger on. Let’s not talk about it.’

  ‘I need to talk about it.’

  A lane of the road we were travelling down had been blocked by a roadworks gang and a minibus taxi had blocked the other lane to drop off passengers. Annie had to brake hard. She pressed down on her hooter for longer than was necessary and made an impatient gesture for the taxi driver to move on. Neither the hooter nor the gesture helped. He continued to block the only lane while dropping off and picking up passengers. By the time we were moving again, Annie was ready to use the stoppage as a diversion. ‘I’ve taken a couple of days off. What would you like us to do?’

  ‘Annie—’ I started.

  But she interrupted me. ‘I don’t know exactly what happened. I got there about an hour after she’d had a fit of some kind. The doctor had already been. He left a note for me saying it had been a minor stroke, whatever that is. If there is more to it, all I know came from Iris.’ She was frowning at the heavy traffic on the road ahead and around us. ‘Iris heard her crying. She had been making Mama’s bed, I think. When she came into the room, she saw that Mama had the old photo album open in front of her. She also had the old shoe box she had filled wit
h pictures. They were strewn around her, on her lap and the chair, some scattered on the floor. She had the fit right there, in front of Iris.’

  Annie tried hard to entertain me for the rest of the week. We both worked hard at enjoying it. She took me to the city’s new aquarium, she showed me everything that had changed and we revisited many places that had not. We also drove up and down the coast, finding places where we could have lunch overlooking the sea and flat beaches where we could walk on the sand, shoes in hand, as we did as kids. We also visited Mama again, but this time she showed no sign of recognising either of us.

  Saturday afternoon came. Spending it in Annie’s apartment was a torment. She was reading and I was watching a sports programme on television. It was after four o’clock before I asked her if I could use her car. The fact that it was Saturday afternoon was not lost on her. I got a look of such deep concern that I was quick to add, ‘Relax. I’m not going to do anything stupid.’

  ‘Chrissie, be careful,’ was all she said. ‘The past is over.’

  ‘I know.’

  She tossed the keys to me. ‘You work the parking brake with your foot.’

  ‘I know. I saw you do it.’

  I certainly had no intended course of action. All that was clear in my mind was that I remembered what Michie had said about Ruthie still living in the same house.

  With the hood up, I drove towards Queensburgh and wondered if I would be able to find the bridge. The road had been broadened, some of the curves straightened and the worst dips smoothed over. There were fewer homes and more business premises than had been the case thirty years before. Despite the changed landscape, I recognised the bridge immediately. It had been widened to allow two lanes in either direction. Sturdy steel rails guarded against cars being swept or driven into the river. I crossed the bridge, found a side street and parked. The walk back took no more than a minute.

  Below the bridge, the stream was an innocent trickle, almost completely covered by ferns that overhung it on either side. Even though I had been there and struggled in it, it was hard to picture the storm water of that night. The place was not recognisable as the one where I had carried Abraham on my back for just a few paces, and stumbled and lost him.