by Zakes Mda
And the silent confrontation with Saluni! He still doesn’t understand why the image of his mother flashed before his eyes. He does not remember ever thinking of his parents with any measure of nostalgia. He was quite young when his mother died, leaving him to fend for himself at the pilchard canning plants on the west coast. People said she had died from a broken heart. It was only a few months after her husband had disappeared. The Whale Caller has only vague memories of his father. A blurred picture of the sturdy fisherman who went to sea and never came back. After futile helicopter searches and a long wait, he was given up for dead. The rites for the dead were performed and the pastors declared that his soul was resting in peace in heaven.
In the early years, when he saw fathers play a crucial part in the lives of his friends, the Whale Caller used to have a searing longing for his own father. When he did odd jobs at the canning factories, and later when he blew the kelp horn at the Church, he would re-invent his father. He would imagine him taking one of the colourful brittle boats to sea, laughing and singing rude songs. The boat would disintegrate out there in the storms. For some time his father would be tossed by the waves while small piranha-like fish nibbled at him until they finished him. Thus he imagined his father’s demise. Thus he killed him every time he thought of him. Until the sight of fish feasting on him lost its thrill. He had finally got tired of resurrecting him only to have him devoured by the fish again.
He is chewing on his macaroni and cheese with relish when he hears a song that has a familiar ring to it. Though the sound is quite distant and very low, he is able to isolate it from the festive noises that permeate the environment. He leaves the food on the table, takes his kelp horn and dashes out. At the gate he looks cautiously to the right and to the left, expecting to see Saluni. But she is not there. There is a tinge of disappointment in him that makes him angry with himself. Is he perhaps suffering from the syndrome of the victims of constant physical and psychological abuse who long for the abuser when the abuser is on vacation? He wades his way through the festive crowds and briskly walks to a high crag overlooking the ocean. On the horizon he sees a speck that he immediately identifies as a whale. It might be Sharisha. At a distance the whale’s song sounds like Sharisha’s. He curses himself for his failure to welcome her in style in his new tuxedo. There is no time to go back to the Wendy house to change.
He blows his horn and the whale responds. It is a haunting sound that is carried by the waves that race to the shoreline until they hit the rocks at the foot of the Whale Caller’s crag, producing white surf. His ears are trained to hear these songs even at such a great distance. As the whale sails closer its outline takes shape. Patiently, he waits, occasionally blowing the horn in response to the whale’s song. A crowd of curious tourists gathers behind him. Much as he strains his eyes he cannot see callosities on any part of the whale’s body. Instead he sees very long flippers and a small dorsal fin that is positioned far back on the body. He begins to doubt the whale’s identity. His doubts are soon confirmed by the whale’s blow, almost three metres high and pear-shaped. That cannot be Sharisha. That, in fact, is not a southern right at all. It is a humpback. The dorsal fin is a further confirmation. It is a male humpback, and he guesses that it is almost fifteen metres long. As he walks down the crag he chides himself for being furious at the deceitful humpback. He should be furious with Sharisha instead. The humpback was singing its song, as humpback males are wont to do, though traditionally they sing at night, constantly composing new songs during the mating season. The deceitful humpback has started quite early in the day, perhaps practising for the nighttime mating rituals. But the deceitful humpback is not deceitful at all. Sharisha is the one who is an impostor in this case. After discovering that humpbacks were better singers than southern rights, the Whale Caller had taught Sharisha to sing like a humpback. The Whale Caller should rather be furious with himself, and not with the randy humpback. Not even with Sharisha. For the song, that is, not for Sharisha’s standing him up.
He is too despondent to return to his Wendy house to finish his lunch. He slowly works his way along the cobbled path that winds down the bluff. He decides to sit on a green wooden bench that is placed near the meandering path for those who want to relax and admire the sea. He has lost sight of the humpback, which decided to sail in a different direction after it could no longer hear his alluring kelp horn. He watches a father with a fishing line leading his wife and a brood of children of varying ages. The mother gingerly holds a picnic basket. They walk precariously on the steep rocks to a hillock of boulders that juts into the sea. On this peninsula they sit down and begin to fish or just watch.
Although he regards this as his peninsula, he does not mind that the fishing and picnicking family have invaded it. He does not need it today. He usually likes to stand on it when he communes with the whales, especially when Sharisha is here. It separates him from the gawkers, be they curious locals or tourists, who’d otherwise crowd around him when he blows his horn. They never come close to him when he stands on the tip of the peninsula because they do not want to risk walking on the precarious boulders. The family obviously feels quite adventurous today.
The Whale Caller is startled by Saluni, who daintily walks down the path, holding a bunch of wilting flowers. She sits on a rock just below his bench and puts the flowers next to her. She does not give him a second look, and he decides that this time he will really stand his ground. She takes off her pencil-heel shoes and puts her feet in a pool of clear water that is separated from the rest of the ocean by a sandbank. She has given him her back and he notices her flaming locks that are tangled and are not restrained in a black net this time. He also notices that the roots are black with a few streaks of grey. He thinks she would look more dignified if she had not dyed her hair. As her dainty feet play in the water he stares at her stockings that have many runs. There are red spots in some places where Cutex nail polish was used to stop the runs. But this hasn’t helped much as the runs always manage to find their way around nail polish. The stockings are obviously not pantyhose since they are tied with elastic bands just above the knees. The Whale Caller observes this when she crosses her legs and lights a cigarette in a long black holder. Her nails are manicured and painted red. She holds the cigarette holder quite elegantly; blowing delicate smoke rings in the direction of the Whale Caller. Her whole demeanour is delicate and elegant. Her clothes are clean but almost threadbare. She wears a fawn pure-wool coat over a green taffeta dress. She always has the coat on, even in the middle of summer.
After ignoring him for some time, she turns to look at him and her sun-drenched face cracks into a smile. Later the Whale Caller will learn that she is a creature of the day, hence the sun-drenched face. He averts his eyes. Once more she has triumphed. He is highly irritated by her cheek. He stands up to leave.
“May I follow you?” she asks.
“You always do… without asking me,” he says.
“You always show anger in your eyes,” says Saluni, “so I thought today I should be nice and ask.”
She gives him the flowers. He is puzzled.
“What do I do with these?” he asks.
“It is a peace offering,” she responds.
Now he knows why she evokes a memory of his mother. It is her smell. Not from her breath. Not the alcohol or methylated spirits. The mouldy yet sweet smell that his mother left in everything she touched. Saluni exudes the same whiff. And it overwhelms him with long-forgotten emotions. The smell has a force that seems to be stronger even than the force of energy generated by the rocks, the waves, the moon and the sun. He hates her even more for appropriating his mother’s bodily odours, for reincarnating the grand old lady in the puny shape of a village drunk.
He breaks into a sweat and runs for dear life.
“I am a love child,” shouts Saluni after him. “Don’t do this to me, man, I am a love child!”
Saluni. She is a love child. This is what she tells everybody who cares to listen in t
he watering holes of Hermanus. It is a story she shares particularly with those who refuse to buy her a glass of wine. She is a love child, conceived on a windy day by a beautiful young woman who was involved in an illicit affair with an older married man. Much as the man professed his love for his young mistress, he would not leave his family for her. The pretty young thing pined for her lover for many years. She was consumed by her love until only her bones were left. For a long time she was a walking skeleton, and troubadours (yes, troubadours!) composed songs about her dire love. Then one day the bones just fell to the ground in a heap. After her mother’s burial Saluni’s aunts drummed it into her head that she was a love child and should be proud of it. Today she tells the habitués of the taverns that no one has the right to treat a love child shabbily. As a love child she must be handled with care and consideration.
Her mission for the day has been met with the usual failure. She is not giving up. She is relentless in her quest. She is only giving him a little respite, until next time. She decides to take the thirty-minute walk to the outskirts of town to visit the Bored Twins at their mansion. She had promised to take them to the town centre to witness some of the wonders of the festival.
She knocks at the kitchen door, but there is no response. She tries the door and it opens, but there is no one there. She walks to the girls’ bedroom and to the parents’ bedroom. The Bored Twins are not there either.
“Girls, where are you?” she calls.
The only response is that of multiple echoes of her own voice. She walks out to the garden. She wonders where the Bored Twins could have gone. She had expressly told them not to leave the house this whole afternoon because she would come to fetch them to sample the pleasures of the festival. They were clearly looking forward to the trip. They may just be playing a prank on her, one of their tiresome hide-and-seek games. She creeps towards the nearest rockery and looks behind it. The girls are not there. There are many other rockeries and ledges and fountains that have long dried out. This used to be a wonderfully landscaped garden in the days of the ostrich baron, made to look wild and natural in order to blend with the surroundings while at the same time standing out as a work of art. But now all its beauty is hidden in an overgrowth of tall grass and bushes. She dare not walk deeper into the garden for she is deadly scared of snakes.
“Where are you, girls?” she calls once more. “I am not in the mood to play your silly games!”
Then she remembers the cellar. It is their favourite hiding place that even their parents do not know about. She walks into the house once more and tiptoes all the way to the cellar. Her tiptoeing is to no avail because the floorboards creak and squeak all the way In the passageway and on the steps to the basement, rats and other insects run in different directions. She hates creepy-crawlies and regrets coming all this way.
She opens the door, and there are the Bored Twins sitting on the floor, sulking! They tell Saluni that their mother has forbidden them to go with her to the festival even though their father had happily given his permission.
“Your mother can allow you to stray all over the countryside, yet she does not allow you to go to town with me?” says Saluni. “That is strange. I’ll wait for her and find out why.”
“She may come back late,” says the smaller twin.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll wait. We’ll sort the matter out and then tomorrow we’ll go,” Saluni assures them.
“But tomorrow the radio man may not be there,” moans the bigger twin.
She is referring to the local radio station, which has set up a booth at the main parking lot in town, where it broadcasts the activities of the festival live to the whole region. The presenters interview the performers, the out-of-town celebrities, the ordinary tourists and the organisers of the festival. The latter have assumed a celebrated stature in the community. Even the pastors who object to certain theatrical productions demand and are granted air time. When Saluni noticed that there was a special slot for broadcasting music by the groups and individuals of Hermanus, she thought it would be a great idea to take the Bored Twins to the recording booth to be recorded on compact disc that would later be played on the radio. Not only would this give the Bored Twins the fame they deserve, it would also provide her with the opportunity to showcase her bluesy voice—previously enjoyed only by the girls and the denizens of the taverns—to the broader community. The man at the radio booth told her that recording sessions were being held all day long on a first-come-first-recorded basis. The Bored Twins were very excited to hear that their angelic voices would be heard on radio all over the district.
Saluni tells the twins that it is best to wait for their parents outside, since she is quite uncomfortable in the closed space of the cellar. Soon it will be dark, which will make things worse for her.
Saluni and the Bored Twins sit on the kitchen stoep, sulking. Saluni is able to sulk effectively because this afternoon she is almost sober.
When the parents finally arrive Saluni demands to know why the mother wants to deny her beautiful daughters the pleasures of the festival.
“Don’t you remember that today we were supposed to record our singing on the radio?” she asks.
“That is why I don’t want the girls to go to town,” explains the mother. “It is this recording thing.”
“You don’t want people to know of the beautiful voices of your twins?” asks Saluni. “You don’t want to share your children’s healing voices with the world?”
“I don’t want people to steal the voices of my children,” says the mother.
Saluni looks at the father, hoping for an explanation that will make better sense.
“Don’t blame me,” says the father. “I have been trying to reason with her… to convince her there is nothing to fear, but she won’t listen.”
“Of course there is nothing to fear. Why would she think there is anything to fear?”
“She is fearful of those recording machines. She says the machines steal your voice. After singing to those machines you go home with only the speaking voice but without your singing voice.”
Since no one can convince the mother otherwise, the sulking continues in the girls’ room, where Saluni spends the night, with her trusty candle burning. There are no bedtime stories tonight. In the morning she puts the small piece of candle that has survived the night in her sequinned handbag, and sullenly leaves for town to haunt the Whale Caller.
At first there is a creaking noise like the wheels of an unoiled bicycle. It sounds as if it is just outside the Wendy house. Then other sounds join in. More structured. More sonorous. They are accompanied by a strong smell of salt and rotting kelp. The Whale Caller knows at once that the sounds, like the compound smell, come from the sea. The songs of the whales. The deeper sounds are transmitted in tremors through the waves and the rocks and the ground. He can feel the vibrations even as he sleeps on his single wooden bed. The high-pitched sounds are carried by the wind, with the smells of the sea riding on them. They penetrate the thin wooden walls of the Wendy house to massage his body until it feels completely relaxed.
There must be a mass choir out there. There is a tremulous bass that rises and falls as the waves drone in monotone in the background. There is lowing and bellowing. There are deep belches and screeching and gurgling. There are prolonged trombone notes and sharp piccolo staccatos. Cymbals and brushes and whistles join vibrating sopranos and flourishing trumpets and subdued church organs. The Whale Caller is tempted to grab his horn and run to the ocean to join the sublime choir. He listens for some time, but before he can act on his temptation he is lulled to a deep dreamless sleep.
In the morning he is not sure if he has dreamt the choir or if it is really out there. If he has not, then there must be a whole invasion of whales in the waters of Hermanuspietersfontein. After his ablutions and the ritual of spraying his body with essence, he dons his new tuxedo especially for the choir that has given him so much joy in the night. He selects Sharisha’s special kelp horn and w
alks to the sea. If Sharisha is not there to enjoy the tuxedo and the special horn, then he won’t keep these items wasting in the Wendy house indefinitely. He will use them to welcome other whales, especially those that have given him so much pleasure with their nighttime music.
There is indeed an invasion of the southern rights. The Whale Caller can count up to twenty of them, including calves, spread over an area of a square kilometre or so. Some have come so close inshore that they are just outside the line of breakers from the beach. He stands in the morning mist and admires their streamlined bodies, short stiff necks and enormous heads that may cover as much as a third of the whole body. He watches as the muscular tails lazily propel the huge bodies.
He hears the sound of a kelp horn, not at all like his, playing some kind of a Morse code. He knows immediately that it is the official whale crier of Hermanus, Mr. Wilson Salukazana, the gracious gentleman from Zwelihle Township. He is alerting the tourists to the presence and the location of the whales. People are beginning to gather. Cameras are clicking and camcorders follow the languid movement of the behemoths. Some of the creatures are playing with floating kelp, manipulating it so that the fronds rub over their backs. The Whale Caller knows that they are trying to remove parasites from their bodies. This is indicated by the callosities on the whales, which are pink or orange instead of white, a clear sign of the presence of lice.
The Whale Caller walks to his peninsula. He stands on the highest boulder and blows his horn. The whales suddenly become alert. They expel the air through their blowholes with greater vigour. He blows his horn even harder, and finds himself playing Sharisha’s special song. A gigantic southern right erupts from the water, about a hundred metres from him. It rockets up in the air, and then comes crashing down with a very loud splash. As its head rises from the water again the Whale Caller’s heart beats like a mad drum in his chest, for he sees the well-shaped bonnet that he knows so well, sitting gracefully on the whale’s snout. White like salt. He breathes even faster when he sees the wart-like callosities on the head, also white like rough grains of salt. Not pink or orange like the callosities of other whales. They are distinctively shaped like the Three Sisters Hills of the Karoo. He blows his horn even harder, and the whale opens its mouth wide, displaying white baleen that hangs from the roof of its mouth. Not dark baleen like that of other whales. It is a smile that the Whale Caller knows so well. Sharisha’s surf white smile! Once more she launches herself up in the air and falls in a massive splash. She performs these breaching displays in time with her special song that the Whale Caller blows relentlessly.