by Nick Wood
“It’s been hard times for us all – and I said ‘free’, Tsepo.”
He tosses the box onto the yellow couch. “Sure, Mamma, I heard you the first time. Okey-dokey, my groovy cats, do you fancy a drink on Uncle Tsepo?”
This time Mamma does reply in English, as she turns and gestures at us to leave. “No.”
Chapter 14
Martin’s Fight
Doctor Ronald James’ house is not what I expected.
For a start, it’s larger, with two extra bedrooms that have been painted over, whited out, an underlying hint of blue in one, pink in the other. Mrs. Gertie James – slightly bent but still sprightly, offers me the vaguely pink room.
“It used to be Michelle’s,” she says, “But she’s away in res at Wits, doing medicine.”
Although her eyes are lively and dance in her face as she talks, there is a hint of sadness that discourages me asking about the ex-blue room.
Dr. James – uh, Ronald – has remained behind in the lounge. I can tell from the stink of smoke as we pass the lounge door, so that she can show me where the toilet is, that he is now deep into his pipe.
It was late and I had been half-stunned when the door opened, revealing him standing there in his night-gown after Mandisa had knocked. He, too, had looked surprised, but he had recovered quickly and told Mandisa that he was happy to cover me for a week at most – but “more if Mamma really needs it.” ‘Sally’ is ‘Mamma’ too, no doubt – but I wonder who she truly mothers.
We return to the lounge and... Ronald stands there, pipe in hand, looking at a picture on the mantelpiece. Three young people; a long-haired girl in the middle, between an older boy with a scraggly moustache trying to assert his maturity on her left, in starched brown army uniform, a much younger boy in striped school uniform on her right.
I step hesitantly into the room, restraining a cough.
Ronald half turns and taps his pipe into an ashtray on his mantelpiece. The ash still glows. He knocks the framed photo with the mouthpiece of his pipe.
“You’re the first person we’ve had to stay here, since they’ve... gone, Martin.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
He points with the mouthpiece of his pipe at a chair, so I sit, wondering at how effectively the pipe seems to extend his personhood.
He sits too, opposite me; “You’ve hidden your political viewpoints well, Martin.”
I have to laugh then. And laugh, and laugh again.
He places his pipe down on an ashtray on the wooden coffee table between us – the ashtray is solid, round, grey metal, unadorned. Leaning back, he clasps his hands in front of his red dragon illustrated Chinese looking silk robe and waits for me.
It’s Gertie coming in with a tray of mugs, teapot and Lemon Creams that settles my stomach and heart, stopping my laughter. I glance at the clock above the mantelpiece. It’s after midnight.
“Sorry,” I say. “You hide your views well too, Ronald, although I always wondered about your green takkies.”
He smiles and then looks up to thank his wife as she gives him a mug. “We English are used to hiding things,” he says, stirring his mug. “You gave me a right ticking off last time we spoke, I recall.”
My face heats up as I take the mug of Earl Grey and thank Gertie, who nods briefly in acknowledgement. “I’m very sorry,” I say. “I thought you’d sold me out to the Special Branch about my EE Box.”
“So I gather,” he says, taking a cautious sip, “but ‘twas not I.”
“Then who?” Out of the corner of my eye, Gertie takes a seat too with her mug, the tray of biscuits between us all. I reach out and take two, sandwiching them together, so that it looks like one.
He shrugs. “The boy you tried it on has no doubt told others. The hospital itself is a hothouse of ears for all sorts of views; I sometimes think madness itself is just a distraction from the sweeping psychosis that has gripped our country for decades.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Eh –?” he looks at me blankly.
But Gertie understands.
She puts her mug down and I dunk my biscuits.
“John was killed when in the army in Namibia,” she says, “And George is in England, having been smuggled out by Mamma when he got too excited with student politics in Durban.”
Ronald has put his mug down too and sweeps his arms expansively: “Two brothers raised together with radically different political beliefs from within the same family. Explain that to me, in terms of nature and nurture, Martin.”
I can explain little, so I continue to chew guiltily on the soggy but tangy biscuits in my mouth.
Gertie places mugs back on the tray: “Do you have any longer term plans? You do know of course that you have to lie low while you’re here and not contact anyone.”
My mouth is empty again, so I can talk, even though it feels I have little to say. “Sally – I mean, Mamma, has promised me my EE Box will be returned to me by Sibusiso.”
Ronald looks puzzled, so I fill him in as sketchily as I can manage. “The patient I practised the Box on ended up stealing it, seemingly for the ANC.”
“Why?” Ronald is fiddling with his pipe again, as if itching to light it.
“No idea,” I say. “She wouldn’t tell me much. As for me, I’ll lie low for a while, as you say, perhaps until it all dies down and they forget about me.”
Ronald laughs and I realise it is the first time I have ever seen him laugh. He laughs with a wide mouth, rocking back, suddenly strangely open, almost vulnerable. He recovers himself quickly though: “That’s the point I’m afraid, Martin, this government never forgets – particularly with what we the English did to their women and children in the Boer War. Everything since then has been about making sure that never happens to them again.”
Exhausted, I stand up, “Then the only thing I can think of right now is to go to bed. Thank you both again for your generous and brave hospitality.”
I leave them, Ronald lighting up, Gertie looking across to the photograph of her children on the mantelpiece.
The faux white room has a comfortable bed, but I lie awake after a fraught and never-ending day, feeling I have been hosted in just about every type of accommodation in ’Maritzburg.
Yet, despite all of this, I have a sense of being completely and utterly kapoet and klaar.
Despite my exhaustion, I have not even had a firm glimpse of my EE Box. Do promises even count anymore in today’s cutthroat world, especially in South Africa?
It’s a nice bed, but it’s not mine.
I wonder if the Jameses would mind having Jacky join us.
After 2:15 am, I stop looking at the bedside clock.
I manage to stay quiet for the better part of three days and even cook up a meal for my hosts the first night, defrosting a frozen chicken and grilling it with garlic flakes, microwaving some frozen assorted veg. By lunchtime of day three I’m missing work, my laptop and the Internet. Ronald had decoupled our I-net access; just in case any spybots track my activity on their computer – it’s been frustrating days since I last updated my Arse-Book account.
Gertie works too and had said I could borrow her car if I needed to, as long as I kept away from any old haunts – including home – and wore a hat and a pair of non-prescription dark glasses they offered me, but I don’t want to drive around looking like a complete doos. They’d warned me away from Jabu, in case he was being watched, so I couldn’t even visit Jacky. (It seems that both of the Jameses are allergic to dogs – tragic!)
I chew a cheese and tomato sandwich over my eighty ninth game of Solitaire on their laptop. I need a plan, a strategy, something to carry me forward with at least a modicum of hope in the days ahead. It’s hot as hell, so I sit on the veranda wearing one of Ronald’s few but tight T-shirts, which I stretch to its limit, looking towards the road as the traffic dribbles past.
I spot a pizza boy on a learner’s scooter driving past – but he slows…and is
coming in? Then I realise there is no pizza label on the box at the back of his bike; on the front is a small satnav. I snap the laptop screen shut, heart racing, as the driver breaks unsteadily on the driveway in front of me. He unclips his helmet and I see Sibusiso grinning in front of me.
“You bastard,” I say, stepping off the veranda, “Where have you been and where’s my EE Box?”
He glances around warily and places a finger in front of his lips. Stepping off the scooter, he opens the wooden pizza-basket on the back and lifts out my Box, having dropped his helmet in order to manage this. He carries it over to me carefully and offers it to me, tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth in concentration. “Here it is, Doctor, I was asked to steal, er, borrow it for the good of the country.”
I cup the Box in between my hands, turning it around slowly. It looks exactly as it did, although with a few scratch marks and specks of sand. I also catch a faint whiff of fish.
“I think we should step onto the stoep to get away from any prying eyes, Doctor,” he says, picking his helmet up.
I retreat back onto the veranda, obscured from the street and place the Box gently down onto the table. “Where have you been, Sibusiso?”
He shrugs awkwardly, “Out of the country.”
“Really?” I’m agog, “Where?”
He shrugs again, “It’s a long story and there’s no time to tell it right now. I have to go. I’m sorry I stole from you.”
I look at him and wonder if he’s grown in the week plus since I last saw him. His shoulders look a trifle squarer too, as if he’s become more solid.
“We didn’t finish our sessions,” I say. It would be good to talk with him again.
He puts his helmet back on and fastens the clip under his chin. “I’ve finished with it all, thank you, Doctor. I will call my father soon; although I believe my family have had to move, because of what I’ve been doing lately, just in case.”
“I know how that feels,” I say. “So do you feel cured then?”
He laughs, a throaty chuckle and a flash of life from the old Sibusiso. “What’s ‘cured’ then, Doctor? Please tell me.”
“You know, no longer depressed. Happy.”
“Only the mad or the privileged can be happy in this country right now.”
“Oh.” I think. “Well, do you feel a little less sad, then?”
He smiles, “Yes – and thank you again, Doctor. I’ve also come to know that I carry a Beast and a Bird within me.”
Oh, shit! “Are you serious, Sibusiso? That could mean we need to get you back to the hospital.”
“No!” He shouts; all smiles or hint of a smile gone from his face. He steps forward and pokes a forceful finger into my chest, almost toppling me over. “You carry a beast within you too, even if you don’t know it! Stop – squeezing – my – world – into – yours.” (He punctuates each word of his last sentence with a vigorous poke, so that on the last word, I collapse back into my chair.)
“The Beast is mine,” he says, readying his helmet. “The Bird I’ve yet to recognise.”
And then he is down the stairs, gently revving his bike, before turning out of the drive without turning to look back.
I know what to do now.
Carefully I pack the EE box in a cushioned bag in Gertie’s Vauxhall boot and drive slowly down to the local shopping area. I am a cautious man now, wearing a floppy cricket hat advertising the Natal Dolphins and a square set of dark glasses. I park nearby what must be one of the last pay-phones in the area. Digging out some change, I give Dan’s office a call.
It rings four times and I’m about to give up when a familiar voice crackles down the line: “Doctor Botha here.”
“Dan?”
Silence.
“Dan?”
“Where – the – fuck – have – you – been?”
I’m grateful I’m well away from his fingers – and his fists. “Things have become – er, complicated.”
“Do you still have the Box?”
“Yes, and I’m fine thank you, how about you?” I’m irked.
“Sorry,” he says. “Things haven’t been easy on my side either; the fucking SB have been watching our house. I think they suspect something.”
“Oh God,” I say. “Brand still gives me the creeps.”
“Listen, we’re going to have to meet somewhere neutral, somewhere safe. You remember the Pine Nut Motel?”
My heart sinks. Perhaps it will be better in the daylight. “Ja.”
“See you there in half an hour. Make sure you’re not tailed.”
“You too,” I say. Click! He hasn’t even bothered to say goodbye.
I make my way back to the car, swinging my gaze warily around, but the place is quiet, most good white folk being at work or school. I don’t need Gertie’s satnav for this trip. I’m there in twenty minutes flat.
The parking lot looks even messier than it did last week at night. Scraps of newspapers flutter around, as the wind whisks itself up for the late afternoon storm. I leave the hat and glasses in the car’s cubby hole and kick a couple of spent condoms out of the way as I head for the reception. The building squats low, as if ashamed of itself. The lobby area is deserted, not even a security guard in sight.
I know now to make my way to the reception desk, where the same swarthy man from the other night watches a large split screen, his back turned to me. Eight split shots are in view and I suddenly realise they are room CCTV shots, all with various sexual activities happening in them. The receptionist has his left hand inside his trousers.
He hears my shoes squeak and hits the screen-saver button, swivelling around with both hands in view. I avoid looking too closely at his left hand.
“I’m here to see Mr. Smit in Room 129 again.”
He opens his mouth, but I don’t give him a chance. “And yes, I still like men – but if you take the slightest peek into that room, I’ll have privacy lawyers abseiling off your fucking roof, you get me?”
He shuts his mouth and nods. (Sometimes a hint of money and law is more frightening than a gun. Besides, I’d had a good look at his screen. I’m betting he has some homo action in his venue, but he’d only chosen to watch hetero.)
I find my way to room 129 and knock, but there is no answer. I guess I’m a few minutes early. I try the door and it’s unlocked.
I step inside, slinging the bag off my back and placing it on the floor. I’d spotted the angle of the CCTV cameras; kicking off my shoes, I step onto the sagging bed, stretching and poking at the light-fitting join at the ceiling with a pen. There’s a fold of plaster, which falls away to reveal ceiling board. I poke my way around the entire fold, destroying the decoration.
It is indeed more than decoration. There’s a small glass camera in a plastic chip under the last pieces of plaster, which I prise loose with the pen. I manage to catch it with my left hand before it falls. Stepping off the bed, I put my shoes back on. I place the camera on the floor and feel it ‘crack’ under my right heel. With my weight, there’s no way he’ll get that working again.
The door opens and Dan looks at me with bemusement, “What on Earth are you doing?”
“Destroying a camera,” I say, “Jesus, you look kak.”
He’s drawn and pale, “You don’t look like a pinup yourself, boet!”
He spots the EE Box and is across the room in a flash, picking it up and stroking it possessively. “Where the hell have you been, Martin? I’ve phoned; e-mailed and left zillions of messages.”
“The SB are after me,” I say. “I’ve had to be on the move and lie low.”
“They want this Box badly,” he says, stroking it again, in an almost pervy kind of way.
I bend to pick up pieces of glass and plastic, to throw them in the bin. “Ja, I guess it’ll make their interrogations a lot easier.”
“And what the fuck did you say to Helen?”
“Eh –?” I look at him blankly, “Nothing. Why?”
“She’s kicked me out.” H
e scowls, cradling the Box under his left armpit. “Did you tell her I’ve been seeing other women?”
“No, I haven’t had a word, nor seen her, since that evening at your house.” I’m standing still now, paying him my full attention, he seems strangely jittery and out of sorts.
“And how come I’m fighting a patent application with the fucking Chinese government on this Box?”
“What?” He’s lost me completely.
“I thought they were supposed to be communists, for Christ’s Sake. How the fuck can they pursue a Western Intellectual Property ownership license?”
“Dan, I’ve got no idea...”
He cups his chin with his right hand, index finger slanting up alongside his nose, as he used to do many years ago at school, when his temper would snap. He points his left index finger at me. (Oh, how I am tired of pointing fingers!) “Still, I’m taking charge of this now – as of today, this is my fucking machine and mine alone.”
I’m cold now, despite the hot wind outside starting to blow up the afternoon storm. Through the window, I see papers spiral into the sky. “My work is in this too, you can’t just take it from me, Dan!”
He nods and his pinched face is bitter. “I sure as fuck can.”
I feel heat return to my body. Red-hot raging heat. I raise my fists and step forward, but he swings his right fist first. There’s a crunching noise and I feel myself bouncing among red stars; it takes me moments to realise it’s the bed.
“You’re still fat – and still fucking slow, boet!” he shouts.
The door slams and I look up at a light, which is swinging dangerously above me, almost unmoored from its anchoring plaster. I can’t move for a moment on the bed and can only hope the loose light fitting doesn’t crash on top of me as well. At least that shit in reception won’t have seen anything.
Dan had last hit me in high school, arguing over a board game of World Invasion; I thought we’d put all that behind us. I sit up and rub my right eye; history always seems to come back in the end.