The Crack

by Christopher Radmann

  And Janet found her feet walking her out into the harsh sun, across the garden and towards the pool. She knew what she would find, and she duly found it. The crack had doubled in width and the pool was almost empty. The Kreepy Krauly was gulping crazily and had almost keeled over with the effort. The pump strained in its little housing and the water sprayed in a single jet from the inlet back into the pool. The jagged crack had ruptured the pool into two distinct halves, although the surrounding slasto had not been split. Even as Janet stared with an open mouth, the water level dipped again. The Kreepy Krauly throbbed and Janet suddenly strode to the pump housing, lifted it, and switched off the pump. With a gurgling sigh of relief from the bottom of the pool, the little Kreepy Krauly shuddered to a standstill, then collapsed on its side.

  Janet had to sit down too. Her legs felt useless and she tucked them up beneath her, well out of the way of the pool. And as she sat there, she felt the last of Hektor-Jan’s love ooze from her. She stared at the crack. Water disappeared into it whereas from her crack there came another life-giving liquid. It was an odd perception and she shifted her position, which was now warm and moist.

  She would have to go inside and change. She would have to go with Solomon tomorrow and buy cement to fix the pool. Just as she spared her husband the finer details of her inner workings – although he knew when it was her period, and when to keep his distance – so, too, she spared him the vexation, the tragedy of the pool. And she knew that she would have to be strong and put thoughts of Desperate Doug and Alice out of her mind. That was another seam which she did not want to mine if she could help it. At least, not until the pool was fixed and she went inside, angrily casting a glance at the shimmering rhododendrons that flared up on the other side of the wall. Desperate Doug should learn to keep his mouth shut. Just look at Noreen. Her heart went out to her super-refined neighbour whose strained smile and gentle ways compensated for so much. These men, these men, she thought and she picked out a clean, neat pair of broekies from the dried washing that Alice had not yet packed away.

  Wednesday seeped into Thursday.

  Thursday was going to be a big day. First the pool and then the Second Rehearsal.

  Whilst Alice beat the rugs outside then polished the wooden floors inside, Hektor-Jan slept after another bout of urgent passion and the children were at school – no doubt learning about the Great Trek as she had had to learn about the Great Trek year after year, studying all about those intrepid Dutchmen crossing rivers and escarpments and defending themselves against wave after wave of marauding impis of the various tribes – Janet made her own small trek to the hardware store on the outskirts of Benoni. With her was her own, domesticated impi.

  She had flown out in the early morning at the squeak of the door to intercept Solomon to tell him not to change just yet, that she needed him to go with her to the hardware store to get whatever they needed to fix the pool – the pool was empty now. She had banished the children to the small front garden and Hektor-Jan had gone off to work again without inspecting the back garden. And it was only as you approached the pool that you saw the gleaming white concrete skull split into two hemispheres. Now it did give her a headache just to behold it. The bright, white concave shell, stark and fiercely brilliant with reflected light and heat. It almost sang in the sun and the crack gaped filthily, a jagged mouth that sucked in the light and her heart and there was no telling how deep it was or where it went. Thankfully, it was confined to the bottom of the pool and the sides; it had not shot beyond the edges of the pool. Janet could not bear to think what she would do if it escaped the concrete confines of the pool –

  Solomon, she greeted him urgently. Solomon, we go to the hardware store today. She spoke in that odd, clipped way with which white women addressed their garden boys. Sentences simplified to the basics: Solomon, that is you, we, that is you and I, go, that is drive, to hardware store, well, self-explanatory. Why. We fix the pool today. Okay.

  Yes, Madam.

  So keep your smart clothes on. We go in the car. After breakfast.

  And they went. Janet’s father had recommended the best hardware store in town and told her where to find it. Why, what for, what are you up to now, how can I help, he had pressed, but Janet had thanked him and said it was something she knew that she must do – alone. And please not to breathe a word of it to anyone. It was going to be a surprise. She knew how he hated surprises, having been surprised and shocked all his life married to her mother. But he would not mutter a word, she was sure. She put down the phone quietly.

  Whilst her husband slept in the darkness, they set off in the blinding light. It felt a little odd, to be sure, having Solomon beside her in the car. Her box-like Fiat was cosy at the best of times and they sat squashed together with Solomon’s lanky legs and arms awkwardly folded and tangled in his side of the car and she tried not to brush his leg as she shifted the gear lever.

  Solomon, have you been in a motor car before, she asked.

  Solomon smiled broadly; she could feel the gleam of his teeth.

  Yes, Madam, he said. My sister’s brother, he is having a car. A big one.

  Janet felt her little Fiat constrict and she smiled too.

  This is a very small car, she agreed and Solomon acknowledged that it was a small car, and did she want to sell it.

  No, she replied shortly. As though to compensate for its lack of size, the Fiat thundered up the road and backfired only once. It was the most throaty and unpredictable of vehicles: she would have to ask Hektor-Jan to look at it. She would do that once the pool was fixed, when there was one less problem in their life. Hektor-Jan did not mind fixing cars; he was great with cars. Now, Janet would do her bit with the pool. Cars were so masculine; pools were feminine. Hektor-Jan was born to fix cars – his strong hands wielded a bewildering array of tools with exotic names: monkey wrenches, she thought she heard him tell Pieter. Bobbejaan spanner, that was it. Phillips screwdrivers, shifting spanners, angle grinders, slide rules, star-spangled banners, iron maidens, who knew what equipment Hektor-Jan commanded with greasy concentration and grunting effort as he lay beneath the car, suddenly a truncated pair of hairy legs. It was as though he had entered the body of the car, was making love to metal, or was taking obstetrical charge of changing her oil, cleaning her carburettor, replacing her sparkplugs. He always referred to the car in the feminine.

  Pools were simpler. A cavity in the ground filled with pliant, yielding liquid. True blue. Receptive. The umbilical cord of the Kreepy Krauly, invented by a man around the corner in the optimistic town of Springs, fresh and coiled with possibility, like a womb. How apt. And all Janet had to do to maintain lovely and clear water was to keep a floating plastic container filled with chlorine tablets. The receptacle looked like a giant tampon. And she used the little testing kit to ascertain the pH balance of the pool so that the water did not cloud with thrush or become menstrually dark in any way. Yes, pools were definitely feminine.

  The Fiat backfired again.

  Hau, said Solomon and glanced in surprise behind them.

  It did sound like a gunshot, thought Janet. I shall have to tell the Master, she said to Solomon. He likes to fix cars, you know.

  Solomon absorbed the information in silence.

  We are fixing the pool, he suddenly said.

  He seemed happy, almost proud. It was a statement of satisfied intent. We are fixing the pool, he repeated.

  Yes, said Janet, changing gear. She was pleased that Solomon seemed so pleased. It must be a nice change from mowing lawns, trimming edges, cutting, snipping, chopping. Always having to hurl oneself at the onslaught of green. For a moment she lost sight of the snaking road and all she could see was a sea of heaving verdure, emerald coils of kikuyu grass writhing across paths and over edges, trembling shoots of leaves all of a fluster, and the horizon, like a lawn, shimmered with terrible growth. All sprouting, budding, stretching out, reaching out ineluctably towards them with the urgent sound of Desperate Doug in the rhododendrons.
What did her mother say, quoting the Bible perhaps – all grass is flesh – and Janet swerved to avoid a cyclist whilst Solomon went rigid beside her.

  He did not even say his customary, emotive Hau. But she felt his glance – tense and amazed.

  Sorry, Solomon, she said leaning forward in her seat and frowning through the windscreen as though to bring herself into more certain contact with the unfolding, unwinding road. Her show of greater concentration seemed to work. Solomon removed his hands from the dashboard, his slender, strong hands which had been preparing for a certain collision and he clutched his seatbelt instead.

  They were almost there.

  Janet thought about her mother, how she had got to the stage where to put her behind the wheel of a car was simply to invite death. She hoped that she would never get like that. Suddenly she was sitting where Solomon was sitting – it was the same car after all. Her mother was driving her somewhere and talking. But not talking to her, rather telling her, telling her about, telling her off, always telling her. And so, she just stuck her head in the gas oven, her mother told her as she sailed through the red lights. Or, she simply strolled into the River Ouse with her pockets packed with stones, she said as the car wandered onto the wrong side of the road. Or, parataxis is not the same as periphrasis, I do wish that they would remember, she told her paralysed daughter as she swerved around a corner, the engine thundering because it was not in gear and it appeared that she was attempting to accelerate towards oblivion. Oh, do not raise your voice at me, she yelled when she had removed the bumper of the motorist in front of her and there was what she called a moment of quite unnecessary contretemps. Spelled with a final tee ee em pee es, did you know, she later told the tiny, tear-stricken Janet. It’s French from the Latin, meaning against time, both literally and, I suppose, figuratively. Now, blow your nose.

  Janet brought the car to an abrupt halt. Her fingers were cramping against the steering wheel, she held it so tightly, and her neck ached from the way she poked her head out towards the windscreen.

  Solomon leapt from the car. Janet joined him, clutching her handbag. She was going to use her own money, she had decided. The money that her father had transferred into her name, just in case, as he said. Just in case of what, Janet was not sure, but it was very useful if she ever wanted to treat herself or the kids when they were out shopping and she did not have to account for every cent to Hektor-Jan when they went through the household expenditure at the end of the month. It also came in useful when their budget did not stretch far enough with new school shoes too. Her children did not know that they were walking on Granny’s earnings, that they were walking on her words, her lectures, treading not so gently on her dreams. Janet shook her head and she and Solomon entered the hardware store beside the yard that clanked and scraped with manly enterprise.

  The place was bustling. The air had its sleeves rolled up and it bristled with hairy forearms and strong sweat. There was aftershave too, quite sweet and surprising like a tweak of the nose. Janet blinked and Solomon stood behind her. A bit like the royal couple. There was a tangle of shelves and, to one side, a counter where most of the men were waiting, orders in hand, whilst a man behind the counter barked out instructions to unseen assistants. Janet felt for a moment as though she had walked into Doug’s new television, straight onto the ranch where men were men, and there was banter and a great brotherhood of shared jokes and where these strange beings called each other odd names. She wanted to reach out and take Solomon’s hand. He was making a quiet sound in the back of his throat it seemed, like old Jock used to do when Hektor-Jan started cursing the car, which had somehow cut his hand or skinned his knuckles.

  What do we need, said Janet moving towards a shelf that seemed to feature only a fantastic array of screws and bolts.

  The cement eh the washed sand eh the white paint, Solomon whispered in her ear as though Hektor-Jan were lurking behind the shelf and they were going to be caught out. Janet looked up at him and saw that he was staring at the knot of men at the counter. Some had sideburns that were too big for them. One scratched his crotch and turned around. He kept scratching. He must have said something out of the side of his mouth, or maybe it just fell out from beneath his rather precocious moustache as the three men beside him swivelled towards the shelf with the screws and the bewildering bolts.

  Janet turned to the pegs with their hanging, pregnant packets. One inch, two inch, three inch, four inch, wood, wall – interior, exterior – with plugs and without, the gold and silver screws dangled before her sharply. The bolts and nuts were even more unsettling with their blunt, bold look. She almost reached out but then thought she would not. Her hand hung in the air, a graceful wave and for a moment the man, Mr Scratchy she christened him, caught between the clamp of his sideburns and hemmed in by his moustache, looked as though he was going to wave too. But he gave his crotch a final yank and leaned back against the counter.

  Janet returned her gaze to the shelves and adjusted her bag. She clung to her feminine bag filled with all her familiar things. She drifted to a different shelf, Solomon pulled behind her like an obedient shadow. That shelf displayed tufts of paint brushes ranging from the incy-wincy ones made of spiders’ legs to the great clumps of bristles surely pulled straight from the side of Mr Scratchy’s face or from beneath his nose.

  Solomon, she turned her serious eyes to him, we shall have to ask at the counter.

  Eish, Solomon looked past her to the men, one of whom was holding what looked like a mallet with a six-foot handle. It was almost as big as he was and Janet started to giggle. He looked like a miniature Thor, made all the more puny by his monstrous hammer. He paid and strolled past them. Mr Scratchy began again to confirm his unspoken moniker. Gripping her bag, Janet lifted her chin and strode towards the men and the counter.

  Like a miniature, feminine Moses, she parted the sea of men. Their banter caught in their throats and there was a cough. Janet stared straight ahead at the huge Italian man behind the counter. His pleasant face sprouted out of an open collar, a thick gold chain and an exuberant welter of chest hair.

  Yes, his voice was pleasant and enthusiastic like his hair. It rolled down from the seven hills of Rome. He spoke to Janet and did not seem to notice Solomon, who was standing very close behind Janet. She could feel the warmth of Solomon’s tough body; his breath came quickly on the top of her head. If she took a step backwards, she would stand on his feet. Mr Scratchy beside her decided to become Mr Clutch-and-Stare-Without-Moving. Janet’s bag gasped.

  Good morning, she found her mother’s voice saying. Good morning, my good man, it almost said. We are going to be fixing a crack – in a pool, in the bottom of a swimming pool. I wonder if you can advise us. Her voice was lovely and cool. She felt almost proud, like spelling embarrassment correctly for her mother – yes, two Rs and two Ss and two As, I am sure, Mommy, just like address has two Ds and two Ss, isn’t that so – but the man seemed confused.

  Jislaaik, he said. The Afrikaans word turned Italian around the edges. So you are a-wanting to fixa a pool, hey. His glance took in the other men and there were growls of consternation. Mr Clutch clutched.

  Janet nodded, careful not to bump Solomon.

  Mr Clutch murmured something that caught in the thick bristles of his moustache. The Italian man glanced at him and then his eyes returned to Janet. He seemed embarrassed. Did he not supply the things she required.

  Cement, she said, trying out the workaday words: cement, washed sand and some white paint, waterproof I imagine. Is that right, Solomon.

  She turned her head and Solomon stiffened. Ja, he barely breathed. Ja, just about warmed the back of her neck.

  The giant Italian man glanced at the other men. He leaned forward. Was he about to tell her a secret. His eyes flickered conspiratorially. Maybe the crack was worse than she had ever suspected. Her breath caught in her throat. She, too, leaned forward.

  You aska, maybe you aska you smart black to waita outside, he said. We senda the stu
ff by the side – you can a loada it into you car.

  Janet saw his lips stop moving. It took a moment for his meaning to follow. He glanced at the men before him.

  Janet stood there, still leaning forward. The Italian man leaned forward too. The other men lounged back. Who knew how Solomon stood on this ground.

  My black, said Janet.

  She had asked for white paint, had she not, not black. And cement was grey as far as she was aware, and who knew what colour the washed sand would be. Mr Clutch jerked his head to indicate behind her.

  My black, she repeated and the bag beneath her arm now felt very small and empty. Her breath was hollow and she felt as though she were slipping beneath an oppressive car, beneath some large vehicle with convoluted interior workings that were suddenly exposed. She was lying down with a headache like Noreen and then this great car just rolled over her and there she was looking up at its underside at all the pipes and grimy parts and the engine was running loudly and dangerously and she was confused. She put a hand to her head.

  Solomon, she said faintly. Solomon, she said again. She confirmed the bold fact of his name, his biblical name, named after a wise king who appeared to suggest cutting a baby in half when actually he was uniting a mother and her true child. Solomon kept order in their garden and the van Deventers’ garden. He was the one person who was going to help her unite the opposing sides of the pool, to help her fix the crack.