The Crack

by Christopher Radmann

  Come home, whispered bonnie Janet as her husband struck another match and she felt weak at the knees. Come home, and the match burst into light and stayed lit. Janet clutched at her big belly.

  The world leapt backwards now, rushing away from the point of the match and hurtling towards strange shadows in corners and behind the great bulk of Hektor-Jan, who blocked out half the world.

  The he stepped aside. And there it was –

  What was it –

  Christ –

  Bonnie Jean Jesus –

  Hoekom, repeated her husband as the match gave up its ghost of light and the world collapsed again. The rat-like sound of the matches came –

  Janet opened her mouth and another moan echoed from the wall opposite her.

  What was Hektor-Jan doing. Why the matches, why the lack of light. What in God’s name –

  Vrou, he said quietly, Woman. He struck another match, ’n vuurhoutjie, a small firestick –

  Before her, crucified on the wooden rack that was nailed to the wall, the rack from which hung saws and rope and old paintbrushes and rags, there now hung the form of a man, a glistening Christ. He glowed redly, then he was eaten by the darkness –

  A pause. Another match –

  He leapt back at Janet. This red hanging man, his head on his chest, deep in painful thought, his entire body shining red. Was this a game of cowboys and Indians. This red man was spat out of the darkness, summoned by the fire of a tiny match –

  Kaffir, said Hektor-Jan quietly as the light retired from its dance with darkness. And as the blackness pirouetted, the figure of the man seemed to be caught up in its movement, and he shuddered and lifted his head and, in the last glimmer of light, Janet saw that it was Solomon. Hanging on the wall of their garage, like a child’s picture of Jesus coloured in red by a careless wax crayon, dripping at the edges, was Solomon. Even his eyes were red. The moaning sounds came from him –

  Hoekom, said Hektor-Jan again in the deep night of the garage. Why –

  This time he waited longer –

  The sharp syllables of his Hoekom cut odd shapes in the darkness. Solomon, swathed in red, floated before her, swam on the surface of her eyes. She could see him even though there was nothing to see. The box of matches rattled again as her sight failed her and Solomon disappeared –

  Solomon, she gasped. The child spun in her womb as her belly lurched –

  And then he was back, sudden and sharp and looking straight at her. He was strung out on the wooden rack like a garden tool, a human implement. Beside the serrated silence of the rusted saws, great steel crocodiles, metallic and flat, somehow dehydrated, surrounded by the limp bats of oil cloths, like the sodden hankies of giant machines, and ropes as careless and yet as binding as rumour and suspicious thoughts, there he hung. Their very own red man. Janet sank to the floor. Would have sunk to the smeared concrete floor, but even as the match died Hektor-Jan had her in his arms and he supported her. He would not let her collapse. No. Nee. Not here –

  She had a question to answer and his Hoekom whispered hot and urgent in her ear –

  His grasp was firm and big. He was warm and strong –

  In that cold garage, she had no choice –

  Her mouth twisted and she cried out, but she made no sound –

  She tried to breathe in. She tried to find breath, to fill her chest as she hung there, too, suspended on the strong arms of Hektor-Jan. And he was able still to extract a match, and to scrape it before her eyes, and to whisper Hoekom as it flowered in front of her –

  She twisted and writhed. The match arced and waved wildly. Still she could not breathe. The match died.

  But then she found her feet and had to stand and breath shuddered into her lungs. Hektor-Jan let her go and she crouched, hands on knees and looked up as the strike of the match brought Solomon yet again before her –

  His head had sunk once more onto his chest. What was wrong with him. Why was he hanging in their garage. Why was he red. He looked as though he had been peeled. As though someone had carefully and systematically peeled all the skin from his body so that he hung there, a red man, an oozing, glistening, crucified Christ. In the instant of the flame, she could see his muscles and his sinews. His lithe body was delineated as never before. Even his hair was matted with scarlet curls, a crown of tender thorns –

  A drop of blood ran down his bent forehead. It gathered stickily on the tip of his nose that pointed to the floor – and then it fell –

  The new match caught the splash of that crimson pearl. It sank into the sheen of the little black and brown blanket beneath Solomon’s feet. The crumpled mess of the blanket that looked oddly familiar. And, as the silent cliffs of darkness crashed together, Janet saw that it was not a blanket. It was the dead puppy, New-Jock –

  Now she screamed. Bonnie Jean withered and died in her throat and the scream shot forth. And she felt herself falling. Dropping as from a great height. Hektor-Jan had let her go. The oily concrete received her. Her knees smacked hard and her wrists jarred. Like New-Jock and Jock before him, she had become a dog. And even as the match whispered against the rough strip and sang with fire, Janet was scrabbling to her feet and screaming. Light seemed to pour from her mouth. She was fighting to stand up, and to wade across the space. To shake New-Jock and to set Solomon free. Her voice, shrieking in the soft glow, summoned them, but New-Jock did not move and Solomon only hung there solemnly –

  And before she could reach out and touch either of them, the poor tortured creatures, and before she could turn to husband and ask What, and Who, and repeat his Hoekom, his Why, his free hand gripped her by the back of the neck and she was led into the light, closer to the guttering flame, which wobbled so precariously on the end of the tiny spear of wood. And she was brought face to face with Solomon –

  It was Solomon. She could see that now. And his skin had been stripped from his face, peeled back like a dark fruit to expose the fresh juice of his innermost self. What had happened. What terrible accident, what tragedy had befallen him. And even as her face was thrust close to his, she tried to turn to her husband in trembling consternation –

  What. Who. Why.

  Tell me, said Hektor-Jan’s voice. And even as his grip on her neck was hard, his voice was soft and sad. And she was brought right up to Solomon so that she felt the moist warmth, fresh from his open face. And when the words, Tell me, came again, it was with the insidious voice of Meneer Yuckulls, who also had hung from a wall, but he was hard and bristling, whereas Solomon was so soft and silent –

  Tell me, said Hektor-Jan, with such sadness, and his finger swam past her and caressed Solomon on his raw cheek. And as his head jolted in pain, Janet did not know whether Hektor-Jan wanted her or poor Solomon to answer him, to tell him. What could they say. Solomon moaned again, his eyes rolled past her in his private agony, and Janet could do nothing but open her mouth in a great silent scream. The blood was going to burst from her own skin. She, too, was going to rupture like fruit, overripe with horror and maternal sympathy for this poor man and the dog, dead at his feet –

  Then another match came and Hektor-Jan’s hand floated past her face. She looked down and saw it brush against Solomon’s broad chest. Then she noticed for the first time, another nub of red, like a broken rib. The protruding red bit, with a little logo, a cross unsullied and still golden. It was the penknife. The one she had reclaimed from Solomon and then returned to her husband’s bedside drawer. Her silly husband, so upset about a stupid knife, the sentimental fool. Now it was half-buried in Solomon’s chest and even as she stared at it, little bubbles gathered and burst at its base. Solomon wheezed and she saw that the knife must have punctured his lung, for the bubbles came and went as his red chest with the nipples sliced off tried not to heave –

  Despite Hektor-Jan’s heavy hand on her neck, Janet reached out and touched the knife. Her fingers took hold of its slippery surface. It was warm with Solomon’s blood. Her fingers became smeared with the blood of her
brave friend. The match flickered with emotion and Hektor-Jan made a strange sound at the back of his throat like a dog. Soon the little flame would burn his fingers and the blackness would come again. Still, Janet’s fingers gripped the knife. Her hand tightened on the nub of the knife and, as the match curled and died, she pulled it –

  As the darkness leapt forward, Solomon looked up in pain. He must have seen the knife in her hand, the bright metal made velvet with his own blood – or he might have somehow recalled hot tin mugs of sweet brown tea. His vision might have blurred as he tried to smile in that last flicker of light and his lips whispered huskily, Thank you, my Madam –

  And as the darkness came again, Janet wept. She wept for the poor man before her. The fine man, who had been so lithe and strong and helpful, who had stood by her in the battle against the crack. She wept for his shining ebony skin, now stripped away. She wept for the honest sweat that would never again glisten on his lovely skin, such a sheen of kind, strong endeavour. And she wept beneath her husband’s rough hand for the dog at her feet, another crushed, maimed animal. And for her children, and for her unborn child, and for herself. And also for her strange husband. What. Why. And she tried to turn towards him in the dark. What had happened here in this dark garage. She struggled to turn in the blackness, Solomon’s blood sticky on the knife, fusing her hand with its red base embossed with the golden cross, and its blade stabbing the darkness –

  He could feel her move, could he not. His hand was right around her throat –

  So, it is true, he said –

  So, Doug was right all along, he said –

  And the breath gathered in her throat and the pressure burst open her lips and she coughed up the dirty sound. Doug!

  Something shifted on the far side of the garage in the gap between the old wardrobes –

  It was not easy. Who would have thought that a garden boy would be so resilient. Such a tough nut to crack. So he had peeled him.

  He had led the limping boy into the garage in the late afternoon, just before he would have used the maid’s toilet and tiny basin to clean up and change into his smart clothes. Before his long legs took him off their property and out into the street.

  Kom, he had said to him. And the kaffir did as he was told. He came into the garage where Doug was waiting. Hektor-Jan closed the door. Now they were all kaffirs together in the sudden blackness. The world had become kaffir. And the darkness comprehended it not.

  Hektor-Jan waited.

  It was happening, happening right here in his home. He could feel it. The instant exhilaration, the clean certainty. The energy surged in him, even though he had not slept for a long time and his hands had been shaking. Now they were steady. Like the rock of ages. In the blackness, nobody said a word. Not even a sudden, Baas, my Baas, from the kaffir.

  Let there be light, said Hektor-Jan’s voice and he switched on the dangling light bulb that suddenly shone very bald and bare from the rough ceiling.

  Before the kaffir could pick up a tool, or shout or strike out, Hektor-Jan nodded as agreed and Doug spoke his name. Solomon.

  And as he knew that he would, Solomon turned to his other Master and did not see Hektor-Jan’s practiced hands. They bunched into fists and his thunderous right struck Solomon just above his ear, in the temple, and Solomon did not even say, Baas, or register any surprise as he fell.

  They let him fall.

  He was out for the count. It would be several minutes.

  He lay at their feet, a pool of limbs, a dark mass on the oil-stained floor.

  Doug bunched his hands into fists too, and punched the air just as Hektor-Jan had punched Solomon and felled him. Doug’s little right fist flashed in the light and then he kicked the tangle of Solomon at his feet.

  No, said Hektor-Jan, holding up a hand. Wait.

  Doug did not know what was ordained, what was supposed to happen next. His neighbour had no clue. They had to lift up the kaffir. Slump him onto an old garden chair and tie his hands behind his back and knot his feet together. That is what they had to do. You did not just hit out. You did not just go mad. This was a dance. And Doug watched in wonder as he lifted the limp kaffir and spun with the body, weaving it into position, upright, swiftly secure, knotted into place. Only the kaffir boy’s head lolled. The rest of him was roped and ready. There. That was what you did.

  Man, said Doug, impressed. Man.

  But Hektor-Jan was lost in the subtleties, in the finer nuances of rope and consciousness. He slapped Solomon’s cheeks and the kaffir boy stirred. His black Adam awoke.

  And then it began. Whilst his wife got ready for her show and his children tackled their homework at the kitchen table, tongues out, pens and pencils clutched in fierce concentration, he, their father, set about his work. He put a finger to his lips, and smiled silence at the kaffir. He brought the penknife glittering up to the kaffir’s face, waved it in front of him and dared him to cry out.

  Ek wil nie jou tong afsny nie. I do not want to cut out your tongue, he said in Afrikaans. The word, sny, slid into the kaffir’s face. It was a sly word, a most significant word. Moenie skreeu nie. Therefore do not scream, he said in his native tongue, so that the native would hold his tongue. And the word, skreeu, swivelled in the quiet garage, like the English screw, but not quite. It was longer and sharper and more menacing by far. Its twisting vowels dug deeper.

  Solomon nodded at the knife. He agreed with its silver blade and bowed to the blood-red handle. He ignored the squealing, strange sounds that the other Master was making, the way the little man patrolled the edges of the garage, grunting and squeaking to himself.

  Baas, Solomon whispered to the knife. Baas, when I am breaking the old lawnmower, and the new weedeater, I am sorry, Baas.

  You are sorry, Hektor-Jan used the same hushed tones. You are sorry.

  And – Doug’s throttled conjunction added his voice to the fray.

  Solomon seemed not to hear him.

  You are sorry, Hektor-Jan said again, his voice hardly audible. Seemingly overwhelmed by sadness.

  Solomon trusted himself only to nod.

  But what about the Madam, said Hektor-Jan still sorrowfully, still leaning forward, having to stand whilst their garden boy sat in state before them. What about the Madam and this business with the pool.

  Sjoe, Solomon shook his head sorrowfully. That one, he said, that one. And he did not say any more. It was as though there was nothing more he could say.

  Hektor-Jan waited. They always said more. The longer you waited, the more came out. It was a simple law of physics, of psychology, of speaking in tongues.

  But Solomon did not say anything more. He kept shaking his head. He breathed in deeply and frequently, but no words came. That is when Hektor-Jan drove the knife deep into his chest, between the ribs, into his lung so that the pent-up sounds would be released.

  Baas, gasped the kaffir boy, apparently in disbelief. Baas, was a gasp, a wheeze, a sigh as he looked down at his chest.

  That was better. It was something. They could work with Baas. It was the silence that was so frustrating. For in the beginning, there had to be the word. And the word was Baas, and the word was now with the Baas, and Hektor-Jan and Doug saw again that it was good.

  But what about the Madam and this business with the pool, Hektor-Jan said a little more loudly for the wheezing sound was worse and the urine splashed noisily onto the concrete floor, and Doug seemed oddly excited about the kaffir boy pissing himself. Hektor-Jan shifted his feet back a little. How many shoes had he given to the maid to polish, to protect from such sudden effusions.

  The Madam, he prompted again.

  He would have left a fertile silence after that third query. It was better, so often, to keep one’s counsel, whilst they pissed out theirs. You held your tongue, and that loosened theirs. It was a good deal. This trade-off with silence.

  But Doug was on a roll. His face suddenly swept down beside the kaffir boy’s and he screamed, The Madam, the Madam, you fucking ka
ffir. I saw you. Don’t think I didn’t see you. He knows, Doug changed tack, pointing to Hektor-Jan, Don’t you see he fucking knows.

  Thank you, said Hektor-Jan as Doug threw himself back and continued to patrol the garage. The man was hysterical.

  The kaffir boy sat in bubbling silence.

  Hektor-Jan permitted himself a brief break. He stood upright, and moved over to his neighbour. He placed a hand on Doug’s shoulder. He spoke in low reassuring tones, but what he said was decisive. Doug nodded. Ja, man. I’m sorry, man.

  Then Hektor-Jan was back. His attention was completely devoted to the garden boy. Tell me, he said, inviting confidence, but scaring the shit out of the kaffir. The smell was unbelievable.

  Hektor-Jan saw it coming. The signs were there. First the piss and then the shit. The writing was on the wall. The excrement was in the air. And so, it was written, so it would come to pass, that he would bring in the dog, the new dog. And if the kaffir had a high pain threshold, as they called it, then maybe he would speak whilst the dog screamed with a voice made human by pain. But if that did not work and the dog died with a song in its throat, just like the other one had died because it had kept him awake and simply would not shut up and for other deeper, darker reasons he had not fathomed, then there were additional means, further methods. It would have to be the genitals. He would have to make his privates public. There were plenty of pliers in the garage. He would not have to send any corporals out and about to fetch new tools. No, there were pliers and rasps and screwdrivers and even the saws with their fine, ragged teeth. And Solomon would have to watch as his future children had their toes trimmed. Were truncated, were suddenly maimed and made lifeless. Or, there was another way. Hektor-Jan knew the sudden surprise if you simply took a kaffir in hand and toyed with his soft tool. How the terror might make him piss-damp and slack, but when you rubbed and teased and coaxed him out of his fucking fear, the results could be oddly surprising. He might respond against his will. He might be hard up with little to offer, but he might bring something to the table. Stare in shock as his revolting excitement grew and came to realise just what a white man in power might do. How it might come to this. Betrayed by his own body. Convulsed by the hideous pleasure of this white man’s hands. How quickly his own penis became Judas. And the small Master squealed and choked in the background as his hot seed spilled all over the oily floor. And Hektor-Jan knew that if all those promptings did not do the trick, they could always crucify him. String him up. There was a rack behind him. The penknife was keen. There would be other ways, Hektor-Jan was sure. When you gave yourself to the dance, when you no longer thought but simply acted, when your movements came unbidden and beautiful, when you were in tune, that’s when it happened.