The Boy Who Could Keep a Swan in His Head

by John Hunt

  The bedroom was now literally always full of stories. Phen would stop and listen from the door. Although standing in the passageway made him feel uneasy and antsy, he was not prepared to give the machine the satisfaction of seeing him in any way interested. By deliberate design, the first book ordered had been the same Le Carré spy novel still wedged behind the bedside lamp. Phen leaned against the wall and teased Pal with an ancient tennis ball.

  “You bastard,” hissed Leamas, “you lousy bastard! You knew I wouldn’t trust myself to your rotten Service; that was the reason, wasn’t it? That was why you used a Russian.”

  “We used the Soviet Embassy at The Hague. What else could we do? Up till then it was our operation. That’s perfectly reasonable. Neither we, nor anyone else could have known that your own people in England would get on to you so quickly.” …

  “Goodbye,” he said to Leamas. “Good luck.”

  “Come,” Phen said as he pulled the ball out of his dog’s mouth. He’d heard that part a few times already. His father was always dozing off and then rewinding too far back. “It’s time for a walk. We have to get to West Berlin. The Ruskies aren’t playing nice and I don’t want to have to drink vodka with my dinner again.”

  He decided Checkpoint Charlie would be Villa de Eston Mansions. The building stood midway between Duchess Court and Nugget Hill Park. As he did a careful reconnaissance from behind the jacaranda tree, he noticed the East German border guard sitting on the steps of the entrance. The Zulu night watchman with his knobkerrie and khaki uniform leaned back on his elbows and yawned. Phen would not be fooled by this seemingly casual behaviour. He pulled Pal diagonally across the road and half into the privet hedge. He’d need to assess the situation from another angle.

  The guard leaned further backwards, causing both the badge on his cap and the ZCC star on his chest to face upwards to the sky. So, that’s how he wants to play it, thought Phen. He imitated his nonchalance by allowing his dog to sniff a passing poodle. But something about that encounter stirred the Stasi’s interest. He suddenly sat upright, tapped his weapon and stared straight at him. Phen wondered if he should just make a run for it. Would he make it to the other side? He could see the park beckoning to him; vast stretches of green and rows of white daisies planted next to the slide waved him on. He had a safe house there. No one knew about the willow tree. Freedom was calling. He hated this Cold War. This damn wall that made you choose! This scar of brick built straight through the heart of a nation.

  Now you could trust no one. Even as he looked towards the entry gates of the park, he wondered if they’d infiltrated that too. Was he really secure there? Or were they waiting for him disguised with open arms and false smiles? He’d have to decide soon. The guard had stood up and was looking restless. It seemed he wanted to cross the road. And what? Check his papers? Luck favours the brave. Phen pulled his dog towards the menacing sight of the man now rubbing his thigh with his knobkerrie. This was the moment! No turning back. He had to get past or live the rest of his days as a guest of East Germany’s State Security.

  “Wait!”

  Phen froze in terror. Even Pal lifted his head and cocked his ears.

  “Wait!”

  He studied the ground and expected the worst. His cover was blown. The guard approached him, walking briskly. There was nothing he could do but accept his fate. Whom had he trusted too much? Who was the turncoat? Someone had ratted him out and he’d probably never know the name of that faceless swine. And then the miracle. The guard kept on walking. Past him, across the road and to the car parked on the corner. Not wishing to be obvious, Phen slowly turned his body once he’d reached the sanctuary of the chrysanthemums. The Chinese man who controlled the local Fa-fi syndicate had almost left without collecting the guard’s bet for the week. Coincidence or planned diversion? Either way, Phen and his dog hurried to the park happy and relieved.

  Once there, though, he couldn’t let his guard down. He allowed Pal off his leash, but immediately found the lady at the baby swimming pool suspicious. Firstly, the pool was empty so why would she choose to sit next to it? Perhaps it was a prearranged rendezvous? Shortly, a man of average height wearing a forgettable raincoat and a bland hat might sit down next to her and place a parcel between them. He would say nothing, then leave a few minutes later with the brown paper bag still on the bench. Plus, her hair was beehived and her face fully made up, yet she was by herself. Why get so dressed up for a date with no one? What did thick lipstick and enormous stuck-on eyelashes mean at five in the afternoon? Too much for the office, yet too early for any nightlife. He’d read about female spies in a photo-story magazine while buying bread at the corner café. It was titled “The Honey Trap”. She looked like the lady on the cover, although her skirt had no long slit up the side.

  “Agent provocateur,” he said aloud.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Phen nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around to find a man standing not six inches behind him.

  “Look at the smudge of mascara, especially under the right eye. She’s been crying.”

  Phen stepped back to create some distance between them. The man’s face and forearms were baked a deep nut brown. Nothing else matched. He wore white tennis shoes with a pair of smart suit pants and a blue, yellow and purple paisley shirt. The collar was clean, although frayed. The loose threads sprayed everywhere, some trying to climb up the side of his neck. He had no socks, yet cradled a brand-new felt fedora in his hands. Phen knew the make and material of the hat; they’d been on display at Harry’s Hattery, a shop he passed every day on his way to school. For all this clash of colour and style, the man appeared strangely confident, even a little suave. This self-assurance was confirmed by the way he spun his hat around his forefinger without even looking at it.

  “She’s been crying. At the moment, more inside than out. Her heart is heaving. And all we have as a clue is a path one teardrop wide through her mascara.”

  Phen looked at the woman again and was suddenly overwhelmed by her sorrow. The empty pool made sense now. Where better to sit when your life had run dry? She stared at the leaping dolphin made of small white and blue tiles, its bemused, smiling face confirming they’d both been duped. Phen wondered how he’d not noticed this sadness before. It was now so obvious he could feel it seeping into him.

  “Love makes the world go round,” the man said, “and sometimes stops it, too.”

  He placed the hat back on his head and did what Phen presumed was a romantic dance with an invisible partner. He thought it might be a tango. The man’s body shot right, suddenly turned and burst left. He did this a number of times before ending dramatically with his back curled forward as his eyes smouldered at the emptiness he gently cradled in his arms.

  “Don’t worry,” the man said as he straightened up and released his partner. “This is not your story to join. Someone was meant to come and didn’t arrive. That’s the problem with ultimatums – you have to choose. Binary. Yes or no. No si, so adios. Nothing in between. You cannot dither deeply. No indecision to marinate in. She did love him and, in time, she will also realise that he loved her.”

  Phen looked at him blankly, still trying to arrange his words and dress sense into some kind of order. It was impossible to guess his age. Forty-five, perhaps even sixty? The extraordinary blue of his eyes belonged to a baby, yet his face was heavily lined. Tiny holes pitted the skin that stretched across his cheekbones. His nose almost beaked then turned friendly again at the tip. His hat didn’t sit on his head; it rode a massive wave of hair. It sloped forward then back in a huge sweep like a lion’s golden mane. If he hadn’t had so much hair going sideways, he would’ve looked like Elvis Presley without the grease.

  Equally eye-catching was the black-and-grey square of facial hair that spread beneath his lower lip and covered most of his chin.

  “My placemat,” he said, watching Phen’s eyes.

  “It’s square.”

  “Holds my face together. Like a ro
om that needs a rug.”

  Phen nodded.

  “The boyfriend,” he continued, “comes from Spinalonga. Small island off Crete. Beautiful in a rugged way. His family want him back. There’s a local girl waiting there. It’s, sort of, been arranged. Complicated. Second cousin’s sister. If they get married the bakery then becomes his, so his parents’ future is secured.”

  “H-h-how do you know …?”

  “They came here often and discussed it. I’m usually stretched out on the bench opposite, sometimes with a newspaper over my face. No one notices me. When people don’t see you they don’t put up any barriers. Not that you have to hear everything. Your body tells a lot, too. You can listen with your eyes if you have the time or patience.”

  Phen continued to stare vacantly at the jumble sale in front of him.

  “By way of example, right now your face is saying you don’t know what I’m talking about, even if your mouth isn’t.”

  Phen’s mouth opened, said nothing, then closed. This he repeated twice.

  “You also keep staring at my hat. It’s brand new and you think I must’ve stolen it because I can’t afford it. Well, a man came out of Tattersalls, the horse-betting place, and insisted on sharing some of his winnings. People can be kind.”

  Phen was saved by a stifled moan. The woman placed her elbows on her knees and cupped her face in both hands.

  “She needs to meet her emotions … been delaying for a while.”

  “You live here? In the park?”

  “Most days, when the weather is good.”

  “For how long?”

  “A while.”

  “And at night, when they close the gate?”

  “Sometimes I stay. Sometimes I go.”

  “Where do you go?”

  “I have a number of addresses.”

  “Flats are becoming apartments now.” Phen didn’t know why he said that and immediately felt the need to continue and explain. “Words change all the time. I battle with them.”

  “Wouldn’t have guessed.”

  “I s-s-s-stutter too.” The instant admission took him by surprise. Why would he suddenly put a spotlight on his speech? And why choose to do this with someone he’d never met before? His mother and grandmother kept telling him not to talk to strangers.

  “Really? When?”

  “All the time.”

  “All the time? But hardly when you talk to me.”

  “I …”

  “It’s probably because you don’t have to worry about the likes of me. Nothing to get nervous about. No need to impress.”

  “I … I … I …”

  “Is that stuttering or just repeating yourself?”

  “S-s-s-s-ses are the real problem. My father s-s-says it’s a letter curved like barbed wire to catch my tongue.” Phen wondered at his words; this was becoming a confession.

  They both turned as the girl’s body began to convulse and shudder. She kept her face tightly held behind her hands. This made the shaking of her shoulders seem more violent, more out of control. Her head was still but the rest of her body became unmanageable. Phen felt in the pocket of his shorts and pulled out his handkerchief, still neatly folded.

  “My mother says you’re not a true gentleman if you don’t always carry a clean hanky.” He couldn’t stop himself from talking to this man, even if it was drivel.

  The man nodded as Phen slowly walked up to the girl. The sound of her sobs was stifled by her palms, but the tears were leaking through her fingers. He stood there patiently with his arm outstretched, not sure how to get his offering noticed. He cleared his throat a few times to no avail. In desperation he touched her on the shoulder. This was a mistake. Her eyes opened in joy, narrowed in confusion and closed in the deepest despair. Clearly she had thought he was her errant boyfriend. At first she didn’t even see the handkerchief. It was only when she opened her eyes a second time that she accepted the white cloth with the briefest of smiles. As she dabbed her eyes his kindness suddenly made her cry even more. Her face disappeared behind his hanky.

  Phen stood for a while knotted with guilt and totally bewildered. Kindness had somehow added to sorrow. He was now complicit in her deeper suffering. How could good intentions turn bad so quickly? He apologised then turned and slowly walked away.

  Intuitively, Phen headed straight for the willow. A temporary board explained the tree had recently been planted as part of the “Hillbrow Beautification” project. Its thin trunk sprayed even skinnier branches like a green fountain. Although it was barely two metres high, its flopping limbs provided a perfect curtain. Phen was about to slide through it and escape behind its narrow leaves when he saw the hat.

  “Don’t let me stop you from vanishing into your cave of leaves.”

  “How did you get here first?” Phen paused, suddenly feeling like a coward for wanting to disappear.

  “I saw your encounter was going to take a little time. That’s a lot of emotion to fit into one hanky.” He turned his hand into a hanky and the hanky into a parachute which he let drift through the air before landing it on the grass. “When they’ve finished building the waterfall I think this will be the prime spot in the park. Your special tree. Shady. Water gushing. Beautiful view of Jo’burg. Voila! I notice you often use it as a hidey hole. Good choice. Once you’re in, no one can see you.”

  “I thought Pal was the only other one who knew.”

  “How do you think the weeping woman is doing?”

  Phen felt uncomfortable. Not only had his secret hideaway been discovered, he also didn’t like the way the man casually lay stretched out on his back talking to the clouds, taking over his space. He wasn’t sure if he should sit next to him or remain standing. It felt as if sinking down to his height was giving in. Instead, he leaned against the pole of the heavy metal sign that said “Whites Only. Slegs Blankes”, and, mimicking the man, addressed his answer to the gathering cumulus.

  “I made it worse.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s crying more.”

  “So you think the volume of tears equals the degree of sadness?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about tears of joy?”

  “What?”

  “The more you cry them, the happier you are?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Do you think you can have both of them at the same time?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Maybe some are tears of sadness for Thanos – that’s his name, the almost-husband. And some are tears of gratitude for a boy who offered his handkerchief?”

  Pal found Phen and brought some much-needed relief. He threw the tennis ball a few times before the spaniel drifted off to a pair of wiry Airedale terriers. The man had gone silent, yet was still staring at the sky. He wondered if he was in some kind of trance. For all his talk before, it intrigued Phen that the long silences between their conversations didn’t worry him. This was confirmed by him pushing his hat over his eyes and seemingly going to sleep. A cue to leave, or was he meant to stay?

  “Please,” the man said without opening his eyes, “do whatever you feel.”

  Phen looked at him stretched out with his sockless feet casually crossed and his tennis shoes vertical. He spotted a thin pinstripe in the man’s trousers that had previously gone unnoticed. He also now saw the shoes were at least two sizes too big and their laces were made from industrial-strength twine. The last time he’d seen such thick string, it had been wrapped around the cardboard box that held the Philips tape recorder. He leaned forward for a closer inspection and decided it was exactly the same.

  “Pulled them out of a dustbin behind Duchess Court.”

  “That’s where I live.”

  “There’s a coincidence.”

  Phen turned to go, feeling perhaps he had been dismissed.

  “And before you ask, the shirt was also a gift. From a gentleman with a beaded bandana and a rather large rolled item in his mouth. I told you people can be kind.”

&
nbsp; Phen stopped and leaned against the sign again.

  “He said it was the Age of Aquarius and that all we need is love. And at that exact moment that Beatles song began to play on his transistor radio. You know, ‘All You Need Is Love’?”

  Perhaps Phen frowned for a moment, or didn’t reply quite quick enough. Either way, by way of clarification, the man began to sing, loudly. Phen was so embarrassed he had no idea what to do. Here was living proof that there was nothing you can sing that can’t be sung. The man stayed horizontal and had a lousy voice, yet was happy to warble at full volume to the sky. What was even worse, he chose to do the instrumental parts too. He tromboned to the horizon and trumpeted to the cosmos. People all around the park were turning to see where the noise was coming from. In desperation Phen slowly lowered himself until he was crouching next to the pole. To further distance himself from the noise he stared at the huge Catholic church down below. It was built not far from the Casablanca Roadhouse, where waitresses in short white skirts raced and did tight pirouettes as they brought toasted sandwiches and pink milkshakes to car windows on their roller skates.

  Thoughtfully, Pal trotted back to see who was in so much pain. He licked the man’s face and knocked his hat off. The rough tongue served as an off button and silence resumed.

  “Because of the coincidence, Felix – that was his name – took off his shirt and handed it to me. He said it was a sign. The stars had aligned with the radio waves to send a message. He had to share a little love. So he gave me his shirt. He said he had more clothes than me and liked my vibrations. He dug me.”

  “Are you a hobo?”

  “I certainly could be.”

  “Don’t you sometimes start …” Phen pinched his nose.

  “Well, don’t tell anyone, but the kiddies’ pool early in the morning is pretty handy. Of course, it helps if there’s water in it. Then there are a couple of taps. I keep some soap and a bucket in my sack.”

  “Maybe when the waterfall is working?”

  “Good point … How am I doing now?”

  “Not great.”

  “I do have some aftershave I found outside Gainsborough Mansions. Lots of bachelors there.”