by Mark Behr
The General wipes over his moustache and asks: 'And
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you, do you have someone like Queequeg, a dark mysterious stranger?'
Use laughs shyly and says no.
'But why not? A beautiful girl your age . . . Surely?'
Use is quiet for a while. Then she looks across the room at Mum and says: 'Gramas for the compliment, Mister Smith. But I'm not allowed to see strangers.'
Mum clicks her tongue and says: 'Oh, what nonsense, Use! You're allowed to have anyone as a friend.'
I also think Use's speaking nonsense, because I'm good friends with Jan Bandjies, and even though Jan isn't a real whaler like Captain Ahab or Queequeg, all his ancestors were on the whalers, so it's almost the same. I'm sure Use's just trying to flirt with the General by making up all these stories.
He smiles and says: 'Well, here I am . . . and I'm a stranger?' He opens his eyes wide like he's really cornered her now.
But Use shakes her head, and says: 'No, not really. You're not a stranger . . .'
'I suppose, maybe. But I come from a faraway country. One with many mysteries!'
Use is quiet for a while. Then she says: 'That's true, but you're still ... a general . . . like my father.'
'Nonetheless, I am a stranger,' he says, and smiles at Mum.
But Use only shakes her head again, and says: 'You're like my father, like Captain Ahab.'
The General throws his head back and laughs: 'Does the fact that we're both generals make us into Captain Ahabs?' And he lifts his one eyebrow as he smiles so that his white teeth show up against his black moustache. Use shrugs her shoulders and mutters something about that not being a real choice. Then she sits there sulking.
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Mum asks whether Mister Smith would like another glass of champagne. I'm sure now that there's something going on between Use and him. I watch Use from the corner of my eye. I don't understand this business about the stranger. I'm sure they have some secret.
The General asks Mum whether she'll sing a song for him. Mum never sings in front of strangers, but I think she's in a very good mood tonight, because she's laughing at all the General's jokes. Maybe I can ask him about the mark on his back, but I'm worried that Mum will say it's a personal question. Use says Mum should sing a Jacques Brel song. What about 'The Desperate Ones'? But Mum wants to sing something with a more lively touch first. The General asks her to sing a special something for him to remember her by. He may be staying over at Brigadier Van der Westhuizen's house tomorrow night, so tonight is probably his last night with us. When he says that, I quickly glance at Use to see what she does, but she just sits there, acting like she didn't hear.
The General says Mum should sing something that will remind him of her, whenever he hears it in future. Mum sits down at the piano, and from where I'm sitting I can see her feet on the pedals, and the seams of her pantyhose running along the tips of her toes. Use gets up and opens the piano's stomach. Before Mum sings, she looks at the General and says: Til do a Gershwin song. But you can't tell Johan. He hates jazz.'
'Affirmative. It's a deal, I promise,' he answers, and winks at me.
Use giggles and says Mum should hang on a minute. She runs out and comes back with the silver candlesticks and a box of matches. Mum laughs and says Use's turning it into a real show. Use dims the lights. Then she puts the candles on the piano's music-stand and lights them. No
one can understand Use's moods. They seem to change quicker than the tides. Just a few seconds ago she was still sitting here all fat-lipped, and now suddenly she's the belle of the ball! Use moves away from the piano and says: 'Gentlemen, may I present . . . after an absence of twenty years . . . Miss Leonore Stein!' And we all clap, and Mum drops her head and looks all shy.
Mum sings 'Summer Time' by George Gershwin. She sings it slowly, like real jazz, and she moves her shoulders like someone doing a slow dance. Her arms and shoulders move with the slow rhythm, and the purple dress falls around the piano stool like soft waves. Mum looks so beautiful at the piano. In the candlelight her skin looks soft and pink, and I wish the whole world could see her. She sings the song twice, the second time a little more lively, and she plays all kinds of nice chords. When the song ends, we all clap hands and Mum gets up and bows at us, acting like it's a real concert.
The General says a long sentence in Spanish and Mum thanks him and says that even though she can't understand Spanish it sounded like a compliment. He says that Mum's voice has moved him deeply.
'Is everyone in Chile Spanish, Mister Smith?' I ask.
He laughs. Then he says: 'We are not really Spanish. Most of us are Chilenos, but we all speak Spanish.'
'Most Chilenos have Spanish and Indian ancestors, don't they, Mister Smith?' Use asks.
He says si and asks Mum to please sing another song. She agrees to do one more, but says we have to go to bed afterwards. There's still one more day of school and if we don't get to bed soon, we'll struggle to get up in the morning.
Now Mum sings 'The Desperate Ones' by Jacques Brel. She does it very slowly and softly, stretching out the notes
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and looking into space. Her voice vibrates and drifts through the whole house. I look at Use staring across at Mum. I can see tears streaming down her cheeks and I wonder if she's crying because Mum's singing so beautifully or because the General's leaving. But I think it's Mum's voice, because even though I don't know much about singing, Mum is singing like I've never heard her before. Even Mimi Coertse isn't a patch on Mum tonight.
After the last notes have died away, we don't clap at once. The house is completely silent and Mum doesn't look up from the piano.
'Hermoso, hermoso . . . that was exquisite,' the General breaks the silence. Mum slowly turns back to us. She smiles and says it's time for us to go to bed.
Then, before I can stop myself, I look at Use and say: 'First, Use must sing the trout song.' Use looks at me like I've gone starkers, because she knows very well I can't stand it when she sings. I open my eyes wide so that she can see I'm asking nicely, but before she can answer, Mum says:
'Oh, Marnus, it's so late already . . .'
I want the General to hear Dad's favourite song, so I frown and pull a face to show how much I want her to sing.
Tm in no mood for singing tonight,' Use pipes up.
'Ah, Mum,' I start pleading, 'tell Use she must sing the trout song for Mister Smith, just once, please, Mum.'
'Marnus,' Mum answers, 'it's late and Use doesn't feel like singing now. Off you go to bed, both of you.'
Use gets up to say good night, but I carry on: 'Just once, please, just one verse . . .'
Mum interrupts in Afrikaans: 'Stop this nonsense now, Marnus. You're making Use uncomfortable in the company of this strange man. Go now.'
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I look at the General, who's sitting in his chair with a smile. Even though he can't understand Afrikaans I know I've made a fool of myself. We say good night and for once Use doesn't try her usual buenas noches. Tonight she's as quiet as a mouse. While we're brushing our teeth, I look up at her and say: 4 I know very well why you didn't want to sing the trout song just now.'
She finishes and when she bends down to rinse her mouth I look at the thick ponytail hanging down her back. She wipes her mouth on the towel, and asks: 'Yes? What's your theory?'
'Don't worry,' I say, 4 I wasn't born yesterday.' She rolls her eyes at me and walks from the bathroom without answering.
I take off my longs without rubbing them against my knees. I slip on my pyjama-pants, but it's too hot to sleep with a top. After the light's off, I move over to the bed, making sure not to bump my knees against anything. Then I suddenly remember that tonight might be the General's last night with us. I think of the scar across his back and I wish I could just see it one more time. Slowly I get off the bed and tiptoe to the centre of the room. It's almost full moon and the light is falling in through t
he window. Where the carpet is rolled back, two small patches of lamplight shine up through the holes in the floorboards. I lie down on my side so that my knees won't rub against the floor. When I roll over on to my stomach I bend them up.
The General is standing in front of Ouma's dressing-table, looking at himself in the big oval mirror. The underpants he's wearing aren't the same as the scants Dad and I wear; they're more like rugby-shorts. I can see the scar clearly. I look at his face in the mirror, and my heart starts beating like mad. Even though I can't see very clearly, I can make out a reddish reflection in the mirror
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right next to him. I turn my eye to the door, but I can't see that far. I move over a little to look through the other hole, but through there I can see only the bed right below me. Quickly I move my eye back to the bigger one. He's still exactly where he was, and the reflection from the doorway hasn't moved either. I know it's Use.
I want to jump up and get back into bed, but I'm scared of the floorboards creaking. I wish they would speak. Now he's smiling. He turns around and looks at the door. I can't understand why they don't say anything. All they do is look at each other and he's smiling like they have a secret. Maybe I'm going to find out what it is. It feels like an hour.
While he's still standing there smiling, I suddenly hear the front door open at the far end of the passage. For a moment I lift my head, and when I put my eye back to the hole, the red reflection is gone. He's still standing as he was, but he's not smiling any more.
Quietly I roll the carpet back and get up without creaking the floorboards. It's exactly as I thought: the funny business in the lounge just now, when they were speaking about 'the stranger'. Of course! It must have been some code to say she should come to his room! But now I'm not so sure ... I start feeling terrible for being so suspicious of Use. Use won't ever do something like that. She's never even had a real smooch with a boy, let alone come into a married man's room in the middle of the night. I must have imagined it all. I didn't look properly, and anyway I couldn't really see from that difficult angle. It's all Frikkie's fault! It's him that planted the idea about Use and the General in my head.
While I'm praying, I ask the Lord to please forgive me for thinking such filthy thoughts about my own sister. I also ask him to forgive Frikkie for leading me into
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temptation. Starting tomorrow I'm going to do my best to be nice to her again.
Every time I'm forced to leave the cover of dry trees and bush, the sun scorches my neck. If I can reach the Cunene, I can move up along the river to Qalueque. The growth here is thicker than it was early this morning. When I stop to listen, I can hear the sounds of being followed. My attempts to shake them off by running in a semicircle have failed. Now I'm headed straight for the river. It sounds like more than one of them, and they're gaining on me. By now they know I'm alone and that fatigue is getting the better of me. My lungs are ablaze with the dust I pant in through my cracked lips. I consider dropping off the webbing to make running easier. Then I give up on the idea. Branches lash at my face like whips, and the taste of blood wells up in my mouth. The sound of people crashing along behind me, catching up on me, filling my head, surround me. I storm on blindly, desperate to find the river. I must find the river that will lead me to Qalueque.
It's the last day of our Standard Three year. On the way to school I keep looking at the side of Use's face to see whether maybe she was in the mirror last night. But in the morning everything looks different and I feel terrible about the horrible thoughts still sitting in my head. Maybe I dreamed it all.
I look at Mum's dark glasses in the rearview mirror. When we drive to school in the mornings the sun catches her in the eyes so she always puts on her dark glasses. Mum will be bitterly disappointed if she ever found out
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what was going on in my head. A dirty thought is as bad as a dirty deed and there's no such thing as a small sin or a big sin. Dominee Cronje has said it a hundred times in his sermons.
Because school is breaking up, we finish earlier than usual, and we all bring presents for the teachers. Miss Engelbrecht gets all excited about the small antique copper scale Mum bought and wrapped for me to give to her. Frikkie gives her some expensive perfume and she's so excited she says she'll forgive him all this year's bad behaviour.
Miss Engelbrecht hands out the annuals, and I feel like jumping out of my skin when I see my essay inside. It's the first time they've chosen one of my essays, and I can't wait to show Dad. And Use. Use always has two or three things in the high school annual, and now it's my turn to brag for a change. In the back of the annual, there's a photograph of Frikkie and me with our rugby team. Frikkie and I are sitting on either side of the PT teacher and Frikkie's holding the ball on his lap.
We usually get our reports on the last day of term, but at the end of the year the school posts them to our homes. That's to make sure your parents get to see your report and that the whole family knows whether you've failed or passed. I've never been scared of failing, but some of the kids in the B and C classes end up having to do the same year all over again. The dumb Van Eeden boy has failed Standard Three twice, and if he fails again he might have to go to the special class next year.
Mum collects Frikkie and me from the Delports' after she has picked up Use from the high school. Frikkie's coming to stay with me until the day after tomorrow, when we leave for Sedgefield. I can't wait to get into the car to show Mum and Use my essay. The moment I get into the car, I open my suitcase. I push the annual between
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the front seats and tell Use to look on page thirty-eight, because there's a surprise for her. When she sees what it is she calls out: 4 Marnus, this is fantastic!' And she holds it sideways for Mum to have a quick look while she's driving. Mum laughs and sticks her arm backwards between the seats and gives my leg a squeeze. She says she's a proud mother today. I tell Use to also look at me and Frikkie and our rugby photo. She glances at the photo and then tells us to keep quiet so that she can read out my essay to Mum. I'm feeling a bit silly now, because now Frikkie must think I'm trying to be a smart-arse. I pull my face so that he can see I think Use's being stupid. Then she starts:
In the museum
Marnus Erasmus, Standard 3A
If you walk through the museum you can learn lots of interesting things about our country. There are many interesting exhibitions and beautiful old paintings. The best ones are of the uniforms they wore in the olden days to stop the strandlopers and the Hottentots from plundering and robbing the farms of the poor Dutch settlers. There are even old Matchlock guns in the showcases. The first war against the Hottentots was seven years after Jan Van Riebeeck arrived in the Cape, but the settlers were too strong for the Hottentots and they ran away like cowards. Later they all went to live in the mountains. Then the Boers had to make war against the Xhosas at Algoa Bay and later against the Zulus in Natal because the evil Dingane i impis murdered their wives and smashed the babies ' heads against the wagon wheels. The further north the Boers trekked in the olden days, the cheekier and more wicked
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the natives became. But the hand of God rests over the righteous and now our country is made up of four provinces and in 1961 we became a Republic. After three hundred years we have one of the strongest armies in the world. Our soldiers also don 7 use Matchlocks any more, they have FNs. FN stands for Fabrique Nationale, because they're made in Belgium. You can learn all of this by walking through the museum and by just keeping your eyes open. Open eyes are the gateways to an open mind.
Mum says it's a wonderful essay and one day I'm going to write even better essays than Use. I wait for Use to say something, but she just pages through the annual without saying a thing. I don't know what to think because a moment ago she was still so impressed with me and now she's all quiet and disinterested. She changes her moods like a chameleon changes its colour.
While she's paging t
hrough the annual, Use asks whether Mum has heard anything more from Doreen and Little-Neville. Mum says Doreen has called again, and it seems like things are looking up for Little-Neville. He's not going to die. Maybe they can transfer him to Cape Town tomorrow. But the transfer will cost a lot of money, and Doreen can't really afford it. Mum says she's going to ask Dad whether we can pay for the transfer. Mum can always deduct it again from Doreen's wages at a later stage. She says that's the least she can do for Doreen, especially with Little-Neville being her favourite child. When a mother witnesses the suffering of her child, it's even worse than having to go through the suffering herself.
When I told Frikkie this morning about what happened to Little-Neville, he said he's heard that it smells terrible when human flesh burns. We wondered whether it smells
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the same when coloured and white flesh burns. It might be different because our blood's so different. On the Beetle's tape-player Ella Fitzgerald is singing a song from Porgy and Bess.
I wish we were already on our way to Sedge field. Mum says Mister Smith will be staying over with Brigadier Van der Westhuizen for tonight and tomorrow night. After that he'll be going back to America and we'll leave for Sedgefield. He's having supper with us for the last time tonight, and Dad wants to show him some slides of East Africa and Rhodesia. After supper Dad's taking him to Brigadier Van der Westhuizen because there's someone they can only meet late at night. It's a pity my essay isn't in English, because then I could have shown it to the General.
Maybe having to wait for two days before we go to Sedgefield isn't so bad after all, because now Dad will be coming with us from the beginning. Other years, he usually meets us there after some time. We have the greatest times at Sedgefield when Dad's there. We go fishing at the mouth of the lagoon almost every day, or we take the motorboat out on to the lakes. Dad always hooks the boat behind the Volvo, and brings it when he comes down. Some days, when Dad doesn't feel like fishing, we go for long walks through the Knysna Forests, or along the lakes. We always take the Roberts Birds of South Africa and see how many different kinds we can count. Last December we counted forty-two different kinds in two weeks. We also saw some malachite kingfishers for the first time in ages, and when we drove out to Oubos, to visit Uncle John, we even saw two pairs of fish eagles. They built their nests high up in the cliffs of the Grootrivier. Even though we sometimes go to visit at Oubos, we like Sedgefield more, because the fishing is better and the sea isn't as dangerous as it is at Oubos.