The Shallows

by Ingrid Winterbach

  *

  Nick told Marthinus: ‘I have a buyer for my house and I don’t have a good feeling about it at all. To tell the truth, I don’t even want to know who the person is.’

  Twenty-eight

  Marthinus was always eager to come and see Nick’s work; he looked long and attentively, he asked questions, he made comments, sometimes he whistled appreciatively, and then he invited Nick to come and watch a DVD with them that evening.

  Nick was grateful for every invitation from Marthinus, because every invitation was a reason not to return to his cold house. So, since Charelle’s departure, they had made their way through a whole pile of DVDs. The most recent was Solaris by Tarkovsky. Afterwards he and Marthinus sat for a while in dead silence, in one corner of the sitting room, where they always watched DVDs on the big flatscreen television. (A room in which the hand of a woman was visible.) The atmosphere of the movie grabbed Nick by the throat – something elusively desolate. He saw in that film a perfect mirror of the state of his own mind. The cryptic turbidity, the searing feeling of loss, of guilt and betrayal. He remained under the influence of the mood of the film for a long time, of its muted colour, of the evocative, sombre, inexplicable images. It grabbed him by the throat and it wrung his heart. The film was for him a reflection of his failed relationship with Isabel. It plunged him into recollections of her.

  He thought of her in her blue dressing gown, in New York. One evening she was feverish, she complained that she didn’t feel well. She nevertheless consented to lovemaking, but kept her face averted throughout. He held her burning, feverish body under his hands like a heathen idol. He was practising idolatry, he knew, that was what he was doing. He would empty himself into her, he knew, he could not hold back anything of himself, even if nothing remained of him or of her, even if they both spontaneously combusted. Immediately afterwards she turned her face to him, and something like a drift of tenderness washed over it. She allowed herself to be held in his arms, and sighed.

  *

  Five days before the solstice (Nick kept a weather eye open for this) the agent made an appointment with him to meet the prospective buyer. He had as little enthusiasm for this event as for the Second Coming.

  *

  On a cold, overcast day, three days before the solstice, the agent brought the two prospective buyers to Nick’s house. From the very first sight they turned him off. The younger one had a sly, sneering jackal-face, with beard and leather jacket. He looked arrogant and presumptuous. The older one had a shaven head, his eyes were a perfidious pale-green, and a tattoo crept out from under his collar. Low-class scum, Nick thought.

  They hardly looked at the house, and offered Nick a large sum – even more than poor Buks Verhoef. Were they going to live in the house themselves? Nick asked. Oh no, said the younger one, and the two exchanged a swift glance, the house was going to be converted into a private gallery. It was so exceptionally well situated. Were they in the art business? asked Nick. No, they were actually buying on behalf of a client. The client was in the art business, he was an overseas art dealer. The person was very interested in South African art, said the older man. (Tell me another, thought Nick. What kind of bullshit was this.) The client was very knowledgeable, and he already had a large art collection. He was hoping to use the house as a kind of showcase. He didn’t perhaps have a few paintings by the artist Blinky Booysen in his collection? Nick asked. Again the two exchanged a swift glance. No, said jackal-jaw, he really couldn’t say. But the name did ring a bell. (Really, thought Nick, I think you’re a fool and a swindler and a charlatan.) And were the two of them also interested in art? he asked. Oh yes, said the tattooed guy, but they weren’t as knowledgeable as their client, they were really only facilitators. Middlemen, said jackal-jaw. So the name Buks Verhoef, the Stellenbosch artist, also meant nothing to them? Nick said. Again the quick, sidelong glance between the two. No, said jackal-jaw, heard of him, but didn’t really know anything else about him. Also not that he was shot – fatally? asked Nick. Jackal-jowls laughed, heard something of the kind, yes, but as they were saying, the art world wasn’t really their speciality.

  Now Nick just wanted them out of the house. He didn’t want to have to listen to their fabrications any longer. Give him a few days to consider the offer, he said. Goodbye. He couldn’t buzz them out of the gate fast enough, also so that he could phone Marthinus.

  ‘You won’t believe it,’ he said to Marthinus, ‘I don’t know if I’ve gone totally paranoid now, but this time I think Victor Schoeman is behind the whole house-buying saga. Or at least has a share in it.’

  Marthinus laughed. ‘Oh Lord,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve infected me with your talk,’ said Nick, ‘but I see Victor’s hand in this. Must be since I saw him in the flesh the other day.’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ said Marthinus.

  ‘I just know something’s not kosher with these damned buyers and I’m afraid Victor is behind it.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s just a front man,’ said Marthinus (with somewhat less conviction than usual), ‘for somebody else.’

  ‘So why are you soft-pedalling now, Marthinus?’ Nick said. ‘After all, you thought he was behind the killing of Verhoef. You were in fact fully convinced of it.’

  Marthinus laughed softly again. ‘It was all just speculation,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t say that now! It’s too late to backtrack now! What are the portents from The Shallows?’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ said Marthinus. ‘The Shallows. That compendium of horrors. No, listen, the emphasis there is on other things, bigger debaucheries.’

  ‘But you said at the beginning,’ said Nick, ‘with the murder of the businessman in Moorreesburg, Malmesbury – where the hell ever – you said you were sure that Victor was behind it all!’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Marthinus. ‘But then everything was much more clear cut. The escaped prisoners from the psychiatric institution. The marauding bands. It was all straight out of The Shallows. The man here in your kitchen as well. What he said conformed so exactly to that one scene in The Shallows. Oh Lord. I could have put my head on the block. Even at first with Buks Verhoef. But now I’m starting to think the murder of Verhoef is too obvious. It doesn’t fit Victor’s modus operandi. Do you want to sell or not, how do you feel?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nick, ‘on the one hand I’ve not been able to stomach this house for a long time. On the other hand I don’t want it to become some smuggler’s den or nest of crime either. The idea doesn’t appeal to me.’

  ‘Oh Lord, yes,’ said Marthinus. ‘I can imagine that. We’ll get Menasse to come and have a look. He’ll be able to gauge the atmosphere. He’s very good with that kind of thing. Clients trust him. He has an exceptionally reliable sensitivity to many things.’

  Nick agreed to this. It was fine, he now needed an outsider to help him. An impartial third party. Menasse, so engrossed in the secrets of the creation and of God’s nothingness and His complete unity with everything, now had to come and say what he made of the situation. (While he was about it, he could also pronounce an impartial verdict on Nick’s whole life, not just the house.) With his exceptional sensitivity to atmosphere and emanations he could perhaps pass judgement on the house and even on the auras of the two scoundrels, traces of them surely still lingered in the air.

  Nick wondered why he’d ever bought this damned house. What a pity that he hadn’t befriended Marthinus beforehand. Then Menasse could have advised him on the purchase – gauged the atmosphere of the place in advance. But then he’d probably never have met Charelle. Perhaps, he thought, that would have been better for him and especially for her.

  *

  A day or two later Menasse came to inspect the house. He came one morning with Marthinus. His brief was to analyse the atmosphere of the house. Nick’s hopes were fixed on him. He was going to be led by Menasse’s findings. For himself, he no longer knew whether he should sell to the scoundrels, accept the substantial offer, or
refuse to sell to them because he suspected them of criminal activities.

  Menasse took his time. (Always clad in the same running shoes, worn jeans and windbreaker, and the cap, of course, which concealed his adamantine brow like that of an Old Testament prophet, although Nick felt the need today to see the proof of his prophetic powers.) Menasse walked slowly, from room to room, through the house. He took his time. He lingered for a long time in each room. Marthinus and Nick sat waiting for him at the table in the kitchen.

  When Menasse had finished, he came to sit with them. Nick made tea for them.

  The house basically had a good energy, said Menasse. But this good energy had been disturbed in a few places. Notably in the front bedroom. But also in the passage and in the sitting room. (This did not surprise Nick at all, considering the negative thoughts and bad dreams that he’d had in his bedroom. And the unopened boxes in the sitting room must certainly have impeded the flow of good energy.) But the situation was not irreversible. With application and with good energy it could be repaired.

  What did he mean by application? asked Nick.

  With a dedicated meditation on the Good in these rooms. But it could take time. Nick should not be in a hurry. It couldn’t be fixed overnight. But if Nick were to do it regularly, with the requisite focus, he could succeed in gradually dispelling the negative energy in the rooms. Especially in the front room the harmony was completely out of equilibrium. There was an almost palpable – Menasse demonstrated with his hands – cloud of regret, melancholy, negative energy. ‘Very oppressive,’ said Menasse. He’d advise Nick provisionally not to use that room. The ‘powerful emanations’ could adversely affect his spirit. (Nick glanced at Marthinus covertly, but his facial expression betrayed nothing of what he made of Menasse’s words.)

  Menasse was extremely complimentary about the tea. Nick made another pot. Menasse approved of the emanations in the kitchen. A very salubrious room, ‘beneficial for the soul’. Just as well that it was the only place where he and Charelle had ever met, Nick thought.

  Nick said that he was not acquainted with any meditation techniques. No problem, said Menasse. It could be acquired. All that it required was an open mind and ‘a commitment to the Good’.

  (Once again Marthinus’ face was inscrutable.)

  What is the Good? Nick asked, hesitantly.

  The Good is a concentration on that which is Divine, said Menasse. That was the short answer. The long answer was everything that the Kabbalah taught us about the nature of the Good. Very complex. Perhaps some other time.

  He’d like to ask Menasse another question, said Marthinus, one that didn’t altogether relate to this one, but one that he often puzzled about. (Menasse nodded. No problem. A small man, fine, shapely hands, well-kept nails, cap pushed back on the head, the prophetic brow now exposed.) How did Menasse interpret Ezekiel’s vision?

  Merkavah is the word for chariot, said Menasse. It was derived from the Hebrew word rakhav, which meant to ride. The chariot was a metaphor for God who ‘travelled’ from His unknowable state to a ‘place’ where He could be known, that was to say, visualised.

  Marthinus was clearly taken with this reply. He was now immediately going to reread Ezekiel with enhanced understanding, he said.

  Shortly afterwards Menasse left. Nick thanked him for his time and trouble. No trouble, Menasse assured him, and thanked him profusely for the tea. Menasse didn’t have a car, said Marthinus when Menasse had left, he walked everywhere where he had to be, or took a taxi. Or sometimes he ordered Menasse and Anselmo a taxi, on those evenings they visited him. Menasse lived on a shoestring. But he was very particular about good tea. With that one could always please him greatly.

  Nick and Marthinus remained sitting at the kitchen table. He told Marthinus that what Menasse had said made sense to him, but he didn’t have the dedication or focus, and especially not the ability, to sit in each of the rooms every day and meditate until the negative energy had been dispersed. It was too extreme. It was too remote from his own take on things. And the Good wasn’t really a concept that meant anything to him. He’d rather practise art. That was the area he was best acquainted with. Perhaps he should take the easy way out and sell the house. If the buyers wanted to convert it into an art brothel, if the two guys were part of an underground art mafia, then so be it. And whether or not Victor had a share in it, that had ceased to matter all that much to him.

  He understood, said Marthinus. Oh Lord. Perhaps Nick should consider going away for a while before reaching a final decision. In the meantime he should come and watch a DVD with them. He quite felt like something by Sokurov. Perhaps Father and Son.

  He’d seen it, said Nick, at some film festival, and it had depressed the hell out of him.

  Marthinus was interested. In what way? he enquired. He didn’t know, said Nick, he couldn’t remember any more. The relationship between the father and son was just too intimate. Uncomfortably intimate. Too complex. And the absence of the woman was just too palpable.

  Then they’d watch something else, said Marthinus, no problem!

  Twenty-nine

  My very good friend, Willem Wepener, is back in town. He’s been away on a six-month-long artist’s residency in Paris. I missed him sorely in this time. He is a painter, and Jacobus was his best friend. It was with him that I went to view Jacobus’ body at the undertakers that day, in that wretched little back room with the Mr Price curtain. Willem and his long-time partner live in an old house, in the centre of town. This is where Willem has his studio. His partner is an architect (as outgoing as Willem is reserved, a cordial man; a life artist, Willem calls him). Willem Wepener (Louw Wepener, the Boer commandant, was an ancestor), is, if at all possible, even more unsociable than I. Tall, thin, intense, with a broad, thuggish face (which offers no clue to his extremely sensitive nature) that at times reminds me of Michel Foucault’s. Or when he wears a woollen cap in winter, of a villain in a French detective film. Jacobus’ death hit him very hard. It took him a long time to get over it. For months afterwards he still dreamt of Jacobus. (How I envied him this, because Jacobus never appeared to me in dreams, whereas I yearned for it to happen to me.)

  Willem invites me, two evenings before the solstice, to have a drink with him in town. (He never receives anybody at home.) Like me, he avoids the public gaze as much as possible. He is a dedicated artist, almost obsessive about his work. He makes small paintings, in oils, non-figurative, although not conforming to the conventional rules of abstraction – indeed, he strives wherever possible to break these rules. He works with complex forms, layered and interwoven, with added highlights, and shadows to suggest depth. Every canvas is meticulously constructed with layer upon layer of paint. He is uncertain of himself, full of diffidence about his work, in spite of his considerable success. He is the one who gave me the idea of the monograph on the work of the Olivier brothers, after he’d seen a retrospective of their work a year or two ago at MoMA in New York. He brought back a book on them and a catalogue, which immediately intrigued me, with, of course, the additional knowledge that they were the sons of Marcus Olivier, the old father.

  I tell him about the man who is stalking me, and about the death of Buks Verhoef. I tell him that now that he’s back in town I feel less threatened, as if I have an ally. Even if it’s just the thought that he’s there.

  Willem tells me about Avigdor Arikha, an artist whose work has recently impressed him tremendously. He is also intrigued by the way in which Arikha writes about art, and the painter’s remarkable knowledge of a wide variety of artists. Arikha writes among others about Poussin – he even made a reconstruction of the kind of brushes the painter must have used. Willem also tells me that Arikha believed that a painting should be completed in a single sitting. That sometimes he did not paint for weeks on end, until a theme – the chance correspondence of a few objects – so grabbed hold of him that he then had to paint it. Thus he once cut short a foreign trip to go back to paint a theme that had engrossed him at h
ome. And none other than Samuel Beckett, Willem tells me, was Arikha’s best friend. He made several portraits of him. It took quite a number of years before they addressed each other as ‘tu’. They listened to music together. Arikha was fascinated by polyphonic music, in particular the music of Heinrich Schütz. Beckett preferred Beethoven’s chamber music and works for piano, as well as Schubert, Haydn and Mozart. They also listened together, Willem recounts, to Schoenberg, Alban Berg and Webern. Beckett was particularly drawn to Webern’s fragmented melodies. Together they also read poetry aloud: Dante, Hölderlin, late Goethe and the work of the strange eighteenth-century German poet Matthias Claudius. In his last days, when Beckett was slipping away into the haze of his drawn-out coma, he still murmured the names of Arikha and his wife, and the words of the poets they had once read together. After Beckett’s death Arikha visited his grave every day. So great was his despair at his friend’s death that his own health was affected. For a while he couldn’t even paint. Sam’s Spoon, one of Arikha’s most beautiful paintings, says Willem, is of Beckett’s silver baptism spoon that he’d given Arikha’s eldest daughter on her baptism. The painting, not large, depicts the little spoon on a cloth of white linen. The only colour in the work is the slight copperish tints in the spoon. Beautiful, says Willem, poignant.

  For a while we both sit in silence, thinking of the remarkable friendship between the painter Avigdor Arikha and Samuel Beckett.

  Now Willem feels, he says, that abstraction has reached a dead end for him. He’s considered for some time returning to figurative work; even painting from life. Especially now that he’s so strongly under the impression of Arikha’s work. But he’s vacillating. It would be a radical break with his way of painting. And he doesn’t even know if he could paint from life at all, he’s never really done it. He also doesn’t know how it would be received.