by Mark Behr
Unde Michael brought along a diesel generator, a movie projector and movies we watched against a sheet Bokkie draped against the outside wall. She and Bok, next to Unde Michael and Aunt Siobhain, sat on camp chairs while we kids with James and Stephanie lay on blankets spread open across the spiky grass. Jonas and Boy, neither of whom had ever seen moving pictures, were allowed to come and sit on one side of the fire behind us kids. For us and the grown-ups at least part of the fun was watching Jonas and Boy’s faces, their white teeth shining in the projector’s light, just like baboons in the dark, we said.
During the much-anticipated Casablanca I fell asleep — for the life of me not having seen any resemblance between my mother and the tragic-looking white-skinned actress called Ingrid Bergman. I thought far more that Bok resembled Humphrey Bogart — less in that than in The African Queen, which we all found hilarious. Swimming in the single remaining pool of the Mkuzi River next day, someone was forever screaming that someone else had leeches and the rest of us fled or rushed to aid the one whose blood was being sucked from his body.
But the movie I wanted shown repeatedly, that was set up at least twice while I alone sat and watched and everyone else was around thebraai, was one Aunt Siobhain said she had brought as a special treat for me. In it was a young girl with violet eyes whom they said had since become the most beautiful woman in the world; one who was forever getting married and divorced. Her name was Liz Taylor. Able to read for myself the screen titles, I knew her real name was Elizabeth. Virtually from the instant the first images flickered against the sheet, I fell in love with every fibre of my four-year-old body; Clueless about why it was called National Velvet and unconcerned with ever finding out, all I cared about, dreamt weeks of having for myself, was a horse named The Pie.
During visits to Mkuzi or when we went to the city, we heard Unde Michael and Aunt Siobhain say that Stephanie was at that difficult stage. I recall Stephanie once receiving a beating for calling Unde Michael a bastard to his face. I must have been four or five. We were all shocked, but my outward expression was tempered by an unspoken respect for Stephanies courage; after all, she was only calling my unde a word everyone else, induding Aunt Siobhain, called him behind his back anyway. We all looked upon Stephanie with a tinge of awe: not only was she older than any of us — a full eight years older than me — and already in Kingsway High, but she had breasts and though she no longer walked naked in front of us, it was dear through her bathing suit that she already had hair around her poefoe. The hair, far more than the breasts, we speculated, was why she no longer bathed with us or swam naked in the river. Stephanie moreover, alone among us, could hold court with the grown-ups whenever talk turned to East Africa. And then, tied to these awesome characteristics, Stephanie did ballet.
With the house too small to hold us as well as the dan from Toti, Bok and Unde Michael put up a two-roomed tent beside the water tank. The grown-ups slept out there and the children inside the house. One night, long after we’d gone to bed, we were awakened by a commotion. James, in bed beside me, screamed that an elephant hadcharged through the tent and his mother was dead. Stephanie told him to shut up — that there were no elephant in Mkuzi. We jumped up, wide awake from the sound of voices shouting. We bundled through the door to the outside.
At first I saw only the flames leaping up and licking at the base of the water tank. I screamed and started crying. We all cried, including Stephanie. I waited for Bokkie or Bok to come running out of the tent, ablaze. It could not have been more than a few seconds, but the horror of what it would mean if they were dead had dawned on me. Bernice had her arm around me and Lena. Then we saw them: all four adults naked, scurrying from the dark at the tap with jerry cans and buckets of water. Bok shouted at us to get out of the house — in case the thatch caught alight. He ran to the other side of the tank and climbed the scaffolding. While the others went about throwing buckets of water and sand, Bok adjusted the sprout of the run-off and opened it so that it spurted full blast onto the fire. The tent had already almost burnt to the ground; the flames subsided.
What had happened, or so it was said forever after, was that after a particularly heavy bout of drinking Uncle Michael had fallen asleep with a cigarette between his fingers. The stompie had set his foam-rubber mattress alight and by the time they awoke from the smoke the smouldering mattress had turned into a fire that ignited the canvas tent.
James and I now had to share our bed with Lena, three of us, head to toe. Before we fell asleep James leant over Lena’s feet between us: ‘Did you see their poefoes and their filafoois?’
Lena kicked us to lie still. I bit her foot and pushed James back to his side of the bed. Lena said she’d get me the next day. Bernice whispered for us to go to sleep. I could not understand what James had found unusual in nude adult bodies. There was nothing remarkable for me in seeing my parents naked; after all, there were no doors in our house, not between rooms nor to the bathroom and toilet. Seeing Aunt Siobhain’s or Uncle Michael’s meant nothing to me, for surely, as
Bokkie always said, if you had seen one you’d seen them all. And surely my parents knew that the squeaking of their bedsprings at night only sounded like the rattle of guinea fowl? None of that mattered: it was the fire — that Bokkie and Bok could have been burnt to death, that I could have been left alone with Lena and Bernice — that was foremost in my mind.
30
Late April’s first cold night and I, reclining on my side, the sheets bunched onto the floor, lay on the single bed in his room beside him. Back to the wall, my one leg rested over his knee. Above his chest — still heaving — I could see light from the bathroom door slightly ajar. The tip of the white towel protruded into view from the carpet beside the bed A wind, howling and whistling like hundreds of distant sirens, swirled around the school. Sheets of corrugated iron rattled on the roof and the bare peach tree creaked and rubbed against the window. When I breathed, the warm film forming between my stomach and his side went schluck as if we were being glued together. I thought of Suz and Chaka getting stuck, Bok, the garden hose, spraying the jet at them, getting them to separate. And Cassandra, the blood and ooze when she’d foaled the previous afternoon. The little foal.
‘Mr Cilliers?’ I whispered.
‘Uhhm...’
‘Are you falling asleep?’
‘No . . . Are you?’
‘No.’
I had no idea how to proceed. Willed him to act. He must feel it, down there against his leg, why wasn’t he touching it?
I slid my hand up over his damp belly; my elbow momentarily brushing his limp penis. My fingers found his hands folded into each other in the tangle of fine hair on his chest. Fingers wrapped aroundmine, intertwined. Again, I waited, wondering if he could not sense what I wanted. What if he knew but wouldn’t? Heedful of the stillness when the wind subsided and all of a sudden again apprehensive, I began to withdraw my hand. A swift application of pressure from there; I read reassurance. I took his hand down his belly, over his thigh. Restiveness from his body against mine; I paused; wanted to let go of his hand.
Once more, I felt him lax, the hand become limber in mine. Down farther. Placed it where for weeks I had wanted. Relief, at least as much as pleasure, when the fingers wrapped into a cocoon around the pulsing chrysalis.
He turned onto his side; propped himself on one arm and rolled me onto my back. I closed my eyes. Felt the warmth of his torso descend even before his mouth reached my lips. Into the movement from the wrapping of fingers I lifted my hips; into the wet of the mouth my head from the pillow. I tried to empty my mind, to feel only the mouth, the tongue, the stimulus of the hand. Relax. Relax. Relax. Concentrate. Dom’s voice — amoroso, ad libitum, arabesque — no — affrettando, agitato —
Exhausted, I dropped my head back into the pillow, left him panting above me. I know it’s there! Why isn’t it happening, dammit, dammit. It’s just sitting in there but it doesn’t want to pop out. I felt his face move, heard him now breathing through his nose. The
wind tugged at the roof; branches scratched at the windows.
Lips, stubble, moved across my cheeks, my chin, down my neck, tingles gathered where hair begun at the nape. My neck lifted from the pillow, my nose gasped at the unexpected smell of shampoo in his hair, funnelled it into my head till it was filled to bursting. His tongue, the enamel of teeth broadside against my chest; lips; caresses down my side; my belly. My palms open on the back above, below me; fingertips found heat in the moist down of his armpits. A tremor, a second of incredulity at a mouth in my loins. Memory: something like this. Hands in his hair, hips heaving, and felt it burning I’m going to pee shudders through my body and tug whisper frantic now stop but it’s too late and my body shakes and I am dizzy in the silence. A rush of blood coursed a beat through my temples.
An eternity.
I felt cold. Filthy. Disgusting. I wanted to pray. He, down there, sensing something, lifted himself and with his free hand reached towards the floor. Not quite inaudible over the wind, the spurt passing from his mouth into the folds of the towel.
He came up again beside me; placed my head against his chest. I wanted to leave. I never will come here again, never, I swore. Not even animals; sent to orphanages; San Andreas something; against nature; expelled. Phrases attacking from nowhere. I was suddenly and irrevocably the child surrendered to Satan. No! Dear Jesus, dear Lord, forgive me. This was a mistake, Saviour, now I know. Never again. I swear to you. Till then he had never touched me. But now, a mouth had been used. I had been given and had taken pleasure. I had allowed a man to spill my seed. Death, that was what I deserved.
Drifted into sleep; let it take me like a fever, a memory of burning cold.
At first I did not hear him speak.
‘Sorry, Mr Cilliers?’
‘Are you dozy?’
‘No, I was just thinking.’
‘I said: when we go on tour, next month, you can sometimes stay with me, if you’d like.’
I lifted my head; found the shine of his eyes in the dark. Eased back into his arm.
‘With host families?’
‘When I’m with one. Or in a hotel. Ever stayed in a hotel? Would you like that?’
‘What about choir? I mean . . .’
‘It’s not unusual for some of you to be put out with a conductor. When there are hosts with a big enough house.’ He was quiet for awhile. ‘Weren’t some of you in PE or East London with Mr Roelofse last year?’
‘Only because he wanted to keep an eye on me and Lukas. To make sure we slept before the concert.’
‘I could do that again.’
‘What about Dominic? I usually stay with him or Lukas.’
‘You can both stay with me. Dominic may have to run through some solo work with me. Almeida had to do that with the Language Monument last year.’
For some reason I did not want to hear about Almeida. Not now. I spoke quickly: ‘But how, I mean, how will we . . .’
‘The same way as this, I imagine.’
Silence. I didn’t want to stay with him. Never. I would think of something.
‘Do you and Dominic do this?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You and Dominic . . . I’m scratching in his salad, hey?’
‘No! Mr Cilliers.’ And hastily added: ‘Tonight is the first time. I have a girlfriend.’ Immediately regretted having said it was the first time.
‘Is this the first time you’ve come?’
‘Sort of . . .’
‘Except in the dreams?’
‘Ja . . .’
He kissed me and I thought I’d choke of the rough, slimy tongue. I pulled away.
‘Did you like it?’
‘I kiss my girlfriend Alette like this. She likes it.’
‘No, when you came. Did you like it?’
If only he would stop talking. Then I could get up and get out of his den.
‘I’m sorry it was in your mouth.’
‘Don’t be silly. I like it.’
Please, dear Father, let him stop being so disgusting.
‘You can use my name, if you like.’Then, as an afterthought, ‘When were alone.’
Silence. I started to drift away. Just for a little while. I had no idea for how long I was gone.
‘You do know I’m playing with fire, don’t you?’
Awake. Nodded my face against his chest.
‘This is crazy. Sometimes I think I’m out of my mind.’
‘I swear I won’t tell, Mr Cilliers. Never. I swear.’
‘It’s not just the telling, Karl. The whole thing, it’s all wrong. All, completely, completely wrong.’
‘No one has to ever know, Mr Cilliers. We just never have to do it again.’ I closed my eyes, again wishing him to silence.
It’s over, anyway. Sweat crackled where we touched. There was a lull in the wind. How awfully quiet outside and in there. I was hot. I dozed; woke.
‘I want to open the window, just a little.’
He moved at once, saying he’d do it.
In the faint light I squinted at the body silhouetted against the curtains, lighted from behind by the bathroom glow. The sounds of the wind again rising entered the room and the curtains ballooned, briefly enfolding his body.
He spoke as he turned from the window: ‘We fell asleep. It’s almost two o’clock.’ Kneeling on the sheets he looked down at me and smiled: ‘You shouldn’t stay too much longer.’
In his gaze I felt it, the unmistakable stiffening, again, still sticky.
II
1
Drakensberg Boys School
Saturday, 20 July 1976
Dearest Daddy, Mommy, Bernice and Lena,
Thank you for the Utter I received yesterday when we got back from the Transvaal and Cape Province tour. The Greyhound broke at the summit of Van Reenen’s Pass and the AA had to be called to repair thefanbelt. Up there in the freezing wind we waited for about two hours. Everyone went into the bush to do their business. Niklaas Bruin squatted and accidentally did it in his blazer pocket. He’s a little freak, so his awkwardness came as no surprise. It stank us out. Eventually, when he owned up, we got the driver to put the blazer in the hold with our suitcases. Niklaas was the most unpopular guy around and Bennie’s new name for him is Pong-Pocket. As we only got back here at about six in the morning, we were allowed off school until lunch-time to sleep and there was no choir that day.
After Pretoria, we went to Johannesburg. Did you receive my postcard from the Vbortrekker Monument? I stayed with Lukas and Bennie at the Websters, only for one night and we were so busy we barely saw them. We received rave reviews everywhere and Mr Cilliers was altogether happy with our performances. He says we are sure to be a hit in Europe. In Johannesburg Radys Dietz and Eben Stein stayed with a Mr and Mrs Donnelly and while we were there Mrs Donnelly was on TV news with the riots. Did you see her? We didn’t, because we had a concert, but we were told she really was on the news. She had gone to take their mate girl servant maid back to Soweto while the children were burning down their schools. The Soweto children surrounded her car and wanted to set it ablaze and kill her but she shouted, ‘I’m English, I’m English, leave me alone, I’m not Afrikaans.’Lucky for her the police arrived and the kids ran away. Mrs Donnelly told Radys and Ehen they were just like savages, pillaging, murdering and marauding. It was the most terrifying ordeal of her life. One can just imagine. The day they left the Donnellys the maid didn’t show up for work and the Donnellys were worried about her. In Jo’buig everyone stays off the streets at night.
To Potchefstroom we had to take a back road so we wouldn’t have to pass near the locations. Although we could see smoke rising into the air all around Soweto, they told us everything was calm in the Western Transvaal. Mr Mathison has asked us all to write and say that our mute never put us in any danger.
I suppose Aunt Lena phoned to say we stayed with her and Uncle Joe in Klerksdorp. We stayed all over the house and she said it was a pleasure having all five of us there. My friends all liked th
e mansion very much and wished it was warmer so we could swim. Uncle Joe didn’t come to the concert. He was out on the farm . . . But Coen brought Mandy, and Oupa and Ouma also came. Oumafell asleep and only woke later when we were doing the gumboot dance and Sho Shaloza. Oupa reckoned we were very bright to he singing all the Latin and Hebrew music. I didn’t tell him that we hardly know the meaning of the words because I thought it would only disappoint him. Aunt Lena says he cried while we sang the negro spirituals and he cried as usual when we said goodbye. He says he enjoys driving the Mann lorry that he and Coen have gone into business with. Groot-Oom Klaas has gone off by himself again and no one knows whether he’s dead or alive. Aunt Lena says if he’s alive he could have gone your way for the winter.
As a going-away present Aunt Lena gave me RIO, and I still have most of it. From Klerksdorp we went to Kimberley (we saw the big hole), to Beaufort West and Oudtshoom. The ostrich farm we visited there didn’t have rides, so unfortunately that’s something I’ll have to do at a later stage. In BW we stayed with a man who farms chinchillas. They are the strangest looking things, like a cross between a springhaas and a rabbit. Their pelts are very sought after and I thought they’d make a very warm kaross.
In Cape Town we had snow on the mountains. In the City Hall there we had a standing ovation and we did ‘Were You There’ as an encore. It is Mr Cilliers’s favourite part of the repertoire. After the second ovation we ended with Zoltan Kodalys ‘Mountain Nights’. Because all the host families were taken, we stayed withfriends of Mr Cilliers who have a beautiful house on False Bay. Their surname is Erasmus and the mother used to be an opera singer. When I asked where the tusks and Kudu head were from, they said they came from East Africa. Mrs Erasmus said her husband was bom there and I wondered whether you knew them?
Now we are catching up schoolwork and have started doing extra hours for the performance of the Mass at the beginning of December. Information bulletins are to be sent out to all parents so you can order extra tickets if you would like to invite guests. It’s quite a big thing because it will be broadcast live on TV from the Durban City Hall. Do you think Aunt Siobhain and Uncle Michael would like to come, and maybe Mumdeman?