by Mark Behr
the sky so huge the universe made for us alone
and nothing nor anything is of meaning but you
where no world’s treasure’s worth a stone
without you lover beloved, no word’s more true:
no altered state we might reach will cut or sham
that for knowing you: the better, wholer man I am.
The last Parents’ Weekend had offered the two their final chance to be alone with each other, mostly in the Websters’ suite at the Champagne Castle Hotel or outside in the car listening to cassettes. At the hotel they had dinner on the Friday evening before the boys had to return to sleep at school, cursing the regulation that no sleep-out was allowed. On Saturday morning Dr Webster collected them again and they were together until Dominic had to return at four p.m. to sleep till six in preparation for the evening concert. Karl had returned to dairy duty with Lukas. And so, while there was the pleasure of being away from the school amongst people he cared for, Karl was all too aware that the break was barely a temporary recess. Each time Dr Webster collected him and Dominic from the parking lot, the fact that they had to return, that there was again a law governing the limits of their liberty, bore down on him and he struggled to enjoy himself. While hotel lunches and suppers with the Websters lifted his spirits, he remained guarded. Being daily in the company of adults now frightened him. That he probably had nothing to fear from the Websters was something he almost accepted as they were kind and generous and Dominic adored them as much as they did him. Still, Karl was cautious. Kept a guard at his lips, not allowing escape to the occasional urges for words he could taste against his pallet.
Unlike what Karl had imagined would be the case, the Websters barely referred to the incident between Dominic and Ma’am. The issue was over and resolved as far as they were concerned. On their part no ill feelings lingered. Instead, talk moved often to Canada, where Dr Webster had bought into a Toronto private practice. It was now definite: Dominic and his family were leaving the country. As Canadian school terms commenced only in September, Dominic would be doing a catching-up course before officially starting school in the second half of 1977. Mrs Webster clinched her teeth at talk of Canada’s snow in winter. And while they spoke of a new homeland over lunches and dinners, or lay on the double bed with the two boys between them, Karl thought obsessively about his return to Toti, to Durban, moving into a flat, going to Port Natal. The Websters invited him to visit in Canada. At once he set to a fantasy of running from Bok and Bokkie. Stowing away in a ship like the Jessye Likes on which Bok had taken the rhino to America. How he wished he could leave with the Websters. Maybe his parents would be killed in a car crash. That would free him. Instantly he felt sorry for his mother and his sisters. Imagined their despair. He felt nothing for Bok. And he thought he would not mind staying in Durban if only his fatherwould die. Or if his parents could get divorced, then he could take care of his mother in peace and maybe convince her to go to university and train herself so that she could get a job. Make something of herself and be rid of her dependence on Bok. He felt guilty, telling himself over and over that Bokkie had never done anything but her best for him and the girls. She’s my mother, he thought. She does love me. Of that I’m sure. But she loves me and the girls too much and her love feels so heavy. Like we could smother. Mother. There’s a poem in that. Do I love her or hate her, he wondered even as he glowed with shame. And what with Bernice gone, next year? Who in that house — that flat — will I speak to? Who will be left for me to trust? During the concert for the parents in the Winterton Town Hall he sat in the audience between Dr and Mrs Webster. Throughout found himself again imagining he could leave with them. That he was their son. A prodigal.
As a belated birthday gift Mrs Webster gave him an Abba tape named Arrival Outside the hotel Karl and Dominic sat in the Benz listening to the recording: ‘Dancing Queen; ‘Money Money Money’ and ‘Fernando’ — catchy tunes to which both could sing along after a second hearing. For that while alone, in the car only, Karl again allowed Dominic to hold his hand.
They had the whole of Sunday free. They went hiking with the parents to Nandi’s Falls and Karl told them the story of Chaka’s illegitimate birth, how he had been terrorised by the other Zulu boys, and how, when he later became king, he had taken his revenge on everyone that had been cruel to him and his mother. How when he had grown big and handsome, he bathed naked every day in full view of his underlings so that word could spread throughout Zululand of his physical beauty.
Returning to the hotel from the falls, the boys stuffed themselves at the huge buffet lunch. Karl thought he would burst from too much trifle. When the Websters wanted to take a nap the boys lay between them until they fell asleep and then again went out to the car wherethey again listened through Abbas Arrival. Near sundown, with only hours to go before the parents would have to bid the boys farewell, the Websters drove to the airstrip at El Mirador where Mervyn’s father was to take everyone on a flip in his Cessna. The Clemence-Gordons, with Bennie along for the weekend, were there already, waiting. The four boys stood around the cars while first the parents took to the sky. After three years of drop-offs and Parents’ Weekends they were all familiar with the Sunday afternoon heaviness. The pending farewell and the return to prison. Dominic said he had just the right thing to cheer them up. He stuck into the player a cassette he said was his mothers favourite. Emmylou Harris blared into the sunshine over the grassy field, and at once all but Karl faked puking sounds, holding their stomachs and wrenching. ‘Look, there’s Marabou,’ Karl shouted and the others spun around, laughed at their own silliness. An even deeper sadness came to cling to the afternoon.
Bennie convinced them that he had to sit beside the pilot as he was the only non-moffie and the only one who wouldn’t go hysterical if the plane were to fall. When the craft returned with the Websters exclaiming how breathtaking it had been, the four boys scrambled into the small cabin, Bennie at the front and the three others squashed onto the two seats behind. Karl, his mood lifting with the plane, was filled with awe at seeing the green and brown landscape fold out beneath them, then the mountains jagged, red and shaded to the west, rising like mammoths into the blue. From up there they pointed out the school and the rugby fields — small and insignificant, Karl thought, how pathetic, really, miserably out of place against the landscape, a strange white L or lopsided T possible to erase with one swipe of a rubber — the pool like a tiny blue tile, the game pen where Karl could see zebra and the others said he was lying, and tried to see who could spot the fort, Copper Falls, the Bushmen paintings, to where Sterkspruit wound itself from sight. Soon they had climbed to 3500 metres, approaching the cliffs of Cathedral Peak. Then, on the return flight, with the sun setting and the Drakensberg in a red and pink haze, Dominic started ‘Boulder to Birmingham’. The others joined and when they came to the chorus they harmonised, eclipsing r with their voices the drone of the engine as they sang: I would rock my soul, in the bosom of Abraham, I would hold my life, in saving grace. From behind the control panels Mr Clemence-Gordon hummed along. As they approached the strip to land, he said he wished the choir could 1 sing songs like this instead of all the heavy Latin hocus-pocus. And Mervyn told his father he clearly knew very little about Art with a capital A.
The Clemence-Gordons and the Websters said goodbye to each other and confirmed that Dominic would fly up from the Durban concert with them and Mervyn. The Websters themselves were missing the concert — Mrs Webster said she’d be watching it on TV — as their entire household was being shipped off to Canada around the time of the performance and Dr Webster would already have left.
‘So, we’ll see you in Jo’burg,’ Mrs Webster said to the Clemence-Gordons and then they bade Bennie goodbye. They told him that if he ever came to Canada, he should be sure to look them up. And , Bennie smiled and said thank you, but he wasn’t sure that was going to happen anytime soon. His one chance of overseas was blown this year.
Mervyn’s parents said they’
d see Karl again in Durban for a goodbye.
Sunday night the boys had to be in at eight. Karl and Dominic had . a small supper with the Websters on the hotel terrace and then they drove down the gravel road from Champagne Castle to the school. Dr Webster again told Karl that he was welcome to visit them in Canada. ‘We’ve grown very fond of you, Karl,’ the man said from the front seat. ‘And we know that Dominic loves you deeply.’ It had felt to Karl as though his heart would bounce from his throat. Instead of feeling gratitude for the Webster generosity, he could only fear that Dominic had told his parents something. In the dark he felt blood rush into his face and he barely managed a thank you from a mouth gone instandydry. Thank God they were soon leaving the country. Away. Emigrated from his life as if they had never been part of it. ‘Then you and I, Karl,’ Mrs Webster said over her shoulder, ‘can listen to country music as much as we like and leave these two snobs to the classics.’They had laughed. Dominic said Abba wasn’t country: it was plain and simple sugar-pop with an extra lick of cream and a cherry on top.
At the school the four of them stood in the night while other families were saying goodbye to their sons. The Websters kissed Dominic goodbye, wishing him good luck for the final performance and again congratulating him on the success of his Grade Eight exam. And I’ll see you in Toronto, Dom? Make sure this woman dresses warmly, won’t you, my boy? She’s in for a shock when she walks out into that snow.’
Then, in turns, they embraced Karl. The boy was cold, barely able to lift his arms to return the hugs. ‘Don’t think that now your voice is breaking you’re too big for a nice bear hug,’ Dr Webster said and he again pulled Karl to him. This time Karl reciprocated, holding onto the man, clasping his arms tightly around the broad back, feeling a moment of trust. ‘You’ll come and visit, won’t you, Karl?’ Mrs Webster asked again. He said he would try his best. That one day he’d perhaps become a Rotary exchange student. Mrs Webster wrapped her arms around him and he took in her scent: Chanel No. 5, Dominic said, all his mother wears to bed. Just like Marilyn.
The Websters left and Karl knew he would never see them again. As fond as he was of them, he told himself he was relieved to see them go. They waved as the rectangular tail-lights diminished and disappeared in the night. They tarried in the dark, just out of reach of the quad lights. Dominic led Karl into the dark, down towards the rock where the school’s signpost hung invisibly, highlighted only by the occasional headlights of a car. Here they sat talking — assuaging the drop-off blues — as late arrivals came in to deposit the last of their peers.
‘Your voice sounded fine. In the plane, I mean,’ Dominic murmured. ‘I still think it’s ridiculous that Cilliers won’t let you sing.’
‘It does just what it wants, Dom. You’ve heard it in class.’
Saying he wanted to see the dairy at night, Dominic steered Karl into the shadows down the embankment above the orchards. When they were a safe distance from the school he pulled Karl closer: ‘One kiss, Karl, just one, for old times’ sake?’
‘Did you tell your mum and dad? About us?’ Karl enquired in an urgent whisper.
‘What does it matter! You know how easy-going they are. Give me a kiss.’ But as he leant forward, Karl held him away and demanded to know what he had told his parents.
‘Nothing. I told them nothing. Are you satisfied?’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Good! Because I did tell them! In December, the moment we got off that plane from Malawi!’ Karl stood as if turned into stone, as though his death sentence had been pronounced. ‘This has nothing to do with me or my parents, does it, Karl?’ And Dominic had let go of Karl, drawn away, stung by his friend’s reluctance. ‘For three weeks now you’ve been sour and sulking and horrible. I’m asking you for the last time to tell me what’s going on with you. What’s wrong?’
‘How could you tell your parents, Dom? How could you do . . .
‘Because they asked whether you were my boyfriend, that’s why! What’s wrong with you, Karl?’ Karl stood in the night, terrified.
‘I have the blues, that’s all.’ And he started up the embankment, wishing the term was over and Dominic gone to Canada and everything, the whole mess, every memory of this place with him.
‘Loelovise yokou,’ Dominic called from behind.
‘Stop it, Dominic.’ Karl spun around. ‘What happens if someone hears you?’
Dominic ran up the embankment: ‘You are being childish and paranoid.’
‘No, Dom. You’re the childish one, speaking in Gogga when we re fourteen already. That’s what’s childish.’
‘Strange that you could speak to me in Gogga even after you had turned fourteen. Up until three weeks ago, when suddenly I wasn’t allowed to come to your bed, when suddenly your voice broke.’
‘Please stop, Dominic. If Mathison hears us. Please, please promise you will forget what happened between us. Won’t you phone your parents and tell them you were only joking?’
‘You are fucking crazy, you know that, Karl De Man? Has anyone ever told you you are actually certifiably living on cloud cuckoo? Not running on all cylinders. Nuts?’ And with that, Dominic stalked off. Left Karl standing alone with his fear of the world. His terror of Mathison.
I will not go there, he tells himself, as he tries to hear the music. I will not think of Mathison. Not now, please don’t let me remember him. Not ever again. But only when the Gloria ends and there’s a silence over the hall do Karl’s thoughts return to the choir, having listened to — heard — only the opening sections of the movement. I must listen to this music. I must concentrate. This is the last concert, the last time I’ll see them. I must not think of anything other than the music. A bulge is forming in his throat. He swallows; blinks repeatedly. Wants to close his eyes. Forces them to remain on stage.
Arms and body jerk, bring in the instruments, basses, tenor, Credo, Credo, joined by women and sopranos, Credo, Credo, over and over, Deum Pattern. Violins sweeping bows, heads I believe in one God the Father, omnipotentem, almighty, factorem coli et, creator of heaven and terra — terrae — visibilium omnium — genetive plural — et invisibilium, full orchestra, D minor to G and then the wonderful A major. ‘See what he does with the change in harmonies as we move to Jesus’s time on earth? And remember Beethoven had the gift of synaesthesia, music came to him in colour.’ There’s the flute solo now. And bassoon, Jissus the bassoon is good, listen, flute is the Holy Spirit, strings, trumpets, timpani, volume, crescendo, Jacques’s arms flailing, directing, conducting, controlling instruments and voices, reining in, woman’s voices ready to break out of his arms, bordering on chaos ordered perfectly, if Beethoven could hear this, could he ever have imagined it here in Africa, from the heart, may it go to your hearts, yes, yes, may it go to your hearts as he wrote, if Beethoven were backstage to say what he thought, afterwards, only heard twice in his lifetime, already deaf, Vienna, and then he must have not heard it, felt it, maybe, like the vibrations from my chair, can Bokkie feel, beneath my feet, what he wanted from the voice, ‘like the Ninth Symphony,’ Dom said, similar challenges, odd transitions, so suddenly, new themes. Sensually, sensually, Jacques, said, don’t think, this you must feel, every sense here must be at nerve-end, everything that goes on in your body must come to lie beneath the epidermis, that is all that means anything, what touches the body, not the head, don’t think, not use head, no head, heart, stomach, each section on its own, no need to understand, feel, feel, feel, this is his monument, after this he dies, sing it at his funeral, a tonal mausoleum, in the Credo is the heart, the centre the nucleus, fugue, explosive. ‘He saw music in colours, like a million rainbows appearing in endless patterns. Here I want you to think of bold, brilliant colours. This is an assertion of beliefs: I believe, we believe.’ I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, Christum, filium Dei unigenitum, et ex patre natum ante omnia saecula, not et as it should be, conjunction et thrown out in favour of Credo, each sentence is a statement separately, not simply a part of the g
reater whole, Deum de Deo, beautiful, beautiful, lumen de lumine, and adagio, here it’s only the boys, yes, and was incarnated by the Holy Spirit from the Virgine Maria and was homo factus and was also crucified for us under sub snubbed under Pontio Pilato he suffered and was buried, quartet, Jiss, help Dominic on the Crucifixus forcing sound, why? Dom looks tired, others sound terrific. Okay, again, bases too loud, tenor in on Allegro, whole choir, fantastic, tempo up, timpani, galloping, Rufus, at cliff, then galloping again on the, no et, and, on the third day he rose according to scriptures and ascended into heaven, and, no sedet, sits at the right hand of the Father and shall come again with glory to judge I’ll be a judge after I’m a lawyerone day to judicare, vivos et mortuos, living and dead, his reign shall have no end, eternity like boulders at Mphafa, I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life ‘bright orange’, who proceeds from the father and the son who is worshipped and glorified with the Father and the Son. Who spoke through the prophets. ‘Shimmering white.’ Credo in unu, no unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecdesiam, I acknowledge one baptism for the remission of sins et expecto resurrectionem mortuorum. ‘You’re saying your credo, again and again, like an incantation, you’re going into a trance of belief, colour your voices. The deepest blue you can imagine.’ Listen to Allegretto, boys, alone, quartet, amen chorus, over over, over, Dom, perfect, Mike van der Bijlt almost, tonight, like Steven, is he copying Steven’s voice, no, Jacques shudders, stares at Mike, amen, amen, Dom casts the amen up, settles amen, amen, a long beautiful note over all.
His eyes are on Jacques’s upright back. Now relaxed, almost unmoving, calm as he takes the orchestra into the Sanctus, carefully, gently with only the lightest gesture of head and hands, brings in the soloists, one at a time.
‘Tell me from the beginning. Everything.’ Mathison spoke from behind his desk.