The Challenge
The black eagle soaring, swooping, wings extended freefalls inside the mountains whose edges are silhouetted against the cold blue winter sky. Sounds of footfall on granite as the hikers trudge upwards to the summit. The mountain hard and unforgiving beckons them, taunting, merciless in its arrogance.
“I can’t do this; I can’t climb on the edge”.
“You can do it, don’t look down, take it slowly”.
“Shit, what am I going to do, I can’t go back either”.
The eagle climbs higher and higher. The hikers drag one foot in front of the other, their progress hampered by the wet slippery rocks and icy wind.
“Its ok, don’t panic I’m right behind you, remember, take it slowly one step at a time.”
The eagle swoops low, intent on its prey. Does it sense the pain of the hikers’ long climb? The hiker looks up at the raptor. She sees its freedom to move through the heavens as a sign to let go of the fear, the panic.
The mountain becomes more than a challenge, something to be conquered, another conquest of man over nature. She embraces the mountain, its majestic dignity. The eagle flies up and away from the inside of the mountains. The hikers slog upwards – towards the peak.
“Keep going; don’t stop. Slowly, slowly. One step at a time, we’re nearly there”.
She sees the eagle return, circling overhead. She leans into the wind and takes the last weary step onto the summit, her goal.
“Well done my darling, your highest summit yet congratulations. There will be no stopping you now”.
Later, she’ll ride her bike forever
A bedroom under the eaves, carpeted to save small feet from cold winter floors. But at long last spring today, this morning. Already well risen up behind the carousel horses that circle the pale curtain, a mellow sun dapples the walls with leopard spots. Aromas of toast and coffee, of fried eggs and bacon, percolate up through the house.
The desk waits patiently, keeping all its projects to itself. Heavy shirts and sweaters bide their time in drawers built into the wall, sea shanties muffled in their folds. The door to the hallway is closed; the door to the closet is closed; the curtain is closed. In the bed by the wall, way way down at the bottom of the bed, a lump curls round itself like a wolf in a cave, its muzzle poked under a paw.
She’s waking up, waking up, it can’t be helped. She wakes up, but she doesn’t move.
Like any decent super-secret undercover spy, she’d never move without making reconnaissance first. At her command, invisible silvery slithery antennae sneak up from the covers, insinuating and slipping discreetly, silently, into the air, to send back: the kitchen smells, the drowsy spring freshness, the light of day. And a presence.
She senses for it tentatively and with bravado all at once, calls silently, “You’re there, right?”
Contact. Pause.
“What do you think?” comes back in reply, dryly amused.
She waits, waits for more. Is there more? More firmly: “You’re there, aren’t you?”
“Try me.”
She tries for defiance. “I’m not coming out.” And hears the trace of a smile, teasing, held back.
“No?”
She considers. She concedes. “Okay. Okay, but wait?”
There is a shift of a lump at the bottom of the bed. She stretches up and up and up, eases back the covers, rolls into the clothes of the day, and steps into the infinite prospect of a Saturday morning, in the spring.
Out of the blue
The day is a blue gem, the sky an almighty perfection.
The walk down to the beach is first away from the ancient convertible mini on a dirt track, and then down a slope. Totius is wearing white PT shorts and a thin, ratty T-shirt tied around his head to keep sweat out of his eyes. His arms, back, chest and legs are bare, brown and bristling with bleached hairs, his feet are sure on the stones in their home-made moccasins. He is carrying a canvas bag with apples, bananas and sandwiches, and he has a 2lt Coke bottle filled with icy water under his arm.
The ubiquitous shotgun, in its khaki bag, is slung across his shoulder.
We walk down the steep rocky slope. Stones knock against each other, things buzz around us, waves lollop into the little bay we’ve found. My legs are strong; my nostrils are flared towards the sea air.
On the sand, we undress, both of us brown and blond and in our element. We walk to the rocks, to the water, and feel the cold tugging at our bare bottoms. On the sand, we bask and doze. The sun is a cotton blanket and when it gets too hot, we throw it off and dive into the benign waves sloughing in lazily. The icy water firms us again after the gentle meltdown on the sand.
I’m on my back, the sun is resting on my closed eyelids. Totius’ breath is near my side. He is more restless than I am. His head is on my stomach, then he turns on to his front, leaning on his elbows, and watches the rocks over the pillow of my tanned torso.
“Hhmm, babie, jou vel is mooi,” he muses. “Hier’s sand op jou maag, kom ek lek dit af. Lekker sand innie tanne,” and he laughs at himself.
I summon a lazy laugh: “You’re so silly.”
My legs are drawn up. If I crack my eyelids, I can see the snatch of blue in which we sway like kelp in crystal water. Totius brushes my stomach with his left hand. His left-handedness, his madness, his nakedness are as mesmerizing and dangerous as the beatific sun.
We’re squidgy and spineless, as harmonious as the rocks and the rough brush on the slopes around us.
A voice calls. A voice that comes from someone who is not naked, not absorbed, not part of this picture. A voice that has business; a pinprick of intrusive activity.
“Now what’s this oke up to?” Totius’ muscles wind in.
“Oooo, jirrrrre,” he says softly, “jy moet net nie hier kom sukkel nie.”
I pull the sarong and the bikini top towards me across the sand and sigh as I lock them around me again.
The voice belongs to a simple fisherman, but Totius, like a meerkat, is on his watchful hind legs.
The world has shrunk.
Space Saver
Badgers Boarding House. Cornflakes and cold toast in a dingy dining room. It’s the seventies, Elvis is dead and the Portuguese man rolling a cigarette at the next table tells me I haven’t lived until I’ve tasted LM prawns.
Is that a fact?
I blitz the aftertaste of cheap coffee with a strip of mint gum and nod politely as I leave the room.
The bus ride from Gardens to the city takes forever. Morning traffic and newspaper headlines pull my blood sugar down to my ankles. At the Heerengracht Centre, I catch my reflection in the plate glass windows and reluctantly push my body through Trust Bank’s revolving doors.
‘Did you see Chris Barnard?’ asks Bettie Beukes, squinting at me through a veil of menthol cigarette smoke.
I shove the cover of my Olivetti typewriter into a desk drawer.
‘I’m standing right there,’ she continues breezily, ‘at the water fountain when he walks past wearing a white suit. My aarde maar daardie man is mooi!’
Bettie waits for my response, dropping ash between her keys.
By teatime the news has networked through the bank like an underground code. Cape Town’s famous heart surgeon depositing his hard earned cash in the vaults of our bank! Jan Marais, the guru-god sitting above us in the chairman’s suite must be happy. We all feel so united and patriotic under our little South African umbrella.
Except me.
I’m working for an Afrikaans bank with an English surname. What got me here? I feel alienated from my tribe. With 6% for maths in matric, who am I trying to kid by working for a monetary institution? Don’t tell me … my mother. A teller at the Reserve Bank, she gave up playing her Otto Bach piano to count money. It’s in the genes.
I’m sitting in a grey fuzz thinking about her aborted concerto career when I notice Koos Duikers giving me the eyeball through his glass kennel. Sometimes that man looks at me as if I’ve stepped off the moon. As Bettie would say … ‘Dis aaklig!’
I roll the gum in a ball around my mouth and dare myself to blow a bubble in his direction. Instead I pretend at busyness by studying the contents of my in-tray. He heaves himself out of his comfortable leather chair.
‘Miss Stanbury, I want you to type this memorandum.’
‘Sure, Meneer Duikers.’
‘No errors. Do you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear, Meneer Duikers.’
‘And bring it to me for signature, not like last time …’
I interrupt.
‘Yes, Meneer Duikers as soon as …’
He interrupts.
‘Twenty copies, Miss Stanbury.’
‘Twenty copies, Meneer Duikers.’
I blow a bubble at his retreating back.
Pop!
I’m living my life in black and white. I’m dying inside … I can see my future mushrooming in the dark like a fungus … going nowhere.
My mind is made up. One more pay cheque and that’s it.
Amazing what a shift in perspective can do. Badgers dining room looks a tad less drab this evening. So what if the odd cockroach does a walkabout on the rim of your soup bowl. Please, there are far greater things to be concerned about in life … like pushing back the boundaries of my comfort zone. All I know is I don’t want to live an unlived life. There has to be more.
I’m making wobbly little eyes in my malva pudding with a fork when I catch a whiff of … cologne mingling with tobacco?
‘My name is Luigi de Freitas.’
He stretches out his hand. I feel the strong grasp. It’s comforting.
‘There’s a restaurant in Observatory where they serve the biggest LM prawns in the country. Maybe you would care to join me tomorrow evening.’
I hadn’t noticed earlier how Al Pacino he looks.
‘Maybe,’ I reply.
A warm feeling ignites inside me.
‘Hey, why not?’
Prison Break
I lift the latch to release the gate. The steel is cold beneath my fingers and I am sorry that I didn’t put on my woollen gloves.
My hands on the pram look blue from the cold and I quickly check to make sure that my little son is warmly wrapped and snug beneath his blanket.
The blue woolly hat he is wearing is one that I knitted for him as I sat by the fire in the evenings. It matches his pretty blue eyes.
I turn right along the pavement and start walking towards the park. I can hear the sound of my footfalls on the tarmac. The sound is accompanied by the squeaking from the wheels of the pram. The gurgling noises coming from the pram join in to make a kind of music that fills my heart with temporary contentment.
The road is to my left and occasionally a car passes. Now and then a bicycle flies by with a child perched in the saddle, satchel firmly planted in the carrier behind.
On the right are gates leading into driveways where cars are parked, or tricycles stand abandoned and lonely on the lawns.
Suddenly a dog barks and flings himself at the gate. My son shouts, “Run, Mummy!”
Perhaps the dog has a need to escape, just as I have done, to escape the confines of the yard and to walk with me.
I tell him, gently, “Never mind, dog. I understand how you must feel being kept behind the bars of the gate and the high wall which looms above you”.
More walls loom up all the way along the road and more dogs bark at the gates until I feel convinced that the whole population of dogs wants the freedom that I made for myself as I lifted the latch on the gate and set forth into the world, leaving my prison behind me.
The park is a haven of trees and greenery. The different textures of the leaves and bark make spectacular patterns while their colours weave a scene that I wish I could paint.
The pathways, the inlets of shade, the dappled sunlight shining through the leaves bring to mind my favourite poem. As I look around me I can feel the meaning of the first line. “Glory be to God for dappled things.” I too can only glory in what nature has to offer.
And my heart has found kinship with a dog that seemed to want to follow me to the freedom of that dappled park.
I have escaped the boredom of my tiny house, of the kitchen window that shows me nothing but a view of a concrete wall. There is a small area of grass between the back door and the wall. It is like an exercise yard and in it the exercise I get is hanging the washing out to dry on the lonely looking line that occupies that space.
I am shackled by diapers and my days are ruled by timetables – feeding time, bathing time, cooking time, laundry time – and all in solitary confinement.
I take a quick turn around the pond to see the ducks calmly swimming above their reflections, Siamese twins with the birds below them.
Time has fled; I turn the pram around and head back, prisonwards.
Saving Space
The universe is immeasurable, the world gargantuan, the house monstrous and the kitchen huge. But for her the space is confined. All there ever is, is in this moment, in this space that goes no further than the chairs around the kitchen table.
Look at her, sitting at the table, shrunken, shrunken away from him and so unhappy. Her expression says it all. Small eyes scared to look away from him, mouth curling down, firmly set, firmly closed, thin lips, grim. Sunken shoulders, arms down, hands on lap, motionless. Not defending herself. No defense is better, safer.
Angry. His voice is angry, accusing, attacking. All the pain and hurt he’s felt his whole life, his whole forty years, is in his words and he’s trying so hard to transfer that pain to her, to offload it onto her. He doesn’t want it any more. He wants her to take it. He’s trying so hard to make her take it. He’s leaning forward in attack position. His eyes are fiery. His voice is incessant. He must keep talking. He must keep control. He cannot let her speak. He cannot let her words in. He’s afraid of what might happen then.
What might happen then? He might have to see that he cannot pass on his pain this way; that no matter how much he causes her pain, his pain won’t go away. He might have to see that she did not cause his pain.
She sits there trying to be invisible. She wishes she could get up with a “fuck you” and flee. But she doesn’t. She sits there trembling and numb and takes it all. He keeps asking questions he doesn’t want her to answer. There is no rational response because the questions are irrational. So she tries to answer honestly, but often this makes him more angry. So she tries to say as little as possible.
Then he asks something. And in that moment she knows, she cannot be Jesus Christ to him; he is the only one who can be his saviour. Still she sits there, silent, wearing his crown of thorns.
All Work and No Play
Jay sits at the dining room table, homework spread out before him and stares out of the window. It’s a warm, sunny autumn day and he can see the bicycles, leaning against the fence, beckoning to be ridden. His younger brother, Josh, already finished his spelling and reading, is playing with his toys and Jay can hear the sound effects of an army helicopter dropping bombs on the action man in his jeep below.
His grandmother, a garrulous ex-schoolteacher, stands with her hands on her hips, deep lines furrowing her brow.
“Jay, start your homework, please.”
“Can’t we ride bikes first? He asks. They look so lonely out there.”
“First work then play, my boy.” she says drawing up a chair to sit beside him. “Now, where is your pencil?”
“It was here just now”
He hears a cacophony of birdsong and is instantly distracted as a flock of witoogies feast in the hibiscus tree outside the window. Granny glances toward the sound too but quickly turns back to the task at hand.
She gently pulls his face toward her, “Your pencil, Jay? It can’t have walked away. Perhaps it grew wings and flew.”
Jay laughs. He slides bum first from his chair and slips under the table. “Here it is,” he cries. “Gee, it’s dusty under here, Gran. I’m going to sneeze.”
“Atishoo!” he exaggerates as he returns to his chair.
Gran sighs. “Study these words. Look they all have silent gh. They’re tricky so be sure to pay attention.”
Jay scratches out each word three times.
Granny steals another look at the witoogies. She notices a nest makes a mental not to investigate later.
Jay flings down his pencil. “Done! Test me.”
Granny picks up his word list.
“Naughty”
He sucks on the back of his pencil – “Which comes first – g or h?”
Granny raises an eyebrow. “Jay, you didn’t study!”
“I did! But the g and h keep swapping places – I can’t remember which is first!”
Granny slaps his word list back in front of him. “Look, read, absorb!” she says firmly.
“Ohhhh,” he says, “Okay, got it!’
She calls ‘naughty’ again.”
Josh stomps in, “I’m hungry,” he whines.
Gran scoops him up onto her lap. “In a minute, Josh. Let Jay finish here.”
The gate bell chimes. Gran scrapes back her chair and pushes Josh in front of her as she goes to check the monitor. She picks up the air-phone.
“Madam, please madam. I need a few rand for paraffin”
“Just a minute,” Josh slips out of the door as she goes to find her purse.
She returns a minute later. Jay is not at the table.
She rushes out. The bergie is standing at the open gate.
She hands him some change. “Did you see my grandsons?” She is furious.
“They rode that way Madam.”
She feels the warm sunshine on her skin, breathes in the fragrance of autumn, glances up as the witoogies fly freely over her head and says out loud, “Oh, what the heck!”
She leaps onto her own bike, throws back her head to feel the wind blow through her hair and races off.
Huisbesoek
Aldrie se koppies is nou leeg. Vir ‘n oomblik is dit stil in die sitkamertjie. In die woonstel bokant hulle roep ‘n moeder na haar kinders wat buite op die teerblad speel. Deur die venster spoel die someraand se laaste lig, breekbaar blou en byna teer. Die man skuif ongemaklik rond. Sy swaar lyf soek rusplek in die ligte rottangstoel.
“Hoekom is julle twee so rebels? Dit is nou eenmaal so dat vrouens in ons kerk moet hoede dra. Dis deel van ons tradisie.” Hy kyk ondersoekend van die een vrou na die ander.
Hulle swyg. Die horlosie slaan sewe. Sy gesig word rooi en hy druk twee vingers van sy regterhand tussen sy boordjie en sy nek in. Dan praat die een vrou. Sy kies haar woorde versigtig.
“Hoekom is mense so onverdraagsaam teenoor almal wat nie presies maak soos hulle nie?” Haar vriendin knik instemmend terwyl sy praat. Sy sluk voor sy verder gaan. “Is dit ook die tradisie dat daar net witmense in ons kerk kom? Wat sal julle daarvan dink as ek my bruin vriende saambring kerktoe. Sal hulle welkom wees?”
Aldrie kyk na buite waar die viskar se horing die stilte verbreek. Byna asof hulle verlig is oor die afleiding.
Dan val die man se oog op ‘n groot afdruk teen die muur langs hom. Tretchikoff se twee blinkswart penniefluitjie spelers. Hy kyk vinnig weg, afkeurend. Hy buk en haal ‘n dik boek uit sy aktetas. ‘n Swart boek met rooi afwerking aan die bladsy rand. Hy slaan dit oop en begin rondsoek na die regte plek. Ondertussen praat hy heftig.
“Nee kyk, julle neem dinge darem nou gans te ver. Die Woord sê nou wel dat jy jou naaste moet liefhê soos jouself, maar dit beteken jy moet jouself eerste liefhê. Wat julle nou wil doen stuur mos af op selfvernietiging!”
Die vroue kyk mekaar aan. Dan lees die man voor uit die Boek, plegtig en afgemete. Sy wysvinger volg die reëls. Sy linkerhand is in ‘n vuis gevorm waarmee hy elke punt beklemtoon deur op die stoel se leuning te slaan.
Die twee vroue swyg. Een trek haar skouers op, terwyl die ander hom in die rede probeer val. Buite lag die spelende kinders en die moeder roep hulle binnetoe. Die man staan op en sluit sy aktetas met besliste gebare. Die vroue kom ook regop en stap solank vooruit. Hy steek sy hand uit en groet hulle om die beurt. Formeel.
Dan is daar ‘n klop aan die voordeur. Die vrou maak oop vir ‘n laggende swart vrou wat haar hartlik omhels.
Home-coming
Brightness fades from the sky and with its passing, a mellow feeling of dusk enters the room. Beyond the window, shadows lengthen and gather in the garden. A dog barks. The sound is strident, ear shattering in the expectant silence. Five Hadedahs string out in the air above the house and send their harsh cries to echo against the mountainsides.
She has just arrived home, driven by her daughter. In this transitory, waiting hour between afternoon and evening, the interior of the house wears a mantle of sad neglect. Her daughter’s anxious eyes take in her father’s bleary face with its belligerent expression, and the empty cane bottle and the overflowing ashtray standing on the table in front of him.
‘I must go. It will be dark soon and the traffic . . . ‘
She watches her daughter’s slender back, her halo of black, knotty hair as she retreats from the house without a word to her father and without enquiring if she would be all right. The red berries of the Eugenia tree and the sharp needles of the Casuarina droop and sigh – Don’t go, don’t go- over the departing figure.
‘Must you?’ She calls after her, but hears only the car door slam, the motor cough as the car reverses out of the driveway. It revs in low gear as it gathers speed to climb the hill. As the sound surges and fades, her hope of escape dies with it. The metronome in her heart clicks on. Pitter-patter.
The silence in the room drags endlessly. She feels the full brunt of his intense gaze.
‘ So. You’re home. Back from Death’s door, but there’s nothing wrong with you. Just a fuss over nothing. A waste of time and money.’
His face has that intractable, glaring look of unplummable resentment and ill will. Outside the world holds it’s breath, waiting.
She tries to keep her voice flat and unemotional because the pain has started to make itself felt in the middle of her heart. ‘ I had chest pains. My blood pressure was 240/ 140. I could have had a stroke.’
Everything in the house is as she left it since her sudden departure on Monday night after an emergency visit to her doctor and an ambulance ride to Cape Town. Dust gathers on surfaces, the sunflowers have begun to wilt and drop their long leaves, the cushions on the chairs need to be shaken, they have fallen in with neglect. The smell of Monday night’s supper lingers in the air, a savoury odour of braised steak and onions, dried out carrots and peas. A mildewed whiff from the washing machine’s unhung laundry. Through the open window she sees a pigeon flutter its wings into the dense clusters of leaves on the Ficus tree and riffle through to its nest.
‘Bullshit! You’re a liar. I phoned Dr. Horak yesterday and he told me there’s nothing wrong with your heart. He did a stress ECG on you and said you were fine. He said so. So don’t come with your could-have stories.’
Their gazes lock. His eyes are full of animosity, hers are weary, resigned. She knows that fear lies beneath his anger, knows what his look means. It says – I am the broken one in this relationship. I need all the care and constant attention. Why are you exhibiting these signs of heartbreak? This is not your role. You may never abandon me, not even for three days. You have to be the witness to my broken state at all times.
A motor bike revs and roars its way like a rocket down the road, the pool pump drums into action and sends little waterfalls of fresh water into the pool, the creepy crawly begins its monotonous beat.
‘ How can you say that? I’ve been in Intensive Care for two days and two nights. Do you think they would have kept me there if nothing was wrong?’
Her heart drums along with the pounding of the creepy-crawly, her anxiety mounts and the pain extends up into her neck and down her left arm. He says nothing but takes a long slurping drink from his glass, his lips pursed into a funnel.
‘Why are you doing this?’
His eyes jerk back to her, he sets the empty glass down with a clatter.
‘ Because you’re a liar and useless. Because you always want attention. Because – because.’ He flicks his hand at her dismissively.
The room is claustrophobic with the density of his rage. His anger pulls her, sucks her towards a gaping black hole. She teeters on the brink, a hostage to the barrage of his verbal abuse.
She turns and opens the French door and steps out onto the deck. She inhales the fragrant night air, the briny ocean smells and pungent wood smoke. In the distance a Technicolour sunset, the sky awash with indigo, lilac, aquamarine and tangerine. Hens clutter and squawk in the bush. A solitary peacock and his peahen put tentative claws down on the tarmac of the road, lift their tiny beaks and call their ferociously loud catcalls. Guinea fowl craw and creak as families peck their way up the grassy pavement. She breathes deeply. Her tension slowly seeps into the space outside the cave of her heart and the sharp pain in her chest dissipates.
Fearfully Living
She woke early in the dark room and lay anxious as the sun broke in through the front windows. She felt lifeless, as though her heart were not pumping blood, her lungs not breathing air. Only her mind was ticking over, but slowly and fearfully, like a clock that was running down, and she could hear her thoughts as if amplified.
There were three windows to their bedroom, beautiful windows, high enough to give a sense of light and space. The one on the west wall was narrower, but it looked over the garden below, through the giant old Jacaranda, still in leaf though it was mid-winter. Beneath stretched the triangular shape of the old walled garden edged with shrubs and flowers, and the yellowing winter lawn. Today, however, she was conscious only of the dark wardrobes along the inner wall, with their convoluted carving, the dressing table opposite with its triptych of tall bevelled glass, where their five-year old loved to sit cross-legged on the low centre table, smearing her mother’s makeup all over her little face and surveying her three bright selves.
Today, waking in their room, she did not want to open the curtains. She did not want to look down on the garden. She did not want to face her reflection in the glass. She felt frozen. She knew, in the bed beside her, he too lay lifeless. If she touched him, spoke to him, he would respond; if she stayed silent, he would remain behind his wall of grey silence. Today she could not help him. Not today or ever again. She was too afraid. Afraid of the meaninglessness of words, of the emptiness of the comfort she would try to offer. Even of the emptiness of life. She herself was frozen, lifeless, dying. She knew that they were both dying, like the garden outside. The small leaves falling endlessly into the path and down the steps, their thin twigs following, were emblematic of their shared-unshared lives. They were both dying and their room, with its dark, fluted, over-ornate imbuia furniture was, in a sense, their tomb.
Down the long passage, where the sun was already brighter and where the voices would soon begin to chatter, the three children would be stirring. They would sing, talk, play, fight and erupt soon towards mother and father. But father was not there. And mother – she was not really there either. Anxious, afraid, waiting only for death, how could she answer their urgent, vital demands? How much longer would she be able to convince them of hers and his continuing presence? Yet she must try.
‘I feel afraid,’ she said, half turning to him.
Silence.
‘I feel afraid,’ she repeated more firmly.
Silence.
‘I feel I, we, are waiting only for death.’
‘How can you feel afraid,’ he said.
‘I feel that day after day we are moving inexorably toward nothingness, death,’ she said.
‘If you feel afraid, it makes me afraid,’ he said. ‘You cannot feel afraid.’
Now, with distance, space, as she thought about it all: the room, the dark winter’s morning, the place of nothingness they had come to in their relationship, it seemed as if she looked in though the filter of the fine-leafed yellowing branches, through the liquid glass of the aging window panes and her heart broke still, for each of them separately; for him, for her and for each of their children, and for all lives that reached such a desperate impasse. And for the courage that was required in the living; in the staying; the breaking away; the desperate bid for healing – in whatever choice one felt offered – for life.
Melting Ice
“I don’t want to talk about it now!”
The rain crashes against the glass in welts and whimpers. A steady stream of water filters through the cracked ceiling and beats into a bucket. The children sit huddled over the picture book in the corner of the vast kitchen. The violin strings wind their way towards the group. Their piercing siren cuts the air with cold caresses.
“But I think it would work best if…”
Spice and steam ooze from the lid of the pot perched on the stove.
“I do not want to discuss it.”
“There are two options…”
Mother, father and daughter are locked in heated exchange around the narrow wooden table. Faces frown, jaws set and hands gesticulate.
“I don’t want to hear another word.”
The dog snores indifferently at mother’s feet. She is curled against the fluff of slippers and her body trembles softly with each exhalation.
“But you simply go ahead and set everything up without even consulting me. I have my work and the children to factor in. And now you won’t discuss it.”
Mother is perched at the edge of her seat. Her body is rigid. She folds her arms against her chest and grazes the table top with her icy stare. Father and daughter begin to withdraw from each other. She leans into the tilt of her chair and he bustles open the newspaper.
A chair scrapes against the bare floor.
“That’s it. I’m leaving.”
The bucket begins to shake. Seconds later the containing cave collapses and water flows onto the stone tiles. And in the flurry of activity – mops, swabs and shouts – the violin strings restore a note of harmony.
A poem that writes into the spaces
Inside outside and what’s in-between
Inside – whirly burly turmoil of flashing thoughts,
colors, shapes and a deep seated anxiety.
Outside – the dull hum of a droning generator
runs round and round in my head.
The sound of breath taken in and out,
the purring of engines as they roll down the steep hill
In between – lost, confused and stressed,
holding onto doubt.
Did I do the right thing
returning to South Africa?
The longing for my grand child
never leaves
Without her in my life
an ache in my heart
– like a knife –
A gash that bleeds and bleeds
Newly wed
They stand half-facing, their movements mechanical. Sean turns the bulky tap handle and his large capable hands meticulously rinse two glasses and two cups. Joy stands expectant, a faded green-striped dishcloth dangling from her left hand.
‘My feet hurt, and my legs,’ she says. On the chipped green-checked lino floor, her feet are bare, her ankles puffy. She shifts her weight from one foot to another, scratching her right calf with a bare left toe. Her heels are slightly cracked. Sean’s neat, polished, brown brogues peep from under the charcoal-grey trousers he wears to his new job at Crown Mines’ laboratory. He stands firm, weight even. Glasses clink as she places them carefully in a white plastic drying-rack on the narrow stainless-steel sink. The cupboards above the sink are faded green, a clay African bowl on one shelf and two dusty, decorative bottles below.
‘How did you like the lamb stew I made?’ she asks. ‘From Ouma’s cookery book.’
Outside the window, darkness is coming and in the sky, a star twinkles.
‘A bit watery,’ Sean replies. ‘You know I love gravy. Haven’t you got any flour?’
‘Ja. Think so.’
‘But you were at the shops?’
She nods, ‘ I’m learning my way around the narrow streets between high buildings, grey and hemmed, in even at midday.’ She lift her nose and sniffs. ‘They’re having tomato bredie next-door.’
‘And boerewors,’ says Sean.
A ball bounces in the corridor and children’s voices echo. He lifts the lid of a brown enamel pot, sniffs and frowns at her. Her eyes are on the cutlery she’s drying to make space for the big pot. ‘How’d you manage to burn potatoes?’ He scrapes black lumps into an empty can. The bin is overflowing with vegetable peelings.
She bends down to massage her left calf. ‘Steaming,’ she says, ‘protecting the vitamins.’
Squeezing the pot into the small space under the tap, he adds water, replaces it on the stove and lights the gas with a match from a yellow Lion box.
‘But gas you can control,’ he says. ‘ D’ you know how to switch it down? Look.’ He turns the switch horizontal and and then anti-clockwise. ‘That’s high. That’s down.’
She nods and sighs, counting the stars in the dark sky above the sink. She twitches the nylon curtain. ‘See the city lights stretching on and on?’ She sighs again. ‘And way beyond that are the endless sunflowers of the Free State, beneath that huge sky.’ Her shoulders droop. Behind her the yellow-cream wall is decorated with African figures and pictures of Siamese cats. The kitchen is stuffy and there’s a faint smell of cat.
He takes a ceramic plate from the fomica table. ‘The last one.’ he says. ‘ Let it drip. Put that cloth down.’
He scrapes and rinses the plate, washes it and stands holding it allowing the soap to drip off before placing it into the rinsing bowl. Outside it’s quiet but for a muted radio. Ten stories down, peak- hour Berea traffic has ceased. She dries the cups and hangs them on hooks above the sink.
Then from the corridor comes the laughter of a couple of women and men passing, Joy glances at their shadows flickering on the kitchen wall. The clink of bottles and the smell of cigarette smoke drift in. She lifts the heavy brown plate from the rinsing bowl, flicking her cloth. She drops the plate. It crashes on the hard floor. Pieces fly across the green lino, under the sink and the bin and in between his neat shoes.
‘Why did you do that? We’ll have to replace it.’
She slides down the doorframe, supporting her pregnant stomach, and sits heavily on the chipped floor. Sean looks down at her drooping head, her light hair and her long neck.
‘You’re like a sunflower,’ he says.
He drops to his knees and gently begins to massage her feet with his strong fingers.
Verbal hurricane
“Get up from there! The house needs sweeping!”
A torrent of words. Words weaved and coiled into an endless noose, through which my downturned head droops, fatigued.
I am lying on my bed. She stands at the doorway, hands on hips, her lips moving to the current of words that washes over me, drowning me.
“Why can’t you be more like your friends?”
Mary does this … Rebecca does that.
My head hurts. Won’t she shut the hell up?
No.
Me! I do this! … You! … You do that! … Mrs So and So does this!
The voice is not a monotone, but it sounds like one to me because I can predict the rise and fall of its tone, which can be heard beyond the neighbours’ hedge.
Hypothetical questions. …Why don’t you just do this? … Do you think other girls sit around all day like you?
Ominous silences in between.
Should I answer? No. No chance, because the voice is off again.
Outside the sun is shining. The birds sing in the blossomed trees that line the suburban street, and together with the melodious humming of the bees, the neighbourhood resonates in a glorious connubial orchestra.
In the kitchen, dishes clink in the sink as the maid busies herself doing work that does not need doing.
In our house, one must always keep busy. Tidy something, make something, take something apart then put it all back together again. If you have done all you can do inside, then go outside and do something there. Dig something, water something, prune something.
And in between all that, words, words, words. And they all sound the same, probably because the face that speaks them could belong to anybody.
The words filter through me like poison, slowly but systematically killing off everything. And the sad thing is, I don’t even know it.
I’m getting bigger, older. Frustration, anger build up in me
“I’m not Rebecca.”
“Yes, because you are lazy!”
I don’t even listen to the words anymore. But they still penetrate, still poison. Only now, I am starting to feel the pain. The words have taken on a new bite. I feel them. I need to escape from those words.
But something else happens. The words contaminate me. They contaminate my tongue, my mind. They become normal. This is how it should be done, right?
After all, everywhere else I turn, it’s the same thing. Words linger in the air like smoke. We carry them around like handbags. They are heavy, but we adjust and they become the new normal. We go around in circles, from here to there, and from there back to here.
And just like a space shuttle needs to break through the atmosphere in a burst of fire and dust and much noise to escape into the heavens, I too burst through my enclosed space in a burst of flames and pain.
And I realise then that my world is but a tiny part of the Universe. It’s much bigger up here. There are other galaxies, other worlds, other ways of thinking. Everything exists in harmony. I look back. There is much debris, but it sprinkles down in a dust of diamonds.
And around me I realise only one thing.
The beauty of silence.
Contained
It’s dark outside, inky and impenetrable. Inside the kitchen is bright with the bustle of early evening routine: everyone engaged in something, disconnected from each other. She grabs at a moment to fulfill a duty. A heavy sense of burden encroaches on the diminishing spaciousness with which she returned from holiday. If we could hear beneath the level of sound we would hear her sigh her acceptance of the loss. She dials a new number. It has been a long time since she has had to learn a new number for her mother, and she wonders how long it will take for this one to become a reflex for unthinking fingers.
She sits at the kitchen counter in a pool of light. The vase of flowers in front of her needs throwing out. She knows she will be the one to do it and feels faintly annoyed. Like a moth’s flight a small, wistful smile passes across her face as she remembers her friend living so far away and their shared, rueful motto: “why am I surrounded by idiots?”
She listens to the ringing tones down the line, and wonders if she has it right, wonders if there will be a reply. A click, a pause, a voice: she speaks into the receiver ‘Hi Mum, it’s me’. Her hand twists a strand of long brown hair, restlessly coiling it around her fingers. ‘ I’m fine. I finished the workshop today, so that’s good. How’s it going over there? Are you unpacked?’ Taut moments start at the tops of those fingers and find their way through her shoulders and chest, forcing her to stretch her spine and shift on the stool. ‘I know, yes, I will. That’s why I was calling actually. I’m busy all morning tomorrow, but I could come in the afternoon. I wanted to find out what your plans are.’
Flashes of animation light up her face in between the passing shadows of tension. ‘Oh! Well, that’s wonderful, I didn’t know she was here. When did you last see her?’ There’s relief too. Her mother has a life of her own after all.
Around her, the activity of the household continues. A bowl of steaming couscous sits precariously amongst piles of paperwork and unpaid bills, and a platter of salad, its bright colours breaking the dull monotony of manilla envelopes. She’s distracted by it all. Her husband is frying lamb chops. The boys are egging each other on to a point where someone is going to have to intervene. Darkness gathers, the fire burns, the guilt swirls in ancient patterns around her waiting to see if it can settle.
The firm set of her shoulders fights to ward it off. She replaces the receiver in its cradle and straightens her back in a valiant attempt to slice through the old blueprint. Facing supper, she contains the familiar tightness in her chest for some other time when she might briefly let it go in a wash of tears.
Strydom
1982
I stood at the window of my 9th floor office, unaware of the hustle and bustle of the busy city centre. I was deep in thought about my last round of golf. I could almost feel the cool breeze on my suntanned arms; the smell of the freshly cut grass; and hear the birds in the trees. I loved playing golf; but that was a part of my life before I started working in the business. Now it is different.
In the office it was very quiet. All the staff had long gone …all but one.
I reflected on how one phone call 6 months ago from my husband Danny had impacted on my life: ‘Em, I’m afraid you’ll have to go to the office immediately. We’re in trouble. Hansie has done a bunk and taken a large chunk of our business with him. Come immediately please. I’ll fill you in when you get here.’
Now a year down the line, having overcome the anger and frustration of being forced into an intolerable situation I realised to what extent I had changed. Taking over the reins of a failing business that dealt mainly with electricity, water and gas metering, which, in those days was almost entirely a male dominated domain, was extremely arduous. But I knew I was a strong person and, comforted with the knowledge of my husband’s full support, I was determined to meet the challenge.
I smiled as I reflected on my good fortune when I had decided to employ Strydom …I always referred to him as ‘Strydom’. He was such a wonderful, caring and diligent employee. I recalled the day he walked into my office to apply for the job. In his carefree high-spirited manner he said, ’Mrs B, don’t think that because I have dreadlocks that I am a hippie or a druggie!’ We both laughed, I was attracted to his bright and cheerful personality.
1983
Strydom!
Initially he was an exemplary employee. He never left the office before I was ready to leave — he always walked me to the car park — some days it was well after dark. But Strydom was there with his words of warning ‘No! Mrs B, there are terrible people in this world. It is my choice and my duty to protect you!’ I felt safe. The business was gradually improving; I felt secure and confident; almost happy again.
One day Strydom presented a business proposal to me: He desperately needed a private car but didn’t have the means to buy one. His proposal sounded reasonable and I had gained such trust in his integrity that I, in consultation with my husband, had no reason to doubt him. I set about acquiring a small VW. The car would reflect in the company’s records as a’ loan account’. A monthly deduction was to be made from his salary till the full amount was repaid.
Life was running smoothly. I had made a concerted effort to manage my affairs in a professional and confident manner. Attending business meetings took up a large amount of my time, and there was very little time for golf, or any sort of social life for that matter. One particular Monday morning I had several appointments scheduled and was irritated when Strydom called in ill. He said he had a bout of flu and would be back in a day or two. It did cause a little hiccup in the management but nothing serious.
Another call came from Strydom three days later. He had moved in with relatives who were taking care of him, but was still not well enough to come to work. Uneasy about the whole situation, I had spoken to him and had elicited the new address.
I asked Johnny, one of the employees, to take a run out to this address and simply take a look around. If Strydom appeared simply tell him that it was a courtesy visit from the company.
Johnny returned to the office looking flushed. ‘Mrs B, there was no Strydom there. It’s the home of a family member of his, but they said he spent one night with them and then simply took off. They had no idea where he had gone. He left no messages.’
‘And the car?’
‘No! The car is gone too. I went to his old address; there was no sign of anyone living there. I managed to get the supervisor to open up and I’ve brought back all the records of meter readings that Strydom was supposed to have taken over the past week!’
‘Thank you Johnny. You have done well.’
The tedium of paper work required in such cases exacerbated the whole situation. Staff member had to be replaced, interview with the police; oversee the incomplete worksheets. My confidence in my decision making ability was completely shaken. I was constantly on the phone to Danny. He was the senior partner in another company. He consoled me; he stood by me. He was also disheartened, but being a hardened business man was more familiar with the thrust and parry of daily negotiations.
With the passage of time, the ‘Strydom issues’ were put in order; insurance for the car was settled; the office was back to the usual routines. Business was almost as good as it was originally; and a replacement for Strydom was found.
Strydom!
Whenever I thought of Strydom my mind churned the lines from Sir Walter Scott’s Marmion over and over: ‘O what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive!’
I was not surprised, some nine months later when I received a call from the Police, quoting the registration number of a car and asking if was the one that was stolen from us. They also asked if I knew ‘Strydom’. At the meeting with the two policemen I sat wide-eyed in wonderment as they related all the horrendous crimes of which Strydom was guilty.
They had picked him up in Durban after he had been in a shoot-out at a Fast-food outlet. The car was riddled with bullet holes; in the boot they found several stolen number plates and discs with licences. This man was a recidivist. He was wanted for crimes ranging from rape and attempted murder, to petty theft. He was unable to survive outside the prison walls. As soon as he was free he did his damnedest to get back inside again.
I shuddered when I thought about all those nights – the two of us high up on the 9th floor of a deserted office building, those long walks to the parking garage … Just the two of us … Oh my Lord …
At the court hearing I was asked to present my case for the prosecution. Strydom wanted to plead his own case. He was confident and smiled cheerfully at everybody in court. Before the magistrate appeared he greeted me very pleasantly, but I turned aside. My heart was beating too fast and I was flushed in the face. This was unfamiliar territory; I was very scared. The proceedings were an education – a devastating learning experience.
Strydom proceeded to prove that the car was actually in a ‘loan account’. He admitted to owing the money, but denied the theft. I was left with a mouth full of teeth, stuttering and stammering, incoherent. His shrewd and astute presentation of the facts as he saw them was overwhelming! The court requested that I bring the company’s books after the lunch break. I was relieved to get out of there and phoned Danny immediately. I insisted that he take my place in court and argue the case. I was a bundle of nerves, incapable of rational thought let alone of reasonable speech.
When Danny walked into the court Strydom was already there. His dreadlocks bobbing around his playful smiling blue eyes; was reminiscent of how his pleasant outward appearance had been deceiving; his means of entrapment. He greeted Danny with a cheerful: ‘How are you Mr. B? It’s so nice to see you again. You are looking very well!’
Danny was not thrown by his light-hearted attitude — I had already warned him. His response was curt: ‘You know Strydom, you are a clever man. What a pity you waste it on these criminal pursuits.’
‘You are so right sir! I have made a few mistakes in the past, but that is now over’.
‘I hope so!’ Danny didn’t sound convinced.
The case dragged on for two days but I wasn’t asked to return. Strydom was sentenced to serve further time in prison. The public prosecutor delivered the verdict to me and we could return to our normal routines. What a relief it was to know that it was last I would hear from Strydom.
Strydom!
‘O what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive!
About a month after the court case I received a phone call from the department of Labour. They had received a letter from a Mr. Strydom who claimed that our company owed him back pay. He stated that he had left work in the middle of the month and did not receive a salary for the days that he had worked. In addition he was asking for leave pay due to him and said that it should be calculated over the period that he had worked.
Once again he had rendered me speechless, dumbfounded and flabbergasted!
