Embrace (13 page)

‘You may want to practise some sonnets for Alette.’ She winked, her face lighting up into a huge smile. ‘Use the dictionary, Karl.’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

‘Oh, take a look at these,’ she said. From an envelope she turned to lift from the basket, she drew three photographs. ‘Just received the first snaps of Graham in uniform. Look how smart he is.’ She hands me the photograph, leaning slightly over me to look at the colour print in my hand. ‘He had only just completed basics there, look how skinny he is!’ A young man of about eighteen, good-looking, smiling from the print, his eyes the same green as the tent behind him. The same as hers. ‘He has your eyes, Ma’am.’

‘Why thank you, Karl.’

‘You must be very proud of him, Ma’am?’

‘Oh yes. Very. He’s been selected for the parabats. Only the elite go there.’

‘Congratulations, Ma’am.’

‘Thanks, Karl. And this here is my daughter Jenny. The three of us during Grahams first weekend pass’ She clicked her tongue, pursed her lips and slid the photographs back into the envelope. ‘What are you doing after lunch?’ she asked, and proceeded into the driver’s seat.

‘We’ll probably be down at the river, Ma’am. Probably fix our fort. And Cassandra’s going to foal any day; maybe this weekend. Lukas and I want to be there when it happens.’

‘Have a good weekend. Thanks for helping me carry.’

‘It’s a pleasure, Ma’am. Thank you for the books. And for . . .’ I wondered how to show my gratitude for her taking an interest in my work. In me as a person —‘... the advice about writing, Ma’am.’ She nodded, smiled at me, looked ahead and started the car. About to turn away, through the window and over the burrr of the engine, I heard her call my name.

‘Who
is
Porcupine’s mate?’ she asked, smiling.

I shuddered. Stepped closer to the window. How can she possibly know? No, she doesn’t. I laughed the possibility off. Wondered whether to actually impart the insipid joke. No, it was too rude to tell Ma’am. Instead, I said, ‘Porcupine worked for us. His friend made wood carvings and we called him Careful, because he always carved the wood with a fat blade and said, Careful, careful.’

‘Oh!’ She laughed out loud, threw back her blond hair against the headrest. ‘So, when I said you must write more carefully . . . I see. How original! You see, you
are
a natural. I’ll bring you some of my own books to read. This library isn’t up to much. Sound appealing?’

‘Wonderful, Ma’am.’

With a wink she pushed the Passat into gear. The car crawled from the parking lot up the dust road.

Was she interested in me, beyond my work? I wondered whether perhaps I could seduce her too? Imagined having her and Dom and Cilliers. Jesus! And would her thing be the same as Alette’s and Stephanie’s? Surely it would go back to normal size after she’d had her children? It couldn’t stay enormous, surely, so that I could stick in my entire hand? No, I had seen Bokkie s and it looked quite normal, even after three kids. Vagina. I’d have to use that word if she ever let me touch her thing.
Vagina, vaginae,
feminine, sheath. Radys and I had shared a conniving look during Latin vocab.

As I walked back along the stoep, I felt a flush of guilt or shame. I was obsessed with the filth of sex. How will I ever wash myself clean? I was on a one-way street to hell. And I had lied to her. I had no idea of why I lied. Or told fibs. A better word. In church the next day Iwould force myself to concentrate on each syllable of Dominee’s life-giving, liberating words.

The boy is ten. In the passage he stands dressed in his school uniform. His father walks up. He tells the boy that if he ever catches the boy doing it again he will be killed.

We cantered towards where we’d descend the plateau. From a distance we could discern two figures moving towards us on foot. I thought they were two men, but then identified the broad rim of a woman’s straw hat. A couple, probably on a hike from Dragon’s Ridge. Mr Walshe raised his hand and called over his shoulder for us to slow down, move to the side of the road so the couple could pass. We came to a standstill. He nudged his mare and trotted her ahead, lifting his hat in greeting. We waited while he engaged in conversation with the grey-haired man. The school below us was etched in brilliant white against the green veld. This will make a great painting, I thought. Bright blue sky, dark green veld, simmering white building. Only those three colours, each in strong contrast. In severe lines. Impatient for feed at the stables, the horses strained at their bits.

‘Keep that stupid animal away from me,’ Lukas commanded Craig.

‘If he kicks King or Rufus I guarantee there’s going to be shit,’ I cautioned.

‘De Man always knows just a little better,’ Craig said, shaking his head and pulling his mouth.

‘Doesn’t take much round here,’ I smirked. I tugged Rufus’s reins to get away from Whiskey, Craig’s mount. The little gelding was forever kicking at anything that came dose to his rear. Safely out of reach I leant forward and swung my crop onto Whiskey’s flank; Craig almost came a cropper as the horse bucked, kicked back in my direction.

‘Stop it, you two,’ Lukas said.

‘Ooh, now Van Rensbuig has to get his money’s worth, again,’ Etienne chimed in.

‘Shut up, Etienne,’ a voice from somewhere. I was no longer interested in the group. Something about the grey man by the roadside seemed familiar.

‘Don’t want to play cowboy anymore, De Man?’

I paid no heed, drawn instead to the man with the wisps of long grey hair blowing in the breeze.

‘Hey, Karl, what’s up?’ Lukas brought King abreast.

‘Who’s that old guy?’ I asked. ‘I’ve seen him, somewhere.’

Mr Walshe turned his mare back to us. He came doser, with the couple walking at his horse’s side.

‘Gentleman, let me introduce you,’ Mr Walshe said. ‘This is Dr Alan Paton. Do you know the man who made Pietermaritzburg world-famous?’

‘Cry the Beloved Country
!’ I snapped before anyone else could begin to answer. I knew, I knew! I wished I had my camera.

‘Good afternoon, boys. Handsome mounts you have there. Having a good ride?’

‘Yes, Sir.’ From all around. Then, before another word could pass, Mr Walshe said it was time to get back to school if we weren’t to be late for choir. The others called greetings. Dr Paton and his companion waved as we gave slightly on the reins. My eyes remained on him. When the group moved off, I lagged, barely seeing the woman at his side, noting only the smile from him to me. Rufus was now straining and throwing his head. I tugged the reins, brought him around.

Afternoon, Sir.’

‘Afternoon, son.’

‘Sir, I want to ask you something, if I may, Sir?’‘Go ahead, son, just watch that horse doesn’t walk all over us.’ I drew in the reins, holding Rufus a pace behind the couple, who were already continuing their stroll.

‘How long did it take to write your book, Sir?’

Alan Paton smiled, as though to himself. ‘There
is
more than one, you know.’

I felt embarrassed, but he chuckled and continued, ‘Three years, son. Why do you ask, have you read it?’

‘Yes, Sir. I found it in the school library. It has your photograph and signature.’

‘Thank you, son, I’m glad to hear that.’

From behind came the shrill of someone whistling through his teeth. Mr Walshe was waiting alone where the road disappeared down the bend above the river. I turned Rufus, nodded my head to show I was on my way.

‘Can I tell you something, Sir. . .?’ I asked. Alan Paton and his companion came to a standstill.

‘Yes?’

I cast another glance back at Mr Walshe who was again moving off.

‘I’m going to be a . . . an author.’

Alan Paton grinned at me. I grinned back. I remember today that it looked like the wrinkles of his skin drew into circles around his lips pulled back from impressive yellow teeth. Like a beautiful old baboon, I thought, then.

‘Good... Very good. I wish you well,’ he said.

Mr Walshe had disappeared from the bend. The hill’s edge, a pencil line against the veld below, was a clean horizon unbroken by human intrusion.

‘I must go, Mr Paton.’

‘It’s been nice speaking to you, son.’

‘Thank you, Mr Paton.’

Speaking for the first time, the woman at his side asked, ‘What’s your name?’ And I, preparing to give rein, called back, ‘Karl De Man, ma’am.’Then I veered off the road.
These hiUs are grass-covered and rolling,
I recalled to myself,
and they are lovely beyond any singing of it.
A mere one week after Ma’am had said I should write! It has to be a good omen, I laughed. Being told I could write and then meeting, by the biggest luck in the world, such a famous novelist And with Ma’am’s words not yet cold. No, it wasn’t luck! It was God! It had to be Him! Oh, if only it had been Wilbur Smith instead of Paton! Imagine meeting Wilbur Smith!

Over the beating of hooves the couple cannot have heard my voice as they turned to watch. And who could guess what they thought if they did? A magician, a fool, a show-off careering down an incline too steep for most men on a horse at speed.

Lips furled like thick wads of cloth over the leaves, plucked and chewed with jaws swaying gently from side to side — not up and down like people’s — and their eyes blinked long black lashes while they looked out across the scented acacias at Bok holding me against him on Vonk’s back from where we were watching.

Laughter, a word caught here and there, a whistle, shouts, voices carried up from the river and the poplar bush where the rest of the school was at play: swimming, drop kicking the ball through the uprights, talking beneath the trees, mending forts, fishing for trout in the rapids, plotting war against opposition gangs, secretly pelting each other with the kleilat But the two of us, reclining in the shade of the orange orchard wearing only black PT shorts, as if suspended on a thick carpet of grass under the trees, barely noted the sounds from the other world in the distance. Him on his back staring at fragments of blue visible between the leaves. Me on my stomach. Book held out before me:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

admit impediments: love is not love

that alters when it alteration finds,

or bends with the remover to remove.

Oh no! It is an ever fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth’s unknown although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

   
  
   
If this be error and upon me prov’d,

        I never writ
,
nor no man ever lov’d.

We were quiet for a while.

‘Write a poem for me like that, Karl.’

‘I could never write poems.’

‘And I can never compose like Schoenberg.’

‘You will, one day . . . Even though I don’t like his music.’

Abba for you!’

‘You brought me the tape.’

‘I know your taste: Condensed Milk and Abba — the sweeter the better.’

‘Why did you bring me the Abba if you think it’s so shit?’

‘It was a present for you, not for myself. I wouldn’t ever give Beauty a recording of piano sonatas, would I? I give her what she likes and needs.’ I thought of the boxes of old clothes and bags of groceries Dr and Mrs Webster brought for Beauty after every holiday. I resented Dom in that instant and it was on my lips to say that the Websters’ charity towards Beauty may not be the source of gratitude they thought. Instead, I said, ‘Ma’am says you’re a child protege, like Mozart.’

‘Prodigy. Sure, but not like Mozart. When he was thirteen
he’d
already composed sonatas and nocturnes . . . I’m entering my twelve-tone phase. Anyway, she wants you to be a poet, idiot. Why do you think she gave you all those books. How did she know you want to be a writer?’

‘She just said she likes my letters home. And my essays, you know how she reads them out in class.’

‘You should show her that play you wrote last year.’

I said I had thrown out the play. He opened his mouth mutely and shook his head. He said I was crazy, that his parents had kept even the smallest silliest pieces he composed from age five. ‘Why don’t you write me a poem, Karl . . . Write me a poem about love. Love and oranges.’

‘Love and oranges!’

‘Something like the one in the
Groot Versehoek.
What was it? Miss Roos read it to us a few weeks ago.’

‘Come on, Dominic.’

‘My girlfriends in a rnrtjie, my grandmother in cinnamon, there’s someone in anise, there’s a girl in every scent.
That one!’

‘Don’t be silly. And you’re not a girl.’

‘Poetry is the highest form of literature.’

‘I don’t care. It’s too difficult. I don’t understand half of it. You can say much more exciting things in short stories and novels than in poems.’

‘Rubbish! Just try it; it won’t kill you.’ I imagined the stories I would one day write. Like Wilbur Smith, whom Bok and Bokkie read.
When the Lions Feed, The Sound of Thunder.
Or Sir Rider Haggard and maybe even short stories like Herman Charles Bosman I found in the library. Or Alastair Maclean and Robert Ruark. But mostly hugebooks about Africa; about the bush and wars; and all Mumdeman’s stories of what the English did to the Boers. About the last Afrikaner trek to East Africa. The charge of elephant at hunters; safaris; torrid romance between muscular men and ravishing women; millionaire white hunters from America; intrigue; deception; loyalty; wealth, valour. Of a woman as beautiful as my mother or as ravishing as everyone said Mumdeman was as a young woman, who has an affair with a film star who comes to Tanzania to make a movie. Of illegitimate children and murders and safaris. Those are stories I want to write, I told myself. Not boring things like Mr Paton’s book, which just goes on and on. Oh, the language is exquisite, but I never properly understood why his book was so famous. No, Wilbur Smith for me. I tugged a leaf from the branch of the orange tree.