Embrace (44 page)

On Christmas Day, to Lena’s delighted hissing of ‘What goes around comes around,’ Bok gave me a hiding with his belt for refusing to let Kaspasie play with the perspex pistol I had received as a gift from the Heanys. Bokkie asked me whether I had no shame, being so selfish to my half-orphaned cousin. We played the catching game that we had invented in Umfolozi because hide and seek was too boring. In the catching game one not only had to find the hiders but also pat them on the back after physically wrestling them to the ground. We loved the game, although one of us invariably ended up in tears because the one who was on had either patted or wrestled too vigorously. Stephanie and I hid together so we could do It in the bushes behind the old cow shed. James, who was on couldn’t find usand when we eventually came out Lena whispered that she knew exactly what Stephanie and I had been up to. I said she had a dirty mind.

Oupa Liebenberg told Lena, me, Kaspasie and Lynette stories of the Molopo where Bokkie, Aunt Lena and the late Uncle Gert had grown up before they moved to Klerksdorp. As Stephanie and James could hardly speak Afrikaans and Oupa no English, our De Man cousins were cut off from the story sessions and found other ways to amuse themselves. Oupa Liebenberg spoke of the desert and how he farmed with red Afrikaner oxen, with horns as wide as an adult man’s reach; how they were so poor they didn’t have a car and went everywhere on a donkey cart; of how, one day when he and Bokkie were alone on the donkey cart and he got off to open a gate, a leguan had frightened the donkies and they had run off into the veld with Bokkie still on the cart screaming blue murder. Oupa also told of how he had joined the Ossewa Brandwag so that they could help poor Afrikaners against the English who owned everything during the Second World War, but hojarne had withdrawn from the secret organisation when they got too close to Hitler and wanted to plant bombs to bring the Afrikaners to power. He spoke about when he was a young man. About all his brothers, and of how lazy Groot-Oom Klasie always was while the other boys had to work. While the other brothers had to work, Klasie was always walking around with books, I caught Lena’s eye: she was looking at me with a wisened smile. Without her saying a word, I knew what she was thinking.

And there you have it,’ Oupa Liebenberg said. All that book learning and what became of Klaas? Tramp, a burden on society.’

And Sanna Koerant, sitting on a camp chair nearby laughed and said it sounded to her that Uncle Klaas was just preparing for what lay in store for all of us. She said: ‘What you sow you will reap. We saw that in Tanganyika where we had sown the wind and we reaped the whirlwind. Here, Piet, in this country, were sowing the whirlwind . . .’

‘But, Sanna, what are you talking about?’ Oupa Liebenberg asked, ‘This is the country of our birth. The Christians of this nation have — to keep it from the grubby paws of the black heathen.’

Sanna, serious for once, said: ‘And what about the black Christians, Piet? Why must we keep the land out of the grubby paws of the black Christians?’

Oupa shook his head and said: ‘Nothing in the Word about black Christians; let alone black human beings. The Word says: He created Adam with hair like lambs’ wool — like yours and mine Sanna. Nothing, nothing, not a word about
peppercorns
.’ And Sanna cackled through her open mouth, threw back her head and almost fell over backwards from her chair. When she had finished laughing, she faced Oupa and said: ‘Jirre, Jesus, Christus, God, Fok Piet! Jy gaan jou gat sien!’ Oupa looked as though he was hinging on the verge of a stroke. His face puffed up red and his eyes bulged. He said he’d never hit a woman in his life but if Sanna ever, ever again, in front of his grandchildren took the name of the Lord in vain or used such disgraceful language, he would smack her teeth from her mouth.

For a few hours the atmosphere was ruined. Later that night, all seemed to calm down again when we put on boere-musiek and Oupa and Ouma and everyone danced and even Stephanie was allowed to show off the go-go.

New Year’s Day: news arrived that Great-Grandmother Liebenberg, Oupa and Groot-Oom Klaas s mother — the woman with the long white plaits and moustache whom I had met on only two or three occasions — had died at ninety-six years of age. Oupa Liebenberg wept and wept and wept.

A warm bergwind brought the scent of blossoms from the peach tree outside his room and from the orchard terraces down the hill. My head was on his back, my legs balanced on his, my toes like clothes pegs around the tendons of his heels. Beneath my ear, into my head, came the enunciations of his body. Taking the beat from his back, I hummed, my cheek vibrating lightly against his skin.

Afternoons in Malawi, while Dominic was at the piano and Mervy practised violin, the rest of us took fishing rods from thfe boathouse. Lena, I thought, would have thrived on the lake. I told the others of the time my sister had landed a twelve-pound eel in the Midmar Dam after battling it for more than twenty minutes. There had to be eels in Lake Malawi, I thought. Mr Olver said there were more than three hundred species of fish. How I would have rejoiced at catching one eel to photograph for Lena. We didn’t catch eels, only half a dozen small silver fish which we gave to Tobie and Chiluma, who prepared them as a side dish for one of our meals.

For supper we were joined by an old man from down the lake. We were again asked to sing. We did mostly Christmas carols, occasionally with the Olvers, the old man and Ma’am joining in. Dominic had retrieved sheet music from the piano stool. Amongst the scores was
The Sound of Music.
For ‘Do-Re-Mi’ Dominic did Maria’s part. Mr Olver called Tobie and Chiluma to leave the dishes and join in the singing. We did ‘Climb Every Mountain’, and ‘My Favourite Things’, and finally ‘The Hills Are Alive’, with Dominic and Steven together doing a duel-harmony descant. Tobie and Chiluma, who had sometimes joined in, sometimes just stood listening, returned to the kitchen. Before taking his leave, the old man invited the Olvers and Ma’am to dinner for the following, our last, evening. Ma’am asked whether she could risk leaving the six of us alone. ‘Of course, Ma’am,’ in unison. And so the invitation was accepted.

Dominic, having enjoyed the singing, now said he wanted me to sing, alone. I declined, claiming I had a sore throat — maybe from the wind on the catamaran.

‘Lies, Karl! Your voice was fine a moment ago.’ He rolled his eyes, ‘Come on! Sing one of those sentimental things.’The others joined inthe encouragement. I did want to extend the enjoyment of the evening, to take the pleasure further into the night, to not be a stick in the mud. Still, the fear of my own voice sent heatwaves into my cheeks. I had not sung alone in front of an audience for two years, and even then never to an audience that itself sang with a voice resembling streams of liquid gold. ‘Come on, Karl!’ I wanted to, but laughed and said I didn’t. Dominic said he’d play ‘Boulder to Birmingham’ — one of my favourites — and that he and the others could join in on the chorus. Dread of me making a spectacle of myself had me biting my lips even as he played the introduction. In mock playfulness I asked Dominic and Steven to help if my voice packed up because of the sore throat. They nodded and Dominic whispered, ‘Just sing it the way you want to, forget about Emmylou Harris!’ From the moment I began, I was again aware that something had drastically altered in the sounds I was producing from my vocal chords. Not only were they deeper and stronger than I could recall them ever being, they were quite wonderful, and I had perfect control over what I was doing. Indeed, over the last two years something had happened to both the voice’s timbre and my ability to modulate, send it exactly where I wanted it to go. To my own ear — now fine-tuned to what was good sound and what was bad — the voice that came from my chest was beautiful, rich and powerful, touching each note perfectly, rising over the others when their voices joined in harmonies for the chorus. The song drew to a close and they applauded.

‘You see, I told you!’ Dominic beamed. I was elated. The fear, clutched silently for two years, was instantaneously erased and in its place came a slight regret at never having asked for a transfer to seconds. How different all those hours in choir might have been. My voice would never be classical, like Dom’s or Steven’s. Nor could I see myself a pop star like Elton John or a rock idol like Mick Jagger. But my voice was good. Good enough. More than good enough to enjoy without feeling in the least bit shy. On the contrary. In a flash of courage, I asked Dom whether he knew ‘Clouds’.

“‘Both Sides Now”!’ he exclaimed. ‘Joni Mitchell! Mum’s favourite from her hippy days.’ He began playing. Again, I sang alone:

Rows and flows of angel hair

And ice-cream castles in the air

And feather canyons everywhere

I’ve looked at clouds that way

I was again elated by the sound. No, it would never be the voice of a world-class boy soloist, but it was mine, I had control of it, it could do things I had imagined the property of only born talent.

Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels

The dizzy dancing way you feel

As every fairy tale comes real

I’ve looked at love that way

Filled with wonderment, less by the applause than by a recognition of what had so inconspicuously become of a voice I had for two years loathed, I wanted us to keep singing till daybreak. Before drifting to bed we entertained the adults with Afrikaans folk songs: ‘Ver In Die Ou Kalaharie’; ‘My Sarie Marais’. When we did ‘Die Padda Wou Gaan Opsit’, Ma’am and the Olvers hummed along as it was the same tune as ‘Froggie Went a’Courting’. With ‘A1 Le Die Berge Nog So Blou’, I made my second discovery of the night: I had learnt, without ever knowing it as it had happened, to harmonise — improvise — and not only in predictable and easy thirds.

I am, I lay thinking to myself as I hummed the song against his back, in love with them. This is what it feels like to be in love. When I’m with Dom, I think I am in love with him. When with Jacques, I think I am in love with him. Yes, I want to be with both for ever. Oh and Alette. One letter from Alette, and I miss her and am certain that I will love her into old age. And I am cheating on her. But I’m not hurting her or anyone else. So, can it really matter? What would she say if she ever found out? She won’t. No one ever will. Does that mean I am fickle? What had become of the ever fixed mark? How I would have liked to tell someone, to ask advice, celebrate the good fortune of having three lovers. I did not use the words boyfriend or girlfriend: lover, lovers. Words that rang truer, more pleasing to my internal dialogues. Ma’am, she would be able to give me advice. Could one love three people — equally — at once? Jacques? Dominic? Alette? I am in love with three people, I was sure. All in different ways, but I loved them and I wanted to be with them all. If one of them left me, I’d still have two. Maybe we could all live in a big house one day when I’d finished school. I smiled to myself, knowing, but refusing to accept the thought as nothing more than a flight of my fancy. I could write plays, poems and novels, and Dominic could be a pianist, and Alette a doctor, and Jacques could have a choir. To serenade us at supper. We’d have lots of money so that we could travel to Europe and America and I could take them to the bush. Alette would truly love that. Wild animals. We’d build a big house at the coast or on Lake Malawi; we’d have a private game ranch like Mala Mala and I could be a game ranger and they could go to work every day. I will be fourteen in six weeks’ time, I told myself. After this year, only five more years of school, then five years at university. Ten years. Will we all be able to hold out that long?

I kissed him goodnight and rose from the bed. I slipped into my pyjamas and dressing gown. In the passage, I heard him lock the door behind me. I crept back to the library. From behind the encyclopaedias I retrieved my blanket. It was not a very cold night, but I’d thought I may as well get it over while there was a moon. Blanket under my arm, I retraced my steps. Music was coming from his room. Then, into the first music room, careful not to bump into stands and tjello boxes. I lifted myself through the window. Left it slightly ajar. Made my way through the bush behind the school. It was colder than

I’d thought and I tugged the dressing gown to my chest, tightened the belt. Down behind the rondavels, past the stables and the servants quarters. Cut through the citrus orchard towards the ford. Beneath my feet dry oak and plain leaves crunched in the quiet night. Afraid of being heard, I moved into the road. I put the blanket over my head, sure that no one would suspect I was a white boy from the school.

They were no longer amongst the reeds by the ford. I cursed. They’ve left. No! Of course, our fort! Maybe I should just leave it. God, if my empty bed was discovered. No. The dummy would do its job. Up Sterkspruit I made my way and crossed along the pump-house stepping stones back to the fort side of the river.

Joseph Atwood, a man with a little grey goatee stained yellow around his mouth, came to Umfolozi to make a documentary film about fish eagles. I accompanied Bok and Mr Atwood everywhere they went in search of a mating pair in an accessible spot. During the numerous recces, we also took him to the python holes at Mphafa where, like an excited child, he sat for hours with us waiting for the pythons to make an-appearance. Bok dropped a handkerchief at the mouth of a hole, its tip just over the entrance; if the pythons were in there and suffx-ciendy inquisitive, they’d come up to slowly take the hanky into their mouths, taste it, spit it out and either slip back in or for a while sun their smooth heads on the sand.

We found a nest near Dengezi. High up in the hill was a pair on the verge of roosting. At the foot of perpendicular cliffs, within sight of the white guano stains running from the nest, we set up a camp of three tents that Jim and Boy enclosed with thorn branches to make a temporary lapa.