Embrace (7 page)

Again at my feet. Smelt horse from afternoon riding. Passed a hand swiftly beneath my nose. Then quickly, without looking up: ‘It’s you, Sir. In my dreams.’

I sensed him rising from the desk. Saw his legs straighten and his shoes move off; heard him cross to the big glass doors and peer into the night. I gritted my teeth, too afraid to look at his back. A ridiculous mistake; going to backfire; if only he won’t tell, it’s still okay; if he talks; oh God, Bok; Jesus; the caning, no, never, the humiliation; so much burst through my mind; my hands contorted to fists and arms clasped to sides; what am I doing, what am I doing; going to piss myself; shaking; I want to vomit. Yes, I’ll—

‘You dream of me?’With his back turned. Still I could not lift my eyes from my feet. Lead weights balanced on my downturned eyelids. Could not blink, let alone move.

‘Please, Sir, I only told you because . . . because I thought maybe you could help me.’

Only the crickets and the frogs. Fingers dug into my palms. If I had nails I could have made them bleed. Oh God, let my palms bleed; cannot stay here, must get out. Without thinking I was saying: ‘I must go, Sir. I should not have told you, Sir. I’m sorry. Deeply, deeply sorry if I have offended you, Mr Cilliers.’ I waited for the dismissal. I hate you; I’ll say you made it all up. That you tried it and when I refused you became angry.

‘What do you want me to do, Karl?’ His voice as tranquil as before. At last I looked up at his back; made out that he was looking at me in the black glass. I felt spent. As after a day of diving or swimming or hard riding. Stars, flickering through my field of vision. Dizzy again. Could doze on my feet. Hear my own voice, tired and distant as though sourced from a place not my lips: ‘Anything you think, Sir.’

The picture begins to blur as he turns to me. I try to hide the tears by again averting my eyes. Wipe them with the back of fists no longer feeling anything.

It was almost dawn. Bok thought it could be rain coming through the thatch, brushing his cheek. Only when the burn of a million white-hot needles shot from his eyes into his head and he screamed in agony did he realise what it was. Hands rubbing at his eyes he stumbled to the kitchen and felt for the red Tupperware jug. He poured the milk between his batting eyelids, over his face; the entire jug. There was no relieving the fire ablaze from eyes to brain. Bleary, bumping against the reed walls he found his way to the bed and felt for the holster and the loaded revolver. He fired two shots through the roof and lay with his face in the pillow, writhing. He heard the footsteps of their running; shouted for them to come in. They found him there in the darkness. With his arm over his eyes he told them he was blind. He told Jonas to take the revolver to the bathroom. The rinkhals lay coiled on the toilet seat. Jonas fired three shots and the snake bounced, twitching, to the cement floor.

Boy had never driven a motorised vehicle until that morning. The Land Rover, in first and second gear, all the way to HQ. From there Willy Hancox took Bok to hospital in Matubatuba. A week later we got home from visiting Bokkies family in Klerksdorp. Bok, eyes puffy and red, was still wearing dark glasses.

Before meals we stood in line on the arched stoep. At the very front were the Standard Twos, then the Threes, leading all the way up to the Sevens at the back; nine years old to fifteen; the line roughly from short to tall, broken only occasionally by a boy taller than his peers. Like Lukas, behind Dominic and me amongst the Standard Fours in our Junior year. Standard Seven prefects patrolled the stoep to ensure absolute silence in line.

We filed quietly in. Plates were collected from the counter behind which Matron Booysen supervised the black staff dishing food in spoonfuls. Beauty had taken a liking to Dominic ever since we first arrived. Once a term he returned from home with a gift for her. I didn’t bring gifts, but my association with him had bought me her generosity. She knew our likes and dislikes. Matron Booysen’s eyes, drawn into slits against the smoke drifting up from the cigarette between her lips, scanned the plates to make sure none was favoured. Dominic despised the fish in mushy white sauce: Beauty dug around for the smallest piece possible. I could not countenance Brussels sprouts: Beauty scooped five tiny, shrivelled ones onto my plate.

On lunch duty was Marabou, then our class teacher, whom we still called Miss Holloway. Once we all had our food and were standing behind our chairs, she chose a name to say grace:

‘Karl De Man. It’s an English week.’

I prayed. ‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful, and may he also grant the teachers strength to say their own prayers. Amen.’

Muffled giggles from the boys at my table. I read Dominic’s amused lips: Stupid. The prefect at the head of the table grimaced. Apprehension knotted my stomach. Miss Holloway gave us permission to be seated. Over the clutter of chairs came her command for me to excuse myself and wait outside.

Passing the Seniors, I heard the whispered sneers: ‘He’s going to fuck you up.’ ‘Pansy.’ ‘Loudmouth.’ ‘Brass-arse.’ ‘Naff.’ Johan Reyneke, leaning back, chair reclining against the wall, blocking my path. To skirt him I turned between two tables, blood rushing into my neck. Behind me I heard Reyneke: ‘Fokken rooirok, Moffie. Buys is going torip the skin off your arse.’ I looked straight ahead, chin raised, over the seated heads, too afraid, no, too ashamed to meet anyone’s eyes.

The sun fell onto the stoep through the arches that ran the distance of the bottom floor. She let me wait. The glare into the heat of my shame warmed my cheeks and neck. I took a pace back into the shade.

They’re all looking. I hate you, Reyneke. I hate you O’Connor, and you Sullivan. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you all.

She stuck her head through the sliding door and told me to stand in the sun where she and the rest of the school could see my disgrace displayed. She disappeared, back to her food. My thoughts crowded into a channel of loathing that threatened to make my body shake; fear brought me back into the sun. I waited. I hate this place. Why did I ever come here? I’m not coming back. Next year I’m not coming back. Next year, next year.

Chairs screeched as tables rose for dessert.

She wants to starve me. See if I care.

‘De Man.’

I looked over my shoulder. Sullivan was leaning against the door frame, only his head outside.

‘Holloway says you must face this way.’

I turned to the glass doors, glimpsed heads bowed over plates. Looked down at my feet. This afternoon’s horse-riding. And what’s a caning or missing a stupid lunch with Brussels sprouts, anyway. Look at those ants going into the cracks. Sandal’s in their way. Mindful of eyes, I lifted my foot ever so slightly to make way for the line already curved off course to bypass the obstacle. Shifting my weight to one leg, I waited. Guessing at the column’s whereabouts beneath the shoe, I lowered my weight back onto both legs.

I felt her in front of me even before her flat black shoes and thin stockinged ankles entered the focus of my downcast vision. I looked up into her face, took in the long beak amongst the wrinkles of rouged cheeks, the strands of sparse grey hair, like an old man half balded. Without saying a word she led me into the corridor towards the auditorium where the teachers ate. She waved me on to wait outside the headmaster’s office.

A burst of laughter like bells chiming — Miss Roos, her laugh unmistakable — from the auditorium. She would think the prayer fun. Please let Miss Roos intercede, let her say something. Please let it be Mr Mathison and not Mr Buys. Back against the wall I pinched my bum with all the sting my fingers could muster.

Ich will hier bei dir stehen

Verachte micb docb nicht!

Von dir will ich nichtgehen,

Wenn Dir dein Herze bricbt

They let me wait.

Thank you, Jesus, it’s Mathison.

‘You know what you’ve done wrong, De Man?’ He frowned as he gestured me into the office. He took the bamboo rod from the rack above the desk.

‘Yes, Mr Mathison.’

‘What have you done wrong, Karl?’ He adjusted his gold-framed glasses and sniffed.

‘I was precocious, Mr Mathison.’

‘Bend.’

I bent forward, arms and hands dangling below the knees. I closed my eyes. Please let it be only one.

Wenn dein Herz wird erblassen

Im letzen Todesstoss

Alsdmn will ich dich fassen

In meinem Arm und Schoss

Ears warned of the approach and I tensed, taking both the impact and instantaneous burn without showing a flinch.

‘Precocious. Disrespectful. A show-off. You know the words but refuse to learn their meanings.’

Still doubled down at the waist, eyes now open — Yes, Sir — I stared at the ruffled patterns on the carpet beneath me. I waited for Mathison to tell me to stand up and go. Instead, again I heard it, felt the rip into my bum and the pain up my spine burning into my neck.

Please let him stop now, dear Jesus.

‘Okay, Karl.’

I stood upright and turned to face him, resisting the urge to rub myself.

‘You must stop being cheeky to the teachers, Karl.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘You know how I hate caning you boys, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Why then always force me to do it?’ He wore a sad and wounded expression, as though he were the one just beaten by me. I averted my eyes. Ashamed of myself. He gave me permission to leave. ‘Thank you, Sir.’ For some reason I thought of Bokkie, who always spoke about Mathison being such a smart and well-dressed man. And a sincere Christian. Born-Again, some said. Ideal for a school that, although private, professed to Christian National principles. No, Dom said Dr Webster said, mercifully he’s not a Born-Again, just a typical average white South African Christian bigot, no more so, no less. I had never heard the word bigot till then.

Miss Holloway was waiting. Through the auditorium I glided as if on air, looking straight ahead. I followed behind her, noting her long skinny legs kick out like stilts and the little round body stuck oddly on the top, like an avocado stone with matches inserted to keep it suspended in a botde of water. Tufts of sparse grey hair streaked out from her minuscule head. No I thought, not an avocado stone on matches, a bald vulture, no, no, like a marabou stork. The ugliest bird in the world. Sister to the vulture.

Back to the dining hall. The clamour of dishes from the kitchenslammed into the silence of the huge empty space. Voices from outside; down at the soccer field.

The plate of food was on the table as it had been left. Only now the plastic cup had been filled with water. The servants had started doing the dishes in the adjoining room. I hoped Beauty would not look in and see me. On the plate I noticed nothing save the hateful heap of Brussels sprouts. Only four! Dominic, thank you, thank you! Miss Holloway sat down across from me. I ate the fish, the salad and the mashed potatoes. After a while, she exhaled loudly and shook her head.

‘If you ate the Brussels with your other food, rather than avoid them till last, you’d be able to manage.’

I finished chewing. ‘Yes, Miss.’ By now the rest of the food had all but disappeared from the plate and what remained were the four Brussels sprouts. I took a deep breath followed by a mouthful of water. Still holding my breath I cut one of the little heads in half and stuck it into my mouth. I chewed and swallowed. I repeated the procedure: cut it in half, then, one mouth of water for every half Brussels sprout.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Karl? That’s very unhealthy. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times: stop using water to swallow your food.’ She extended her arm and pulled the cup away.

Two and a half Brussels sprouts still on the plate, pasting their smell up my nose and down my throat to collide with the food in my stomach. ‘I can’t eat them without water, Miss,’ I said, looking up at her.

‘Well, then we’ll just have to sit here until we
can
eat them without water, won’t we?’

They are in the quad, in the shade of the cyprus, and down on the field. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. She knows, she knows, I’m going to throw up.

Matron peered from the kitchen. The serving counter’s sliding hatches shut with a wooden bang. We were now sealed in. Miss Holloway nodded at the cutlery protruding from each of my hands,suspended over the side of the white plate. I stuck the fork into a whole sprout. This is your ugly green marabou eyeball. I’m cutting it in half. Bringing it to my mouth, I held my breath. The smell remained, lodged like window putty in the back of my nose while I chewed. I felt my stomach contract. I knew I could not finish the remaining sprout and a half. Little green and yellow planet in a white cloud; the half showing an endless array of folds leading to the exposed heart. I tried to trace the paths to the tightest fold somewhere in the light centre; my head stooped closer to the plate. My eyes started to swim.

I’m going to throw up.

I lifted my head, blinked away the tears, wanting her to see. ‘Please may I have some water, Miss.’

‘Want me to call Mr Buys? Seems Mr Mathison didn’t do his job properly.’

Looking down, ignoring the half, I forked the whole sprout and sliced it in two. Again holding my breath I swallowed, my stomach protesting. Two halves remained.

‘See. A little will-power can take you a long way.’

My stomach was convulsing. A burning wave in my throat, swallowed back. I stared down at one half on the white plate, looking for a tiny patch that might be the centre. There was more than one. How many centres could exist in one half of a bloody Brussels sprout? And, the patterns on either half looked decidedly different.

‘Please may I stop now, Miss. It’s only these two halves . . .’

‘Eat your food, Karl.’

The bell rang; end of break. I placed the knife and fork neatly back on the plate and looked at her.

‘Get that idea right out of your system. Eat.’