Moffie (21 page)

‘Sure, what do you smoke again, those French ciggies?'

‘Yep, Gitanes. But I don't think they'll have them. Then try for Gauloise.'

‘And if they don't have them?'

‘Then just get Stuyvesant . . . the regular ones, I don't want those light sissy fags.'

 

The car smells of vinegar. I like this part of the drive, from Ash­ton to Montague, weaving between the rocks and the cliffs with the fantastic formations. It's too dark to see them now, but it's enough for me to know that they are there and we're passing close to them.

In the distance I see the faint light of a farmhouse. I imagine being there, a man undressing in front of me, slowly and delib­erately. I watch his every move, every item of clothing leaving his brown body . . . there in that house, all on our own, in a world that has no army. He has brought me here. A large fire lights the room, forming patterns on the raised stones of the walls. There is a wrought-iron bed in the room, and above us rough, gnarled poles hold the thatch. We are sitting facing each other, our legs around each other's bodies, warm and naked. We feed each other. I don't think so much about the sex as I do about the closeness, the light on his skin; that soft, flickering light that makes skin glow.

Our closeness surpasses sex—it is an unfathomable affection, a tender worship of two lovers. Who is this man I have created? His body is perfect—for what I am discovering, must be well packaged. Ah, his face, so strikingly attractive. And he is the other half of my soul, because he has grown up with me, into me. It is when he listens that I am most intrigued, because he under­stands everything; even the things for which I have no words.

All the way to Barrydale I rerun the fantasy. I run my nose up his neck and I inhale him. We fit into each other when we sleep, entwined. Now, the image of the first man, the one who eradicat­ed all hope of change in me, burns through my fantasy. When I saw him all those years ago, I knew, yes, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I would only ever want to be with a man.

Some people's imprint stays on the map of one's life forever, having nudged it into a new direction—something one has longed for without even realising it. I wonder if Storm ever knew it.

 

 

W
e approach Jeffrey's Bay—wild, warm and windswept. The house we have rented seems relaxed about our invasion. Bron­wyn and I run down the passage with Dot following, barking, slip-sliding, her nails scratching on the floor as she tries to keep up with us.

Behind the kitchen is the toilet, made out of corrugated iron on a wooden frame. Looking down into the pit at the right time of day, the light shines through a hole in the roof, illuminating the brown shit, yellow toilet paper and flies.

Jeffrey's Bay in 1970 is a small village. We shop at Ungerer's for groceries, and Coetzee's for fish and
slap
chips. The tanned surfers who stop there in their beat-up VW kombis captivate me.

Even on holiday, my father is always neatly dressed, with his hair impeccably in place, his comb always ready in his sock. His tight, checked shorts are ironed, and he never takes his shirt off, except on the beach.

The ‘hippies' wear no shoes, no socks to house a comb. Their baggy shorts hang low on their hips. Around their necks are beads, and their hair is long and wild.

They irritate, even anger, my father. ‘I'm telling you, those hip­pies are all queer and they don't believe in God. They're like bloody girls with that long hair. They disgust me. They look like hobos.
Agge nee, sies, man.
Their poor parents. They probably don't even know where their children are! Just promise me you won't turn out like that. If you do, I'll
bliksem
you. Are you lis­tening to me, Nicholas?'

‘Yes, Dad,' I say, and then, ‘But, Dad, I like their long hair.'

‘You'd better believe me, if you decide to grow your hair like that one day, you can find yourself another place to live!'

‘How do you know they don't believe in God, Dad?'

‘Well, have you seen them in church?'

‘No, Dad, but would they be allowed in?'

‘Not looking like that, they won't! But if they cut their hair and dress properly, well, maybe then they would.'

To me they look relaxed and happy, and at this tender age I decide to like everything my father dislikes.

I surf the foam on my lilo. Then I lie and tan and watch for beautiful men with brown bodies.

A ‘bunch of hippies' are camping in the dunes close to our house, much to my father's aggravation. To me their kombi is like a lively puppy inviting a new friendship. The only incon­venience to my parents is that we have to pass them on our way to and from the beach.

On my way home from my shell-collecting spot, I cut across the beach to the dunes, past the ‘hippies.' The sun makes its way through the branches of the candlewood and the dog-smelling milkwood. Where it touches white sand, the contrast is harsh against the shade of the old shrubs. The pathway winds ahead, each plant's smell hanging, waiting to be disturbed as it opens in front of me and closes behind. But today the walk has a new dimension for me. Not only is the car there, but its owners are there, reading in the shade.

The man is lying on his stomach. As he turns around, he re­veals his naked torso. His hard shape picks at the nerve between my legs, at the base of my penis. I experience this so strongly that it feels as if I'm carrying a sign reading: Look, look at Nich­olas, he has sexual feelings for this man!

The man is the most beautiful being I have ever seen. He seems to glow, radiating sex. His girlfriend is thin, with long, curly hair. In the light and on the white sand they belong as though by invitation. The shade is a complex mixture of flecks on their tanned skins. Then he rolls over again and carries on reading. I find myself irresistibly drawn into their space.

After lunch I wait for my parents to take their afternoon nap, and I climb through my window, lifting Dot out, with a wide-eyed Bronwyn watching us. Charged with excitement, I melodramat­ically swear her to secrecy and walk down to the hippies.

‘Hi.' Not ‘hello,' but ‘hi'—so sexy I can hardly contain myself.

‘Hi,' I follow suit.

‘What's your name?'

‘Nicholas. What's yours?'

‘Storm.'

‘Storm? That's a funny name.'

‘And this is my girlfriend, Tracy.'

I stand staring and smiling, but soon I relax and, with uncom­mon bravery, I ask to see the inside of the kombi camper.

Afterwards, we settle into conversation. He answers all my questions patiently, while Tracy makes freehand drawings of him and me. I tell them about Frankie, school and Welgemoed.

Storm has light brown hair below the layered, weather-bleach­ed curls that spill over his face and down his back. Around his neck is a leather thong threaded through three shells. From his bellybutton, fine hair runs down his flat stomach and disappears into his baggy shorts.

Tracy's hair is a similar colour. She is wearing a sarong around her tiny waist, with a bikini top over small, firm breasts. After handing me the drawings, she makes tea that smells of flowers.

‘Don't drink that, Nicholas! Get home this very second!' My mother marches up to me and grips my arm so hard that my tea splashes onto the sand. ‘Are you totally mad? Didn't you hear one word of what I said about these people? Get home immedi­ately.'

Storm looks at her respectfully, and when she has finished, he says, ‘We mean no harm to your boy. I can understand that you're concerned for his safety, but he's quite safe here.'

This reaction seems to surprise my mother too, and, as we leave, Storm speaks again, this time to me. ‘You're always wel­come, Nicholas.' Excitement swirls inside me. I beg my mother to let me stay. She stops, turns, and looks at them briefly, but says, ‘No, we're going to have dinner now.'

Walking home, I tell her about them: the car, the sketches, and the kindness. I know I need to finish telling her before my father can hear.

Just before we get home, she stops, looks at me for what feels like a long time, and then says, gently and lovingly, ‘I guess it would do no harm, but don't tell your father, Nicholas. For God's sake, don't let him know. And if they do anything strange, prom­ise me you will tell me, OK?'

 

Later, in bed, I close my eyes and concentrate on the image of his hair, his chest, his torso. I stroke my body, running my left hand over my chest and tummy, and slipping my right hand under the elastic of my pyjama pants to feel the erection pulling there.

 

About a week into our friendship, Storm teaches me to surf—fur­ther down from the main beach where my parents swim and at a time when the wind has chased most of the swimmers home. His way of teaching is different from what I'm used to, where there are threats, deadlines and frustration. He teaches calmly, enjoy­ing it, and laughing often. I ride countless small waves on his board, at first lying down. He holds me, and I revel in it all—my skin touching his, the salt, the noise and his patience. The board is long, carries my light frame easily, and before long I stand for short stretches.

Afterwards we sit on a dune overlooking the ocean. There is no hurry; this seems to be part of the lesson. Then he puts his arm around my shoulder and says, ‘To surf, all you need to know is this: you must be one with the ocean, the waves, the energy, your board and your body. You must feel it . . . like with every­thing. Like everything, Nicholas. You must trust me on this. It's important to feel this connection and then to grow into it . . . the whole universe. It's like that with everything . . . feel the energy . . . be in it.'

When he asks me if I understand, I say yes, but in truth, all I really know is that in me is the
feeling
of what he says, even if I don't understand exactly what it means.

The next day he takes me down to the water's edge. ‘Nicholas, I want you to look . . . but to feel, rather than just staring at it. Ex­perience it, sense and taste it. When you walk on any surface, be aware of how it feels under your feet. Feel it all. The wind . . . air has emotion, you know . . . taste and smell it. Use all the senses God has given you. You will find that things don't just have col­our and form; there's much more to them.'

‘Yes, OK.' Thinking about what my father had said about hip­pies, I ask him, ‘Do you believe in God?'

‘Yes, I do, but I worship God as a power, a little differently to the way I imagine you know. You see,' he waves his hand, sweeping it over the ocean and beach, ‘this is my church.'

I smile to indicate that I understand, and I think of our friend­ly old priest in the Bellville Catholic Church and wonder if he would approve.

‘If you look at these waves, but you look at them upside down, they will look different.' Laughing, we bend over and look at the reflected light through our legs. Everything suddenly does seem different, more vibrant, from this unrehearsed angle. I hear everything and promise to discipline myself to ‘feel' everything. I don't understand all of it, but I carry his words with me, for the textures and emotions to reveal themselves over the years to come.

 

I am now soundly in love with Storm. I take the step across that line beyond which I have never allowed my mind to go. Until now I have lived in denial of my true genetic engraving. It will be a long time before I fully embrace it, but I no longer deny it.

 

 

T
he hum of the engine remains constant all the way from Cal­itzdorp to Oudtshoorn. Hard as I try to sleep, anxiety has taken hold of me. I know this last part of the journey so well.

Over the next rise we'll see the lights, then pass the place where they searched us for food before Vasbyt, the road that leads to the mountains, the hill they made us run up during lectures. Then Pierre will slow down, take a left past the college, maybe stay in third gear, and turn left again into the main entrance to have our passbooks signed. We will walk up to our barracks and he will take his car to the civvy car park, where it will stay when we leave all this behind.

 

***

 

It is four days before we have to board the freight plane to the border. There is a slight relaxation in the tightly woven rank structure of the camp, like a carpet taken off the loom, to hang on its own. Malcolm and I are in the barracks, going through old copies of
Scope
and rating the male models in the cigarette ads out of ten. We have three categories: my taste, his taste and a combined list. We debate, and often argue playfully when there is a man we both find attractive.

Anyone wanting to know what we're talking about would have to listen very intently for quite some time. And that is what Ger­rie does.

When he eventually breaks his cover, he calls us queers and immediately leaves to tell some of the guys in the platoon whom he still regards as his friends. Over the next few days some of them start calling us moffies, but it never goes beyond that. We ignore it, as one does with news of little interest.

Dorman is the only person in authority who encourages the name calling, which, in my case, he has been doing since Dylan's death.

 

***

 

The target we aim at is a picture of a ‘terrorist' storming towards us. The centre circle is around his heart. We run to the shooting range at Swartberg or shoot at the range behind the camp.

I am a good shot and soon get a
skietbalkie
—a little emblem of an R1 rifle—that I have to put on my step-out jacket and wear with pride. I lose mine, or it is stolen, and I never replace it.

From the shooting range, one can see down the valley all the way to the airport, from where the Hercules freight planes, called Flossies, will take us to the border. Tummy-planes, airo­planes . . . that's how she used to say it . . . that's what Bronwyn called them many, many years ago. Now I'll be going in one of those tummies.

 

Of all the memories I unwittingly gather during this time, it is the second last day before our departure that stands out.

Malcolm and I are blamed for something the platoon has done, and Dorman decides that the whole group will be punish­ed. This, in army mentality, will cause the other troops to resent us and make our lives even more difficult.

‘There is a certain element in this platoon that must be eradi­cated,' he says. Everyone knows to whom he is referring. ‘Some people here need to be sorted out. Because of this element and the
slapgat
attitude of certain individuals, you are all going to carry your
trommels
from one shed to the other. And if you think they're going to be empty, you're mistaken. They're full of fuck­ing ammo.'

The other troops' animosity towards us is tangible and further fuelled by Dorman and Gerrie. What worries me most is that these are the people who will be on the border with us, in a war, and we will be relying on them for protection.

The metal trunks are impossibly heavy. After moving the first one, I feel like crying. The handles are thin steel bars that cut into one's hands. When you put the
trommel
down, your fingers remain clenched and numb.

Exhaustion and hate are reaching boiling point around us. ‘Fucking faggots! I swear you're all going to hell! Just being near you makes me sick.'

I don't react, for deep down I believe it is only their pain talk­ing. What does upset me though, is the fact that Oscar is also there, because to me he is better than all of them, and I want his respect. He listens, but says nothing.

We are given a short break. Most of the platoon collapse against the incline of a concrete embankment. Malcolm and I, with one or two others, sit on the level, facing the embankment.

Gerrie is the leader of the group that has been calling us names, and now they start discussing the degrees of sin. Johan, whom we call Vrugtevlermuis (the Afrikaans for fruit bat), says that sleeping with a black is tantamount to bestiality because blacks are not human. Gerrie says that, according to his
domi­nee
, homosexuality is the worst of all sins, much worse even than murder. Nowhere in the Bible did God ever punish as harshly as he did the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, and that was because of their homosexuality. He also argues that being gay is a sin of choice, a premeditated decision, whereas murder is often a re­sult of passion, war or an accident.

Against my better judgment I say, ‘You're talking shit. Show me where in the Bible you read this. The way I understand it, sin is sin and we are all born into it. If you read the Ten Com­mand­ments, it doesn't say that some fall in the category of unforgiv­able! Surely Christ died for everyone, for the absolution of all sins.'

‘
Ag fok
, Van, man, I can't remember the exact verses. I'm not a fucking computer. It doesn't really matter, because my
dominee
says that Jesus died for sin, but not for that sin; that's a different kind of sin. I promise you, Van, you better be warned, mixing with Bateman . . . sleeping with dogs, you know, you end up with fleas.'

‘Fuck you, Gerrie,' Malcolm says. ‘We all break rules of the Old Testament all the time. There are even things in the New Testament that would be considered un-Christian today.'

Gerrie is outraged. ‘What did you say? How dare you blas­pheme like that? This whole country is built on Christianity. Are you saying the Bible is wrong?'

‘He's saying there are things in the Bible that are ludicrous,' I lend my support to Malcolm.

‘Like what?'

By now the entire platoon is watching, waiting for me to de­fend the indefensible, waiting to crucify me. If ever there were a moment that I've been grateful for my torturous years of spiritual searching, it is now, because I do in fact have some ammunition—passages I have memorised for exactly this kind of situation. I am also acutely aware of Oscar's attention.

‘Well, for one, the Bible supports slavery. Check Titus 2:9, where Paul tells the people that slaves must be submissive to their masters and give them satisfaction in every respect.'

For a second there is dead silence. All eyes are on me, and I know nobody is arguing because they don't have the knowledge to do so.

‘Bullshit,' says Gerrie, but I ignore him and take advantage of the rest of the men's attention.

‘And what about 1 Corinthians 14:34, where it says that wom­en should be silent in church, that they must be in submission, because it is disgraceful for a woman to speak in church? You know how patronising the Bible is about women. They are not even allowed to ask a question. They must ask their husbands at home!'

‘I don't believe it!'

‘Read it,' I say, and then, to drive home my point but probably undoing the good I've done, ‘or can God or the writers of the Bi­ble change their minds any way they like?'

‘Who do you think you are, Van? Smarter than a
dominee
, hey? No wonder you're defending moffies. Fucking
gatgabbas
, that's what you are!'

As if from nowhere, interrupting Gerrie's diatribe on deadly sin, Oscar pipes up, ‘
Ag kak, man.
' Just like that, and Gerrie shuts up.

Oscar gets up, walks over to me, bends down and kisses me full on the lips. He looks at the group, then up at the sky, stretch­es his arms out as if being crucified, palms up, and says, ‘Strike me down, God, for I have kissed a man. Kill me now, or for heav­en's sake,
donner
these people, or give them some hint of truth or a brain, because I can't take this shit any longer.' He drops his arms and looks at the group. ‘Fucking hell, stop talking this
kak
, man.'

With all eyes still on him, he slowly turns to me and says, ‘Fuck them, Nick, just fuck-em all.'

At this instant I am filled with adoration, love, hero-worship, all mixed up into one emotion. And it stays with me—a support system cherished by my subconscious.

 

***

 

The Hercules C130 is under constant threat of attack from the ground, and for this reason the pilot spirals down over Ondang­wa while two Alouette gunship helicopters search the ground for terrorists who may have Sam Seven heat-seeking missiles trained on us. The Flossie needs to land quickly. It's during the final approach, just above stalling speed that we are in the great­est danger of being shot down. From inside the aircraft we can see nothing. We just sit in the sling seats, our backs against the fuselage.

‘It's odd to think that some of us won't be going back, hey, Van.'

‘Malcolm, don't talk like that. You and I are going back, and that's it. Besides, I'm not used to you being so negative.'

‘OK, but maybe some of these other fuckers won't.'

‘I don't want to think about it.'

‘Did you, like, say goodbye differently . . . I mean, to your folks . . . sort of
this could be the last time
?'

‘Stop it! No, not to them. But I did spend the last Saturday with my friend Anne. You know, the one who always writes the long letters. I told you about her. We went to art classes together.'

‘Oh yes, the one who sent you the letter with the butterfly wing in it.'

‘Yes, we went to the Botanical Gardens in Stellenbosch and decided that we would visit a certain tree when I get back and have a picnic there. Silly, I suppose.'

The pilot lands and taxis. When we stop, the roar of the en­gines is replaced by a whining sound. Then the rear door opens and the border air rushes in—dusty, hot and dry . . . in mid-win­ter.

 

The camp in Oshivelo is like all other camps, the same depres­sing feeling, except that the buildings are mainly tents—fatigue green army tents on red sand.

It is here, with the great expanse around us and the closeness between us, that Malcolm and I really get to know each other; bit by bit, like turning a precious stone over and over and studying its every facet. When you can tell someone absolutely anything, it's like therapy. For the first time I totally share those parts of my life that I have kept secret for so long. I invite him into my now empty ‘closet'—going back and peeking at the cramped interior that I had occupied for so long, never thinking I would be able to leave it.

Oshivelo is a training base for the war we will step into in just a few weeks' time. We are taught to put in drips, which we must practise on ourselves and our friends, digging for veins with but­terfly needles.

Our toilets are long drops, with seats we call go-carts—row upon row of them, all under one roof. We pee into plastic fun­nels, called
pislelies
(piss lilies), dotted around the camp, and we shower in trailers, queuing naked outside in our platoon groups.

‘Hey, Van der Swart, why are you here? You just want to see dick, hey! Bateman, you homo, don't perv here or get a hard-on, oke!'

‘Not for your small pin-prick dick, you
tor­naaier
.'

We cut down trees to build a structure to hang our kit on. We have inspections, stand on parade and have longer quiet times. We train day and night in what they call ‘modern-day guerrilla warfare,' using vehicles protected against land mines, V-forma­tion patrols, roadblocks and ambushes.

 

Almost every night before lights-out, except Sunday nights, we are given propaganda briefings, clipped onto us like weights. I am instinctively sceptical of everything they tell us, but when something is unavoidable, it is better not to dissect it.

One troop is chosen from each platoon to sit in on the briefing by the company commander. In our platoon it's Gerrie. He takes notes, which he then has to convey to us.

He walks into the tent flushed with his own importance. He says he isn't allowed to tell us everything he has heard—only a
select group
is allowed that. It's clear that he has swallowed their propaganda in huge gulps.

He tells us about the spoor that has been spotted close to the camp and the large numbers of terrs that have crossed the bor­der in the past few days. ‘This is highly confidential,' he says and waits before delivering the next bit of information. ‘Not the newspapers or the people in the States know this; you have to keep it absolutely secret. Do you understand?'

I am beside myself with irritation. He uses the language of the border: terrs, States, gooks, PB's, kuka shops and clicks. I can't keep quiet any longer and let out a loud sigh—so charged with irritation, it might as well have been a sentence.

‘What's wrong with you, Van? If you don't take this seriously . . .'

‘Oh, Gerrie, for fuck sake. It's propaganda, man, and what's this States shit, we're not in America or Vietnam. Don't get so fucking carried away by the drama. They want to scare us and get us all worked up. You know how the army is. Let's keep some balance here. Besides, who the fuck can we tell? We can't phone home, our letters are censored, so what's your story, man?'

Malcolm follows, ‘Fok, Gerrie, don't
ruk
the
hol
outta the
hoen­der
,' and someone else says, ‘
Hy ruk sommer die hele fokken hoender van die stellasie af, ou!
' Everyone laughs, except Gerrie. He moves awkwardly on the chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

‘You can believe what you want, Van. If you have a problem with the information, tell the captain.'