Under African Skies (37 page)
Read Under African Skies Online
Authors: Charles Larson
“Now, wait a minuteâ” Caleb started.
“âand I feel it's mighty unenterprising, certainly against economic growth, to die with a bundle of dough, don't you think?” Ranger was enjoying himself. “I mean, inflation will have reduced those rands to scrip by the time you hit the Pearly Gates.” There was a general titter in the barroom; even the dancers paused mid-step in their uninspired gyrations to appraise this fool who wanted to take his money to heaven. “What's your name, friend?”
Caleb knew it was time he told Ranger where to get off. Pulling himself to his full height, he was about to let loose a salvo of imprecations when his gaze fell on the cardboard placard, which had unfurled itself on the table. Written in uneven block letters with the i's topped by small circles, it read: TOM RANGER BLIND EX-SOLJER DONT NEED YOUR PITY BUT MONY WILL DO I DRINK AND SMOKE JUST LIKE YOU.
“Christ!” Caleb said; he was uncomfortable with any form of disability. He was suddenly at a loss for words. “I'm sorry.”
“Yeah,” Ranger said carelessly, “that's the way it is sometimes. Hope you don't mind the spelling, 'cause I dictated the damn thing to some cretin who can't spell to save his life.” He turned his sightless eyes to Caleb. “You haven't told me your name. Judging by your reluctance, it must be one of those well-kept state secrets.” He let this sink in, and then said: “But first things firstâam I getting my drink or what?” As if on cue, the brooding waiter was suddenly hovering around with a trayâlike a surely genie, Caleb thought.
“Give the man what he wants, and I'll have another beer,” he said to
the waiter. Turning to Ranger, he introduced himself. “My name is Caleb Zungu.”
the waiter. Turning to Ranger, he introduced himself. “My name is Caleb Zungu.”
Ranger raised two fingers in the general direction of the waiter. “Careful with the water.” He rested his arms on the table. “And what do you do, Caleb Zungu?” Before Caleb would reply, he asked: “You're some kinda a salesman, aren't you?”
“
Ja
,” Caleb said. “I sell insurance.” He paused. “Does it show?”
Ja
,” Caleb said. “I sell insurance.” He paused. “Does it show?”
“Man,” Ranger said, “when I came in through that door, I got this vibe of sadness, you know what I mean, and I sensed this boyo out there in the corner, either drinking himself to a standstill or contemplating suicide. Or both. We blind
ous
can get so bloody annoying.” He gave a self-deprecating smile and spread his arms, his face lightening up the gloom. “This fucking perception, man.”
ous
can get so bloody annoying.” He gave a self-deprecating smile and spread his arms, his face lightening up the gloom. “This fucking perception, man.”
Ranger was a hustler, Caleb judged, but he was of the honest type. The streets of Johannesburg teemed with people chasing the rand, some with ingenious schemes up their sleeves. The streets were also full of children who dared the unrelenting traffic, begging, making their plight known to all and sundry in the myriad tongues of the country. As a rule, Caleb never gave alms; the government had a responsibility for the destitute. Even if they didn't voteâand so much was done in their nameâthey were still the children of this Republic. Millions of rand were being squandered in buying military toys of destruction, in a country that claimed to have no external enemies. Departments of social welfare enriched consultants, the same way that other government departments were throwing good money after bad in grandiose schemes and white elephants. As for big business, the directors were drawing salaries which boggled the imaginationâtheir cars and their houses in Sandton could keep whole populations fed, clothed, and sheltered for months on end. Furthermore, Caleb was damned if he knew now who was a genuinely deserving case. Most of the people on the pavements claimed they needed money for food; he was sure that, as soon as the coins added up, they would rush to the nearest liquor store. Once, in a rare moment of generosity, he gave money to a supposed beggar whom he later caught buying a copy of
Penthouse
. No sir, he wasn't a
moegoe
âa dummy. His mission on earth didn't include supporting someone's jerk-off habits. It wasn't lost on him that he was beginning to think like Spicer. Caleb had earned the money he didn't now have.
Penthouse
. No sir, he wasn't a
moegoe
âa dummy. His mission on earth didn't include supporting someone's jerk-off habits. It wasn't lost on him that he was beginning to think like Spicer. Caleb had earned the money he didn't now have.
As Caleb and Ranger conversed about life and death while sipping their
drinksâand as the latter made frequent tours to the toiletâmore customers trickled into the bar, turning into a crowd. Men looked up and smiled or waved in recognition as Ranger became considerably louder, until Caleb told him to pipe down. He was entranced and repulsed in equal measure by this blind white man.
The blind eye of the seers
. This thought came to Caleb, unprovoked, a comment on the situation in which he found himself. Or on the condition of business, where there was no vision. He had badgered the company to allow him to go to Pretoria and Cape Town, where he was sure he would sell insurance to the batch of new parliamentarians. He had also been stopped from setting up a meeting with the RDP officers in Pretoria. Caleb had worked out a presentation he regarded as foolproof, where Allied Life would be seen to be an ally of the government's developmental program. “Johannesburg,” Spicer had said, “or, more precisely, the township, is
your
bailiwick. Forget all that developmental stuff.” Other insurance companies had good working relations with government. Even formations such as Cosatu made it possible for insurance salespeople to have access to the workers. He, Caleb, was supposed to do business via the phone or on foot. He was in effect given a task he was not expected to accomplish.
drinksâand as the latter made frequent tours to the toiletâmore customers trickled into the bar, turning into a crowd. Men looked up and smiled or waved in recognition as Ranger became considerably louder, until Caleb told him to pipe down. He was entranced and repulsed in equal measure by this blind white man.
The blind eye of the seers
. This thought came to Caleb, unprovoked, a comment on the situation in which he found himself. Or on the condition of business, where there was no vision. He had badgered the company to allow him to go to Pretoria and Cape Town, where he was sure he would sell insurance to the batch of new parliamentarians. He had also been stopped from setting up a meeting with the RDP officers in Pretoria. Caleb had worked out a presentation he regarded as foolproof, where Allied Life would be seen to be an ally of the government's developmental program. “Johannesburg,” Spicer had said, “or, more precisely, the township, is
your
bailiwick. Forget all that developmental stuff.” Other insurance companies had good working relations with government. Even formations such as Cosatu made it possible for insurance salespeople to have access to the workers. He, Caleb, was supposed to do business via the phone or on foot. He was in effect given a task he was not expected to accomplish.
But since Caleb was still determined to kill himself, Spicer and the insurance company became part of that other life, as remote as the stars, which would discontinue with his own exit. It suddenly felt good that he would not even miss it, there would be no room for such indulgence in the afterlife. Caleb was a believer in life after death; he was convinced that ghosts walked in their midst, perhaps transmogrified into motes of dust such as these inside the bar which swirled desultorily in a single shaft of light. His grandmother had impressed upon him the need to have respect not only for life but for inanimate things as well. Would sober up some of these drunks, Caleb thought, if some of the inanimate objects in the bar suddenly sprang into life.
“I don't get it,” Ranger drawled. “You mean you want to kill yourself just because you're losing your hair?”
“Is there any other reason?” Caleb felt it would be futile to volunteer information about his status with the bank or frustrations at work. “Isn't that enough?”
“I have helped many people commit suicide,” Ranger said. “But it's been real desperate cases. Like this one guy who got impotent and his wife started playing around. Even if he could have regained his manhood, his marriage
was gone, kaput. Because he would forever be haunted by images of his wife swinging with another fellow, enjoying itâknow what I mean?”
was gone, kaput. Because he would forever be haunted by images of his wife swinging with another fellow, enjoying itâknow what I mean?”
Caleb nodded. He was familiar with the humiliation facing a cuckold. There was a time when he suspected Nothando of seeing another man. It was then that he learned the destructive nature of jealousy. When she dressed and applied makeup, he concluded that she was tarting herself up for a tryst with her secret lover. Two of his best friends intervened and advised him that he was acting like an idiot. Nothando was a solid woman. This warning was timely because Caleb had started following her, hoping to catch her in flagrante delicto. Caleb knew he was by now quite sozzled when he started thinking in correspondence-school Latin. His tongue felt as if it had swollen up in his mouth. Yet he took another draught of his beer, convinced that it was better to die non compos mentis. He liked that phrase. Were it up to him, he would make his insurance pitch in Latin, see how Spicer liked that up his bloody white bailiwick.
“Do you want me to help you?” Ranger asked.
“Yes,” Caleb said. “I just don't need no preambles. No last-minute sermons about the sanctity of life, or that my wife and kids will be unable to make ends meet. Don't give me that. I won't buy it.” A bad conscience nagged him, though. He knew that he had to devise a plan that would make his death look like an accident. The eyes of the children stared at him from the bottom of his beer tumbler.
“How do you wish to go? A bullet in the back of the head? Poison? A rope? Well, that's not really pleasant.” Ranger bent forward in the attitude of a conspirator, managing, however, to look like someone suppressing a belch. “You know that my dad was a hangman. He's unemployed now there's this moratorium on the death penalty. But in his heyday he was in great demand. He strung up a lot of fellows, even in neighboring countries.” He nodded, agreeing with something that spoke deep, deep behind the sightless eyes. “And did you know that when they hang you in Pretoria, it's not strangulation, as most people believe, but a broken neck which actually kills you?”
Feeling a little sick, Caleb admitted that he hadn't been aware of that. He regarded his strange friend with renewed respect. “Is that where you learned this ⦠helping people?” He realized the stupidity of his question. “You couldn't have, though, being blind and all ⦔
“No,” Ranger said, his hand flitting across the face, shielding his eyes
with splayed fingers. “This is a recent thing, five years back. I was in the army where I was training some rookies in handling explosives, you know, and the damn thing just went
ka-boom!
and that was it, bye-bye eyes.”
with splayed fingers. “This is a recent thing, five years back. I was in the army where I was training some rookies in handling explosives, you know, and the damn thing just went
ka-boom!
and that was it, bye-bye eyes.”
Ranger then turned his eyes to Caleb as if he were seeing him. “I was lucky I didn't lose my hearing, or my life.” He chuckled. “My old man would have been mortified.” Then in a singsong voice so low that Caleb had to lean forward, Ranger intoned something which sounded like a prayer:
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell
.
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell
.
Then the music stopped and the clock somewhere inside the bar chimed the hour. As if this was a signal, Ranger got to his feet, rolled up his placard. “Drink up, friend,” he said. “Bill Shakespeare tells us it's time.”
“Was that Shakespeare you were quoting back there, then?” Caleb asked as they made their way out of the bar.
“
Ja
. I felt it would be a good epitaph for you.” Caleb said nothing for a while, feeling the weight of Ranger's words. The man was a crank, no doubt, but he possessed a deep well of intelligence and experience from which he could draw at will. Caleb suspected that his own failure in life could be ascribed to his inexperience. If he had meant to continue living, he was certainly going to spice dinner-table conversations with some of these gems which tumbled so effortlessly out of Ranger's mouth.
Ja
. I felt it would be a good epitaph for you.” Caleb said nothing for a while, feeling the weight of Ranger's words. The man was a crank, no doubt, but he possessed a deep well of intelligence and experience from which he could draw at will. Caleb suspected that his own failure in life could be ascribed to his inexperience. If he had meant to continue living, he was certainly going to spice dinner-table conversations with some of these gems which tumbled so effortlessly out of Ranger's mouth.
It was a clear, bright April day when they went out, and the sun shimmered upon Caleb's eyes. It seemed as if the population of the city had trebled since he entered the tavern; young men dressed for winter lounged around doorways. The sex industry, since the ushering in of the new dispensation, was blooming, with hoardings tacked against walls advertising stylized sex paraphernalia. Market stalls weighted down by gigantic avocado pears, cabbage, tomato, and an assortment of juicy fruit, replicated themselves on street corners. Rising above the purr and roar of traffic was the strident whine of the butcher's electric saw. Women and girls sat on woven mats along the pavements, selling bolts of cloth, cosmetics, watches, and tape cassettes. The heady Zairian rumba rhythms Ranger and Caleb had endured in the bar now reverberated from speakers articulated to shop
fronts, significantly heightening the temperature of this autumn afternoon. Here, on the pavement and on the road, people walked as if this were the first day of creation, some toddlers straying off to touch flowers, tweak the cheeks of dolls, or feel the texture of calico prints; here, an entire lounge suite upholstered in carmine leather seemed naked on the open ground. An old man, like the victim of a recent eviction, sat in one of the armchairs reading the Bible, oblivious to the frenetic goings-on around him. This short walk to the car gave Caleb a strange thrill, where the pastel colors of walls reflected on the polished bodies of passing cars, a swift haze. He looked at all this energy, life in motion, stamping it in his memory as if with indelible ink.
fronts, significantly heightening the temperature of this autumn afternoon. Here, on the pavement and on the road, people walked as if this were the first day of creation, some toddlers straying off to touch flowers, tweak the cheeks of dolls, or feel the texture of calico prints; here, an entire lounge suite upholstered in carmine leather seemed naked on the open ground. An old man, like the victim of a recent eviction, sat in one of the armchairs reading the Bible, oblivious to the frenetic goings-on around him. This short walk to the car gave Caleb a strange thrill, where the pastel colors of walls reflected on the polished bodies of passing cars, a swift haze. He looked at all this energy, life in motion, stamping it in his memory as if with indelible ink.
As they neared the car, Caleb asked: “What do you do, when you're not ⦠?” He fumbled for a word which would be less offensive than either “begging” or “hustling.”
“Ripping off you sighted buggers?” Ranger finished for him. “Playing Scrabble. Had meant to patent blind players' variant of the game, but some eyeless smartass beat me to it.” He smiled. “My plan was for a multilingual game, and that means the value of the tiles would be different. I was already speaking to a Zulu teacher who wised me up to the preponderance of q's and z's in African languages. I'm still thinking of developing a slang, you know,
tsotsitaal
Scrabble.”
tsotsitaal
Scrabble.”
Caleb knew it would be useless to tell Ranger that
tsotsitaal
was something which developed each day. And that, like Arabic, it took on new forms from region to region. The irony of it all, that the township slang had actually increased in use in direct proportion to the heightening of repression, was not lost on him. But he had other matters with which to wrestle.
tsotsitaal
was something which developed each day. And that, like Arabic, it took on new forms from region to region. The irony of it all, that the township slang had actually increased in use in direct proportion to the heightening of repression, was not lost on him. But he had other matters with which to wrestle.
“This your car?” Ranger asked, exploring the contours of the vehicle. He yanked the door handle and, when it didn't open, stretched out his hand. “Gimme the
fokken
keys, Zungu.”
fokken
keys, Zungu.”
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