Embrace (25 page)

‘I don’t know, Mommy.’

‘Karl? Why can’t you be like Bernice?’

‘Bernice is more mature, Bokkie.’

‘Don’t try and be clever with me, my boy!’

‘I wasn’t being clever, I was just saying —’

‘Keep quiet! One more sound from either of you for the rest of ‘the night and I’ll have you back in here. Then your father can come and take care of you.’

She told us to wash our faces and come to dinner.

I heard, for the first time, the word and meaning of
hillbilly
that night. Hillbillies, Bok said at dinner as he prepared to tell a joke in his American accent, are in-bred whites, poor whites, Makoppolanders, who live in the mountains of Kentucky:

‘So, this hillbilly naiiimed Wagonwheels had’o go’do school for the first time and it waaas a big deal ’cause hillbillies ain’t your regula school-goin’ kinda folk. An’ liddle Wagonwheels s brother, well thad little fella, he was a real envious of his big bro Wagonwheels an he begged his mama saying a please Mama can I go’do school with big bro Wagonwheels and his mama say no boy you gota wait your place and leta your big bro Wagonwheels paiiive the way. So, thata Wagonwheels wenna off down that Kentucky mountain fo hisa first day o’school and the teacher she ask all them kids to introduce themself and the kids say Andy, Joey, Mary, Betty, Sandy, Randy, Mandy ana when she get to that hillbilly boy and she ass hisa name he say howdy Ma’am my name isa Wagonwheels and that Ma’am teacher she smile and say no boy tel’us yousa reeeaal name and again that boy say

Ma’am my naime it sure is Wagonwheels and the teacher she begin to frown and she say ina stern voice no boy, you gimme and your classmates here yousa reaaaal name, and Wagonwheels say again Ma’am my naime is Wagonwheels and that Ma’am wanno teach the boy a lesson and she take the cane to’is butt and bead ol’Wagonwheels and again she ass his name and the boy againsay Wagonwheels and thata teacher she chase him outa class and say you boy you aint settin foot in here till you come an tell-us yourse a reeaall name, yourse christening in the Lord’s House name. Anna so that Wagonwheels wenna back up that blue Kentucky mountain and his little brother, well, that liddle fella heda been waiding at that gate whole day loong and when he see his big bro cumin up that blue mountain path he jump over that gate and run shoutin hey Wagonwheels big bro, tell me please Wagonwheels, whatsa school like, and, Wagonwheels he get this worried look spread on his face an he look at that liddle brother of his and he say: You ain’t gonna like it, Chicken-Shit.’

On tour from the Berg, it became my favourite joke to tell our host parents.

‘This is a song of praise. It’s often introduced by the ringing of bells — listen — then the glorification of the Trinity. Adulation, our God needs to be adored. Lift up your voices, boys. Listen to each other. Watch for every entry, this is difficult, once we know it you can let go, give everything. Smile, look joyful, your voices nearly ringing with laughter . . . Glory be to God on high. And on earth peace to men of good will.
Jubilate. Jubilate.
Ready ..

He smiled. Nodded.

The pianist bounced on the stool, hammering the keys.

Fingers, darting at us, brought us in. Tempo excruciating; on either side of me I could hear the Juniors struggle, falling in at the wrong bars, too soon, with the firsts, sometimes in the middle of nowhere. The start sounded chaotic; he didn’t stop us, let us continue, wanting us to get through the entire piece. At the diminuendo on
et in terra pax,
a complete absence of synchronisation; we were dragging way behind the firsts; nowhere near the altos who seemed to be singing a different movement altogether. Still he let us continue, his hands everywhere, arms flailing, trying somehow to get us into synch; face taut; a mask of concentration. First sopranos, entering
Laudamus te,
scattered and way off key; so too our response. I waited for him to stop us; he let us go. His eyes were all over us, not focused anywhere; his gaze paused for a split-second somewhere in the back centre. Me? No, behind me. And then he closed his eyes, his jaw suddenly jutting out; still, he continued, bringing us in with his left, thrusting, jerking the tempo with his right. He was smouldering; I wondered what was going on in his mind. All through the first section

Gloria in excelsis Deo

et in terra pax hominibus

bonae voluntatis

Lauiamus te, benedicimus te

adoramus te, glorificamus te

at the end of the bar, in sudden diminuendo, the pianist stroked the keys, and he, eyes still closed, sang the oboe over the piano, bringing the soloists into the quartet:

Gratias agimus tibi propter

magnam gloriam tuam

it was like a miracle: perfect, masterly. Dominic’s voice, legato, leading the other three. But when the sopranos took up
Gratias
it was again without unity, voices strewn about, the sound of s’s all over the place. Irritation in his pursed lips. Again he glanced at the back of the choir; eyes closed, he seemed ready to explode. What was he seeing there? Then, the whole choir, a cacophony throughout:

Domine Deus, rex coelestis

Deus, pater omnipotens

Dominefili unigetiite
,
Jesu Christe

Domine Deus, agnus Dei, filius

Patris

the long piano interlude, allowing us to breathe, relax. He kept his eyes closed, moving into the larghetto, bringing in the soloists, his expression changing, the jaw relaxing, as if he had moved out of himself, into the perfection of their harmonies:

qui tollis peccata mundi

miserere nobis

relief, tangible, when the choir repeated after the soloists and our tempo perfect, pitch right where it should have been from the beginning, yes, yes, we can do it, his face lit up and it seemed he may break into a smile. The soloists began their duets, heavenly, and he did smile, bringing more relief to us, our shoulders dropped, his head nodding:

qui tollis peccata mundi

then the soloists, perfectly:

suscipe deprecationem nostram

his face, now contorted, mirrored the choir’s struggle on
qui sedes ad dexteram patris
and now he opened his eyes, they flashed again at some thing behind me, the back of the choir, fingers bunched into fists; he ignored the soloists:

miserere nobis

we took up the long
miserere,
still he glared up, took a few hesitant steps forward; paused; rushed past the piano, right towards me, the front row of altos scattered; piano and voices instantly quiet; we ducked, into the choir; he reached up with one hand, I saw Lukas fly past me, the hairy hand behind the neck, dragged from the back row. His eyes flashed like a man possessed, clawing around, searching; couldn’t see what he was looking for; still dragging the stumbling Lukas by the hair, moved to the wall and ripped off a piece of wooden panelling. The silence broke as the panelling struck the doth of Lukas’s shorts; on the library balcony, maids in blue uniforms halted, deaning tools suspended. He held Lukas down while his arm rose above his head and the piece of wood panel was brought down, again, again, again.

It splintered into pieces. Eyes darted: us; piano; balcony — the maids began to move, halted; Lukas below him.

‘I’ve been watching you for the past five minutes, Van Rensburg!’ He held Lukas down, speaking to his back. ‘What are you doing? What’s so amusing back there? Tell me!’ He pulled Lukas erect and around; held onto the boy’s one shoulder. ‘Show me! Tell me what’s so fucking amusing, before I rip your fucking head off your shoulders. After more than two and a half years, why can’t you keep your eyes on me!’ Lukas, eyes glistening and face pink, seemed to smile.

‘Stop your grinning,’ he lifted his hand as if about to slap him across the face. ‘Now that you’re no longer a soloist you’ve lost all interest in the choir. Well, you will sing until I tell you to stop. It’s not broken yet, when it breaks I’ll tell you. Stop grinning, you bliksem.’ I wanted to yell at him to stop, that that was the way Lukas looked when he was being beaten; was not grinning, merely resisting tears. Heloosened his grip on Lukas s shoulder and dropped his arms. Cast the broken panelling onto a table. To us; glaring: ‘I’ve had it with you all,’ he shouted. ‘Do you have any idea what you sound like? The audacity you have — the stupidity — of going on singing when you sound like this! I cannot take it any more. I cannot walk onto that stage in four months’ time with a choir that sounds like this.’ His tirade floundered; he hesitated; went on: ‘That’s it. You go on, on your own. Raubenheimer, Webster, you and . . . Jesus Christ, I don’t care . . . Anyone, and someone else, work out who’s taking which voice. Split up the choir and see if you can get it into your thick fucking skulls.’ He marched off. As he went, shouting at the roof: ‘Come and call me when you’re ready. I don’t care if it takes two weeks or two months. I’m not coming back till you’ve got this into your heads.’

The pianist, too, stood to leave. The maids, witnesses to the entire spectacle, now moved off the balcony.

Raubenheimer said he’d keep the first and second sopranos. Dom and Mike van der Bijit would leave and take the altos to one of the classrooms.

Then he was on the balcony — we looked up — crossing with the bookshelves behind him. Did not look down; stared ahead and disappeared. Why hadn’t he just stopped us when he first noticed Lukas looking away? Why work himself up into this frenzy? Why so angry, I’ve done something wrong. No. Will talk later, poor Lukas, Jesus, look at wall panelling ripped off, pattern of library books, looks like man’s head with long hair, sun on piano, smell of pumpkin and custard from kitchen. Fish maybe.

‘Who came up with this stupid idea of letting us sing this Mass thing, anyway? It’s impossible for a boys choir,’ said one of the Standard Sevens in the row behind me.

‘Were not doing it alone,’ Raubenheimer grovelled from behind the piano.

‘So why does he want it to be perfect, then? The SABC Choir will carry it.’

‘We will be doing extracts alone, without the adult voices, during the European concerts and for a record, you know that. It has to be perfect.’

‘Maniac. A damn lunatic; that’s what he is.’

‘Okay. Let’s get going,’ Raubenheimer said, ejecting air from his open mouth. He scratched his head: ‘Our biggest problem is the changes in tempo.’ He leant forward and pressed a few notes; marked something on his score. ‘I think we’ve got the
Gloria
entries — they’re tough, but just need practice and repetition. The real trouble starts at bar 43 — the
el in terra pax.
Take your pencils and mark the changes, so that you can anticipate. Look at the opening bars — after the
Gloria
at the beginning, at 43 — there is no change of tempo, we keep trying to drag there, it’s not a new tempo — on
et in terra
there’s only a new theme, quieter but the same tempo — have you got that? Just because were singing softly doesn’t mean we change tempo. It’s particularly clear from the seconds, guys you’re dragging there. Keep time, count it out in the same time as the
Gloria
repetitions, pianissimo but not slower! And then on
Lauiamus te
we go back to the
Gloria
motif but still same tempo, same key, and then, suddenly, the
Glorificamus
at 84 is fugato — a new idea, but still continuing same key and then at 104 — mark this . . . this is where we all keep making a mess, we go into G, there’s that B sharp to E sharp. Everything, everything changes here, also tempo. At 84. Draw a huge circle around it. Okay? Juniors, Secondaries? Let’s do that section first up to 104. Have you all got it?’

‘Jubilaaaate’,
in a dramatic, over-articulated whisper from behind me, sending us spluttering and laughing as we started 84.

Chaka and Suz chased the baboons up trees where they were darted with anaesthetic and put in cages to be taken to cities for medical research. My fists full of big coloured wala-wala sweets, I stood beside the cages. The baboons stuck their little black hands through for me to feed. Their eyes were like tiny black and white beads; like Nkosasaan’s piccanin when she woke from sleep. Some mothers had babies clinging to their bellies. I bit pieces off the yellow and orange balls for them to take and pop into their cheeks. With a whole sweet they couldn’t get their hands back through the bars. Bernice warned me not to get too close to the cages; one bite and you’re infested with rabies. They looked perplexed; frowns on their brows, as if contemplation of some riddle occupied their minds. Suddenly a black hand shot out and grabbed me by the hair. I tried to pull away but it held; a tight fist around the blond clump. I screamed that I was being dragged into the cage. Bernice tugged me free. I held onto her, still screaming. Around us the rangers and the game guards thought it a joke. I hid my face in Bernice’s neck until Bok came and took me from her. He held me as I sobbed; then he whispered: ‘Stop crying, Philistine. Look, the kaffirs are laughing at you.’

To enhance our learning and make History classes on the French Revolution more interesting, Ma’am Sanders rented the film of
A Tale of Two Cities.
She had given me the book, which I rushed through, reading sections up in the library and others at night by torchlight beneath the covers. The movie was in black and white. Just before the white horses come galloping onto the screen in front of the carriage, the film begins with the same words as the novel:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way — in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.