Embrace (69 page)

‘There’s no road to the house any more. Will you find it?’

Bok says he’d bet his life and Mr Reynolds says it’s fine if we go alone but he would feel better if Bok took a rifle, just for in case: ‘Not because I’m concerned for you, Ralph,’ he teases, ‘lions don’t like old sinewy meat, but it’s your son I’m worried about.’ Bok takes the rifle and slips a few rounds into his safari suit pocket, thanks Mr Reynolds, who says Bok should come and
chew some fat
again once we get back from the Mbanyana site. ‘There’s nothing much left there, Ralph. It was levelled about six years ago. Just parts of’ the floor, I think.’

‘No problem,’ Bok answers, ‘I just want to show this Philistine where he grew up.’ At which Mr Reynolds winks at me.

If I remember correctly we do not go to the rondavel to drop off our things.

On the tourist map were given at reception I see rivers and the Msumu pan. I have no recollection of the pan, I tell Bok. And he says that’s quite conceivable, for while it was always there, it often had no water while we lived here. I say that I had somehow thought the dry stretches close to the Forest of Figs were part of the Sand Forest. Now, the map shows me the Sand Forest is way up here, close to the camp. Then I do recall huge surfaces of silver water, surrounded by reeds, with crocodile and hippo and herons. But these I thought were taken from St Lucia, Charters Creek. Maybe I do remember the pan, after all. He drives by Bube and Masinga, saying we’ll stop here on the way back to camp.

He parks the van by the roadside about a kilometre above the Fig Forest. I am relieved that we have the rifle; don’t know why. I have no sense that were walking in the right direction. Through grass andbush, no footpath even. And then were surrounded by enormous bushes of magic guarri, and Bok says, here we are, and at first I think he’s wrong, but then there’s the sisal that Bokkie planted — the only exotics, how they’ve expanded — and the tambotie trees, Bokkie’s rockery overgrown. And pieces of the house’s floor, big slabs of cement, cracked and overgrown with duwweltjies and creepers. The grass is tall, up to my waist, and I say it was never this green and he says no, it wasn’t. He takes me to where the water tank was; over to where the stables were, so much closer to the house than I remember. Here the road came in, you can just make out that the shrubs are a little shorter than those around. Impala and duiker spoor everywhere. The bush takes back its own very quickly. And this is where you shot Vonk, here, close to the road where he slipped and broke his leg, and here is where we put up the tent for when we had visitors, and the little vlei, I ask, where Jonas and Boy lived? Vlei, he asks. Yes, I remember pink lilies and a small marsh. And he says no. I’m wrong. We walk deeper into the bush, no more than a hundred metres, and again I’m agog at how close they were. A loud shouting distance, really. No vlei. But I remember the pink lilies, here, somewhere.

Back to the broken slabs of cement. We stand around, he sits down on an anthill and lights a cigarette. I go into the shade of the tambotie trees and scratch in the grass, looking for jumping beans. Nothing but birds; cicadas — when I was very small I thought it was the magic guarri screaming.

‘Do you realise what a privilege it was, growing up here? And Umfolozi. St Lucia?’

‘I do, Bok. I think I was the luckiest child in the world.’

‘You think of it often, don’t you?’

‘All the time . . .’

He calls me from my scratching beneath the tambotie. Tells me to come and sit with him. I sit in the long grass, holding the beans in my fist, waiting for them to begin their movement.

A silence, then he clears his throat, and for a moment I fear whathe might say. Some ambush. A flash of him coming to stand by me at the pool; puking in Lake Malawi. Instead he asks me when, under what circumstances do I think about the bush. I say whenever things are tough, when I begin to feel unhappy. I do not say,
Roses on raindrops and bows on white kittens, showers that drip in my eyes and my mittens.

And you, Bok. Do you think about it?’

He says he does, but were living a new life, a different life. We have to accept that this is over, just as we have to accept that Tanzania can never be rewon. We have so much now, he says, and I’m getting a good education. He lights another cigarette. We sit quietly, the smoke reaching my nostrils, making them twitch. ‘You’re also very privileged to be in the Berg. You’ve lived in some of the most beautiful places in this country,’ he says as in my palms the beans begin to throb. I say it’s true.

And my mind drifts.

To the muddy lot where Jacques’s bay was empty when Bokkie arrived to fetch me a week before. Though relieved to leave before the school ran empty, I’d been hoping to say goodbye to him. From the moments of a farewell I might have learnt something of what was going on in his mind, of why I was still being kept at arm’s length. Still there had been no occasion for me to get close to him alone. Forget about visiting the room I have grown so fond of.

‘Look after your voices during the break,’ at the end of choir the last night and with that he turned to leave the hall, even before we descended the benches. ‘Have a nice holiday, Sir.
Hou lekker vakansie, Meneer’,
called after him as he waved and disappeared. And so, over the next morning’s happy scene of hellos in which Dominic and Lukas joined me to greet Bokkie was spun an invisible film of sadness. Over the delight and pleasure of my mother’s presence and at the prospect of the holidays ahead lay the uncertainty of where he and I were heading. Of course, I realised too that we had never really known where we were going, but the fact that we had had our rhythm, our way of seeing each other once, sometimes twice a week, was enoughfor me. How I enjoyed those nights. And maybe, after all, that was our only destination: the pleasure of those nights. But while that system lasted, it felt as though we knew — or I at least knew — that it would always stay that way. If it has all ended, I told myself, then he could at least inform me of the change. This is what makes the thing with “Dominic different: that he tells me where he’s at, and I can speak to him about anything. Almost anything. Some day I’ll tell him about Jacques. Not now. Because I promised Jacques I wouldn’t. Though I’m almost sure Dominic won’t mind. He’d only wish he could come along, join us. Imagine that, the three of us together!

Carrying my suitcase, accompanied by Dominic and Lukas, we took my mother to see our drawings and paintings Ma’am had stuck up with pins in the back of our classroom. Bokkie asked how Ma’am was doing. We said she’d be back after the break. Spoke about how frail she had looked at the funeral. How we’d been giving the substitute teacher Mr Loveday a hard time. Against the back wall’s large bulletin board, amongst posters advertising concerts, projects on Geography, History and Science, was our art. Mine: a pencil titled:
Erm-Lilies at Sterkspruit;
another of a conductor’s chest, his hands held at the ready,
Untitled;
and another,
V Forest.
Dominic’s: two pastels, one titled
Pedal,
showing a detail of three piano pedals, and another,
Pillars,
showing the front of the school from the quad. Bokkie said she could see how we had improved since last Parents’Weekend.

‘You don’t do Art, Lukas?’

‘Nee, Tannie. Accountancy and German. Dominic’s with me in Accountancy.’

We walked on to the car and Bokkie noted that the cypress in the quad had not sprouted leaves. Its smooth bark, glistening on bare branches enveloped by the tangles of red and yellow roses drooping from the night’s thundershower. We crossed onto the wet lawn and smelt the huge open flowers, our faces coming away covered in drops and yellow pollen as Bokkie said she wished she could get roses to grow like this in Durban.

‘What’s wrong with your eyes, Karl?’ she suddenly noticed as we wiped our noses. ‘They’re bloodshot. Have you got pink-eye or something?’

My eyes were examined.

‘They’re not sore or anything,’ I said.

She looked at the other two and said only my eyes were red. No one else’s. Maybe I just didn’t sleep well. Or! Have I been reading secretly by torchlight, again? No. I said, truthfully, because I hadn’t, hardly, for almost nine months now.

‘Lukas!’ she exclaimed in surprise as her eyes swept down him from head to toe: ‘Why does it look as if your jeans are frightened of your shoes? And you, Dominic, look at yours!’ They smiled, bashful at her observations of their bodies’ change. Then her eyes were on me: ‘And, Karl, look at the distance between your hands and the sleeves of that jersey. You’re starting to look like a scarecrow, my child.’ Laughter, before she added, ‘I can’t believe how you boys have grown.’

‘Lukas isn’t even in choir, anymore, Bokkie. His voice is breaking. He’s a big man now.’ At which Lukas threw a playful punch at my belly.

‘You told Bok on the phone, Karl. So you’re not going overseas, Lukas?’

‘No, Tannie. Though maybe they’ll take me as a bench boy.’

‘Where’s Mr De Man, Mrs De Man?’ Dominic asked. I watched Bokkie in her green tracksuit with white takkies. She said Bok was in the Eastern Transvaal, buying stock. Her hair had been curled and it was cut short against her head. Her straight long brown hair was gone, and so also the ponytail that swung down her back. And with it any resemblance I had wanted her to have with Georgia O’Keeffe. Little golden earrings bobbed from her ears and her pink lips had obviously just been painted in the Chevrolet’s rear-view mirror.

‘How are you getting home, Dominic?’

‘Mervyn’s dad’s flying in with the Cessna this afternoon, Mrs De Man. So I’m flying up with them and Mum will collect me from Pretoria.’

‘I don’t know how you can stand flying in those small planes! I had to go in one once and I said never again.’

. ‘It’s fun, Mrs De Man! Flying’s the safest form of transport.’

’ ‘Oe, no, Dominic! Not in those little things.’

‘En jy, Lukas, hoe kom jy by die huis?’

‘My mum will probably be here any minute, Tannie. She left Indwe at the crack of dawn and were driving back the moment she gets here.’ The sun was breaking through the clouds.

‘Long drive,’ Bokkie smiled. ‘Say hello to your parents for me, hey? And you people must drive safely, these roads are like soap. There’s the sun now, hopefully dry the world out a bit.’

Dominic followed me to the boot. Lukas stayed at the front with Bokkie, who settled into the driver’s seat.

‘I’ll phone you over the holidays,’ he said. His hand resting against mine.

‘Please do. As often as you can. But call during the day, so we can speak properly.’

‘When I’m not practising.’

I pulled a face at him.

‘Thanks for coming last night,’ he said, adding that he’d miss me. I smiled. ‘Are you going to write?’ he asked, and I, misunderstanding the question, answered that a letter to him wouldn’t get to Jo’burg before we are already back at school. ‘Not a letter, silly. Are you going to write short stories or poems? That fucken orange poem you still haven’t given me.’

‘Maybe. Depends.’ I said, closing the boot and moving to the passenger side.

Loelovise yokou.’

‘Loelovise yokou titoo.’

‘You still owe me the one on oranges.’

‘Okay, Dom. Will you phone, though?’

‘I promise.’

Bokkie had started the car. She leant across me and smiling told Dominic to tell Mr Clemence-Gordon to fly the plane safely. Through the windscreen I waved at Lukas. We drove off. I turned back. The two of them were still standing in the parking lot. Bokkie stuck her arm from the window and waved. They waved. Then we were gone. The gravel road to Winterton had been turned a slip-slide along which Bokkie steered the Chevrolet carefully. Mud battered the undercarriage. An occasional car with muddy registration plates signalling towns all over the country crawled towards us, some waving as they passed. Within ten minutes, and in response to my questions, I had been given an overview of the family. Bernice: studying like never before as her matric exams are starting in three weeks’ time. She no longer goes to school and is at home every day, studying. She and Robert don’t see much of each other at the moment because of the pending exams. He really is a sorted-out young man, solid job as supervisor at Illovo Sugar Mill, earns three hundred rand a month, and Bernice has been accepted to SAA as an air hostess — she could
start
at three hundred rand — conditional on her passing matric and loosing seven kilograms. Lena: struggling at school but trying her best as usual. Bokkie is grateful that the sport seasons are virtually over so Lena doesn’t have to come home by train to Toti when it’s almost dark. Alette? Hasn’t been around but Lena and Juffrou Sang at church say she’s well and just deeply involved in preparing for a big music exam. Grade Five, I said. Dominee and Mevrou Dominee: just back from another very successful trip of Israel with wealthy members of the congregation and they put on a slide show last week, with Mevrou Dominee — who is so well travelled and knowledgeable — doing an informative and moving narrative about Jerusalem, the birthplace of Jesus, and the continued suffering of the poor Jews under the godless Arabs. The church garden: looking more beautiful than ever, and Bokkie gets compliments from all around and the
South Coast Sun
ran an article and some photographs but of course one never gets a good idea of a garden from black and white photographs in a newspaper. Oupa and Ouma Liebenberg: well, though Ouma fell and hurt herhip but luckily it wasn’t broken. Ouma repeats herself, over and over. They are getting old now and Bokkie doesn’t know what the worries about Aunt Lena and Uncle Joe — who are the same as always — must be doing to those two old people who have tasted nothing but suffering their entire lives. Two kaffirs broke into their house in Klerksdorp. Stole the radio and the electrical blankets Aunt Lena specially bought for them. Oupa has become an electrician in Klerksdorp, when will those two old people settle down, they’re meant to be retiring, but there’s no money for retirement. While the rich Joe Mackenzie goes out night after night to the farm and spends it with that little fifteen-year-old bitch Matilda. While Aunt Lena and ,the Brats stay at home with the revolver on the bedside table because of all the black school unrest in the Transvaal. And Lever Brothers was burgled last week. One doesn’t know what’s becoming of this country. Joe Mackenzie is the crazy one, not Aunt Lena. Any man who goes around with a fifteen-year-old must be crazy. Aunt Siobhain and Uncle Michael: fine and Uncle Michael is starting another fish and chips shop down at the Toti station, he’s doing very, very well, that man can work himself half to death, but they’re picking the rewards and they’re about to build an extension to the house. James: doing fine and when he finishes school wants to be an interior decorator, he has recently begun painting eggs, with all kinds of motifs, then varnished. Bok gives James ostrich eggs and he paints these with Zulu motifs and these are sold as traditional African Art. He painted his room with a dark blue wall with a motif across it. ‘Very with it! You know,’ she said, rolling her eyes. And over her dead body would her children paint their walls. Walls are meant to be white. And Aunt Siobhain has bought one of these fridges that gives you water through the door and James flounces around with a glass to show off the gadget and says: ‘I only use one hand.’ Hulle sal hulle ook wat verbeel! Stephanie: moved from Woolworths to repping for Kentucky Fried Chicken. Calls herself a PRO for KFC! Earns three hundred and fifty rand a month. Mind you, sold everything to go to London on asudden trip, but she’ll be back in a week’s time. Stephanie thinks she’s getting too good for the family and goes from boyfriend to boyfriend. How Bokkie wishes Bernice would not share a flat with Stephanie next year. No morals. Bokkie’s cousin Coen and his girlfriend Mandy: have built a yacht to sail around the world. Now those two have their heads screwed on right, not much money, but no children and no responsibilities and they’re going to see the world. That’s what I wish for my children, Bokkie said, that you kids will get an education and see the world. Not saddle yourselves with marriage — let’s cross our fingers that Bernice doesn’t lose her head and just marry Robert — there’s no reason you kids shouldn’t just live with your boyfriends and girlfriends. She’s getting sick and tired of the conservative Afrikaners in Toti. Going to that Dutch Reformed Church is like going to a weekly fashion parade. Bok: curios are not doing so well and he might go into insurance with Old Mutual and we might have to sell the house because Bok must now repay Oupa Liebenberg the money he borrowed and we may move to a flat in Durban which means Judy — at which point my mind spun, my ears rang and I no longer heard what she was saying. I don’t want to think about going to a flat. Not another flat. I tried to clear my mind of my father. Glance at him, now, sitting here beside me on the anthill, lighting his third Paul Revere in less than ten minutes. Both of us quiet, each deep in our own thoughts.