Embrace (83 page)

Then, in turns, they embraced Karl. The boy was cold, barely able to lift his arms to return the hugs. ‘Don’t think that now your voice is breaking you’re too big for a nice bear hug,’ Dr Webster said and he again pulled Karl to him. This time Karl reciprocated, holding onto the man, clasping his arms tightly around the broad back, feeling a moment of trust. ‘You’ll come and visit, won’t you, Karl?’ Mrs Webster asked again. He said he would try his best. That one day he’d perhaps become a Rotary exchange student. Mrs Webster wrapped her arms around him and he took in her scent: Chanel No. 5, Dominic said, all his mother wears to bed. Just like Marilyn.

The Websters left and Karl knew he would never see them again. As fond as he was of them, he told himself he was relieved to see them go. They waved as the rectangular tail-lights diminished and disappeared in the night. They tarried in the dark, just out of reach of the quad lights. Dominic led Karl into the dark, down towards the rock where the school’s signpost hung invisibly, highlighted only by the occasional headlights of a car. Here they sat talking — assuaging the drop-off blues — as late arrivals came in to deposit the last of their peers.

‘Your voice sounded fine. In the plane, I mean,’ Dominic murmured. ‘I still think it’s ridiculous that Cilliers won’t let you sing.’

‘It does just what it wants, Dom. You’ve heard it in class.’

Saying he wanted to see the dairy at night, Dominic steered Karl into the shadows down the embankment above the orchards. When they were a safe distance from the school he pulled Karl closer: ‘One kiss, Karl, just one, for old times’ sake?’

‘Did you tell your mum and dad? About us?’ Karl enquired in an urgent whisper.

‘What does it matter! You know how easy-going they are. Give me a kiss.’ But as he leant forward, Karl held him away and demanded to know what he had told his parents.

‘Nothing. I told them nothing. Are you satisfied?’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Good! Because I did tell them! In December, the moment we got off that plane from Malawi!’ Karl stood as if turned into stone, as though his death sentence had been pronounced. ‘This has nothing to do with me or my parents, does it, Karl?’ And Dominic had let go of Karl, drawn away, stung by his friend’s reluctance. ‘For three weeks now you’ve been sour and sulking and horrible. I’m asking you for the last time to tell me what’s going on with you. What’s wrong?’

‘How could you tell your parents, Dom? How could you do . . .

‘Because they asked whether you were my boyfriend, that’s why! What’s wrong with you, Karl?’ Karl stood in the night, terrified.

‘I have the blues, that’s all.’ And he started up the embankment, wishing the term was over and Dominic gone to Canada and everything, the whole mess, every memory of this place with him.

‘Loelovise yokou,’ Dominic called from behind.

‘Stop it, Dominic.’ Karl spun around. ‘What happens if someone hears you?’

Dominic ran up the embankment: ‘You are being childish and paranoid.’

‘No, Dom. You’re the childish one, speaking in Gogga when we re fourteen already. That’s what’s childish.’

‘Strange that you could speak to me in Gogga even after you had turned fourteen. Up until three weeks ago, when suddenly I wasn’t allowed to come to your bed, when suddenly your voice broke.’

‘Please stop, Dominic. If Mathison hears us. Please, please promise you will forget what happened between us. Won’t you phone your parents and tell them you were only joking?’

‘You are fucking crazy, you know that, Karl De Man? Has anyone ever told you you are actually certifiably living on cloud cuckoo? Not running on all cylinders. Nuts?’ And with that, Dominic stalked off. Left Karl standing alone with his fear of the world. His terror of Mathison.

I will not go there, he tells himself, as he tries to hear the music. I will not think of Mathison. Not now, please don’t let me remember him. Not ever again. But only when the Gloria ends and there’s a silence over the hall do Karl’s thoughts return to the choir, having listened to — heard — only the opening sections of the movement. I must listen to this music. I must concentrate. This is the last concert, the last time I’ll see them. I must not think of anything other than the music. A bulge is forming in his throat. He swallows; blinks repeatedly. Wants to close his eyes. Forces them to remain on stage.

Arms and body jerk, bring in the instruments, basses, tenor, Credo, Credo, joined by women and sopranos, Credo, Credo, over and over, Deum Pattern. Violins sweeping bows, heads I believe in one God the Father, omnipotentem, almighty, factorem coli et, creator of heaven and terra — terrae — visibilium omnium — genetive plural — et invisibilium, full orchestra, D minor to G and then the wonderful A major. ‘See what he does with the change in harmonies as we move to Jesus’s time on earth? And remember Beethoven had the gift of synaesthesia, music came to him in colour.’ There’s the flute solo now. And bassoon, Jissus the bassoon is good, listen, flute is the Holy Spirit, strings, trumpets, timpani, volume, crescendo, Jacques’s arms flailing, directing, conducting, controlling instruments and voices, reining in, woman’s voices ready to break out of his arms, bordering on chaos ordered perfectly, if Beethoven could hear this, could he ever have imagined it here in Africa, from the heart, may it go to your hearts, yes, yes, may it go to your hearts as he wrote, if Beethoven were backstage to say what he thought, afterwards, only heard twice in his lifetime, already deaf, Vienna, and then he must have not heard it, felt it, maybe, like the vibrations from my chair, can Bokkie feel, beneath my feet, what he wanted from the voice, ‘like the Ninth Symphony,’ Dom said, similar challenges, odd transitions, so suddenly, new themes. Sensually, sensually, Jacques, said, don’t think, this you must feel, every sense here must be at nerve-end, everything that goes on in your body must come to lie beneath the epidermis, that is all that means anything, what touches the body, not the head, don’t think, not use head, no head, heart, stomach, each section on its own, no need to understand, feel, feel, feel, this is his monument, after this he dies, sing it at his funeral, a tonal mausoleum, in the Credo is the heart, the centre the nucleus, fugue, explosive. ‘He saw music in colours, like a million rainbows appearing in endless patterns. Here I want you to think of bold, brilliant colours. This is an assertion of beliefs: I believe, we believe.’ I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, Christum, filium Dei unigenitum, et ex patre natum ante omnia saecula, not et as it should be, conjunction et thrown out in favour of Credo, each sentence is a statement separately, not simply a part of the greater whole, Deum de Deo, beautiful, beautiful, lumen de lumine, and adagio, here it’s only the boys, yes, and was incarnated by the Holy Spirit from the Virgine Maria and was homo factus and was also crucified for us under sub snubbed under Pontio Pilato he suffered and was buried, quartet, Jiss, help Dominic on the Crucifixus forcing sound, why? Dom looks tired, others sound terrific. Okay, again, bases too loud, tenor in on Allegro, whole choir, fantastic, tempo up, timpani, galloping, Rufus, at cliff, then galloping again on the, no et, and, on the third day he rose according to scriptures and ascended into heaven, and, no sedet, sits at the right hand of the Father and shall come again with glory to judge I’ll be a judge after I’m a lawyerone day to judicare, vivos et mortuos, living and dead, his reign shall have no end, eternity like boulders at Mphafa, I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life ‘bright orange’, who proceeds from the father and the son who is worshipped and glorified with the Father and the Son. Who spoke through the prophets. ‘Shimmering white.’ Credo in unu, no unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecdesiam, I acknowledge one baptism for the remission of sins et expecto resurrectionem mortuorum. ‘You’re saying your credo, again and again, like an incantation, you’re going into a trance of belief, colour your voices. The deepest blue you can imagine.’ Listen to Allegretto, boys, alone, quartet, amen chorus, over over, over, Dom, perfect, Mike van der Bijlt almost, tonight, like Steven, is he copying Steven’s voice, no, Jacques shudders, stares at Mike, amen, amen, Dom casts the amen up, settles amen, amen, a long beautiful note over all.

His eyes are on Jacques’s upright back. Now relaxed, almost unmoving, calm as he takes the orchestra into the Sanctus, carefully, gently with only the lightest gesture of head and hands, brings in the soloists, one at a time.

‘Tell me from the beginning. Everything.’ Mathison spoke from behind his desk.

It had taken the man no more than a moment after the library lights went on before he said — Come with me — in a sober voice, to Karl, who cowered across the walkway against the door. Karl would later recall that there had been no surprise or anger in the voice. Matter of fact, as he spoke over the humming of the library’s fluorescent light. With leaded legs and fear vaulting into his brain, Karl had followed the man down the stairs, through the hall where tables had the previous night already been laid for the teachers’ breakfast. Along the corridor to the headmaster’s office. Amidst the fear, the casting around for explanations and mediating circumstances —
any way
to influence his judge and juror and executioner — he already regrettedeverything. His recklessness. His life. How many thoughts could pass through a mind in the time it takes at a quick pace from the library, down the stairs, through the dining hall, to the office? A hundred, a thousand? And how many fragments of thoughts and words suspended halfway into thought?

Karl had crossed the carpet and stood a few paces from the desk behind which the man took his seat. His mouth was dry, tongue like sandpaper. He was vaguely aware of a toe throbbing, blood seeping into his woollen slipper. Facing Mathison, hearing the phrase — tell me from the beginning, everything — Karl’s mind was abrupdy cleared. He was ready for this. Calm and collected, that’s me. I am not going to be afraid. I will not stutter. If only I hadn’t smoked that stuff. But that’s gone. I’m only tired. I will handle this situation and this man. There will be the caning. That is fine. There will probably be a phone call to Bok and another beating at home. But it is fine. He is prepared. And there is no way they will expel me, never. Surely, never? Jacques will see to that. By hook or by crook. Jacques will — must — find a way to keep him from being expelled. ‘Sir,’ he had to swallow, licked his parched lips. ‘Sir, I picked up this key in the dust on the parking lot. I think it must have fallen from someone’s bunch. And then I tried it on all the doors, just for interest sake, Sir. But when I found it was the door to the passage, I just kept it. I know it was wrong, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.’ He waited with bated breath. How many? Surely he would not get more than four? But even six from Mathison would be okay. And Bok could be dealt with later. Take one issue at a time. Remember the lilies of the field .. . Just laps that need to be swum. Turn on the tumble and shoot yourself off.

‘And then you used the key to sneak out, tonight?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

And when did you find the key in the parking lot, Karl?’

About three or four days ago, Sir. It must have been Saturday because I was going down to the stables to see Lukas and it was early afternoon. So, four days ago, Sir.’

‘And tonight was the first time you snuck out, right?’

‘Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir. I realise I deserve to be punished, Mr Mathison.’

And what did you do while you were outside, Karl?’

‘I just walked around in the veld, Sir. And then down to the river. And, Mr Mathison, I realise it is prohibited but I also went into the orchard to see whether any of the plums are ripe. I’m telling you because you asked for the whole truth, Sir.’

‘And, what about the plums?’

‘How do you mean, Sir?’

‘Were they ripe, Karl? And if so, were they to your liking?’ There was a hint of sarcasm in the man’s voice and Karl began to suspect a trap. He now saw at once the danger of answering the question.

‘I couldn’t find the plum trees, Sir.’

‘Clever.’

He frowned at the man, indicating he did not understand the comment.

‘Yet you spent quite a long time outside, Karl, didn’t you? After being unable to locate the plums, I mean.’

‘I’m not sure how long, Sir.’

‘Look at your watch, Karl, tell me what it says.’

‘Three twenty-two, Sir.’

‘Half-past three in the morning. What time did you leave F Dorm?’

‘I don’t know, Sir.’

The man was quiet. When he spoke again his voice carried a tone of resolution, as though, Karl thought, his story had been believed and was now merely there for the summing up: ‘So, you found that key in your hand on Saturday on the parking lot and tonight you snuck out for the first time. That key must have fallen from one of the teachers’ bunches.’ Mathison took the glasses from his face and held them, as if pondering everything he had just heard. ‘Ultimately, as I understand it then, just a bit of boyish mischief, right?’

‘Yes, Sir. I think the thing with Do — Webster and Ma’am got to me, Mr Mathison. Webster is my friend, Sir, just like Van Rensberg and Oberholzer. And I hate the thought of him leaving and what it wilt do to the choir to lose his voice. I couldn’t sleep, Sir, so I just thought I’d go for a walk. I know that is no excuse, Sir, and I know I deserve to be punished. Severely, Sir.’

Mathison studied Karl for a while. The night was quiet, no sound of crickets or frogs from the orchard. As if everything had stopped. Certain his story had been wholly believed, Karl maintained his outward countenance: frown, pursed lips, while inwardly rejoicing; even imagined being turned into something of a hero when it became known he had been caught and caned for sneaking around outside. The prefects would be green.

Then Mathison dropped his gaze, sat back in his chair and Karl heard the desk drawer slide open. Mathison replaced the glasses, adjusted them over his nose and asked: ‘Do you know what I have in here, Karl?’

‘No, Sir.’ The boy froze. Something was amiss. The man brought his hand from the drawer. Onto the desk he flicked a key. The silver object came to rest near the middle on the bare wooden surface. Unmistakable. The extra key he had had cut in Amanzimtoti. My locker. Christ. They’ve been into my locker. The key in his palm felt like a clot of heated metal. Heated metal in scalding water.