Embrace (89 page)

Karl kept looking away, knowing but not caring that what was being said was true. Things hidden. It is not things I hide from the ones I love most. It is everything. Everything of me. And from you, Dominic, from you too I can hide the murderer in me. If only you know how right you are. ‘Come on, Dom, it’s not such a big deal.’ And again Dominic asked what was wrong, begged to be told what had happened to turn Karl into somebody he felt he scarcely knew. And Karl, now believing himself, said that nothing had happened, that he was just a little sad at leaving the Berg and his friends. And very sad about Dominic and the Websters emigrating. But Dominic said he didn’t believe that he was being told the truth. That everything had changed since Ma’am’s apology. He asked whether Karl was angry about his refusal to apologise to Ma’am. Karl said no, but none the less asked why Dominic had refused to apologise.

‘I believe, really, that she does dislike boys like me,’ Dom answered. ‘So, I don’t believe that she has remorse for what she said. My father also says this apology of hers is a mere formality because of my threat to leave. They shat themselves because my father intervened and they were scared of losing their soloist.’

Karl looked at Dominic, envied him without knowing why.

‘Mum also doesn’t believe the cow when she says she did not intend to hurt me. On the contrary, Mum and Dad believe she said it so that she could injure me. And not only me, mind you, but at least half the boys in this school. You too. You see, as Dad says, they want to make it impossible for us to love ourselves, because that’s the one way to make sure we can never love each other. Mum says that’s why most people want to make doubly sure that we hate ourselves. Until Sanders can tell me, explain what she did wrong and show me that she understands, I’ll hold a grudge. I’m sure Mum and Dad will agree with me.’

‘We must all learn to forgive, Dominic. That’s what the Bible says.’ ‘How many times must I tell you, Karl! That book is a ball of evil. And as for forgiveness, I don’t believe in it. It has happened and it cannot be wiped out. Like Dad had an affair when I was smaller and Mum hasn’t forgiven him for it and she says she never will because there will always be some hurt and it doesn’t change the fact that Dad did it. But Dad explained why he had done it and Mum believed him and that he was sorry and then she accepted that these things happen and that people make mistakes. But people have to learn from their mistakes, Mum says. They have to grow and then we can even accept that a mistake was worthwhile, though it still hurts. But if she didn’t believe that Dad had grown through what he did wrong, then she would have left him.’

Karl thought of Beauty. Wondered whether she had forgiven him. Or accepted that he knew what he had done wrong. Really regretted. Would never speak to a Bantu like that again. And Dominic. Was what he had with Jacques the same as Dr Webster had had with his affair, and would Dominic accept that he was sorry if he were to tell him the whole story, express his remorse? But what if he felt no real remorse; remained unable to see what he had done as wrong? Had he indeed tried to prevent Beauty from loving — herself and therefore a}so others?

The overall of one of the stable boys. While raking and cleaning out the feeding troughs. The front buttons were open to the belly button and the man’s taut brown skin set off against the blue fabric. Something to be painted. Karl caught himself staring at the buttons above the tattered crotch. Felt the movement in his own. He dropped the rake against the wall and left the dark hay smell of the stable to stand out in the sun. As he stares into the orchard, Jonas is beside him. Asleep on the mat of fig leaves while he scans the branches for louries. The buttons of his green Parks Board overall are not properly done and Karl peers at the dark skin of his stomach. Up and down as he breathes. Karl stares at the man’s sleeping face, still sees the curly black eyelashes closed. Slowly he lifts his arm, brings his hand to the open buttons. Phinias, no, Jonas, who — his hand goes through and down. Rests on the warm soft filafooi. The eyelids bat. The man opens his eyes and looks at Karl staring down at him. Half lifting his chin he looks down at his crotch, at Karl’s hand disappearing at the wrist into his overall. He turns his eyes back to the boy. Still holding the gaze he takes hold of the thin white wrist and lifts it out. Places it gently on the child’s chest. For a while longer they lie in silence. Then the man gets up and the boy too. Karl wipes twigs and leaves from his back. They walk towards Mbanyana or Charters, where was it — neither speaks. Near Bokkie’s row of sisal Jonas takes my hand, rubs my hair.

I’m not going there. I am not evil. I am not an abomination, he told himself. But by the night, when a desperate urge to be with Dominic or Jacques, to hold onto them and be held, snuck up on him, he fumbled through his toilet bag. Finding the seeds in the dark between toothpaste, deodorant, dental floss and a few round pebbles, he lay with them, throbbing in his fist, their stunted movements like the flickers of pulses against his skin. More than anything he wanted to be gone, to end it all. I even desire kaffirs. Bantus. I was going stiff for a stable boy. Always been like that. Even before this school. No, there are no limits, no boundaries to my capacity for perversion. Lust. I am lust incarnate. This, killing himself, would be the only definitive route out. Why don’t I do it? Coward. Coward. Coward. He could find no reason other than that there was a glimmer of hope, somewhere amongst the black of the clouds. It was the glimmer rather than the clouds that made him weep. If only the hope would disappear! If only hope could be erased for the slanderous word it is. Then he would be able to chew these beans, with their little worms, and swallow them and fall asleep and rest for ever. It is not love that is the greatest curse. It is hope. And the greatest of these is hope.

The greatest lie of all is hope. He fell asleep crying, raging into his pillow, uncaring if Fat DuToit or anyone else might hear. He dreamt of Dr Taylor standing over him with a Checkers bag filled with spiders. The man was saying: these are the spiders of hope and youwill grow healthy and strong if you allow the spiders to bite you. The spiders of hope. Then Dr Taylor untied the bag and Karl awoke panting as the spiders began crawling over his body. He found the tambotie beans jumping against his chest and stomach. And he loathed himself and the world. Wished he could speak to Aunt Lena, wondered if shock treatments could make him better. Maybe he could go and see Dr Taylor again next year. Maybe that was what the dream was telling him. That hope lay with Dr Taylor.

He sat after class at his desk and opened the class Bible. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, he remembered, and flipped the pages to Chapter 13:
No
w
I will show you the way which surpasses all the others. If I speak with human tongues and angelic as well, but do not have love, lam a noisy gong, a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and, with full knowledge, comprehend all mysteries, if I have faith great enough to move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give everything I have to feed the poor and hand over my body to be burnt, but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient; love is kind. Love is not jealous, it does not put on airs, it is not snobbish. Love is never rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not prone to anger; neither does it brood over injuries. Love does not rejoice in what is wrong but rejoices with the truth. There is no limit to love’s forbearance, to its trust, its hope, its power to endure. Love never fails. Prophecies will cease, tongues will be silent, knowledge will pass away. Our knowledge is imperfect and our prophesying is impeifect. When the perfect comes, the imperfect will pass away. When I was a child I used to talk like a child, think like a child, reason like a child. When I became a man I put childish ways aside. Now we see indistinctly, as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. My knowledge is imperfect now; then shall I know even as I am known. There are in the end three things that last: faith, hope, and love, and the greatest of these is love.

It was different from what Mathison had read or the way he thought Mathison had read it. And still more different from how it was in the Afrikaans Bible. This, he felt almost sure, was also the passage the Dominee had read at Aunt Lena and Uncle Joe’s wedding. But nothing made sense. This version had nothing about loyalty. Hewas certain he could recall the word loyalty from Mathison’s reading.
If you love someone you will be loyal to him no matter what the cost. You will always believe in him, always expect the best of him, and always stand your ground defending him.
That was it, he was sure he had heard Mathison read those words from his own
Living Bible.
But the class Bible didn’t have that; nothing like that. What is it, what must I believe? Is there nothing that is true for me to hold on to?

Despondent, he took from Ma’am’s desk the Shakespearean
Sonnets
and read a few. Each making him more morbid. Can I not love, he wondered. Like this, like this man loved his beloved? Is all I have in me lust and desire and treason? And what of loyalty? I think I love Dominic, but I go to Jacques’s bed. I tell neither one about the other. And of Alette I can scarcely stand to think. Maybe salvation and true love lies with Alette. And does it hurt anyone if I love them all, in my way? And what if I love none? I feel ready to hate, to envy, to reject everyone I think I love in an instant, in the same moment as a wrong word is spoken, a look given or a glance not returned. Will this anger, this passion to hate, disappear when I grow up? Is this a childish thing that will go when I leave fourteen behind and become a young man? What if I am, in my blood and flesh that other word: evil. For what is evil but the inability to love? He closed the
Sonnets.

With their suitcases packed, and the school emptying, the choirs left Durban for dress rehearsal. The rows of beds in the dormitories had been stripped, covered now only in the striped calico piss-skins. Everything stacked up, turning the place into an enormous abandoned prison cell; an army barracks he recalled from some unnamed movie. All Dominic’s luggage he helped carry to the bus. Along with everything of the Standard Sevens who were all leaving. Then he and Lukas helped Mervyn, who had almost double the amount of anyone else: four suitcases, three bags of sheet music — even as most of Mervy and Bennie’s clothing remained shelved for their return next year. Mrs Clemence-Gordon had had prints made for all of them of some of their favourite photographs. One of these was of the six of them the previous year on the Copper Falls hike. Almeida and Dom at his sides.

When the buses drove off it was again only Karl and Lukas remaining, due to drive down the following afternoon with Uncle Charlie and Mr Walshe. From waving the buses off they returned upstairs and cleared out their lockers and their shelves. In the late afternoon they had packed everything into suitcases and bags.

From his locker Karl took the tambotie seeds. He flicked them from the window into the quad. He packed everything except his formals and the clothes he was wearing. He and Lukas took their last shower in the Junior bathrooms and Lukas came again to F to sleep on the bed beside him. In the morning they walked to the dairy to say goodbye to the stable boys. To King and Rufus. Cassandra and Dragons Prince were away in the paddock.

They said goodbye to the cleaning girls. Karl thanked Beauty for everything she had done for him over the three years. They hugged. ‘You must learn to eat your Brussels sprouts,’ she said with mock severity and Karl, sure he’d been forgiven, wished he had a gift for her.

In the afternoon they dressed in their grey flannels, white cotton shirts, black ties and blazers. They combed their hair and carried their luggage to Uncle Charlie’s Audi. They were a good hour early. They strolled down to the fort, picking near-ripe apples as they went, shining them on their flannels like cricket balls. They wondered who would join Mervyn and Bennie in their place at the river next year. They took off their blazers in the afternoon sun and sat above the green pool on the rocks. With the sun above them, Karl stared at himself and the perfect image of his face, his white shirt reflected in the green—

Bravo! Encore! Around him everyone is up. More! more!

For a brief moment he alone is seated. Then he too is on his feet. Shouting with the crowd. Jacques is to the left of the choir and orchestra, lifting his arm. The entire choir of men, women and boysbow, and the shouting increases. They bow again. Jacques points to the orchestra and the volume from the audience is deafening. The chief violinist stands and bows as shouts of praise and encouragement run through the hall. When Jacques holds out his hands to the quartet, there is a rumble of feet, voices, clapping like thunder that may lift the roof. The quartet bows, Dominic’s scalp shining in the lights as his head goes down, he comes up, beaming, teeth glimmering. And Jacques shakes the violinist’s hand and leaves the stage. The quartet falls back, each taking his place on the stands. Still the clapping continues and the audience stays on its feet and there’s a roar when Jacques returns.

He takes his place. The audience sits down. He nods. Dominic takes four paces forward. Once he is again behind the microphone he looks to Jacques and clears his throat. Nods. Jacques lifts his hands. Karl’s eyes move between the conductor and Dominic. When the orchestra begins he knows it is Gounod’s ‘Sanctus’. Standing at the front of the choir, Dominic’s voice, enormous and deeper than Karl knows it, leaps up every entry. On the
Sanctus
 — before the choir joins — his body seems to twitch, the head is lifted exposing the throat, his shoulders push forward. He is struggling, Karl thinks. He’s too tired. Those in the audience who have heard and seen him sing — particularly those who have watched him for three years — must all notice that he is battling. They might hold their breath both times he reaches for the high A, and when, on the first the boy’s voice falters — like a rip midway along a thread — and he falls deliberately to an octave lower, they might shudder, knowing that the voice is going. With almost superhuman effort, as though it is the last time he will ever sing the high A, the boy bravely goes up on the final
Pleni
and holds the note a moment too long where it cracks and his chest heaves and even before the music is ended the audience goes berzerk. It is as if to the witnesses the crack in Dominic’s voice is a strength, not a weakness. Dominic bows and the audience is screaming for more. The choir bows. Dominic bows, again, his face red and glowing,and beside Karl Bok is grinning and Alette is shouting Bravo and stamping her feet along with what must be a thousand others. But now Jacques shakes his head, even as he smiles at the audience. Once more he motions Dominic forward. Once more, again the roar: men’s voices, deep, women, shouting for more. Shoes rattling the floor and walls. And Jacques leaves.