Embrace (11 page)

‘What does your father do?’

‘He’s a white hunter but he’s starting a curio dealership.’

‘And you lived in a game reserve?’

‘We did, Sir, until I was nine and a half. My dad was a game ranger in Mkuzi, and Umfolozi and at Lake St Lucia. But now were living in Amanzimtoti, just south of Durban.’

‘Did you enjoy living in the game reserves?’

‘Yes, Sir. Very much. It would be almost like being there if I could come here — on the farm with the horses and everything and to sing good music, like Bach and Beethoven and Brahms’

‘You have a good school report. All As.’

‘I am very fond of school, Sir. And music also.’

‘You go to an Afrikaans school, but you sound English. Where did you learn to speak English so well?’

‘We were born in Tanzania, Sir. There we spoke mostly English, but when we came to South Africa we went to Afrikaans schools. My mother is Afrikaans. And my cousins — on my father’s side — their mother is Irish so we speak English to them. And Amanzimtoti, where we live, is very English. Were all perfectly bilingual.’

‘Do you really want to be in this school?’

‘More than anything in the world, Sir.’

That had been it. They said I could go. I walked back to Bok and Bokkie hiding the shameful knowledge that I had not succeeded. I myself was unaware that the ambivalence about leaving home had now again been swept away in the current of desire to succeed at what had been begun. At Kuswag Primary, teachers and children kept asking when we’d hear. It felt as though the entire school and neighbourhood wanted only for me to succeed. The thought of not getting in haunted me into my sleep.

A month later and against every dreadful anticipation the telegram arrived. Lena, Bernice and I took the sealed envelope up Dan Pienaar to open at Juffrou Sang’s house. We knocked at the door. Alette opened. She jumped up and down when she saw what I was holding. We went into the lounge, lined with shelves of Prof’s books and Juffrou Sang’s records. Juffrou Sang came out and smiled as I handed her the envelope. I said I wanted her to open it. The telegram cryptically congratulated Mr and Mrs Ralph De Man on their son Karl being one of thirty new boys chosen over hundreds of auditioned applicants. I would be expected to start in January, the first quarter of 1974. Further documentation would be forthcoming. We jumped around, hugged and kissed before the girls and I ran down the street to tell Bokkie.

‘Frank Sinatra!’ Bokkie beamed jokingly. ‘You’re going to be the next Sinatra.’ My sporadic fantasies of being a star had not included Sinatra, even though I knew ‘Love and Marriage’, ‘Under My Skin’ and ‘My Way’ off by heart. By then I had wanted to be Rudolf Nureyev. Robert Redford or Rudolf Nureyev. No one I had seen could hold a candle to Redford’s smile, good looks and horsemanship in
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,
which we saw at theToti Drive-In. Redford as Sundance was charm, looks, adventure, seductiveness and recklessness wrapped into one face. For hours I was in front of the mirror, practising his dry smile, trying to get his lines around my eyes, wishingwe didn’t have to have such short hair for school, sure that if my hair were just an inch longer I would look like Sundance, blond hair blowing as I galloped through the desert.

At school I was a hero. Kuswag was on the map.

Everything purchased for me — neatly ticked off the school’s long list by Bokkie — was in the two cardboard suitcases Bok lifted from the Peugeot’s boot.

‘Just look at the cars,’ Bokkie said softly. ‘I mean, where do they get all the money for the school fees?’ And later, once we were alone in the dormitory: ‘I’m disappointed in these rooms; look at these little lockers and the narrow beds. Where’s all the money going?’

‘The classes are small; tours cost a lot of money, Bokkie.’

I moved from bed to bed, reading to myself the names pinned to the pillows. Lukas Van Rensburg. Dominic Webster. Bennie Oberholzer. Mervyn Clemence-Gordon.

‘But they must make money, Bok, from the concerts and the records and everything. Surely they can do a bit more with the boys’ rooms?’ ‘Bokkie, they’re boys. That’s part of it. Treat them like boys; prepare them for the army.’

‘Ja, but why charge such exorbitant school fees, Bok?’

‘Look,’ I said, pointing, ‘we have a view of the mountains’

Bokkie continued unpacking things into the small wooden locker with the calico curtain, complaining that everything couldn’t possibly fit into the restricted space. Bok came to stand beside me at the window. The flat-topped mountain set against a deep blue sky loomed spectacularly large before us. Clouds hung motionless like mounds of cotton over the foothills and forests. Green. Brown. Blue. White.

‘That’s Champagne Castle. The view alone’s worth the price.’ ‘Mommy’s putting your socks on the bottom shelf for now, and your toothpaste and plasters and so on up here, on the top, okay, my boy? You must keep it neat, Karl. Neatness will score you points. Look after your things. Everything is marked with your name; nothing has to get lost in the wash.’

‘Yes, thanks, Bokkie.’

We heard voices approach up the stairs. The new arrivals introduced themselves as Harold and Janet Webster, their son was Dominic. I shook hands with Dominic, the first of my four roommates. He was shorter and skinnier than me, with huge scared eyes.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t unpack the boys’ things,’ Mrs Webster said to Bokkie at the locker. ‘Just leave them in the suitcases; most of the clothing has to go to the cupboards downstairs. I’ve just spoken to Uncle Charlie, the house-master. Lovely bloke. They’ll tell the boys what to do after the parents have left.’

‘Oh,’ Bokkie smiled and started repacking things into my suitcases. The Websters placed Dominic’s leather bags in the passage beside his bed.

‘You can leave the toiletries and so on.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Bokkie answered, glancing at Mrs Webster, who was unzipping a small leather pouch from which she lifted Dominic’s things. He and I smiled at each other.

‘Were over at the El Mirador, how about you?’ Dominic’s father asked.

‘No, we need to get back to Durban — were just down the road — so were not staying over.’

‘We’ll stay the night and check in in the morning to see everything’s okay. But you’ll be fine, Dominic. And you too, Karl. You have the best dorm. Look, it’s right up here, and it’s the smallest. Much better than one of those long halls. You’re going to make such good friends. And look at this view of Cathkin Peak.’ Mr Webster said that he needed to have a word with the principal and asked Bok whether he’d like to come along. They agreed to meet us later at the parking lot.

‘What’s your instrument, Karl?’ Mrs Webster asked, smiling at me where I sat at the foot-end of my bed. I looked at her, not understanding the question. Bokkie looked up from the suitcase.

Mrs Webster smiled and said, ‘What instrument does he play? Dominic plays the piano.’

‘Karl plays the recorder, but he’s going to learn to play the piano, too.’ Bokkie smiled affirmation at me.

‘Dominic is quite the pianist. Last year he played with the SABC orchestra, Chopin’s First Piano Concerto. Youngest person ever in this country. Maybe you can give Karl some guidance, Dominic, what do you say?’

‘Of course, Mum. And stop showing off?

From my bed, Bokkie stared at Dominic. I could not believe I’d heard right. Mrs Webster pulled her face at us and smiled, ‘He’s right, I am.’

‘That would be nice of you, Dominic,’ Bokkie smiled at the skinny boy. I quickly nodded, happy and excited at the prospect of sharing a room with an accomplished pianist, moreover, someone who would help me master
my instrument.
How grown up it sounded; how matter-of-factly grown up:
try instrument is the piano.
This room, I thought, Dominic, everything, is going to be wonderful. Just wonderful.

I waved until the car disappeared in a swirl of dust around the last bend of the road that led up from the valley to the narrow plateau and main road away from the school. I did not weep. Not then. But as I turned and faced the three-storey building that was about to become my home, loneliness pulsed in the rush of blood, shuff-shuff, shuff-shuff, in my ears over Bokkie’s voice: ‘We’ll visit you in six weeks, my boy. Parents’Weekend is around the corner. It will be over before we know it. We’ll also write once a week. And we’ll phone once a week. Okay?’ And Bok: ‘Remember Lena and Bernice, Philistine: they did it at six. You’re eleven already. Dr Webster and I have left five rand each as extra pocket money for you and Dominic. It’s with the accountant, okay, Philistine?’

‘Buy yourself some Condensed Milk, Philistine, okay?’

‘Yes, Bokkie.’

Utterly alone, I now wanted them back. To be with them, with Bok and Bokkie; not here in the shadow of this big, angular building with the long, cold corridors and these mountains that suddenly looked exactly like the cruel brutes they were named after. More than anything, I wanted my mother. I tried not to imagine her in the front seat beside Bok, driving away. I knew she was crying. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, you can cry later tonight, into your pillow when no one’s watching; when no one can hear.

At the edge of the parking lot I waited for Dominic, whom I could see saying goodbye at the open window of a silver Mercedes-Benz. As the vehicle moved off, he came towards me: skinny, sparse brown hair and eyelashes like a giraffe. I again felt myself half a head taller and clearly stronger than the cheeky elf weaving towards me through the parking lot.

‘I waited for you.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Are you going to see your parents tomorrow?’

‘No. They’ll phone from the hotel. The school wants all parents away by tonight. It’s not fair on those whose parents have already left. I don’t mind.’

‘We’ll see them again in six weeks, anyway.’

‘I can’t wait for Parents’ Weekend.’

‘Me as well.’

‘Me neither, you mean. Are you Afrikaans?’

‘Yes, but I’m bilingual.’

‘What does your father do?’

‘He was a white hunter but he’s gone into business now. He trades in curios.’ We stood watching each other in the odd silence of the parking lot.

‘Mine’s a medical doctor.’

‘That’s nice,’ I said. ‘Should we go to the dormitory?’

‘Dorm,’ Dominic said. ‘Let’s. Maybe the others are there. You can call me Dom, okay?’

‘I share a dorm with Dom,’ I said and we giggled, more from nervousness than the rhyme.

‘Can you believe we have to make our own beds and polish our own shoes?’

‘Yes?’ And then, realising he had probably never made a bed in his life, probably didn’t know a tin of Nugget from a tube of Colgate toothpaste, I quickly said, ‘It’s easy. I’ll show you.’

Had he really played the piano with an entire orchestra, I asked. True, he said, but not Chopin’s entire First as his mom had made it sound. Only the second movement. Mrs Webster, he said, liked showing off when he did well but she knew little about music and lots about science. I myself had never heard of Chopin or of a kid criticising his parents like Dom did with such ease. From those first moments I knew we would be friends.

That tongue in my mouth. It is that I thought of as I pulled the dummy blanket from the bed and slid down between the sheets rubbing my feet on the sides of the mattress to get rid of the dust and grains of sand from the floor. The size of his tongue; so much bigger than Alette’s. Four visits in which he had allowed barely anything but my hand to bring him to climax; then, tonight, the kiss. Most he’s done to me. And a little stroking while the breeze came through the glass louvres of his room making the curtains bulge like the dress of a pregnant woman. His fingers lightly up the vertebrae of my spine playing the keyboard into my neck.

No longer afraid of him I was wishing he had done more. Sometimes, when our benches faced him — no, no, not then — rather, in those moments when we walked into the conservatory and I saw him at the piano
before
we started rehearsing; while Raubenheimer took the warm-ups; I felt my face aglow, my legs icy cold, like I wastoo scared to look at him. Couldn’t keep my eyes off him behind Raubenheimer. But that too was not it, I realised already then. It was not fear of him or even awkwardness at what we were doing. It was that I wondered if anyone could guess it. It’s like I’m so terrified someone may find out, I thought, but at the same time I’m hoping someone might. But not now. Not now, I asked in another prayer.

Then the kiss, like in the movies, like me and Alette beneath the streetlamp. But the one with Cilliers carried on, on, on. At first I thought I would suffocate, but then I heard him breathing, and I breathed too, and discovered a kiss could last for ever because you could breathe at the same time. I must try it on Dom, I thought.

And I had felt him, again stiff, when he rested on his side against my leg. Quite nice.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, I repeated to myself, in class, riding, swimming, with Dominic, down at the forts, during prep. All the time during choir. Sometimes I couldn’t think of anything else. Please dear God don’t let anyone find out. His tongue felt huge, his dick massive; were adults’ tongues really so enormous? The stubble against my cheeks rough, ticklish, but sometimes also pleasant. Next time, I smiled to myself, I’m going to stick my tongue right back into his mouth. Stupid, I should have done it tonight; probably thinks it’s the first time I’ve done it. I’m going to do it to Dominic. Dominic will love it. I’ll practise on him and I can use it on Alette. I had to turn onto my stomach and hide my face in the pillow, almost choking in my own stifled laughter. I lay in bed, adrift on air; waiting for something to happen. All of me anticipation. My penis was stiffening. I pushed my hips down into the mattress. I tugged the sheet away from where it folded in beneath the mattress and felt for the diary. No, I didn’t feel like writing. Had to try and sleep.

Never, never before in the years at that terrible place had I felt so good. This was going to be the best year. Happiness is in your own hands, Bok and Dr Taylor had said ten months before, and they were right. Happiness was in my own hands. The best.