Embrace (66 page)

After rehearsal an Afrikaans lady gave us and the teachers a conducted tour of the Monument, explaining what each part of the architecture symbolised. The tall monolith symbolises the birth of a new language, Afrikaans, the shorter one the Dutch
from which
whence it came,
Little
Mounds at its base
are for
indicate the influence of other languages on Afrikaans, a very important gesture of goodwill to the Hottentots, the Malayans, the French, the Portuguese, our guide said. When one of the English Seniors said Afrikaans is a completely bastardised language Ma’am Sanders snapped at him and said that there is no more bastardised language in the world than English. Our guide herself had spent her life researching and fighting for the rightful place of the Afrikaans language in a world under attack
from
by English.

Performing in the amphitheatre was
indeed
wonderful indeed. The sun was setting and turned the mountains above Paarl orange and then indigo as we marched in rows onto the stage. A slight breeze played in our hair as we waited for Cilliers to come on; at times it caught in the microphones suspended from the dome beneath which we stood. Eviseryoktithineegog wowasoos soospopoiloeltit bokecocausoose Hardidineegog wowasoos agogainee bokehineedid mime. Titugoggogineegog atit mimyok neeecockyk wowhiloele Cociloelloeliersoos mimotitioneeedid fickor usoos tito soosmimiloele fickor tithe TitVis cocamimerasoos. Asoos wowe bokowowedid Hardidineegog wowhisoospoperedid fickor mime tito soostitopop acoc-titineegog loelikyke a queer fickor tithe wowholoele ofick Soosoutith Afockricoca tito soosee. I hatite Cociloelloeliersoos fickor wowhatit he aneedid tithosoose otither titwo did tito usoos inee Joluneee. Ifick tithere wowasoos a wowayok toto kykiloelloel tithemim wowitithoutit gogetittitineegog cocaugoghtit, I wowouloeldid dido itit. The audience was enthusiastic and the fact that we could feel the heat of spray and TV lights upon us made it even more special. I cannot help wondering whether we were better than the other performers, though, of course, at a festival like this, there is meant to be no competition. We sang the Boerneef cycle. ‘Die Berggans Het ’n Veer Laat Val’, ‘Waarom is die Duiwel vir ’n Slypsteen Bang’, and my favourite, ‘Rooi Disa’:

Red Disa come and tell me

what you received from above

that you stay pure eternally ?

Faith, hope and love

Until tonight I didn’t know what a red disa was. I have always thought it was the name of a girl with red hair! Then in the car after the concert Mrs Heese spoke about the Boerneefs and asked whether a Valie like Dominic and a Durbanite like me had ever seen a disa? When , Dominic said no, I also said no and then, when she said they grow on the slopes of Table Mountain I knew they had to be flowers. Personification, of course! At home she brought out a book and showed us what they look like. It is part of the
Orchidaceae
family, red, like a huge open heart, and it is sometimes called the queen of orchids. From now on, whenever we sing ‘Rooi Disa’, I will picture the flowers, red and brilliant, swaying in the mist in some rocky crevice on Table Mountain. From Paarl we could see the outline of Table Mountain, not nearly as flat as I thought from photos. I am disappointed that we are so close to it and didn’t get time to go into Cape Town. Dominic and Mrs Heese say it’s one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

Because it’s October, I suppose, but mainly because of Almeida’s astounding voice, the audience gave us a standing ovation for ‘Oktobermaand’. Didomim & Bokeneeneeie soosayok titheyok are soosure Aloelmimeidida aneedid Coc havise a tithineegog gogoineegog. It was live TV so we weren’t allowed to do encores so we left the stage while the audience was still on their feet, shouting encore, encore, more, more. In moments like that, when we sing music I love and when the audience goes wild with appreciation, I am excited and grateful ‘ about being here, proud of being part of the school and the joy we bring. Mrs Heese has just come in to see why the light is still burning. She said I could stay here and be her son, as she had only daughters. Then she brought me a glass of milk from the fridge and asked if Iwere allowed to drink milk for it could be bad for my voice, and I said, not at this time of night. Now that
shes’
she’s gone, I wonder what happened to her husband. I must go to bed now. Dead tired.

At inspection Uncle Charlie discovered that my blanket was missing. Instantly paralysed by shock and real surprise — for I had grown accustomed to sleeping beneath only the sparse warmth of the bedspread — I was caught off guard. Then, before I could stutter some incongruous denial, I managed to come up with a lie. I said there had been a tear in the blanket — right in the centre — and that I had given it to Beauty to mend.

What if Uncle Charlie spoke to Beauty before I could get to her? I rolled around cursing myself for not having said I had no idea where the blanket went, that I hadn’t even noticed, that it had vanished from my bed; the buck would have stopped in a place I wouldn’t have had to deal with. An hour long I debated using the key to go down to the kayas, waking Beauty, telling her the story, getting her to help keep me out of trouble and the cane’s reach. Then I decided against it for fear some of the other workers would see me, and try to ingratiate themselves with Mr Walshe by telling him I had been outside in the night. And there was no way or reason to retrieve the smelly thing from our fort. Disease, smoke, fleas; it would be smelt from the other end of F Dorm. Fear, like fingers, reached for me: and then they’ll find out about the key, and Uncle Klaas, and the dagga, and Jacques, no, no, no, not that. I willed myself to stay awake, wading around my mind in search of a story to lead me safely from the labyrinths of paranoia.

By the time Uncle Charlie came through at six a.m. calling, ‘Vests, T-shirts and running shoes,’ I had been awake for an hour. Dressing at the speed of light, one takkie still in hand, I rushed downstairs before the whistle. Behind the food counter Precious was setting out “ ‘our breakfast dishes.

‘Morning, Precious,’ I smiled, slipping my foot into the takkie. ‘Where’s Beauty?’

‘Scullery,’ she said, still laying out the thick white crockery.

‘Could you call her for me, please, Precious?’ Glancing about for |? Mrs Booysen she went to fetch Beauty. I tied the shoelace. I watched ‘ ’for Beauty’s blue uniform behind Precious leaving the scullery.

‘Is coming,’ she says in response to my frown.

‘Thanks, Precious, you’re an angel.’

Beauty’s appearance is met by a huge smile of relief. She too smiles at me.

‘Morning, Beaut! I’m so glad to see you!’

‘Good morning, Karl.’

‘Beaut, I need a favour! I need another blanket in the dorm. I lied to Uncle Charlie about what I did with the other one. I said I gave it 1 to you to mend.’

‘Where is your blanket?’ she asks, displeasure altering smile to scowl.

‘You know where it is,’ I say, signalling with my eyes that I cannot talk in front of Precious.

Beauty shakes her head: ‘Eh, eh.’

‘Remember that note?’ I whisper. She nods. ‘I gave it to him. And to the one that’s with him.’

She’s now glaring at me, says nothing. Precious looks up. Our eyes — meet.

‘Will you put a blanket on my bed, please, Beauty? And don’t tell ‘ Uncle Charlie I lied.’

She shakes her head.

I cannot believe what my eyes are seeing. ‘Please, Beaut, I beg you.’ ‘No! Why do you drag me into your story?’

I am at a loss for words. This is the last thing I have been expecting; not how I had seen my escape unfolding. Nor is it how I know Beauty, stern but always smiling, always ready to help. Dominic. She’s still shaking her head as she prepares to turn and leave. I cannot let her go, this has to be resolved before PT.

‘If I were Dominic you’d do it.’ I try to sound wounded, rather than have her hear the fear rising in my voice.

She turns back. Again glares at me. ‘Dominic wouldn’t tell stories about me. I’m not doing it.’

‘I gave it to one of your people, Beauty,’ I try again, giving her a smile that is still not returned. Still she glares. The whisde. The stampede of takkies down the stairs. The time on my side gone, I grab at a brutal straw, my voice calm and deliberate: ‘You better put a blanket on my bed. If you don’t, I’ll report to Mathison that you gave me a note from a black beggar.’ Outside, the stampede had turned to small staccatos as the last of the little ones came down.

The woman facing me remains unmoved. ‘Please, Beauty. I won’t tell. Just give me a blanket, I’m cold at night and I’m going to get into trouble. I must go to PT now.’ She turns away.

Passing by the chalets where Ma’am lives, I catch up with Dominic, Mervy and Lukas. In the toilet, I answer Dom’s enquiry about where I’ve been. They are speaking about Ma’am, about the coming funeral. I pray that Beauty will still, somehow, do what I have begged. If it’s not there by tonight, I’ll ask Dominic to speak to her. I’ll think up some story about how it disappeared.

Going upstairs after PT, a neatly folded blanket has been placed at the footend of my unmade bed. My spirit soars; I can leap for joy. Once the sheets have been shaken and smoothed, I throw the blanket over, neatly folding it in with the sheets beneath the foam-rubber mattress. Then the bedspread, also tucked into neat triangular folds.

At lunch I try to mouth a thank you to Beauty as she scoops in our food. Her smile is for Dominic ahead and Bennie behind me in the queue. Her eyes refuse to acknowledge me.

An hour I have free after riding and before choir. The hour when the sun falls far through the auditorium windows almost up to where I sit. Engrossed in the last few pages of
Dorian Gray,
I am none the less , aware of an off chance Jacques might pass through alone before choir. Then we may, I hope, exchange a few words. From even a brief one-to-one interaction I may get some indication of how long I am to be banished from his room. Up here for less than fifteen minutes and Beauty passes, bucket in hand, mop in another. I look up from the book. Smile: ‘Thank you, Beauty. For the blanket. You look like Carol Burnett with that mop, Beaut,’ I try to lighten the moment.

As at lunch, she seems to ignore me. Then, as if she’s changed her mind, she pauses mid-stride, turns, paces back towards me and with her jaw set square, seethes: ‘Don’t tell stories about me, do you hear.’ ‘I’m sorry, Beauty. I had to think of something. I would have been caned.’

She looks at me, unfazed by my explanation. My excuse. In the moment she prepares to turn I say: ‘And what’s more, I wouldn’t have given the blanket to them if you hadn’t given me the note.’

‘Don’t tell stories about me; you still don’t understand.’

‘Listen, Beauty. There’s no need to be angry, it’s all sorted out. No big deal.’

‘Don’t tell stories about me; you understand!’

‘You would never speak like this to Dominic, never. You would lick his arse if he asked you. Just because of all the little presents he brings you every term.’

‘Keep your mouth off me.’

I rise from the chair: ‘Listen, it was for one of your people — the black man — I took the blanket. Stop being so ungrateful.’

‘I am not interested in what you have to say about me, what do you know about me, nothing, white boy, shut up about me.’

‘Who do you think you’re talking to? Get out of here or I’ll report to Mrs Booysen that you’ve been carrying secret notes. Mathison will give you the sack . . .’

‘Uzokuzwa mfanawomlungu kuyoquma nhlamuana esinye ziyofekela, hey — I . . . Hei — i . . .’ She turns and walks away. It is as if I’ve been stricken by lightning, clueless about what she has said.

‘Go and fuck yourself black bitch,’ I whisper, just loud enough. She doesn’t stop. Glances over her shoulder and walks away. Anger, like a hot blush, through my face and arms. Then realise it is not anger. It is shame. Fear of her mentioning to Dom what I have done, how I’ve spoken to her.

When Jacques does walk by, he only winks at me. Does not tell me to come, does not say it’s time for a bit of starfishing. I am grateful. Resentful. My heart is turned into a knot: disappointment, shame, humiliation.

I run after her. Through abandoned dormitories. Hear womens voices behind the kitchen. Run down the stairs. Find her amongst some of the other girls at the scullery door. Peeling oranges.

‘May I speak to you, Beauty?’

The women go silent. She stares at me. She does not answer. Stares me down with a smile.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I turn and walk off. Hating her. Ready to spit in her face if she were to come near me. I have turned the corner of the kitchen when from behind I hear their laughter; a loud and spiteful exuberance they know I cannot miss. From an upstairs window I gaze down and see them still behind the kitchen in their blue overalls, seated with their backs against the white wall. Only Beauty is standing. I watch, cannot hear their conversation or their laughter this high up through the glass. All I see are the palms slapping blue-overalled thighs, the heads thrown back, brown faces smiling, teeth and tongues: Beauty, accentuating the swaying of her hips, grotesquely minces up and down the length of the scullery wall along the path I have just walked. The seated maids double over. Muted by the distance and the glass their howls none the less reach my ears. They smack the concrete with their open hands. Beauty turns on her heel to face her audience. Her mouth is pulled into a flamboyant pout andher wrists are drooped and flapping, eyelids batting. Without hearing a word, I know what she’s doing, have witnessed it on playgrounds in classrooms in shower rooms on sports fields and in dormitories, have seen it done to others and denied it could be done to me, have done it myself to others. Again I hate her and the others. Hate everyone enough that I feel verged on weeping with pain and shame. Able to kill from rage.

For one solid hour five bars. Over and over and over.
Dona nobis pacem, dona nobis pacem, dona nobis pacem.
I wanted only to be elsewhere. Out and away from the beastly school. The blues had me, I knew. But it was not blue I saw or felt. I was in a grey tunnel, which swirled in black and white clouds. In prep I was able to remain chirpy, laughing and fooling with the rest of the class who all seemed in high spirits after being released from choir’s monotony; Cilliers s ability to hear a single bar fifty times until he was satisfied and only he could really hear any difference or improvement from the first time we’d done it. Bastard.