Authors: Troy Blacklaws
Karoo Boy
Karoo Boy
“The most colorful book I have ever read.” —Chris Martin, lead singer of Coldplay
“
Karoo Boy
is told in the voice of a spectacularly original young male protagonist who in his own way is as captivating and memorable as Holden Caulfield.” —John Berendt, author of
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
“A beautifully evocative coming-of-age story.” —Bryce Courtenay, author of
The Power of One
Blood Orange
“Tantalizingly beautiful.” —Desmond Tutu
“Troy Blacklaws beautifully lays bare how it took raw guts for a young white boy to resist apartheid.” —Antjie Krog, author of
Country of My Skull
“
Blood Orange
is an important, vital voice to add to the tapestry of literature coming out of Southern Africa. Such vibrancy is rare in any literature. Coming out of such a legacy of violence and pain, it is nothing less than a miracle.” —Alexandra Fuller, author of
Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight
Cruel Crazy Beautiful World
“Mesmerizing and evocative. I am in awe.” —Deon Meyer, author of
Blood Safari
and
Trackers
“
Cruel Crazy Beautiful World
beautifully chronicles the hazardous fates of the scatterlings that immense historical waves leave on the beach.” —Phillip Noyce, director of
Rabbit-Proof Fence
and
The Quiet American
“Bold, poetic, terrifying.” —Terry Westby-Nunn, author of
The Sea of Wise Insects
“The words immediately took me into the world of the novel and made me look in a fresh way into the room behind the eyes.” —Witi Ihimaera, author of
The Whale Rider
A Novel
Troy Blacklaws
For Finn-Christian, who loves stories
seagulls
C
HRISTMAS DAY 1976 IN MUIZENBERG,
Cape Town. The midday sun blazes down. The air smells of coconut suntan oil and ribs on the braai. Smoke drifts up to cawing, squalling seagulls in the sky. On the tyre-hardened earth, between the tar road and the sand of Sunrise Beach, we Thomas men and boys play cricket barefoot. The earth under me is piping hot, and I rock from heel to toe, toe to heel.
My father is bowling. He rubs the leather ball against his bermudas, so it will swing in the air. He loves cricket and has high hopes that one of his boys, Marsden or me, will play cricket for the province one day.
I field on the far fringe of the parking lot. A sand yacht glides between me and the tomato-box wicket, risking the bone-hard ball.
Bulky Oom Jan, my winefarmer uncle from over the Simonsberg, turns the ribs on the braai with one hand and then licks the fat off his fingers. In the other hand he holds a dumpie of Lion Lager. If the fire jumps too high he douses it with a shake of beer.
The women lie on beach towels in the sand under the shade of wind-rippling umbrellas. The girls skip over waves at the water’s edge, or float on lilos.
I can see my mother’s red bikini and her butterfly sunglasses. I know she is biting the inside of her lip as she reads, and is dreaming of having her feet tickled, or of a drop of Tabasco on an oyster, or of plucking a periwinkle from a rock and sucking it out raw.
My twin brother, Marsden, lies in the shade with my mother, sketching. My mother sometimes calls him her little Picasso. He has an art scholarship for all his high school years, but the folks have to fork out the fees for me.
My mother just calls me Dee, although my name is Douglas. Douglas James Thomas.
My mother glances up from her book to wave at me. I wave back, wishing I was free to go in search of a periwinkle for my mother, but they are hard to find. You have to go up the east coast as far as Hermanus to find clusters of shellfish on the rocks. Oom Jan says it is the bloody coloureds who plunder the rocks. My father says it is the Transvalers from up north, Johannesburg way, who come down and ransack the Cape.
My eyes drift. If you want to be a journalist, my father often tells me, you need to have an eye for detail.
Behind me, coloured fruitsellers, sheltering from the sun under makeshift tents of canvas, call out their fruits: liiichis banaaanas avocaaados.
A coloured fisherman dodges motorcars on the road, jiggling his catch of snoek, a fish as long and speary as a barracuda.
– Hout Bay snoek, Hout Bay snoek, jus’ a rand, he raps to the motorcars.
Just one rand for a barracuda-long snoek, for a taste of heaven when braaied in a dip of apricot jam, the way my father does it.
Some folk slow down to squint at the snoek. Others hit the gas as if to run the fisherman down. He skips aside, the way a mongoose jumps clear of darting snake fangs.
The ball bounces past me onto the tar road. I dash after it and a Ford bakkie full of jeering Transvalers hoots at me. A beer can clatters and spins across the tar, as if shot by a cowboy.
I throw the ball back to my father, hoping it will reach him without a bounce. The breeze coming off the sea pulls it down, short. I can tell by the jerky way my father rubs the ball against his bermudas that he is cross that my mind was not on the game. Then he bowls out cousin Dirkie, Oom Jan’s boy, splintering the tomato-box wicket. My father is smiling again.
We have all had a chance to bat, so my father calls Marsden, still sketching seagulls in the shade. He wants to stay in the shade, but my father and uncles and boy cousins taunt him until he drops his pencils in the sand. His rice paper blows away in the wind. Beyond the girls and the breakers, windsurfers plane across the bay. A hang-glider loops in the azure sky.
Dirkie, all sour-faced because he was bowled out, chucks my brother the bat. It is a Gunn & Moore willowwood bat. I have often sat out on the stoep in the evenings when the sun sinks behind the Muizenberg mountain, rubbing linseed oil into the wood. I love the smell of the oil and the wood.
Marsden looks around to get a sense of where the gaps are and then taps the foot of the bat in the sand. To anyone other than my mother or father, it could be me, bat in hand. To the onlooker, Marsden and I are xeroxed, one like the other.
Over the sound of the surf, the cawing of gulls, and the rev and hum of motorcars on the road out to Stellenbosch, I hear the bell of a lollyboy on a bicycle. I would love a granadilla ice with the black pips that catch in your teeth so you have to fiddle them out with your tongue.
I watch my father run up and let the ball go early so that it arcs high. For a moment it is lost in the white glare of the sun, and then I catch sight of it again just as it curves down towards my brother. I think he is fooling because he takes a wild swipe at it that spins him around. I hear a dull thud, like a swallow flying into a windowpane. My brother drops to the sand. His face is out of focus in the mirage haze dancing on the sand.
I hear my father’s raw cry and the earth goes wavy under my feet. My father runs to Marsden. He lifts my brother up in his arms, the way he carries firewood. He walks down to the sea, past the women who have abandoned umbrellas to clasp gog-eyed children. My brother’s head flops as my father’s feet sink into the beach sand.
My mother darts across the sand and clutches at my brother. But my father won’t let him go. He spins away from her and my mother’s nails scratch down his back.
My mother’s cries are a skyful of gaping-beaked seagulls.
My father wades into the water until the waves break against him and wash over my brother. My brother’s head lolls and my heart soars because the sea has revived him. But no, it is just the lilt of the wave that lifts his head, as if it were kelp on a rock.
Then I cannot see again, because my mother holds me against her cheek. The taste of her salt tears makes me cry.
My father is out deep with my brother, like a fisherman being pulled out by a hooked shark. Oom Jan wades in to drag him back to the beach.
Dirkie gawks at me. I smell the ribs on Oom Jan’s braai burn.
Bent over my brother, my father sinks to his knees in the sand. He turns to face us. There is something wild in his eyes.
My mother’s gaze is hard. I can see the bone in her cheek stand out.
A
SUGARBIRD’S WINGS BLUR
above pink hibiscus. My mother comes through the gate of our house on the edge of the Zandvlei lagoon. The bird flies over the fence, to Bessie Malan’s yard. My mother lugs a cardboard box of books and things. It says
Cape
on the box because such boxes are used to export Cape fruit overseas.
– Dee, I have given up my teaching post, she says.
Given up after fifteen years of teaching history to high-school kids. Teaching them Blood River and Dingaan and Rhodes and the Boer War.
I wonder how things will go on from here. Marsden is gone. My father no longer taps away at his typewriter in his study in the yard. My mother is never going to come home again with chalk on her hands, or foolscap papers to stain with rooibos tea and red ink.
My mother drops the box on the pine floorboards that Hope, our Xhosa maid, waxes on her hands and knees with Cobra wax.
Hope is kipping outside in her backyard khaya. I hear her woodsawing snores. She is always saying that it is too shushu out there, with the sun beating down on the zinc roof. Before she has her afternoon kip she hoses down the roof with cold water.
Inside the house, under a thatched roof, it is cool.
– I want to turn the front room into a studio. I want to clear a space in this clutter, my mother says.
She heads for the front room that overlooks the lagoon. If she wants space, why not empty out Marsden’s room? On his window sill: Tennessee, the tortoise, and a jar of porcupine quills and guineafowl feathers from Oom Jan’s farm. Another jar just of paintbrushes. The big art books rippled by the dank sea air: Picasso and Miro and Matisse. The yellowwood box full of his sketches and paintings of Kalk Bay fishing boats, of seagulls, of Greenmarket Square, and of me.
Marsden once said to me, on the train to school: being a twin is being free to draw self-portraits without looking in a mirror.
For me, being a twin was having another boy on hand to throw a cricket ball to, to surf with, another mind for my thoughts to mingle with, and peel away from again, coloured by his. It was the feeling of being moored to another soul.
– Douglas, give me a hand, my mother calls.
In each hand she holds a tall lamp stand made from a Masai spear, from the twinless days when my mother and father lived in Kenya. She goes out, toting the spears as if she is on the warpath.
I pick up the hollow elephant-foot stool in which Nana, my grandmother, stored her balls of wool. As I go down the kitchen steps, Hope peeks her dozy-tortoise head out of her khaya window. She has forgotten to tie her spongy hair down in her doek. I giggle at Hope: hair undoeked and eyes agog.
I put the stool down under the shade of the coral tree. It used to be a kaffirboom, but the word
kaffir
is a rude word for blacks, so you may not call it a kaffirboom nowadays. Hope still calls it a kaffirboom, but she is black, so that is okay.
I tip up the lid of the elephant-foot stool to see colourful eggs of wool laid by an exotic bird.
