Moffie (12 page)

 

D
Dee,' I say quietly. I know it will not wake him. He is still lying facing me, but he has pulled his legs up into his chest. The moon has climbed high enough now to light his face. I lean over him and look closely at his face. He looks intense, even when he's asleep. I touch his shoulder gently. It feels alluring, and I fight the urge to stroke him. I want to stroke his whole body. ‘Dylan . . . hey, Dee, wake up.' More urgently now, for I'm fighting an urge, fighting myself.

His eyes open, and in a split second he re-enters the world.

‘I'm awake.'

‘How did you sleep?'

‘Well, thanks.'

‘Are you going to be OK?'

‘Yep. I'm fine, En. Hey, before you sleep, do you want a couple of jelly babies? I've kept them to keep me company. At least they're quiet. Do you think I can get one to stand guard for me?'

‘Yes, Dee, just don't use a black one. If they catch you they'll think it's a terr.'

‘Good camo though, for the night. Do you want one?'

‘Thanks, no, I'm fine.' He sits up and I take some time to get comfortable. I use my bush jacket as a pillow. Lying on my side, I have a feeling of such security, as if he is watching over only me. He sits above me, the moonlight catching his face directly from the front, the rest of him in silhouette. Before I close my eyes, I watch as he flicks his lighter and ignites a Lucky Strike. He cups the red coal with his hand to avoid being seen, looks down at me and says, ‘Good night, En,' as he blows out the smoke. There is fondness in the way he says it, almost like an embrace. I love the way he doesn't use my full name. He has made the letter his, protecting it like you would something you own.

 

 

I
wake up with Dot curled up in my arms. I have fantasised about and needed this first pass so desperately, but now, instead of giving me peace, the house triggers memories that make me restless.

Too much time to think, too much of everything—everything I don't want. This first day out of military barracks is not at all as I imagined it would be. How can it be good? At the end of these few days, I know what I'm going back to.

So much has happened to me since I last lay on this bed. I lift the sheet and look down at my body. I am leaner, fitter, harder.

If Mal were here, we would have fun. Next pass I want to spend with him, I decide. Dylan is like a weight I carry that I can't shake and Ethan . . . where is he? The last time I slept in this bed I didn't know any of them.

What was it I saw in Dylan's lowered head, in his dark eyes? What secret lurks there, not revealing itself, just making me aware of its presence?

 

‘You know, you are right, En. I have thought a lot about it.'

‘What?'

‘We walk on a tightrope, you know, En.' He is quiet between sentences. When he speaks again, his tone is private and deep, as if I'm listening to thought.

‘On a thin steel cable, a tightrope that has an end, and we must step off it when we get there. And while we balance and take one step forward at a time, not even that is easy, but we don't look. No, we don't look down. Some of us even flirt with reality, but most of us just plod along blindly and then . . . it ends and we all fall off. We call it death. We all know it's going to happen, and the only way we can carry on walking directly to it is by blotting out the inevitable.'

Then he is quiet for a long time. I don't talk to him because he is staring intently at his bag with the Infantry School crest on it, which we were forced to buy for weekend pass. It is all packed for his first weekend outside the army, which is now denied him. Then he turns to me and says, ‘The question is: Why not simply jump off right now?'

 

Where is Ethan? Something must happen. Anything. The need to see him is so overpowering it becomes an obsession. I decide to find Ethan's house, or at least try.

I walk down the wooden staircase. My mother greets me tentatively. She says nothing, but I can feel her searching glance. She is determined to make this weekend special for me. She makes no fuss, but I am aware of the trouble she has taken preparing every favourite meal, being there for me, but giving me space at the same time. My father greets his son, hoping he has changed for the better.

I ask to borrow my mother's car to go to Clifton to find a friend's parents. I tell my mother briefly about the last time I saw him.

‘Why don't you trace him through the army?' my father wants to know. ‘Surely that is where you should look? I was hoping you'd wash my car and help your mother on the farm, because I have a tennis match today.'

For a moment I look at my father. How do I explain to him that I need to find this boy because I'm in love with him? How do I explain that the army of the real world would never accommodate my request to search for Ethan?

‘And in any case, your mother needs her car.'

‘No, Peet, I don't and if I do, I'll use the truck.'

Later she follows me to the car and gives me money for petrol and food.

‘It's OK, Mom, I have my army pay.'

‘Save it. Here, take this, and don't tell your father. Do you have any idea where this boy's parents live?'

‘All I know is that they have a bungalow on Third Beach. Mom, I must do this.' My mother stands next to the car, looks down at me intently, and I know she wants to ask questions but never will. Then I drive off.

During the forty minutes to Cape Town, I fantasise about Ethan being at home and us spending the day (no, the weekend) together. My head is in a reckless cloud—a place I have visited before.

I miss the turnoff, do a U-turn at Camps Bay and drive back to the small sign that reads Third Beach. My heart jumps. On the seat beside me, my black portable tape recorder is playing Rickie Lee Jones's
Night Train
.

For the full length of the song I sit and stare at the plastic dashboard, my mind on the woman about whom the song was written, who lost everything. Well, at least I can't lose what I never had. I cross the road and look down at the steeply arranged, quaint bungalows nestled in the shrubbery above the beach. They are all wooden, low-roofed, humble constructions of similar shape. To get to them I walk down steep pathways consisting mainly of steps.

There are three walkways marked Third Beach, and I decide to start on the left. I have the entire day, so I choose to savour the search. But the first path happens to be the correct one, and at the third door a woman says, ‘Oh, yes, the Vickermans, they're just down there,' pointing to a door five metres away, behind an ancient milkwood tree. Everything is calm, green and cool. I press the welcome-worn bell, and the gate opens.

‘Good morning, can I help you?'

‘Hi, hello, my name is Nicholas.'

The woman's expression changes slightly, as if she is trying to recognise something.

‘I'm a friend of Ethan's from the army.' She smiles. ‘And your name is Precious.' With this, the black woman starts to laugh joyfully.

‘He told you about me, my Ethan? How is he?'

‘I don't know, Precious. I haven't seen him in two months.'

‘Come inside. I'm sure Mrs Vickerman would like to meet you.'

I enter a small, manicured garden, almost tropical, and then the house. From the lounge, where I wait, I can see the sea over the roof of the house in front. All seems peaceful and comfortable, well lived in and warm. The interior is unaffected, yet sophisticated and inviting. I hear footsteps and see Ethan's mother.

‘Good day, Mrs. Vickerman, I'm Nicholas.' Her skin is cared for, her hair well cut but not dyed. Suddenly I am aware of how badly dressed I am in my old jeans and T-shirt, but the woman appears not to notice. I take her hand and squeeze it gently. Her skin is soft.

Still holding my hand, she looks at me directly, focusing deep into both eyes and says, ‘Welcome, Nicholas, it's a pleasure to meet you.' Then her hand slips from mine as she moves to a chair and sits down. She doesn't sit on the edge of the chair as if she's about to jump up, but deep and relaxed, making me feel comfortable.

‘You're the friend I arranged the food for.' Smiling, she looks at me for what feels like a long time, and her expression becomes a searching look. Then she stops herself, turns and asks Precious to make some tea.

Giving her a brief overview of Middelburg and basics, I leave out anything that might upset her. When I answer her questions, I say that we coped well and helped each other, always using
us
and
we
.

‘But, Mrs. Vickerman, I don't know what happened after we got to Infantry School. I haven't heard from Ethan since,' making no attempt to hide my concern.

She tells me that, on the journey to Oudtshoorn, Ethan sustained serious internal injuries when an instructor kicked him while he was doing push-ups.

While she tells me about his burst bladder, the subsequent surgery, its failure, the specialist, and the next operation, her voice is drowned out by a loud humming noise as anger washes over me and I picture the events. I realise that the experience was probably a lot worse than she imagines. People who haven't seen the behaviour of some of the army personnel, have no frame of reference.

I hear a wave breaking in the distance, people shouting on the beach—happy sounds penetrating the thundering passion inside me. At some point I am served tea in a china tea set, but I hardly notice.

‘I know Ethan wrote to you. Did you not receive the letter? He did not have your full address, just your rank, number, and the base. He hoped they would forward it to you.'

I have shared more of the army with this woman than with my own folks or friends.

‘Where is he now? Is he all right?'

‘Ethan is in Pretoria. After the time in the military hospital, they put him on some medics course. I know he is not happy though, but he will have to persevere. It is only two years. I flew up to see him in hospital. He has lost so much weight . . . but he will be fine.' As she says this, she looks past me, focusing on the middle distance where there is probably an image of her son. Then she looks at her watch and says she would have to go, as she is late for an appointment. ‘I'll cancel it if you want to talk some more?' she asks.

‘No, it's OK, Mrs. Vickerman, thank you so much for your time. I was so worried. Do you have his address for me, please?'

She writes down the words that will put me in contact with Ethan and hands me the card written in beautiful handwriting. It pleases me that something so prized is so well executed.

Then I say, ‘Would you mind if I looked at his room? As the words leave my lips, I am sure it is inappropriate, but she appears not to mind.

‘You are welcome, my boy. Precious will see you out. I must run.' She puts her cheek against mine and makes a soft kissing sound, does the same on the other side, and leaves.

Precious walks me down the passage to the room.

From the instant I enter, I am immediately surrounded by him.

His bed stretches almost the full length of the wall to my right, with the headboard nestling between the wall and wardrobe in a secure, inviting way.
This is where he lay.

The phone rings, Precious excuses herself, and I am left alone.

I sit down on his bed and inhale the room: the light, the colour, his surfboard with the stickers of surf brands, the photographs pinned to a crowded notice board.

In one picture Ethan stands on the beach with two boys and three girls, all in bathers, all very tanned, his hair streaked by the salt and the sun. All six of them are pretty. The boy I see there is a different Ethan to the one I know. Ethan comes from a world of light and easy solutions. I don't. Will he move back into this world, replace the loss, and forget?

I open his wardrobe searching for his smell, and then close it. ‘I could live there and be half complete,' I whisper to myself, turn and step out into the passage. The minute I leave his room, I miss it. I wave goodbye to Precious, who is still on the phone, and leave.

From the gate, I follow the steps down to the beach, wanting more of him. I walk along to Second and then First Beach, the quietest spot of this different reality. I take off my T-shirt; my body is white, except for my arms and neck, which are a deep brown.

Would I want to be a part of this seemingly carefree, nothing-can-go-wrong world? What a great divide between my world and this one. To my left the waves crash untidily, and to my right there is a good swell and three guys on boogie boards playing like seals.

Before hunger and heat send me back to the car, I think of these words from the book Ethan gave me:

 

‘But now you are going to cry!' said the little prince.

‘Yes, that is so,' said the fox.

‘Then it has done you no good at all!'

‘It has done me good,' said the fox, ‘because of the colour of the wheat fields.'

 

When I get home, I play Bob Dylan's
Where Are You Tonight?
combing my yearning for Ethan through me. I put the headphones on and shout the words of longing out loud. My parents are playing tennis, so I lie on my bed and wallow unchecked, rewinding the one track over and over again.

 

I can't believe it, I can't believe I'm alive,

But without you it just doesn't seem right!

Oh, where are you tonight?

 

 

S
tanding on the first floor, I look down towards the back classrooms. It's about a month and a half since the incident between Mr. Davids and the boys, and nothing has been done to them. The event has been forgotten by most. It is second break on a hot Friday. I have chosen this quiet spot where I can delve unhindered into the book I'm reading. I lean on the windowsill, cutting off those who pass behind me.

When I get to the end of a chapter, I look at the scene below—too far to intrude into my thoughts. Then I see him.

Mr. Davids is leaving the classroom of Mr. Thorr, the English teacher. The three boys who attacked him are standing on the raised section skirting the back rooms. He walks to the edge of the concrete and jumps down. I see his body stiffen halfway through the movement. When he lands, he turns slightly towards the boys, turns back and resumes his route. I realise that they have said something to him, and from the murmur amongst the rest of the boys, it is clear that it was something one doesn't normally say to a teacher. Then one of them speaks again, louder this time. His voice swirls into the courtyard, amongst the pupils, now captivated, and ricochets against the buildings for all to hear.

‘Hey, you faggot, I'm talking to you!' Mr. Davids is halfway across the courtyard. Thorr's door opens and closes again immediately, but he leaves it ajar and stands watching through the slit.

Whispers and giggling spread from the centre like an infection, and in the middle stands Lance Davids. He looks down, as if considering his options, and then he walks on. In that moment that he looks down, I know I have lost the one adult, the one person, who could have been my bridge away from a very dark place.

The boys, who have been shouting, say something again and start running after Mr. Davids. One of them pushes his left shoulder. I run down the stairs, but by the time I get to them, whatever has happened is over.

 

Lance Davids does not come back to school. Some say he has been expelled, and others say he has chosen to leave. All my attempts to see him are in vain. I leave school early, sneak out during breaks, even skip classes, and ride my bike over Helshoogte to get to see him. But he is either not at home or doesn't answer the door.

My parents find out and I am forbidden to contact him. On the wall outside his house, the word ‘Moffie' is spray painted, like a silent scream.

I hear he has moved to Natal, and I never see him again. It is the loneliest time of my life.

 

***

 

I kneel, put my elbows on the edge of the bed and bless myself: In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit . . .

‘Dearest, dearest, Lord . . . please, please, please . . . I beg of you, God, make me straight.' I wait, fighting tears and clamping my hands as I try to impress on God the earnestness of my prayer. ‘God, this is not what I want. It is not my choice. I beg you; I beg you, make me straight. I believe that you can, Lord, I believe it. Please, my Holy Father, I pray this in the name of Jesus Christ.'

I think of the words I heard today, words that drove daggers into me: Homosexuals are from Satan. No Christian can be a homosexual. Evil spirits possess them. I shudder and start praying again. It becomes a mournful plea. Concentrate, Nick. Pray, pray! God will hear you. God will answer. He promises it.

Then I hear Lance's words. ‘Don't ask for anything directly, always just say, “Not my will, Lord, but thy will be done.” Give every situation to God. Don't tell Him what to do. He knows best.' This helps.

I allow the words to settle and I start again, ‘Dear Lord, I am a homosexual. I give you this problem to solve for me, and I trust you completely.'

 

During this year of Lance Davids's humiliation and my inner trauma, I face one more enormous challenge. Why it all happens in one year and what it is meant to teach me, I don't know.

We wait for the summer holidays with our class teacher, Mr. Thorr, for whom I have now developed a deep dislike. He is so petrified of the boys that he actually sucks up to them. He identifies the boys who are a threat to him and befriends them shamelessly.

But my world is different. Around me, the noise doesn't penetrate the cocoon I have built around me and the book I am reading. It is three days before the start of the December holidays. Knowing that our report cards have already been finalised, the boys start nagging and manage to persuade Mr. Thorr to give us the results.

By the time he reaches the V's, two boys have heard that they have failed. The finality of these results, with no chance of reprieve, suddenly grips me. I CANNOT fail! This is not an option. I hear my father's words stretching over the years; painted over time like the line in the centre of a road, from the first day I heard it until now. ‘Do not shame me, Nicholas. Do not ever shame me.'

Even my mother contributed to the pressure. ‘How would we face your cousins? Nobody ever fails in our family. Failure is for stupid people. It is not an option for a Van der Swart. What would I say to these people? That you are stupid?'

I know my mother does not really mean this. I know she is trying to scare me into passing.

When Thorr gets to my name I know, from the way he moves, that I will be repeating this standard, and the others will go on to finish school a year ahead of me. The reality of this crashes into me with life-changing severity, and when it hits my insides, it explodes. The possibility of failing has always been there throughout my school years. I have struggled to concentrate, always been a dreamer, haunted by worries and fantasies. But this year those were small issues compared to my questioning of religion, eternal life and forbidden lust.

Now I have failed a year. The thought grows, casting a shadow over everything, and suddenly becomes too heavy for its own foundation.

I ask to be excused. I don't wait for permission; I just get up and leave. Every step makes a sound on the same path Mr. Davids walked on his last day at this school. The door to the toilet opens, and then closes with a hollow sound as it bounces back from the frame. Everything carries on as usual, every law of nature, yet in me every law is broken.

I sink down on the closed toilet seat and try to cry, but I can't.

 

My father calculates how much money I have cost him in this
lost
year; then how much I have cost myself, how much it will be worth as a lost year of earning before retirement.

In bed, sleep escapes me once again. How do I care about earnings at the age of sixty when I don't even know how to get through this night!

To protect myself, I enter my other life. Here I am free. Justice and fairness prevail—at least for me. Bitter revenge visits those who make my life a hell when my eyes are open.

 

I am fifteen years old.

My mother once said, ‘Suicide is a very big sin. It's murder. People who take their own lives go to purgatory. You can't go to heaven if you take a life. That is for God only. It is a cardinal sin.' These words were spoken in my youth, and this is possibly the reason why I could not see past them. Words like that are bigger in your youth and somehow grow with you, more securely implanted.

 

Everything seems to crack, then crumble from my brain to every facet of my life. I put one foot in front of the other, and long moments turn into days and sleepless nights, which in turn become weeks, months and a year. I can no longer think logically. There is nothing to live for. I am gay, and for me there is no hope or future, not even in eternity—particularly not in eternity.

 

Everything the institutions tell me I must be, I am completely not. Everything my parents encourage me to be, I am not. I see no hope, I see no joy. I withdraw deeper and deeper into myself.

There is no way to escape other than to remove myself totally. Planning my own death is like being offered the key to a cell that you thought had no door. Knowing that there is a way out is more exciting than anything else.

 

I had planned an end that would not fail. I shiver when I think back now, for those feelings were so strong that I know without a doubt that I was very close to freeing myself at any cost.

What saved me? Well, it was faith, blind faith in the end that took about two years—a last effort of total trust in a ‘Master of the Universe' that I believed cared.

So I came through or, more accurately, turned back from the brink.