Moffie (18 page)

 

I
get up to go to the bathroom and when I get back into bed, I hear a change in Malcolm's breathing. He rolls over.

‘Shit, Nick, I'm sorry, I fell asleep.'

‘No problem, you sleep. I'm almost asleep too,' I lie. ‘Good night.'

‘Sorry, man. Good night.'

‘Night.'

 

When we do training with bayonets, stabbing into bags, I know what it will look like when someone tries to pull the rifle out of his punctured abdomen.

‘Troops, if the bayonet gets jammed, just fire a shot. It will dislodge your weapon immediately.'

 

He takes me to dinner at The Bali Hai restaurant in the Landdrost Hotel. We get drunk on white wine and then I say it. ‘I'm gay.'

‘Really!' Smiling, looking at me closely, he says, ‘Wow, I thought so. I mean, I hoped you'd be. So am I!'

‘No way! Ssshit, are you really? Oh, thank heavens. How did you know? About me, I mean.'

‘I reckon because, well, because I am,' he smiles, suddenly confident. ‘And of course it wouldn't take a rocket scientist.' He laughs. ‘When one listens to what you talk about . . . no,
who
you talk about all day long! Ethan, Ethan, Ethan.'

Later on, serious for just a moment, he asks, ‘Nick, was there anything between you and Dylan?'

‘No, no, nothing.' This is not the time, I think. Besides, we're gently drunk, happy, stranded for the moment on this small island of ours before we have to jump into the torrent again. There will be a day when I will share what I believe to be true about the death of my quiet, dark friend. Now is not the time.

Malcolm, who is determined to make everything perfect for me, says, ‘Let's try and see Ethan, Nick, c'mon, let's just go!'

‘OK, let's!'

‘He's little more than an hour away. Tomorrow we'll phone and ask when they're allowed visitors. Ethan, Ethan, Ethan!' he singsongs, laughing.

‘Shit, Mal, that would be great. Just imagine if I could see him.'

‘I know! And I have another surprise for you tonight!'

‘What?'

‘I'm taking you to a gay club, Scankie.'

‘No way!' But my tone says ‘YES way' and I start shaking ever so slightly.

‘The Dungeon. It's the oldest gay club in Africa.'

‘Gay clubs are illegal, Malcolm! What if we get caught?'

‘I say fuck 'em. Tonight we live! Nick, just think about it: when will we have the chance again? Besides, it's Vasbyt next, and then the border. I mean, we're in for hell, man. I need some cherry to think of when I'm on the border. Come on, let's do it for
volk en vaderland
.'

‘What? Have sex with a man?'

‘Yes. We can't go to the border without spreading a little of our gooorgeousness around . . . for
volk en vaderland
! Tonight they're having Mister and Miss Dungeon.'

I'm trembling, but inside I'm experiencing a wave of exhilaration.

‘Hey, listen, are you going to tell him how you feel?'

‘No, never. Are you mad?'

‘Just tell him! What do you have to lose?'

‘What do I have to lose? How about everything.'

‘What's the point of being so in love with someone and you can't even . . .?'

‘Mal, don't tell me you haven't fallen for a straight guy before.'

He sighs. ‘You're right. It's the story of our lives. Fuck, if only we could know; always hoping, thinking they're cute and nice and sensitive, but never having the courage to ask.'

‘Especially at school. Shit, if they as much as suspected you were gay, the whole school would persecute you. I mean, you just couldn't take the chance. So I reckon the club is the answer, hey?'

‘Yep, Scank-maaaaaaster!'

‘Well, although I'm leaving a nineteen-year old closet behind me, I want you to know I still want everything to be right when I eventually get lucky. I'd want the feelings to be mutual. I guess that's why I've never made a move on a straight guy. I mean, not since puberty.'

He laughs. ‘Oh yes, do we have a slut in the house then? Ah, a man with a history.'

‘Well, I . . . er, we were just experimenting.'

We trade stories about early high school, about the boys we were in love with. Then I become serious for a moment. ‘Malcolm, I can't tell you how important it is to me to know there is someone like you. You know, I mean, normal.' We both burst out laughing at the word ‘normal.'

‘Yes, me too. You secret agent, man, whore you.' Then, laughing loudly he says, ‘Agent man-whore!'

‘I wish!' He holds out his index finger, I do the same and we lock them together.

‘Our handshake, OK?' For a moment we look at each other, the wine, the drunkenness and our fingers locked together, and I feel a new happiness about this friendship—something I have always longed for.

‘It's time. Let's go and look for some “mutual feelings” OK? Or do you want to drink some more? Shall we have another bottle?'

‘No way, or we'll be the ones who won't remember a thing.'

Mal bribes the waiter to give us a bottle of wine, to open it and replace the cork. He steals two glasses, and we leave with the wine under his jacket.

We finish the bottle in a park. We giggle about everything—stupidly drunk. Through the murkiness of the alcohol I feel a happiness so different from the manic, insecure sexual love I feel for Ethan.

‘So, who do you think is the cutest in our company?'

‘I don't know, you know I have eyes for only one man. Shit, I can't believe I'm saying these words out loud, it feels so good!'

‘The little prince . . . Ethan, Ethan, Ethan. Come now, whoooo . . . iiisss the cutest?' Mal is in no mood for seriousness.

‘OK, there's no competition, without a doubt . . .'

‘Who, come now, I won't tell Ethan. Who?'

‘Oscar.'

‘You betcha. Shit, he must be the most stunning boy in Infantry School. Nothing like a cute
boereseun
with a lekker
boerewors
!'

 

On the way to The Dungeon a memory that was triggered by a word Malcolm had used haunts me. Around me the music plays and the Johannesburg lights block upwards in their concrete stacks. I listen to Malcolm talk but I hear the word punching within me . . . Homo.

Over a weekend in high school, on Arno's farm with a group of friends, reading, listening to music and talking, there is a discussion about an article in a popular Afrikaans magazine—“
Homosexuals: The Shocking Truth.
”

Homosexuality is described as an evil cult, practised behind closed doors. The journalist ‘exposes' some people in society posing as ‘normal.' Gay men are portrayed as ‘despicable and subversive,' perpetrators of the vilest acts.

It is the word ‘homo' that for some reason chills me.

There are photographs, grainy long-distance photos, taken into people's private homes—two men kissing. They appear desperate and sad when they are arrested. It disturbs me deeply, because in a way they have photographed me, arrested me.

There are many references to the Bible and opinions from Dutch Reformed ministers. Sodom and Gomorrah—God's only solution for
them
.

My friends agree with the article and recount, with glee, stories about gay bashing. With sadness I realise I have no friends here, for if they had to know who or
what
I really am, they would despise me.

 

The building looks a little like a rundown castle. To my surprise most of the men are just regular guys like Mal and I. Some I find really attractive. As we walk towards the building, I repeat to myself, over and over, like footprints into my new life, ‘Out and proud, out and proud. I am gay, I am gay,' and for the first time in my life, ‘I am OK.'

I feel lighter, intoxicated by the open admission, the madness of words that have now broken free, out in the light, beyond my own bigotry.

‘Dolla! Dolla!' A severely wigged, sequin-dressed man swirls around and calls in falsetto to a friend who is some way behind us in the queue, ‘Doll-aaaaaaa, did you hear the one about the bi who was looking for a couple?' Hysterical laughter and highpitched screeching follows while he pivots on his stiletto heels with frightening dexterity.

‘It's not always like this. It's just that it's Miss D tonight!'

‘I don't mind, I love it. It's wild!'

 

The show is more entertaining than anything I have ever seen in any theatre: drum rolls, feathers, sequins, the mouldy smell of the smoke generator, the ‘old sock' smell of poppers, the overstretched, unbalanced sound, the lights, the overstated, glitzy everything—my first impression of being ‘out'!

Mal buys more drinks. The drag artist under the spotlight mimes each syllable of a song with ‘her' exaggerated red mouth. The end of each line is like a scene from some tragic Italian opera.

Malcolm beckons me to the loo. I get up and follow him. The toilet fills with pockets of sound as the door is constantly opened and closed, and there is a pervasive smell of urine and sweat. Men make passes at us and we flirt back like teenagers.

‘There's someone who fancies you!' Malcolm shouts above the music.

‘Where?'

‘I'll show you. He's beulah.'

‘What?'

‘Beulah-beautiful, baby. Just come!'

I laugh excitedly, turn and walk back to the dazzle and the noise. The words swim in the din.
There's someone who fancies you.
A man! And this is fine, and this is normal.

Later, after the show, I dance with Malcolm and then the-manwho-fancies-me asks me to go home with him, but on this night of firsts that will not be one of them.

Ethan . . . tomorrow! I check my watch. No, today, later today I'm going to see Ethan!

 

Back in bed at Malcolm's house, I pray for my new life, changed around like a windsock by a new prevailing wind, from exactly the opposite direction. And I pray for my meeting the following day.

The landscape of the life I've just left behind starts blurring slightly. From now on I will see everything differently. I will never step back into shame again. I will look at the future from this perspective. And then I sleep.

 

 

***

 

There is a highway between Johannesburg and Pretoria, with urban sprawl on either side. Some day the two cities will become one, connected by office parks, factories and little clusters of nondescript buildings. I find it all so unsightly—untreated sores on the bad skin of a money-hungry city in puberty. On this highway I sit with my heart bouncing around as though it's trapped in a pinball machine.

‘Once we know that you can see him, I'm going to leave you two alone, OK?'

‘Thanks, Mal.'

 

Ethan is there and I'm allowed to see him. They send a troop to ‘Tell Vickerman there's someone at the duty office to see him.'

Mal shares my excitement, looks at me and says, ‘Good luck, Nick. Just enjoy it. But remember,' and he puts on a dramatic, singsong voice, ‘there are plenty of fish in the sea!' Then he is gone.

I choose a position from where I can see Ethan walk towards me without him seeing me. Aware of my unsteady heart, wiping my hands on my pants in an attempt to keep them dry, scanning the route and rehearsing my greeting in my mind, I wait.

When I see him approach, my entire body jumps out of focus for a split second. He is wearing browns; his hair is longer, under a new ruby, the medics beret. He stops at the duty counter and asks a question.

Who is this boy? I think to myself in that brief moment before he turns and sees me. Who is this person who commands such supreme dominion over my waking moments? I clear my thoughts, then my throat.

‘Ethan!' He looks around. ‘Hi,' I say and smile nervously.

‘Nicholas! Nick!' He smiles too and I let go of the breath I was holding. He is even more striking than I remember. I'm not worthy of him, he is too good looking, he will never be interested in me, not even if he is gay, my head races. Breathe, just breathe slowly. Stand up straight, look sexy, look confident.

‘What are you doing here? I mean, how did you get here?'

Is he happy to see me? I search his face, his body language.

‘I'm on pass with Mal, you know, Malcolm? Shit, of course you do. It's our last pass before Vasbyt. We're in the same company.'

He looks around for Malcolm.

‘He dropped me here. He'll be back in an hour.'

‘Come, let's sit out here. How are you? Wow, this is so amazing. You are the last person I ever expected!' We walk out and sit down on the lawn.

‘I'm OK. Did you get my letters?'

‘Yes, did you get mine?'

‘Yep, but only the other day. They took forever to get to me. Thanks for writing. Shit, the post is slow. It feels like forever since I last saw you.'

‘Yes . . . Nick, are you OK? You look tired, or have you lost weight or something?'

‘I've had a tough time, I must tell you.' I wait a while, look away and wonder how much I should tell him about Dylan.

‘Tell me.'

‘Just this whole year, and Infantry School has been seriously rough. Who would have thought a year ago that our lives would change so radically?'

‘Yeah.'

‘How're you finding your course?'

‘OK, I guess. It's great that you seem to be doing well. I mean, we were all so shit scared of Infantry School, but you seem to be cracking it.'

‘You know, Ethan, it's not so much the course—well, maybe it'll get the better of me yet, because Vasbyt is still ahead, and the border—but it's something else.'

‘What?'

‘Something happened that has kind of freaked me out, man.'

‘O yeah?'

‘My buddy, the guy who slept on the same bunk as I did, well next to me actually—we never sleep on beds there—any case . . .' I notice his surprise and the questioning look; he wants to ask something, but I go on, ‘. . . he committed suicide.' I put my index finger in front of my mouth and pull an imaginary trigger. I immediately regret having started our time together in such a dramatic way. Trembling slightly, I bring my hand down, my eyes obviously full of pain. He frowns and looks at me searchingly.