*
“Hells bells, that blooming Opheibia better have a good excuse when she comes back,” Julie furiously scrubbed the stove. “I kept on telling everybody that she is the best maid in the country, always on time, and with her we don’t even lock the phone…and now she is 4 days overdue.”
“Mebbe she is dead,” Joshua said. “Tylor in my class told us that his maid got stabbed while she was in her township. She was a Xhosa. Tylor said his dad said the blacks have got it in their genes to kill each other. His dad says we all come from Africa that is where mankind started and it is like tea.”
Julie frowned. “Like tea?”
“Ja Mom. Around the teabag is the darkest tea and that is Africa. Anywhere else it’s more watered down. The strongest genes are around the teabag and the stronger the genes the more they kill…or something like that.”
“That’s the first time I hear that theory,” Julie said. “Anyway, teabag or not, you kids will have to help me tidy up the place a bit.”
“You could show Alpheus how to tidy up the place,” Joshua suggested.
“You can forget about that,” Ludwig said. “Alpheus has got enough other jobs to do. And anyway, I must take him back to the prison just now.”
“To the prison?” I was flabbergasted.
“Ja, Alpheus is a convict. He’s out on parole.”
“What did he do?”
“Disorderly conduct and drunkenness.”
“And that’s enough to lock somebody up?”
“Ja, but Alpheus wasn’t exactly locked up,” Ludwig said. “We’ve got a system here by which you can go and get a prisoner if you need a labourer. You swear an oath, become a deputy warder and the prisoner stays with you. You feed him and normally you give him some clothes and shoes because he hasn’t got anything. When his time is over, you take him back to the prison and pay him in front of the official. I think it’s a good system. It keeps the guys busy and gives them a chance to earn some bucks and it saves the state a lot of money. See our pool?”
“Ja.”
“The pool firm did a lousy job when they first put it in. I complained and they refused to do anything about it. I was so gatvol that I went into Jimmy’s hardware and bought 10 hammers and 10 chisels and then I went to the prison and got 10 convicts. We hacked the whole pool out and threw the pieces into the pool bosses garden.”
Mein lieber Scholli, here is a man of action.
After the kids’ good night stories Ludwig made a fire in the fire place. Julie put a Callas record on and sat down to study a pile of mags. I read the ‘Dark Side of the Rainbow’ and Ludwig the Evening Post. Clochard, Schnappsi and the cats were snoozing in front of the fire. The flames leapt around the thorn tree logs and made crackling noises. Outside a gusty wind shook the trees and every now and then big raindrops fell out of the sky.
I took a sip of my mango juice and grunted contentedly: “Lekker ou lewe.”
Julie looked up from her mag and grinned. “So you’re beginning to pick up the taal?”
“I haven’t got much of a choice. They stuck me in the Afrikaans class for foreigners at school. It’s absolutely obligatory for all new immigrants. Niko from Cyprus is there and 2 sisters from Bristol, whose father is managing some factory here. Then there is a boy called Luciano from L.M. His family fled from the civil war in Mozambique. And there are 2 kids from Holland who say Afrikaans is a disgrace to the Dutch language, because it’s so primitive, but Mevrou van der Bijl, the teacher, says it is the language of the white African and the most beautiful on the planet.”
Julie put her mag down. “I don’t know so much about the most beautiful, but it is certainly most helpful for people to get certain jobs in this country.”
“Especially in places run by the government like the Kruger National Park, Ludwig said. “I wanted to become a game ranger there when I was young. No chance. My Afrikaans wasn’t good enough.”
“You were also in the wrong church,” Julie said. “This country has been run by the Afrikaaners since 1948. If you don’t praat the taal and if you don’t go to the Kerk you can forget about any job in anything that is run by the government.”
Ludwig reached for his whisky glass and let off a roar. “Where is that bloody Schnappsi? He’s done it again. Finished my booze. Mathilda, let that blooming dog out. I want to drink my whisky in peace.”
I opened the door and, with a pissed off expression, Schnappsi disappeared under one of the chairs on the stoep.
“I hope this boy – Luciano – doesn’t plan to become a game ranger,” Julie said. “He’s probably Roman Catholic like most Portuguese. So according to official propaganda he is part of the Romse Gevaar.”
Doodles had woken up and jumped on my lap. “Don’t worry, Luciano is planning to become a famous fado singer in Lisbon.” Doodles dug her claws into my jeans and purred. “Isn’t all this totally schizo?” I asked. “The Rooi Gevaar, the Swart Gevaar, the Romse Gevaar…as if there was a danger behind each tree. Even the kids at school talk about it. Dead scared that the communists might shoot all the pastors one day and that the blacks will drive all the whites into the sea. And what exactly is the Romse Gevaar anyway?”
“Do you know why the Huguenots came to this country?” Julie asked.
“Because they were persecuted by the Catholics in Europe.”
“Ja, and it hasn’t stopped, except this country is Protestant and they persecute the Catholics.”
“Not officially,” Ludwig said. “South Africa is supposed to be a place with religious freedom. But go to the Beresfords down the road and they’ll tell you what sort of hassle they had to go through to get a permanent resident’s permit just because they are Catholics.”
Some strong gusts of wind made the doors and windows rattle and a flash of lightning cut through the night. Ludwig poured himself another whisky. The thunderstorm started to rage so wildly that Schnappsi was allowed back into the house. He got a stern warning not to touch any booze, otherwise he would have to sleep on the stoep come hell or high water. As a reply Schnappsi farted – according to Ludwig a sure sign of the dog’s superior intelligence – and disappeared without looking at us. I put some more logs on the fire and Julie changed the record.
Suddenly Ludwig whistled through his teeth. “Listen to what is written in the paper here: Dominee Johann van der Westhuizen, 56, and his maid Mmabatho Dlamini, 24, were convicted for contravening the Immorality Act. 3 policemen testified to peering through the windows of van der Westhuizen’s house and seeing the couple having sexual intercourse. The magistrate…”
“Heiliger Strohsack, I know the guy. He is the Dominee of Marieke’s church.”
“That’s him,” Ludwig confirmed. “Johann Dikpens with the thundering tongue.”
“Bloody hypocritical bastard too,” Julie said. “He’s the first one to send ‘immoral sinners’ into the fires of hell. And now he is sleeping with another woman. How can he do that to his wife?”
“Listen to the rest of the article: The magistrate said because that was van der Westhuizens second offence he would sentence him to one year in jail for this offence, which would be added to the suspended sentence from the previous offence, to run concurrently: an effective one and a half year jail term. The magistrate remarked that van der Westhuizen was a disgrace to society. He sentenced Mmabatho Dlamini as a first time offender to 4 months effective jail.”
“How come 3 cops peer through the window of a person’s house?” I asked. “Haven’t they got more important jobs to do?”
“One would think so,” Ludwig said. “I guess one of the reasons is that the fastest way for a young cop to climb the professional ladder is to make a maximum of convictions, and because the law of South Africa makes sex across the colour line a crime, that is where you get your offenders.” Ludwig swallowed half a glass of whisky one shot. “You know Mathilda, in this country the cops don’t even need a search warrant. They just walk into your house. And that is not all. They can even convict you for
planning to contravene the Immorality Act. How on earth can a person disprove that charge?”
Zebra Horizon Page 17
