Rusty’s heart galloped away, and trying to rein it back, she confessed: ‘Never before has a potential insult sounded so sweet. I am torn between scratching your eyes out or letting you see things few mortals are privileged to touch, let alone lick. You have talent, I give you that, but be sure to use it wisely. But, again, lust can turn the most timid of men to passionate poets,’ she said blushing. ‘Feminine hearts can be unmovable boulders. Or shaky, unpredictable, starved things.’ She winked, and was gone.
I had, that summer, almost perfected selected contemplations that, by chance, rattled the hearts of girls. The glow, the very premise of my ponderings at times included historical events, dictators of every kind, dirty old men, determined skirt chasers. A certain purity, a sacredness of sorts, does not allow me extended explanatory liberties, which is not to say observance of such limitations has a bearing on my rather colourful life lessons, false discoveries, even occasional calamities of the carnal kind.
Seen from apartment blocks and other high-rise buildings, suburban Johannesburg is, in part, an expansive canvas of mansions on sloping hills, prostituting itself to an abundance of trees. The view is flattened by city lights come night, dissolving the landscape and architectural details into a fuzzy, yet picture-perfect glittering so pretty it deceives the eye into seeing beauty. Once in a blue moon power outages expose the picturesque illusion for what it is: a paradise indebted to light bulbs. Darkness shatters the myth, exposes the city’s nocturnal ambience to be a fraud, the spellbinding lights an unreliable measure of civilisation. The city collects rates from residents – to revive worn wiring and substations roasted by lightning and decades of service, for control over neon lights so hopelessly dependent on substations surviving lightning strikes.
It rained: thunderous storms that shot travelling lightning nerves over the cityscape, lightning dipping fiery fingers onto tree tops and into swimming pools, lazy and laborious drizzles favoured by couch potatoes, windy hail storms that gave insurance companies heart tremors, downpours that threatened to wash bridges and rose bushes away. It rained because it needed to rain, because rain inspired poets and blooming trees, drizzled because that is what rain is supposed to do: rain. I should have slept; rebelled, pretended I was not awaited at the rooms of Dr West: that condescending, judgemental, brilliant bastard.
Consultation 34. Dr West telephoned Dr Moroka and put him on speaker. They exchanged cordialities, generalities: that Obama was in trouble with the US economy, that Philip Roth had retired, clinical trials on some drug meant to counter Parkinson’s. Dr Moroka said there was a bridal shower for his sister Beulah, to which Dr West was invited. Those two: who would have thought they knew each other, related after office hours, exchanged stories about the world’s sick and troubled? The small talk out of the way, commentary on things they had no control over, Dr West intimated that I was by his side, listening in, to which Dr Moroka said: ‘Hello, Michael, I pray you have been eating.’
I mumbled something, before Dr West prompted him to share his latest observations. Dr Moroka drew deep breath, and burdened, spoke directly to Dr West, but on occasion, switched to ‘Michael and I talked at length about this’, which I believe was meant to make me feel part of the proceedings. Dr Moroka spoke of a chemical imbalance triggered by too little food, bowel disorders, ‘a concerning and potentially damaging loss of weight’. The worst, said Dr Moroka, ‘… is unknown dangers and future complications that might arise out of depriving the body of critical nutrition’. He concluded that he was gravely concerned; ‘exasperated’ was his exact word, ‘that such a fine and obviously bright young man should place himself against the tide of normal living’. Quite a linguist, that Dr Moroka.
It was his recommendation, therefore, that Dr West continue engaging me in an effort to uproot underlying causes, because ‘problems with diet and insomnia are symptomatic of a much deeper problem’. The predicament was, according to him, primarily psychological. It was at this point that I ventured an opinion: ‘Good morning. Allow me to interject, Dr Moroka. Obama is not in trouble with the economy. The economy is in trouble with itself, with capitalism. His job is unfortunate, as was Clinton’s, Reagan’s, Mbeki’s – and all the others before and yet to come. About Roth: writers never retire; they just stop writing, but continue reflecting, ruminating, offering insight into obscure social irritants. That is the lifeblood of art. It does not begin or end with a pen. I know little about Parkinson’s, except that all disease makes a mockery of life and fairness in the allocation of such burdens to some and not to others.’
That said, I coughed, a shallow wet cough, and told them, in a tone free from grandeur, lacking in pastoral pulpit pretensions, that I understood and empathised with their dilemma. That they should not feel obliged or bound by medical ethics and oaths, for we were all – them included – merely dust in waiting. That when we had perished, our knowledge of American state affairs notwithstanding, we were but food for worms, bones that would become one with dust. That didn’t, however, mean that we should be reckless in our existence, or cause anxiety – no matter how peripheral – to those willing and elected to be guardians of normal living. Doctors, for instance.
They were right to be concerned, a fact I revered, yet in safeguarding me and their trade, they had forgotten to consider, to be daring, to ask, if food was all there is to existence. That formula is wrong, or at least incomplete, I told them. Haven’t they wondered why, after many years of mounting their wives, their secret muses, their lust refused to gather cobwebs? Does the breast, knowing in the language of caress, of wondering salacious tongues of men, know brown sugar and what it is for? Dr West put his notebook down, took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes intensely, leaving his knuckles whitened and his brow reddened. Dr Moroka managed a low-key ‘My dear God in heaven!’
‘If,’ I continued, ‘humanity, or more specifically men and women in white coats, in laboratories, continue murdering mice, infecting them with all sorts of plagues, why are we so appalled if all I am doing, or trying to do, is to sacrifice me and me alone, and hopefully benefit the seven billion souls and counting who would never know how it feels to be a mouse swimming in bacteria? Only the “bacteria”, in our case, or what Dr Moroka refers to as the tide of normal living, is the fact that the search for the fullness of existence does not have a name. It is not a medical science. But believe me when I say, and I know I don’t have conclusive proof, that what we call our lives, our health, our being, are but fragments of so great a mystery as dry oceans. So we have invented pills for all sorts of banalities (to force sleep, prevent births, to clear pimples): but what does that tell us about life? Very little, I suggest. That means there is and has to be another way, a yet-to-be discovered path, a beam of light that will once and for all answer: what is life hiding from us? Why does the breast know particular kinds of touches and explorations, and not others: like the coarseness and sweetness of sugar granules, for instance? Dr Moroka was at great pains to suggest that I must not confuse hallucinations from hunger, tricks a starved mind play on its owner, with insight of a higher existence. Maybe you are right, Dr Moroka. But what if you are wrong? Let’s think about that. We might just discover, while we are at it, a new frontier to life. That’s all.’
Both doctors sighed. Dr West fidgeted. And that is where it should have ended. But Dr West excused himself, forgetting his mobile phone on the coffee table, for a trip to the urinals. My fingers itched … Who do psychologists have as friends, who do they talk to? I glanced around, invaded the iPhone. I knew the quickest way to establish the most important people to Dr West, and checked all names under speed dial, which were at first unremarkable: Bridgett Chaplain, Detective Jones, Sandton Pharmacy, Jennifer Piano Instructor, Mowbray Police Station, Mommy, Bedrock Capital … and things got a bit more interesting with: Sexy Betsy, Grill Restaurant Lucy, and Airport Prune-Boobed Isabella. I was on Pastor Abrahams, past Jude Plumber 2, my thumb furiously flicking towards Midnight Dulcinea and Bad Debt Plague, when I heard Dr Wes
t’s footsteps. I placed the phone on the glass coffee table, feigned boredom.
Dr West looked at me in a new light. I was not sure if his hesitant scrutiny of me had to do with the phone, or my heartfelt lecture about breasts and brown sugar. He said he was starving, suggested I join him for early lunch at The Grill House downstairs. We shuffled among Sandton City crowds, between sinfully wealthy shoppers purchasing porcelain figurines, past pretenders sinking deeper into credit card debt. Everything around me, before me, above me, seemed out of focus, a misty blur, as we walked past toddlers pushed around in expensive prams, past romance exhibitionists frolicking down escalators, bored shop-front promoters of perfume and cutlery brands, the odd policeman chewing gum. Past luggage shops our journey proceeded, past candy outlets, the banking court, and down a lift whose doors open onto The Grill House entrance, largely deserted, except for a reserved birthday lunch table.
Waitress Cordelia, a bubbly young thing with dimples and a bouncy walk, led us to a secluded corner table, opposite which a giant windmill painting hung. Dr West ordered lamb shank, with couscous and some stir fried vegetables. He gently pushed my menu to me. Aromas, no doubt catchy, wisped from the kitchen, drowning me in an avalanche of nausea. I avoided my reflection in the mirrors, since I knew what I looked like; saw no need to keep checking.
‘Just water and lemon for me,’ I told Cordelia.
‘No!’ countered Dr West emphatically, half authoritative and a touch careful. ‘Please, Michael, a small meal won’t hurt. This is supposed to be your treat. What do you say?’ I shook my head, and when Cordelia returned she placed a glass in front of me, water with ice and sliced lemons. Four rapid gulps later, I felt commotion in my depths, bowels shrugging off the water, resulting in ocean-like upheavals, swirling foams, ending in eminent vomit. I excused myself, wobbled latrine-ward. My body rattled, somehow dissolved into itself, like an erosion of the bones, making my step unsteady, my vision blurry. I had barely reached the pot, sprinting past a Martin Amis look-alike, before emptying the lemon water and the previous evening’s canned peaches, in four forceful bellows. The world rotated beneath my feet, tilted at oblique angles, leaving distant rumbles in my head. Mr Amis fixed a tie in front of the communal mirror, the greasy taps servicing all manner of hands, hands with their assortment of impurities: tours down defecation avenues, unknown horrors from clammy and sweaty handshakes with strangers, remnants of dandruff under fingernails, precarious scratches of groins.
‘Dude, you okay?’ ventured Martin Amis.
I gazed at him, his office demeanour, and answered: ‘Why?’
‘Pardon me, but you look like you’ve walked to Mars and back!’
‘Maybe I have, or just might consider it,’ I said.
‘Shit, man, whatever it is, please take care.’
I chuckled, felt mocked, said: ‘Oh well, nice of you, I didn’t get your name …’
‘Amos. Amos Levine. J.P. Morgan, Africa Division.’
‘Thanks, Amos. I’m fine.’ He half waved, and was gone.
Back at the table Dr West nibbled on a grilled calamari starter. I had barely taken my seat when he announced that Rusty Bell had, in confidence, given him a copy of my last email. He said he had read it, 26 times, and yet found he couldn’t quite wrap his head around its true purpose, its unusual tone. The story about the leaf, he continued, a piece of calamari impaled on a fork midair, is like nothing he had ever encountered, not in literature or in conversations. That close, obsessive observation of the leaf, its pores, its veins, suggested to him that I was not a normal patient, that behind my surface eccentricities there seemed, to his mind, something puzzling, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. I would make a great writer, he opined, and added – the fork parking the calamari piece in his ravenous mouth, followed by two quick wipes with the napkin, a thoughtful sip of wine – that he was worried, feeling helpless, that such insight, whatever its imperfections, would go to waste.
Feelings of great intensity can coexist with a more balanced, gentler view of life. Speaking as a friend and he supposed a father figure of sorts, as a fellow human being, not as a head doctor, he didn’t think it was wise to drain life of all its inherent pleasures, to peel the bark from which it covers itself, exposing things without form or meaning. He thought Rusty Bell was lovely, concerned – as he was – about someone she cared about deeply. He would understand if I was mad at Rusty Bell for leaking my deepest thoughts, but if it made any difference, he would have acted in the exact manner to come to a friend’s aid. He hoped it was not too late for me to adjust my views, that I was not too close to the brink. What did I think about that? Well, said I, my fasting was never intended to be an open-ended crusade, it always had limits. It was pointless to suffer for things one would not be around to witness, though history disproved that conclusion on many levels, across continents. There was always, pun intended, a leaf to be taken from solitary, insignificant mad men. With due respect, I told Dr West, he had done well in treating me, but that it was, however, my considered opinion that he had misdiagnosed me: also totally missed an opportunity to rethink medical science. There was nothing new in the shock and trauma resulting from Pete Wentzel resorting to such a heavy-handed solution to his earthly misgivings. I don’t know anything about psychology, I told him, but I held a view that all of medical science was not life, but an effort to enforce balance when nature imposed chaos. That was – beside the fact that I wished to discontinue therapy, return to normal life, to eating – all I wanted to say.
Dr West’s eyes watered. I could not tell if it was emotion (which?) or fatigue. I apologised for what would have seemed like bad manners, excused myself and stood up to leave. Dr West raised an open palm, said wearily and reflective, ‘I hear you, Michael. Please sit. Psychology has been around for a very long time. It’s not something you change willy-nilly because one patient has personal passions. It is quite different to discarding chewing gum. In many ways, our very existence depends on it. On sane people. But, again, what if we are indeed wrong? Or worse – and not that I am referring to you – but how dangerous is it to listen to people who might not necessarily be in the best frame of mind, resulting in catastrophic mistakes? Think about it.’
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘psychology has been around for a very long time. But so has ignorance.’ I shook his hand and left.
Pete Wentzel
It was heart-wrenching visiting Pete, Columbus’s father. We sat in silence, on reed chairs on the verandah of his Auckland Park home. He offered a tour of the house, said: ‘You don’t know a man unless you have dined in his home.’ He showed me a handful of Columbus’s childhood pictures in which Columbus looked suspiciously at the camera, his curls framing a chubby but wise face. His room was sparsely furnished: A bed. An antique reading table. A tennis racquet on the cream wall. Angus Young, the goldfish, glided in a modest aquarium. A wire dustbin with curls of orange peel. On the reading table was an out-of-focus picture of Kate, Columbus’s mother, sprawled by the poolside, cigarette in hand, next to a Blaupunkt stereo, from the depths of which Dylan strummed his guitar, made love to his harmonica. There wasn’t much else. Yet the Columbus persona loomed large. There seemed to be a profound aura, a knowing calm about the room, knowing in that Columbus knew so much, yet said so little. It was a room, as rooms are rooms, partitioned portions of houses, to foster privacy, to safeguard pleasures and personal idiosyncrasies, detachments from shared family rituals. Dinners. Prayers. Futile mealtime debates: against the perils of taxation. It was a room in a house built with Pete’s schoolmaster wages, furnished with Kate’s chef earnings. It was a room in an average suburb, buzzing with second-, third- and fourth-hand cars, a neighbourhood with forlorn dogs, a place of over-indebted, insomnia-ridden cynics with peptic ulcers.
But Auckland Park was nothing compared to the Alexandra of my childhood. In pursuit of meaning, purpose, there were many Nelson Mandela and Churchill namesakes in torn jerseys with watery noses running the streets of Alexandra. These Man
delas, with ashy twig limbs and yellowing teeth, with unkempt nails and ringworm, with bloodshot eyes and mute tendencies, were what life really looked and smelled like when stripped of all its perfumes and gluttonous dinners. Things had gone beyond survival in parts of Alexandra, where life galloped away, regardless of the Churchills surviving months without as much as a bar of soap. What becomes of such people, Churchills who once passed time by drawing fire engines and food impressions in the dirt? Columbus’s Auckland Park was also tragic, in moderation: the rusty gates, the neglected lawns, sheriff ultimatums in letter boxes. This was a world Columbus called home, the same world Kate escaped in pursuit of Houghton snobbery – Houghton with its automated garden sprinklers and grand mansions, its driveways adorned with Bentleys and Audis, a world of esteemed and eminent persons. Judges. Bankers. CEOs of corporations. Houghton residents were too busy to think beyond the next day, to – like Columbus – reflect on death and burials, how to dismantle known and accepted truths. Such ponderings were choked by obscene displays of wealth and corporate slavery. Eighteen-hour work days. High blood pressures. Fragile marriages. Overweight offspring. Overstocked wine cellars. Expensive divorces. By-invitation-only house-warming parties: to parade new lovers and imported cigars. The odd assassination. High stakes.
Rusty Bell Page 3
