She walked barefoot, thoughtfully, from one filing cabinet to the next. Gorgeous legs. A devastating profile. Those pouty lips, begging to be kissed. She mouthed alphabets, mentally arranging surnames of patients. She was, strangely, pleased to see me – all that blushing, the coy yet deliberate glances. Her toenails could have done with a fresh coat of nail polish – a revival of the purplish shade in various stages of peeling off. She offered me a seat, Dr West’s chair, the throne from which he deciphered human tragedies, from which he patiently asked questions with discreet judgements, from which he had to think ahead, predict how to deal with unexpected meltdowns. It was from that chair that Dr West blended into the background, seemed insignificant, the master of weighing up emotional pauses.
His choice of interior decor had ensured witnesses to his theatre of sobs and hisses: pictures of Bill Clinton surrounded by a group of singing children in Uganda, Gabriel Márquez receiving the Nobel Prize, a jubilant Idi Amin in full Scottish regalia, Mandela sewing on Robben Island, a shot of John Kennedy saluting JFK’s horse-drawn coffin, that Kevin Carter image of a vulture stalking a starving child. It dawned on me that each picture, no doubt carefully selected, said something (not quite sure what) about existence. And what perplexing juxtapositions!
Audrey opened and sealed boxes, discarded out-of-date psychology journals, continued mouthing letters of the alphabet: J. Cromwell, D. Dikobe, Z. Maharaj, P. Woodhouse. I, in an effort to seem at ease, helped myself to dried mangoes, on which Audrey nibbled between her filing.
‘I better get going,’ I said. She looked up, a typed report with red pen underlining in her hand, and said, ‘I won’t die if you stay.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Stay.’
‘Well, isn’t it inappropriate, with all these secrets scattered around the consultation room?’
‘Says who?’
‘Well, doctor-patient confidentiality?’
‘Here. John Cromwell: filthy as a practising paedophile ever gets. Preyed on two-year-olds.’
‘Audrey!’
‘Audrey what? Some of these psychos are either languishing in jail or dead.’
‘What will Dr West think?’
‘Nothing. D’you really think he walks around agonising about deviants who fuck watermelons, pathological liars who defraud orphanages, alcoholics who butchered their wives? Is that what you think: that Kevin lives his life cringing and wincing at every blot contained in these files?’ She picked up the files, pulled out Dr West’s meticulous notes: ‘Let’s see … What have we here? Amanda Dube, a prostitute who found and lost and found Jesus, Elizabeth Reed drowned her twin daughters to spite a philandering boyfriend, and Colonel Maritz, a Vlakplaas kingpin, specialising in making blacks disappear without trace. These files, all 500 of them, contain the most hideous, most depraved and ruthless tales you can ever imagine. D’you think Kevin kisses his children goodbye at the school gates thinking of all the rot in these patient files? Most of these horrors are perfectly normal and capable people simply being full of it. Granted, there are some – a small percentage – who genuinely need help and affirmation, but the rest are fuckheads abusing their good medical insurance, drowning in self-pity and guilt.’
She smiled, transferred prearranged blue and yellow files into filing cabinets, all the while double-checking the alphabetical sequence. Those calves of hers. Those small, efficient hands. The small wristwatch she says was a gift from an ex-boyfriend, ‘a perfectly capable, marriage-averse type, a software programmer with a zero attention span. Besides his computer codes, really shocking lack of concentration. Sleep-with-shoes-on kind of delinquency …’
Genius? ‘Oh, yes.’
Looks? ‘Double tick.’
Style? ‘Spades full.’
Money? ‘Bank vaults. Father’s a controlling shareholder of East Platinum, so the Smiths defrost their refrigerators onto bank notes.’
Bedroom antics? ‘That’s private. And, let’s see: Dependability? Zero. Bucketfuls of culinary skills. Cooks sinfully good meals. And here I am, rearranging confessions from fucking Cromwell – God, he’s a dick! – and other delusional, depraved creatures of his ilk.’
One hour, and the files were neatly in their respective filing cabinets, leaving Audrey to polish furniture and empty the trash basket of its negligible contents: a twisted paperclip, shredded documents, a perfume box. I knew without asking that Audrey had read my file, though she downplayed her prying eyes by volunteering stories about Cromwells. I also knew there was something very special about Audrey, something feminine, carefree, something profound – complex even – in how she switched from one topic to the next with breathtaking agility, how she could discuss paedophiles and boyfriends and Dr West in one passionate conversation, a conversation that lingered long after she had moved on with her tasks. She was interesting, hiding her true self, a self far removed from the obedient and efficient PA serving bottled water and dried fruit to psychopaths.
Dr West had, unbeknown to either Audrey or me, never left for Spain. This was the reason I felt safe to will pleasure into being. My hand travelled halfway up Audrey’s thigh, almost all the way, inches short of her humid horizons. My fingers transmitted oppressive sensations, while my eyes crept through the giant red button of her dress, where a pair of turgid breasts guarded her muted sighs. I lifted her onto Dr West’s desk, stood between her slightly parted legs, fed on her lip-glossed, pouty lips, lips that tasted like strawberries – only with citrus undertones. It seemed the longest seven minutes I ever imagined possible, during which Audrey saw, over my shoulder, Dr West staring in absolute horror. We composed ourselves, acknowledged it had to end, that all seven minutes had to be forgotten. But we also (on the telephone later) agreed that life would have been explosive had we entered the eighth minute, and every other minute thereafter. How could I explain this to Dr West: strawberry lips with citrus undertones? I would be accused of remorselessness. Loathed. Condemned. I would be crucified for a seven-minute affair, for twelve seconds of weakness; for three seconds of letting my hand wander under Audrey’s dress. I thought of Audrey Adams, whom I had, technically speaking, not bedded. How would Dr West weigh the conclusiveness of my intentions – if I would have indeed let my hand travel the remaining sprint to her forbidden spheres? I tossed and turned that evening, stared at the ceiling, plotted and raged and despaired – mostly at how Dr West seemed to enjoy punishment by silence, how he simply walked away.
The Audrey mishap aside, there were moments of untold tranquillity on Dr West’s couch, of profound introspection and inner peace. I was making steady progress, he assured me, but I was not yet out of the woods. It was during my eighteenth visit that Dr West let me in on the deceptions of PTS. Since our furtive encounter, Audrey pretended to not see me, and went about her PA rituals without as much as a whisper, except for a brief nod that could have been a greeting.
‘PTS,’ continued Dr West, ‘is essentially a belated response to traumatic environments or incidents. Proper and early diagnosis goes a long way in limiting damaging outcomes.’
‘And PTS is?’
‘Post-traumatic stress. How are we doing with sleep these days?’
‘On and off.’
‘Nightmares?’
‘None so far.’
‘Columbus dreams?’
‘None. Just memories.’
‘Such as?’
‘Columbus and I debated masterpieces. Sekoto. Mabasa. Modigliani. Not even resting my head on Rusty’s supremely sculptured breasts, her honey-brown buttons massaging my ear lobes, compared to the calm I felt talking to Columbus.’
‘And the cat visitor, cat with a bowtie? Do you still believe cats can tell stories?
‘Yes. I’m convinced the cat is real. That he spoke.’
Dr West shuffled in his chair. ‘And the Rusty issues?’
‘Tragically and predictably purgatorial.’
‘That bad?’
‘Yes. That long, lyrical email of wanting to be loved and gro
ped and what not. So I told her to move on with her life. I can’t have her put a leash on me.’
‘She accepted?’
‘Predictably, no. She threatened to kill herself. But I have had enough death around me in the last year or so. Kate. Columbus. Pete. Now her?’
‘You mentioned you read. Do you find pleasure in books?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘What are you reading now?’
‘Nietzsche. Blaise Pascal.’
Dr West frowned, smiled broadly. ‘Impressive.’
I was falling asleep, and I almost did not hear him, so my ‘Thank you’ was belated, marking the end of the session. Rusty’s lyrical email of wanting to be loved and groped and what not read thus:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: I am Sad
My Archangel Michael,
I don’t know how to tell you this without sounding like a complete nutcase. But I am sad. Very sad. I never meant to compete with the memory of our dead friend. I just felt neglected. I understand that Christopher meant a lot to you, that your brooding and starving yourself (eleven-day fasts, Michael!) is something I must learn to respect and understand, though I still think it’s a bit extreme.
Anyway, I’m not sure if it means you have given up on me, on us, completely completely, as in no-chance-in-hell sort of thing. Anyway, I love talking to you, smelling you, and apologise for so badly wishing you to think of me (as if already your wife!) before we had even dated – you know, being lovers as opposed to being friends with access to things, things that would have otherwise been private. I know I can be temperamental and a bit of a control freak, something my mother says will never work with a thinker boyfriend. Mom says you’re a thinker. I agree.
I just want you to share your thoughts, so I can get to know you better. About the suicide thing: it was stupid and insensitive. It’ll never happen again. I am still upset that you think my father is a swine. I know he can be difficult and cold. But swine? Think about it, Michael. We have just over a year before graduation. Maybe we should use the time to get to know each other better. To correct mistakes. I bought new underwear today. I would like to show you, if you’re keen. I have no lectures for the rest of today. Some love, bit of groping. So, I will let you have me (fuck sounds so obscene!), if you want. Let me know what you think?
Your Lover Friend, Rusty Bell
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: The Swine & Related Matters
Hi Rusty,
I am sad you are sad. I am also, within limits, ashamed of myself for calling your father that unpleasant word. I meant no harm; I just think he should treat your mother better. I think you’re a great woman, and I know you are going to make someone very happy one day. But knowing myself the way I do, I foresee turmoil and unhappiness in times to come. I suggest we remain friends, as my feelings for you seem to me more brotherly rather than eros-esque (of the romantic, love kind). This is the only reason I was overcautious with our intimate moment – for I did not want to see you hurt.
The suicide thing: all forgiven, water under the bridge. My ‘depression’ has not helped things either, so I apologise for my withdrawals. Let’s treat that issue as a private matter, for the obvious hurt it might cause. You deserve undivided attention and, I’m not sure I’m able to fully grant you the attention things of this nature demand. Advice taken on the starvation front. Your new undergarments: sounds terrific, tempted to see them, but it would be inappropriate. You have my friendship and respect to eternity.
Michael
I immersed myself in Nietzsche, in Pascal, fasted for another eleven days straight. ‘Thought constitutes man’s greatness,’ said Pascal. I, light-headed from self-imposed starvation, made connections between diverse and intimate observations – covering vast landscapes of human triumphs and tragedies: Thought. Time. Madmen. Wretchedness. I, in my dreamlike state, with Nietzsche for company, travelled the furthest journey to the frontiers of the mind, Nietzsche’s thoughts falling like snow from starry nights blanketing desolate deserts. Thoughts about passions. Nature. Deep comprehension. My excavations left me fatigued, yet thrilled at my accidental discovery of rumination and reflection.
A void echoed. It lulled unsuspecting Campus Tribes into corrosive slumber, slumber so deceptive that it sparked a crippled existence, parroting of dead and dying people’s wisdoms. In residence meetings the Political Tribe assembled and impressed novices: they quoted Karl Marx and Dr King to rebel against suspect cafeteria eggs, to remind the Du Toits and Krugers of their contributions to human misery, but also as indirect intellectual charms into the beds of girls. But their revolution never seemed to get anywhere. It proved to be little more than an insurrection for pranksters, for bored snobs with too much time and meek purpose, a revolution that changed colours for no known reason, a rebellion allergic to sacrifice and dying.
It was a revolution born out of a real revolution, yet so tragically choked by a persistent void, its soul dripping with pontifications on egg quality. A void echoed, wrapped in silence, of egg pranksters imitating the March on Washington, crawling in the shadows of the Treason Trial, dwarfed by the valour of Tiananmen Square. There was a void, silence, because the revolution lacked its own breath, its own flame, because it insisted on saying the already said. It was stillborn, scorched by its avowal to creature comforts: air-conditioned meeting rooms, meeting schedules circulated weeks in advance, expensive perfumes paid for by parents slaving in Johannesburg banks, in Pretoria homes, as drivers of midnight trains to ports, somewhere at the mouth of Cape Town and Durban seas. It was silent because it was scheduled, tame – while revolutions are supposed to be immediate, unpredictable and dangerous things. Yet it was not, not in the true sense of dangerous things, meant to forcefully alter things. It was a revolution concerning the quality of cafeteria eggs.
The revolutionary song was unflattering: ‘De Bruine, De Bruine, rotten eggs De Bruine/ Did you lay, or buy/ These damned powdered eggs, De Bruine!/ Why, Oh why/ Wretched man De Bruine.’ Dining-hall pot plants were watered with tomato sauce, cutlery bent, restrooms vandalised. Mr De Bruine, the acting dining-hall manager, grew tired of the increasing hooliganism of the egg revolutionaries. He simply ordered good eggs, and the banging on dining room tables and the insulting song fizzled away – with it the Political Tribe’s seven-hour meetings that resolved to spill tomato sauce into plants. It was only weeks later that the revolutionaries realised just how personally De Bruine had taken the song. The already suspect cheese suddenly tasted like bath soap. The Tribe established an impromptu Cheese Committee to investigate, to report on the sudden drop in cheese standards.
But De Bruine also filled them with dread. Nothing escaped that owl with grey shoes, the balding goat walking around with his asthma spray. His pointed and ashy elbows. His hairy chest. His cheap socks and properly tied shoelaces. That squint eye behind gold-framed bifocal lenses, dangling from the sun-burnt rubbery neck with a beaded string. His chipped tooth, his undecided potbelly, his stumpy index fingers that searched for clauses in the University Constitution. As deputy head of the university’s Disciplinary Committee, John de Bruine wielded considerable influence. He was a loner, upright, steely, not easily swayed by praise or loathing.
So when the Cheese Committee invaded his office, an already irritable De Bruine was furious: ‘This is a place of learning! Not a five-star hotel! We do not offer gourmet tropical-island dishes here, never have, never will! It is either the eggs or the cheese. You cannot have both!’ He swung from his office chair, a VHS tape in hand, jammed it into a video machine. It was footage from the dining-hall security cameras; footage that stopped the newly elected Cheese Committee in their tracks. He charged: ‘I am curious, itching, wondering what the DC is going to think of such blatant disregard of tomato sauce? These things have to be accounted for. Every cent!’
He had the upper hand and knew it, thwarting the
cheese revolution before it could begin. I pitied the Political Tribe, concerned with the quality of eggs, presiding over Cheese Committees. They needed to be freed, be woken from the deceptions of freedom. Freed from freedom. To be told that real revolutions come once in a lifetime, that a whole generation would die off before anything resembling a worthy revolution comes along, that what follows such revolutions – the once-in-a-generation kind – were but ramblings of history, reminders of the greatness of the human spirit. They needed to starve, the lot of them, until they learnt they were not revolutionaries – but rather interpreters of the revolution. All they did, big and small, was but a fleeting salute at real suffering, suffering that birthed freedom written in blood, caked menstrual puddles in detention, blood from steel-pipe floggings, face bashings against walls. Why, oh why, did the Political Tribe think eggs mattered in the realm of existence? An email interrupted my reflections on these matters …
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Are You Serious?
Hello You,
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. To think that I have paraded my deepest thoughts and aspirations, fooled myself into thinking you were capable of loving me is beyond me. I am deeply ashamed and enraged that you knew this all along, yet accepted to almost be intimate with me. I admit I was maybe too pushy, too ahead of myself with the love stuff. But let’s talk about it. How’s you starving yourself and these deepest reflections you talk about going to help you become a normal, functional, even useful human being? Other clever people have families, confidants, people who love them.
What makes you think you’re so much better and greater than everybody else? Of what use is a great mind if it becomes a prison, a disease, a curse, a profound gift that nobody knows of or cares about? I can make that happen, if you let me. Graduation is a year away. Question is, are you going to continue starving yourself, when this nation desperately needs thinkers, even of the starving kind? All I need from you is some commitment. That’s all. Commitment that we will be together, that you will forget about this Palesa ex of yours and her circus charades. Do you really want a clown for a wife, someone who befriends monkeys and camels for a living? There are, surely, more interesting people in the world.
Rusty Bell Page 7
