I, futile as this was, wished to state – without contradiction and with a clear conscience – that I had very conflicted feelings as far as Michael Junior was concerned. As hard as I tried, fasts and meditations included, I could not accept that I had the slightest inclination to be, or the remotest idea of how to be, a father. Dr West had completely misunderstood my Question-versus-Problem prognosis on issues of morality. This was the sole reason I had refrained from asking him about the third dimension, that of moral Dilemmas, which were neither Questions nor Problems. For every cave I squeezed into – shielding myself from Abednego’s bloodshot eyes following me everywhere, Rusty Bell’s relentless nagging, her nudges – there seemed to be a conspiratorial light that searched my darkest corners. That light, harsh and dizzying, was what I tried running from in refusing Rusty Bell’s intimacies, intimacies that were by their nature unknowable. Her insistence and life’s complicity, its entrapments in soul-denting affairs, in matrimonial snares, in-law cages, in mortality yokes, in fatherhood dungeons, under lust guillotines, in cerebral furnaces that produced no ash (where was the evidence of burning?), in freedom tombs, was what I had dreaded ever since I followed Palesa’s urine trail as it meandered its steamy voyage on dusty classroom floors, under raised shoes and across cement cracks, taking lone grass ears and sand granules with it. Why couldn’t Rusty learn from Palesa’s example? Palesa, who even when exceedingly grateful at my urine duties, had no expectations beyond our mutual ‘understanding’ – an understanding Teacher Moleleki overstated as something to do with pure souls. I never had a conclusive opinion on this, except a minor jolt of vanity that jabbed the spine, at almost being sanctified.
I cannot say that I was completely immune to Rusty’s advances, her cravings. Part of the torment, which Dr West seemed determined to explain away, was the fact that I was unwilling to violate dictates of my conscience, to not – even when facing complete obliteration – stand by my resolve and the purest of truths: that I had been ambushed into pleasures and their aftermath. My whole being was, at the time, far removed from anything resembling the drudgery of paternity – not because of any loathing I have for infants but because I wanted the conception of such beings to never be such an erratic, tyrannical affair. At the age of 24, I refused to be, over and above blatant violations, further enslaved – be mined for a love I neither possessed nor understood.
It was after considerable wrangling between Rusty Bell and I, Frank and Abednego (emissaries, meetings, tempers, death threats, compromises) that it was agreed that Michael Junior would, upon release from hospital, be raised as my little brother by Frank and his Maria. That it was obvious that I refused any entanglements and would, if pushed, seek justice for my rape, which had until then been my undisclosed anguish. There was blackmail, accusations of being stone-hearted, but the facts dictated that there was more than met the eye. That all the huffing and puffing could not dissuade all involved that the matter at hand was not limited to Rusty’s carnal espionage, but that if properly dissected pointed to profound philosophical postulations complex enough to occupy us over three generations. Were there definitive grounds to conclude rape had indeed occurred? If so, were there moral obligations on me to participate in my own enslavement, my execution? Were there impartial arbiters to weigh the facts, to decide, with an eye on implications 20, 30 years into the future? In practical terms, what did it mean that Michael Junior would be raised as my brother? If Michael Junior was to be raised as my brother, what – as Abednego rightfully asked – was the distinction between make-believe brotherhood and the reality of my predicament? Couldn’t the whole dispute, if it was that, be amicably resolved using common sense and logic? Which took precedence between the two: common sense or logic?
Throughout the wrangling, my thoughts often drifted away from discussions at hand, as I followed a neighbour propelled by the toils of laundry, rinsing and re-rinsing before, humming Joan Armatrading ballads, she began hanging garments on the line: two red blouses in quick succession, baggy brown breeches, a purple blouse, cream tracksuits, a long sequence of floral pyjamas and disfigured T-shirts and, between the clothes, covertly, a generous instalment of lacy lady knickers in variations of earthy tones and yellows. These were promptly followed by two brassieres, one white, the other a pinkish-purple. Pinkish-purple. A safe, in-between colour, not grandmotherly, but at the same time not as passion inflicted as reds and silverfish-golds. I knew those hands, securing socks and pillowcases to the washing line, those industrious hands rinsing pyjamas in buckets, the same hands that clutched my wrist, pulled me into that darkish room, heavy with smells of floor polish, those alert eyes that stared me down in fondness and purpose, that mouth that implored me to keep a secret, that told me I was unlike other kids, that I was chosen, special. I was, at fourteen, confronted by the spectacle and mystery of a naked woman, full grown and tipsy. It was true. They have hair down there. It was this confirmation, what followed, that completely derailed my life. There was, long before Rusty Bell, an unassuming neighbour: the discreet, patient, lonely Auntie Pauline, through whose covert operations all subsequent nude women seemed to smell of floor polish, a sour belch of beer. I had to be jolted back to the meeting by my father who, sipping tea, gently said: ‘You still with us, Michael?
Sir Marvin at 50
The thing with Auntie Pauline is this: there are reasonable grounds to suspect that she might, in fact, have been a loving and generous person. But on that specific afternoon, Auntie Pauline, to whom I am not related by blood, drunk and determined, soiled her unconfirmed reputation, a reputation that might in hindsight not stand scrutiny. I have long discounted the beer as a motive, for truly drunk people are not that eloquent, that persuasive; neither are they so assured and steady in gripping the wrists of would-be sacrificial lambs. That room that smelled of floor polish. That gut, those horrid, giant concertina folds that lined her body, the knickers she skilfully folded into a ball, slid under the pillow. Those searching, pleading eyes of hers, their determination, her minute pauses, her conflicted conscience, that quivering, motherly, unlikely-lover voice, that repulsive beer belch, is a nightmare I still wake to these days.
I visit my parents once in a while. Pensioners now, they are ageing gracefully, still hold hands, still play cards. My father never did make it as an air traffic controller. He was, when final selection time came, overlooked on the basis of age and bad eyesight, something that has left him fragile. Blessed with good health, Frank and his Maria are the cheapest souls to maintain. They have an unexplained aversion to luxuries, an obsession with that handholding of theirs. Auntie Pauline still lives alone. Petrus, her husband, will not be released on medical parole. She does not remember him, being senile and all. Maria says it’s very sad, Frank simply nods. Someone has to move Auntie Pauline from the sun, Mother says, for she has a bad leg.
It might as well be me. Auntie Pauline hears the gate clutter, footsteps as I approach.
‘Who’s there?’ she asks, startled.
‘A friend. I’ve come to move you to the shade, off the lawn,’ I say. She is thin as a rake. Maybe it’s the tuberculosis. I lift her to her verandah, and seat her on a plastic chair. She does not recognise me. She has aged, has a violent cough, her foot trembles. She signals for a water jug; drinks in between intermittent coughing. She takes my hand, squeezes it, and says: ‘God bless you, Friend.’ She cocks her head, asks: ‘Is Friend your name?’ A cat walks by, tiptoeing, cautious.
‘No, that’s not my name.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Sir Marvin.’
She doesn’t seem to have heard, mutters something incoherent.
Every war has its own pace, its own smell. What does that mean? I cannot say I’m completely cured. There are evenings when I cannot help yearning for Desirable Horses, to see Simone. Thompson Buthelezi & Brook telephone me every week. I tell them and other law firms the same thing: that I don’t want to be a lawyer any more. Rusty is doing important diplomatic work with Michael
Junior. He is a lot calmer these days, and says: ‘Please come listen to this piece of music, Dad. Tell me what you think?’ or ‘Thank you for the grand piano, Sir Marvin, it’s really beautiful.’ My Arabic is really good now. Rusty salutes me for refusing to read important things in translation. I could have been addicted to porn, a translation of the goings on at Desirable Horses. But it was much better being there. It is possible that Auntie Pauline’s wrist grabbing will be a thing of the past, no more than a bad memory.
I thank God for that open window. Who knows what would have happened? Many would have survived, brushed the incident aside, dismissed it as a drunk woman out of her depth. Not me. It’s true, you know – I’m extremely sensitive, particular about everything. Always have been.
Michael Junior and I are interviewing piano teachers tomorrow. I want him to be a proper composer. I do not need a gun or whisky bottle for that. The piano will play well if the right keys are known and mastered. Such beauty, piano music, is not dependent on Simone and her banknote frowns. Simone, Simone: those collarbones – my God. But are they better than Rusty’s? Well, maybe a little, in very small, negligible ways. Or maybe it is too dangerous to compare collarbones? That brilliant bastard might know.
Rusty Bell Page 14
