The Curator

by Jacques Strauss

  ‘I was wondering if oom wanted to go rowing.’

  Steyn sighed. ‘I’m tired, Werner. It’s been a long day.’

  Werner sat down on one of the three camping chairs that served as the sitting room. There were no pictures or books. Other than his clothes, the only object that belonged to Steyn was a small radio.

  ‘Or maybe we could hike up to the waterfall?’

  ‘Why don’t you go with your brother?’

  ‘I don’t want to go with my brother.’

  Werner wished that Steyn would do something with the rondavel. If he bought some furniture or pictures, if he made the place home, then Werner would know that he was at least planning to stay for a while, a few years perhaps. But Steyn could leave at any time. He could pack his bags, disappear and there would be no trace of him. He could go back to his wife and sons in Pretoria. Werner had eavesdropped on the conversations his mother had had with his father. She said Steyn’s wife called, begging to speak to him. His mother said, ‘What sort of man leaves his wife?’

  Steyn reached for another beer. He opened the can slowly, just a fraction at first, to release any of the excess gas and prevent the beer from foaming on his bed. The can hissed. He pulled back the tin teardrop, tore it from the top of the can and dropped it into his beer.

  ‘Ma says you shouldn’t do that,’ Werner said.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Put the toppie in your beer. Ma says all the coolies and bantus have been touching those cans.’

  ‘But you still put your mouth on the can anyway.’

  ‘Ja – my mother can talk some real kak sometimes.’

  Steyn took the box of matches and threw it at Werner’s head.

  ‘Eina! Sorry, oom!’ He laughed.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Steyn, ‘I don’t know why you’re so worried about a little bit of bantu dirt. I’ve seen the way you jol with bantu kids.’

  ‘Ag no, oom – playing with bantus like that is for kids.’ Werner scratched his leg and looked down at his bare feet. His toenails were dirty, so he curled them under and tucked his legs under the chair. Not that it mattered. Boys were supposed to walk around barefoot and be dirty. Only a moffie would worry about dirty toenails. ‘Can I have some of oom’s beer?’

  Steyn had almost drained the can. He took the last swig, belched a little, crumpled the can between his hands and threw it in the dustbin. He reached under the bed, grabbed another beer and gave it to Werner.

  ‘The whole one?’ Werner asked.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  Werner opened the can and sipped the foam off the top.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Steyn said.

  ‘But, oom, I haven’t even had a sip! It was just foam.’

  ‘Okay – one sip.’

  Werner lifted the can to his mouth and drank deeply. He swallowed as much beer as he could, before Steyn jumped off the bed and grabbed the can.

  ‘Werner! What are you doing?’

  ‘Sorry, oom – I’m thirsty.’ He belched.

  ‘Jissus! What are you doing, huh? I try to be nice. You want to get me fired?’ He cuffed Werner on the side of his head.

  ‘Sorry, oom.’

  ‘You’ve had half the fucking can.’

  ‘Sorry, oom.’

  Steyn drank some beer, slumped on his bed and laughed.

  ‘Let’s go to the dam,’ Werner said.

  ‘No, Werner, I’m tired. It’s been a long day. Anyway, you’re not supposed to be in here. How many times must I tell you?’

  ‘Is oom mad at me?’

  ‘Of course. What will your mother think? Her son stinking of booze. Huh? She’ll have me out of here in two ticks.’

  Werner belched and then laughed.

  ‘Here,’ Steyn said. He opened his drawer and gave Werner a pick of Wilson’s XXX Extra-Strong Spearmints. ‘You eat that whole blarry packet before you come within a mile of your mother. And if she asks, I am going to tell her you stole my beer. You hear?’

  ‘Ja, oom.’

  ‘Don’t know what that poor woman did to deserve a kid like you. Get out of here.’

  ‘Okay, oom.’ Werner was already beginning to feel light-headed. He walked to the river. No one was around. He lay down beneath an acacia tree growing at the edge of the bank and dangled his feet into the water. He was pleasantly dizzy from the beer. He plucked a long blade of glass and tickled his ear, pushing the blade deeper and deeper in, until it hurt a little. But it was nice. He closed his eyes and thought about the day when Jesus would hang in front of his bed and he could stare at him all day long; Jesus rising up into his bedroom, to be by his side.

  6

  AFTER A WEEK his father is still in hospital. His mother phones to tell Werner that she thinks he could be home next week, or perhaps the week thereafter. Werner goes to the kitchen and pours himself a large glass of wine. He drinks it quickly and pours another. He then has a shot of his mother’s gin, walks up the flight of stairs and knocks on the door of the flat above. He waits for a long time. He is about to give up when the door opens a crack; the door-chain is pulled taut.

  ‘Yes,’ the man says.

  ‘Hello, my name is Werner. I live downstairs.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Could I have a word?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘It’s about the building.’

  The door closes. The man undoes the chain and opens it. He’s six foot and powerfully built, though a little overweight. He wears fine wire-framed glasses that do not suit his face. The arms of his glasses stretch over his large skull. His forehead is shiny in the evening heat. Werner extends his hand. The man shakes it reluctantly.

  ‘Werner Deyer. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Ezenwa.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Ezenwa.’

  ‘No,’ the man says. ‘Ezenwa is my first name.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. So, I wanted to talk to you about the gutters. There have been some problems with the gutters and I was just wondering if . . . you know . . . maybe there have been some leaks in your flat? Sometimes there are problems with maintenance.’

  ‘No leaks.’

  ‘Good. That’s good.’

  They stand for a few moments saying nothing. The man asks, ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I feel like I should apologise to you.’

  The man furrows his brow and cocks his head to the side. ‘Why?’ he asks sharply.

  ‘It’s just that you’ve been living here for a while and I’ve not made any effort to introduce myself. It’s not very neighbourly. My father has been very ill and . . . well . . . you know how things are.’

  The man nods. ‘I wish your father well,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you – that’s very kind of you.’ Werner turns to walk away. He is not sure about the protocol of negotiating with Nigerian drug-dealers. As the man is closing the door he says, ‘Perhaps . . .’

  The man opens the door again. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to come over for dinner sometime? My mother is an excellent cook.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the man says and closes the door.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  He goes downstairs to wait for his mother. He thinks about the dinner party with the drug-dealers. At first it would be awkward, but then he’d open a few bottles of wine. Wine? Africans preferred beer. Did Nigerians drink bantu beer like the South African blacks? Perhaps he could get some Nigerian brands to show how neighbourly he was, unless of course they were important drug-dealers, in which case they might consider that a drink of the peasants. Perhaps Nigerian drug-dealers drink champagne. But neither of the men drives a low-slung BMW with tinted windows. Maybe theirs is a smaller enterprise. Maybe they are keeping a low profile. They aren’t showy. They’re professionals, squirrelling the money away into Swiss bank accounts. They’d make chicken, because blacks love chicken. Or goat. Nigerians eat a lot of goat. Does his mother know how to prepare goat? He could prepare the goat if necessary, but he isn’t sure he’d be able
to eat it. He is sure goat will have a horrible taste. The food is not as important as the alcohol. The alcohol will be necessary to make everyone chummy. They’d talk about Nigeria and how they miss the hustle and bustle of Lagos. They’d all get drunk and talk about how ridiculous it is that they’ve been living in the same building for a year and have barely exchanged a word, and how good it is to eat together, black and white, local and immigrant, and that South Africa is turning out to be a fine place indeed. And then, to be a good host, Werner would walk them up the flight of stairs and thank them for coming over and they’d say that they should do it again soon. As he turns to take his leave, Ezenwa would say, ‘Werner, before you go, would you like a little something?’ And Werner would say, ‘A little something?’ and Ezenwa would say, ‘You know – for a good time.’ And Werner would say, ‘I always want to have a good time,’ and Ezenwa would invite him into the flat and make the full Nigerian pharmacy available to Werner; lots of neat Jiffy bags arranged on the table: ecstasy, acid, coke, speed, marijuana. And Werner would say, ‘You know, I feel like a bit of heroin.’

  In his reverie, he does not hear his mother open the front door. He’s sitting on the settee, staring into space.

  ‘Werner,’ his mother says for the second time.

  ‘Oh, when did you get in?’

  ‘There’s pizza in the kitchen.’

  ‘Thanks, Ma. How’s Pa?

  ‘Better. He’s going to be on antibiotics to control the infection for a long time. But he’s much better.’

  ‘Good. That’s good.’

  He piles a plate with pizza, pours the rest of the wine into a glass and joins his mother in the living room. She’s watching TV and eating.

  ‘I was thinking about having some people over for dinner.’

  She’s engrossed in her television programme. ‘Huh?’ she asks, not looking at him.

  ‘I want to have some people over. For dinner.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Our upstairs neighbours.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our neighbours. From upstairs.’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’re Nigerians!’

  ‘I’ve been getting to know them.’

  ‘You listen to me. I’m not having a bunch of drug-dealers in my house. Now shut up – I’m watching this programme.’

  He wants to stab her in the head. He slams his plate down on the coffee table.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she says. He switches off the television. ‘Werner!’

  ‘Enough!’ he shouts at her.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’

  ‘Don’t tell me to shut up. I am an adult. I pay half the bills in this house and, if I want to have someone over for dinner, I will have someone over for dinner, whether you like it or not.’

  She shakes her head dismissively and carries on eating her pizza.

  ‘What?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ she says softly.

  ‘No – you have something to say.’

  ‘Werner, I can’t talk to you when you’ve been drinking. I know it’s not you speaking – it’s the alcohol.’

  ‘Don’t start with this nonsense.’

  ‘Your father used to be the same. When you drink there is no reasoning with you. Alcohol has ruined this family. The Deyer men? Huh! You’re not men. You’re boys. Real men don’t behave like this. Shouting at an old woman. What’s wrong with you? I spend the whole day working at the hospital – then I spend my evenings at my husband’s sickbed. I buy food for you – and this is the way you treat me? Please God may I die soon, if this is going to be my life.’

  He looks at his mother, small and grey, hunched over her plate. She drains all the venom from him and he feels like a brute. He picks up his pizza and sits down again.

  ‘I don’t want to interfere with your social life. If you want to have criminals over for dinner, I don’t want to interfere. You must do whatever makes you happy.’

  ‘Ma . . .’

  ‘All I’m asking is that you remember things are not so easy for me. I pray that Jesus takes me soon after your father. Sometimes I look at him at night, and I just want to crawl into bed with him and lie there until we die – in each other’s arms. In my head I pretend that I am the sick one, and he is taking care of me for a change. There’s no one to take care of me.’

  ‘Ma – I will take care of you.’

  ‘I don’t expect anyone to take care of me. I just want some peace and quiet. I want to be treated like a human being.’

  During his lunch break Werner goes to the library to look up traditional Nigerian dishes. There are a great number of recipes, but he decides not to prepare goat. Plantains, yams, rice and spicy chicken. He disassociates the act of hosting a dinner party from thoughts of murder. He knows he’s incapable of killing his father, but for now the thought of the Nigerians gives his days a sense of dangerous possibility that distracts him from the excruciating decline of his life. After work he drives to the centre of town where there are a number of African food shops. In a bottle store he asks about Nigerian beers and the man behind the counter points him to a small selection. He buys six bottles of Star and six bottles of One Lager. On the way home he stops at another bottle store and buys his mother a sparkling rosé, three bottles of red wine and a one-litre bottle of J&B. When his mother sees the beers in the fridge she asks, ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s Nigerian beer, Ma.’ She shakes her head but says nothing before leaving for the hospital.

  Werner goes upstairs and knocks on the door. Ezenwa opens it.

  ‘Hello,’ Werner says.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I was wondering if you’d like to come to dinner. This Friday. You and your housemate.’

  ‘Udo.’

  ‘Yes – you and Udo.’

  The man looks awkward. There is no polite way to turn down the invitation. ‘All right,’ he says.

  ‘Say, seven-thirty?’

  Ezenwa nods. ‘See you at seven-thirty.’ He closes the door.

  He has, Werner thinks, done something almost un-imaginable. If his mother is going to be difficult he will ask her to spend the evening at the hospital. She phones later that evening to tell him that his father will be coming home on Saturday. Fate is aligning events. Is it possible that he will have to act decisively? He gets his photocopied recipes out of his briefcase and writes a shopping list.

  His mother has reconciled herself to the visit from the Nigerians. He makes her practise their names: Ezenwa and Udo. She is either martyring herself or she is certain the evening will be a disaster and is looking forward to the fallout. On Friday afternoon he leaves work early to start preparing the food. His mother has promised to come home to help. They study the photocopied recipes in the kitchen. ‘Bantu food,’ she says and shakes her head. She has never prepared plantains or yams. The recipe calls for the plantains to be roasted and served with palm oil. The yams are boiled, mashed and mixed with butter. As they prepare the dishes, Werner and his mother taste them and are surprised. ‘Not so bad, huh, Ma?’ he says.

  ‘For bantu food,’ she responds. The chicken is basted with a hot peri-peri sauce. ‘What’s for dessert?’ his mother asks.

  Werner had not thought about this. He hurries down to the corner shop and buys a tub of Neapolitan ice cream.

  ‘Is that what they like in Nigeria?’

  ‘I think everyone likes ice cream.’

  By seven the table is set and the food is prepared. When the Nigerians arrive, Petronella will just need to reheat it in the oven. They stand about nervously, not sure what to do.

  ‘Music?’ he asks.

  Petronella shrugs. He fetches his old cassette player from his bedroom and brings out a selection of classical music tapes that he sometimes plays in his car. At twenty-five-past seven he starts playing a tape and pours himself and his mother a glass of wine. Petronella eyes the tele-vision. His soap opera is on and Werner too now regrets having invited the
Nigerians. Would it not be better to ease into a life of quiet desperation and bitterness? It would require so little of him. His whole life he has failed to bring about what he most desires. The connection between the action and what he hopes to achieve has become ever more tenuous: dinner with Nigerians to bring about the death of his father. He takes a sip of his wine. It is not just the death of his father. He has wanted to take drugs. This in fact, he tells himself, is the reason he wants to make these people’s acquaintance. A successful art-dealer would snort truckloads of cocaine. He would need to provide cocaine to his clients and his artists and his celebrity friends. If he became a successful dealer, a few select guests would retire to the back of the gallery for a private function. Each would be presented with a silver tray with their names spelt out in cocaine. This is what he longs to be: charmingly disreputable. He would dab at his nostrils with his pinkie and say, ‘Courtesy of my Nigerian friends.’

  The doorbell rings. Petronella hurries to the kitchen; she does not wish to greet the guests at the door. His heart pounds. The arrival of the Nigerians is a moment of consequence. He opens the door and welcomes the two men inside. They are dressed in black suits. Ezenwa gives Werner a box of Cadbury’s chocolates. He is touched by the gesture, but perturbed also. It is not the sort of thing he’d expect a real drug-dealer to do. He leads them into the living room and invites them to take a seat. He offers them a choice of Star, One Lager or wine. The two men reply that they’d like water. He goes into the kitchen to pour three glasses of water. He drinks his glass of wine in the kitchen to calm his nerves. As he walks out of the kitchen he can hear the two men speaking quietly in their native tongue. Three glasses of water; spartan, he thinks, but soon they will see all the traditional dishes that have been prepared for them. Werner takes a seat and smiles. They nod and smile. Eventually Ezenwa says, ‘You have a very nice home.’

  ‘Thank you. Do you like living in Sunnyside?’

  ‘Yes,’ the men say.

  ‘I have lived here for many years,’ Werner says. The men nod. His throat is dry and he takes a sip of water. Ezenwa is sweating profusely, but Werner can’t be sure it’s because of the heat. He is not being a good host, but his throat has constricted and he cannot think of a way to make conversation. Can he ask what brings them to South Africa?