The Curator

by Jacques Strauss

  ‘Joseph – is this the girl?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, baas – she is a very good girl. This one is a hard worker.’

  ‘But she is so young.’

  ‘Very hard worker. Strong, this one.’

  The dress was very short and Hendrik felt a flush of anger. Poverty was not an excuse for impropriety. The girl stared at her bare feet.

  ‘Lerato?’

  ‘Master,’ she said, but did not look up.

  ‘Do you want to come and work at the camp?’

  ‘Master.’ Joseph spoke to her sharply in Xhosa. ‘Yes, baas,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’

  She hopped in the back of the bakkie. Hendrik hesitated; such a small, young thing. He wondered whether he should tell her to get in the front. If she did, he could not drive through town. It would be at least twenty kilometres out of his way. She looked up to see what was happening and Hendrik saw her face. She was beautiful. For it to be so evident, in her cheap clothes and all the dust and the dirt, and her tight bantu curls – for it to be so evident here in the bushveld, without all the creams and lotions and Vaseline and hair-straighteners and skin-lighteners and make-up of the city blacks – for Hendrik, who had never been attracted to a black woman before, to instantly be aroused by this slip of a thing, it had to be an uncommon sort of beauty. He wanted her to ride in the cab. Sitting down, her dress would barely cover her panties, if indeed she was wearing any.

  Joseph was talking to the girl, but his tone had lost the sharp edge. He was speaking quietly and gently. She said something and he shook his head and wiped a tear from her cheek. Looking at this girl, Hendrik felt ashamed of his first impulse. If he put his hand on her thigh, she would go rigid with fear. If she writhed beneath him, it would not be from pleasure. She would be like an animal caught in barbed wire. This little girl stood up to Labuschagne? No. Perhaps his wife was right. He reached into the cab, grabbed a blanket and passed it to Lerato. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you mustn’t worry. You’ll like it there at the camp. And your auntie will take care of you.’

  ‘Yes, baas,’ she said. He drove home by the long route, around the town.

  Steyn had been up until late, thinking about the call he would make to his wife. He considered ignoring her, but Anja was certain to call again. And then Nellie would come knocking at his door, or else she would dispatch Hendrik. It would be better to end this thing decisively. While the students were having morning tea, he knocked on the door.

  ‘Can I use your phone?’ he asked Petronella.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘And, Nellie, I’d really like some privacy.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Maria and I will hang up the washing.’

  From the window he watched as the woman and her maid carried a basket of laundry to the line. In the middle of the night, drunk, he’d decided what to tell his wife. But now he was having second thoughts. Did he really want to end his marriage like this? Perhaps he was being too hasty. He could tell her that he just needed a bit of time, he was feeling confused. He picked up the phone and checked that Nellie and Maria were out of earshot. He dialled the number and thought: am I really going to do this?

  Werner took the picture out of his closet and laid it down in the floor. He fetched his paint and brushes from his desk drawer and filled a glass with some water in the bathroom. The sky was the easiest to paint. The problem was that he could no longer recall exactly what the painting looked like. Next time he was in town he would need to go back to the shop. But for now it didn’t matter. He wondered where Marius was. For the last few days his brother had come and sat with him and watched him paint. ‘You know Mrs Fourie from Sunday school says it’s a sin,’ Marius had said. Werner hadn’t read the whole Bible, but he knew his brother was wrong. The Catholics not only painted pictures of Jesus, they made statues of him too. It was the Afrikaners who didn’t want to paint pictures of Jesus. It was the Afrikaners who decided there was a rule against it. It was better to break an Afrikaner rule than a Bible rule. Werner tried to remember what was beneath the cross. There were clouds and a lake and a boat. Was the boat on the lake? Were there stars in the sky? He closed his eyes and tried to see the painting. He picked up his pencil to start drawing the boat, but then wasn’t sure where to put it. He started drawing the clouds, but they looked wrong. He rubbed them out and accidentally tore one of the pages. Werner snapped his pencil in half and shouted the rudest word he knew: ‘Fok!’ He decided to go and find Johann. Johann always had a scheme for making money.

  His mother disapproved strongly of the boy. ‘Johann,’ Petronella said, ‘is white trash.’ His father used to work for the railways. But something happened. Johann told Werner he’d got sick, and wouldn’t be drawn further on it. Since then Johann’s father had been getting disability cheques. Werner’s mother said the family lived off the government. But Werner liked Johann because he was tough and he smoked. ‘There are some Afrikaners,’ his mother said, ‘who just don’t want to be helped. They are an embarrassment to the country.’ He knew what his mother meant. It wasn’t easy to tell the difference between the way Johann and his family lived and the way some bantus lived. When he and Johann once had an argument, Werner said, ‘Everyone knows you and your family are half-kaffir anyway.’ Johann set upon him with such ferocity Werner thought he might lose his teeth, but Johann kicked him in the balls and punched him in the stomach. He had to be careful what he said around Johann. Johann, he thought, could probably kill him if he got angry enough. Werner didn’t blame him. The family had been the target of the town’s teenagers for years. Groups of boys would sneak out at night and throw rocks at the house to see Johann’s obese mother, who was reputed to have been a stripper and a prostitute. But usually they were met by the father, armed with a shotgun. He was part of the fun.

  ‘Is it boys or girls at the camp this week?’ Johann asked when Werner found him breaking off bits of twig and throwing them into the river.

  ‘Boys.’

  ‘When the chicks come again, you must tell me. I haven’t seen any pussy in weeks. I’m gonna get blue balls.’

  Johann was fourteen. He’d missed nearly a year of school before the authorities intervened. Werner looked at Johann. It was little wonder people said things about the family. He was the darkest white Werner had ever seen. Luckily for him, his hair was straight and his eyes were blue.

  ‘You just wait,’ Johann would say, ‘I’m just biding my time. Biding my time, man. The day I turn sixteen I’m out of here. Out of school, out of Barberton, out of this whole stinking place.’ Werner would ask, ‘What you going to do?’ and then Johann would say, ‘I’m going to move to Durban and then I’m going to open my own bike-shop. Right there on the beach. And then on the weekend I’ll just get on my bike and ride, man. I’ll ride, from Durban all the way to Richards Bay. Hell, I’ll ride all the way to Cape Town. When I’ve had enough for the day, I’ll just pull over and sleep on the beach. Maybe make a nice little braai – have a couple of beers, throw some T-bones on the fire. The life, man. And for my ma I’ll buy a nice little flat in Durban, there by Shaka’s Rock. My ma would love that. And then I’ll buy a gun and shoot everyone in Barberton.’

  ‘We need to make some money,’ Werner said.

  ‘Ja – one day, when I open my bike-shop, I’m gonna need a helluva lot of money.’

  ‘I mean now.’

  ‘Go collect empties.’

  ‘All the bantus get to them before I do. Last week I found two bottles. Two. I nearly walked to Mozambique.’

  Johann laughed. ‘You know – if you want to make real money, you should start a shebeen. We can brew some bantu beer. You know, if you walk by my house, there’s that small clearing in the bush. Nobody ever goes there. Imagine if we built a little bar there. Man, the Afs will come from all over the place. Put out a few chairs – hang up some of those coloured lights, get a record player – like a real shebeen. We will be in the money. We could even make real Af food. Make a big pot of pap
and chickens.’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you want to spend your whole night with bantus?’

  ‘Who cares? Money is money.’

  ‘Do you know how to make bantu beer?

  ‘I could ask my pa. He’d know. When he was working on the railways they used to drink it when they ran out of money. Ma would go ballistic, hey. “You come into my house reeking of your fuckin’ kaffir beer – what must people think of us?” And then Pa would give her a klap. Shuddup bitch. Ha! He’d say she’s giving herself airs. He’d say she’s nothing but a two-bit slut from Benoni.’ Johann went quiet. ‘Ja, man – a shebeen,’ he said quickly. ‘That’s how we’re going to make money. That’s how I am going to get my bike-shop.’

  ‘I need some money now.’

  ‘What’s going on with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, there’s always an easy way to get money.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Steal it.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Johann took off his tekkies and waded into the river while Werner sat on the bank. He took off his shirt, threw it at Werner and shouted, ‘Catch!’ About halfway across was an eddy, deep enough that he couldn’t stand. He did a somersault and, when he surfaced, his hair was slicked back against his head. He grinned. His teeth were slightly irregular and crowded.

  ‘So, who would you steal from?’ Werner asked.

  ‘Not me,’ Johann said. ‘I have enough kak in my life. If they caught me stealing, it would be straight to the reformatory. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred rand. But, if I were you, I’d take the money from those Jo’burg moffies.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ Werner said. He couldn’t imagine what his father would do if he caught him.

  Johann got out and sat next to Werner on the bank. He shivered a little in the breeze. He grabbed a fistful of hair on the back of his head and squeezed out a rivulet that ran down his spine. Werner didn’t like swimming with Johann. He was trim and sleek. Werner’s little rolls hung over his costume, and small mounds of fat beneath his nipples made them look like the breasts of young girls.

  They walked though the bush, past the old obstacle course, which had been replaced the previous year. Johann easily scaled the three-metre climbing wall. He swung his legs over the top, gripped the edge of the wooden plank, dropped his body and, at the moment his momentum had been broken, released his grip and landed cleanly on his haunches. Johann hated Barberton and the bushveld, but he was ideally formed for it. There was no place in the world he could navigate with such ease. Werner plodded, awkwardly pushing branches out of his face and tripping over rocks, while Johann darted and ducked, back and forward, up and down, never tripping or stumbling, covering twice the distance that Werner did, like a dog off its lead. Standing one-legged in the crook of a tree, Johann said, ‘There’s your brother.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘With Steyn, by the dam.’

  Werner scrambled up the tree and nearly knocked Johann to the ground, who climbed up to the next branch.

  ‘They must have been rowing,’ Johann said.

  Steyn and Marius were pulling a boat onto the bank. They were both laughing and smiling.

  ‘Let’s go over,’ Johann said.

  ‘No.’

  Steyn and Marius sat down on the bank. Steyn took out a cigarette and lit it. Werner could feel the tears in his eyes. He brushed them away before Johann noticed. He had a pain in his chest. It was difficult to separate all the parts of what he felt: rage, jealousy, sadness. His inability to explain how he had been wronged in no way diminished his hurt. He wanted to take his brother by the head and smash him against a wall. He wanted to kick him in the stomach. He wanted to punch his face until he bled. He wanted to spit on Marius and trample him and beat him. He wanted to smash a beer bottle and drag it across Steyn’s face. He wanted to push him in a fire. He wanted to hold his head underwater until he stopped squirming. He wanted to take an oar and break it over his head. This fantasy flowed through him, hot and soothing.

  ‘I hate Steyn,’ Werner said.

  ‘Why?’ Johann asked.

  ‘Because he’s a dirty drunk. He stinks, man. He stinks like a kaffir.’

  ‘Jissie!’ Johann said. ‘I thought you liked him? I always thought he was a nice’oke.’

  ‘His wife cheated on him. Probably because he couldn’t get it up. Nobody gives a shit about him. Or because he stinks. If she wanted to have it off with someone who stinks, she would have fucked a kaffir.’

  Johann climbed down the tree. Werner made him uncomfortable.

  ‘I like him,’ Johann said.

  ‘Well – you would, wouldn’t you?’ he said, without taking his eyes off Steyn and his brother.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Werner didn’t answer. ‘I’m going home,’ Johann said. He walked off and left Werner alone with his rage, standing in the tree, staring.

  8

  HIS MOTHER WAKES Werner up at six the next morning. He has a terrible headache. ‘Get up,’ she says. ‘We’re going to fetch your father.’ He digs around in his bedroom drawers and finds a pack of ibuprofen. He swallows all the remaining pills. While his mother cooks breakfast, he showers and changes into clean clothes. He hopes that she will not discuss last night. He sits down at the table to his plate of bacon and eggs. Petronella is reading the Pretoria News. The food settles his stomach. ‘Feel better?’ his mother asks. He nods.

  They arrive at the hospital just after eight in the morning. Werner sits in the waiting room while Petronella speaks to the doctor and goes to the pharmacy to collect Hendrik’s medication. An hour later she emerges pushing Hendrik in a wheelchair.

  ‘Hello, Pa,’ Werner says and takes over pushing the wheelchair from his mother. He wonders why she is in such good spirits. Did she not enjoy the time away from him? They take the man back to the flat. As Werner helps his father into his pyjamas, he sees a plastic tube that runs directly into Hendrik’s chest. ‘What’s that?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s a Hickman line. For his antibiotics.’ Although the puncture in the skin is neat, the sight of the plastic pipe running into the man is gruesome. There are two connections for drips and syringes, one red and one blue. ‘It will make everything a lot easier,’ she says. Werner picks up the plastic tube between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Leaf!’ his father says. Werner smiles at him. ‘Nellie!’ Hendrik shouts at his wife, who is busy with his pyjama bottoms.

  ‘What, Hendrik?’ she says.

  ‘Leaf!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, I’m putting on your pyjama pants.’

  Werner is still holding the plastic pipe between thumb and finger, the way you might appreciate the texture of silk.

  ‘Wera leaf! Leaf alo!’

  Werner lets go of the plastic tube. ‘Pa, what’s wrong?’ he asks. ‘No need to get upset.’ He mouths the word ‘Fucker’ to his father.

  ‘There we go,’ Nellie says when she has his pyjama bottoms on. ‘Aren’t you glad to be home?’

  Hendrik covers the Hickman line. He knows, Werner thinks, that it is a tunnel to the very heart of him. This makes him happy – this source of terror to his father. Petronella reaches for a vial of antibiotics. She taps the syringe, takes hold of the line and injects. ‘See how much easier?’ she asks both of them. ‘Your father needs some rest,’ she says and walks out of the room.

  ‘Bye, Pa,’ Werner says, leaning forward to kiss him on the forehead. The man tries to slap his son away. ‘Now, don’t be like that.’

  After his mother has gone to bed, he takes a glass and a bottle of whisky and creeps into his father’s room. The television is on and the blue light reflects off his father’s pale face. ‘You awake, Pa?’ he says quietly. The man is sleeping.

  Werner pours himself a whisky and watches the late-night Saturday film. When the credits roll he looks at his father. His eyes are two slits; watching his son.

  ‘Jissus, you give me the creeps when you look at me l
ike that.’ Hendrik says nothing. ‘Do you want some?’ Werner asks, holding up the bottle. ‘All right – you can have a little. Ma would have the shits – but, Jesus Christ, you need some pleasures in this life, huh?’ He pours whisky into the glass and puts the bottle down on the side table. He cradles his father’s head with his left hand and holds the glass to his father’s lips, gently pouring the whisky into his mouth. Hendrik’s false teeth come loose. ‘I wish Ma hadn’t had all your teeth ripped out. I kind of thought it was excessive. I know they were a bit rotten, but we could have sorted it out.’ He smiles and says, ‘You’re going to choke on those teeth one day.’ With his finger he eases the teeth back into place. ‘You know, I should probably just inject the whisky straight into you? Wouldn’t that be easier?’ The old man moans in protest. ‘Relax, Pa, I’m not going to do it. I was just saying if you’d prefer.’

  The man licks his lips greedily. ‘More,’ he says.

  ‘You want more? Okay.’ Werner pours a little more whisky in the glass and brings it to his father’s mouth. The man lets out a satisfied sigh as he swallows. ‘You see, Pa, I’m not so bad. You know we had those Nigerians over for dinner last night. What a sight, Pa. Never in my life did I think I would see my mother serving bantus at our dinner table. And not just serving them – she cooked yams and plantains and everything. She was a real star. Ezenwa wishes you well, by the way. He doesn’t much care for me. I think I drank a little too much. I think maybe our Nigerians are the happy-clappy sort – you know, like the bantus in the parks. The Zionists. But I’m like you. Apparently Ma says I am my father’s son. Ja, Nellie doesn’t think we’re real men. You must really have pissed Ma off. She complains, but I think she much prefers you a cripple. Obviously you can’t piss her off as much.’ He leans back. ‘This is nice, isn’t it? Watching TV with my pa.’