The Curator

by Jacques Strauss

  His mother knocks on his bedroom door. ‘Werner? Werner? Are you coming to church?’

  ‘No, Ma,’ he says.

  ‘I think you should. The minister is coming to visit your father. Won’t you be embarrassed to see him, if you don’t come to church?’

  ‘No, Ma.’

  Last night he’d finished almost half the bottle of whisky. His drinking worries him. What if, by the time his father dies, he is an alcoholic? Could he still live a successful life as an alcoholic? It crept up on you, the ease with which you could consume a half – even a whole – bottle of whisky. Lying in bed, Werner hopes he remembered to put the bottle away. His mother will say something. The worst is when she tries to reach out, when she says with concern, ‘Werner, I’m worried about your drinking.’ In the morning it is easy to promise himself that he won’t drink any more, but then in the evening he decides to have a nightcap to help him to go to sleep. If he doesn’t have a nightcap he lies awake, fuming. He only wants to drink enough to help him sleep easily. But then he drinks too much and he sweats through his sheets. His fat body is moist with cold perspiration. His head is throbbing. If he lies very still with his eyes closed, the pain subsides. When the headaches are bad, he imagines gently inserting a needle into his head and relieving the pressure; all the blood spurting out and, with it, the pain too. What he needs to do is get up, find four ibuprofen, drink a large glass of water and lie down for half an hour.

  He waits until he hears the front door close. He sits up, and the pain, as if untethered from elsewhere, rushes into his head, pools behind his eyes. He puts his hand on the back of his neck to try to staunch the pain and rubs his temples with his other hand. He gets up, goes to the bathroom and rifles through the cabinet. All he can find is an old packet of Disprin. ‘Fuck!’ He sits down on the toilet. The pain is making him nauseous. He eases himself onto the floor and dry-retches into the toilet bowl. He folds his arms over the back of the toilet seat and rests his head, facing the pool of water. Again his stomach lurches, but there is nothing. He gets up and drinks from the tap. He leans against the bathroom door and holds his head. A wave of nausea forces him back to the toilet and he vomits up the water. He can taste bile. He rests his face against the cool toilet seat. The drinking has caused a migraine. There is an emergency pharmacy that will be open on Sundays in Hatfield, but to drive would be murder. There is his mother’s first-aid kit; it’s the type paramedics carry around. There might be some OxyContin. The kit is buried under boxes of shoes. He unzips the bag and starts looking through the contents. Everything for a car crash, nothing for a hangover. He leans against the wall, his hand in the bag, fishing for something to take away the pain. He feels a few boxes. He pulls them out: insulin vials. ‘Fuck!’ He chews five Disprins. He sits with his eyes closed. He can’t summon the energy to walk back to his bedroom, so he crawls into his mother’s bed to try and sleep off the pain.

  His mother comes home and discovers her son in her bed. He’s on his back, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asks.

  ‘I have a migraine.’

  ‘Hangover.’

  It’s still painful to speak.

  ‘Have you taken painkillers?’

  ‘Disprin,’ he whispers.

  ‘Go to your own room,’ she says. ‘I want to get changed.’ He doesn’t move. He hopes she will take her clothes and get changed in the bathroom. Instead, in an act of defiance, authority – he does not know – he hears her undress in the room. He looks. He does not think of his mother as a fat woman, but there are rolls of flesh that hang over her brown pants, and her bra-straps cut deep into her skin. She bends over to step into her jeans and he can see some coarse black hairs sprouting from the top of her thighs. On her back are spots and fleshy growths. Opening his eyes has made his headache worse, so he covers his face with the cool side of the pillow.

  ‘Can you get me some painkillers? Please, Ma?’

  ‘You’ve had Disprin.’

  ‘I need something strong. Very strong.’

  ‘Drink water,’ she says and walks out of the room.

  By the time the minister comes at four o’clock, the pain has subsided to a dull throbbing in the back of his head. He gets out of bed and walks down the passage to greet the man. When the minister asks where Werner was today, he explains that he woke up with a migraine. His mother says nothing. He wonders if she ever discusses her son’s ‘drinking problem’ with the minister. Unlikely. The appearance of rectitude is important to Nellie. They don’t have much else. Together the three of them troop into his father’s room. He’s watching a one-day international: South Africa versus England. South Africa has put up a dismal batting performance. Looking at the score, Petronella seems relieved. She must hope her husband’s interest in the game has waned, lest he put up a fuss about the interruption. The minister looks at the television screen. ‘Not looking good, huh?’

  ‘Won seary,’ Hendrik says.

  ‘He says we’ve won the series anyway,’ Nellie explains. The minister nods. She turns the television off. The minister sits by the bedside and takes Hendrik’s hand. ‘Nellie tells me you had a bad spell in hospital, brother.’ Hendrik grunts. The minister takes out his Bible. He has chosen to read Psalm 54:

  Save me, O God, by the power of thy name,

  And vindicate me through thy might.

  O God, hear my prayer,

  Listen to my supplication.

  Insolent men rise to attack me,

  Ruthless men seek my life;

  They give no thought to God.

  It is a strange psalm to choose. It seems to bring his father peace. Hendrik closes his eyes and smiles; if, indeed, it is a smile. He cannot always tell because Hendrik’s facial muscles are oddly contracted. It was probably the passage the minister read at the morning service; words to console suburban whites afraid of the blacks at their gates. When the minister leaves, his father continues watching the cricket game. Werner sits in the wicker chair and asks himself whether he has the courage – the balls – to be a ruthless man.

  In spite of the hangover, he goes into his father’s room that night with the bottle of whisky. He pours himself a small shot, downs it and then helps his father to a small sip. The man looks content. ‘What a day, Pa,’ he says. ‘Jesus, I had the worst headache. Ma thinks it was a hangover. It was a fucking migraine. Miserable old bitch wouldn’t even get me painkillers.’ He thinks about how he rifled through the first-aid kit. Did he put everything away? His mother probably thinks he’s a drug addict. No, he is certain he put everything away. For a moment he stops breathing. He looks at his father. Werner knows. He knows with absolute certainty how the thing can be done. The only question is whether it will be done. He looks at his own hand. He’s trembling. His father also looks at his hand. Werner sees that his father sees. ‘Drink, huh?’ he asks lightly. His throat is dry. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? You give me the creeps.’ He picks up his glass and the bottle of whisky and walks out of the room. He wants to go back to the day before. He wishes today never happened. He wishes he never had the revelation, but he has, and it cannot be undone. God is testing him: This is what you prayed for, fucker.

  The university library opens at seven in the morning. It takes fifteen minutes to confirm what he suspects. He buys himself a cappuccino and locks his office door. His father’s life stands not only between him and money, but also between him and dignity, him and freedom, him and love, him and sex. His father’s half-life has a very great cost. His father’s half-life is vampiric, parasitic. It is not a choice between an old man and a young man; it is the choice between a tumour and its host. He bows his head. Please, God, if I should not do this thing – he cannot bring himself to say exactly what. It is superstition. God may strike him down if he utters the words, even in his head. God, inasmuch as he believes in God, tolerates human beings only inasmuch as he allows for ambiguity. If I should not do this thing, send me a sign. He opens the door to his first appointm
ent for the day: another student benefiting from the university’s largesse because his parents are dead. Here, Werner thinks, I will show you the way, I will scurry from room to room, from department to department, to grant you your life so that you can leave me behind, here in this fucking office, where I will help others, carry them to happiness. God, he prays again, his life is in your hands.

  9

  OVER THE NEXT week Hendrik saw less of Lerato. As she was working in the kitchen with all the other women, it was difficult to engineer ways to be near her. He asked Maria how she was doing. Maria was sullen and uncommunicative. She was angry, he thought, for meddling in her affairs. Did they think this woman was bad luck? The unexpected wave of desire he felt for Lerato had opened him to new possibilities. If he felt this way, no doubt Labuschagne did too. If they’d slept together, perhaps the wife found out. Was that in itself sufficient reason? It would be embarrassing, but it was not unusual. Things happened, people gossiped, staff were sacked. He could not explain it, but having Lerato near made him feel comfortable. The woman who knew what had happened belonged to him, and if the truth of that day finally split her open, he’d be there to witness it.

  That evening, after collecting Lerato, he tried to have sex with Nellie. She asked what had come over him. Irritated, he got up and poured himself a whisky. He sat in the lounge with an old Scope magazine and tried to masturbate over pictures of Afrikaner girls with blue stars over their nipples. He imagined going to Pretoria on a business trip, staying in a hotel and having sex with a teaching student from the university. It was a fantasy that had always pleased him, but his dick went limp. This was an ugly sight, he thought. A man sitting on the couch with his trousers pulled down to his knees. A glistening string of pre-come, like a spider-web thread, ran from the tip of his cock to his stomach. Nellie knew what he was doing. Why could she not do this simple thing for him? They all needed to play their part to keep things together. When she’d seen him doing this before, she made a comment and went back to the room. And when he was done and crept back into bed, she pretended she was sleeping. He finished his whisky. In a minute or two it would dissolve his defences. No, he thought. Something this fresh and this exciting would happen only once. He couldn’t risk a rogue thought spoiling everything at the last second.

  He pulled up his pants, went to the kitchen and poured himself another drink. He and Lerato were in the forest clearing. He pulled his pants down to his knees, then to his ankles. It wasn’t right. He bent down to remove his shoes and his socks and kicked his pants off. If either of the boys woke up and wandered in, there’d be little he could do, but the drink made him reckless. Fuck it, he thought. He took off his shirt and lay naked on the couch. It was dark and cool. He ran his hands over his body and masturbated slowly. He thought about the journey in the car. By the time they arrived at the clearing he couldn’t hold back much longer. He thought about fucking her from behind; Lerato on all fours. He groaned and came. It was good. He closed his eyes. In a few minutes he would be ashamed of himself. The come pooled on his stomach. He put his finger in it. He wiped it off with his shirt and slipped on his underpants. No wonder Nellie was snide, he thought. How would he feel if he saw her doing that on the sofa; her clothes piled on the floor, and Nellie writhing and gasping? How much uglier would it be if Nellie could see what was going on inside his head? It was why, in principle, he disapproved of masturbation. It was not the act itself that bothered him, but the boundlessness, the vastness of the imagination; a mind free to skip from eroticism, to perversity, to depravity. He could never be sure whether masturbating fuelled a thing, making the desire more insistent, or lanced it, so that its potency drained away like pus. He told Werner that the desire to touch himself was to be expected, but it was best to refrain from doing so.

  Later, in bed, the remorse that overcame him was worse than he expected. It was all the dead Labuschagne children. He was desecrating their witness. He dreamt that he was fucking Lerato in a field. The children, ridden with bullet holes, came running up to them, begging him to stop. ‘Please, oom,’ they said. ‘We need Lettie to save us. Please, oom.’ But he wouldn’t stop. He kept thrusting from behind, while Lerato rested her head on her folded arms and cried. He woke up sweating. He was glad he’d had the dream. Now, when there was any danger of his imagination getting carried away, he could summon the dead children to bear witness.

  In town he listened for any word about the Labuschagnes. Had anyone yet realised that he’d snuck onto the farm, like a thief, to steal the maid? He was vigilant to any change in attitude. On Saturday morning he drove to the Spar to buy fresh bread. At the checkout he was stopped by a woman he knew from church. Would he be going to the funeral? It hadn’t occurred to him. He wanted to attend.

  ‘The brother is in town,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ His throat tightened.

  ‘Yes – he brought the mother. She’s eighty-four. Lives in an old people’s home in Johannesburg. He pushes her around in a wheelchair. I think the woman is senile, though – a blessing really.’

  ‘I wonder why he brought her?’

  ‘It’s her son.’

  In the main shopping street he looked out for the family, but they were nowhere to be seen.

  Petronella had waited for Steyn to say something after the call. She expected him to come and talk to her about new living arrangements. If they’d made up, Steyn would need to live in a larger house, perhaps something in one of the suburbs of Barberton. He never came. When she finally said something to him, he replied, ‘Nellie, we had an agreement.’ That morning, when everyone was out, she made herself a cup of tea and phoned the wife.

  ‘Hello, Anja?’

  ‘Hello.’ Anja’s voice was thick, as if she’d been sleeping.

  ‘It’s Nellie.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How are you, dear?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Anja . . . I was calling to find out how you are.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Did you talk to Steyn?’

  ‘What do you want? Did he ask you to call?’

  ‘No, no – he doesn’t know I’m calling. What did he say, Anja? I thought . . . I thought he was going fix things up.’ Anja laughed unpleasantly. ‘Ag no, man. Don’t be like this. Aren’t we friends?’

  ‘Did you force Steyn to call me?’ she asked.

  ‘But . . . I thought you wanted to talk to him.’

  ‘I wish he never called.’

  ‘Anja?’

  ‘Petronella,’ the woman said, ‘I want you and my husband to fuck off.’ She hung up. Petronella stood with the receiver in her hand. It felt like she’d been slapped across the face. Those two little words had come flying down the line so fast she didn’t see them coming. They shot out of the receiver and ricocheted in her brain. Fuck. Off. Petronella was shaking as she replaced the receiver. The woman was unhinged. How else could she go from weeping on the phone, like a girl, to someone who could say such things? She would need to change her attitude towards Steyn. She would keep an eye out for him.

  Werner made a point of avoiding Steyn. He waited for Steyn to come and enquire after him. ‘What’s wrong, chommie? Hey? You don’t have time for Steyn any more, huh?’ And then Werner would brush him off. He turned cold towards his brother. When his brother asked him something, he just shrugged or ignored him.

  ‘How’s your painting going?’ Marius asked.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ Werner said.

  ‘Can you help me practise my rugby tackles?’ Marius asked.

  ‘Why don’t you go and ask Steyn?’ Werner regretted saying this. If he could hear the jealousy in his own voice, his brother could too. But Marius was not as smart as he was. Werner went into his brother’s room and saw a fifty-cent coin lying on his desk, which he took. He waited for his brother to say something, but he didn’t. Two days later there were two twenty-cent coins lying on the desk. Again he took them and waited for his brother to say something. Nin
ety cents. He wanted his brother to ask for it back. Then he could say, ‘And where did you get this money?’

  On a Monday afternoon Werner crept into one of the dormitories. It was one of the smaller ones that slept only ten students. He was nervous.

  ‘Hello!’ he called out. ‘Anyone here?’ Some boys had small suitcases, but the majority had brought rucksacks, the old army kind sold at the surplus store. Werner opened the nearest rucksack. The owner had stuffed all his dirty clothes in the top. Werner had neither the stomach nor the courage to start pulling out the clothes and dig to the bottom. He opened the side pockets, only to find a selection of toiletries and a folded car magazine. In the bottom pocket on the left-hand side was a rolled-up pair of clean socks. He squeezed it and felt something solid inside. Cigarettes. He quickly removed two, before replacing the socks and cigarettes. I am stealing, Werner thought. I have stolen. I am a thief. The feeling pleased him. Thieving was not what he desired to do, but he was surprised by the ease of it.

  He looked at a small brown suitcase that stood next to a lower bunk. He laid the suitcase on its side, unbuckled the leather straps and lifted the lid. The suitcase was neatly packed. He lifted each of the folded shirts individually, deriving pleasure from the ritual of methodical searching, the monumental, irrevocable nature of this transgression and the possibility that somewhere in a suitcase he might find a ten-rand note. There was nothing in the shirts. He removed a pair of jeans and slipped his hand in the right-hand pocket: a fifty-cent coin. As he bent down to put the jeans back, he heard someone at the door. He flung the jeans into the suitcase and crawled under the nearest bunk bed. He pushed himself against the wall and pulled his legs up to his chest. He couldn’t see who’d come into the room. Perhaps it was one of the maids. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. Maybe a student had come to change his shirt or fetch a new pair of socks? Whoever had come into the room was being quiet. Perhaps the person was lying on one of the bunk beds. Maybe he was sick and had been told to lie down for a while. As silently as he could manage, Werner inched away from the wall. Even right at the edge of the bed he couldn’t see who was in the room. He began to panic. If he didn’t get out soon, all the boys would come marching back. He closed his eyes and prayed silently. Jesus, you’re my best friend. Help me get out of this mess. That’s what best friends do. Amen. He stuck his head out as far as he dared. He could see a faded pair of tekkies by one of the rucksacks.