Petronella suspected where he spent his afternoons and weekends, but Werner was careful to keep Johann away from the house and the camp. What Werner liked about Lourens and André was that they taught him about girls. They told him about what girls liked and what girls didn’t like. They told him about what girls could be persuaded to do, if they thought you loved them. And to these lessons Werner paid more attention than anything they said about motorbikes. The brothers told them about a girl’s poes and a girl’s gat and that sometimes for special occasions, such as birthdays, a girl could be persuaded to relinquish the latter. This, they assured him, was to be considered the apotheosis of sexual endeavour. Werner was revolted by the idea, but said nothing. Johann was teased for still being a virgin. At his age, the brothers said, they’d lost their virginity to a coloured prostitute from the local township. ‘A real Cape coloured,’ one brother said. ‘Skinny as a rake, with small little tits and a huge arse. But, hell, she taught me a thing or two.’ The brothers laughed and Johann blushed. Werner could not believe the ease with which they spoke about sleeping with a coloured woman.
‘Werner, look at my brother – such a pretty little face, huh?’ André said. ‘He could be a real ladies’ man, but instead of chasing poes all he wants to talk about is bikes. Bikes this, bikes that. Huh, little brother? You can’t fuck a bike.’
His mother’s assessment of this family was correct, but the lawlessness, the squalor and most of all the joyousness were hard to resist. And there was something else too. Johann was different from his brothers. It was Johann who made Charlize’s school lunches and cooked most of the dinners. In this regard he was not skilled, but the care of his younger sister was more central to Johann’s existence than Werner had realised. And although Johann spoke often about sex, he did not display the same vulgarity as his brothers. He showed no inclination to visit a prostitute or even to seduce one of the loose girls in the high school. He showed little interest in his brother’s magazines or dirty playing cards. It was the contrast with his family that brought Johann’s sensitivity into sharp relief.
Werner was tempted to tell Johann about the Jesus picture. Every fortnight, when he went into town with his mother, he stopped by the shop to admire the painting so that he could continue his reproduction at home. Johann might understand his singular obsession. The paper of his painting was thick with layers of poster paint, and although the image showed some improvement, it was far from the thing of beauty that had first transfixed him. He did not want to tell Johann as if it were a confession. He would wait for an opportunity when they were both in town and casually suggest that they walk down various streets until they came to the shop.
The more time he spent with the family, the more adult he felt. With Lourens and André he would talk about bikes and sex, and even smoke a cigarette or take a swig from a beer. He might help Johann make dinner for Charlize or play cards with her or talk about school. He grew fond of Charlize. He laughed every time she said ‘Donner!’ although Johann told him not to encourage her. ‘It’s my brothers’ fault,’ Johann said. ‘She’s a little girl, but she talks like a mechanic.’
Charlize showed Werner her secret fairy garden, tucked away in the undergrowth not far from the river. Werner pointed to some dolls’ heads impaled on coloured pencils. ‘What’s this?’
‘I had to cut off their heads.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they told Lourens and André about the garden.’
‘Oh.’
‘I didn’t want to cut off their heads, but Brolloks said I had to.’ She picked up a dead dung beetle that was perched on an upturned teacup. ‘You see this is Brolloks. Johann found him for me. He used to be as big as a dog, but then Johann fought him and did magic on him and now he’s small. He wanted to eat Johann, but we’re friends now. He’s in charge, except when I’m here. But sometimes he can tell me what to do.’ Werner nodded. Charlize had tied burnt-out light bulbs with string to the undergrowth, which formed a canopy over the garden. In one corner were dozens of crisp packets, which had been shrunk in the oven. They were neatly arranged in three rows: salt and vinegar, tomato, and cheese and onion. Werner picked one up. He’d forgotten about this trick. The packet was shrunk to about one-fifth of its original size, but the picture and colours were preserved.
‘That’s the shop,’ said Charlize. ‘For when people get hungry.’
She warned him never to visit the secret garden without her protection. There was a magic spell on Brolloks and, if Werner did visit, he would grow as big as a dog again and devour him.
‘But your brother fought him off,’ Werner pointed out.
Charlize considered this for a moment. ‘You are not as strong as my brother,’ she said.
Werner wondered about Tannie Sara. For the most part Lourens and André acted as if she wasn’t there, but Johann sometimes spoke of a time when his mother was well – halcyon days in memory at least, if not in fact, when the house was nice and the family ate a roast chicken every Sunday and his mother enquired about school; times, Werner gathered, that Charlize was too young to remember.
Marius sometimes followed him to the house, but he discouraged his brother. Johann was his friend. It made him feel better about Steyn’s betrayal. He had seen Marius and Steyn go rowing again together and was surprised that it hurt even more than the first time. He had a suspicion why Steyn was avoiding him and it made him even angrier, because it was not his fault. It was an accident. He even said that. ‘I’m sorry, oom, it was an accident.’ He apologised twice, and not once did Steyn say it was okay. Not once did Steyn accept his apology. He just looked away angrily. He could barely bring himself to speak to Werner that day, and even though he was friendly afterwards, Werner knew everything was different and that Steyn hadn’t really forgiven him. But if he couldn’t hurt Steyn, he could at least hurt his brother. And he would certainly take all the money.
In the late afternoon, having spent a few hours at Johann’s house, Werner made his way home. He’d learnt to vary his routes to avoid his mother. She was always trying to catch him. He was about to walk through the grass clearing in front of the servants’ quarters when he saw a man crouching in the bush. With his back turned to him, and through the dense growth, it was difficult to make out who it was. A young black girl was hanging up washing. Quietly Werner walked back up the path so that he could see the man more clearly. It was his father. He’d pulled his pants down and was masturbating. His father was jacking off over a dirty kaffir girl.
12
WERNER COLLECTS HIS brother from the airport. He finds the domestic terminal dispiriting. It’s provincial, and yet having to collect his brother from the airport speaks to the fact that Marius has grown up, in a way that he himself has failed to do. It’s been two years since he’s seen Marius. For a moment he looks straight past him. He expects his brother to look more like him; how does this trim young man fit into the equation of his family? He does not know much about his brother’s life. He shares a house in Cape Town with a woman they have not met, but he insists they are only friends. His mother does not approve of the arrangement. Since when, she asked, do men and women share houses?
They hug half-heartedly and Werner offers to carry his small bag, but Marius declines. When they get into the car and drive out of the airport, Marius finally says, ‘It happened so quickly. Ma didn’t say he was so ill.’
‘It was a surprise,’ Werner says.
‘I feel guilty.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t make an effort to see him.’
Werner shrugs. The roads are free of traffic and they are soon on the highway to Pretoria.
‘I know this might not be the best time,’ Marius says, ‘but you should know that I’m moving to Australia.’
‘When?’
‘In about three months. I just got my visa.’
Werner nods. ‘That’s great,’ he says.
‘Thanks.’
Werner swallows. ‘Where in Australia?’<
br />
‘Melbourne,’ he says. ‘I have some friends out there. Once I’m settled, you and Ma should come and visit.’
‘Sure. That would be nice.’
‘I don’t know what the situation is with Pa’s money – but don’t worry too much about me. Let’s just do what we need to for Ma.’
This is why Werner dislikes his brother. He feigns indifference to money, but does not explicitly rule himself out of the inheritance. He takes the high ground, but is not averse to the cash bonus of death. Werner has a meeting with the lawyer on Monday, after the funeral. He will not invite his brother along. His mother is vulnerable. He is certain, faced with her better-looking younger son, that she will renege on their agreement. As for Marius’s plans to move to Australia, she will be devastated.
‘Perhaps,’ Werner says, ‘you can wait a while before telling Ma about Australia.’ Marius nods.
Werner has never given Australia much thought. People say it is like South Africa, without the difficult politics and the crime. It is, he thinks, so like his brother to choose such an unimaginative destination. Pretoria to Cape Town. Cape Town to Australia. Beaches, nice weather. A good lifestyle. As if that is what life is about. As if that is all that matters. Marry a word of absolute profundity – life! – to one that designates nothing so much as a hollowing-out, and you get Marius. Lifestyle. That was his brother, a pretty little zombie, cavorting blindly to death. Werner looked at him and thought: I am a murderer. If I am caught, that will blemish your lifestyle.
In the flat they realise they haven’t given any thought to the sleeping arrangements. Marius takes a look at his father’s bedroom. ‘I’m not sleeping in that hospital bed. I’ll sleep in the lounge.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Petronella says. ‘You can share Werner’s bed. You’re brothers.’
Marius puts his suitcase in Werner’s room and says, ‘Don’t worry. I’m going to sleep on the settee. I think we’re a little old to be sharing a bed.’
Werner shrugs.
In the evening they go out to their local steakhouse. It’s part of a Native American-themed chain of restaurants that Werner usually avoids because the waiters are university students. He would find it embarrassing to be served by someone whose financial distress he knows the details of. Marius talks endlessly about Cape Town, about his friends and the house he shares in Fish Hoek. The Internet, he assures them, is the next big thing. Eventually he will abandon print design altogether and focus on websites. Petronella’s vague understanding of the Internet does not extend much beyond the idea that it has something to do with computers. All three of them have time off work. They are having a family reunion of sorts. Death brings about unexpected holidays. An expensive midweek meal is also an extravagance that neither Werner nor his mother would normally indulge in. Petronella seems to enjoy the distraction of Marius’s talking, so Werner says little. They order a second bottle of wine. When Petronella is a little tipsy, she brings up the question of the eulogy and starts crying.
‘Werner was always better with words,’ Marius says. The insufferable brat is even too lazy to write a eulogy.
‘Let’s leave it to the minister, Ma,’ Werner says. ‘I think it’s better that way.’
At the flat, Marius unpacks his suitcase. He wants to hang up his suit so that it’s not too creased for the funeral. Werner sits on the bed and watches his brother. He takes off his jeans and T-shirt and stands around in his underwear. Marius has a good body. When he goes down on his haunches to remove the suit, the tendons in his thigh pull tight against his brown skin. Werner thinks he is doing this on purpose. All day he has been flaunting: Australia, the Internet, his body. There is a fussiness to his brother that he finds distasteful. The white Calvin Klein underwear against his sunbed tan, his hair product, his sunglasses, his too-tight T-shirts, the way he folds his jeans, just so. He is an exemplary exemplar of what dull, middle-class, white South Africa aspires to. He will do well in Australia. But he will not see a cent of his father’s money. Marius opens the cupboard and pushes the suits aside. He steps back and looks at Werner.
‘You still have your Jesus picture,’ he says. Werner nods. ‘You’re not into art any more?’ he asks.
‘No,’ Werner says lamely. ‘I still am.’
‘Oh,’ his brother says. He slips on a pair of loose tracksuit bottoms, but not a shirt. He lights a cigarette. Werner reaches for an ashtray and lights a cigarette too.
‘When are you going back to Cape Town?’ he asks.
‘I can change my flight. When are we going to sort out all the paperwork?’
Werner shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t wait. I’ll call you if there’s anything that needs sorting.’
‘Ma says you’re going to see the lawyer on Monday.’
‘Ja.’
‘Okay, I’ll come with you.’
‘There’s no money, Marius,’ he snaps.
Marius looks at his brother and assesses him coolly. He takes a drag of the cigarette and then stretches to reveal his chest, his flat stomach. He blows out the smoke. The gesture is hostile. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Let’s see on Monday.’
Why, Werner thinks, should I stop now? My giant meaty hands around that fine neck of his; the rapture in crushing and crushing until he falls, limp and lifeless, on the floor, spent.
The funeral is not well attended. Werner wonders whether the minister is going to ask everyone to move forward, the way a professor might do in a poorly attended lecture. How lucky he has been. There was no talk of an autopsy. He did not even need to insist that his father be cremated. His mother said it was what Hendrik would have preferred. It is the first time he really reflects on his situation, upon the fact that he has, literally, got away with murder. The hyperbole of the phrase has diminished it to the point where it is now used in reference to minor transgressions; the bad behaviour of unruly children. You’re letting him get away with murder. Does the diminishment of the phrase suggest that for the average person murder is so unimaginable, so far outside their frame of reference, that it becomes sufficiently innocuous to use in the context of a child’s behaviour? A mother would not say, ‘You’re letting him get away with rape.’ Perhaps everyone has been too close, in mind or near or actual experience, as victim or perpetrator, to use that word in innocence.
There are twenty thousand murders in South Africa every year and, he thinks, there may well be more, for his own contribution will go unrecognised, uncounted. Surely he must pass murderers on the street from time to time, or in the shopping mall or even in church. He glances around. Having snuffed a life, is there a change – psychological, psychic, physiological – that allow murderers to recognise one another in the streets? Will they hold your gaze a moment too long?
Marius has put his arm around his mother. She is crying quietly. The pangs of guilt Werner feels are intermittent, but sharper than he expected. There are times when the momentousness of what he has done makes him dizzy and he is forced to steady himself by holding onto a wall or else by taking a seat. When people see this, they think it is the force of grief or high blood pressure.
There was a viewing before the service. Werner watched from the back of the church as his mother and Marius approached the coffin. Marius bent over and kissed his father on the forehead. Then the coffin was closed for the last time. The world was becoming impatient to dispose of the body, to be done with the rights and rituals, to move on. At the end of the service they file out of the church, leaving the coffin behind. It will be collected and taken to the crematorium.
The lawyer’s office is located in Hatfield above the small shopping centre. It’s a small practice that deals with wills, estates, divorces and simple conveyancing. The attorney, in his mid-sixties, sees Werner and Marius into his office. He puts on a pair of glasses and removes a file from his desk drawer. The flat is left to Petronella. In addition Petronella, Marius and Werner will each receive a sum of eleven thousand rand. Werner feels dizzy. Is that all? It is all. But what of the life-insurance poli
cy? The lawyer clears his throat. Did Hendrik not discuss the details of the will? The bulk of the money is to be left to Johann Schoeman and Lerato Dlamini.
Werner and his brother sit in stunned silence. After a while Marius asks if it can be contested. It cannot. In South African law, the will of the testator is absolute. They sign paperwork and leave. On the way home, Werner is unable to speak. When they relay the news to their mother, she bursts into tears. In Hendrik’s room she picks up some of his personal effects and smashes them on the floor. She takes framed photographs off the wall and smashes them too. Werner, in shock, watches. He has a vision of going back to the church and beating his father’s corpse with his fists; of flinging open the coffin and punching his dead face, over and over again. How he regrets his father’s sweet release from the world. He should have cut his throat and watched him bleed to death. He should have stabbed him in the eye. He should have cut off his dick, shoved it down the man’s throat and watched him choke to death. After Petronella’s hysterical outburst, they sit in the lounge in silence. They have all been undone by the man’s duplicity. The only satisfaction that Werner can take is in his brother’s evident shock. In spite of everything he’d said, Marius had come to collect his Melbourne money.
‘Who is Lerato Dlamini?’ Marius asks.
Petronella gets up and looks out the window. ‘A kaffir from Barberton,’ she eventually says. She turns, kicks one of the photo frames, goes to her bedroom and slams the door.
Marius turns to Werner. ‘And now?’ he asks.
Werner shrugs.
‘I hate this flat,’ Marius says.
The Curator Page 11
