The family finish their dinner quickly and head back into the hotel. Werner realises he is the last remaining diner. It is not late, but it is uncomfortable to have staff waiting around, even if they are trying to be discreet. He would like to sit here and stare at the landscape and continue drinking, but instead signs the bill and heads back to his room.
At sunrise Werner is awake. He looks at his watch. Five-thirty. When did he become this old man who couldn’t sleep? It’s cool outside. He puts on a jacket and starts walking towards the dam. Once he passes into the thick bush, he takes one of the footpaths that veer left towards the camp. Like the town itself, the bush feels familiar, but he can’t be sure it’s not just his imagination. Did he, as a child, ever come this far down? At thirteen, Werner felt he knew every square inch of this area and he thought it vast. But children are like that. Perhaps he never strayed more than a few hundred metres from the family home.
The gentle slope gradually becomes steeper. The growth is now so thick that he doesn’t know exactly where he is. It’s humid, but the clean smell of the bush is invigorating. Eventually he reaches the top of the hill and the path slopes downwards. In a small clearing is a burnt patch of ground, a few charred logs, empty cans of beer and crisp packets. Kids from the camp, he thinks, sneaking out. There are two footpaths that lead from the clearing: one heads left directly towards the camp; the other, deeper into the bush, keeps close to the banks of the dam. He chooses the latter. He’s not sure exactly what he’s looking for, but he wants to find something positively identifiable. He wants to be able to stand somewhere and say, ‘Yes, I was here twenty years ago. I sat on this spot,’ or ‘I climbed this tree.’
He sees a rough piece of timber, now almost completely overgrown. Thoroughly urbanised, possibly a little effete, but certainly fastidious, he regards the prospect of leaving the path and cutting his way through the thick, wet undergrowth with distaste. Snakes and goggas, he thinks. The piece of timber is covered in thick vine. It is the remains of the old obstacle course. Lucky, he thinks, that he caught sight of that piece of timber. In another month it would be invisible. Should he not mark it in some way? Is the world ready to swallow him up? He tears away at the vine. It’s tough and he cuts himself. For half an hour he works to clear the spot, exposing the last rotting beams, to buy himself – this memorial – another two or three years. If he wanted to, he could come back in a year and clear it again. It was his father that built the obstacle course. Or at least it was his father who oversaw the construction. It is the last thing left in the world of the man, unless he counts himself. But he does not consider himself a product of his father. Tired and sweaty, he sits down on one of the logs. Ridiculous! Trying to wrestle his childhood from the undergrowth. He remembers the day he came to look for the ants in the blood. The memory gives him the chills; the strange things that children do. His hands and shirt are dirty and he has a few cuts that are bleeding.
He walks back to the hotel, has a quick shower, changes his clothes and has breakfast. From the buffet table he helps himself to a small carton of orange juice, a few apples and a banana. He decides also to borrow one of the hotel’s walking sticks. It makes him look more writerly, he thinks, should he encounter the Scandinavians. He sets off in the same direction as he did earlier in the morning. When he reaches the clearing he takes the path that veers left towards the camp. He knows this path. There are certain trees, even, that he recognises. As he reaches the camp he sees that the path now leads to a gate in a fence. So this is what it has come to. Even here in Barberton: fences. He presses his face against the gate and peers in. There is not much he recognises. The dormitories have been rebuilt. The accommodation looks more like luxury villas. The long-drop toilets have been replaced, and in the centre of the camp is a large thatch-covered lapa, the likes of which one usually sees in game reserves. From here he cannot see the house. Short of asking someone to let him in, there is no way he could. No matter. He has no desire to see the house. The camp, unlike the forgotten obstacle course, leaves him cold. Perhaps because it has been rebuilt rather than just forgotten. It’s not forlorn. But also the obstacle course was where he and Johann would while away hours with their kak-praat, as Johann said. Shit-talk. He always thought of it as Johann’s place: both good and bad.
The path breaks into the open veld as he heads towards the dam. From here already he can see that the old boats are no more. Where they used to be kept is a large boathouse, built out of breezeblocks. Two black men are cleaning new fibreglass canoes with numbers painted on the side. The canoes, he notices, seat just one. He raises his hand and waves and the men wave back. So, the boats too are gone. His childhood is being wiped away. He should never have cleared the obstacle course. It is still early in the morning and he had planned to drive to Johann’s house, but looking around, he thinks he knows how to walk there. He isn’t up to speaking to Johann today, but it would be good to see the house. Seeing the house would give him a sense of Johann’s circumstances.
He finishes his cigarette, stamps it out underfoot and takes a few sips of the orange juice. After ten minutes of walking he begins to think he’s made a mistake. It’s clear the path is hardly used and it feels unfamiliar. Surely he should have been there already? Every few steps he thinks he should turn around, but then something up ahead catches his eye and he is drawn deeper into the bush. His fear is not of getting lost; it’s of having a heart attack too far away from where anyone could help him. And even if someone did find him, what could they possibly do? What would his mother say? ‘Ag, it was so sad. They basically had to get the whole township of bantus to come and carry him. He was so big, you know? Those poor bantus, I could see the strain on their faces.’ His last great indignity – being hauled out of the bush by a pack of blacks.
He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and mops his forehead. He’s talking himself into a panic. He takes a few deep breaths and walks more slowly because he can feel his heart racing. Up ahead is a large acacia tree. If he doesn’t recognise anything there, he will go back. But even before he reaches the tree he does recognise something. It’s the dusty clearing, where years ago he sat and watched as Johann played soccer with the local black kids. What was it about that day that he remembers? A confession or intimacy of some kind. Something about Johann’s mother. There are more houses dotted around the area. The newer ones are made from unplastered breezeblocks with corrugated-iron roofs. Government housing. Between the houses are a few communal taps. Woman are hanging clothes on washing lines strung up between the houses and children are running around and playing in the dust. A radio standing on a window sill is blaring, and two little girls, one about six and the other no older than four, are practising their dance moves and then collapsing into fits of giggles. Some adults have gathered around them and are clapping, charmed by the dancing child, who is being instructed by her sister. He is struck by the way in which these hamlets erupt out of the bush, colourful outbreaks of semi-squalor, usually a fifteen-minute walk from a pool of white wealth.
He carries on walking. The bush creates a canopy over the path, which has recently been cleared. As the path veers left, he can see Johann’s house. For the most part it is unchanged. Rusted pieces of cars and motorbikes are still scattered around the front garden, but they are sunken and overgrown. A woman with a washing basket emerges from the front door, and Werner, feeling exposed, steps back into the bush. He watches as she hangs up the clothes. Someone calls to her from the house and she answers, ‘Look under the sink!’
‘What?’ a man inside shouts.
‘The sink!’ she shouts back.
When the man comes out onto the stoep, Werner knows, without question, it is Johann. Still the same dark skin, and when he laughs there is a boyishness that breaks through the white kaffir face. His shirt is unbuttoned to reveal the leather straps drawn taut across his muscled brown torso, holding in place the prosthetic, terminating in the metal hook that he has never seen. The woman walks towards Johann and embrac
es him. He takes care to keep the hook away from her and kisses her gently on the forehead. They walk back into the house. For Johann the cripple, Johann the amputee, he feels such tenderness. He could walk over now, knock on the front door and say, ‘Johann? It’s Werner. Do you recognise me?’ And Johann, what would he do? Embrace him, or put the hook through his face?
15
MARIA AND LERATO were standing in the kitchen. Hendrik’s first instinct was to take Maria aside and explain that Lerato could not work in the house. But then it occurred to him that Maria would not have made this decision. She would not want another maid in the house. This must have been Petronella. He wondered how long his wife had known about Lerato and what she made of it. He did not know what to make of it himself.
‘Good morning.’ The woman turned and greeted him. He acted as if he expected to find the young girl in his kitchen. Maria poured Hendrik a cup of coffee while Lerato stirred the porridge.
‘Breakfast is nearly ready, baas,’ Maria said.
‘No hurry.’
Hendrik stared at his coffee and waited for his wife. She came into the kitchen as she did every morning, hair wet from her shower, wearing her nightgown. Maria poured her a cup of coffee and Petronella sat at the table with her husband. She looked at him and smiled. Cunning little bitch, he thought. Maria put two bowls of steaming porridge in front of the pair.
‘Baas, missies.’
‘Thank you, Maria,’ Petronella said.
Hendrik heaped two large teaspoons of sugar and half a cup of milk into his porridge. He would wait, he decided, for his wife to say something. Soon the boys would come into the kitchen. Introductions would follow.
‘No sugar, Nellie?’ he asked.
‘No, thanks. I’m on a diet. But actually I can have a banana with my porridge.’ She turned in her chair to face Lerato. ‘Lettie, won’t you do me a favour and pass me a banana, please.’ Hendrik looked at her sharply. She looked back at him and smiled. ‘It’s not quite the same as sugar,’ she said as she took the banana from Lerato. ‘But it does add a little sweetness.’ She peeled the banana and sliced it into the porridge. When the boys came into the kitchen, Petronella got up and said, ‘Boys – this is Lettie. She’s going to be helping Maria out in the kitchen and learning about things here. So if Maria goes on holiday, then Lettie will take care of us. Lettie, these are my boys, Werner and Marius.’
‘Kleinbaas, kleinbaas,’ she said to each of the boys.
‘Hello, Lettie,’ they both said.
‘Boys, you must eat quickly. Petrus will be here any minute. I’m going to go and get changed. Maria, will you make sure they take their lunch?’
Hendrik followed her into the bedroom and closed the door. ‘What are you doing?’ he said quietly.
The pretence of the past few minutes gave way to Petronella’s anger. ‘What am I doing? When did you go to Moedswill? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Ssshhh. She’ll hear us.’
‘I don’t care! When did you go?’
‘A few weeks ago.’
Petronella sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. Hendrik had noticed that his wife no longer restricted herself to a single cigarette in the morning. Lately she’d been smoking everywhere in the house, and a lot too. She sucked hard on the cigarette, and it was ugly.
‘You mustn’t call her Lettie,’ he said.
‘Why not? It’s her name, isn’t it?’
‘No, her name is Lerato.’
‘That’s her bantu name. When she worked in their house, they called her Lettie. And now she’s working in my house, so I will call her Lettie.’
‘Be fair to the girl,’ Hendrik said.
‘What do you mean? Do you think because you change her name she’s going to forget? No problem, huh. We change your name, give you a new job – good as new.’ Petronella was talking louder again.
‘Keep your voice down.’
She tilted her head back and blew out a big breath of smoke. ‘What do you want with this girl?’
‘She’s family of Maria.’
‘Family?’
‘Yes.’
‘She doesn’t want her here. Did you see Maria’s face this morning?’
‘Not in the house. She doesn’t want Lerato in the house – she thinks she’s being replaced.’
‘Maybe she is. Who says she will work for us for ever?’
‘Don’t be stupid, Nellie.’
‘I want to know what you want with this girl. I want to know why you drove to Moedswill to go and find her.’
‘I told you. I was just trying to help.’
Petronella looked at her husband. She’d waited over a month since finding Lerato. Bringing the girl into the house was her one dramatic flourish, but she had learnt nothing.
‘She gives me the horries.’
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘What am I supposed to say? And I don’t think you should talk to her, either. What are we going to say when people find out? What are we going to say when people start asking questions?’
‘The truth,’ he snapped. ‘That she’s Maria’s family.’
‘Whatever you say, Hendrik. You’re in charge.’ She said this distantly, while looking out of the window.
It seemed to him ludicrously swift, the short space of time in which he and his wife had become adversaries. In the past month they had constantly been squabbling about Werner. He was beginning to agree with his wife that there was something wrong with their son. It was not adolescent rebellion. There was something unsettlingly hostile in Werner’s attitude towards them. Perhaps Werner was smoking dagga. There was enough of it around. Half his staff smoked it. Its sweet scent would waft down from the staff huts in the evenings, reminding him of his university days, when he and his friends gathered in flats. If any of his bantus had given Werner dagga, he would thrash the person to within an inch of his life and then hand him over to the police. He had hoped Steyn might know something. The boy was very fond of Steyn. Natural, of course. Steyn was younger, more exciting. To Werner, Steyn must have seemed like an older brother. But when he asked Steyn, the man looked away, embarrassed. Hendrik understood. It was awkward to discuss these things. But he pushed the issue anyway. Had Steyn noticed anything odd in Werner’s behaviour recently? He had not. Well, Hendrik continued, for there was no purpose in hiding anything now, Werner’s behaviour was peculiar. He was angry and distant. He was cruel to his younger brother. Steyn nodded. Wasn’t it, the man wanted to know, just teenage stuff? Werner was thirteen. Yes, Hendrik conceded. It was possible, but Petronella thought it might have something to do with Johann. She thought he was a bad influence. Didn’t Steyn think that perhaps the boys were smoking dagga? Steyn doubted it. It pained Hendrik to ask. Could he make an effort with the boy? He would appreciate it if Steyn could talk to him; find out what was going on. Steyn swallowed hard and nodded in a non-committal way. Then he said something about not being very good in these situations. It annoyed Hendrik that Steyn was so evasive. Werner worshipped him. He cut Steyn a great deal of slack. He rarely complained about the drinking, even though it had got steadily worse since the beginning of the year. Hendrik’s recollection of the conversation with Steyn was interrupted when Petronella said, ‘What’s going on with this family?’
‘Nothing is going on with this family.’ The thing to do – the sensible thing to do – was to go and sit beside her on the bed, put his arms around her and say everything was going to be okay. But he was still angry about the ambush in the kitchen. ‘If you want, I will take Lerato back.’
‘No. The brother is there now. It will just cause a fuss. Leave it.’
Werner carried a Checkers bag filled with coloured light bulbs. He’d found them in one of the storage sheds. It was not long now before the schools would close for the holidays. He and Johann had decided to go camping. They’d hike deep into the bush and set up camp for the week. They’d take tinned food and maybe some boerewors too. In the afternoons they’d fish or play cards. It
would be a very good holiday, if his mother allowed it. He held the bag of light bulbs away from his body so that they didn’t bang his legs. He should have wrapped them in newspaper, but it was too late now. He’d just walk carefully all the way to Johann’s house. He used one of the paths that ran through the bushveld. It was a longer route and overgrown, but his mother was less likely to spot him. As he passed the area where the rowing boats were stored, he saw Steyn and Marius dragging the green boat into the water. He considered going down to join them, but changed his mind. He looked at his watch. They’d be an hour at least. He picked up his bag and sprinted to Johann’s house. The bag bashed against his body and he heard the tinkle of a few bulbs, but he didn’t care. Tannie Sara and Charlize where sitting on the stoep.
‘Hello, Werner,’ Tannie Sara said.
‘Hello, tannie; hello, Charlize.’
‘Johann is with André at the bike-shop,’ Charlize said.
‘That’s okay. I was looking for you.’
‘For me?’ she said, jumping up and running towards Werner.
‘Ja – I brought you these,’ he said, holding up the bag. He leant towards her and whispered, ‘For the garden.’ She peered into the bag.
‘Donner!’ Werner laughed. ‘They’re beautiful.’
‘Ja – they’re magic,’ Werner said.
The Curator Page 14
