The Curator

by Jacques Strauss

  ‘I know. The blue ones are special. Will you help me hang them up?’

  Werner looked at his watch. ‘Sorry, Charlize, I have to go. I’ll help you next time. Tell Johann I said hi.’

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ Tannie Sara called from the stoep.

  ‘Nothing, Ma – just some stuff to play with.’

  ‘Can I play too?’ she asked.

  ‘I have to go, tannie,’ Werner said. ‘Bye, Charlize.’

  He sprinted back to hide in the bush by the boats. Half an hour later he could see Steyn and his brother in the distance. Steyn was rowing and Marius was leaning over the side of the boat, trailing his fingers in the water. Werner moved closer to the dam. There was a small spot where he could hide in the dense bush, but still be close enough to the boats to overhear the conversation. Steyn and Marius hopped out of the boat and dragged it onto the bank. Marius said something about baboons and Steyn laughed.

  ‘I’ve never heard that before,’ he said. ‘What’s your brother up to?’ Steyn asked. ‘He hasn’t been around much.’

  It was a very good idea, Werner thought, to hide here. Marius just shrugged.

  ‘Don’t you two play together any more?’ Steyn asked.

  ‘He’s always with Johann,’ Marius said.

  Steyn nodded and dragged the boat into position and flipped it over. Marius tucked the oars underneath it. They started walking back towards the camp. Werner realised the error he’d made. He’d expected them to stay longer. He wanted to follow them, but the undergrowth he was hiding in was so dense that if he tried to cut through it, they’d be sure to hear him. He’d have to wait until they were further away. Cursing under his breath, he sat and waited. By the time the pair reached the car-track he decided it was safe. He darted through the bush and found the footpath. As quietly as he could manage he ran along the path, looking sideways towards the car-track until at last he could see the two of them strolling towards the camp. He hid behind another clump of bushes. If Steyn was walking back to the house, he’d have to wait for another time. But Steyn turned down one of the footpaths and Marius kept walking towards the camp. Werner would have to hurry if he was going to catch his brother before he reached open ground. He cut through the bush to the car-track and ran after him. Marius heard something behind him and turned. Werner grabbed him and put his hand over his brother’s mouth and dragged him off the path. Marius tried to bite Werner’s hand, but he held it firmly over his brother’s jaw. He started kicking and spitting and tearing at Werner with his nails. Werner threw him on the ground.

  ‘Oom Steyn!’ he shouted. ‘Help me – Oom Steyn.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Werner said. He sat on Marius, holding his brother’s hands on either side of his head.

  ‘Please, Werner, it’s sore. There’s a rock underneath my back.’

  Werner released one of Marius’s hands. ‘Get the rock,’ he said.

  Marius arched his back and brushed away some pebbles. ‘What are you doing, Werner? I’m going to tell Ma.’

  With his free hand Marius tried to scratch Werner’s face, but Werner was too quick. He grabbed his brother’s hand and held it to the ground. Then, for good measure, he put his knees on his brother’s thighs and pinned them to the ground with all his weight. Marius screamed in pain. Werner stopped because Marius was making so much noise, and put his hand over his brother’s face. It was covered in snot and tears. ‘That will teach you!’ he said. Marius was still struggling to free himself. ‘Stop it! If you sit still, I won’t hurt you. ‘He took his hand off his brother’s face. Marius was whimpering quietly now. ‘Where’s your money?’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. Where’s the money?’

  ‘I don’t have any money.’

  ‘Okay, fine.’

  Werner thought for a moment. He needed both his hands and legs to pin his brother down. He could lean his forearm over Marius’s throat, but it would be difficult to control the force and he’d probably choke him. He decided instead to hold his brother’s throat in his hand. If Marius struggled too much, he’d squeeze. He shifted his weight onto Marius’s stomach so that he could reach his pockets. With his legs freed, his brother started kicking. Werner squeezed Marius’s neck and the boy stopped struggling. He slipped his hand into Marius’s left pocket and pulled out a stick of gum. He removed the wrapper with his one hand and stuck it in his mouth.

  ‘My gum!’ rasped Marius.

  ‘I’m sorry – what did you say?’ said Werner as he tightened his grip. Marius choked again. Werner swopped hands and held his brother’s throat with his left hand. It wasn’t quite as strong as his right, so he’d need to be quick, although by now Marius was less inclined to do anything rash. Werner thrust his right hand into the other pocket. There was nothing there.

  ‘Where’s the money?’ By now Marius had become hysterical and was sobbing. ‘You’re such a baby. You should meet Johann’s sister. She’s seven and she’d fuck you up.’ Werner was about to let his brother go when he saw a glint in the undergrowth. The money must have fallen out during the struggle, but it was too far to reach. Werner clambered off his brother and grabbed the fifty-cent coin from the ground. Marius tried to run away, but Werner grabbed the back of his shorts and pulled him to the ground. He felt invincible. He didn’t know whether this new-found strength was just the adrenalin coursing through his arteries or some miraculous part of adolescence. He felt as if he could pick his brother up by the scruff of his neck and toss him over the trees, over the bushveld into the dam. Werner held the coin between thumb and forefinger. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ Marius said between sobs. ‘It must have been lying there.’

  ‘Rubbish! The bantu kids would have found it. You got this from Steyn.’ Marius said nothing. ‘Did you like it? Huh?’ Marius shrugged and started crying again. ‘I bet you liked it.’

  ‘It’s my money,’ Marius shouted. ‘Oom Steyn gave it to me.’

  ‘Ja, I know he did.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s been stealing my money! I thought it was Maria.’

  ‘Stealing? No, not stealing. You’re paying me to keep your secret. You’re going to give me all the money Steyn gives you. Okay? Because if you don’t, I’ll tell Ma and Pa what you two do in that boat.’

  ‘You’ve done it too!’

  He slapped his brother. ‘No I haven’t!’

  Marius started crying loudly again. ‘Then how did you know?’ he shouted between sobs.

  ‘I’ve seen you. You little pervert.’ Werner pinned him to the ground again and brought his face close to his brother’s, so close that he barely had to whisper. ‘I’m watching you, Marius. If Steyn gives you anything, you give it straight to me. I don’t care if it’s one cent or ten rand.’ When he let go of his brother he expected him to run away, but Marius just lay on the ground and cried. ‘Grow up,’ Werner said and kicked him in the ribs. He looked for the path that Steyn had gone down. It wasn’t one he often used, but he knew it led to the small clearing by the river.

  By the time he got there Steyn was standing naked in the river, washing himself. His clothes were left on a heap by the bank. The water came midway up Steyn’s thighs. He splashed his legs and the top of his stomach. The cold water made his body taut. He looks like Jesus, Werner thought. He looks like my Jesus. He stared at the prom-inent collarbone that jutted out beneath Steyn’s skin, and traced his fingers along the surface of his own, down to his sternum, and let his fingers rest in the middle of his chest.

  The sounds of the bush became louder, as did the lapping of the water on the bank. Werner closed his eyes. Perhaps he had been too hard on his brother. Marius hated him. He didn’t mean to hurt him. The sounds around him became more urgent. He sighed. He wanted to run towards Steyn and talk to him. He could pretend he’d just walked down to the river. Steyn need not know that he was spying. He closed his eyes and leant against a rock. Stop being a baby. Stop being a baby. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.
He sat like this for a few minutes. He hoped Steyn wouldn’t leave before he calmed down. Then he heard the shout. It was very loud and angry. It seemed as if the whole of the bushveld was screaming: ‘Werner!’

  Steyn slipped on his underpants even though he was still wet. He was in no mood to be caught naked, but he would have to sit in the remaining sun to dry off. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and lit one. He was ashamed it had happened again with Marius. The third time with Werner, the boy came in his hand and he got scared. He was fucking the boy up. The boy kept on apologising, but Steyn didn’t know what to say. Then Werner kept on coming round to the rondavel. He thought about taking the boy rowing and not doing anything, just to show that it was over – that everything could go back to the way it was – but he didn’t trust himself. Perhaps it was just the money. Werner was happy to take the money. He always seemed to have a fifty-cent coin in his pocket now.

  When Hendrik came to ask him about Werner, Steyn’s stomach lurched. What was it he said? Werner is extremely fond of you. Werner is very close to you. Do you think those two are smoking dagga? He spoke in that scandalised way that only people like Hendrik, who had never taken anything in their lives, could. That was the trouble with Hendrik. He was one of those people you couldn’t relate to, because you could just tell there wasn’t much going on. He was one more Christen-Boer – vir volk en fokken vaderland – for nation and fucking fatherland – utterly demon-less, with that plain, interfering Boer wife. It wasn’t unlikely the boys were smoking dagga. The family was rough. No doubt the older brothers smoked all the time. Two idiots at the bike-shop. Steyn had wandered around the showroom and they tried to sell him a clapped-out 250cc. It only took a glance at the engine to see they’d fucked it up. As for their brother, well, something about that boy made him ache inside. He’d like to sit down with that boy and strip a motorbike, piece by piece, and show him how to really fix a thing. But Johann was dangerous. He couldn’t trust himself around Johann. If anyone could turn him into a monster, it was Johann. Steyn sat with his knees up against his chest and stubbed the cigarette on the rock. A loud cry startled him. He turned around to where it was coming from. It was Hendrik shouting. ‘Werner!’

  Hendrik eventually found him by the river. Werner said he’d fallen asleep. Hendrik grabbed him by the back of his shirt and dragged him back to the house. Werner struggled under his father’s grip. ‘I can walk by myself.’

  ‘Walk then,’ his father said, pushing him forward. Werner expected to see his mother sitting in the kitchen, but the only person there was Lerato, staring wide-eyed as Hendrik dragged Werner to Marius’s bedroom. He opened the door. His mother was sitting on the edge of the bed where Marius was lying. He was wearing a T-shirt and underpants, facing the wall. His mother had lifted up his shirt and was rubbing some cream into Marius’s back. Werner could see the deep-purple bruises.

  ‘Turn around, Marius,’ Hendrik said.

  ‘Please, Pa, I don’t want to,’ Marius said.

  Petronella stroked her son’s head. ‘Come now, boy, just for a moment. I want your brother to see what he’s done.’ Werner’s heart pounded and his mouth went dry. He thought he’d just roughed up his brother a little; nothing worse than usual. Marius turned on his side. He didn’t want to look Werner in the eye, so he stared at the floor. Werner felt dizzy. Marius’s neck was badly bruised and the right side of his face, where he’d slapped him, was swollen. His brother’s eyes were red, but he’d stopped crying. There were two black bruises on Marius’s thighs, where Werner had pinned him to the ground with his knees. Marius turned on his side to face the wall. Petronella squeezed more ointment into her hand and looked away from her son. ‘Please, Hendrik, I don’t want to see him.’ Hendrik grabbed Werner by the neck, shoved him out the room and closed the door behind him. His father’s temper scared Werner. How was he to explain that this was not nearly as bad as it looked? He hadn’t really meant to hurt Marius. Perhaps he’d gone a little far, he could see that now, but his parents were carrying on as if he’d beaten him. Hendrik grabbed his son and threw him against the wall.

  ‘Why? Why did you do that to your brother?’ Werner said nothing. ‘There must be a reason. He must have done something to you! Please tell me he did something.’ Werner tried to think of something that would assuage his father’s anger, but it was difficult to think with him shouting and pounding him against the wall. ‘Why?’ his father shouted again. Werner could hear his brother start whimpering in the room, devastated no doubt that he was the cause of all this, and Werner smiled at the thought of his soft little brother. ‘You think it’s funny? I will give you something to smile about!’ He struck his son across the face.

  ‘Pa, please! I didn’t mean it.’

  Hendrik dragged his son into the kitchen and started fumbling with his belt. ‘Bend!’ he shouted. He couldn’t get his belt undone. ‘Fucking belt!’ He reached for a wooden spoon and broke it across Werner’s buttocks.

  Werner shouted in pain. ‘Pa! Please, Pa! It was an accident!’

  ‘Accident?’ he muttered, fiddling with his belt again. ‘Let me show you an accident.’ He grabbed the end of the belt and ripped it with as much force as he could muster. It snaked through the trouser loops and, as the tip of the belt escaped, caught Werner on the side of the face. Werner winced, but Hendrik didn’t notice. He brought the belt down as hard as he could. He misjudged his swing and caught the boy on his lower back. Werner crumpled in pain. Hendrik stepped back and dropped the belt on the floor. Werner was on all fours, arching to escape the burn. He started crying. Hendrik looked up from his son on the floor. Lerato was standing in the kitchen. She was shaking.

  ‘Lerato! Calm down.’

  Werner took in a deep breath and let out another wail. Hendrik noticed some blood on the side of the boy’s face. He wasn’t sure how that happened. Fuck, he thought. Werner bawling like a dog on the floor and a crazy meid having a breakdown in my kitchen. What a mess! This was how it started. Before you knew it, you were hitting and beating and kicking and shooting everything in sight to make things okay again. Lerato ran out of the kitchen. Hendrik looked at his son and said, ‘Ok – enough of the dramatics. Get up,’ and followed Lerato out into the garden.

  ‘Lerato! Lerato! Wait.’ Lerato, he supposed, wanted to run all the way back to Moedswill. ‘Don’t be scared,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that. You understand?’ The girl looked at the ground. ‘Werner is a little bit wild at the moment. Lerato, look at me.’ With some reluctance she looked up, but her eyes still didn’t meet his. ‘What happened there – in Moedswill – it’s not going to happen here. You understand?’

  Hendrik heard Petronella in the kitchen. ‘Where’s your father?’ she asked Werner.

  ‘Chasing after his kaffirmeid!’

  He heard a door slam and wasn’t sure whether it was his wife or his son.

  ‘Lerato,’ he said. ‘Are you okay?’

  Petronella came out of the back door. ‘Hendrik,’ she shouted. ‘Leave her!’

  ‘Lerato, it’s all going to be fine. Just go back to your room, okay?’ She nodded. Hendrik turned to talk to his wife.

  16

  WERNER SITS IN the bush for over an hour peering at the house, waiting for Johann to come out again. He wants one more look before he leaves. He wants to drink Johann in. With that hook, he is remarkable. Someone should paint him: naked with a hook. Then Werner would lie in bed and stare at him, and Johann would suck up all the sound in the room and whisper it back into his ear, ‘Calm down, calm down.’ He hears a car door slam shut and the vehicle pull away. He tries to see who is inside, but the car is gone. If he were certain they’d both left, he’d peer into the house for clues as to what Johann has been doing for the last twenty years.

  He walks back to the hotel. When he emerges from the bush he sees the boy standing by one of the service entrances of the hotel talking to a staff member. Werner stands and watches. The boy gives the man a wad of cash and the man hands him
a little bag. How embarrassing that a boy, in a foreign country, could do what Werner, a native of thirty-three, could not. The boy looks at Werner and realises there has been a witness to the transaction. His eyes narrow. He expects the boy to shout, ‘What are you looking at, you fat cunt?’ Instead the boy pockets the drugs and ambles in Werner’s direction. Though excited by the imminent contact, he feels caught. Should he continue walking to the hotel? This would look as if he was walking towards the boy. On the other hand, he can’t simply stand and wait. He does not want to create the impression that the boy needs to explain himself. Without turning away, he takes a seat at one of tables. Immediately a waiter appears. Werner looks at his watch. It’s a little after noon, so he orders a beer. The boy stands close to his table and gazes out at the dam. He shields his eyes. Werner is a little breathless. The boy is wondering how to tackle the conversation. The waiter returns with a beer and Werner signs the receipt.

  ‘Hello,’ the boy says shyly.

  ‘Hello,’ Werner says. He is embarrassed of his own thick accent. Not hello, but hullo. Werner knows what the words should sound like, but his guttural vernacular has twisted the muscles in his tongue so that it grates and rasps at the English words; words that have been smoothed and weathered like small beach pebbles over centuries.

  ‘It’s hot today,’ the boy says. Werner nods. And then, ‘Are you going to tell my parents?’

  ‘No,’ Werner replies. The boy nods; not a question then, but an instruction. ‘I’m Aleksander.’

  ‘Werner.’

  Again he nods, as if he knew this.

  ‘This is the most boring place in the world. There’s nothing to do.’

  ‘I know. I grew up here.’

  ‘Where?’

  Werner points to the buildings in the distance. ‘My father used to run that camp. Are you here on holiday?’

  ‘Sort of,’ he says ambiguously.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Werner asks. It feels improper to talk to this boy. It feels like he is doing something dirty.