The Curator

by Jacques Strauss

  ‘Don’t worry, Petrus,’ Werner said, as he walked off. ‘My mother knows.’ Petrus shook his head, put the car into gear and drove back to the camp.

  The days were becoming milder, though it was still hot. It would be several months before the headmaster finally relented and instructed the caretaker to fire up the boiler of the school’s old heating system. Werner had tied his blazer around his waist, but it kept on coming loose, so he threaded his finger through the loop in the collar and draped it over his back, though it made a sweat-patch. Johann’s parents couldn’t afford to buy him a school blazer. If he needed one for special assemblies or sports days, he’d rifle through the lost-property box and borrow a blazer for the day. As they walked along the dirt road to Johann’s house they scanned the veld for empties.

  ‘There’s girls at the camp now,’ Werner said.

  ‘Ja? Standard five or standard eight?’ Johann asked.

  ‘Standard five.’

  ‘I prefer the standard eights,’ Johann said. ‘Still, even the chicks in standard five can be hot sometimes. But they have small titties.’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘We should go and check them out. Can you still see them shower?’

  ‘Ja. Except Marius is there the whole time, pulling his wire.’

  ‘That kid is such a pervert.’

  When they reached the edge of the property, where the bushveld thinned out into the clearing in front of the house, they saw Johann’s mother wearing a swimming costume, a swimming cap and a large elasticated skirt. Johann’s brothers and Charlize were trying to coax her back into the house. ‘But I want to go swimming!’ she shouted. ‘I want to go to the swimming pool in town! Everyone else can go swimming – why can’t I go?’ Johann’s father walked out of the house. ‘Tell that woman to shut the fuck up!’

  ‘Come,’ Johann said, ‘let’s go.’

  ‘Where?’ Werner asked without moving. He watched the scene unfold with interest. Johann grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him away. ‘Come on!’ he said. Werner followed.

  ‘You don’t have to be embarrassed,’ Werner said.

  ‘I’m not embarrassed.’

  ‘It’s not your fault that your ma is getik. I know she’s not right in the head.’ Johann pushed Werner up against the tree. ‘She’s not getik!’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ Werner said. ‘She’s getik.’

  Johann gripped Werner even tighter and pushed his body up against him. ‘She’s not.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ Werner asked.

  Johann let Werner go and carried on walking. Werner felt flushed and excited. He wanted to share everything with Johann. He wanted Johann to talk about his mother and his father. He wanted to tell Johann about the Jesus picture and how it was the most beautiful thing in the world. He wanted to tell Johann about Steyn. But Johann looked defeated. Werner was sure Johann was going to tell him to go away.

  ‘Johann,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. Your ma isn’t getik. She’s sick. That’s all.’

  Johann said nothing and sat down beneath one of the acacia trees. From here he could see the black boys playing soccer on the dusty clearing. ‘She didn’t used to be like that,’ Johann said.

  ‘What happened?’

  Johann picked up a stick and started scratching in the dirt. His knee-high school socks had fallen down around his ankles. ‘Just after Charlize was born – no, maybe a year after – Ma and Pa had a fight.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. My brothers were still in school. So Ma packed her things and said she was leaving. She said she was going to go back to Benoni and would find a new job. She was going to come and fetch us, and we were all going to live with her. We had to watch out for Charlize, because Charlize was only a little baby. And then she left. She was walking down the street with her suitcase and Pa was shouting at her – but she didn’t even turn around.’ He couldn’t look at Werner.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘She missed my birthday,’ he continued. ‘I remember because after she left, my brothers said she’d be back in time for my birthday. She must have forgotten. And then one day we got a phone call from my ouma. She said my mother was in hospital. The police had found her in the street. Something happened. She had an accident. My father went to go and fetch her. When he was at the hospital he phoned us and told us Ma was sick. He said she wasn’t quite lekker in the head. Sometimes my ma is like a little kid. When ouma phones she says she wants to go home. She says she misses her mum. I don’t really understand. She knows we’re her children, but she thinks she’s a child too.’ He looked at Werner. ‘You know what everyone says about her is not true. She wasn’t a stripper. She was working in a bar. Ouma said she was saving her tips for a deposit on a flat.’ Werner had an urge to give something in return, but he had nothing comparable with which to eviscerate himself. So all he could do was nod. Johann got up and started walking towards the clearing where the black boys were playing soccer, and Werner followed. The black boys gestured towards Johann. ‘Kleinbaas! Kom! Kom speel! Come play!’ Johann broke out into a grin. ‘Come on,’ he said to Werner. But Werner declined.

  Johann ran onto the makeshift field. The goals were demarcated with little piles of stones. Werner could not make out who was on which team – if there were any teams at all. The Africans made a half-hearted gesture to include Werner in their game, but he could see there was no real feeling in it. It made him jealous. He was jealous of Johann for the ease he had with these people. And although he had no desire to play soccer, he was jealous of how happy they made Johann.

  ‘Johann,’ he called.

  ‘What?’ Johann shouted while still playing.

  ‘Come, man – let’s go for a swim or something. I don’t like soccer.’

  ‘It’s fun, man. You should play with us.’

  Previously, Werner would have dismissed him as a white kaffir and left him to it. But Johann was making him helpless. So he sat down in the grass and watched his friend play.

  Steyn was sitting inside his rondavel when he saw Werner walk towards the house. It was dark out. He went outside to smoke a cigarette and called the boy over. ‘Werner.’ The boy pretended not to hear and carried on walking. ‘Werner!’ he called a little louder.

  ‘Oom?’ he said without walking closer.

  ‘Come here, man. Jissus!’ Werner hesitated for a few moments and then slowly walked towards the rondavel. Steyn was wearing a pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, which he’d tucked in, boots and a black belt with a silver buckle. He was freshly shaven and had slicked back his hair with Brylcreem.

  ‘Hey, lightie,’ Steyn said. Werner looked at his feet. ‘What’s up with you? Come inside.’ Werner followed Steyn inside the rondavel. Steyn opened a beer and took a sip. ‘You want some?’ He held out the can. Werner shrugged. ‘Hey, boet, come now. You can talk to me. We’re both men – huh?’ He held out the can again. Werner took the can, had a small sip of beer and passed it back.

  ‘Sit,’ Steyn said. Werner sat, but looked away from Steyn. The room smelt strongly of Old Spice. Steyn had tidied the place and made his bed. ‘I’ve got a date tonight. What do you think?’ he asked, indicating his outfit. Werner nodded, looked up at Steyn and held his gaze. Steyn cleared his throat. ‘So . . . you and Marius had a big fight.’ Werner nodded. Steyn laughed uncomfortably. ‘What’s wrong with you, lightie? Normally I can’t shut you up.’ Werner said nothing. Steyn took another sip of beer and held the can out to Werner. This time he took the can and drank deeply; enough to make him light-headed. Outside they heard footsteps.

  Hendrik said, ‘Steyn?’ as he knocked on the door. Werner put the beer beside the chair, out of sight. Hendrik came into the room and saw his son. ‘Oh, I didn’t know you were here.’ He looked at Steyn and smiled. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. But we need to talk about what happened at the dam today. We might have to file a report – everyone says you’re a hero or something.’ Steyn shook his head. ‘Werner, I’ll ask Ma to put your dinn
er aside for you.’ Hendrik looked at his son. There was a scab on the side of his face where the belt had caught him. ‘Are we okay, my boy?’ Werner shrugged.

  Steyn waited until he heard the kitchen door close before saying anything.

  ‘So, what were you and Marius fighting about?’

  Werner reached for the packet of cigarettes lying on the bedside table. He removed a cigarette and held it to his mouth.

  ‘Werner,’ Steyn warned.

  ‘Does oom have matches?’

  Steyn considered this. ‘If I give you a light, will you talk to me?’ Werner nodded. ‘And if your father or your mother comes, you’ll put the cigarette out?’ Again Werner nodded. Steyn passed him the matches.

  Werner, smoking a cigarette and occasionally taking a swig of beer, was a grotesque mimicry of adulthood. Steyn’s clothes, his newly ironed jeans and shirt, the smell of aftershave and Brylcreem thick in the air made him the adult supplicant-lover of a smoking child in shorts and T-shirt.

  ‘Why did you fight with your brother?’

  ‘Because my brother is a poepol.’

  ‘Are you angry with me or your brother?’ Werner shrugged. ‘You’re angry with me.’ Again Werner shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Werner. What do you want me to do?’ Werner fixed him with a stare, but said nothing. ‘Do you want me to leave? I should resign. I think that would be for the best.’

  ‘No,’ Werner said. ‘Don’t go. Please.’

  ‘What do you want me to do, Werner?’

  For a long time the boy said nothing. He tried to find the words to express the ineffable thing he wanted. He tried to find the courage also. The beer was doing its work. He could not look Steyn in the eyes when he said the shameful thing. If Steyn had paid attention he might have noticed that the boy was on the verge of tears when, while looking out of the window, he said, ‘I want you to take me rowing.’

  18

  WERNER CANNOT SLEEP. The reunion with Johann has been too unsettling. He is trapped in a loveless relationship with the apotheosis of Afrikaner mediocrity. It is only a matter of time until the money is siphoned off by the demands of the sister, dull holidays by the seaside, and the endless mewing of the spawn that is sure to come, until Johann, like his father before him, retreats into a corner of the house and drinks himself to death – sucked dry, devoured, by his own family. The money will not be his salvation. It will be his undoing. Johann is too precious for that. When Johann ruffled his hair, Werner thought for a moment that Johann’s hand might slide down, around the back of his neck, and caress him. He closes his eyes and thinks about it. What is Johann doing now? Is Johann thinking about him too? Marleen is lying in the corner of the bed, as far from Johann as possible – a coiled spring of resentment and anger, dangerous to the touch. What would he give to be that woman for a night; to turn and face Johann, to run his hand down the shoulder blade to the point where it ended in a smooth, rounded stub, coloured the same deep olive as the rest of his body, caressing it, cupping it in his hand, like a breast or a buttock, kissing it. Werner’s strokes quicken and he ejaculates on his stomach. This is not why he came here. He did not come to rekindle an adolescent crush. His chest hurts. Is it love or a heart attack?

  He wakes the next morning still thinking about his friend. He dreamt about him again, but this time Johann had not possessed the body of a fourteen-year-old Dane, nor did he threaten to bite off Werner’s dick with a set of steel dentures. Werner was living in the house with him and Marleen. Whenever Werner and Johann were alone, Marleen would burst in on them and demand to know what they were doing. It was a good dream, to be conspiring with Johann. Marleen said, ‘I know you want each other. There is no point in pretending.’

  He eats breakfast outside; the gloom has lifted. He does not know how, but he is certain that his life is going to change. He consults his map and plans his route to Moedswill.

  The farm is about a forty-minute drive from his hotel; perhaps a little closer to Nelspruit than to Barberton, but almost equidistant. He turns off the main road. The farm gate is open and just beyond it he can see a sprawling squatter camp. He stops the car on the dirt track. Something catastrophic has come to pass here. His heart is pounding. He has never driven through a squatter camp before. Black men and women are milling around the shanty houses, going about their daily business. Is it possible that the farm has been occupied? Beyond the shanty houses is a ten-foot fence, the top of which is covered in razor wire. And just beyond the fence he can make out rows of fruit trees. The people seem indifferent to him, but should something go wrong there is no room to turn the car around; the houses are too close to the road. He will need to reverse out. For a moment he considers driving back and asking Johann to accompany him. Except, of course, that would be impossible. Johann cannot be a witness to what he has come to do today. Get the fucking money, he thinks to himself. You came for the fucking money. Werner puts the car into first and drives slowly up the track. The camp, by the standards of those in Johannesburg or Cape Town, is small, but there must be hundreds – if not thousands – of people who now live on this narrow strip of land between the barbed-wire fences. There are spaza shops, a hairdresser, a witch doctor, a place from which to make telephone calls, women selling fruit and vegetables, others selling cooked meat. There are goats tethered to poles, though he does not see where they might graze. Loosely strung from poles are coloured festoon lights that he remembers from his youth. Electrical cables run from house to house to a point far beyond. There are at least four shebeens, where even now, early in the day, men are gathered drinking. They are sitting on white plastic garden chairs, the kind you buy from OK Bazaars, and there are umbrellas emblazoned with the brand names of cold-drink and ice cream companies. Brightly coloured memories of his youth have been churned into this slum in the middle of the Eastern Transvaal; a great big shitty streak of 1970s Pretoria, as if two decades ago the city had wiped its arse on the bushveld. He has never seen anything like it. He notices too that some of the women walking along the track are wearing short skirts and wigs. Their faces are heavily made up. When they see Werner they put their hands on their hips and gyrate. The track bends to the left, and in the distance he can make out the old farmhouse. The shanty town extends to within a few metres of the front door. There is nowhere for him to park but directly in front of the house, surrounded on both sides by tin dwellings.

  He gets out and knocks. A maid opens the door and says, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello,’ Werner says, ‘I wonder if I can talk to the baas, please?’

  ‘Are you from the company?’

  ‘The company?’

  She points to the orchards in the distance. ‘That one. Stefan, he says he does not want to talk to you. If you want something you must talk to his lawyer. This is his property. He do what he likes. They must fok off, all of them.’

  Werner is distracted by something he sees in the house: a canvas, propped against the wall. At a guess, it would be eight feet high. Maybe more. Painted in meticulous detail is a girl, standing in her school uniform staring knowingly at him, smiling. She is not pretty, but has a kind, open face. The maid, seeing that he is looking into the house, closes the door a little and steps towards him.

  ‘You say these people are stealing the fruit. How do you know?’ she asks. ‘How do you know it is these people? Maybe one of the children, he is playing there – but so what? I tell them they must not play there. I tell them. It is not the people here that are stealing the fruit. It is other people. These people, they know – if they steal the fruit, then Stefan, he will kick them out. Ask them. You ask them what Baas Stefan say.’ She stops talking, steps directly in front of Werner and asks, ‘What you looking at?’

  ‘I am not from the company,’ Werner says, without looking away from the picture.

  ‘I say what you looking at?’

  He can still make out the head of the schoolgirl and the top of her blazer. The braiding on the blazer has been rendered with an exactitude that brings back memories of
his own school days.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I need to speak to the baas.’ He reaches into his pocket and takes out a sheet of paper on which he’s written the details provided by the lawyer. ‘Stefan Labuschagne.’

  ‘Yes. Stefan. Baas Stefan.’

  ‘It is about a legal matter. It has nothing to do with the company. I’ve come from Pretoria.’

  She nods. ‘Wait here.’

  ‘Can I wait inside?’

  ‘No – wait here.’ She closes the door and leaves him standing outside. He waits a long time before the door is opened again. This time a man in a wheelchair has accompanied the maid.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Mr Labuschagne?’ Werner asks the man.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name is Werner Deyer. I have come to speak to you about a legal matter. Could I come inside?’

  The man in the wheelchair nods and Werner steps into the house. Now he can see the whole painting. He stops a short way from the front door to take it in. It is ineffably beautiful and sad. The girl is standing in the very room he is now standing in, producing an unsettling mimicry. Behind the girl stands a man, pointing a shotgun at her head. Stefan clears his throat to get Werner’s attention.

  ‘That is an extraordinary painting,’ Werner says.

  ‘You say you’ve come about a legal matter?’ Stefan says, indicating the settee and waiting for Werner to take a seat.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Has a law firm in Pretoria been in contact with you?’

  ‘Are you from the firm?’

  ‘No. My name is Werner Deyer.’

  The man narrows his eyes. ‘Oh – Deyer. Of course.’

  ‘I’m his son.’

  ‘What is it that you want, Mr Deyer?’

  ‘Please – call me Werner. My mother and I cared for my father for the last twenty years of his life. Unfortunately he has put us in a rather difficult position. You see, my mother was counting on that money for her retirement.’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘I was wondering whether you’d found the woman. Lerato Dlamini. She used to work on this farm.’