The man smirks. ‘And what do you plan to do, if you find her? Tell her your sob story?’
‘I wasn’t sure she would be found. In which case my mother gets the money. But it would be good to know, either way. For my mother’s sake. I am sure you understand that this entire affair is a cause of considerable pain to her.’ Stefan nods, but says nothing. ‘Have you found her?’
‘What do you know of Lerato Dlamini?’ Stefan asks.
‘Nothing.’
‘Do you remember a woman called Lettie?’
‘Yes, I do. She worked for my mother for a short time.’
‘Well – they are one in the same.’
‘I see,’ he says. He remembers the young black girl. If he is surprised it is only inasmuch as he’s just made the connection; something his mother must know, but chose not to share. ‘I remember her,’ Werner says. ‘She still lives on the farm?’
‘Yes.’
His heart sinks. He was a fool, desperately clinging to the last hope. Everyone has been found and accounted for; in fact she probably has been found for days. The answering machine must have stored on it a recorded message: Mr Deyer, I am phoning to let you know that we have located Ms Lerato Dlamini since we last spoke. It is only now that he recognises the extent of his delusion. He puts his head in his hands. He cannot bring himself to say anything. He sits up and rubs the back of his neck. He looks at the hollow-cheeked man sitting in the wheelchair. He knows that the man sitting before him must be in his late thirties, but his face is sunken, which makes him look older. He looks at the painting again.
‘It’s extraordinary.’ The man shrugs. Werner gets up and walks towards it. ‘It really is extraordinary.’ He leans in close to inspect the brushstrokes. ‘I remember the murders.’ He says this not matter-of-factly, but tenderly. ‘Everyone thought you were going to die. I remember that.’ Stefan looks away and sighs. ‘I’m sorry,’ Werner says. ‘I was being rude.’ Stefan shrugs. ‘You see, when I was young I thought I was going to be a curator. That was always my dream. And you know, as dreams go, I thought it was modest. I didn’t want to become a famous movie star or a millionaire or anything. And somehow, even with your most modest ambitions, life just gets in the way.’ He turns to face Stefan. ‘You painted this?’
‘I did.’
‘You are very talented. I’m curious – how do you paint such large canvases?’
‘I was quite busy when you interrupted.’
‘You were busy painting?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you mind?’
‘What?’
‘If I watched you work.’
Stefan sighs. He does not strike Werner as a kind man, but perhaps his own small tragedy might soften him in this instance. It is a small request.
‘I suppose.’
He leads Werner into the adjoining room, which in the past must have been the dining area. Scattered on the floor are tubes of oil paint, brushes and a piece of hardboard that’s being used as a palette. A large, nearly complete canvas is propped against the wall. This one is of a man putting a shotgun in his mouth. His eyes are stretched wild and mad; as if he’s being attacked by the gun. It is a difficult picture to look at. It is not beautiful, though it is beautifully executed. Immediately in front of the painting, hanging a metre off the ground, is a wooden chair suspended by three ropes that run to steel pulleys fixed to the adjacent and back walls. Beneath the pulleys are steel stays. There are three black men, neatly dressed in white overalls, standing at the back of the room. Stefan points to an old riempie chair. His manner is imperious and Werner understands that this is where he is being instructed to sit. The men lift Stefan out of the wheelchair and slide the wooden chair beneath him. Leather straps hold him in place. He indicates the height he wishes to be raised to and the men, seemingly practised at this, gently raise him two metres off the ground so that his head is level with the face of the man. They then secure the ropes to the steel stays beneath the pulleys. Two men stand on either side of the painting and move it left or right, as required. Another man passes Stefan brushes and paints and occasionally holds the palette when Stefan’s arms tire. After half an hour he instructs one of the men to put on some music. ‘CD six,’ he says. It’s a selection of Bach concertos.
Werner watches Stefan paint the area around the man’s nostrils for a full two hours. During that time Stefan speaks only to give instructions to his staff. Sometimes he puts his head back and closes his eyes. Then, at one o’clock, he says, ‘I need a rest.’ One of the men takes the brush and palette from him and he is gently lowered into his wheelchair. His brow is wet with sweat. He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and mops his forehead and the back of his neck. He drinks water and eats an apple in silence. ‘Go, go,’ he says to the men and dismisses them with a wave of his hand. ‘One day the people on this farm will kill me.’
‘Why?’
‘They would love to get me out of the way. And who can blame them? I can barely afford to pay them. Some of them work in lieu of rent.’
‘For squatting here?’
He nods and takes another bite of apple.
‘Why don’t you get rid of the squatters?’ Werner asks.
‘These are the people from the farm. I couldn’t tell them to leave. Where would they go? They don’t have anywhere else. And if I can’t give them work, I must at least give them a place to stay. At first there weren’t so many – maybe a hundred. But then they had children and their families came and, before you know it, I’m king of the township. King Stefan Labuschagne, ruler of Moedswill.’
‘Well then, I suppose it’s in their interests to keep you alive. If you died, what would happen to them?’
‘I wonder how long it would take anyone to notice?’ He takes another bite of apple and muses as he chews. He swallows and then says, ‘I don’t think anyone would, really. Maybe the hospital would want to know why I missed appointments. But then they have enough to keep them busy, without worrying about some mad paraplegic. My death will go unremarked. These people will bury me beneath their shit and rubbish. It will happen.’
‘Why don’t you move to the city?’
‘The city?’
‘Yes – I am sure a studio could be adapted so that you could paint. You wouldn’t need as much help. You wouldn’t be so . . . isolated.’
‘Why don’t I move to the city and paint pictures?’ he asks.
‘Well . . . it would be easier. Don’t you think?’
‘Because this is my farm! This farm is my birthright!’ Stefan sips some water and then says quietly, ‘Or at least what is left of it. It’s time!’ he shouts at the door. ‘Get off your fat arses!’ The men wearing white overalls file into the room. One of them approaches Stefan and says, ‘Baas Stefan?’
‘What?’
‘Baas say I can have the afternoon off. I must go with my sister to the clinic.’
‘When?’
‘Today, baas. Baas say I can go today.’
‘No – when did you ask me?’
‘Last week.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Please, baas.’
‘What am I supposed to do, huh? What am I supposed to do when you go off to the clinic? Clinic, my arse! Shebeen, more like! You are such a bunch of ungrateful old kaffirs!’
‘Haai, baas! Baas mustn’t say these things.’
‘You are! All of you! I’m just a useless cripple who can’t do anything, so you all take advantage of me. I have so little time to finish my work. Now you want the afternoon off.’
Werner says, ‘I could help out. If you wanted.’
The man turns to Werner and says, ‘Thank you.’ Without waiting for Stefan to agree, he leaves.
‘Never mind,’ Stefan says dismissively. ‘You can go.’
‘No, please,’ Werner says, ‘I’d like to help.’
Stefan sighs. ‘You will need an overall – for your clothes.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll be careful.’<
br />
‘Listen to these two,’ he says. ‘They’ll tell you what to do.’ One of the men reties the leather straps and buckles that hold Stefan in place, then Werner, as instructed, takes his position beneath the far pulley. It would not do to tip the man over. Hand over hand, they slowly raise Stefan the two metres. ‘That’s good, stop there,’ he commands. ‘Help him tie the rope,’ Stefan says. ‘If it comes undone, I’ll fuck up the painting.’
One of the men takes the rope from Werner and ties it.
‘Werner, you can help with the paints. Come stand here – to my right.’
Werner does as instructed. He passes Stefan the palette. He’s already mixed most of the colour he needs for the day, but occasionally he will ask Werner to pass him a tube of paint. How long has it taken to paint this canvas? And how many others are there? Stefan paints for a further three hours, uninterrupted. Werner’s back and feet ache. But there is pleasure in watching the man work.
As Stefan leans forward, a soccer ball hits one of the windowpanes, startling Stefan and Werner. He jerks his brush and smudges some paint. ‘Fucking kids!’ He leans back in his chair and passes Werner his brush.
‘Don’t you worry about all these people? Living here?’ Werner asks again. It is unimaginable to him to be surrounded by squatters.
Stefan is still leaning back with his eyes closed. He picks up a cloth, leans forward and wipes off some of the paint. ‘I need a break.’ They lower him into the wheelchair and Stefan dismisses his assistants. He wipes his forehead. Stefan sits with his eyes closed and Werner wonders whether he’s taking a nap, but then he starts speaking.
‘About two years ago – or maybe it was three – I’d just come home from the hospital. It was a Friday night. I was sitting here, reading a book, drinking. I heard something in the house.’ He tilts his head back and rubs his neck with the back of his hand. ‘There was someone in the house. I thought it was children, looking for sweets or cold drinks. So I go into the kitchen. There are three men. In their twenties, I’d guess. They’re busy stealing my microwave. I don’t recognise them. They don’t live here. They’re not even startled. Or maybe they are startled, but they don’t care. They’re completely indifferent. It’s the way things are now – isn’t it? So I tell them to get out. It must have looked pretty funny. This skinny little mad Boer in a wheelchair. “Get out – get out of my house!” Like a grandmother, I suppose. And they start laughing. In the way blacks laugh. In the way black men laugh. Black women – well, you know, there’s something joyous about them. But black men – young black men – that’s something else. Maybe it has something to do with what we did to them. What is it the English say? There’s no such thing as a free lunch. The chickens are coming home to roost. Just desserts. They have a lot of ways to say: You’ll get what’s coming to you eventually. So these men think that maybe they can have some fun with a skinny Boer in a wheelchair. They lift me up and they put me on the ground. Then they piss on me. You know the way kaffir piss smells? It’s very strong. It smells like animal piss. Very oily. I guess we make a big deal about that. About being pissed on. Really it is not such a terrible thing. There are people who take pleasure in it. They get off by being pissed on. It was unpleasant, but not so terrible. Then they start kicking me and hitting me. And I realise this is how I am going to die. I am not embarrassed to tell you that I started crying. Good story for the papers. Paralysed man beaten to death in his own home.’ He stops talking.
Werner wonders if Stefan is going to say something about being press-fodder for the second time; if he’s going to say something about how the prurient interests of an insatiable public would be excited by the compounded horror of his tragedy. In the same house. Stefan takes a bite of an apple and chews it thoughtfully. Werner wonders whether the story is finished. ‘Did they leave?’ he asks.
‘No. I think they meant to kill me.’ The light in the room is fading. Outside they can hear the children playing soccer. They whoop and shout and laugh. ‘Can you imagine what would have happened? If the police came here and found me in this house? With these paintings? Freak! But my people – my blacks – realised something was wrong. So they came into the house. They tried to grab them, but two of the men broke free. They caught one. And they start beating him. Someone else is helping me back into my chair – and my bantus are busy beating this man. So you see, really I am quite unfair to them. They weren’t beating this man out of a sense of obedience – they were beating him out of pure rage. Out of love for me. Maybe affection. Or familiarity. I think perhaps they thought that if anyone is going to kill me, that is their right. Not some strange out-of-town kaffirs who were just taking a chance with a cripple. But to watch them beat that man – it was a beautiful sight. A very beautiful thing to feel so loved, and protected. And of course I was very angry with that man. When someone makes you cry with fear, I can’t tell you how strong the hate is. It was unfortunate for this man. I think that maybe, for my people, once they’d beaten him a bit, knocked out some of his teeth, the anger would have dissipated. After the adrenalin rush. I don’t know – I’m guessing here – but I think it would be fair to say that after you’ve beaten a man quite badly, there would come a time when the excitement of it fades. Maybe you’d pick him up by the scruff of his neck and toss him out on to the street. But they kept at it. And every now and then they glanced at me. They were doing this for me – giving it to me. They were waiting for me to give the sign. But I felt such love from them – not for them, but I suppose that too – and such hate for this man. I was always on the verge of saying, Enough! But how often does the world give you a chance for revenge? And then eventually they all stopped, and I thought: Thank God; thank God they stopped of their own volition, because really I don’t know if I had the strength to stop them myself. But also I felt: How dare you stop? How dare you? If I wanted, you should have beaten this man to death before my very eyes. You have given me much tonight, but I would like to know how much more you could give, if needed. That night I slept better than I had in many, many years. It was the first time in a long time that I felt safe. I could lie in bed thinking: Whoever comes in here will not only be thrown out, but beaten, maybe killed. And it was the first time in my life that I got revenge.’
‘What happened?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘To the man?’
‘I don’t know. They took him outside.’
Stefan sips water. Werner says nothing. Stefan calls for his assistants. He looks out of the window. There is enough light, he says, and continues for another two hours. By the time they lower him back into the wheelchair, Werner’s back is aching. The festoon lights have been switched on outside the house and men and women have gathered in the shebeens. Music blares from stereo systems. People are dancing and clapping. The unmistakeable smell of marijuana wafts through the house.
‘There’s no point in keeping them here much longer,’ Stefan says of his assistants. ‘When things become like this, they itch to get outside and drink and smoke. I’ve tried to keep them painting late into the night, but they get careless.’ He opens the drinks cabinet and pours himself and Werner a whisky. He lights a cigarette and Werner does the same. ‘Why don’t you come again tomorrow? It’s nice to have some company.’
19
HENDRIK DID NOT know what to make of his wife and Lettie. All he knew was that this was part of a war she was waging against him. She no longer kept up the pretence that the arrangement was temporary. Maria had become a full-time, if resentful, member of the camp staff.
‘Baas, why the missies give Lerato my job?’ she’d asked. He did not know what to say. Because, Maria, this has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. Because, Maria, the missies is fighting with me in the only way she knows how.
‘Maria – don’t be silly now. The missies is just showing Lerato how to cook and clean.’
‘But why, baas? Why must she show her these things? The girl knows how to clean.’
‘Yes, but not
the way the missies likes. Huh? You know – she likes things to be just so.’
‘Yes, baas. I know. That is why I must do it. I must work in the house. I am the baas’s meid.’
‘Ag, come now, Maria. Why can’t someone else learn? This will help Lerato get a good job.’
‘Baas – the missies she say to me maybe it is few days. But now it is two weeks. I work very hard for the baas. Fifteen years. When Werner is a little baby I carry him on my back. Baas, this is my job. This thing is not right.’ And with that she just shook her head and walked off.
Hendrik felt a stab of guilt. Petronella was casting Maria aside, a loyal servant whose grievance was fair. And he, the master of the house, could do little about it. Or could he? Could he not assert the proper authority over his wife? He thought about walking into the kitchen, grabbing his wife by the hair and dragging her into the bedroom. Enough, you cruel, relentless bitch! Give me a fucking break! And for a moment he thinks again about taking a gun to her head. If these fantasies have become less common, it is because he can see that whatever venom this woman has stems not from malice, but from small-mindedness, from a complete failure to understand the world on any terms but her own. Still, it didn’t change the fact that she was a bitch. But not without intuition. She could smell how much he wanted to fuck Lerato. Shit, even Werner knew how much he wanted to fuck that girl. Maybe Werner knew because he wanted to fuck her as well. He would not put anything past that boy. Was that why the kid was acting up? And, by bringing her into the house, did Petronalla mean to tempt Hendrik, tease him? Or was she hoping to turn her into a proper meid. Did she think him incapable of fucking the ousie? It would be good to leave the woman. But it would never be over. She would always be there. Sulking. Resentful. Bitter.
He lit a cigarette and asked Lerato to pass him an ashtray. He picked up the newspaper. There’d been some trouble in Soweto. Some kid was shot by the police and the bantus were going wild. Riots all over the place. He would have to keep an eye on things. On the whole it was the urban blacks who were more of a problem. The urban blacks were influenced by foreigners and intellectuals and Russians. The rural blacks never really complained. But sometimes, when things got out of control in the cities, the rural blacks became restless. They got drunk, started fights. Some would argue with their bosses, demand higher wages, new schools. He skimmed through the article. Riots spreading across the country . . . hundreds of arrests. On one of the pages they’d reproduced a picture that had originally been printed in Drum magazine: a teenager, running down the street, carrying the body of a young boy. He turned the page. On the bottom right-hand side of the page was a small headline: Labuschagne boy survives shooting. He skimmed the article. A miracle that Stefan Labuschagne (16) survived gunshot wound in the back . . . likely to be paralysed for life . . . transferred to a specialist unit in Pretoria . . . Uncle says they thank God . . .
The Curator Page 19
