The Curator

by Jacques Strauss

  ‘Where’s your ma? Do you think she’ll take Charlize home?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘If my dad has been drinking and you ma turns up and shouts at him, there’ll be big shit.’

  They walked towards the house. Steyn was standing in the doorway of his rondavel.

  ‘Hey, lighties,’ he said, ‘what you up to?’

  ‘Hello, oom,’ Johann said. Werner ignored him. Johann bit his bottom lip.

  ‘Are you all right, Johann? What’s going on?’

  ‘The tannie is . . .’ Johann looked to Werner, but Werner looked away. ‘Tannie Nellie got real mad about my sister using the shower.’

  ‘Why was she using the shower, Johann?’ Steyn asked.

  ‘Because the geyser is broken, oom. She was playing in the bush – that’s why she was dirty. And then, when I tried to make her take a bath, she climbed a tree and then Werner said she could come use the showers at the camp . . .’

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine. Nellie won’t mind.’

  ‘Ja – but, oom, I think the tannie is going to call the welfare, oom. She said . . .’ Johann started crying and wiped away the snot and tears on his arm. ‘She’s going to tell my parents – and then when she talks to my father . . .’

  ‘Calm down. Come inside.’

  Johann nodded, but didn’t stop crying.

  ‘Stop being a baby,’ Werner said.

  ‘Werner, you shut your mouth,’ Steyn said.

  Johann sat on Steyn’s bed and Werner sat in the corner of the room, glaring at Steyn and his friend. Steyn sat next to Johann, rubbed the top of his head and pulled the crying boy closer to him. Werner smirked.

  ‘Listen here, lightie – are you listening?’ Johann nodded. ‘Sometimes Tannie Nellie has got a bit of a temper – okay? Nobody is going to the welfare about anything. You hear?’

  ‘But . . . but . . . oom doesn’t understand. My ma is sick, oom. I’m the one . . . that . . .’

  ‘Johann, I know.’

  Johann leant in against Steyn, so that his head rested against Steyn’s chest while Steyn rubbed the boy’s back. Werner was seething. Steyn would steal whatever he could. He stared at the man’s crotch, willing him to see what he was doing. He glanced up. Steyn had seen where he was looking. Johann’s face was still buried in the man’s chest and Werner smiled, before returning his gaze to the man’s crotch.

  ‘Werner,’ Steyn said. His voice shook a little.

  ‘What, oom?’

  Steyn swallowed. ‘Don’t you think you should go and check on Johann’s sister? And your mother? To see how they’re getting on.’

  Werner looked at his crotch again.

  ‘Will oom take care of Johann?’ he asked.

  ‘Werner,’ Steyn said. Werner slowly looked up from the man’s crotch to meet his eyes. ‘That’s enough now, Johann,’ Steyn said as he withdrew from the boy, taking his arm off his shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine.’ But Johann, still upset, leant back into Steyn and Werner snorted.

  ‘Werner, get out,’ Steyn said.

  Werner jumped up and slammed the door behind him.

  Petronella wanted this girl clean. Perhaps if she sent her back the way a little girl should be, smelling of soap and talcum powder, she could drive out the infestation creeping into her life. Or maybe these people would get their act together. They’d look at their little girl and say, ‘This is what a little girl should look like. This is the way a little girl should smell.’ And they’d pull themselves together. She wanted to wash away the trash, she wanted to wash away the kaffir, so that everything was wholesome and normal. She grabbed Charlize’s dress and lifted it over her head.

  ‘Are you not wearing any panties?’ she asked. Charlize shook her head. ‘Sies, man – what sort of girl are you? Lettie, Lettie, come here!’

  Lerato opened the door. ‘Yes, missies?’

  ‘Take these clothes and give them a quick wash. And then get me the old bathrobe – it’s in the cupboard.’ Petronella opened the medicine cupboard and poured a capful of Dettol into the bath.

  ‘Do you have any cuts?’ Charlize nodded. ‘Well, this will sting. But it will be good for you. Show me your hands.’

  Charlize put her hands out, palm down.

  ‘Look at your nails!’ Embarrassed, the girl put her hands behind her back. ‘No point in hiding them now. I’ve seen how dirty they are. Get in – get in.’

  Charlize stepped into the bath and Petronella scrubbed. When the bath water turned brown, she took the girl out, ran a new bath and put her back in. She washed her hair three times and checked for nits. She clipped Charlize’s nails and dug the dirt out from under them with such ferocity that some of the girl’s fingers and toes bled. She brushed the knots out of her hair and ignored her wincing as she tugged a comb through her hair to get through a clump. Lerato came into the bathroom with clean towels and an old dressing gown.

  ‘Have you washed her clothes?’

  ‘Yes, missies – they’re drying by the heater.’

  ‘Good, give me the towel.’ She took it from Lerato, pulled out the plug and told the girl to stand. ‘There, much better. You look almost like a normal girl now.’ Charlize shivered as Petronella dried her from head to toe and wrapped her in a dressing gown. ‘Lettie, take this girl to the kitchen and put her by the heater with the clothes, while they dry off. And give her a sandwich or something.’

  Lerato led the girl out of the bathroom. Petronella’s back ached from bending over. She put her hand on the small of her back and arched. She then proceeded to empty the remaining contents of the Dettol into the bath and poured bleach on the bathroom tiles.

  Johann started crying again. For a few minutes Werner had made Steyn’s stomach turn with fear. The way the boy had stared at him, with such knowingness, was like being stripped, flayed. People always said there wasn’t a boy that Steyn couldn’t break, but he wondered if, in Werner, he had not met his match.

  Petronella had unwittingly lanced a lifetime of fear and hopelessness and chaos, so that all he could do was rock and say, ‘It’s all right.’ And the boy, rather than relaxing, clung even tighter to him. His hair brushed Steyn’s lips, and so he leant in and kissed him gently on the head. He kissed him again. ‘It’s all right. Everything is going to be fine.’

  The boy did not release his grip and Steyn nuzzled his hair a little. The best thing to do would be to take Johann to the house now. He thought about putting his hand on the boy’s thigh. Perhaps he and Johann could go somewhere? Into Barberton for a milkshake and a beer? And then? They could stay in a hotel. He needn’t do anything. They could just lie together. He could give the boy some time away from his family. Was Johann not the person he’d choose to spend a night with? In the end – whatever happened – what this boy needed was love. Steyn knew he could love this boy better than anyone else. Johann relaxed completely as he caressed him. He could not smell the poison in Steyn’s veins.

  Perhaps he was man enough. Perhaps this was not so fucked up. Steyn held Johann tight; brown and beautiful and naïve and full of love and goodness and kindness – the antithesis of the dangerous boy skulking around the rondavel. He looked up. Werner was peering into the room, with his devil-eyes.

  20

  WERNER KNOCKS ON the front door and Marleen opens it. She’s wearing a nightgown.

  ‘Hello, Werner,’ she says.

  ‘Hello – is Johann here?’

  ‘It’s late.’

  He looks at his watch. ‘Oh,’ he says.

  She sighs. He’s had a lot to drink. ‘Come in.’

  Johann comes into the lounge wearing his pyjama bottoms and a white singlet.

  ‘Werner, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m sorry – it’s late. Should I go?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Marleen says, ‘I’m going to bed. I have to be up early.’

  Johann sits next to Werner and rubs his eyes. ‘So what is it?’

  ‘I’ve just seen the most amazing thing
. It’s incredible.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was at Moedswill.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘It’s a long story. But I saw him. The son – his name is Stefan. The one who nearly died. He’s paralysed, of course, but he’s brilliant He’s a painter, Johann. The most brilliant painter. He does these huge canvases. They’re all about the murders. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘That’s horrible.’

  ‘They’re so beautiful. Do you have anything to drink? I really need to drink something.’

  Johann gets up and rummages in the kitchen for a bottle of brandy. He pours Werner a shot. He hands him the glass and sits next to him.

  ‘Are you not going to have anything?’ Johann shakes his head. Werner sips his drink. ‘I don’t like drinking alone, here in front of you. I wish you’d have a drink too.’

  ‘I’ve got a delivery tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’m going back tomorrow. I’ll ask Stefan if you can come along sometime and see for yourself. I really want you to see it, Johann. You’ve never seen anything like it in your life.’

  ‘That’s great, Werner.’ His voice is flat.

  Why is Johann not interested? Werner’s words can’t do the whole episode justice, of course. He cannot conjure up for his friend the sight of the paintings. ‘You know how he does it? He has like . . . this chair, and these pulleys and ropes. And then he gets some bantus – oh, and I didn’t tell you the first thing. The farm is like a squatter camp. I mean, he’s sold most of the land or leased it, or something. Well, I know that because the lawyer told me – but then I understood when I was there.’

  ‘What lawyer? Your father’s lawyer?’

  ‘Yes – but that doesn’t matter now. The bantus all live in a squatter camp. It goes right up to the house. And in exchange for living on his land, they have to help Stefan paint.’ Werner walks into the kitchen and helps himself to more brandy, which he gulps down. He pours himself another and feels his pockets. ‘I’ve left my cigarettes in the car.’

  Johann looks amongst the clutter on the coffee table and finds Marleen’s cigarettes. He throws Werner the packet, which he tries to catch, but drops. He picks them up.

  ‘Lighter?’ Johann throws him a lighter, which again he drops. ‘Ha-ha – butterfingers. But I’m shaking – look.’ He extends his hand. He lights a cigarette, picks up his brandy and sits next to Johann, so close that they’re almost touching. Johann moves away. ‘Stefan has a chair that they lift up using ropes and pulleys. He has to, because the canvases are so big. And he just sort of . . . hangs there. For hours. Painting. It’s incredible.’ He leans back against the couch and blows out smoke. ‘Oh, shit!’ he says, noticing the ash that’s about to fall. He cups his hand beneath the cigarette and catches it.

  Johann takes an ashtray off the table and passes it to him. ‘Here,’ he says.

  Is there a note of irritation in Johann’s voice? He must be imagining it. How could Johann possibly be irritated after last night? How could he possibly be irritated with all that money – Werner’s money – that he didn’t even ask for? A door slams.

  Johann says, ‘I think we need to keep it down.’

  Werner nods. ‘Sure, sure.’ He sips his drink. ‘Maybe if I go tomorrow I can give you a call, once I’ve spoken to Stefan, and you can come over. I think he would let you come over in the afternoon.’

  ‘I have to work tomorrow.’

  ‘He’s a bit touchy. He’s very strange – I mean, you should hear the story he told me.’ He leans forward and takes another of Marleen’s cigarettes out of the packet.

  ‘Werner, please don’t smoke all of Marleen’s cigarettes.’

  ‘Jissus – sorry, man,’ he says, putting the cigarette back. ‘She is hard work, isn’t she?’ Johann shrugs. ‘I mean, I can tell she doesn’t like me.’

  ‘She doesn’t really know you.’

  ‘No need to protect my feelings. I know she doesn’t like me. I don’t know what I did to her, though. I can imagine what she must have said when I left. She probably told you I just came for the money. You should have heard her carry on when you went out. She basically told me it would be best if I left you alone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ja – you know. Let you get on with your own life. I didn’t say anything, but you know I could have. I could have told her that we go way back. So what did she say?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘When I left yesterday. Did she say I was bad news? Did she say I just came for the money?’

  ‘No. No – she was in bed when I got home.’

  Werner stands up and loses his balance. ‘Jissus – that last brandy went to my head.’ Johann helps steady him so that he doesn’t knock over anything on the table. ‘I need some cigarettes. I have some in the car.’ They walk to the battered Corolla parked in the driveway. Werner opens the passenger door and scratches around in the mess on the floor of the car. ‘Fuck! I know I had a packet somewhere.’ He opens the cubbyhole and finds a half-empty packet. He leans against the car and lights a cigarette, then offers one to Johann. Rather than give Johann the lighter, he cups his hand around the flame so that Johann has to lean into him. He can feel Johann’s breath on his skin. He can smell the shampoo he must have used earlier in the evening. As they walk back to the stoep, Werner says, ‘Jissus, I’m drunk. I don’t think I can drive.’

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ Johann says. ‘I can walk back.’

  Werner thinks it would be simpler for him to stay over, but Johann does not offer this. He’s probably afraid of what Marleen would make of it. They sit on the stoep.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll walk back,’ Werner eventually says. ‘I’m sorry for barging in on you like this.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘I was just really excited. I didn’t know who else I could talk to.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Where’s your arm?’ Werner asks.

  ‘I don’t wear it to bed.’

  Werner throws the cigarette on the ground and crushes it with the heel of his shoe. He clears his throat. ‘Can I touch it?’

  ‘What?’ Johann asks.

  Werner touches just below his own shoulder, where Johann’s stump would be.

  ‘Why?’

  Werner shrugs. He can feel the set of his face. He can feel himself plead.

  ‘I suppose,’ Johann says and looks away.

  Werner brings his hand towards the smooth stump. His hand shakes. There is still a purple scar that runs through the centre. How quickly Johann has conceded to this – to being touched. Werner runs his finger along the scar and it gives Johann goosebumps. He cups his hand around it; makes a socket for the stump and he thinks, like this, they fit together. His breath quickens and he is erect also. He leans forward and gently kisses the stump as he has fantasised, but Johann pulls away and says, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I was kissing you,’ he says. ‘I was kissing you – is that okay?’

  ‘Well, don’t.’ Johann gets up. ‘You’re drunk. I think you need to go home.’

  ‘I wasn’t really doing anything. What do you care anyway? It was nothing.’

  ‘Werner.’

  ‘Such a small thing . . .’ he says quietly. ‘Why can no one do these small things for me?’

  ‘I don’t like you that way.’

  Johann’s voice is sharp. It is irritating to be spoken to like this. Why is he being so narrow-minded? So provincial? So Afrikaans?

  ‘I know! Okay? I know you don’t – but what’s it to you anyway? Jissus, Johann – we grew up together. You all thought I was so fucking stupid.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  They hear a door slam. Marleen is tying her dressing gown and walking towards the door that leads to the stoep.

  ‘Marleen, go back to bed,’ Johann says.

  ‘I won’t go back to bed. I heard you two talking about me – you think I’m deaf? What the hell is going on here?’ />
  Werner turns to her.‘Nothing is going on – why don’t you just fuck off!’

  ‘You watch your mouth!’ Johann says.

  ‘You see!’ Marleen shouts. ‘I told you. I warned you about him.’

  ‘You warned him?’

  Johann does not answer. What was it they discussed? The money, or something else? Did Marleen sense something else about him?

  ‘You’re a piece of shit!’ she shouts.

  Werner turns to Johann. But his friend says nothing. ‘Johann?’ Can Johann not see that he is pleading with him? Why does he stand by, while this woman attacks him? Why is he being so cruel? ‘You arsehole. You’re supposed to be my friend. I have nothing! You took it all – you took my life. You have no idea what I’ve done – you don’t know what I had to do.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Werner?’ Johann asks.

  ‘Nothing. You’re supposed to be my friend!’ he shouts.

  ‘I am your friend – but I’m not a faggot.’

  ‘Yes, you are. I know. I know what happened!’

  ‘What is he talking about, Johann? What did he do?’

  ‘Nothing, Marleen – go back to bed.’

  ‘What did he do, Johann?’

  ‘I kissed him, okay – stupid bitch . . .’

  ‘He’s not a poof like you!’ she shouts. ‘You fat arsehole!’

  ‘You miserable piece of worthless trash. You know nothing!’

  Johann steps forward and punches Werner in the face. He falls to the ground and holds his head.

  ‘You show him, Johann!’ Marleen says.

  Johann shoves her into the house. ‘Go to bed!’ Instead she sits on the settee and watches from inside. Johann rushes out and bends over to help Werner.

  ‘Leave me alone! Get your hands off me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘But you can’t speak to Marleen that way.’

  ‘Just give me my keys,’ he says.

  ‘You can’t drive. I’ll take you home.’

  ‘Give me my fucking keys!’ Werner goes into the house to get the keys. The pain is intense. The last time he was punched in the face was in high school. How strong Johann must be. Already he can feel his eye swelling shut.