The Curator

by Jacques Strauss

  Werner becomes increasingly irritated as the hours wear on into the evening. They finish at seven-thirty. He goes upstairs to his bedroom and calls Johann’s number. Marleen answers and he puts the phone down. Five minutes later he calls again. Marleen answers.

  ‘I need to speak to Johann,’ he says.

  ‘Was that you before?’

  ‘Can I speak to Johann?’

  ‘He’s not in.’

  Werner slams down the phone and writes another note:

  Marleen, I know you are reading these letters and not giving them to Johann. It is a terrible invasion of privacy. If you are reading this now, I insist you tell Johann to call me. I don’t really think you understand what I am capable of. I am not threatening you, but I am running out of time.

  He cannot afford to start work late again, so he gets up at five the next morning and leaves a note for Stefan explaining that he will be back before they are due to begin. He parks on the dirt road that leads to Johann’s house and walks down the drive that leads to the back of the house with the stoep. It’s just before six. He slips the note under the door and hides in the bush. Ten minutes later he sees Marleen in the living room. She bends down to pick up the note. She reads it and immediately goes outside on the stoep.

  ‘Werner!’ she calls out. ‘You crazy son of a bitch!’

  She crumples up the note and throws it into the bush. Johann comes out of the house and Marleen throws her arms around him. He kisses her on her head and leads her back into the house. Then he comes outside and calls out, ‘Werner! Are you here, Werner? I think it’s time we had a little talk.’ He starts walking in Werner’s direction. ‘You crazy fuck!’ he calls out. ‘This has to stop. You’re scaring Marleen – you understand. This is not on.’

  ‘Shit!’ Werner mutters under his breath. If Johann comes further down, he will see him. He starts walking down the path and then breaks into a jog.

  ‘You little fucker!’ Johann calls out. ‘I can hear you!’

  Werner leaves the path and hacks his way through the dense bush towards the camp. Johann is still calling for him from the path. Marleen shouts, ‘Johann – don’t leave me alone here. Come home!’

  Eventually Werner finds another trail that leads him to the obstacle course. He sits down on the rotten log that he’d cleared and looks at his watch. He’s going to be very late. Fuck him! he thinks. What a complete fuck-up! If Johann wasn’t involved with that crazy bitch, he wouldn’t be in this position. He walks back up to the main road and then down the dirt track that leads to Johann’s house. His car is not there.

  At first he thinks he’s made a mistake and that he must have parked somewhere else, but after hunting around, he’s sure that his car is gone. His car is not stolen. He doesn’t have to walk far to confirm his suspicion. It is parked in front of Johann’s house. What an idiot he’s been. Why did he write that stupid letter? And why didn’t he just leave? He walks down the path. Johann is sitting on the stoep. From here, Werner can see that the small front window has been smashed.

  ‘Come for your car?’ Johann asks.

  Werner ignores him and walks to the Corolla. He gets in the car and puts his keys in the ignition. There is a tangle of wires hanging from the steering shaft. He rests his head against the steering wheel. He no longer has the energy to do anything. He just wants to lie like this all day. He even feels safe, with Johann watching over him. He sits like this, resting his head for a long time. Johann walks down the stairs that lead from the stoep to the back garden. He opens the passenger door and gets in.

  ‘What’s going on, boet? Have you gone mad or something?’

  ‘Will you come with me to Moedswill? When Stefan sees you, he will paint you. I know he will. It will be wonderful. You will be my new Jesus.’

  ‘Huh? I think maybe you’re not lekker any more. I think you need to talk to someone. Marleen is scared, Werner. You really scared her.’

  ‘You won’t come with me then?’

  ‘No.’

  Werner nods. ‘Maybe I can bring Stefan here?’

  ‘No. I don’t want you coming back here. Do you understand?’

  ‘Can we still be friends?’

  ‘No. No, Werner, we can’t be friends any more. You must go. I never want to see you here again. Get some help, Werner, I think you’re sick.’

  Johann shows him how to start the car and he drives back to Moedswill. I think you’re sick. How humiliating! How sordid the whole thing is turning out to be. Johann telling him he is mentally ill. He is not mentally ill. What he is, is trapped. Hovering just out of reach is a magnificent possibility that no one else can see, and there is no way to forge towards it. It would all be so simple, but for the stupidity, the stubbornness, the blindness of everyone around him. Stefan is blinded by his own arrogance and his own obsession. Johann is blinded by Marleen.

  His phone rings. It must be Johann. He’s phoning to say he’s changed his mind and he will come to Moedswill after all. He will meet Stefan. Werner struggles to get the phone out of his pocket. His thighs are so fat that it’s pressed tight against the fabric of his trousers. Perhaps Johann feels guilty about the money or he’s decided that he was being unfair after all; that it was ridiculous to take the side of Marleen over that of his best friend.

  ‘Hello,’ he says.

  ‘Werner – someone was going through my cupboards. Someone was digging around in my stuff. Was it you?’

  He puts the phone down on his mother. Let her think what she wants. He doesn’t care.

  He does not have the energy for Stefan. How can he explain that he was trying to do something to help Stefan? The man will not believe him. Werner sits in the car for a while, looking at the damage to the steering. This will cost a fortune. He goes inside and greets the maid. She mutters a shy ‘hello’ and disappears into the kitchen. She’s not in the mood for fireworks. In the studio Stefan has found himself a third helper for the day. It is not the man who was helping before.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Werner says, ‘let me take over.’

  Stefan, suspended above the floor with his back to Werner, says, ‘Get out!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get out of my house. You’re no good to me. I don’t want you here any more. So pack your things and get out.’

  ‘Stefan, please, you don’t understand. I was working on your next exhibition. It will be magnificent – I swear, I was doing it for you.’

  ‘I’m not interested in you or your ideas. Now get out, before these men throw you out.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ he shouts.

  Stefan says something to one of the men. Two of them approach Werner and grab him by the shoulders. ‘All right – I’m going. Get your hands off me. I’m getting my stuff, okay?’

  He walks up the stairs. Lerato is standing in the passage staring out of the window. He sits on the bed.

  ‘Lerato,’ he says.

  She turns to him and stands in the doorway. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you really remember me?’ She nods. ‘Why is my father in this painting?’ She looks at him, but says nothing. ‘Did you love my father?’

  ‘No, he was a bad man.’

  ‘Maybe. Did he love you?’ She shrugs. ‘I think he did.’ Werner stares at his feet. ‘I have nothing left.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Do you love Stefan?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. Me and Stefan. We must be together.’

  ‘Is it true? That you saved his life?’

  ‘We are not living. It is better that we died.’

  ‘What are you going to do with the money?’

  ‘Stefan. He must decide this thing.’

  ‘Will you talk to him? Will you tell him that I am sorry. He can keep the money. I want to help him. I have nothing left.’

  ‘Get a job.’

  ‘But will you talk to him?’

  ‘No. I don’t want you here. You are like your father. I don’t trust. It is better that you leave.’ She walks out and he packs his
things.

  He wants to take something. The painting of his father? It’s too big. He couldn’t carry it on his own. He peers into Stefan’s room. There are no paintings in the room. Perhaps on this point Lerato got her way. There is a pistol on the bedside cabinet. A distant shape in the recesses of imagina-tive possibility compels him to take at least that.

  23

  HENDRIK TURNED ONTO the main road to Moedswill. He was sweaty and shaking. The scream in the bush was not human. Most likely it was a baboon. What would someone be doing in the bush anyway? He turned to Lerato, ‘It was a baboon. I saw it was just a baboon.’ Lerato nodded. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘everything is going to be fine. It’s going to be fine.’ He worried that he’d shot one of the students. Sometimes even the little girls snuck out to smoke cigarettes in the dense parts of the bush. Where were Werner and Marius when the shot was fired? Inside the house – he was certain they were inside the house. He dismissed the thought of Werner always skulking, of Werner always close when he and Nellie fought, spying, feeding off their misery. ‘Idiot!’ he screamed and slammed his hands down on the steering wheel. ‘Fucking bitch! Ruining my fucking life!’ he shouted and again slammed his hands down on the steering wheel. Lerato folded her arms across her chest and stared at him. ‘Don’t worry, Lerato. I’m taking you home. To your family. Everything is going to be fine.’

  The road was empty and Hendrik drove fast. He put his foot flat on the accelerator to gain as much speed as he could on the downhill. The speedometer jerked around the 140 mark. Perhaps it was not wise to speed. He did not need to be pulled over by the police now. Would the police be looking for him? What would Nellie be doing now? His chest felt tight when he thought about his wife. She knew, surely she knew, that he’d missed on purpose. It was frustration. Rage. That’s all. He wanted to frighten her. Pulling the trigger was just like throwing something. Would she tell people he tried to murder her? ‘I was just trying to frighten her,’ he said aloud. ‘I didn’t mean any harm.’ On the steep uphill before the turn-off, the little Datsun started losing speed. ‘Piece of shit! I hate this piece of shit.’ The car started juddering and Hendrik geared down to third. The engine whined loudly and he had to slow down. He wanted to get off the main road. He wanted to be driving down the dark farm road, where if necessary he could turn off his lights and hide in the dark. He did not want to be in a speeding bakkie, with two headlamps lighting his intended direction of travel, for God and sundry. When they turned off onto the farm road he dimmed his lights. It was so dark that he nearly crashed into the farm gates. Lerato shouted out just in time. ‘It’s fine. It’s fine. I saw it,’ he said. ‘Calm down, okay? Just be calm.’ He opened the door and hopped out to open the gate. Someone had tried to secure it with a lock, but it had since been broken. Still, it took some time to untangle the rusted chain that had been looped several times over it.

  He turned round to ask Lerato to turn up the car lights. The passenger door was open. ‘Lerato!’ he shouted. ‘Please!’ He could just about see her running away and chased after her. ‘Lerato! Come back!’ The girl was crying and stumbling. She tripped over something and Hendrik sprinted towards her. She tried to get up, but he grabbed her with such force that she fell again. He went to help her up, but she kicked his knee and he collapsed next to her. Lerato screamed and beat her fists against him. ‘Calm down, please!’ he said. ‘Don’t leave me alone! Don’t leave me alone! Calm down, calm down.’ He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her small frame against his body. With her arms pinned down, she tried to kick him, but he wrapped his legs around her until she was completely enveloped in his large Boer frame. ‘Don’t leave me,’ he whispered. ‘I promise, I am going to take you home. But don’t leave me like this. I’m not like him. I swear. That’s why I wanted you. That’s why I came for you. I’m not like him.’ He nuzzled the back of her neck and she arched to get away from him. ‘I’m going to show you. I’m not like him. I love you. I really love you.’ He kissed the back of her neck, as gently as he could manage, and rubbed her thin arms. They lay like that, in the grass, for a long time. He could take her now, he thought. She was the thing he wanted. His life was quite possibly over. He could have her now. He ran his hands over her small breasts and squeezed them gently. She was so beautiful. He rubbed her thighs and buttocks. ‘You make me so hard,’ he said. ‘When I picked you up that day, I wanted to take you into the bush and fuck you. But I didn’t, because I am not like that.’ He closed his eyes and the thought of the dead children came back to him. They formed a circle around him and Lerato lying in the long grass. He lost his erection. As the blood drained from his cock, he could feel Lerato relax. He could no longer hear her crying, but he could feel some tears that ran down her face drip onto his arm. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to the car.’ He stood up and held her wrist firmly.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘I can’t be alone. Just come with me.’

  He led her like a child back to the car. In the back of the bakkie he took out an abseiling rope, which he tied tightly around her right wrist. He gave a metre’s slack and then tied the rope around his wrist. Both doors were still open and the car was still idling. They walked round to the driver’s side. Lerato got in and scooted over to the passenger seat. Hendrik followed. ‘Close the door,’ he instructed. She did so. They drove through the gates towards the farmhouse. The headlights caught ribbons of yellow police tape that fluttered in the breeze.

  ‘Stefan,’ Lerato said.

  ‘He’s alive,’ Hendrik said. ‘He’s alive. Everything is going to be fine. And anyway, it was just a baboon.’

  When they reached the house, Hendrik turned off the car. The headlights were still on. They lit the stoep and the front door from which Labuschagne was said to have emerged, shotgun in hand, chasing his youngest son down like a dog, after having blown the head off the sister. The door was firmly shut.

  ‘I was thinking,’ Hendrik said, ‘about going somewhere. You can come with me. I will care for you like a white woman.’ He put his hand on her thigh and she pulled away. He removed his hand. ‘You’ve probably never even seen the sea.’

  Werner walked down the path leading to the dam. It was difficult checking both sides of the path on his own. He wanted to make the important discovery. He grabbed a stick and hacked at the undergrowth. He could hear his mother and Steyn calling. He did the same. ‘Hello! Is there anyone here? Hello!’ Ahead he could make out the old overgrown obstacle course. On the ground was a folded body. He ran towards it. The bullet had hit Johann in the arm. The blood had soaked his shirt and the surrounding earth. ‘Johann?’ he said quietly. ‘Johann?’ Werner saw the rise and fall of his chest. He was taking quick, shallow breaths, but was unconscious. ‘Ma!’ he shouted. ‘I found him! Ma! Ma! Steyn! Come quick! I found him! I found him!’

  ‘We’re coming!’ Steyn shouted.

  He leant over his friend. ‘Johann. My ma is coming now. She’s a nurse. She’ll fix you, okay? Then we’ll take you to hospital. Okay, Johann?’ He held up his torch into the sky to help his mother and Steyn see where he was. ‘Come quick, Ma,’ he shouted. ‘He’s hurt bad. He’s hurt really bad.’

  ‘We’re coming, Werner!’ she called. ‘We’re coming. Just stay where you are!’

  Johann was pale and cold. There was blood everywhere. Werner took off his jersey and put it over his friend. He could hear his mother and Steyn running down the footpath.

  ‘Werner!’ Steyn called.

  ‘I’m here, oom,’ he said, holding up the torch. ‘Here.’

  His mother and Steyn came crashing through the thicket. ‘Move!’ she commanded Werner. ‘Oh God,’ she said. She pulled the jersey off and looked at the arm. ‘Oh God!’ Her hands were shaking. She checked the boy’s mouth for vomit and then handed Steyn the jersey. ‘Tear off the sleeve,’ she said. Steyn stood on the jersey and tugged at the sleeve until it tore at the seam. ‘Help me,’ she said. She took the sleeve, threaded it u
nder Johann’s arm and, with Steyn’s help, made a tourniquet. Steyn lifted the boy in both arms and ran as quickly as he could back to the camp. Werner followed Steyn and his mother. Johann was leaving a trail of blood on the path. From behind, Werner could see that his friend’s arm was not right. It hung, like a twisted piece of meat, from his body.

  Petronella opened the passenger door of Steyn’s bakkie so that Steyn could put the boy in the car. ‘The keys,’ she shouted. ‘Where are the keys?’

  Steyn checked his pockets, then ran into his rondavel. Werner could hear him throwing things around in the frantic search. ‘I can’t find my fucking keys!’

  ‘Hot-wire it!’ Petronella shouted. Steyn came running back to the car.

  ‘Is he going to die, Ma?’

  ‘Not if we hurry,’ she said. ‘Werner, go back to the house and stay with your brother.’

  ‘Where’s Pa?

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Steyn got into the driver’s seat, ready to pull the wires out of the steering column. ‘The keys are in the ignition,’ he said. ‘Get in.’

  Petronella got in the car and put her arm around Johann. ‘Drive!’ she shouted.

  The car sped off down the driveway. Werner stood in his friend’s pool of blood and watched the red tail-lights disappear into the bush. In the house Marius was hiding underneath the kitchen table. Werner went down on his haunches.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Marius asked.

  ‘Someone shot Johann,’ he said.

  ‘Is he going to die?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who shot him?’

  After a long time Werner said, ‘I think maybe it was Pa.’ He shuffled in next to his brother and put his arm around him. They sat under the kitchen table and waited.

  When Hendrik woke up the next morning the sun was rising. It reflected on one of the house windows and made him squint. Lerato was gone. The rope was still tied around his wrist. He undid the rope, got out of the car and looked around. The place was deserted. He was stiff and had a crick in his neck. He felt giddy. He leant against the car, undid his fly and urinated. The morning was cool and his piss steamed. It smelt sharp. The earth was hard and it made a little puddle by his feet. Hendrik felt indifferent about being caught here now. He felt as if he were dead, or just about to be. He strode up to the house and knocked loudly on the door. ‘Anyone here?’ He tried to open the door, but couldn’t break the lock. He pressed his face against the glass of one of the windows, with his hands on either side, to block out the sun. Some of the furniture had been knocked over. He pressed his forehead against the glass. It was warm. He wanted to press his face against something cool. He was thirsty. He walked round the house and found an outside tap. A thin stream of tepid water trickled out. He lapped it up, but then the water stopped running. The borehole had not been pumped, or the services had been cut off. He leant against the wall and closed his eyes. He could carry on driving, to Mozambique perhaps. Even without a passport there would be a way to cross the border. But there was civil war there. And civil war in Rhodesia too. Anarchy had its appeal. In an anarchic state, nobody would care about a stray bullet. These things happened.