‘Things have reached a pretty pass,’ I say to myself testily, ‘when one can’t even throw one’s racket away successfully!’
Cape Town next, with its huge, grey mountain. Here is a sublime place, blown clean by the sea winds, saturated in tradition. The tennis courts cling to the mountainside, set about by giant oaks, while up above, the mists whirl around the grave rock walls. Inscrutable fastnesses. Marvellous distances, air like crystal. Take the little road which leads to Rhodes Memorial – a grave, stone structure with the statue of the great bronze man, pointing northwards. Below, the inscription:
The immense and brooding spirit
Still shall quicken and control
Living, he was the land,
And dead
His soul shall be her soul.
I read it, over and over, and think the words very moving and beautiful.
Four
In 1955, I was the junior in the Davis Cup team; the seniors being Russell Seymour, Ian Vermaak and Abe Segal. Russell and Ian were conventional types who played, most of the time, the mild conventional tennis that seemed the norm for South Africa. Abie was anything but conventional. His childhood in a tough Johannesburg suburb had left him with a sketchy education, a brusque manner, a marvellous defence system and a forthrightness in his approach to life which often verged on the methods used by bulls in their dealings with gates. From the intricacies of an obscure family tree he had inherited a large heart and strong determination. From a succession of gangster films he had picked up a latent sneer, a bogus American accent and still more methods of dealing with people who caused him trouble. He admired Frank Sinatra, Bogart, Mitchum, Kirk Douglas, Ustinov and any other people whom he considered not to be ‘full of crap’, and disliked, almost viciously, anything that suggested fastidiousness, meanness and small-mindedness of any kind.
His odd upbringing enabled him to go through his whole international life in a worldly, Bogartish sort of way, while constantly peppering it with marvellous social gaffes and such verbal utterances as:
‘Athens! Sure, I played Athens. Except when I played Athens it was called Constantinople!’
Or: ‘Rome’s great! That’s where they got slow courts and that guy Horatio who kept a bridge.’
He was highly suspicious of art and literature, drawing most of his facts from magazines like Time and Argosy, and sometimes even from True and Climax.
‘Let’s face it, Forbsey – those guys like Joyce and Conrad and Lawrence Durrell; even that guy T. S. someone – they’re great writers, but basically they write a lot of crap. I mean when you really read one of their books, and don’t just carry it around. I mean, I once read the whole start to one of those books and finally I said to myself: “Nothing’s happening, for God’s sake,” and nothing was. And as for those Russian guys . . . they’ve got so many names going for them that even they can’t work it out!’
Without doubt, Abe was an action man. In his life things were required to keep moving, and if they didn’t, he helped them along.
It is essential that I write more about Abie. There was a bond between us from the beginning; a friendship between opposites. It was Abie who coined the name ‘Forbsey’, because he couldn’t remember my first name, and because it was the fashion then amongst the young Australian players to use shortened surnames. Hoadie, Rosie (Mervyn Rose), Sedge (Frank Sedgman), Macker (Ken McGregor), Fraze (Neale Frazer), Coop (Ashley Cooper), etc. It was true to say that Abie profoundly affected my life. He dented my introspection, made me shout a bit, and do the few daring things which, from time to time, I have managed to do. People should always force themselves to do daring things.
How often have I arrived at his Bryanston house, knocked, received no answer and wandered in. Golden girl Heather asleep on the patio, facing the sun; Abie’s wife from Bermuda. She wears small swimsuits, has legs a mile and a half long, and a permanent coppery tan. All her life she has been, for me, the true island girl – bluer-than-blue eyes, blown hair and the marvellous, tawny skin. Thrombosis material for susceptible males!
Abie is in the bathroom, more often than not either on the throne or examining his feet – sometimes asleep in the bath. He opens an eye as I enter, lifts a foot out of the water and puts it on the edge of the bath.
‘Look at that, Forbsey,’ he says. ‘Did you ever see a foot like that before? Anywhere in the world, I mean?’
Abie’s feet are fairly unique. Size twelve for a start, and arches that arch the wrong way. All the toes the same length and overlapping each other; plaited, almost. Random knobs and lumps cropping up, with two very large ones on either side. I have an irresistible urge to get to work on them with a pair of pruning shears and to prune them like odd-shaped trees. ‘They’ve got worse,’ Abie is saying gloomily, ‘so this afternoon I take ’em to the clinic. There’s nobody around except for this one guy in a white coat, sitting at a desk. I sit down on the other side of the desk and take off my shoes. He jumps up when I show him my feet; then suddenly he gets real interested.
“How extraordinary,” he says.
“What’s so extraordinary?” I ask him.
“Your feet,” he says. “There aren’t too many feet like that about. You have very rare feet!”
“Oh!” I says. “Now suddenly my feet are rare!”
“Yes,” he says, “very rare. It’s a pity that you weren’t here this morning.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because my kids were here,” he says. “I could have shown them your feet and told them that’s what would happen to their feet if they didn’t look after them.”
“Oh, really?” I says.
“Medically speaking,” he says, “you can’t walk at all. There’s no way you can even stand up.”
“Listen,” I says to him, “I don’t need a doctor to tell me I got bad feet. I know I have bad feet. What I need a doctor for is to tell me not to worry about my frigging feet; that they’re improvin’.”
“OK,” he says, “they’re improving.”
“Like hell they are!” I say to him, “They’re getting worse!”
“Look,” he says, “they’re either getting worse or they’re improving. You tell me what to tell you, and I’ll tell you.”
“You mean you want me to tell you what to tell me about my feet?” I says. “What kind of a doctor are you, anyway?”
“A gynaecologist,” he says.’
Abie gives a snort of laughter.
‘Would you believe it, Forbsey?’ he says. ‘There I am, showing my feet to a gynaecologist! Mind you,’ he adds, ‘they’re abortions at that. So maybe he was the right guy!’
A sample of the unique Segal dialogue. All Abie’s methods are unique. He has the broad picture of life perfectly in focus. But the details bore him to tears. Formalities drive him crazy. With Abie, unbelievably enticing things have to be happening continuously, otherwise his attention wanders.
With him on the team that summer, I knew that things might move faster than usual. And I wasn’t far wrong.
Diary Notes: Oslo 1955
My sleepwalking afflictions have been playing up again lately. Perhaps because of Davis Cup nerves, or the rich Danish pastries which Abe buys, then eats half of, then becomes conscience-stricken about his weight and gives the rest to me. We’ve been sharing a room this week, and on a few occasions I’ve scared him badly. Last night, after I’d taken a shower and was putting on my tie, I felt his eyes boring into my back.
‘And what,’ he asked explosively, ‘are you thinking of doing tonight?’
I struggled to meet his eyes and keep my reply nonchalant.
‘Nothing special,’ I said. ‘Have a meal, see a movie, perhaps. There’s The Magnificent Seven on downtown. In Danish. You’ve seen it seven times, but never in Danish. How about that?’
He was not to be sidetracked.
‘I mean, Forbs
ey,’ he said grimly, ‘tonight. After you’ve gone to sleep. Are you going to take it easy, or are we gonna have one of your midnight surprise shows? A raid, or something?’
‘Come on, Abe,’ I said, ‘it’s not that bad. You exaggerate the situation tremendously.’
‘Exaggerate!’ said Abe, lapsing into his habit of discussing really impossible situations with himself. ‘I exaggerate, Forbsey says. I’m the one with the nervous tic and the bags under my eyes, but I exaggerate.’
His private discussion complete, he looked back at me.
‘You’re unreal,’ he said. ‘To handle you, I have to bring along my own psychiatrist to tell me three times a day I’m still sane. What did they do to you on that farm of yours when you were a kid? I thought farms’re supposed to relax you, with all those cows and things. Aren’t cows supposed to be relaxed while they chew that thing of theirs? What’s that thing they chew while they’re busy makin’ milk?’ (Abe’s knowledge of things pastoral is fairly sketchy.)
‘The cud,’ I said, distractedly. I couldn’t get my tie straight.
‘That’s right,’ he said ‘the cud’. ‘Why don’t you try chewin’ the cud for a while before you go to sleep? Maybe that’ll cure you. A nice relaxin’ cud-chew.’
‘People don’t have cuds,’ I said.
‘Maybe we could buy you a cud,’ Abe went on. ‘I wouldn’t mind chippin’ in. Anything to relax you while you sleep.’
‘Abe,’ I said firmly, ‘I am perfectly relaxed.’
‘Relaxed,’ he said. ‘Yes. He’s relaxed, okay – until midnight, when I suddenly find myself walkin’ the plank.’ He turned to me again. ‘Maybe you should go get yourself examined,’ he said. ‘If they can’t prevent it, maybe they can at least find out a way so you know what you’re going to do in advance. That way you could say to me, “Look, buddy, tonight you’re going to be machine-gunned at about one in the mornin’.” Then at least when the bullets start comin’ I’ll know what to expect!’
In spite of my heated denials and refutations, I have to admit that Abe has a point. I have, on occasions, done very odd things in the night. Most people, I suppose, have dreams, and a few even go for the odd stroll, usually quite harmless and uneventful. My activities are far more complex, and are almost limitless in range and variety. I first became aware of this affliction while at boarding school, when having gone to sleep in my dormitory, as usual, I awoke sitting at my desk doing maths. Our classrooms were a separate block of buildings, at least a hundred metres from the dormitory and linked by an unlighted gravel pathway. Perhaps the shock of that excursion and the subsequent cold, dark return to my bed triggered off a chain of strange events which have persisted at erratic intervals throughout my life. On another occasion at school, I awoke in the act of practising place-kicks on the dark, empty rugby field. Lesser events were commonplace. I might leap up suddenly and close all the windows, imagining a thunderstorm, actually hearing and seeing the lightning. Or stand on top of my locker, to avoid a sudden flood, or shout commands or warnings, or dive under my bed to escape avalanches. The bouts come and go – usually triggered off by tense activity during the day. For weeks I may sleep like a child, then suddenly be set upon by nights of hectic activity.
Tense tennis tournaments or Davis Cup matches are, of course, ideal breeding grounds for nightmares. On several occasions while rooming with Abe I have stealthily left my bed, then crept up on him and pounced on top of him, shouting: ‘Knock off the easy ones, idiot!’ Abe has been very nice about these things, but recently, I suppose, he feels that enough is enough. I agree with him completely, but am powerless. Sleeping pills, maybe? Abe says I need to ‘have my head shrunk’. He’s probably right, at that.
Our return to England was marvellously warm. We played at Connaught, and stayed in a little hotel in Epping Forest where two soft, pink English girls brought our breakfast to us and sometimes came back at dead of night to sip gins with us. How extraordinary English girls are in the springtime. Little layers of puppy-fat around their waists, hair that smells of yesterday’s talcum, and skin as pale and soft as skim milk. Warm, capable girls with clear eyes and no wiles; bubbling with chuckles. Abe, rough as gravel, recognised their honesty instantly and never did them down, even the less attractive ones. Always left presents in the room when we left.
Bournemouth thereafter was Bournemouth, and will probably always remain Bournemouth, and from there we broke new ground, travelling to Oslo to play Davis Cup against a Norwegian team who had, it seemed, from a tennis point of view, been hibernating all winter and just woken up – being white as snow and blinking when the sun came out (which it did, one afternoon, quite suddenly). Oslo was memorable because it was there that it snowed on the day before the dreaded night demons got me.
Abe and I, ensconced in the splendour of a suite at the Grand Hotel, Oslo, were rooming together for the first time. I had always been a bit nervous of Abe, and had delayed thinking about the possibility of sharing a room with him for as long as possible. But, in Oslo, it was unavoidable. Finally he picked up my bags, calling over his shoulder, ‘Get your ass along here, Forbsey. Seymour’s psycho and Vermaak snores.’ The die was cast. I gave a nervous start. Here was Abe, fondly thinking that I was a farm boy who slept like a log. It was only after dinner, and when we were at last inevitably going to bed that I decided to give him some kind of warning. Even then I waited until I was brushing my teeth before I spoke, half to sound casual, and half hoping he wouldn’t hear.
‘Abe,’ I said, my mouth full of toothpaste. ‘Listen. I, er . . . sometimes do things in the night.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You do things in the night.’ He looked at his reflection in the mirror and said to it: ‘He does things in the night. That can’t be a problem. I mean, what can a man really do in the night that could be that bad?’ He looked at me in a kindly way. ‘Don’t worry about it, pal. Listen, we all do things in the night. Sometimes.’ He looked at me sharply. ‘Like what, for instance?’
‘I might leap,’ I said sheepishly, ‘or shout out.’ I felt a bit of a fool. ‘Sometimes I walk about quietly for a while, or unpack my case. I never know until I’ve done it.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Abe. ‘You’re puttin’ me on. Don’t give me that kind of crap just when I’ve got rid of Vermaak and Seymour. I can’t be the only guy in this team who’s normal!’
I left it at that. After all, I told myself, I didn’t do things every night, and I had warned him. And so it was. For three nights I slept like a child. Abe had obviously forgotten my warnings, and I began to hope that the mere magnitude of his presence had flushed the evil spirits from out of my nocturnal Id. On the Wednesday of that week the cold snap came, coinciding as these things often do with the collapse of the hotel’s central heating system. Snow fell, and things became generally below zero. Simultaneously, I was told that I might have to play the singles, if Seymour’s flu persisted. My nervous juices, I suppose, began to act up. That night we went to bed shivering in an icy room, creeping under the huge feather quilts with a sigh of relief.
Disaster struck at about midnight. I awoke, or rather, I suppose I thought I did. I was cold, and convinced that Abe had taken my quilt. ‘The bastard,’ I thought, with subconscious courage, and proceeded to remove his feather quilt, carefully laying it on my own bed and going back to sleep. Five minutes later, inevitably, Abe awoke, frozen to a palish blue. Rapidly he searched around, under, over, behind his bed. The quilt had gone. To all intent and purposes, it had literally vanished into thin air.
‘I couldn’t figure it out,’ said Abe in one of his many subsequent musings. “Holy shit,” I says to myself, “I have got to be losin’ my mind.” Maybe I dreamt that it was a huge marshmallow and I ate it! So, I start gettin’ nervous and feel my stomach. By now I’m startin’ to get stiff. I figure I’ve got about ten more minutes before I get that stuff they call Rigor Mortis.’
I, meanwhile, perfectly c
omfortable beneath my double layer of feathers, was oblivious to Abe’s torment until I was awoken by the light being put on and Abe’s voice.
‘Forbsey! God-all-bloody-mighty. Singles or no singles, this is beyond a joke. Look at me. It’ll take me a week in the sauna to get my blood movin’. They’re gonna need a blowtorch to get me out of bed!’
It was a heavy week for me. Although I was spared the opening singles match, the mere thought of it must have set my nerves on edge. The following night I saw a desperate-looking man put his head around our door, produce a hand-grenade, pull the pin out with his teeth, count slowly, then roll the smoking thing under Abe’s bed. In a flash I’d leapt out of bed and sped to the bathroom where I crouched, holding my ears. Suddenly I remembered that Abe was still in deadly peril. Dashing back into the bedroom I grabbed him by the arm and heaved him out of bed. One is extraordinarily strong at these times.
‘Get to the bathroom,’ I shouted, ‘there’s a hand-grenade under your bed!’
In a moment we were both in the bathroom, crouched down, holding our ears and waiting for the holocaust. Nothing happened. Presently Abe looked at me in a strange sort of way.
‘Forbsey,’ he said, releasing his ears, ‘what’s happening?’
‘There was definitely a grenade,’ I said, beginning to feel the first stirrings of doubt. ‘Under your bed. Absolutely definitely.’
Abe’s position of refuge was low down beside the bath, next to the full-length mirror. He turned and regarded his tousled reflection.
A Handful of Summers Page 7
