Blind Date at a Funeral

by Trevor Romain

  Alas, the song ended and suddenly all the lights came on. We both stood looking at each other, blinking, not knowing what to do.

  My group of friends – huddled together like evil conspirators – mouthed and gesticulated, urging me to kiss the girl.

  Her cluster of friends was all a titter.

  The girl leaned across and brushed my cheek with her lips.

  ‘Thanks,’ she whispered.

  No voice would come out of my mouth. All I could manage was a highpitched squeak.

  Sister Patricia Anne announced that the soiree was over. And there was to be no loitering in the car park.

  The girl smiled, spun around towards her friends and flicked her gorgeous, fine, silken hair. Wisps of her locks touched my cheek as she turned.

  The sensation lingered.

  I raised my fingers and felt the spot where her hair had touched my skin.

  She looked over her shoulder as she walked away. I still have a clear photograph of her face in my mind.

  Then I felt it.

  Love.

  I was in love. My mind was a mess.

  I stood in the centre of the dance floor, dumbfounded.

  At the door, she gave a little wave and disappeared. Forever.

  All the way through high school, I got dressed up and went to the Maryvale social, hoping to see her again. But I never did.

  The smell of apple shampoo brings her back sometimes, but just for a second.

  I still don’t know her name.

  Sound of the Soul

  (Soundtrack: ‘I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing’ by the Hillside Singers)

  I wanted to be a rock star when I was a kid in the early 1970s, but a lot of things stood in my way, including haircut inspection at school.

  ‘Romain.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Corbett.’

  ‘Your hair is touching your collar.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Mr Corbett.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Errrr.’

  ‘Go home and have a haircut and don’t come back until your hair stops touching your collar.’

  I didn’t know how to tell the headmaster that my hair was touching my collar because I wanted rock-star hair to meet my rock-star dreams. I mean, in those days, how could you be a rock star with short hair?

  Never mind short hair, but pudding-bowl haircuts to boot. The reason so many of us guys had pudding-bowl haircuts is because we often had to have our hair cut on a Sunday night to get ready for Monday morning haircut inspection at school. And my folks didn’t want to spend money at the barber.

  ‘If a pudding-bowl haircut is good enough for The Beatles then it is damn well good enough for you.’

  So, come Sunday night, your mom popped an enamel bowl on your head and chopped your hair.

  My first real rock-star hankering came from watching the garage band across the road from my house. And they actually did play in a garage. They played songs like ‘Red Rubber Ball’, ‘I’m a Believer’ and, kill me now, a song called ‘There’s a Kind of Hush’. Those guys were not great but I saw how the neighbourhood chicks swooned at them, no matter how ‘not great’ they were.

  And, shame man, my little ten-year-old heart wanted groupies too!

  A few years later, I started to play the guitar. And, like every guitarist in the world, the first song I learned to play was ‘Smoke on the Water’ by Deep Purple.

  I played and played for years and years, and finally got a little better than awful, but not a whole lot better.

  I did get a lot of pleasure out of playing my guitar though. And I must say, when it comes to playing the guitar, even in a mediocre fashion, chicks dig it. Unless the guy down the road is a much better player than you are and you feel like an idiot when the girls ask you to play songs like ‘Stairway to Heaven’ and you can only play ‘Kumbaya’ or Mungo Jerry’s ‘In the Summertime’.

  Jokes aside though, I really enjoyed writing songs and, even though they were pretty bad, I thought they were great. And then, after seeing the Woodstock movie, I decided to be a rock ’n’ roll star.

  In particular I wanted to be Marc Bolan from T Rex.

  I drove my family mad when I practised. I played the only three chords I knew, over and over again. I believed I was playing a different song each time but I was actually playing the same song with different lyrics.

  The classic rock music I listened to and played in those days was the soundtrack of my youth. At that stage in my young life, music was just something I enjoyed without really being moved by it.

  Until that one day on the hill.

  I would often go up there and sit by myself on the big rocks and write songs and stories in a little notebook.

  It was a small nature reserve on Linksfield Ridge. I could see the whole of Orange Grove, Norwood and even Highlands North from up there. On a good day, I could see Sandton.

  In my secret spot, I worked through a lot of my teen angst, emotional growing pains and heartbreak. Those rocks became a place of solitude and comfort to me.

  One afternoon, I went up to the ridge after school. On that particular day I was angry at the entire world. I was sitting up there on the rock, wallowing in my own self-pity, thinking about a girl who broke my heart when, suddenly, I experienced the most haunting, memorable, soul-filling sound I have ever heard.

  It’s hard to find words to describe how I felt when I heard it. It was powerful and moving, yet sweet and poignant. The sound seemed to resonate in my soul. I got goosebumps the instant it reached my ears. I still do when I think about it.

  I was mesmerised. I got up and followed the sound.

  I made my way down through the blackjacks, grass and trees towards a house that sat on the side of the hill below my secret writing place.

  The sound was coming from the servants’ quarters.

  I stood and listened for a second and then edged a little closer. I parted the leaves and peered through the bushes. And that’s when I saw the source of the exquisite sound.

  A young nanny was sitting on a wooden tomato box outside the servants’ quarters. She was cuddling a swaddled infant. You could tell how much she loved her baby by the way she held her face against the baby’s soft and pudgy cheek. I saw unconditional love in the mother’s face as she gently rocked the child. Love for her baby was flowing out of every pore in her body.

  And, with her eyes closed, she was singing that amazing lullaby.

  ‘Thula thul, thula baba, thula sana.’

  She was singing straight from the heart. Her voice was so beautiful and touching. The lullaby left her mouth, like a rabble of beautiful butterflies, and enveloped the child in the deepest and most profound way. The child was so peaceful and at one with the mother. So loved and adored.

  I can hear her voice today. That distinctive sound of Africa still sits in my heart no matter how many different places I have lived since then.

  If you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and relax, I bet you will hear her too.

  ‘Thula thul, thula baba, thula sana.’

  Apricot Brandy in a Jam Jar

  (Soundtrack: ‘Hitchin’ a Ride’ by Vanity Fare)

  I spent every waking moment of basic training thinking about getting back to the comfort of my parents’ house, where I lived before I did my national service.

  I thought about my mom’s cooking every time I stepped into the mess hall and ate the slop that an imposter, pretending to be a chef, had thrown together.

  I thought about being able to go to a toilet that had a door on it.

  I thought about sleeping in my own bed, not on the floor beside my bed, which we did so our beds could be perfect for the morning inspection.

  The word ‘inspection’ still gives me an uncomfortable feeling. I recall being taught how to bite the edge of my bed to make the blanket look square.

  Often, a bad inspection would mean the cancellation of your weekend pass. I remember one inspection in particular. We had been up since 4 a.m., polishing our boots, cleaning
our rifles and neatly packing our trommels, which were green metal footlockers. It was almost impossible to keep things clean because we lived in tents and there was dust everywhere.

  Our rifles had to be spotless. That in itself was an almost-impossible task because of the dust in the tent.

  I heard the sergeant major before I saw him. He was balling someone out in the tent next to ours. It sounded like he was throwing things around. We all stood at attention at the end of our beds. I glanced from side to side. All eight men in the tent were throwing nervous looks at each other because the sergeant major was a terror when he was in a bad mood. Which was more often than not.

  I braced myself for the onslaught.

  We heard the tent flap opening and stood to attention, looking straight ahead as we were taught to do.

  Then all hell broke loose. In scampered Chico the baboon. He was attached to a chain held by one of the bombardiers. Chico was our regimental mascot, who had been caught on the border and brought back to the base. He lived under a tree beside the battery HQ. He was always attached to a rope and had a little tree house to sleep in. He was a sweetheart unless he was teased or tormented or riled up.

  Apparently Chico was irritated when he entered our tent. The bombardiers were egging him on as he scuttled across our beds, completely destroying our inspection.

  Then as quickly as it started, Chico was gone.

  A second later, the sergeant major walked in.

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’ he yelled. ‘Is this what you call a $#$#@ inspection?’

  We did not move an eyeball or open our mouths.

  ‘Bombardier!’ he yelled. ‘Put these men on orders. No weekend pass.’

  ‘Yes, sar’major,’ said the bombardier with a snide grin.

  The sergeant major stepped in front of one of my tent-mates.

  ‘What have you got to say for yourself, troep?’ yelled the sergeant major just inches from his face.

  ‘Nothing, sar …’

  ‘Shut up!’ he interrupted.

  ‘Yes, sar’major …’

  ‘Shut up.’

  The sergeant major sidled up to my bed. Chico had left my inspection pretty intact.

  ‘Is this your bed, Romain?’ he growled.

  I nodded, too afraid to utter a sound.

  ‘Speak up, troep,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sar’major.’

  ‘Shut up!’ he yelled in my face.

  He picked up my rifle and peered down the barrel, squinting.

  ‘Bombardier Van Staaden,’ he said to one of the bombardiers. ‘Wat sien jy?’

  He handed my rifle to the bombardier, who lifted it and peered down the barrel, also squinting.

  ‘Balhare, sa’majoor,’ he said, matter-of-factly.

  The sergeant major grabbed the rifle back and held the barrel up to his eye again.

  ‘Ball hairs, Romain,’ he yelled. ‘How did these ball hairs get into your rifle?’

  ‘I don’t know, sar’major.’

  ‘Shake your head!’ he shouted.

  I shook my head as instructed.

  ‘What do you hear?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing, sar—’ I began.

  ‘Ah ha!’ he said, interrupting. He tapped my head with his stubby forefinger. ‘You hear nothing because there is nothing in there.’

  Then he turned and stormed out of the tent.

  As one would expect, I changed a lot during my first four months away from home. Basic training is designed to change you. To break you down. To rebuild you the army way.

  During that time, I went from being a somewhat dorky, awkwardly romantic kid to a rifle-firing, obstacle-course-climbing, beer-drinking, faceshaving, gung-ho army guy.

  I must say, I was quite nervous about going home for my first pass after basics. I knew I had changed. I also knew that nothing at home had changed. My sister would still be listening to the Bay City Rollers in her room with the door closed. My mom would still call me her little boy. My dad would still give me a noogie the minute he saw me, and my granny would still be sitting in her usual chair with her arms out, ready to smother me with an overly perfumed hug.

  Back then, most of us army guys hitchhiked to get home from the various military bases in the country. We were not allowed to thumb a ride in uniform, but we were allowed to stand on the side of the road and wait for a considerate driver to pick us up and give us a ride.

  Sometimes it would take a while before someone stopped to pick you up. On the first weekend pass after basic training, I waited apprehensively as car after car passed.

  A bakkie eventually stopped and I threw my duffel bag into the back. I was about to climb up when the window opened.

  ‘Jump in front with us,’ said one of the two old grannies sitting in the front seat. So I squeezed in and shut the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked the granny who was driving. She looked like your typical typecast movie, Ouma Rusks granny, with round, wireframed glasses and her white hair in a tight bun on top of her head.

  ‘Johannesburg,’ I said.

  ‘We’re not going all that way, but we’ll drop you off when we turn, okay?’

  ‘That will be great. Thank you very much,’ I said and looked over at her.

  It was a clear day, but she gripped the wheel tightly, squinting like she was driving through a hailstorm.

  ‘This is your first weekend pass, eh?’ she asked.

  ‘How did you know?’ I replied, grinning.

  ‘We could see that look on your face.’

  I laughed.

  ‘You’re supposed to be a man now. But you still kind of feel like a kid going home, right?’ said the driving granny.

  I gave a slight nod.

  ‘Have some of this. It will help,’ said the granny sitting next to me. She handed me a jam jar filled with clear liquid.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked holding the jar up to the light.

  ‘It’s medicine.’

  ‘No, thanks. Not for me,’ I said.

  ‘Have a sluk,’ said the driver. ‘It’s from an old secret family recipe. My family started making it during the Boer War. It’s apricot brandy from our farm.’

  I felt a little bad saying no, so I opened the jar and took a small sip. I mean – let’s face it – I was a man now and apricot brandy seemed, well, kind of manly.

  That sip almost choked me. The brandy must have been maximum proof. It burned all the way down my throat as I gasped for air.

  They both laughed. ‘We sell the stuff. Wanna buy some?’ said the driving granny. ‘Lots of jars in those boxes in the back.’

  I looked over my shoulder, through the back window at the wooden crates on the bakkie.

  ‘Uh, not for me, thanks,’ I said with a chuckle.

  I did not drink any more of that rocket fuel, but we did have a great conversation during the ride. Those little old hooch-hawking tannies were a riot and so sweet.

  An hour later, they turned onto a dirt road off the main road and stopped.

  ‘This is where we turn off,’ said the driver. ‘As we tell all the army boys, when you get home, remember your family still sees you as the boy you were when you left. They have no idea how much you have changed. You look the same. You smile the same. You even hug the same, but you’re different. You have experienced things you may not ever be able to explain.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Don’t blame them for expecting you to be the person you were before you left.’

  She waved and started to pull away. Then she suddenly stopped and leaned out of the window.

  ‘And don’t drink too much!’

  Now You See Him, Now You Don’t

  (Soundtrack: ‘Starry, Starry Night’ by Don McLean)

  I was sitting at an outdoor café in Paris just after I got out of the army. I was having breakfast and nursing a terrible hangover. It was a stereotypical café, just like you see in the movies. It had round tables and yellow umbrellas. The early morning sky was an incredibly deep b
lue.

  I looked up from my plate and noticed an artist setting up an easel nearby. I watched him preparing his paint and getting the canvas ready. Then he started painting in my direction.

  He looked up and noticed me watching him. He waved.

  I grunted.

  It was too early to be cheerful. I went back to my French toast. More coffee came. I needed it. I had spent half the night drunkenly trying to find my way back to the little hotel I was staying at. I only got a few hours’ sleep.

  The meal helped. It made me feel half human again, although I must have looked like an animal. I was unshaven with mussed hair and a wrinkled shirt.

  When I finished eating, I sat back and stretched. The morning made things a little easier. It was beautiful and fresh.

  The artist was still painting.

  I paid my bill and stood up. I smiled at the artist. I was feeling better.

  ‘Sit!’ he said.

  I looked around.

  ‘You,’ he said, pointing a brush at me.

  I touched my chest with my thumb.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You sit. I paint.’

  I sat.

  ‘Where are you from?’ he asked in a thick French accent.

  ‘I’m South African,’ I said.

  He nodded.

  ‘Where are you from?’ I asked in return.

  No answer. He painted.

  I sat and made notes about my trip in my travel journal.

  ‘You don’t mind?’ he said, pointing his brush at me again.

  ‘I’m quite flattered,’ I replied.

  ‘Okay,’ he said and went back to the painting.

  An hour and a few more coffees later, he took a step back and put down his brush. He rubbed his hands together.

  ‘I like,’ he said, tilting his head to the side. He wiped his hands with a paint-stained cloth. ‘You like?’

  I put money on the table for the bill and walked across to the easel.

  His painting was beautiful. The man was obviously a master. But there was something missing from his painting.

  Me.

  I wasn’t in the picture.

  ‘Why did you make me wait while you painted?’ I said.