Moffie

by Andre Carl van der Merwe

  ‘It’s not always like this. It’s just that it’s Miss D tonight!’

  ‘I don’t mind, I love it. It’s wild!’

  The show is more entertaining than anything I have ever seen in any theatre: drum rolls, feathers, sequins, the mouldy smell of the smoke generator, the ‘old sock’ smell of poppers, the overstretched, unbalanced sound, the lights, the overstated, glitzy everything—my first impression of being ‘out’!

  Mal buys more drinks. The drag artist under the spotlight mimes each syllable of a song with ‘her’ exaggerated red mouth. The end of each line is like a scene from some tragic Italian opera.

  Malcolm beckons me to the loo. I get up and follow him. The toilet fills with pockets of sound as the door is constantly opened and closed, and there is a pervasive smell of urine and sweat. Men make passes at us and we flirt back like teenagers.

  ‘There’s someone who fancies you!’ Malcolm shouts above the music.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ll show you. He’s beulah.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Beulah-beautiful, baby. Just come!’

  I laugh excitedly, turn and walk back to the dazzle and the noise. The words swim in the din. There’s someone who fancies you. A man! And this is fine, and this is normal.

  Later, after the show, I dance with Malcolm and then the-manwho-fancies-me asks me to go home with him, but on this night of firsts that will not be one of them.

  Ethan . . . tomorrow! I check my watch. No, today, later today I’m going to see Ethan!

  Back in bed at Malcolm’s house, I pray for my new life, changed around like a windsock by a new prevailing wind, from exactly the opposite direction. And I pray for my meeting the following day.

  The landscape of the life I’ve just left behind starts blurring slightly. From now on I will see everything differently. I will never step back into shame again. I will look at the future from this perspective. And then I sleep.

  ***

  There is a highway between Johannesburg and Pretoria, with urban sprawl on either side. Some day the two cities will become one, connected by office parks, factories and little clusters of nondescript buildings. I find it all so unsightly—untreated sores on the bad skin of a money-hungry city in puberty. On this highway I sit with my heart bouncing around as though it’s trapped in a pinball machine.

  ‘Once we know that you can see him, I’m going to leave you two alone, OK?’

  ‘Thanks, Mal.’

  Ethan is there and I’m allowed to see him. They send a troop to ‘Tell Vickerman there’s someone at the duty office to see him.’

  Mal shares my excitement, looks at me and says, ‘Good luck, Nick. Just enjoy it. But remember,’ and he puts on a dramatic, singsong voice, ‘there are plenty of fish in the sea!’ Then he is gone.

  I choose a position from where I can see Ethan walk towards me without him seeing me. Aware of my unsteady heart, wiping my hands on my pants in an attempt to keep them dry, scanning the route and rehearsing my greeting in my mind, I wait.

  When I see him approach, my entire body jumps out of focus for a split second. He is wearing browns; his hair is longer, under a new ruby, the medics beret. He stops at the duty counter and asks a question.

  Who is this boy? I think to myself in that brief moment before he turns and sees me. Who is this person who commands such supreme dominion over my waking moments? I clear my thoughts, then my throat.

  ‘Ethan!’ He looks around. ‘Hi,’ I say and smile nervously.

  ‘Nicholas! Nick!’ He smiles too and I let go of the breath I was holding. He is even more striking than I remember. I’m not worthy of him, he is too good looking, he will never be interested in me, not even if he is gay, my head races. Breathe, just breathe slowly. Stand up straight, look sexy, look confident.

  ‘What are you doing here? I mean, how did you get here?’

  Is he happy to see me? I search his face, his body language.

  ‘I’m on pass with Mal, you know, Malcolm? Shit, of course you do. It’s our last pass before Vasbyt. We’re in the same company.’

  He looks around for Malcolm.

  ‘He dropped me here. He’ll be back in an hour.’

  ‘Come, let’s sit out here. How are you? Wow, this is so amazing. You are the last person I ever expected!’ We walk out and sit down on the lawn.

  ‘I’m OK. Did you get my letters?’

  ‘Yes, did you get mine?’

  ‘Yep, but only the other day. They took forever to get to me. Thanks for writing. Shit, the post is slow. It feels like forever since I last saw you.’

  ‘Yes . . . Nick, are you OK? You look tired, or have you lost weight or something?’

  ‘I’ve had a tough time, I must tell you.’ I wait a while, look away and wonder how much I should tell him about Dylan.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Just this whole year, and Infantry School has been seriously rough. Who would have thought a year ago that our lives would change so radically?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How’re you finding your course?’

  ‘OK, I guess. It’s great that you seem to be doing well. I mean, we were all so shit scared of Infantry School, but you seem to be cracking it.’

  ‘You know, Ethan, it’s not so much the course—well, maybe it’ll get the better of me yet, because Vasbyt is still ahead, and the border—but it’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something happened that has kind of freaked me out, man.’

  ‘O yeah?’

  ‘My buddy, the guy who slept on the same bunk as I did, well next to me actually—we never sleep on beds there—any case . . .’ I notice his surprise and the questioning look; he wants to ask something, but I go on, ‘. . . he committed suicide.’ I put my index finger in front of my mouth and pull an imaginary trigger. I immediately regret having started our time together in such a dramatic way. Trembling slightly, I bring my hand down, my eyes obviously full of pain. He frowns and looks at me searchingly.

  ‘I am so sorry. How close were you?’

  ‘Very. He was my only friend in the platoon. Malcolm is in the same company, but we only really see each other on Sundays.’

  ‘Do you know why he did it?’

  ‘No, well, yes . . . I don’t know. They really picked on him, you know.’ I keep quiet, convinced that the visit is now moving in the wrong direction. ‘I also think he was gay.’ The words just plop out. As I say them I can’t believe I’m doing it. Am I using Dylan’s death to test Ethan’s reaction? I look at him.

  ‘Shit, poor guy. I’m sorry, man. We also had a guy, he took pills, and another one died in a car accident coming back from pass. But I didn’t really know them. Did you see him?’

  ‘Yes.’ I want to cry, but I don’t. No weakness in front of Ethan.

  ‘Shit, that’s bad. I’m so sorry, Nick. It must have been terrible. Are you all right? Something like this, I mean, it must have knocked you.’

  ‘It’s OK. Let’s talk about other stuff. How are you, Ethan? You say you like the course?’

  ‘It’s all right, but when we finish, they’re posting some of us to the border and I think some are staying here for the big parade for the new Head of the Defence Force. General Viljoen is replacing General Malan. They need numbers for the parade. I just hope I don’t go to the border. I can tell you Nick, things are looking bad up there. We see the guys here at 1 Military Hospital, and we hear the stories.’ He keeps quiet, then he smiles and says, ‘Do you remember Middelburg? It feels so far away . . . so long ago, I should say.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’ll never forget that sunset, that Sunday before we left that shit place.’ He smiles, looks past me into the distance. Is he thinking of that evening on the hill or of something else? ‘Ethan, what happened to you on the train?’

  Before answering, he smiles, but it’s more like a grimace.

  ‘When we left Middelburg I ended up in a coach where the sergeant in charge was the biggest cunt ever, an
Infantry School sergeant.’

  ‘Dorman?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. In fact, I’m pretty sure. How would you guess that?’

  ‘I don’t know, it’s like that man . . . our paths were made to cross, or crash. Shit, he’s such a bastard. Can you believe it? He’s my platoon sergeant. He’s the guy who hated my friend Dylan so fiercely, and I swear it is he who pushed him over the edge. You know, the last straw. Fuck, I can’t believe it . . . the same guy!’

  ‘Well, he gave us an opfok all night long, while he was getting pissed. Early in the morning he made me do push-ups. Eventually I just couldn’t do a single one more. I knew if I went down I wouldn’t come up, so I just kept the prone position and he kicked me. From underneath on my lower tummy!’

  ‘Fucking bastard!’ I say, knowing I’m talking too loudly and reacting too strongly. ‘The bastard! Oh, Ethan, I hate that fucking bastard.’ But I’ve seen much, much worse; it’s just because it was Ethan. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘He ruptured my bladder. Shit, Nick, I’ve never felt anything like it. I think getting in and out of the Bedford afterwards was what really did it for me. I passed out on the parade ground.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I saw it, but they wouldn’t let me go to you. I stopped the whole Golf Company. They almost put me on RTU that first day.’ He smiles, maybe at the thought of me stopping the whole company for him.

  ‘Well, they took me to hospital, operated, then to 1 Mil, because I wasn’t getting better. Turned out the op in Oudtshoorn was a stuff-up, so they operated again. My folks came up and organised a specialist.’ He waits a while and changes the subject. ‘What did you think of my mom?’

  ‘Great, she was really nice to me. Shit, I love where you live.’

  ‘And you met Precious. Fuck, I miss home. I’ve only been there once since the op; my folks flew me down.’

  ‘Precious loves you, hey. How is your stomach now?’

  ‘I have a scar,’ he gets up, grips his shirt and pulls it from his pants. Just seeing the small sliver of his tummy is hugely erotic. The scar is below his navel on the neat little path of hair linking his bellybutton with his pubic hair. I have been there a thousand times in fantasy, and to the mystery below that—almost too enormous to contemplate now. His stomach has beautiful definition, and he is slightly tanned. Then he lets go of the shirt, loosens his web belt and the two top buttons of his pants, and tucks his shirt in. I see his underpants, the fine hair running through the scar; then I look away.

  ‘I missed you.’ As I say it, I regret it. I always say stuff like that out loud, without thinking. Shit, how many times have I told myself, ‘Jeez, you’re pathetic’?

  He says nothing. Why the hell not? He seems so far, so distant. Oh shit, it’s over! He stays quiet for a long time. So do I. But eventually he says, ‘Yes, me too.’

  Is he saying it because I’ve left him no choice, or does he mean it? I know nothing any more. Vasbyt starts as soon as we get back. Dylan is dead, I still have more than a year and a half of this, my pass is almost over! Then there is the border and those bastard instructors, especially Dorman.

  I have a brief realisation of how, in this short time, my emotions reach extremes, even changing in the space of one sentence, and I despair.

  ‘How are the guys you’re with?’

  ‘They’re OK, I guess.’

  ‘What about the friend you said you’ve made?’ Ignoring my own warnings against later misery.

  ‘I don’t see that much of him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I reckon we’re just too different.’

  I bet he fell in love with you, I think. You’re straight, I knew it! But then he says, ‘He’s not like you.’

  I want to scoop him up, all of him, his whole past and future, and hold him, enfold him, drink him into me, to stay inside me forever.

  ‘In what way?’ I’m more confident now and smiling. Those words are enough to hold me up like crutches under a limp Dali balloon.

  ‘You know, I wish you were here,’ he smiles. ‘So tell me about Vasbyt.’

  ‘I’m kind of nervous about it. The ones who make it, go to the border and then, well, I reckon it costs so much to train us that at that stage an RTU will be too bad an investment.’

  ‘Shit, the border . . . if I’m not chosen for the parade I’ll be going there pretty soon too.’

  ‘Be careful up there, Ethan.’

  ‘We’ll be in a hospital. It’s you guys who have to be careful. You’ll be on patrol.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I can’t even think about having to shoot people, or being shot at!’

  Our time runs out unnoticed, as I am too scared to look at my watch. Then I see Malcolm parking his car, getting out and walking towards us. He reaches us and smiles, but suddenly everything feels awkward. Mal looks at me for clues and cracks a joke. Ethan says he is only allowed an hour and should go. We say we must go too, and Mal says goodbye. I want to hug Ethan, but I shake his hand.

  I watch him walk away. He is looking down, and again I notice how perfect his body looks in clothes. He stops, turns to wave and then moves out of sight. Gone.

  I don’t remember how many times I re-run every single word he said, reliving it, questioning and chastising myself for a wrong tone or interpretation, wishing I had said more, or less, or something different. I carry it with me during Vasbyt and then the border; but then, it often carries me.

  ***

  On the way back we listen to Joan Armatrading singing Willow. ‘Mal, I want to tell you something.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I want to tell you, I have this need to say it out loud, to relate something that straight people can do all the time, but I’ve never been able to do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want to tell you about my love for Ethan.’

  Malcolm takes his eyes off the road for a moment, smiles at me and says, ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  ‘It’s . . . like . . . well . . . just to hear him say my name. I crave it, I yearn for it, you know. In a different way—like with love, like I’ve never experienced. I long for him to say my name in that way, to look at me . . . just he and I, and he says it softly. It would be the most beautiful thing ever.

  ‘And then there’s this desire I have to say his name as a lover, you know . . . Ethan. I want it so much that it hurts . . . to hold him and hold him and hold him . . . to look at him all night while he’s sleeping.’ I smile, and to break the seriousness, which I know Malcolm doesn’t like for too long, I say melodramatically, ‘Ethan, Ethan, Ethan.’

  ***

  On the trip back to Oudtshoorn, we are quiet for long periods, unlike the over-excitement of the trip up. I think about the recklessness of telling Malcolm that I’m gay, I think of Ethan and too often about Vasbyt and the border.

  The Karoo night around us feels starless and dark. Ahead of us lies the long straight road lit by our headlights. The white lines suck towards us rhythmically, and I picture us slurping them up, filling the car as part of the weight of distance.

  ‘I knew someone who was in Ward 22, you know,’ Malcolm suddenly says into the darkness.

  ‘Really, is it as bad as they say?’

  ‘Worse . . . much, much worse. This guy, well, he was . . . is, totally fucked up now.’

  ‘What did they do to him?’

  ‘Everything. Hormone therapy, shock therapy, aversion therapy. You know, the sad thing is, he was a great guy, good-looking, fun, masculine, fit, sporty . . .’

  ‘So how did he end up there?’

  ‘Because he was going to study drama! Can you believe it?’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘They put him in this platoon, the reject platoon, as they called it, with all the druggies, gay guys and fuckups, and he just rebelled, so they punished him. I believe all the gay boys they catch out,’ he turns to me and the lights of an oncoming car reveal a cold smile on the side of his face, ‘end up there too. First the psychiatri
c ward, then DB.’

  ‘Shit. How did you know him?’

  ‘He was three years ahead of me at school.’

  ‘Was he gay?’

  ‘He was. I didn’t know it at the time, of course. Never slept with him or anything like that, but shit, I would have loved to.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘No. He’s still gay, but he’s so fucked up, man.’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘Well, the hormone therapy changed him. He says he has hardly any libido, but he definitely still prefers men. The shockaversion-therapy was a bad joke; apparently really painful, but with no results . . . real crap sort of Nazi experiments. He’d act like he didn’t like the pictures they showed him and afterwards he’d wank soon as he got the chance. But I think it was DB that finally fucked him up. He didn’t want to talk about it, you know; constantly beaten up, slept on a concrete floor, no blanket . . . tortured all the time. Must break one, I guess.’

  We are quiet with our own thoughts again, and after a while I say, ‘Mal, did you ever think it would be this shit?’

  ‘No, and it’s going to get worse. Vasbyt and the border . . .’ As we go underneath the bridge that carries the railway line north to Potfontein, Poupan, Kimberley and Johannesburg, Malcolm says, ‘Hey, Nick, we’re close to Hanover and there’s a hotel that does the best ever boerekos. I’ll stick you a dinner.’

  ‘We won’t make it back to Oudtshoorn on time, Mal. There’s no way we’ll get there by midnight if we do that.’

  ‘Fuck them, I’ll tell the duty officer we had car trouble.’

  A truck passes us, and the Golf shudders from the displaced air. If it had hit us, we would be dead now, I think.

  ‘OK, that will be great. I’ll drive after dinner.’

  25