Moffie

by Andre Carl van der Merwe

  ‘No, not bad at all. I think my rifle must have connected me here.’ I stroke the bandage at the spot where they stitched the cut. ‘I was out like a light and a bit confused, but I’m fine now; no headaches or anything like that. The staff here have been pretty understanding. They’ve allowed me to sort of stay with Mal.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Since yesterday.’

  ‘Where’s Malcolm?’

  ‘In the theatre. They’re operating on his hand. Our Buffel triggered a land mine. I had a little concussion, but Mal’s hand was crushed.’

  ‘Fuck, how bad is it? I mean, what do they say?’

  ‘Not much to me. You know what they’re like. What I do know, is that this first op is to clean up the hand and start the reconstruction—the reconnection of tendons and resetting the bones—or, what I don’t even want to think about, amputation.’

  I say his name, ‘Ethan,’ and again, ‘Ethan . . .’ The person I’ve carried inside me is now crouching down in front of me, looking at me, reading in my eyes what I can’t say, and staring back with confusion.

  ‘In a way it was my fault, Ethan, mine . . .’

  ‘But you said it was a land mine.’

  ‘Yes, but he wouldn’t have been on that patrol if it hadn’t been for me. We were there because Dorman sent us to deliver fuel.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It all started with Dylan. I actually think he killed himself because of . . . shit, I’m not making any sense, am I?’

  ‘Wait, let’s take it one step at a time. You’re obviously going to be here for at least a few days. You’ll have time to tell me everything.’ I know that Ethan has noticed how close I am to tears. He gets up and says he wants to check on Malcolm.

  When he returns, I have regained my composure.

  In the short period that Ethan was away, something inside me had sunk into place, almost like a dog curling up on its favourite blanket—a mixture of thoughts for which there suddenly appears to be a home.

  Without thinking it through, I say, ‘Ethan, I need to see Dylan’s parents.’

  ‘OK, I’ll take you. Do you know where they live?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll speak to the Welfare Officer. He’s quite cool. I’m sure he’ll help us. Nick, I’m so sorry, but I have to go now. What ward are you in?’

  Before he leaves, he squeezes my knee and we look into each other’s eyes. It has happened to me only a few times in my life that a look has travelled right through me.

  ***

  I sit smiling next to Malcolm while he sleeps off the last of the anaesthetic, his hand still intact. When he has shed the last of the drugs, I tell him about Ethan and my plan to visit Dylan’s parents.

  ‘So, how does he look?’

  ‘Amazing . . . you’ll see for yourself, Blondie. He’ll be visiting you a lot. Listen, I don’t know how much longer they’re going to let me stay here.’

  ‘No way, man!’

  ‘Well, at least Ethan will be here. Don’t you steal him now!’

  ‘I’m not into twinkies, you know that. Only real men for me, thanks.’

  I sigh, and after a pause I say, ‘I need to tell you something, Mal. When we were doing section leadership, Dylan and I slept next to each other one night.’

  ‘You little tramp! In the trench? Fuuuuck me! Why didn’t you tell me?’ Malcolm is hugely excited by this information. It does more for relieving his pain than the pills do.

  ‘I don’t know actually. I guess the whole Dylan thing is just something I wish I could escape, but I realise I’m going to have to work through it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  I tell him about the night in the trench, the freezing cold, how Dylan dried me, gave me his shirt, and held me from behind when we lay together.

  ‘So, did you guys, you know, have a poke-in-the-whiskers?’ he asks, laughing.

  ‘No, we did not. Shit, you know, that’s all you think about. We just lay really close; his arm around me. He may even have saved my life that night . . . makes me feel even worse. You remember how closed Dylan was? One never really knew what he was thinking, but that night . . . I think he wanted to tell me that he was gay.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘No, but I felt it. You know what it’s like when you just know what someone is going to say, but you don’t want to hear it.’

  Suddenly Malcolm is serious. ‘Nick, there’s something I need to tell you . . . seeing that this is truth hour and all.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s not just you that Gerrie has it in for. I’ve been wanting to tell you this for so long, but I didn’t know how to. We have a history.’

  ‘NO! No way! Don’t talk shit here, Mal!’

  ‘Well, the weekend before the border I was at the club on the Saturday night, and I’m like really camping this hunk. Remember, I told you? I was going to tell him it was his duty to be nice to me, because I was going to risk my life to protect him and all that. I wonder if it would have worked.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it would have, but tell me about Gerrie, man. Besides, you said you didn’t go home with the hunk.’

  ‘True, but I never told you why. That little poes Gerrie suddenly appears—in the D!—and he won’t leave me alone.’

  ‘Gerrie! In a gay club! Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes. At . . . the . . . Dungeon.’ He pauses between each word for effect. ‘And he won’t leave me alone and says that he has no place to stay and please can he come home with me. So I said yes. I mean, he was one’s makker and all, you know, you do that for your buddies.’

  ‘So why is he so nasty to us?’

  ‘Guess because he knows I know his secret. He made me promise that I wouldn’t tell you, but I reckon you should know.’

  ‘But I still don’t understand, Mal. Surely he knew you had some serious ammo against him. I mean, remember, we even had that argument about homosexuality and all.’

  ‘And Oscar kissed you!’

  ‘So that’s why Gerrie did it, to discredit the two of us in case you ever said anything. The little bastard!’

  ‘But wait, I’m not finished.’ Malcolm moves up against his pillows. ‘So we get home and, as you know, I only have the single bed, so I make him a bed on the floor and we say good night and so on and then . . .. Ooooh, I’m so tired.’

  ‘Stop that! AND?’

  ‘Well,’ laughing, he tries to yawn but goes on, ‘a little later I feel him getting into bed with me. And of course I tell him I’m not interested and that I don’t feel comfortable, but you know, a man is not a stone, and I had a lot to drink and all, but I still say no.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’

  ‘But then he says I must just lie back, I needn’t do anything. So I reckon cool, I’ll get a lekker blow or a hand job, what the fuck. But then, instead of him giving me a blowjob or something, he starts licking me, all over, until he gets to my feet, and then he jerks himself off and leaves me. Doesn’t say a word, cleans himself and gets back into his bed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The next day he’s like ice towards me, makes me swear on my mother—he obviously doesn’t know her—says he must go, and never talks to me again.’

  ‘Wow! Now it all makes sense. That’s why he went on and on about us being gay and trying to get the whole platoon to call us moffies. Shit, what a warped cunt. Tell me, when he was licking you,’ we suddenly find it funny and burst out laughing, ‘did you, like, touch him and stuff?’

  ‘You know, Nick, that’s the thing; I didn’t. It was as if he wanted the humiliation more than the sex. It wasn’t sexual for me at all, and when he came, I was just too happy it was over. It was so mechanical, and he was embarrassed, not like wow, full-on climax, you know.’

  ‘It’s actually quite sad, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. But I just wanted you to know so that you’d stop feeling so guilty about my hand . . . OK?’ For a while we’re quiet.

  ‘Thanks, Mal, but from now on
no more secrets, right?’

  ‘Right.’ Then he smiles. ‘I shouldn’t have told you; could have milked you. Come now, Nick, it’s your fault, now I need to be relieved,’ pointing down at his groin.

  ‘Mal, does it make sense to you, this Gerrie thing?’

  ‘You know, I have no problem with it. I reckon each to his own, as long as nobody gets hurt.’

  ‘Yep, guess there are some strange sexual habits out there.’

  ‘Perversions.’

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t call them perversions. As you said, each to his own. Fuck, if a guy wants humiliation, or bondage, who cares? Provided it’s not abusive, or with underage kids or animals. It’s their choice.’

  ‘Yep, but in our case we’ve been persecuted simply because of the way we were born, man.’

  ‘And it’s going to be like this forever if we don’t do something about it. If you think about it, we’re the most victimised minority, and yet we’re not a threat to anybody. But people are so thick, most of the discrimination is because most straights don’t even know the difference between a homosexual and a paedophile.’

  ‘Do you remember those two Boksom Boys?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Do you know what the worst thing was for me? Not the fact that they were so badly beaten up. But when they walked into the mess and the whole place went silent and they stood there and someone started chanting “moffie, moffie, moffie” and everybody joined in.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Nick, I swear, I don’t know if I’ll survive that. I’m proud of being gay, but there’s no way that anybody in the army must catch us out, you know. It’s just too dangerous.’

  ‘No. You know, to me the saddest thing is that they split up. I mean that the one oke betrayed the other one. But I tell you . . . that guy, he stood proud. He lost his friends and his family, but he told me that night they would not get him to be dishonest; that’s all he has. I’ve always felt so guilty for not being able to help him in some way.’

  ‘Shit, Nick, what could you do? Hell, man, thank heavens you didn’t try, otherwise you would be in Ward 22 with them, being fucked up for life.’

  ‘I still felt like a traitor. Isn’t it pathetic that we’ve become so used to living in secrecy and hiding our feelings that it’s become second nature? We just accept the way we’re treated. Shit, we don’t even know what it must feel like to have an open, caring relationship with a partner. It’s like these older guys who live their whole life together as “friends” and never come out, not even to their closest family. You know, we’re actually as badly persecuted as the blacks in this country. Even more so. At least it’s not illegal to be black!’

  ‘Did you ever wish you were straight?’

  ‘Of course I did. Prayed for it.’

  ‘Do you think it will ever change? I mean, will we ever be treated like “normal” people?’

  ‘No, not in this country, not with this government. And the general public will also have to change their attitude.’

  ‘Nick, when we get out of this shithole, we’re going to have a good time, man, I guarantee you. The first thing is, we’re saving up and going to America: New York and San Francisco!’

  ‘Yes, and have all the sex we’ve missed out on.’ I look at my friend and I know somewhere deep inside there will be good times ahead for us—very good times. And in that moment the fears that I have had of the two of us drifting apart after the army, is gone. I recognise the cables that have bound us, and suddenly know that we will be friends forever.

  11

  The Welfare Officer contacts Dylan’s parents, who say they will see me, and they send a driver in a black Daimler Double Six to collect me.

  The house that Dylan left for the army is set in green abundance. It exudes a comforting feeling of tradition, of perpetuity, of a strong foundation. Uniformed servants are manicuring the garden as we drive up to a pillared veranda.

  Inside there is the stillness of antiques and heavy drapes, mingled with the light of marble and crystal. I am led to an enormous patio at the back of the house, with sloping gardens leading to a large pool, beyond which are more lawns, a tennis court, stables and a forest. The furniture on the terrace is covered in a pink-and-white striped fabric. The woman sitting under an umbrella gets up as I approach. She is tall and elegant, but she seems to have a tenuous composure. Her black hair is so perfectly in place it makes me think of black candyfloss. Her mouth is drawn in a blemish-free face, the skin on her forehead and around her eyes tight.

  ‘Welcome, Mr. Van der Swart, can I offer you something to drink?’ At her side, a servant steps forward, awaiting her instruction.

  ‘Please call me Nicholas,’ I say.

  ‘Very well, Nicholas it shall be. Something to drink?’ she asks again as she sits down.

  ‘I’ll have a Coke, please,’ I say as the chair that has been pulled out for me is placed gently against the back of my legs.

  ‘I am told you knew my late son.’ When she says ‘son’ her mouth quivers, her voice slightly high and gaunt.

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Stassen, we shared a bunk bed and a cupboard. I was his closest friend.’

  ‘Dylan never had many friends. Introverted boy, my Dylan.’ Her words are pensive, and I struggle to think of something to say.

  ‘He was very quiet, but we were good friends. In fact, just before . . .’ I stop. What am I saying? Nicholas, pull yourself together. I look at her and say, ‘We were very close,’ and then I wonder if she might misinterpret very close.

  ‘Dylan should never have gone to the army. Lord knows, with all John-Andrew’s connections we could have got him off, or sent him out of the country. None of our friends’ children ever went to that beastly place.’

  I hear my father’s words: ‘Yes, these rich people just live off the fat of the land and are not even prepared to send their sons to the army!’

  She keeps quiet, but I see her thinking, wanting to say more. Or perhaps it’s the vodka delaying her speech. ‘What a waste . . . oh Lord, what a waste. What have we done?’

  ‘Mrs. Stassen, I’m so sorry. I just want to say I really, really am.’ She doesn’t listen. I want to reach out and take her quivering, manicured hand laden with rings—just to touch her, to steady her. But I don’t.

  ‘My beautiful, beautiful, gentle boy.’ I look at her eyes. She is weeping more than just tears. She is broken inside, under the veneer of expensive skin products.

  She opens the catch of an ornate little pillbox and takes out a capsule, which she swallows virtually unnoticed. A man, clearly Mr. Stassen, approaches from the opposite side of the terrace and sits down at a table that is set for lunch.

  The butler invites us to join Mr. Stassen at his table, which stands beside dramatically high arched windows and doors with stone surrounds. A male servant assists Mrs. Stassen to the table. She starts introducing me, but her husband interrupts her.

  ‘Yes, Margaret, I know who the young man is.’

  ‘Good day, sir, I’m Nicholas,’ I say, extending my hand. After a cursory handshake I take the seat indicated to me while he picks up the white cordless phone brought to him on a tray.

  Before me on the glass table is the finery of Dylan’s life that I never knew. He could have held this silver knife and fork in his hands and sat in this chair, I think as Dylan’s father talks on the phone. Between sentences he indicates that I should start on the hors d’oeuvre placed before me. How difficult the change to the crudeness of the army must have been for Dylan.

  Mrs. Stassen, in the grip of her tablet, hardly speaks, and when she does, she is ignored.

  Mr. Stassen puts the phone down, turns his attention to me and starts asking me about the army. He is particularly interested in what is happening on the border. I gloss over Koevoet, the contacts and the little I know of the war, but tell him in detail about Malcolm and his injury. The friendship between Malcolm, Dylan and me is an easier place to visit than Koevoet.

  As I sit making sm
all talk in a setting that seems to have no bearing on the friend I have lost, I am suddenly filled with regret for encouraging this meeting and I have to fight the urge to leave.

  Why am I here, and what can I tell them about their son, apart from the fact that we were friends? Am I here only because they felt it would be inappropriate to refuse me? Were we good enough friends for me to have crossed this divide? I can’t tell them about my love for their son. How does one explain such a love, discovered deep within, months later, in a war? And how is it that I can love two people? Do I only love him now because he is forever out of reach? How much did he love me? Did he, after all, really love me?

  As we eat, Mrs. Stassen sinks deeper into the exit of drugs and alcohol. She sips her chardonnay without appearing to allow the liquid over her lips, but the wine steward continually fills her glass until Mr. Stassen indicates to him to stop. She uses the leftover vodka, which she has not allowed them to remove, to swallow another pill.

  ‘You,’ she suddenly says, pointing at her husband. ‘You,’ she says again. I glance at him and see him stiffen. He has an expression of anger and apprehensive expectation, but he remains composed. ‘You,’ she says for a third time, ‘you killed Dylan. You just won’t admit it, but you did! Go on, tell the boy!’ He doesn’t reply, but simply indicates to the staff to help her inside.

  As they transfer her to a wheelchair, she tries to fight them off with arms that have forgotten how. Her refinement and poise prevent her from raising her voice and using force to resist. She sinks into their charge as she has probably done all her life; trapped by privilege.

  ‘I’m losing her. You cannot believe what a regal woman Dylan’s mother was, but the drugs have taken her.’ Something tells me that before this tragedy he would never have shared something so personal with a stranger.

  ‘Surely there is help, treatment? It’s only been a few months,’ I say and immediately wish I hadn’t. But I am so nervous that I need to talk, so I talk before thinking.

  ‘Nicholas,’ he says, ignoring my question. ‘I’ve read all Dylan’s letters again. He often spoke of you.’ Suddenly I find it difficult to hold my knife and fork, so I balance them on the side of the plate and look up.