Moffie

by Andre Carl van der Merwe

  ‘I think he was very fond of you. You were a good friend.’ My mouth and throat are like sandpaper. He looks at me, into me, as if he has already been inside and is just re-checking something.

  ‘Not good enough, I’m afraid. I feel I should have tried to prevent what happened.’

  ‘The thing is, Dylan was always a sensitive child. I thought the army would make a man out of him. How wrong I was.’

  ‘He was a man, Mr. Stassen. Really. He coped with all the PT, the training, in fact, better than most, despite . . .’

  ‘Despite what?’

  ‘Well, despite the fact that our sergeant seemed to pick on him, which is what they do; it’s just the way the army works. But I don’t think that’s why Dylan, you know, ended it all.’ There is silence and I wonder if I have opened something that should have remained closed. What happens if this man with all his power starts an enquiry and I am asked to testify?

  ‘What did this sergeant do?’

  ‘He just sort of picked on Dylan. The thing is . . . they . . . it happens to all of us at some point. I guess they want to see how much we can take. Dylan could take it. Believe me, he was really tough. The thing with Infantry School is that we are there voluntarily, provided we are physically and mentally fit. So the instructors are pretty much allowed to do anything they want with us. We can refuse, but that would mean leaving the course. If it all got too much, Dylan could have left, got an RTU, but he had this tremendous tenacity. Mr. Stassen, please know that your son was a man . . . the finest there is!’ I want to say, ‘Whatever a man may mean,’ but I decide against it.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. The jumbled sentences twirl around my head. Did I say something I shouldn’t have?

  ‘What is an RTU?’

  ‘Return to unit. The unit we were first posted to. But Dylan chose to stay, and I can tell you he was one of the toughest people I know . . . knew. It was not the training, Mr. Stassen, I’m sure of it.’

  He looks past me, pensive for the first time. Just as I expect him to ask me what I think the cause of Dylan’s suicide was, he says, ‘No, it wasn’t the training . . .’ A long silence follows, and I wonder why this man is implying that he knows why Dylan ended his life. Then he asks me.

  ‘Nicholas,’ he says, looking straight at me, ‘why do you think my son killed himself?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ How do I do this? ‘I think it was everything—just life generally. Dylan never really opened up. We shared many things but he never told me his deepest feelings.’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter any more, does it? Some things cannot be undone. Now it’s just a matter of learning to live with it. I just hope my wife pulls through.’ He sighs and looks up at what must be her bedroom window.

  ‘Mr. Stassen . . .’ We are already out of our seats when I say this. It is clear that the time set aside for me is over, but I sink back into my chair and he follows suit. ‘Mr. Stassen, I think maybe I could have avoided what happened.’

  ‘Why do you think this?’

  I talk despite the screaming in my head telling me to stop, bracing against the decision that I would NOT tell him I think his son was gay, or in love with me. The words flow out as if I have no control over them; words I decided must absolutely remain unsaid.

  ‘If I had listened more intently, if I had allowed him to speak, maybe he would have told me, or maybe he even did. But I wasn’t sensitive enough to realise that he wanted to tell me. I think . . . one night he wanted to tell me something, and I wasn’t a good listener. I think it was difficult for him to even start telling me, but I just didn’t want to hear.

  ‘Don’t go on. It’s not your fault, that I’m sure of.’

  Now that I’ve started, I want to go on, but he has stalled my momentum. I feel a sense of collapse. He reaches forward and puts his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Never blame yourself, and don’t talk about it. It is not your fault that my son took his life.’ By now we both have tears in our eyes.

  ‘Come with me, my boy.’

  We get up and he leads the way down a wide passage. On the one side glassed arches look out over the estate, and on the other side paintings and antiques are arranged on a wall that leads up to a vaulted ceiling.

  To me this splendour becomes a new epitaph to Dylan, that mystical phantom. I decide to lay him down in these environs from now on, rather than in the harsh Defence Force. Now that he has gone, he can rest here . . . in my mind.

  Mr. Stassen has stopped and appears to be wrestling with some private thoughts, and I leave him to it. We are in a huge space with a massive staircase curving upwards between carved wooden balustrades.

  I can see Dylan moving down these steps, skipping down the last one and swinging on the end of the balustrade to turn left and walk down the passage.

  ‘I’ve decided to show you something,’ Mr. Stassen says.

  I follow him to his office. He removes a key from his oak desk, opens a cupboard and starts turning the knob of a safe. The door is released with a thunk. He reaches for a letter in the safe with the familiarity of someone putting his hand on his own heart.

  ‘This . . . I intercepted it. He had posted it just before he took his life. I must insist, for the survival of my wife and family, that you never talk about its contents. I know now that you need to read it.’ He passes a blue envelope to me.

  My dearest, dearest Mother and Father

  I know I am about to cause you great pain, but what I am about to do, cannot be avoided. I cannot go on. I REALLY CANNOT. I have debated this decision for many years. There is something about me that I am unable to change; something that will cause you great pain and shame.

  I am a homosexual; I am gay. I know this is not tolerated. I know that you see it as a weakness, as despicable. I know how you feel about the shame this would bring on the family, but believe me, I CANNOT CHANGE. It is for this reason that I have decided to end it all.

  I am not miserable because of the army; it is in fact here that I have had a glimpse of the happiness I will never have. Mom and Dad, I have fallen in love, and it is a love I know I can never have. I have avoided this in the past, but now it has consumed me. I simply cannot live like this, you must understand, because I know and you know I will never be allowed to live with a man.

  I am sure the man I love is also gay. To know that it is right there and to know that it can never be, is more than I can bear. It is all I think of, constantly, and I feel as if I am going mad.

  I am so very, very sorry for the heartache I will be causing you. I want you to know that I understand and do not blame you for anything. The world we live in is to blame, not you.

  I beg of you, know that I am not doing this to punish you; I am doing this to free myself, to free you . . .

  Your loving son,

  Dylan Edward

  Something inside me has broken. Tears wash over my face, my shoulders shake and I have neither the strength nor the wish to control it.

  I cry for the irretrievable waste, for the loss of Dylan’s life, the complexity of it, for the fact that I didn’t love him when he was with me, for the suffering, for not trying to prevent it, for not being sensitive enough, for Ethan being there at a time when there was a Dylan. I cry for Mal who might lose his hand, for the bodies that lay on the floor of the Buffel, for the woman who was raped and then murdered, for her husband who was decapitated in front of her, for everybody and everything sad. Had I known, had I known . . . I would have, yes, I would have stopped it, because I could have made a difference.

  And I cry for my non-existent relationship with my father . . . and for holding on.

  I sit bent over, my head on my arms. He comes to comfort me, puts his arm around me, and I can feel him sobbing too. Eventually he says, ‘You are that boy, I mean man, he was talking about. My son was in love with you, wasn’t he?’

  I nod. ‘Yes, it was me. He never told me, but it was me. You see, Mr. Stassen, I could have prevented it. How can you ever forgive me?’


  ‘No, Nicholas, it’s not your fault. I think it’s clear from this,’ and he shakes the blue pages gently. ‘We are the ones . . . no, I . . . I’m the one who failed my son.’ The last words come out in gulps of emotion. He says ‘no, no’ over and over, and then he repeats Dylan’s name and cries. Eventually he says, ‘Thank you for the letter you sent; it meant a lot to me. I should have contacted you.’

  ‘You did write.’

  ‘Yes, I did, but I should have done more. Thank you for coming. Do you know we used part of the poem you had sent as an epitaph on his stone? You were so important to my son, and we made no effort. I’m so sorry, Nicholas, I failed you too.’

  ‘No, Mr. Stassen, I understand. Really, I do. My father and I . . . it’s never worked out between us. He knows nothing about me, and he doesn’t want to either. I understand how difficult it is for a father.’

  ‘Perhaps you should tell him, talk to him?’

  ‘Yes, I will, but he won’t understand. I know that.’

  ‘You know,’ he says, ‘Dylan was right. I wouldn’t have accepted it. But only now, after this loss, do I realise how wrong I would have been.’ Again, he is quiet for a long time. Then he says, ‘He will be like the words you wrote in your letter: forever young.’

  I notice a photograph in a walnut frame. Dylan and an attractive man stand on either side of an impeccably groomed woman. Dylan has that intense expression that I know so well. When Mr. Stassen sees me looking at it he says, ‘Dylan with his grandmother, and that’s my younger brother, good-for-nothing; lived with my mother in New York. She spoilt him terribly, that’s why he ended up the way he did. I wanted to be sure Dylan didn’t end up like him, so I was always very strict with him; perhaps too strict.’

  We are both still looking at the picture when he says, ‘Dylan was with her when she died, just outside Bergdorf Goodman . . . massive heart attack.’

  I gasp, but decide not to say anything about our last conversation, hoping he reads the gasp as one of sorrow.

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you? Anything?’

  Without having to do much thinking, I say, ‘Yes, there is something. Would you be able to get good medical care for our friend Malcolm? I really don’t want him to lose his hand.’

  ‘Consider it done, Nicholas. If it is medically possible for his hand to be saved, you can rest assured it will be, whatever it takes.’ He asks for Malcolm’s full names. I give him his number, rank and name, fleetingly thinking how conditioned I’ve become—giving Malcolm’s number before his name.

  When we eventually get to the car, he says he would like me to stay in contact and hands me an envelope. ‘This is for you. I should have seen to it that you got this, but I just . . .’ his voice trails off, but he knows that I understand.

  ‘If you ever need me, Nicholas, I will be here.’ I thank him and extend my hand, fighting an urge to hug him. When he takes my hand, he places his left hand over our grip.

  The driver, who has been standing attentively beside the open door of the car, closes it after I slide from the grip of his employer. I wind my window down. Dylan’s father leans on the door, pressing down on it with a weight I can feel as if it is me he is leaning on.

  ‘I would have been proud to have you as . . . as . . . my son’s friend. How I wish things could have been different.’

  I whisper, ‘Thank you.’ He taps the door gently, and the driver pulls off.

  ***

  How hopeless is hopeless? Where does one stand in oneself when one takes everything, every single thing, one’s very breath, one’s thoughts, one’s history? Forever . . . What is forever when a life is ended? Is forever not just the length of a lifetime? How are time and distance and living measured where he is? Where is he? Surely I was there when the decision was made? Somewhere close. Surely he carried it around with him? Yet I never noticed. What did he think just before he squeezed the trigger? Did he hurry into the act? How large is the argument? Is there an argument? Is there a part that disagrees, makes a case for life?

  12

  An hour after lights-out I crawl out of bed to the toilets, choosing a cubicle below one of the two exposed bulbs. I carefully open the letter Mr. Stassen has given me. Inside I find a page from a standard issue army notebook and a bunch of small pages pinned together. On the single sheet Dylan wrote:

  Empty is not when there is no longer anything inside—but when a container can never hold anything ever again.

  Lonely is not when there is nobody; lonely is when there IS and you walk away.

  Desperate is when they rip your soul from within you, dangle it in front of you and then dry it and cage it.

  Pain is not something you feel, something you can package and identify; pain is when anything . . . anything else is better, including the complete unknown.

  On the other papers he wrote:

  Fate stares at me disdainfully, as though we have just come upon each other. In her stare I can see there has been preparation.

  She beckons and I follow to a cliff. ‘Look,’ says Fate, ‘look down there, all the way to the end; there peace is waiting.’

  Before me my life lies clear, well lit in perfect sight, no distant perspective, even though it is far and long—it’s all clear, I stare into its black, icy face.

  Deepgrooved valleys like tracks

  Deepgrooved valleys like a maze

  Deepgrooved valleys like a jail

  There are other, untidier writings with corrections crossed out, and in some places he wrote three words before finally choosing one. I don’t understand every sentence, but it is clearly desperate.

  Does the moon miss man? Why does it look at us all the time? Proclaiming our pain. What a hassle this coloured castle! Don’t bother to have a party.

  She takes another gin

  The tin still has a din but hollower than before

  Every negative space in my forest is a masterpiece and my fullness is depicted by taste

  The following day I am issued a travel pass and a ticket back to Oudtshoorn, for ‘light duty’ until the stitches are removed. On the same day, Malcolm is transferred to a private hospital.

  That night I board a train.

  ***

  ‘Hey you, Scank-muffin.’

  ‘I must say goodbye now.’

  ‘No way, really?’

  ‘Yes, they’re sending me back.’ In the background, The Sutherland Brothers are singing Arms of Mary.

  ‘No, Nick, think of something. Complain about headaches or something!’

  ‘Well, I sort of did, but they say if I had concussion they would have known. The doctor had me sussed. In any case, he said I could phone anytime to find out how you are. How’s your hand?’

  ‘Shitty. I’m so pissed off about this. Why did this have to happen to me? Shit.’

  ‘They’re going to sort you out.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Thanks for organising it. I still can’t believe everything you told me about Dylan. Shame, man.’

  ‘He must really have been hurting, Mal. It must have been terrible. I just don’t know why I didn’t see it. His dad asked me not to tell anybody, but I reckon, well, Dylan was one of us, and we’re family.’

  ‘Yes, boet, or should I say sis?’ He laughs and says, ‘Funny, you’d think he had everything to live for, and actually he had nothing. Look at my folks, my background . . .’

  ‘I reckon in a way your background gave you the strength to cope. I mean, your dad isn’t going to put any pressure on you. That’s a huge gift, you know. You’re blessed with a different kind of wealth.’

  Just before I leave they play Substitute by Clout.

  ‘Shit, Mal, this song reminds me so much of Paul Roos. I can’t believe it, but it was just last year that I was still at school. It feels like another lifetime.’

  ‘Not even a year, Nick . . . not even a year.’

  ‘Hey, Nick, I love you, my best friend.’

  ‘And I love you, Blondie.’

  Walking away, I know
he is watching me. At the door I turn, smile and wave.

  Ethan drives me to the station in the MG he was given when his mother got a new Range Rover.

  ‘Before we leave I must quickly drop this off at Ward 22.’

  ‘Ward 22! That’s where they send the gay guys, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not only the gay ones, all the people the army thinks are “subversive” or different.’

  ‘Shit, I didn’t know it was right here.’

  ‘Yes, 1 Mil.’

  ‘Wow. Can I come in with you?’

  ‘OK. But I must warn you, Nick, it’s not pretty. Those guys are buggered up, man.’

  ‘I’ve heard stories.’

  ‘Nothing you’ve heard comes close, believe me.’

  At an office we are told to go to a room at the end of a series of wards. The sealed file that Ethan has been instructed to deliver, has to be handed to a certain staff sergeant and nobody else.

  There are about six beds in each ward, most of them empty. Where there are patients, they seem to be very ill—curled up and staring blankly at nothing.The entire area feels covered in a layer of despondency. Suddenly I am overcome with fear that they could decide I’m sick too, because to them I am.

  ‘Ethan, I think I’m going to wait outside.’

  Walking back, I feel vulnerable and try to look as un-mad as possible. As I step outside, I see Deon sitting with a group of patients in a demarcated area.

  I greet him, but he looks at me like a dog that wants to please its master, struggling to understand what is required of him. He is clearly drugged and searching for a memory, tilting his head slightly and narrowing his eyes.

  My first instinct is to remind him who I am, which I do. Eventually he seems to start remembering. Should I remind him of the bokshom boys, or that evening before he was taken away? Or would that do more harm than good? His speech is slow and lethargic. I get the impression that he knows what he is saying, but finds it difficult to formulate the words. But it is clear that he trusts me and knows that I am from the ‘outside.’