Moffie

by Andre Carl van der Merwe

  ‘They’re shocking me,’ he says idly.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘Because I’m gay.’ There is a long silence in which he looks at me with sad, milky eyes. I know he wants to say more, because he moves his head and throat in a way that suggests he is trying to almost regurgitate words. I want to put my arms around him and tell him it’s going to be all right. While I wait for him to get the next sentence out, I notice how thin and wasted he looks. When the mind is damaged, the entire body becomes infected.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I eventually say. ‘It really is. Just take your time.’

  ‘They are . . . they . . . they do bad things to us.’ There is no correlation between the words he is saying and his body language.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Can you tell my parents that I’m here?’

  ‘Don’t they know?’

  ‘No, none of these people, none of their parents know where they are.’

  ‘How do I get hold of them?’

  ‘I can’t give you the number now. If they see me . . . I can’t take the chance.’

  ‘I have a way,’ I say, knowing that Ethan will help.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I have a friend; he works at 1 Mil.’

  ‘Please, please, I must get out of here. I’ll die. I know I will. People disappear here.’ He glances at the medics sitting in the corner, who also serve as guards. Instinctively I move closer to the door to get out of their field of vision.

  ‘What are they doing, Deon?’

  ‘If they catch me trying to get out, they’ll send me to Klippies.’

  ‘What is Klippies?’

  ‘It’s a sanatorium.’

  ‘Why would they send you there? It doesn’t make sense.’ I see that the thought of that place makes him withdraw, so I change the subject and ask how long he has been here.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says unhurriedly, appearing even more distant.

  ‘Since Infantry School?’

  ‘Yes.’ He tries to pull himself together, looks at me almost calmly and says, ‘People disappear here . . . completely. The next morning their beds are rolled up and they’re gone.’

  ‘Surely they are just taken to another hospital, or maybe they’re just sent ho . . .’

  ‘No, no, they are gone forever,’ he interrupts me. ‘It’s the really sick ones, the ones that . . . that . . . are weird. When they go mad from the stuff that these people do to them.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’

  He starts talking, but then he bends forward and shakes his head saying, ‘No, no, NO!’ over and over. He shivers, and suddenly he starts sweating. I steady him and help him to sit down. He hangs on to me, but I try to keep my distance, for it feels as if he won’t let go if I allow him a hold.

  ‘Deon,’ I urge him, ‘you must be careful. If we attract attention, they’ll send me away.’ But I am more nervous that they might keep me ‘in.’

  He starts talking again, this time deliberately, lucidly and eerily calmly. I get the feeling that he is talking without picturing the things he is saying; just knowing he has to get them out.

  ‘They put us in a mortuary with body parts. It’s like a cool room: dark, very, very dark. One at a time. Everywhere you look there are just bodies or pieces of dead people.’ His voice has become loud and he is sobbing.

  ‘Deon, shh. Not so loud. Take your time.’

  ‘They turn off the lights and they leave us there, alone, for a long time.’ For the first time he seems to be beating the drugs that are chaining him. It attracts attention from a patient near us, who starts making howling noises. He comes towards us, and as he focuses on us, he starts wailing. Deon tries to shoo him away, but the situation quickly unravels. Another patient gets involved, starts talking gibberish and then starts barking like a dog. Deon grabs hold of me and starts crying.

  Two guards rush towards us and start pulling Deon off me. They grab his arms and twist them behind his back. The other two patients are pushed so roughly that they fall on the asphalt. Deon is cowering and wailing. One guard twists his arm further and pushes it forcefully behind his neck. Deon buckles over, crying and begging. Within seconds they have him up the steps and away. I am told to wait outside the complex, but before I reach the door, Ethan is at my side.

  ‘Sorry it took so long.’ Then, looking at me, he says, ‘What’s wrong, Nick, what happened?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in the car.’ Which I do.

  ‘Nick, I have a friend who worked in Ward 22. We must never talk about this. Please promise me you won’t repeat this to anyone.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘My friend who worked there asked for a transfer, which didn’t come easy. If it weren’t for his parents’ contacts, he would never have got out. They make those medics and guards do dreadful things to the patients so that they are kind of part of it. He made me promise never to tell anybody. He told me they put the guys in the mortuary for two days and two nights, with body parts all over the place—people who died on the border, pieces lying open on trays, everywhere, man.’

  ‘I was hoping it was the drugs talking.’

  ‘There’s a boxer, and they have this boxing ring, and all the officers sit around watching this guy fuck up the patients. They put gloves on the guys and then he carries on until he has knocked them unconscious. This champion boxer . . . against patients on Stelazine.’

  ‘What’s Stelazine?’

  ‘It’s a tranquilliser, sort of makes you not care, but only some patients are on it.’

  ‘Shit, Ethan, I’ve heard of the hormone treatment and the shock treatment, but this is torture, man.’

  ‘And there’s nothing we can do about it. Property of the state, remember!’

  ‘But you will try and find out where Deon’s parents are, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Ethan puts the roof of the car down and we drive in silence, enjoying the feeling of freedom. Sitting next to him, I resolve to get on that train tonight knowing I have achieved something, feeling that we have progressed in some way, no matter how small.

  As we approach The Fountains, I tell him about the little steam train that used to run there and how it was the highlight of our visits to Pretoria as kids. To further dispel the misery of what I have just witnessed, I force myself to think pleasant thoughts: kissing Ethan, holding him. Wouldn’t that just make everything worthwhile?

  Then something inside me falls into place. ‘Ethan, you know, I survived the border and it was the most profound experience, but I will not allow it to scar me. I’m going to take all the positive out of it and learn from it. I will not let the shit get to me.’

  He smiles, looks at me for a moment and says, ‘And at the end of next year we’re finished with the army, except for camps.’

  ‘Forget camps, Ethan, I will never do them. You can count on that. I’ve seen enough. There will be a way out, and I’ll find it. I will never do a camp. And I won’t allow any of this to get to me. If I do, they’ve won. Our happiness does not depend on what life deals us, it’s how we deal with it!’ This makes me think of Dylan. ‘You know, because Dylan came from such a privileged background he actually suffered a lot more. His whole life was plotted for him and he just had to fit in: school, university, what to wear, how to act. He once told me that he didn’t have a choice of what to study. It was decided for him—a business degree—and he HAD to excel.’

  ‘What did he want to study?’

  ‘I think literature. He wanted to write, be creative. More than anything else, he wanted freedom. Malcolm, on the other hand, had no pressure like that. Do you know, even at primary school he took two buses to school on his own, bought a newspaper and read it. Best of all, his father didn’t even know where his school was!’

  ‘We have family friends whose father has this massive company, really wealthy—been our neighbours in Clifton for years—and all the children, three boys and a girl, are made to work for the company. No choices, no compromise, y
ou work or you’re disinherited.’

  ‘Pretty much Dylan’s situation.’

  ‘Did it help to speak to his parents?’ he asks, looking at me and gearing down.

  ‘Yes, but it has sort of changed my memory of him, if that makes sense. It has helped to give me closure, to realise that maybe I couldn’t have prevented his death. But I will never know for sure. Some part of me will always feel that I could have done something.’ Deciding to change the subject, I say, ‘I’m going to miss you, Ethan. When’s your next pass?’

  ‘It’s actually this weekend.’

  ‘Wow, lucky you! What are your plans?’

  ‘I don’t know, my folks will fly me down to Cape Town, I guess. Listen, when we finish the army at the end of next year, let’s take a holiday together, say up the Wild Coast for a couple of weeks. What do you think? Can you surf?’

  ‘Not too well. Shit, that would be great, man. I can’t wait! That’s a deal, OK?’

  I feel a pang of pleasure and pain in my heart. Eternal, I say to myself trying to describe the feeling, this thing that has grown in me that hurts but at the same time has become my most important need. Eternal . . . to last forever.

  ***

  ‘There are only three things that will last forever,’ I can hear Mr. Davids so clearly. ‘Faith, hope and love. One day you will understand hope. It can’t be taught. It is something you will understand; it will come to you.’

  Love was easy, wished for, given and received, causing different reactions. Faith has been a journey for me. At first, I just leaned on it, then clung to it, and then it supported me.

  Hope only made itself known to me in my nineteenth year. The army, Middelburg, basics, Infantry School, Vasbyt, the border and Koevoet taught me hope. I now realise it is not just some desire beckoning on the horizon. It is the trust in a future, lying there like a safe harbour.

  Travelling with Ethan gives me hope, a colour to drench my time in, a brighter pigment. I want him to talk, because then I can look at him, study him. I want to burn his image into me so that I can take him with me, in my Wild Coast fantasy, all the way to Oudtshoorn.

  After saying goodbye on the soot-stained platform, I turn to get into the second-class carriage. He calls my name. When he says it, we step towards each other and he hugs me and says he will see me as soon as he can. He whispers it into my ear, too precious for others to hear.

  I find my compartment, press the silver bar at the top of the window with the springbok head etched into it, and release the catch. The glass drops down and I lean out for the last few words.

  He promises to spend as much time with Malcolm as possible, and the train starts moving. Only when the rhythm is well established and I can no longer see Ethan, do I draw back into the compartment and the real world.

  13

  My name is Pranks.’

  ‘Hey there, Pranks, I’m Nicholas. How are you?’

  ‘Shit, thank you.’

  On the high-backed seat sits a woman who came in while my interest was still focussed on Ethan.

  ‘Is that your boyfriend?’ she asks, drawing on a cigarette. She is dressed like the cigarette: all in white, with gold shoes and a gold chain around the waist. Without waiting for an answer she goes on, ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. I won’t go to the police or tell your friends in the army. One of my best friends is, you know, like that.’ Between every phrase, she draws in more smoke. The cigarette lingers on her lips, and then her tongue pushes the butt out.

  I try to cling to Ethan’s smell, and all I can think of is how the smoke from this woman’s lungs is displacing it.

  ‘Come on, what’s your name? If we’re going to share the com­partment . . .’

  ‘I told you. Nicholas.’

  ‘Well, hello, Nicholas.’

  ‘Why did you ask me that?’ I stutter.

  ‘What? Oh that. Just the way you said goodbye, you don’t look like trassies, but two beautiful boys like you, what a waste. Shit, you guys are going to break some hearts. Would you like a drink? How about some Tassies? Tassies for the trassies!’ and she bursts into spluttering laughter.

  From her white handbag with a gold plastic flamingo on the flap, she takes a half-jack of brandy. ‘Or some Klippies an’ Coke? When you see the trolley, be a dolly and get us a few Cokes.’

  ‘No thanks, I won’t have a drink.’

  ‘Oh, come on, don’t be a moffie.’ She is halfway through the word when she laughs a smoker’s chortle, thick with phlegm, ending in a cough.

  ‘OK, maybe later, after supper.’ I feel like crying, for Ethan, for his sound, his walk, his smell. I need something to relieve me of this heartache. I want to run or somehow just escape, but the compartment closes the smell of the woman’s perfume and smoke in around me.

  ‘When you introduced yourself . . . Pranks, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, Pranks, you said you felt like shit. Why did you say that?’

  ‘I am shit.’ She is clearly pleased I’ve asked. ‘My family has discarded me; husband found a younger bokkie, traded me in, and the children have sided with him. He has the money. Money, that’s what it’s all about. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘You will see, you will see. Money, that’s what it’s all about.’ She sings the last words. She looks at her dim reflection in the glass where the night is perforated by lights changing the glass pane into a mirror. ‘Discarded, thrown away like trash, like shit; that’s me. And now I’m going to live with my sister in Bloem­fon­tein.’

  I make my bed on the top bunk, safe from her spilling brandy or falling on me. Lying on my stomach and raised on my elbows, I write about Ethan:

  This is love that should be renamed, the type that can make you mad. The type you can never live without, once you are addicted to it. This world will coexist next to such love—it’s bigger than the planet where it was born.

  When I close my eyes, I see blood seeping in between the frames of the destroyed people of Ward 22, the killing and the lost lives. And then the shouting starts. When this happens, I don’t sleep.

  I get up and go to the toilet at the end of the carriage, splash my face with water and talk to myself quietly, my face close to the speckled mirror. I put my shoulder against the side of the cu­bicle to balance myself, lift the lid and take my penis out. Stand­ing at an angle, I aim at the stainless-steel toilet. The pee twists from between the two small lips.

  Running my hands against the sides of the passage, I walk back to my compartment, steadying myself in anticipation of the irregular movement of the train.

  From the other end of the passage, a man is heading towards me. I recognise him immediately as the medic who stitched my head on the border. When we come face to face, I say, ‘Hi, do you remember me?’

  ‘No, china. Hey, yes . . . maybe, hey! But I’m lekker op ’n stasie. Pissed as a parrot, china. Who are you again?’

  ‘You stitched my head on the border. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Goin’ home, my mate, for lang pas. Now I remember. You’re the oke with the head, and the friend with the hand. I still came up with the doc from the base. Ja, ja, I remember. So how’s your wound, ek sê?’

  ‘Pretty good!’

  ‘Fucking good stitches,’ he says looking at my head. ‘So, where you goin’?’

  ‘Back to Infantry School.’

  ‘I’m getting off in Bloemies early, so I reckon rather like dop all night!’

  ‘Well, I’m going to try and get some sleep. Enjoy your long pass.’ He shakes my hand and we push past each other.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouts after me. I turn around. ‘I remember, at the bang site I didn’t really have to look after you. There was this guy from your platoon, fuck, he was amazing, took care of you like you were like this.’ He crosses his middle and index fingers to indicate closeness. ‘I just left you with him.’

  ‘Really, who was he?’

  ‘Fucked if I know. But the
amazing thing was, this oke was so together, not rattled at all. Fokken strong china, that ou. Solid, hey, solid!’

  ‘What did he look like? Can you remember?’

  ‘Ja, good-looking. The kind of poes that gets all the chicks at the disco. Black hair. Shit, china, you don’t know him? He walked all the way with your stretcher to the Puma. Big help, that oke, big help.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, and just as I wonder if he has heard me, he raises his hand, index finger and pinkie extended—the safe-my­-mate sign—and stumbles on without turning back.

  Oscar is the object of my thoughts before I fall asleep.

  Somewhere during the night Pranks starts talking and tries to engage me in conversation. Everything about her depresses me. She becomes so drunk that she no longer cares if I listen—prob­ably used to being ignored. The only words I remember her say­ing before falling asleep again are, ‘It’s when you don’t matter to anybody, when nobody cares, when you have no meaning, that’s loneliness.’

  Early the next morning she gets off at Bloemfontein without saying goodbye. Her blond beehive is pathetically skew. Search­ing the platform to see if there is someone to meet her, I see her looking at her own image in a shop front, trying to adjust her hair. Next to her is a suitcase of tartan fabric that seems barely up to the task of holding her few possessions. There is a thud, then another one, and we start moving.

  As the sober Karoo morning slips past, I think of uncle Hen­drik, auntie Sannie and Hanno, and the times we spent with them. But mostly I think of the weekend of the funeral.

  14

  There is an incredulous silence in the ‘sacred’ dining room where I’m standing, demanding that the dog be taken to a vet. An alien could just as well have entered the room and asked for sex with auntie Sannie.