by Zakes Mda
“Now that you have found me what do you plan to do about it?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I was off to some place on some business,” he says lamely. “I didn’t imagine I’d find you here.”
“And all along I thought you were a man of boundless imagination! What is the business some place that you are off to?”
He can’t tell her about Mr. Yodd. That he was going to his grotto to confess about her. The whole thing would sound foolish to her. He feels awkward and doesn’t know what to say next. She is now standing up and looking him straight in the eye. He is flustered and her amusement irritates him.
“So, what happened to you?” he finally asks.
“Nothing happened. I just got sick. Had a rash all over my body. Had to stay in bed for two weeks.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he says. “There must be some bug doing the rounds.”
Then an idea strikes him: “Do you want to look at the whales? Let’s go and see the whales.”
“What for?”
“I thought you liked whales. I see you every day when I am blowing my horn. Before you had the rash, I mean.”
“I don’t come here to watch the whales. I come here to watch you.”
She enjoys standing there watching him squirm in embarrassment. He realises that he looks foolish but does not know what to do about it. If he could he would wipe the smirk off her face.
“I like you… not the whales,” she adds. “That horn of yours!”
“I must go now… somebody is expecting me.”
But he does not go. He stands there timidly, watching her lick the ice cream and chew the cone with suggestive sensuality, all the while looking deep into his eyes. He would like to change the embarrassing direction of this conversation, but he is at a loss for words. She saves him by blurting out: “What’s your fascination with whales, anyway? They look stupid.”
Now he is offended.
“They are beautiful,” he says.
“Beautiful? They have all those ugly warts on their ugly heads!”
“They are not warts… they are callosities… and they are beautiful… and… and those southern rights are graceful… and they are big.”
“Not big enough. The blue whale, yes… if they were the blue whale, then I would respect them.”
“How would you know about the blue whale? I am sure you have never seen one. They don’t come close to shore.”
“It is the biggest mammal on earth… that I know for sure. But these whales of yours, they are like toys… they don’t tickle my fancy… they are too small for me.”
He feels insulted. He walks away from her without another word. Why on earth was he searching for such an obnoxious person?
“If you were a whale you would be the blue whale,” she calls after him, laughing.
He does not look back. He must get as far away as possible from such indecorous remarks. The sweet and mouldy smell follows him for a while but fizzles out as he gets further away from her cackling.
Without thinking much about it Saluni takes the direction of the mansion. She has not seen the Bored Twins for two weeks and she misses them: their peals of laughter, their singing, their storytelling. The singing, especially, has a healing effect, and she can do with some of that at this time. If they had sung for her at the worst moment of her rash, she is certain it would have healed quicker. But then she had misguidedly made up her mind that she never wanted to see them again, ever. Now she has forgiven the dear hearts. She yearns for them. Hopefully they are not out there in the marshes playing in the mud and plucking off the wings of butterflies, letting them suffer a lifetime of crawling without the benefit of flight. Or breaking the legs of the praying mantis, punishing them for feeding on other insects. Their parents are likely to be working in the vineyards. At harvesttime they leave home at five in the morning and only return after seven at night. If this is not the season for such work—Saluni does not bother to follow the cycles of the vine, except to imbibe what comes from the grape—the parents will be in the townships and villages of the district, collecting scrap metal in a donkey-drawn cart and selling it at the recycling centre. The Bored Twins, she feels, need her because they are all alone throughout the day. She cannot bear a grudge and let the little angels suffer.
The Bored Twins are not at home. Saluni coos: “Come home, Bored Twins, all is forgiven!” There is no response, except for the echoes from the mansion. Some of their raggedy dolls and assorted home-made toys are strewn outside. They must have been playing here not so long ago. They have strayed to the swamps in defiance of their parents. Saluni is not up to searching in all the swamps and marshes in the countryside; she goes back to town and to Walker Bay.
Saluni. She sits on a rock next to the emerald green water. She watches plankton floating among the ragged rocks and seagulls scavenging among humans. She is entertained by a group of seagulls feeding on the umbilical cords hanging from newborn seal pups.
The whale caller descends to Mr. Yodd’s grotto. The shadows have fallen on most of the crag. But the water in the shallows is still emerald green from the light. The depths are still blue. He peers into the grotto. No rock rabbits today. They can’t be asleep so early. They must be out overturning garbage cans near the monument, spreading out a banquet for the scavenging seagulls.
Hoy, Mr. Yodd. Have you ever heard of such an outrage? Too small for her! All of sixteen metres long and more than sixty tons in weight, and yet they are too small for the beauty whose face has been battered by wine. She is the kind that puts a premium on size, I see, and she finds Sharisha wanting. That mountain of a lady with the Three Sisters on her head, she disparages her. She finds every southern right wanting. She may as well find me wanting. You can’t bank on the fact that she has called me a flattering name, which was more on the indecent side, if you ask me. You want to know what she called me, Mr. Yodd? She called me a blue whale. Don’t laugh, Mr. Yodd. You don’t think I have it in me to be a blue whale? Whatever you think, Mr. Yodd, she sees a blue whale in me. Very big and very strong. Pulsating with hot blood. Blue whales are not just the largest mammals on earth; they are the largest mammals that ever lived. Their size is legendary, the stuff of many tales. I bet it was a blue whale that swallowed Jonah. Jonah can’t have been swallowed by anything lesser. Okay, I am a southern right man, as you rightly point out. Everyone knows that. The lady knows that too because she has watched me blow for the southern rights. But I can be a blue whale too if she wants me to be one. I can be her blue whale. And you know what, Mr. Yodd, I was born to be a blue whale, now that I think of it. Blue whales are not common. They are unattainable. Like me… can’t get… can’t buy… can’t deposit! They are not for the land-bound. They are out there, hundreds of miles into the ocean. You don’t toy with a blue whale, Mr. Yodd. Unless you are a Norwegian, a Japanese or an Icelandic whaler. Those whalers don’t care if you are a blue whale or a sperm whale or any kind of whale. In the name of culture and tradition, they harpoon you… just as their forebears killed whales and reduced their blubber to oil in trypots. You can laugh as much as you like, I am a blue whale. Oreas? What are oreas? Killer whales, of course! It is just like you, Mr. Yodd, to bring up something like that just to rain on the blue whale’s parade. Oreas! Ferocious they are, for they devour seals and dolphins without any mercy. Yes, I do know that they themselves are dolphins. Perhaps you stretch it too far when you say they are cannibalistic dolphins for they don’t eat other killer whales. They eat the harmless man-loving dolphins. The trusting ones that man has always betrayed. Killer whales are much smaller than the blue whale, yet they have been known to attack blue whales and tear them to pieces for lunch. So what’s the use of the blue whale’s great size, you ask, if it can be eaten by a dolphin one-tenth its weight? And you say if I am a blue whale, then Saluni is my killer whale? Saluni will never be my killer whale. You can say that about her because you don’t know her. You are right, I don’t know her either. But I have talked to her at least. She is a
lady. She doesn’t strike me as a killer whale. You are still laughing! You are laughing at me, Mr. Yodd! I suspect tears are running down your cheeks. And I can tell you, if you are doing what I think you are doing—rolling on the ground—you look undignified. Okay, okay! Maybe it’s not such a great idea after all. Maybe I am not a blue whale at all. She got it all wrong; I am not a blue whale.
The usual mortification after confession. And this time he feels it weighing heavily on his shoulders. When you are carrying a load of mortification it is as if everyone you meet can see it. You want to steer away from people. You want the security of the wilderness. But it is not possible to have that in a town like Hermanus, especially at a place like Walker Bay The eyes of the world are on him. The world has joined Mr. Yodd in his guffaws.
Sharisha. That will be the balm that heals his heart. Sharisha never judges him. Never makes fun of his insecurities. She will bring back his shattered dignity. He feels guilty that she, who is usually the subject of confession to Mr. Yodd, did not feature at all this time. Only Saluni. The whole confession was about Saluni. Once more he is attacked by feelings of guilt. Despite the weight on his shoulders he walks faster. He has a good idea where Sharisha might be at this time of the day. If she is not there he will blow his horn and play her song and she will manifest herself by breaching. Even if she is not that close to shore he will know it is Sharisha because when he plays the horn she breaches rapidly, up to fifteen times in a row, keeping to the rhythm of the horn. She doesn’t have to be close to shore to respond to him because the sound of the horn, like the songs of the whales, carries for many kilometres.
He doesn’t have to walk far, for there is Sharisha rubbing her head against the kelp. She must be irritated by lice. Normally Sharisha’s callosities are free of lice; that is why they are surf white and not pink or orange or even yellow like those of other southern rights. It seems now lice are beginning to infest her, and the Whale Caller suspects it is from the randy males who had their way with her the other day. Although whale lice are quite harmless, they can irritate the joy out of a whale. Sharisha does look annoyed.
He stands there for some time, watching her struggle with the floating kelp. But soon his attention is drawn to a prolonged cough just below the crag. There is Saluni sitting on a rock, her feet in the emerald green water. Her coat is spread on the rock next to her, and her dress is up to her waist. With her thumbnails she is crushing lice from the seams of her petticoat. She seems oblivious of Sharisha, only a hundred metres from her. The Whale Caller walks down to her.
“Oh, so now you found me again!” she says. “You are not doing badly at this finding business.”
“I was not looking for you this time,” says the Whale Caller apologetically. “I was looking for Sharisha.”
“Oh, Sharisha! The big fish you have named.”
“She is not a fish,” he says emphatically. “A whale is not a fish.”
“A whale… a fish… same difference! You don’t have to get so worked up about it. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it if I were you.”
“Look at her, she is beautiful,” he says with the pride of someone who has a stake in that beauty. “She is the queen of all southern rights. See her white callosities! See the regal wave of her flippers! See the bonnet of callosity on the tip of her snout!”
“How do you know the damn thing is female?”
“She is a woman all right.”
“I can tell you I saw his thingy when he was jumping out of the water causing all that racket and disturbing the peace.”
The Whale Caller chuckles in spite of himself.
“Even if she were male you wouldn’t know where to look for his thingy.”
“You don’t want to admit that you have gone gaga over a male. And you are so big and strong and muscular and… hard… I hope. Nothing camp about you at all.”
“I won’t stand for this kind of talk,” he says angrily “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“It shouldn’t bother you one bit. It is allowed. You were there when I was telling the pastors that it is even in the constitution of the country.”
“I won’t argue with you about Sharisha. I know what I know.”
She goes back to the business of crushing her lice. Sharisha thrusts her massive body up in the air, dives back into the water and doesn’t emerge again. She does this sometimes: dives in the water and stays many metres under the surface for up to half an hour without coming up for a breath.
“Don’t you dare think that I normally go around carrying lice on my body,” she says all of a sudden. “I am a lady, you know? I was sick. For two weeks nobody washed my things. With the damn rash my whole body was in pain. I couldn’t do a damn thing for myself.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Just so you know.”
Salunix. She arrives at the Wendy house. She has come to visit, but has no intention of ever leaving. That is why she is carrying a suitcase with all her worldly possessions. She has taken him up on his offer, made in a moment of weakness, to come over for a thorough sprucing-up that will destroy her lice once and for all. He welcomes her with a hot cup of cream of mushroom soup, and then prepares a hot bath for her. He pours in the water the pungent solution that is usually used as sheep dip.
“Look the other way while I take my clothes off,” she says with a naughty twinkle in her voice.
“Actually, I am leaving,” he says as he dashes out of the room.
“I was only joking! Come back! I don’t have a problem if you watch!”
But he is already out. She curses his cowardice under her breath, strips naked and gets into the enamel bathtub. She screams that the solution is burning her body. He shouts back from the second room—used as a kitchen—that it is all for the best because it will kill all the vermin that is feeding on her body.
“You may come in and scrub my back if you like,” she calls out.
“I would rather not,” he responds.
“You are a shy one, aren’t you?” she observes. “I like that in a man.”
After the bath she spends the rest of the day wrapped up in a blanket because all her clothes—including those that were in the suitcase—have been soaked in the solution, and then hung on the washing line outside to dry. She goes to bed early in the evening, her body still burning from the solution. She finds it difficult to sleep, especially because it has been many years since she slept sober. Well… almost sober… because she did take a secret sip of the methylated spirits that he uses for cleaning his tuxedo. She lies awake for a long time, listening to him pottering about in the kitchen, and wondering when he will sneak into bed. But he never does. He spends the night in a sleeping bag in the kitchen.
The Whale Caller wakes up after midnight to see a light through the cracks of her door. He thinks that she has forgotten to switch off the light. He tiptoes to the bedroom and flicks off the switch near the door. As he tiptoes back to his sleeping bag he is stopped in his tracks by a shrill scream from the bedroom.
“I wasn’t trying to do anything,” he assures her. “I was just switching off the light.”
“Never do that again! Where is the fuckin’ switch?”
He rushes back into the bedroom to switch on the light. And there she is, standing on the floor, naked, looking quite witless and bewildered.
“Never ever do that again! I hate the dark! I do not sleep in the dark! I do not walk in the dark! I do not do anything in the dark, in case you are the kind of man who does it only in the dark! Do you understand me?”
“I would not want to do anything with you in the dark,” he says defensively. “I was switching off the light because I thought you had forgotten to switch it off”
“Just never switch the light off again, that’s all.”
The Whale Caller apologises, and goes back to his sleeping bag.
When Saluni finally wakes up in the morning the aches of the sheep dip are gone. But her body is racked by something worse than a hangover
—the pain of sobriety. A long-forgotten feeling! Her clothes are on the chair next to the bed, all neatly ironed. After a quick wash in the plastic basin, and an application of makeup from her sequinned handbag, she wears her green taffeta dress and her black fishnet stockings and her red pencil-heel shoes and her fawn pure-wool coat. Her wild red hair is restrained in a black net. Once more her former state of elegance has been restored. With it the mouldy yet sweet smell.
It strikes the Whale Caller that she has taken all the fuss over her in her stride, as if being pampered is her birthright. Not a word of gratitude. This does not bother him. It is just an observation for its own sake.
She has been around for three weeks, and he has got used to her presence and to her haunting odour. She has become his shadow, except on Bored Twins days. Once in a while she makes herself useful by collecting seashells and arranging them on the wooden wall, sticking them on with glue as some form of decoration. Or by cooking an early morning millet meal porridge which they eat with milk for breakfast. She cooks only when she is hungry and he is too occupied with other things to cook at that time. At most times she just sits there for the whole day and expects to be fed and groomed and mollycoddled. He enjoys brushing and disentangling her red locks. Sometimes he braids them crudely. This activity always makes her body tingle.
When she has been to the mansion and has brought back a bottle of wine, she spends the day following him doing his rounds with the whales, while she occasionally takes a sip from her bottle, and collects the seashells. She nurses the bottle: the Whale Caller has vowed that he will not buy her wine because he’d rather she stopped drinking.
Occasionally she spends the night at the mansion and comes back the next day quite radiant and euphoric. On such days she never stops talking about the Bored Twins and their beauty and their singing and how they are such angels.
