The Boy Who Could Keep a Swan in His Head

by John Hunt

  It was a full fifteen minutes before Phen and Edward were ushered in. Until then, he had refused to move out from under the table, even though his uncle’s upside-down head had popped beneath the cloth a number of times in an attempt at conversation. The curtains in the bedroom were open enough to see the dust travel through its single shaft. It danced and spun before disappearing into the dark corner where the oxygen cylinder stood erect, awaiting orders. His father had been given a shave and had had his hair neatly combed back. His Old Spice clashed with the disinfectant and metal smell that seeped from the scrubbed and covered bedpan.

  It was obvious his father hadn’t dressed himself and this embarrassment made his body sit ill at ease. Like a child forced into a new uniform, he tried hard not to show his grumpiness. He’d been changed into a newly laundered pyjama top that was way too big for him. The sleeves stretched over his knuckles and the freshly ironed shoulders sat like tents on either side of his head. Each button, dutifully fastened all the way up to the neck, mocked the torso it was bringing order to. The heavy square box at the bottom of the bed bullied his father into concertinaing his legs. This created a mountain Phen couldn’t see over.

  “Hello, Ed. What brings you to these parts? And on a Saturday morning to boot. We haven’t fully recovered from our champagne-and-caviar shindig last night.”

  “Sorry to interrupt your hangover, but I’ve bought you a present. Saw it in the shops this morning and thought, ‘Why not?’”

  “He won’t tell me what it is. Said I had to wait until you woke up!”

  His mother rubbed his father’s knees at the top of the mountain. After a pause this prompted him to feel for his glasses, which lay on the cover of The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. He stalled again while he rubbed the large indents on each side of his nose. The weight of his glasses had left deep crevices that could no longer be massaged out. Finally, he slid the heavy frames on. Instantly his eyes doubled in size. Like a dramatic magician’s trick it confirmed he was now fully engaged. Slowly he rolled his head from one side of the room to the other.

  “We are missing one.”

  “I’m behind your knees.”

  “Well, get yourself in front of them.”

  Ed pushed the box further up the bed then bowed to Phen to indicate he should do the unwrapping. His mother asked him to be careful and he cheekily said you can’t unwrap something without tearing the paper. He was suspicious of this sudden eagerness and anticipation. He didn’t like the way all the adults were joking with each other as if everything was instantly, miraculously perfect and normal. His father’s cartoon eyes looked at him reproachfully. It was all meaningless anyway. Once the wrapping paper had been ripped off they were left none the wiser. Strips of corrugated cardboard now surrounded the square. Phen picked tentatively at the thick sticky tape that held everything together. In addition, a thick twine secured the package in tight vertical and horizontal lines.

  “Perhaps I should take it from here?” Ed brought his middle and forefingers together to indicate scissors.

  “Back in a jiffy; they’re in the kitchen.”

  With his mother gone the three men suddenly felt awkward around each other. The pause was too pregnant. Ed began to pat the box.

  “Not another dog, Ed? We’ve already got one of those.”

  With the string and cardboard armour lying on the floor, the present looked flatter and more streamlined. The box had its individual flaps fastened together by thick copper staples. The only new clue was the type that ran in capitals across the top. STÉRÉO CONTINENTAL “401”. One of the staples was punched through both the O and the C, metallically defying everyone to separate them. Phen had no idea what a STÉRÉO CONTINENTAL “401” was and felt relieved to see that nor did his parents. His mother let out an excited gasp, but didn’t know where to send it. His father looked over his glasses like a bored professor waiting for his student to come up with the answer.

  “Nearly there.”

  While Ed attacked the thick staples with his pair of scissors, Phen continued to read the box. He knew the word stereo, but had never come across stéréo before. It seemed so much more exotic, even alluring. He felt a guilty pleasure as he rolled the word around his mouth and made different attempts at pronouncing it. This pleasant feeling was accentuated by the continental that was bound to it in shiny metal.

  Hillbrow was full of continentals. There was even a Café Continental. They drank coffee that wasn’t from a Frisco tin and bread not sliced, but shaped like plump torpedoes. They dressed differently too. His grandmother had said everyone’s pants were too tight and everyone’s skirts were too short, but the continentals had something else. They had style. The men didn’t just wear shorts with long socks, or safari suits. The women, well, the women weren’t trapped in Crimplene. He had no idea what that meant, but when his mother had said it, it sounded like a good thing.

  The final endorsement of continentals had come from Zelda. She’d said she liked all these Europeans pouring into Hillbrow, especially the French and the Italians. She said she knew the National Party was just letting them in because they wanted more whites to counterbalance the blacks. Still, they were a breath of fresh air. Not so conservative and uptight. She enjoyed talking to them and loved their different accents. Even the Germans, believe it or not, had a sense of humour. She said the continental thinking was much more avant-garde. Again, Phen had no idea what that meant, yet it sounded positive. Later on this was more than confirmed by his Chambers. Who wouldn’t want to be part of a noun that gave its meaning to those who support the newest ideas?

  The scissors were a little small and the staples particularly tenacious. They were not giving up their prize without a fight. Uncle Ed was becoming a bit flustered as he now dug holes around the metal clasps rather than attempted to pry them loose. His mother tried to maintain her excitement with pitched eyebrows. His father, meanwhile, opened Le Carré’s spy novel to check which page he was on. All this allowed Phen to contemplate “401”. It was such a strange number. He felt it was meant to have been “400”, but someone, at the last moment, had added an extra something and now it had to be “401”. That’s avant-garde for you. Those continentals were a different bunch.

  The STÉRÉO CONTINENTAL “401” suddenly seemed to promise only good things. His sense of dread and ill humour began to recede. To see better, his mother opened the curtains another inch and the expanded sunlight reinforced his positive shift. Ed tilted the box sideways and pulled the now-exposed plastic handle. The box clung on like a second skin. He shook it violently but to no avail. Phen’s father continued to look over his glasses while his finger kept his place in the book. Uncle Edward was beginning to perspire. He took a moment to dab at his forehead before carefully refolding the handkerchief and sliding it back into his pocket.

  “Perhaps if you lift it up and I pull the box down?”

  Inexplicably Phen felt a surge of jealousy. It was as if his mother was helping his uncle undress something. His dread returned. They laughed together as the box squirmed and turned in their hands. He saw their fingers overlap as she gave one final heave and the box fell like a dropped skirt. Ed was left holding it high as if waiting for applause or maybe a photograph.

  “Shall we put it down?”

  “Of course.”

  Still clutching the white handle, he laid it gently on the bed and smoothed the blanket surrounding it. There were more words for Phen to read. In small metal relief on a raised portion in the middle was the word “Philips”. Two white dials on the left said “Volume” and “Tone”. Moving right and housed in the same raised section that proclaimed “Philips” were seven square cubes. The first one was bright red and labelled “Rec”. Pause, Play, Multiplay, Stop and the two cubes marked with double arrows pointing in opposite directions were all white. On the far right were two more dials marked “Micro” and “Phono”.

  Phen’s father stared blankly then moved his legs further away as if the contraption might bite. Un
cle Ed was crestfallen by this reaction. He slowly let the handle go and began to seek comfort by stroking his cravat. He then suddenly pointed at the machine as if it had given him an idea.

  “Of course! It needs these!”

  From a large envelope no one had noticed behind the scatter cushion, he produced two reels. One was empty, the other full of a thin brown tape. He placed them both on their awaiting metal spikes, threaded the tape through an adjoining slot and then secured the full reel to the empty one. Confidence restored, he demanded a double adapter so the machine could be plugged in. From a secret compartment on the side of the device, he pulled out what looked like a torch. Except there was no light at the end. Instead, a metal bulb of polished steel punched full of tiny holes stared at them.

  “A microphone,” said Uncle Ed.

  “Terrific,” said his father.

  “Say something.”

  “Why?”

  “I am trying to record your voice.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a tape recorder, the latest.”

  “You’re the one with the voice. I don’t sing in the choir.”

  “You don’t have to sing. Just say something.”

  “I am saying something.”

  “Say something more profound.”

  “Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair. Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy. Was he?”

  “Deep.”

  “Your turn. ‘Amazing Grace’.”

  “No.”

  The red record button was released from its pressed-down position and popped up obediently. The white cube with arrows pointing backwards then took over. Once that too had snapped back into position, Ed paused for effect then pressed Play. It was the funniest thing Phen had ever heard. Delivered second-hand, the two quarrelling voices sounded like a pair of comedians. How could the two of them be so hilarious without even trying? Why was listening back so much more amusing than listening to? He’d never realised his father’s voice was so low, a tractor trying to talk. And his uncle – so posh! ‘Sa-a-ah-a-y something. I ham trahying to record yarrh voice.’

  It was their voices, but it was not them. Phen marvelled at the mystery of it all. Everyone seemed delirious! His mother giggled incessantly while trying to wipe the tears from her eyes. His father’s body shook as his pyjamas ballooned with his chuckling. Phen wondered if his father, bloated with laughter, might lift off the bed and float towards the ceiling. Each time his heaving chest tried to catch his breath, he’d let out a loud snort and trigger the whole room again. Uncle Ed paced the room, eventually seeking refuge behind the oxygen cylinder, where he cackled and guffawed into the corner. The room had never ever been so happy. The magic box had turned a dark cell smelling of hospital into an enchanted place by merely playing their own voices back to them.

  This was wizardry Phen could not fully understand. He laughed and laughed yet felt the distant anxiety return. He was made nervous by the speed of it all. The change had been so quick, so violent. Didn’t magic spells carry a price? Abracadabra wasn’t for free. There had to be a cost. Had they unwittingly practised the dark arts and would they now be held to account? He didn’t trust the machine; there would be a ransom. He just didn’t know what form it would take.

  He didn’t have to wait long for the answer.

  Slowly the room returned to normal. Ed apologised profusely, cleared his throat and straightened his cravat. His father’s laughter turned to a cough and the oxygen mask resumed its normal place. His mother stopped giggling but continued to cry. She smiled through her tears and left the room to make everyone some fresh tea. The light dimmed and the dust refused to dance. Pale and anaemic, its gleam barely reached the bed before extinguishing itself on the brown bedspread. By the time his mother came back with the tray and the smart cups, he knew it was a cheap conjuring trick.

  “I’ve let the leaves settle.”

  “Excellent.”

  Ed accepted the tea strainer and nodded dumbly. “Suppose I should’ve phoned in advance.”

  “Not at all.”

  The oxygen had been turned up in an attempt to stifle the cough. The high pitch of escaping air made conversation difficult. To accommodate his father they had to talk much louder. Phen hated this. It was as if an idiot had suddenly entered the room. People often did it to him when he didn’t answer immediately. He turned to leave; Pal was waiting at the door. He was stopped by Ed, who turned the strainer into a sword and pointed it at his chest.

  “Look,” he said, “besides all this silliness, there is another purpose behind this purchase.”

  Uncle Ed was feeling guilty. He spoke as if in his own defence. He knew he should never have been spontaneous. He knew, in his world, this led to calamity. What was he thinking arriving on a Saturday morning unannounced? He’d tried to mix it up a little, play it off the cuff, and now he’d paid the price. He wasn’t quite sure what had gone wrong, but that’s precisely what happens when you don’t carefully plan things in advance. Everything was in a state of turmoil and it was all his fault.

  “You know Mavis?”

  Everyone shook their heads. No one knew Mavis.

  “Well, anyway, toiled away for years in our accounts department. Good worker, failing sight, though. Something to do with diabetes I think. Had to let her go. Here’s the point, we passed the hat around and bought her one of these things.”

  He pointed to the tape recorder.

  “Not quite such a spiffing model, but pretty damn good. Not so that she could play silly buggers on it, rather so that she could listen to books.”

  Phen knew at that exact moment everything was about to change. Some key had turned, some moment had passed and there was no going back. He was being left behind as the world moved on. He was being unhitched. Sidelined. Made to watch. He looked at the metal box; the still reels stared back. The plastic strap curled from one side to the other in a smirk. He didn’t understand it fully, but he knew there were new rules and these would dislodge everything. What had been built before wasn’t very strong, yet it had managed to stay standing. Now things would start tumbling. Although no one had asked for his opinion or permission he knew he was ceding control. He dragged his eyes off the tape recorder and returned to his uncle’s conversation.

  “They’re a wonderful organisation called Tape Aids for the Blind. You don’t have to be blind, just battling to read. They’ve got all the books. Huge library. And best of all, they’re read by South Africa’s finest voices. All these men and women you hear on the radio, the professionals, they’re the ones who do the reading. If you miss something or fall asleep, just click a button and rewind. Volume? Well, as loud or soft as you wish.”

  Phen’s clawing apprehension was perfectly counterbalanced by Ed’s growing enthusiasm. As his uncle fought to win the room back, his mother turned the oxygen valve down to ensure his father could hear. Ed continued to shout. Although imparting information, he was really seeking converts. As he gained confidence he began to evangelise. His arms left his sides as he welcomed all to this new technology. His hands coaxed Lily and Phen to come closer and examine the future. An automated Shangri-La waited, nestling on the bedspread. All they had to do was embrace it.

  “Want a break? Make a cup of tea or a trip to the bathroom? Just press Pause. Tone allows you to add treble or bass. It’s press down or up. The turn of a dial, the flick of a switch, you call the shots. You are master of your own listening pleasure, Dennis.”

  Dennis put up a hand to show that he understood.

  “Threading is easy once you get the hang of it …”

  Dennis now raised both hands in a sign of surrender and in an attempt to lower the volume or, better yet, induce silence. Ed’s sermonising slammed to a halt. The oxygen mask was pulled from the mouth and onto the chin. Half the air escaped down his father’s neck, making his chest bulge and billow again.

  “Thank you, Edward. Wonderful idea.” The Spy Who Came in from the Cold was plopped behind the bedside lamp. “How do we get
hold of this Tape Aids place? Rather like the idea of my literature being read to me in perfect enunciation.”

  Phen felt the first block of what used to be begin to topple. He’d never known what his father thought of him; he’d suspected he was loved although this didn’t make being made redundant any easier to take. It felt like he was losing not only a hesitant love, but also a sense of purpose. He wondered if it would have made any difference if he didn’t stutter. He had gone for pages, sometimes even chapters without a problem. He’d made up paragraphs to get around Ses, changed heroes’ names and altered stories. Day after day, he’d remembered those changes so he wouldn’t be caught out. Now he could see it was all for nothing.

  He’d been replaced by a machine. A machine that would have no problems with any words. One reel would feed the other and the story would flow. They would spin together in perfect time as if the voice itself were lubricating their lazy circles. There would be no silent blocks, unless the finger pressed Pause to make it so. The Philips didn’t have to go to school, walk the dog or want to listen to the Top Ten on the radio. It was the deluxe STÉRÉO CONTINENTAL “401”. Phen knew he hadn’t just been replaced; he’d been surpassed.

  6

  Rendezvous

  /ron’di-voo/ noun

  It hurt that a better version of him could arrive delivered in a box. He disliked the indent it caused in the leather armchair that used to be his. He didn’t approve of the way the room had to be rearranged to ensure the cord could reach the plug. But most of all, he hated the way it commanded all within the room to do its bidding. The Grundig in the lounge was passive and benign by comparison. While the Continental spoke, everyone else had to be silent – even if his father was asleep. The moment you pressed Stop the white cube would answer back with such a loud click his father would wake. So the Philips just kept on talking, holding court even if no one was listening.