by John Hunt
“All were dragged down below. Wolraad Woltemade’s body was found the next day, but not that of his stallion.”
The matter-of-fact reading of the story left his audience bereft and uncomfortable, as if they’d just witnessed a priest hurry through a funeral service. The headmaster himself seemed a little startled by the silence he’d created. He checked his moustache was still there and slowly rocked from one leg to the other. Eventually, somewhere near the front of the stage where the grade ones sat, a young girl whimpered. Mr Kock held out his cloak, but with less determination this time. Jimmy the Greek was battling with the whole concept. “What? So the man does cavalry into the sea and drowns his own horse?”
To break the bleak mood and keep things flowing, Mr Kock shouted at everyone to stand up so they could close with the Lord’s Prayer. He had hoped a heroic drowning would’ve been a little more inspirational; instead, all he could demand now was strict piety, loud and clear. Discipline is always a more tangible deliverable. He watched a sea of heads bow as one and waited for the shuffling to stop. The headmaster then clasped his hands and cleared his throat. Keeping his head high and eyes open he barked out to Our Father which art in heaven.
Once Phen reached his class he noticed that Zelda had been right. There was a new arrival. The boy wasn’t very big, yet carried himself as if he was. He was quietly powerful. Phen noticed how he said nothing yet everyone took notice of him. His skin was “certifiably Mediterranean”, as his gran would say, and his thick black hair clung to his skull. It wove a mat over his head, keeping low and rooted to his scalp. The class knew immediately Miss Smit didn’t like him. What made him unique was they could also tell he didn’t care. She smiled at him with too many teeth involved. He looked her straight in the eye and over-grinned back.
“No. Sit here.” She moved him away from the fragile whiteness of Margaret Wallace. Like a thin, delicate bone-china cup being lifted off a rough enamel saucer, she made Margaret stand so the darker boy could push past. “You can sit next to Kobus.”
Kobus Visser was not impressed. He had presumed the celebrity of a freshly broken leg would guarantee him the extra space. “It stuck out both ways.” Visser had sent his top lip and bottom lip in opposite directions to make his point. “I could see the bone sticking out my sock. Snapped like a piece of biltong.” Although each bench and desk was made to accommodate two, he’d thought his large bulk and one limb in a cast had filled the space adequately. He belatedly heaved his damaged leg out of the way and placed his crutches on the floor. The new boy likewise registered his displeasure by sitting with only one cheek on the bench.
“Sit properly.”
The new boy made it a cheek and a quarter.
“Now stand and tell us your name.”
“Adan Karim. But everyone calls me Adam. That’s okay, you can do that too.”
His self-confidence was incredible. It bordered on insolence. Here was the newest member of the school telling the teacher what his name was, and then that she could call him something else.
“Thank you, Adan. You can sit now.”
Adan sank in the slowest slow motion and smiled, again ensuring his grin was as wide and as false as his mouth would allow.
The next piece of his puzzle fell into place at the beginning of first break while everyone stood in a line to sign “Fat Visser’s” leg. In addition to elaborate signatures, there were a few Tweety birds and flowers from the girls. If he’d expected hearts with arrows through them, he hid his disappointment well. The boys provided some barely recognisable Batmen and Popeyes. Visser’s mother had made it clear nothing rude was allowed, and this had clearly cramped their imaginations. Phen dangled loosely at the back of the line, not sure if his name was worthy of the plaster of Paris. He held his pen absent-mindedly as if it was really for another purpose.
Carlos de Sousa stood waiting in front of him with a Marmite sandwich in his hand. He was the only boy in the class with a mole on his face. It sat midway between the bottom of his nose and the top of his upper lip. When he spoke it was impossible not to watch it undulate like a buoy in rough seas. He turned casually to Phen and offered him a bite. This unexpected act of kindness took Phen by surprise. Although he was more of a Bovril man, he obliged and ended up with half the crust in his mouth. Carlos meanwhile brushed a few wayward crumbs off his tie. Those that were a little more stubborn, he patted against his tongue.
“Porras use fists and feet.” As Mr de Sousa was originally from Lisbon this statement seemed credible enough. He made two fists and assumed a boxing position. “Portuguese kiss.” Carlos spun then rammed his elbow within an inch of Phen’s nose.
Phen tried to stay calm and not back away. He just nodded and stared at the mole, waiting for the next wave. Carlos had missed a blob of Marmite in the corner of his mouth, but now was not the time.
“Lebs, on the other hand, use knives and broken bottles.” He transformed his right hand into a flick knife and his left into the neck of a broken bottle. His stance dared Phen to take him on. Phen stepped forward for a moment, feeling he had a part to play in this ballet, then stepped back and held his ground.
“And that is the difference between us.” Carlos returned the ends of his arms to hands. “So, watch out for that new boy.”
Up until this point the Lebs were purely a gang from Mayfair, a suburb of corrugated-iron houses that hugged the railway line as it left Johannesburg. They were the same as the Braamie Boys or Hell’s Angels. Or the Jets and Sharks from West Side Story. Phen had no idea they also represented a nationality and had a country. He’d seen restaurants advertising Lebanese food, but had never put the two together. It only dawned on him now that Mr Karim was fresh from another land and automatically part of a notorious gang. Porras had Portugal, Lebs had Lebanon and instant membership to the toughest, meanest gang in South Africa. No wonder he was so confident.
“White kaffir,” was Visser’s contribution to the conversation, although Phen noticed he’d checked the classroom first to make sure Adan wasn’t still in it. “De Sousa,” he continued, “are you signing or not?”
De Sousa’s pen didn’t work on the rough plaster, so Phen lent him his. It was a fair exchange for the sandwich. It also made his signing more natural. It didn’t feel as if he had to ask Visser if he wanted his name on the cast or not. He looked for some inspiration. Besides Jimmy the Greek’s horse head with snorkel and goggles, there wasn’t much originality. In the end he settled on a white patch just below the knee. He decided he’d just write his name, his proper name. The capital S in Stephen was large and proud. The top curl even crept a little onto the kneecap.
The three of them then walked down to the embankment next to the change rooms. A certain popularity is transferred when you walk with a boy who has a broken leg. You get stopped as a group and asked a lot of questions. Even if you don’t say much, you are part of a team that causes circles to form around you. And, the larger the circle, the more brutal the break. He was playing with his older brother’s friends. It was meant to be touch rugby but “those guys klap you into next week”. He was about to score when the garden hose “wrapped around his foot like a snake”. At the same time, Gerrit, who played first team for Helpmekaar, tackled him full-weight. The ensuing crash caused Visser’s leg to embed itself on the edge of his father’s braai. The forty-four-gallon drum, cut in half, sent his knee left while the trapped ankle turned in the opposite direction. “It was amazing,” Visser admitted, “that I didn’t cry.”
No one believed the last part of the story. Yet some first-day-back code existed which allowed the telling of tales to go untested. Later on there would be those who claimed all he did was slip on a hosepipe and cry like a baby. There was little evidence of Visser’s sporting skills. It would also be pointed out that, in the previous term, he’d howled when a tennis ball hit him in the nuts during a game of stingers. And it hadn’t even been a hard throw. But today he was a hero and it was contagious. Phen noticed when he finally reached th
e sports fields that he, too, was limping slightly and favouring his left leg.
The embankment was something of a letdown. Most people had already drifted off. Only the truly hardened detectives remained. Mr Swindon had indeed done a good job. He’d obviously repaired whatever damage had been done to the mower. He’d then cleverly mowed the words vertically and horizontally, so the direction of the cut grass gave no clue as to what lay beneath. This didn’t stop Vernon MacArthur, who lay with his head on the ground squinting through the grass. He kept changing position then staring at the ground like a snooker player lining up his shot. He tapped the side of his head as if it was all slowly coming to him. He always came top of the class, and this gave him the right to wait for an audience before he spoke. Those who lingered obediently gathered around him while he pretended to be deep in thought.
“There were three words originally,” he said definitively. “But I can only make out one.” It was a rare act of humility designed to entrench his credibility. “This one here,” he said.
Everyone looked at the slope of the grassy mound and saw nothing. The heat had already turned the freshly mown grass a silvery brown. It lay over the slanting surface of green, hiding all its secrets. A small boy from grade two blew at it, hoping to lift its veil. Vernon MacArthur gave a heartless chuckle at the stupidity of the gesture. He bent down on his knees and lined up his shot again. He nodded to himself and confirmed his genius.
“It’s cock or penis,” he said.
The girls were genuinely shocked. They blushed and put their hands to their mouths. They were so embarrassed they could no longer look at the embankment. The boys smiled ruefully as if they’d known all along. Phen couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Without thinking, he opened his mouth and tried to get his tongue to respond. His anger did not act as a lubricant for his speech. He was surprised that even the BS refused to behave. They queued up behind each other, refusing to advance.
“B-b-b-but which one is it?”
“B-b-b-both.”
“B-b-but there’s not even a s-s-s-s … a sing … one letter the s-s-same in either word.”
When you’re a straight-A student and the winner of the academic prize and your father drives the latest Valiant Barracuda Fastback, you don’t have to answer spazzes. As the school bell rang, everyone turned to run back to their classes. Vernon paused just long enough to do his monkey impersonation. He stuck out his jaw, scratched his armpits and picked lice off his chest. “S-s-s-s-stupid,” he hissed with chimpanzee-pursed lips before running off with his knuckles dragging on the ground.
Visser might have been a crowd-puller on his way to the sports fields, but on the way back he was pretty much a loner. He swung between his crutches as fast as he could but his weight and general lack of aerodynamics made for slow progress. Uphills were particularly tedious. His broken leg had to loop out sideways. This sometimes caused his foot to hit the rubber stopper at the base of the crutch. Twice Phen caught him as he tilted sideways. He thought of the De Jonge Thomas listing, “which means topple over”. Either way, there was no Wolraad Woltemade welcome when they finally made it back to class. Mrs Smit shouted at them for being late and Visser didn’t keep his word and say that Phen had been helping him.
“If this is how you choose to behave on the first day of school, you will regret it until the very last.”
This direct threat produced more current than Phen’s head could handle. A deep anxiety grabbed him and began its cruel dance as new history textbooks were handed out. On the cover, Jan van Riebeeck stood at the base of Table Mountain with a feather in his hat and his hand resting on a gold-capped walking stick. In the top right-hand corner two Bushmen, naked except for their loincloths, stared back. One had his bow and arrow raised, not sure if the men from the Dutch East India Company, with buckled boots, constituted prey. Clouds gathered at the Cape of Storms in swirls of white and smudgy grey. Phen wondered, if the wind was blowing across the top of the cover, why were the sails of the Dromedaris still droopy and lank? They hung from their masts like exhausted sheets still recovering from their long trip from the Netherlands.
He wanted to go down to the bay and help those dots, which were sailors’ heads. He’d climb the highest rigging if needs be to fold and roll up those sails. And when that was done, he’d be happy to join the brown, barefooted men. They must have a cave somewhere he could hide in. They could teach him how to survive off the land and chew cactus roots when he was thirsty. Maybe they could even climb Table Mountain and use the approaching tablecloth to become invisible. Once you were in its billowing thickness, no one would find you. Not even Mrs Smit.
She had returned from first break determined to stamp her authority on the class. Clearly Adan Karim had shaken her. Phen and Visser’s late arrival was exactly what she didn’t need. Any transgression of the rules was now interpreted as a direct challenge to her sovereignty. Even Hettie Hattingh, who was teacher’s pet, had been told to sneeze like a lady. Bewildered, she’d dabbed her nose with her hanky and sent the embroidered pink lamb up each nostril just to make sure. Jimmy the Greek, who sat in front of her, had wiped the back of his neck as if caught in her spray. Everyone had laughed. Mrs Smit had slapped Van Riebeeck’s face five times with her eighteen-inch ruler. She would have none of this insolence. The pile of books had still trembled on her desk as she waited for absolute silence. Head down, Hettie had examined the recently returned lamb. It was a little damp, but otherwise no worse for wear.
Phen’s fear was that his late arrival would somehow affect the last class of the day. This class lived under the broad term of “art”. Monday-afternoon art encompassed anything from tearing up old Huisgenoot magazines to make collages of the Voortrekker Monument, to having a member of the Johannesburg Philharmonic explain how a tuba, “the largest and lowest-pitched instrument in the brass family”, worked. Phen knew, though, that today was all about auditions for the school play. Mr Kock had announced that Mrs Smit would assist Miss Delmont to produce this term’s “extravaganza”. This amounted to a demotion for their class teacher. Her previous staging of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol had not been a success. It had been forced upon her, even though it wasn’t a setwork, in an attempt to create a little year-end festive spirit. Her Scrooge was mean enough, yet seemed to lack the will to repent.
Daphne Delmont, on the other hand, had graduated from the Arts and Drama College and had been on stage “more times than I’ve had cups of tea. And I don’t drink coffee.” Her long red hair fell both in front of and behind her shoulders. Philip Denton swore she never wore a bra. He said when the weather was cold they stuck out like those circular roofs you get on top of rondavels. She had changed out of her smart teachers’ clothes and now wore jeans, sneakers and a poncho with Red Indian motifs down the side. The soft leather hung like a large bib, so no one could deny or confirm Denton’s observations. “Come, dahlings,” she said as she waved the class into the hall. Mrs Smit, in her black skirt, high heels and puffed white blouse, stood beneath the portraits of past headmasters. The thick wooden frames and gold lettering offered little refuge. As it became increasingly clear that this would be no co-production, she edged closer and closer to the exit before disappearing entirely.
Phen’s sense of panic now lifted to a new level. The ease of Miss Delmont’s chatter, the way she threw words into the wind knowing where they’d land, terrified him. She would surely assume everyone had this ability. She sang her words, laughed in the middle of them and then continued as if nothing had happened. She deliberately put obstacles in her way so she could jump over them. Phen watched her paint the hall with her voice, then use her hands like a conductor as she made her audience stand in a semicircle around her. He was finding it difficult to breathe and was about to pee in his pants. He rubbed his sweating palms on his shorts in case she extended her hand. He did mouth exercises and practised “how now brown cow” a dozen times in his head.
“So,” she asked, scanning the curved gathering left
to right. “Where do my Ingrid Bergmans, my Judy Garlands and Audrey Hepburns hide? And where are my Laurence Oliviers, my Cary Grants and Humphrey Bogarts?”
Phen looked up at the bare wooden cross on the fascia board above the stage. Metal strips shot out of it optimistically, but the Son of God had already left.
With Jesus being absent or perhaps too high in his ascension, Phen decided to join his two hunter-gatherers again. The weather had cleared on top of Table Mountain and the view was spectacular. They shared berries and nuts and watched the two mighty oceans collide into one another. Far out to sea, whales dipped their massive heads and sent fountains of white upwards against the perfect blue. Closer in, waves curled a deep green before flattening themselves against the shore.
“The problem with the world is that it’s always one drink behind.” Daphne Delmont took a deep draw on her imaginary cigarette and stared at Phen. He apologised by straightening his tie and refocused his eyes on her. Her voice was suddenly deep and morose. She continued to look at him over hooded, melancholy eyes. Eyes full of old pain and scarred memories. “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, he walks into mine.” She toasted Phen over a tumbler of whisky and gave just a hint of a wistful smile. He returned the smile but didn’t quite have the courage to toast her back. Someone started clapping and soon the whole class was applauding. Jimmy the Greek slapped him on the back, although he’d really done nothing.
Miss Delmont bowed and her poncho billowed out before her.
“Right!” She clapped her hands like castanets above her right ear. “To work! We’re going to do A Midsummer Night’s Dream. However, it shall be our version. Lots of fun. It’s about a daughter who doesn’t want to listen to her father. There’s kings and queens and fairies. There’s even a man with the head of a donkey. And snicker, snicker, his surname is Bottom. There are also herbs involved, which as you all know is another name for hallucinogenic drugs.” She said “hallucinogenic drugs” soundlessly, her mouth clearly forming each syllable to ensure all those paying attention would understand. Her eyes went so wide they nearly popped out of her head.
