by Mark Behr
I know that if I tell Frikkie about the General I'm only going to end up with more things to pray about. So I say: 'I've forgotten what it was.'
'Liar!' says Frikkie. 'You don't start something and then leave it halfway.'
'We must sleep now, Frikkie. Dad's going to hear us.'
For a while 1 think he is going to stop asking, but then I hear him tiptoeing across the floor.
'What are you doing?' I whisper.
The light goes on and Frikkie's standing at the switch in his pyjamas.
'What are you doing?' I ask again, while my eyes get used to the light.
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'Where's your Bible?' he asks, and I point at the bedside table between our beds.
'Here it is. But what do you want with the Bible now?'
He comes to the bedside table and sits down next to me on the bed. Then he picks up the Bible, and he puts his hand on the black leather cover. It's the old Bible Oupa Erasmus brought from Tanganyika.
'I put my hand on the Bible that I'll never ever tell a single soul,' he says and looks me in the eyes. He waits for me to say something.
'I can't tell anyone!' I answer, and I wish Frikkie would stop nagging me. Dad won't ever forgive me. Dad says it's of national importance that no one ever knows who visits our home. Dad's told me about a traitor who went to prison for life for selling out our people.
Frikkie is still sitting next to me, looking at me and waiting. I don't know what got over me to have started the story in the first place. It must be the excitement about going fishing with Dad and the General.
'We tell each other everything because we're meant to be friends,' he carries on. 'You're my best friend, Marnus. You can't act like you're going to tell me something and then you sommer stop. Friends don't do that.'
Tm not going to tell you,' I say and turn on my side and face the wall. 'I can't tell anyone. Not even my best friend.'
He's quiet now and I wait for him to get up and turn off the light. 'Will you tell me if we are blood-brothers?'
I turn back to look at him.
'What are blood-brothers?' I ask.
He puts down the Bible on to the bedside table, and starts explaining: 'People become blood-brothers when two friends, two best friends, mix their blood and make an oath that they'll always be friends. An oath like the voortrekker oath. Then they must help each other forever, and swear
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that they'll tell each other everything, that they'll never tell anyone else, and that they will even give their lives for each other.'
'Where did you hear that?' I ask, and sit up in bed.
'It's in the Bible. David and Jonathan were blood-brothers, and I think Cain and Abel as well.'
'But Cain killed Abel?'
'Well, then it wasn't Cain and Abel, but someone else. But I can't remember who it was. I think Jesus and the disciples.'
I've never read that story in the Bible, but the Bible has more than a thousand pages.
'How do they mix the blood?' I ask, and pull my legs out from under the sheets.
'You just tie an elastic band around your finger, then you prick it with a needle and some blood comes out. Then you rub your fingers together,' he says, and rubs his forefingers together.
'And then?'
'Then you're blood-brothers.'
'And what about the oath?'
'Ja, when you've mixed the blood, both of us go down on our knees and put the blood-fingers on the Bible. Then we say the oath, and we become blood-brothers.'
'What does the oath sound like?'
'One of us makes up the oath and the other repeats it after him. At the end you say Amen.' Frikkie looks at me with his brown eyes and asks softly: 'So ... do you want to be my blood-brother?'
I don't know what to do. Frikkie knows exactly how to soften me up and sometimes I wish we never became such good friends. I sit for a while, and then I have a plan:
'OK. But only if I can say the oath and you repeat after me."
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'OK,' Frikkie says. 'Get the elastic bands.'
I take two elastic bands from the desk. We each tie a band around our forefingers, and the tips turn red almost immediately.
'I don't have a pin . . .' I say, and look at Frikkie.
'Go fetch one quickly.'
'No, I can't go downstairs again. Dad thinks we're asleep already.'
'Where's your compass?' he asks, and shows me his finger turning blue. Mine is a funny purple. I search around the drawer and find my pencil tin. I find the compass amongst the pens and pencils.
'Stick it into my finger,' he says, and holds out his finger to me. Frikkie bites his nails and now the skins are all curled up around the nail of his forefinger.
'Do it yourself,' I say, and hold out the compass to him.
'You must do it, otherwise it doesn't work. Hurry up or else our fingers might fall off. The blood is completely cut off He gives me his hand to hold in mine. With my free hand I push the compass against his finger that's looking like a mulberry.
'You'll have to press harder, else nothing will come out. Stick it in.'
This time I shove harder and Frikkie jumps back when the point goes in too deep. 'Ouch!' he groans. 'That's too much.' Almost at once, there's a drop of blood on his fingertip.
'Let me do yours quickly,' he says. 'Before the blood falls off mine.'
I hold out my finger to him. I close my eyes as he comes towards me with the compass. I feel the jab and when I look again, there's a drop of blood, pushing up from the skin. Then we rub our fingers together until it's sticky.
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'Now we must make the oath/ I say, and start moving over to the Bible.
'Take the elastic off! Your finger's going to fall off.'
I put the Bible on my bed and we kneel beside each other, with our fingers on the Bible's black leather cover. I make up an oath as I go along, and Frikkie repeats after me:
'We swear before the cross of Jesus Christ.' And I wait for him to finish before carrying on:
'That from now on we're best friends.'
'That from now on we are best friends,' he repeats.
'That we'll never ever repeat what one of us has told the other.'
'That we'll never ever repeat what the one has told the other.'
'Amen,' I say, and open my eyes.
'You can't say Amen yet! First you must say that we'll tell each other everything and that we'll give our lives for each other. And then you say "One for all and all for one", and only then Amen.'
'That we'll tell each other everything,' I say, and he repeats.
'That we will die for each other.'
'That we will die for each other.'
'One for all and all for one.'
'One for all and all for one.'
'In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord.'
'In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord.'
'May God strike us dead if we ever tell someone else about things that are our secret.' I open my eyes to look at Frikkie. He gives me a quick glance and looks me in the eye while he repeats:
'May God strike us dead if we ever tell someone else about things that are our secret.'
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'We swear on our mothers' lives . . .'
'Marnus!' he starts, but I tell him to repeat it or else we're not going to be blood-brothers.
'We swear on our mothers' lives.'
Then we say Amen. We get up off our knees and climb back into bed.
'Now you can tell me,' he says.
I look across at him. I'm still not sure.
'Remember that God's going to strike you down dead if you tell anyone. And Dad'll chuck both of us into prison.'
'Marnus! We're blood-brothers now,' he answers.
'Ja, I know. I'm just reminding you.'
And then I start telling Frikkie Delport how Mister Smith from America is actually a general from Chile. I tell him about the others as well: the Germans and th
e real Taiwanese who have visited Dad. I tell him about the Americans from the CIA, about the four Israelis who come at least once a year and about the colonels from the British Air Force. And I tell him that no one is allowed to know ever.
'Why can't anyone know.'
'Because everyone hates South Africa.'
'But if everyone hates us, why do they still come to your house?'
'Because, no one is meant to know that they're really on our side. The ordinary people in those countries have all been brainwashed. They don't understand what's really going on here. If anyone finds out that the General is in our house, they might kill him. And America and Russia might make war against Chile.'
'But America and Russia are enemies!' he says.
'Ja, but America doesn't know that the Russians are just using them to get hold of the Republic. That's what the Americans from the CIA tell Dad.'
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We sit staring at each other for a long time. I can see he hardly believes that he's in the same house as such an important general.
'So if anyone finds out ... it will be war?' I nod my head and pull in my breath to show him how serious it is.
'Will South Africa fight on the same side as Chile?'
'I think so. Dad says National Service won't only be nine months any more. If we're fighting against the whole world, everyone will have to go for longer.'
'For how long will we have to go into the army?' he asks.
'I don't know, but Dad says things are looking bad up north. They've even started planting bombs in Southwest Africa. Things are worse than when Dad was in Rhodesia. The Communists muddle up people's brains so that in the end you can't trust anyone. The Communists indoctrinate everyone. I heard the General tell Dad that the guys in Chile already have to go to the army for a year and a half
We sit in silence for a long time. When we're sleepy, I get up to turn off the light. I'm feeling thirsty and I ask Frikkie if he wants some water. He shakes his head against the pillow. Then he asks:
'Marnus, do you think there will really be war?'
I nod my head. 'Ja. It's war already.' I switch off the light and go quietly down the stairs to get a drink of water.
I can hear voices from the lounge, so I quickly slip into Use's and my bathroom, where the light is on. Suddenly I see the General in front of me. I get such a fright that I want to turn around, but he must see me in the mirror, because as I'm about to slip out, he says: 'Why aren't you asleep yet, boy?' He's bent slightly forward over the washbasin, with his back to me. He's looking at me in the mirror. There's only a towel around his waist, and running
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across his brown back is the mark of what must have been a terrible wound. It's almost as thick as my arm, and it looks new, because it's still pink.
4 I just wanted a drink of water . . .' I say, and look into his eyes in the mirror.
l Well, have some/ he says, and turns towards me, smiling.
I walk to the washbasin but he doesn't move. I look up at him, unsure of how to get to the tap.
'You remind me so much of my own son,' he says, still looking down at me.
4 I can't get to the tap,' I say, pointing at the basin behind him.
4 Oh, sorry,' he says, and lets me pass.
I drink, and when I turn back from the basin he's already gone.
Upstairs I call softly to Frikkie, to tell him about the General's scar. But Frikkie's sleeping like a log. I lie awake thinking of the General. He's a handsome man and I wonder if Use might really be in love with him. These days she's so full of weird and wonderful ideas that nothing will surprise me. But the General's almost as old as Dad and Use's hardly seventeen! And besides, he's married because he just told me about his son. But what'll happen if his wife dies, or if they get divorced? The heavens help us if Use gets it into her little head to go off to Chile!
The Recce's estimate more than ten thousand Cuban infantry soldiers in south-western Angola alone. We've been instructed not to divulge the enemy's logistical and numerical superiority to our troops. Hourly their morale drops deeper into the dust. The conscripts are more nafi than ever. As usual, HQ is most concerned about any-
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thing happening to them. If another conscript is killed, the press at home will go crazy.
If the press finds out.
I remember Xangongo, New Year '84. We were two hundred kilometres inside Angola, listening to the Voice of America. Then Dad's voice came over the airwaves, and everyone looked at me. He was telling the world that there wasn 't a single South African soldier inside Angola. The rest of the interview was lost as everyone around the radio roared with laughter.
The little Englishman in my platoon, a conscript from Durban, has only two months to go. He's forever moping about his family and his girlfriend. Sometimes he forgets that I'm around - at least from what he says. This morning he was telling everyone around him that he hadn V wanted to do National Service. I walked over to the group, and said:
1 You had a choice, you little fuck-head. You had a choice. '
He answered: 'But I'm not PF like you, Lieutenant -I'm National Service and we don't have a choice, we have to come, whether we want to or not. If we don't, we go to jail for six years.' He gave me a sarcastic smile. They hate PFs.
'Exactly,' I said, you had a choice - like me - and you made the easier one.'
Then he was quiet.
East of us, in the direction ofXangongo, Cuban T-55 and T-64 tanks roar around as if Africa is their playground.
It's a struggle to get out of bed this morning. I have to hold the alarm-clock against Frikkie's ear before he gets up
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with his eyes puffy from too little sleep. In the kitchen we put the pack of bait, some fruit, our bread and a flask of coffee into Dad's fishing bag. The street-lamps are still burning in Main Road. Except for the sea, everything is quiet. There aren't cars this early in the morning, so we stroll down the middle of the road. From behind the Hottentots-Holland, the sky has started to turn grey. In an hour's time the sun's going to peep through the mountains and turn the whole of False Bay all kinds of colours.
The sea is like a big animal breathing on the other side of the tracks. When we're close to the Carrisbrooke stairs that go up to Boyes Drive, three old Coloureds come towards us. They've also got their fishing rods over their shoulders.
'More Baas" they greet me as they pass in the opposite direction. They know me from Jan Bandjies' team.
Jan Bandjies' oupa-grootjie also used to fish in the bay. Back then they were allowed to use bigger nets. He says it's been eight or nine generations that have lived off the catch. But now, like everywhere, I suppose, the fish are becoming scarcer and only certain smaller nets are allowed. Jan Bandjies says it's I & J that's chased the fish from False Bay, and one by one the fishermen are dying of old age. And Jan doesn't want his sons to become fishermen either. He has warned them all to stay clear of the boats. If they come down from Retreat for a day, he doesn't allow them to go further than the Kalk Bay quay. He says there's no life left in the sea anyway, and it's getting more and more difficult to believe the old stories of how many whales were caught in False Bay every year, long ago, when Kalk Bay's harbour was still a child. He says we hardly see whales these days because the English killed off all the mother-whales and their babies every year.
Jan Bandjies and his family used to live in Kalk Bay.
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But they had to move because all the visitors from overseas complained about the Coloureds' dirty houses. So the government built them nice homes somewhere else. Only the fishermen who could find places in the council flats above Zelda Kemp's house were allowed to stay. And then only for the next fifteen years. So, most of them moved up the track, towards Retreat. Nowadays, when Jan comes fishing, he comes by bike. He says his forefathers come from Java, but Dad just laughs and says that Jan Bandjies is nothing more than an ordinary Cape Coloured -
born and bred.
We look up at Old Mrs Streicher's house. There's a light burning in one of the upstairs rooms and I tell Frikkie that the old German witch is probably busy doing something on the sly. Dark work is shark work. Everything's still dark up at the Spiros' mansion. The clock on the Muizenberg station tower says a quarter past four.
At the post office we turn down between the buildings, and walk down Beach Road and on to the sand.
'There are orphans in the Burger Strandhuis again,' I say, looking in the direction of the house. Die Burger always brings less privileged Afrikaans children to the big house, so at least they can feel what it's like to have a holiday. Some of the kids that come here from the Transvaal and Free State haven't even seen the sea before.
Dad only reads Die Burger and it's delivered to our house every morning. We don't read the Cape Times or The Argus because the journalists who work there are mostly English or foreigners who didn't grow up here, and don't care about South Africa. The Cape Times is just propaganda. It's because of the propaganda that Dad refused to allow Tannie Karla back into our house.
'If my mother and father die, I'll never want to live in an orphanage,' says Frikkie. Til run away from home.'
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'Me too.'
We walk on in silence, across Sunrise Beach where the Battle of Muizenberg was fought when the British took over the Cape. Then we pass Die Vleie and get to Sealrock.
There's no one else on the beach yet. The gulls and swifts sit huddled in groups against the dunes, with their heads pulled in like old people. Once we start catching, the gulls will soon become a pest. Today's the day I'm going to kill the seagull that makes a nuisance of itself.
'We must try and catch something before Dad gets here.'
'Ja,' says Frikkie. 'The sea looks good for fishing.'
We talk softly while we twine cotton around the bait. The whitebait burns my finger where Frikkie jabbed it with the compass last night. I glance at him to see whether his is also stinging, but he doesn't show a thing.
'Look, the horses!' says Frikkie, and I turn from my rod to watch them approaching from the east. Many mornings the racehorses come to train on the long beach. They gallop along the sand with Coloured jockeys on their backs, and the trainer walks up and down the beach to see how they're doing. If the jockeys ride the horses too hard, the trainer's voice thunders at them to take it easy. The Coloureds aren't real jockeys. They're only used for training, and sometimes they ride the poor horses too hard because they actually want to be jockeys and ride in races. The two mares canter towards us, moving up against the dunes, and the seagulls and swifts fly up into the air and settle down closer to the sea. A while later the trainer comes walking past. We say hello and he nods at us. He's smoking his pipe and wearing rubber boots with his trousers tucked in.
