The Smell of Apples: A Novel

by Mark Behr

  107

  Mark Behr

  As we drove back to St James along Chapman's Peak Drive, Mum said that Tannie Karla had been robbed of her senses. Where in the world could you find a happier marriage than her and Dad's? Tannie Karla was saying a whole lot of things that weren't meant for our ears, and if we saw her any longer she'd indoctrinate us. Dad was right all along. Tannie Karla had turned into a Communist, and Mum wasn't going to allow Communists into her house and into our lives. Then Use said that Dad never said Tannie Karla was a Communist - Dad said she was a Liberal. But Mum said that Communists and Liberals are one and the same thing, and that Use shouldn't voice her opinions on matters she knew nothing about. She said Use should watch out or she'd turn out to be just like Tannie Karla.

  So all the way home Use was fat-lipped, because she was crazy about Tannie Karla. I couldn't understand why Mum was so cross, but I felt sorry for her and for Tannie Karla. I wished they had just spoken a bit more because then maybe they could sort it out and we'd all still be friends. But ever since, we've never seen Tannie Karla again, or even spoken about her. It's as if she never existed. We heard later from Ouma Kimberley that she had gone to England.

  Then, one day, a letter arrived in St James and it had Tannie Karla's handwriting on the envelope. It was addressed to 'Ms' Leonore Erasmus. It had a British stamp and the return address was to Tannie Karla, in London. I took the letter to Mum at the piano in the lounge. Mum looked at the envelope for a long time, and then she said she wasn't going to read it. She said the 'Ms' in front of her name probably meant something, and she wasn't going to let herself be caught so easily.

  She sent me to fetch another envelope and the writing

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  pad. On one sheet of paper, she wrote: 'My dear Karla -we shall meet again at his Throne of Truth. Your sister Leonore.' Then she wrote the return address on the clean envelope. She folded her note around Tannie Karla's unopened letter, and sealed it inside the new envelope.

  'Take a one-rand coin from my purse and give it to Doreen to go and post.' Mum started playing again, but her hands didn't sound very firm on all the notes.

  I found Use in the passage and told her what had happened, and that Mum was sending the letter back because it said 'Ms'.on the envelope instead of'Mrs'. Use signalled me to keep quiet and follow her. We went into our bathroom and Use locked the door. I could hear Mum still playing the piano, and I wondered what Use wanted.

  'I want to read Tannie Karla's letter,' Use said, and held out her hand.

  'Are you mad!' I said. 'Mum told me to give it to Doreen.'

  'You can take it to Doreen in a minute. Let's read it first.'

  'But if the envelope's opened we can't post it again.'

  'We'll steam it open. We can stick it with glue once we've finished.'

  I gave her the letter, and she turned on the hot-water tap. Then she held the envelope over the steam until the bathroom mirror was just about steamed up. After a while she could open it without tearing it. She quickly read Mum's note, and then steamed open Tannie Karla's. Before she read it, she looked at me, and said:

  'Marnus, you can't ever tell Mum that we read it, you hear?' I nodded my head.

  She sat down on the edge of the bath, and read softly, just loud enough so that I could also hear. Every now and then she would look up to listen for the sound of the

  Mark Behr piano. I didn't understand everything Tannie Karla wrote:

  12 January, 1973 London My dearest Leonore,

  I'm writing this short letter, as it's impossible for me to accept that you refuse further contact with me. Just as agonising as this is to me, so is the possibility that I may never see the children again.

  It's all so unnecessary, dear sister. People may have differences of opinion, but is it necessary for them to become enemies? But we are so afraid of everything. We were brought up to fear anything which had but a vague semblance of the unfamiliar. They made us afraid of the whole world.

  From your knowledge of music, my dear Leonore, you will know that it was a sin during the Middle Ages to sing in more than one voice: yes, to harmonise meant to be a heretic! And yet, today, we sing to the praise of God in eight or even twelve different voices. And we laugh about the dogma and stupidity of the Middle Ages. But while we might laugh, we forget about the thousands, even millions, of people who were killed before and in order to make greater creativity and freedom possible. Changes which today we accept as given. They were not given - they were fought for.

  When Picasso started using the cubist technique in his paintings, he was decried as a fool and an idealist. Today he is acknowledged as one of the century's greatest artists.

  Why are we educated to be afraid of people who think differently from us, or who do differently from us, or who look different from us? And why is it so easy for that fear to take root and blossom into a weed of

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  hatred, selfishness and terror? Why are you afraid of hearing me explain why I say Johan is the master of your life? Why do you refuse to listen to why / say he has stolen your life from you? Leonore, don't you see -it is not your marriage that I want to criticise - it's every marriage where the potential of a woman is lost because it is the man i imagined right to he the leader!

  Are the answers to these questions all that different from why he didn V want to let the children hear what it means to be a black South African? And how is it possible to be so afraid that you prefer to exorcise me from your life rather than listening and then deciding what you will or will not believe? Are even my ideas such a threat to you? My dear Leonore, if my ideas about what is wrong in our country frighten you, I cannot but dread the day you hear the ideas of most black people.

  Oh y how I have laughed about Johan calling me an English Liberal! Strangely, he and I agree about many English-speaking South Africans. It is often they who shout for justice while at the same time they grow fat off the suffering of those whose freedom they seek. It's the same thing I see here in England and Europe, the frightening double standards!

  And you, my sister, what will you do if, one day, one of your children were to think and act differently from you? In closing I must beg you to remember one thing: our children might laugh at us as we do about the Middle Ages. But possibly, our children will never forgive us.

  Please embrace Use for me.

  All my love,

  Karl a

  Mark Behr

  At Frikkie's house in Oranjezicht, Doreen waits in the car while we say goodbye to the Delports. The Delports are very rich and Frikkie's father and mother both drive Mercs. They don't have a holiday-house like us, and they mostly go and spend holidays in a posh hotel in Plettenberg Bay. Other times they rent a big house, and then Gloria goes with them. Mister Delport asks Mum to give Dad his best wishes. Dad knows Mister Delport because they see each other when Frikkie and I play rugby, and at some meetings. I think it's at the meeting Dad goes to on the first Tuesday of every month, because once when Frikkie forgot his toothbrush at our house over a weekend, Dad took it to the meeting that Tuesday evening. Next morning at school Frikkie said his father had brought it home. He says his dad also goes out some Tuesday nights, but he never really says where he's going. He just always speaks about cultural meetings.

  When we get back to the Beetle, Gloria is standing at the driver's side with her elbow against the car, chatting to Doreen. Her head is halfway through the window. She's wearing her golden platforms and the earrings sticking out beneath the afro are so big you can hardly see her cheeks. Mum wants to get in, but Gloria carries on talking as though we aren't even there. Mum clears her throat and Gloria pulls her head back through the window.

  'Goodness gracious, Mrs Erasmus! Here I am, chatting away like a casual neighbour and you're waiting to be off! Well, I must be going too. See you, Doreen, and I hope everything's kosher with your son, hey!' She stands away from the door and says to Mum: 'Now you go and have a good holiday, Mrs Erasmus. Christm
as only comes around once a year, you know!'

  'Goodbye, Gloria,' says Mum, and I can see Mum's irritated.

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  Before Gloria walks off, she turns to me and says: 'Well . . . check you later, alligator,' and she winks at me and turns and walks off on the huge platforms that make her look twice as tall. I'm so glad Doreen isn't like Gloria, but I don't say a thing.

  Mum stops at Saasveld in Kloof Road, to buy fresh bread rolls and the Rapport. While she's inside, I point out our school across the road to Doreen. On weekends and holidays the school buildings seem dead quiet, and I tell Doreen about the head mistress that was hanged by the overseer. They say her ghost appears in the art classroom during holidays, when she knows no one's going to disturb her. It doesn't seem like Doreen's listening. She just nods her head, without saying anything. She doesn't look all that friendly today and I think it's maybe because she's worried about Little-Neville.

  I turn around in my seat and ask her whether it's because of Little-Neville that she seems so far away. I don't know whether her thoughts are really far away but I ask her anyway because I feel sorry for her. She nods her head and stares past my shoulder again.

  'Are you scared he missed the train, Doreen?' I ask, because I think it might help her to talk about it. Mum always says you shouldn't let bad feelings build up inside you because you'll be poisoned from the inside.

  'Marnus,' she says, but keeps looking down the street, 'that's the way a mother is about her children. You've seen how the Madam is about you and the lovely Use.'

  I think a while before saying softly: 'But, Doreen, Mum says you've probably got the dates wrong of when your people's schools break up. Then Little-Neville will still come.'

  She shakes her head and takes a little black diary from her old handbag. She points to one of the pages where it

  Mark Behr

  says: 'Coloured Schools, Cape Province', with a date that's already past.

  Just off Adderley, Mum and I wait in the Beetle while Doreen goes into the station to see whether Little-Neville arrived on this morning's train. It's a terribly hot day and my legs keep sticking to the plastic seats. Mum sits reading the newspaper and she gives me the comics. Then Doreen comes walking back without Little-Neville.

  Mum gets out to speak to Doreen and I stick my head through the window to hear what's going on. Doreen says she's getting on the train this afternoon to go looking for Little-Neville.

  'But, my dear Doreen,' Mum says, 'come and phone first. I'll speak to the police and tell them to go to your sister's house. It will save you all those hours travelling.'

  'No, Madam,' Doreen says, 'Doreen can feel something's wrong with Little-Neville. He's my youngest one and he's never been a loslyf before. If something's happened to him, Doreen must be there.'

  So Mum gives up and she tells me to pull the bonnet-lever. Doreen takes the suitcase from the bonnet and Mum gives her some money for the train. We say goodbye, and Mum tells her to phone us as soon as she gets to Touwsrivier, or otherwise when she hears anything about Little-Neville. We drive off and turn up Adderley Street. There's a seagull sitting on Jan Van Riebeeck's head. Mum says she hopes nothing has happened to Little-Neville. He's the apple of Doreen's eye and not a skollie like her other kids. Doreen even says his inclination seems to be to the ministry. He wants to become a minister in the Dutch Reformed Mission Church for Coloureds. Mum promised Doreen that if Little-Neville keeps on doing well at school, and doesn't get up to all kinds of tricks like the others, Mum will stand guarantor for his study loan at the bank.

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  We go up De Waal Drive, and Mum puts in the Nat King Cole tape. There are hundreds of sails moving all over Table Bay. Next to us, the mountain looks even bigger than usual against the blue sky. When we drive down past Groote Schuur, with the Beetle's windows wide open to cool us down, we both sing along:

  "'Ramblin' Rose, Ramblin' Rose . . . Why you ramble, no one knows . . ."' All the way home we sing along. When we get to St James Road Mum switches off the tape.

  Before we get out of the car Mum pulls the brush through her hair a couple of times and wipes the loose blonde hairs off her blouse. She bends the rearview mirror down and puts on some lipstick. While she's colouring her lips she glances down at me from the corner of her eye and gives me a smile. She rubs her lips together and says:

  'Your Mum doesn't look too bad for forty-four, or what do you say, my boy?' Although Mum's trying to look all serious, I can tell she's joking.

  'Mum, you're much prettier than Mrs Delport.'

  4 I say! Mrs Delport's at least ten years younger than me - you little flatterer.' And she bends across and kisses me on the cheek. Before I open the door she quickly wipes the lipstick off my cheek with her thumb while her other fingers rest on my chin:

  l One day Mum's boy is going to break all the girls' hearts with these beautiful eyes and long lashes.'

  We have breakfast on the veranda where it's nice and cool, and the view is better than from the dining-room. Dad puts a Bach record on to the high-fi and the music drifts out into the garden. Just like on the other side of the mountain, there are lots of sail boats moving across the bay. Mum says it's a good thing we'll be off in a few days' time; with this good weather the place will be swarming with holidav-makers from all over the countrv.

  Mark Behr

  After breakfast Dad leafs through the paper. He says there's been another terrorist attack in Mozambique. He says the Portuguese are too stupid to run their country properly. Frelimo is getting stronger every day. I think about the Portuguese who bought the cafe above Frikkie's house, after they came here from Mozambique. Frikkie and I always call the kids Frelimos. Then they get mad and chase us right up to the Delports' front gate. If they want to follow us into the garden, we threaten them that we're going to call the police, and we tell them that this is South Africa and not Mozambique. If they can't learn to behave like human beings, they should go straight back where they came from.

  The General says he thinks Chile should be grateful for not having so many blacks. At least things are looking up in his country. Chile has managed to get rid of the worst Communists at long last. He says the Republic should get rid of the leaders who are the real trouble-makers. If we take the leaders out, we can get rid of the brain of the revolution. That's what they did in Chile, he says. In September they got rid of the cancer that was causing all the trouble. His name was Salvador Allende. The General says the Republic can actually learn quite a bit from what they're doing in Chile. Good military control, that's all you need to prevent the rot from setting in.

  Later in the morning Mum says we should go for a drive to Cape Point, to show the General where the two oceans meet. The General sits next to Dad in the front, and Mum and me and Use sit in the back. While we drive along, the General tells us about Chile and how beautiful it is there. Every time Dad or Mum point to something at the side of the road or up against the mountains, he says: 'Que, hermoso es hermoso . . . Parts of Chile look so much like this!' And then he tells us about the city Santiago,

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  where he lives with his wife and son. He also tells us about the military academy, Escuela Militar, where he studied. He says it's the West Point of Chile, and he wanted to go there ever since he was a boy. He says the mountains here at the southern tip of Africa are almost as beautiful as the Andes Mountains in Chile. But then he laughs again. High up in the Andes, he says, there's a huge statue of Jesus Christ, El Christo Redentor de Los Andes, that keeps watch over the people of Chile and Argentina.

  Every time he speaks he looks back to explain things to us, and when he says again something about the way it looks in Chile, Use says: 4 It sounds . . . hermoso, hermosoV

  He laughs and looks at her for a long time with his blue eyes, then he says: 'Si, senorita, si, si? And we all laugh because Use doesn't know what to say and she stares from the window and it looks like she's blushing.

  Mum says
she often thinks about what must have gone through the minds of Van Riebeeck's sailors when they first came to the Cape and saw this beautiful country. The General says one could probably ask the same question about Columbus when he first came to America.

  Then he asks me whether I've gotten over yesterday's fight with the shark. I say yes, I have. But my arms and back are stiff, and I'm so ashamed about losing it so close to the beach that I don't know whether I'll ever forget it.

  Just before first light they're around us. Their shots strike into the branches around us. They must have been aware of our position for quite some time - because with the first shots comes the droning of approaching gunships. There's no time to pick up the radio. Instinctively I grab only the small webbing and my rifle. Thank God we sleep with our ammo-pouches secured to our bodies. I start running.

  Mark Behr

  I try to shout above the noise that we can V return fire unless we have the enemy in our sights, but it i no use. I scream for them to run. Branches whip across my face and forearms as I run through the half-dark. Behind me I hear a slight thud, and seconds later the ground around me bursts open as the mortars strike their target. I shout again for everyone to get the hell away before the choppers arrive - before it's light and they can pick us off from the air like antelope.

  The next mortar strikes and I hear someone scream. In the branches above my head, tracers fly past like deadly fireflies, and my head pounds from the noise. Almost tripping over a discarded webbing, I suddenly know there i nothing I can do for them any more. From this moment on it i each man for himself. I allow myself a quick glance over my shoulder, then speed up and pray that God be merciful.

  The noise grows more distant and I settle into a pace I can sustain. I try all the time to push the troops from my mind. After an hour there's still no sign of any of them. The first red clouds of morning appear in the east and I head in that direction. I can only hope that those who managed to get out alive are running like hell to get as far from the base as possible. It is for the wounded I am most concerned.