Chapter 2
1961
WE DROVE through the night and hit the city before the morning rush hour. It would be wrong to say the trip was uneventful. Travelling through Zululand I came close to falling asleep at the wheel. I was befuddled and desperately trying to shake myself awake when a donkey wandered across the road into our path. I saw it in the headlights as if in a dream, but instinct, I guess, made me swerve violently. Then I was forced to right the car with a second jarring tug the other way. The old Ford Anglia, upright and not known for its road holding qualities, bounced around like a cork in bubbling water and must have been a mere fraction of an inch from rolling.
“Jesus Christ!” cried my passenger, Eric Bergow. “That was close.”
“I thought you were asleep,” I said, trying to sound cool. I changed down and accelerated.
“I saw the whole bloody thing, Danny. Shit, look at my hands. I’m fucking shaking.”
An hour or two later, as we reached the outskirts of Durban, with shafts of light piercing the eastern sky, we were over the fright and already laughing about it.
“You see? That’s why they call them donkeys,” said Eric. More gags and embellishments followed, so even then it was obvious that he was determined never to forget what had happened. It had instantly become a part of our history. The night a bloody donkey nearly wrote us off. I was thankful no blame was attached to my driving. Eric readily admitted I had reacted smartly in a crisis. I didn’t tell him that I’d been fighting not to fall asleep at the time.
We dawdled down West Street towards the seafront. It was already hot and the humidity, something I was not used to, was stifling. I was in a weird mood. Really excited, really apprehensive. Here I was in Durban. Winter playground of the Transvaal masses. South Africa’s Miami. Everyone has a good time in Durban, it’s a known fact. But I wasn’t here to have a good time. Well, not solely. This was where I was going to live and work. And that raised awkward questions – how would I fit in? Was there a future for me here? And worst of all – what if I failed?
We drove up The Parade, a promenade that runs alongside North Beach, with its glittering hotels and skyscraper apartment blocks, known collectively as the Golden Mile. The morning’s first rickshaw boys were already out, prancing and whistling to attract custom. It was all new to me, although Eric professed to know the city well.
But he had his eye on other things.
A leggy girl with a rolled up beach towel under her arm floated across the road.
“Wow! Look at that arse. Stop the car!”
“Stick around, Eric. We’ve only just arrived.”
“It’s eight o’clock and she’s going to the beach already. Amazing. She can only be from Jo’burg.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Absolutely! She’s going to be hungry for love, pal. Hungry for sun, sea and sex.”
The girl turned and saw us staring. She smiled coyly. Definitely not offended by the attention accorded her.
Our hotel was in a street behind The Parade, which meant it was not too expensive. Eric was booked in for a couple of nights and had arranged a lift back to Jo’burg with a friend. I was due to start work later in the week but my accommodation plans were fluid – spend time flat hunting, and if that should fail, move into a seedy old block near the hotel that had a vacancies sign outside.
The rest of the day passed in a bit of a blur. We spent time on the beach but I was short of sleep. After a hamburger lunch I went to our room, lay down and dozed off uneasily, sweat from my forehead dampening my pillow.
That evening we had a party to go to. I showered and dressed in my best suit, three-button Ivy League-style, a light blue shirt with a button-down collar and a narrow striped tie with a narrow gold tiepin. Narrow belt. I looked at myself in the mirror. Straight out of Esquire. Cool.
Going down in the lift a girl smiled and said, “You look smart.” A strong Afrikaner accent.
I turned to face her. She was stunning. A big girl with a flower in her long blonde hair, her cream evening gown baring one smooth, broad shoulder.
“I’m Danny.”
“Etta. How do you do.”
“You look fantastic, Etta. What’s the occasion?”
“It’s my engagement party.”
“That all, hey? Here in the hotel?”
“Ja.”
“I wish I could come and dance with you.”
“So do I.”
Several thoughts collided in my brain. It took me a few seconds to reply.
“Er, that might not be a very popular move.”
“I know,” she said with a sigh. “Just wishful thinking, ja?”
The lift doors opened and she was gone.
What the hell is happening here, I wondered. Is it the humidity? Does it turn girls’ brains to jelly? In Jo’burg that gorgeous doll wouldn’t have given me the time of day.
***
The party, at the home of a girl called Lola, was jam-packed and Jewish noisy. Eric had found himself a cute little partner. I stood around thinking about the Afrikaner girl. Had I made a mistake? Had I passed up a chance to make some sort of date, however clandestine? I mean, we were staying in the same hotel. I could have asked for her room number. But everything had happened too quickly, I decided, giving myself the benefit of the doubt.
The music was OK but not really to my taste – Eartha Kitt, Johnny Mathis and Frank Sinatra at his most commercial.
A bloke I’d seen talking to Eric came up to me.
“You’re Danny Waterman, aren’t you?” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Steven Fall. Lola’s my cousin.”
At that stage, Steven was a rarity to me – a trueborn Durbanite. By his own reckoning he either knew everyone who counted in the city or he knew someone who knew, etc, etc. He was a serious-minded and soft-spoken youth, but I didn’t hold that against him. I needed to know people, especially ones I could turn to for local knowledge.
“So you are actually coming to work here,” he said. “What do you do?”
“I’m a journalist. A reporter. I start work on Wednesday at The Durban Messenger.”
He seemed impressed. People always are – journalism is said to be a glamorous profession. Then they rationalise about what a precarious way it must be to make a living, and smugly forget all about it.
The party dragged on. Most of the girls were paired up. Eric and his new friend were practising wrestling holds on a sofa. Someone put Sam’s Song on the radiogram. I thanked Lola and left.
***
The hotel corridors were gloomy and airless. I turned a corner disconsolately and there she was. Perhaps she was returning from her parents’ room to her own. She was barefoot, in a gown over her nightclothes. She mouthed the word, “Dannee.”
I walked up to her, took her hand and pulled her gently down the corridor to the third or fourth room, which was mine. With only a slight struggle I extracted the key from my pocket and opened the door. She stepped inside. I followed and close the door behind me. Then we both laughed. We stood facing each other, fell into each other’s arms, fell on my bed, plunged into a brutal kiss, broke away panting and tore at each other’s clothes.
With uncharacteristic presence of mind I opened the bedside drawer and took out a packet of French letters. As I struggled to put one on she pulled me towards her. I just about managed to get the job done when she grabbed my cock and dragged me inside her, crying out at the point of penetration.
The thing about being circumcised, generally speaking, is that you can last longer. After all, the snip comes – kindly forgive the play on words – at the expense of sensation. But then again, ho-hum, there is no stopping outright passion, is there?
In minutes, Etta’s body bowed and she screamed as she climaxed. I followed in an uncontrolled tidal wave of rapture.
Panting like a dog, I threw myself off her. We lay silent for a few minutes, my hand resting on her breast.
She leant over me, kissed me on the lips and sai
d, “Baie danke, Danny.” It was Afrikaans for “thank you.”
Then, for the second time in not too many hours, she went from me. No goodbye, no explanation, just a lingering smell of perfume. She was gone and I hadn’t said one word to her. Much to my relief the prophylactic was still in place. I got up and threw it into the toilet, brushed my teeth and went back to bed.
Questions crowded my thoughts. What was she getting herself into? Some sort of arranged marriage? A fiancé she didn’t love? Or a simple need to know something about love-making before marriage and a honeymoon with someone she hoped to care for? Would I ever see her again? How would I respond if I did? With no answers presenting themselves, and the questions multiplying, I gradually drifted into a deep, purifying sleep.
Chapter 3
THE SAND burnt my bare feet. I wondered what the hell the beach was going to be like in summer. Eric had brought along his little brunette, whom he at last introduced as Lizette. We appropriated a corner of the beach and Jo’burgers, apparently all known to Lizette, began to join us until we ended up with a party of sixteen or so.
I took care not to tread on anyone’s toes and ran into the sea to cool off.
“Ow! The bloody salt stings,” I said loudly to no one in particular.
Eric, who was smooching in the water with Lizette, called back, “It would, Danny. Have you seen your back?”
I waded through the shallows, sprinted over the burning sands to where our party was encamped, and put on my shirt.
“Are you worth all that passion?” asked a girl whose deeply tanned skin shone from a layer of newly administered coconut oil. Her smile was disingenuous.
“How do you mean?”
“You’ve got some really ugly scratch marks on you back – or haven’t you noticed?”
“Are you interested in finding out?”
“Finding out what?”
“Whether or not I’m worth all that passion, doll.”
“Certainly not. Larry would kill me!”
I never did find out her name and I don’t remember meeting anyone called Larry. But I enjoyed the backchat, which went on more or less incessantly throughout the morning. The girls saw themselves as big city chicks, all-knowing and highly practised in the art of bitchiness. Fun, if you didn’t take them too seriously.
Eric fell on the sand next to me and buried his face in his towel.
“I saw you and Lizette swimming near the shark nets,” I said. “Is that wise?”
He looked at me as if I was a slow learner.
“Do you know anything about the ragged tooth shark? Seriously, Danny. Would you like an exposition on them right here and now? If you are going to live in this burg you need to know.”
“Go on then.” I knew I’d get the bloody lecture whether I wanted it or not. In any case, Eric generally knew what he was talking about.
“First of all, most of the shark attacks that take place along the Natal coast, as far as I’ve heard anyway, are by the ragged tooth.”
“OK.”
“Try not to interrupt.”
“Jesus, you are an arrogant twat, Eric.”
“I’m trying to tell you things you need to know, pal. Imagine if you have to write a story about a shark attack for the paper – you won’t know its arse from its fucking snout. And let’s face it, this is Shark City. There are people here in Durban who actually love the fucking things.”
“OK, OK, just get on with it.”
Eric took a lit cigarette from Lizette before starting again.
“Right, well, the waters around here are very murky because of the quality of the sand that is thrown up by the waves, which happen to be pretty incessant, as you’ve probably noticed. This doesn’t bother the ragged tooth because it has very poor eyesight anyway. But if it sees anything moving in its immediate vicinity, it bites it. Instinctively. It’s indiscriminate. Despite the attacks you read about in the papers, it probably doesn’t like eating human flesh – much prefers fish. But if an arm or a leg or a body hoves into view – snap!”
He made a biting gesture with his hands. Very dramatic. “I don’t think it will carry on eating the rest of you, though. If anything, it seems that it tries to get away. Trouble is, its teeth are bent backwards, like sharpened hooks, so it can’t let go and rips your flesh to pieces. Nice, hey? This makes the injuries even more horrific, especially those to the torso.
“The other thing about their attacks, or so the latest research would indicate, is that they nearly always take place in water that is seventy-four degrees or warmer. It seems to drive the buggers frantic.”
A pause for a puff.
“As sharks go, they aren’t very big – nothing like those enormous blue pointers you get around the Cape that can bite a man in two. I don’t know how true it is but there are stories that you can actually ward a ragged tooth off by hitting it hard on the snout with a camera or even your fist. Apparently, they have a very tough outer skin but below that they are incredibly sensitive and scare easily. Well, that’s it. I’ve exhausted my knowledge.”
“What about the nets?”
“Yes, of course. The nets. Very interesting. You’ll see that they are only a few feet deep, even though they lie close to the surface in ten feet of water. Frightening, right? The thing is, that’s where the ragged tooth swims – almost at the surface. You can see his dorsal fin poking out as he comes at you. But he’s also a terrible coward. When he hits the nets, his momentum carries him underneath. Then he takes fright – are you with me? – turns, and immediately heads back towards deeper water. Now, however, the nets are well and truly in his way and he gets trapped in them …”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Are you saying the sharks get trapped on the inside of the nets?”
“Yep.”
“Jesus! You mean there are sharks on the inside of those nets where people are swimming right now?”
“Unlikely – and even if there were they wouldn’t be dangerous. The water temperature barely reaches seventy at this time of year. But yes, in the summer months sharks presumably in a dangerous mood get trapped very close to where people are swimming.”
“Do people know this? You know, holidaymakers, visitors, not to mention innocent children, invalids, the lame, the deaf and the blind …?”
“Doubtful. In my experience people don’t take much notice of what they don’t wish to know.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever go in again.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s perfectly safe. The nets actually do a good job. Usually.”
“Yeah, exactly. Usually.”
Eric took a last drag and buried the cigarette in the sand.
“How do you know so much about them, Eric?”
“Good question. Ten years ago my father acted for a girl whose hand had been bitten off. Not here in Durban. Down the coast somewhere. Her father went crazy. He claimed – quite rightly – that there were no warning signs or protection of any kind on the beach where the girl was attacked. He brought a suit against the local authorities. My father acted for him. So it was a constant talking point at table. I was twelve or thirteen and it made a big impression on me. When I joined the firm I got the case file out and read it.”
“Did she win?”
“Nope. The court ruled the local authorities couldn’t be held responsible.”
“Sad.”
“But that wasn’t the end of it. The Fifties were marked by a series of shark attacks and quite a few bathers were killed. Public opinion forced the people in charge of the beaches to introduce nets. And I’m sure the girl’s case was part of that campaign. But never mind about that. Right now we have more important matters to attend to. You know about Jake, don’t you, Danny?”
“Jake who?”
“Well, there’s this Indian chef we call Jake. He’s got that kiosk down the beach. If you stand up you can just about see it from here. Serves great lamb curry, I promise you. And right now it’s lunchtime and I’m starving. So come on, let�
�s go.”
I was supposed to be flat hunting but I was having too good a time. I suspected I’d pay for my tardiness. But these were my last days of freedom. I always found starting a new job stressful in the extreme and I didn’t want to think about serious things.
***
That night a gang of us went to a jazz club called Frankie’s up two flights in a building near the docks. The house quintet was passable and at least their trombone-playing leader had a cool, modern tone.
Steven Fall joined us. “I come here a lot,” he said.
“Who’s the girl?”
“That’s Ruth. She’s my cousin.”
“Another cousin? How many have you got?”
“She’s Lola’s sister.”
The group wound up the session with a rather raggedy rendition of Night in Tunisia. The drummer never quite got to grips with the composition’s rhythmic complexities but then, who could blame him? Art Blakey he wasn’t.
Ruth sat at a table staring into space, abstracted, although she did join in the desultory applause.
“Beautiful looking girl,” I said. “Why wasn’t she at the party?”
“She’s not very happy at the moment,” said Steven. “Lots of problems.”
“But goes to a jazz club?”
“Well, why not? She likes jazz. You want her to stay home knitting?”
When I didn’t laugh he added, “Do you want to meet her?”
I did. But the club was crowded and we couldn’t get near.
Steven cupped his hands round his mouth. “Ruthie … this is Danny,” he shouted across a couple of tables.
She looked up and I could see that she had dark brown eyes to go with her honey coloured hair. Fetching combination. She mouthed, “Hi,” and gave me a half-friendly smile.
The trombone player downed a pint and called his men back to the bandstand. I was trapped between a table and the wall. Halfway through Moonglow I decided to get a drink. I shoved my way through the crowd to the bar, wondering if this place was legal – if it had a licence to sell alcohol, that is – and what the chances were of it being raided.
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