by Mark Behr
From Parents’ Weekend, and Mervyn’s week off for LP and TV recordings, our discussion moved to those of us who had TVs at home and whether Phillips was better than Sony and whether it was true that sitting too close to a TV screen could make one sterile. Much of our time was being taken up by talk of television: the SABC was running test programmes in anticipation of January 1976 when South Africa would get regular television for the first time. Not only had we already been on live TV at the Language Monument, we were scheduled for more recordings en route to Malawi when we’d stop in Johannesburg to do Kraaines. Karicke Keuzenkamp was the presenter of the show and for the duration of the Malawi tour one heard boys humming ‘I Love You Timothy. Dr Webster called Karicke Keuzenkamp a one-hit wonder, just like ‘Four-Jacks-And-A-Jill’.
Within the thicket of trees we could already hear the falls and then the shouts as the front of the column reached the water. Mr Buys’s voice, in Afrikaans, found us before we exited the forest: ‘Take off your clothes and I don’t want to see any wet shorts or shirts when we leave. And no photographs!’
Entering the bright sunlight, the cool air rushing from the falls struck me and turned my skin to gooseflesh. Two thin but powerful silver jets squirted about ten metres over shear rock face to the green rock-pool below. I whistled. My eyes ran along the almost copper granite exposed and shining beside the falls. I shoved to the front of the group.
‘This is like a fairy-tale.’
‘Don’t get all lyrical, De Man,’ Bennie mumbled and shoved me playfully from behind. ‘Wait till were in that water. We’re going to freeze our balls off
We joined a group on a flat boulder and began peeling off shorts, shirts and underpants. Beneath us the first boys approached the water. From the corner of my eye I saw Mervy raise his Kodak Instamatic. Then Buys’s voice: ‘I said, no photographs, jou bliksemse klein Jood!’ And he came towards us, swinging the check shirt he had already removed. Mervyn was silent at the bare-chested mans approach. Buys threatened to remove the film but Lukas protested in English: ‘Mr Buys, he only aimed it as a joke. He didn’t really take a photograph.’
Buys glowered at Mervyn, then, still showing disdain, turned and stalked off. Over his shoulder he reminded Lukas that it was an Afrikaans week.
As soon as Buys was well away and as Mervyn pulled down his underpants I said under my breath: ‘Now, quickly, Mervyn, take it while his jelly arse is turned.’
‘Come on, Karl,’ Lukas interjected, ‘quit your shit.’
‘Yes, Baas Lukas,’ I whispered and tugged off my shirt. Unobtrusively, I let my gaze run over them, becoming naked around me. Five sets of loins: Dominic, cut; his so much like mine: standing, rather than hanging, the purple head exposed, the shaft straight and the pubis just showing the first shadows of dark hair. Mervyn, huge, cut, round head like a giant red acorn, shaft white as marble and long red hairs around and on his balls, freckles on his arms tummy and legs, but white where the sun never got him. Lukas, uncut, thicker and darker but probably about the same as Dominic’s and mine when the skin was pulled back; his testicles not half the size of mine.Then Bennie: below the belly stencilled like a palm leaf, also uncut, brownish, long and thin, tip dangling from side to side below the tight mauve scrotum. Almeida: dark skin all over his body, the penis small, almost translucently grey and pink like a hatchling in the tangled crotch. My eyes moved up to his face. Surely, surely, I thought, the most handsome in the school. No, not handsome, beautiful. The most beautiful boy in the world. How different it felt seeing him out there than at night during the ritual shower. He looked up, caught my eyes on his chest. I slipped out of my underpants, ashamed at being caught; swearing never to look again, Dr Taylor, will not look, wrong, boy man will be will not ever again, deserve death, everything they want, proud of me, read To Kill A Mockingbird, Bernice in Wimpy Bar, we spoke about school, Bernie, don’t think. Don’t think.
We clambered down the. rocks and from the corner of my eyes I caught Buys taking off his shorts. Revulsion at his hairy arse and flabby buttocks. Again, admonished myself; focused on the falls.
‘No diving, De Man!’ Buys called from behind.
‘Ja, Meneer.’ As if I’d dive into a pool I haven’t explored. Sod. Everywhere around us were naked boys. Buys warned the little ones to stay away from the mouth of the pool where the current was strongest. We waded, splashing each other, then, bodies half submerged, made surface dives and swam to where the pool was an emerald of shadows and depths. Bennie and I joined some Standard Sixes, taking turns to dive down and see how deep it was. Each of them returned sputtering to the surface, unable to go all the way down. Bennie and I went together. At first I could see him, beside me, down, down, into the green, ever growing darkness and colder water. As my chest tightened I no longer looked out for him and concentrated on the downward flight. My lungs felt like bursting. I was already turning up when my fingers grazed the stony bottom. I grabbed for something to take back, felt pebbles come away into my hand, then brought my feet down as I began to panic and shot myself up, terrified. We broke the surface at the same moment, each waving a fist full of small round pebbles.
We stayed in for a while, looking for warm patches in the water, floating there, then diving beneath the waterfall and coming up to feel the force of water beating on our heads, pushing us down again. All the while I held on to the quarry. We left the pool to laze with the others in the sun.
‘Here,’ I said to Dominic and Steven Almeida, extending my open hand, ‘from the bottom.’
They each took two; left one in my palm. After studying the black and white markings, Steven smiled at me and flicked his back into the water. Dominic dragged his shorts closer, slipping the pebbles into the inside pocket. I passed the one remaining in my hand to him.
Buys told us to stay out of the water so we’d dry off before getting dressed: ‘I don’t want the conductors whining you got colds.’
He commanded us fall in for roll call. Number off to ensure everyone was there. From one we counted all the way up to 118.
Two short. Numbered again.
Still only 118.
‘Who’s missing?’ He barked over the rush of water. No answer. We followed his eyes skimming the ridge above the waterfall and along the pool.
‘Great stuff! All I need now is for two little ones to be drowned!’ He hit the inside of one hand with his fist. ‘Standard Two and Three . . . Fall in from short to tall and check who was washed downstream.’ They scuttled into dining-hall order. All there. Again he demanded: ‘Who of your mates are missing? Come on, dammit, were not leaving here if anyone’s lost.’ Still no one spoke.
‘Okay. Into dining-hall order the rest of you. Four to Seven, move!’
We checked the Standard Fives. All nineteen of us were there.
Standard Sevens; only thirteen.
Reyneke and Harding. A hint of excitement rippled through me.
‘Waar’s julle maatjies?’ he called. No one answered. He continued: ‘Come on, were they here? If they’re lost we need to organise a search party.’
At last someone broke the silence. ‘They didn’t come, Sir.’
‘And with whose permission did they stay?’
Silence.
‘Okay. Okay. Okay. So two of the Seniors are gippoing and no one wants to rat. We’ll sort this one out when we get back. Start moving there at the front...’ He sighed: ‘But when you get to school, fall in outside. I don’t want anyone in the dormitories. We’ll see what those two have to say for themselves . . . and to you all when you don’t have a movie tonight.’
It was an almost two-hour walk back. Around us boys angrily speculated on how many cuts Reyneke and Harding were in for. Some guessed six of the best. In our group no one except Dominic spoke. In hushed tones he bemoaned the fact that we were getting it for the transgressions of others. None of us responded. Noticing, he too fell silent. Leaving the single file of the footpath, the six of us moved into an extended line on the road.
F
rom Buys, I thought to myself: the worst of the worst. Four that will haunt me, make me flinch for the rest of my life, whenever — if — I allow myself a memory. I felt my eyes burn. How I hoped he would give them four. Even three. Two, forget about six! Just two from Buys was the same as twenty from anyone else. I wondered what the others were thinking: were they too sunk in a place none of us had spoken of to each other since that June night, when Dominic was safely away in Europe. For a second I resented Dom; wished he would leave us, for perhaps then we would speak. I wanted to look at them, but feared the looks, suspicions, angers — combinations of these — that might be found there. Buys, Mathison, Cilliers. Monsters, sitting over desk, don’t think, they don’t know, no one knows, forget it, it’s over, don’t think, never again. It was almost sunset. On my one side was Dom. On the other Steven Almeida. More than from the others, I desired and dreaded to know what was going on in the silence of the beautiful Portuguese boy’s mind.
It was almost dusk when we reached school. Light red sunset hung in the clouds above the hills. Into Standards beneath the stoep’s arches. Buys instructed us to be quiet while he went in search of the two culprits.
Soon he came down, followed by Frans Harding and Johan Reyneke.
‘Look what I found under the beds in G Dorm,’ he announced, grinning and telling a sheepish Harding and Reyneke to face the arches as he led them into the quad. He called for someone to fetch his cane from the Standard Three classroom. Bennie muttered from beside me that Buys was going to give it to them right there, where we could all watch. I felt a pinch of pity for the two. Or for myself. Even as I hoped he’d beat them half to death, I did not want to witness his brutality again. When a grin spread over Reyneke’s chops I again felt my heart harden. By the time the cane was brought, Buys seemed to have altered his plan. He instructed Frans and Tommie to drop to the paving stones for push-ups. He looked at us and said: ‘You will not be seeing a movie tonight because of these two. Who call themselves prefects . . . You will all be punished for the disloyalty of these indolent scinnivers. Say after me: “Suffer, suffer,” then I want you to clap twice, then say, “Suffer, suffer,” again.’
It was, I told myself, God exacting revenge for Harding and Reyneke s reign of terror. We began: clap, clap, suffer, suffer. One hundred and eighteen boys together with Mr Buys. Clap twice then ‘Suffer, suffer’ each time Harding and Reyneke went down. Clap-clap up, suffer-suffer down, clap-clap, suffer-suffer, clap-clap, suffer-suffer, and our voices and the clapping resounded up into the empty dormitories and down into the stillness of the black orchards.
After forty, Reyneke was struggling to keep going. At fifty he collapsed. Buys told us to quiet down.
‘You better get up, Reyneke. Your Rooinek buddy is still going.’
We laughed. Reyneke got up and started again, as did we, clap-clap as they went up and suffer-suffer as they went down, clap-clap suffer-suffer, clap-clap suffer-suffer. I raised my suffer-suffer above the throng, now wanting Harding to hear me; I didn’t give a damn if he killed me later. He had to know how I was thriving on every clap-clap, on every syllable of what was changing to suffffer-suffffer. I hoped Reyneke would outlast Harding; add that shame to this. Clap-clap suffffer-suffffer, clap-clap suffffer-suffffer, clap-clap-clap suffer-suffer-suffer. An entirely new beat. Harding was slowing down; it was now so dark we could barely see, but it was clear the two could no longer remain in synch. Someone turned on the lights. At once Reyneke fell to his stomach, panting into the paving stones beneath his face.
‘Kom aan Reyneke!’ I shouted, egging him on, oblivious as to whether it was to see him disintegrate or to have him beat Harding. My two most hated enemies; Standard Seven prefect bastards. My hands flamed. Beside me Dominic was wiping his over his shorts. Behind us Lukas was grinning: dap-dap-clap suffer-suffer-suffer. I wanted to ask Mervyn to take a photograph; decided against it. Mr Buys had his foot on Reyneke’s bum, telling him to straighten his back. Harding strained against gravity, now tiring fast, arms barely able to hold his weight. Just a matter of seconds before he too would be spent and down. When Harding collapsed our incantation turned to a long jeer.
‘You will carry on until you vomit,’ Buys called. We joined in applause. The two boys elevated themselves back on trembling arms. Beneath them wet stains marked the paving. Reyneke was crying, tears glistening in the light, giving him away even as he kept his head down, turned from us.
I felt nothing. Not a moment of pity. Clap-dap suffer-suffer, I got everyone around me going again. Reyneke was on his knees in front of Buys, the sandal again on his bum. It was no longer possible to distinguish sweat from tears. Cry, you bastard. Cry, cry, cry. Then Harding too could no longer come up and the dap-dap disappeared as our chant changed to sufff-er, sufff-er, sufff-er. Mr Buys shouted that they had better start pushing up or the whole school would go for PT. Our chant deepened and the dassroom windows vibrated. They tried. Reyneke sobbed. His black T-shirt was drenched and his arms a shining brown with perspiration. I wanted Harding to weep; if only, if only Harding would weep I’d be satisfied. But he didn’t; held out. Slowly, barely, but going on. Nothing but voices now chanting suffer-suffer-suffer to yet another different beat. We began a new tempo, improvising, first sopranos almost in sing-song style suffer-suffer, followed by the seconds suffer-suffer-suffer, and then a suffer-suffer-suffer-suffer staccato from the deep alto voices. Harding cracked and fell to his knees. Crescendo forte from the arches. Harding covered his face and his stomach heaved as he sobbed into his hands while we were almost in a three-tone harmony that hadcaught immediately. I leant forward and looked up and down the lighted arches. Faces slighdy obscured by the light from behind us, I could see only the outline of heads moving, bodies swaying, bobbing up and down; all of us.
From nowhere Ma’am — Miss Sanders — had appeared in the lighted quad. She walked over to Buys and our sing-song chant grew louder. She seemed to speak to him quietly. He grimaced. She waved her arms around and put her finger to her head as she spoke. It now looked as if she was shouting at Buys and I wished everyone would pipe down so that we could hear. She pointed at the two boys sobbing on the ground. Buys pointed at the main entrance, telling her to leave. From the arches the volume intensified. Yes, they were arguing. She obviously wanted him to stop, but the more she gestured and shook her head, the louder became our throng. Buys laughed in her face. She brought her finger up, shaking it close to his nose. He brushed her hand away. A roar of approval from the arches. We could see she wanted him to let Frans and Tommie go. Finally she turned around and headed back through the front door. Behind her, Buys half turned to look after her. With his free hand he gave her an up-yours sign that broke up the suffer-suffer as we burst into spontaneous applause.
It was years later, when as an adult the scenes arrived to replay themselves over and over in my mind, I realised that our oratorio of suffer-suffers had happened at least a full year after Ma’am had caught me performing ‘The Moth and the Flame’ in Marabou’s class.
5
‘Living under the English was out of the question. Like cookies in a concentration camp,’ Mumdeman said, compressing her chin sidewards and down to show her disdain. The lake’s quiet schlock was just audible over the crackling fire. Skip’s ears twitched at Mumdeman’s feet. An owl hooted from somewhere in the mango trees.
‘Just before the Peace of Vereeniging — Peace, my foot! — Oupa Mostert called the family together and read the story of Abraham and Sara going to Egypt to escape Canaan’s famine. That’s what it was, here, after the English burnt our farms to the ground. Scorched-earth policy Milner called it. Murdered twenty thousand women and innocent children in the concentration camps — and kaffirs too, mind you — killed almost as many poor kaffirs in the camps. Now they’re all lovey-dovey of course, making like none of it ever happened. Slaughtered our livestock: famine, starvation, suffering; poor whites where before the Boers had been a proud and self-sufficient nation. Anyway, to cut a long story short: Oupa
told us there were Boers getting together to move north — to our Canaan — out of the evil Union that was nothing but a conspiracy by the English to keep us Boers enslaved. We were being sold down the drain by Botha, Smuts and Hertzog. Big-shot pseudo war heroes; not heroes at all, I tell you, turncoats, gatswaaiers, jackals, de laaste een. But what else could they do, I suppose, the concentration camps were our undoing. Always the English, damn imperialists; like the rinder-pest, impossible to escape once it’s taken hold. It was only God’s mercy that your Ouma and her four brothers and sisters got out of those camps. Rounded up the Boer children and women while the men were on commando, burnt the farmhouse near Senekal to the ground. But they couldn’t break our spirits or our faith. Not the Boer spirit: Not the Mosterts, Van Rensburgs, Labuschagnes, VanWyks, Lategans and the Brinks. Later the De Mans, De Beers and the Cloetes joined us. It was time for the New Great Trek and we were going to be part of it; just like them a hundred years before us; like the Israelites two thousand years ago; on our way to German East Africa.’
