Embrace

by Mark Behr

  8

  Hoerskool Port Natal

  Umbilo, Durban

  5 August 1976

  Dear Karl

  It’s Friday afternoon last period and I’m sitting in the music room at Port Natal and writing instead of practising. So, excuse the foolscap paper! How are you? I am fine.

  The rest of the school is on the rugby field doing cadets. It’s rather ridiculous, they’ve told us the gtrb are soon also to start doing cadets. I suppose it can be fun and Lem most certainly loves the idea. It’s still not clear whether the girls will have to wear brown uniforms like the boys. Lena can’t wait, wants to be a drill sergeant. On the train in the morning she teaches me how to do an about turn and salute. I love your sister. She’s the talk of the school at the moment because she’s so young and in the first netball team. And the boys love her because of her beautiful legs. You both got your mother’s peifect legs. Your legs are going to be like Shaun Thompson’s. We saw him surfing the other day.

  Only three months to go before you perform the Mass. I’m aghast that they’re letting you do it, it is after all the most difficult thing Beethoven ever wrote. It’s an hour long; I’ve been listening to it on record and can see them drilling you all to get it committed to memory — or are you allowed sheet music. Is it tough?

  Have you decided whether you’re coming to Port Natal next year or are you staying there? Lena says you’ll he coming hack and I do hope you do. Lena says Bok is saying something about you people moving into Durban, to get closer to his office if he goes into insurance. Have you heard? That will be great, because we’re moving into town to get closer to Dad’s work at Durban-Westville. You know he left Durban varsity to go there, because begot a full professorship there?

  Teaching the little coolies who are always making trouble. Working as hard as ever.

  My mother is fine, still teaching music at Kuswag. My mother wants to know if your voice has dropped or if it’s breaking? She still reckons you were her greatest discovery. We haven’t seen you in ages. In April. Almost four months. Are you coming home in October for the holidays or are you going on tour? I miss you, man!

  Thank you for the postcards from Oudtshoorn and from Table Mountain. I hope you thought of me while you were up there. I want to live in the Cape when I grow up. Maybe I’ll go to Stellenbosch to study medicine. I got straight As in July and I’ve got to keep it up because some of the medical schools now demand to see grades as far back as Std 8. More and more people wanting to study, I suppose. We’re having bomb drills now and that means we can stand out on the rugby field missing entire periods when we should be studying.

  Okay, there goes the bell. I must meet Lena at the gate so we can go to Umbilo to catch the train. Weekend! I’ll post the letter tomorrow.

  I love you

  Alette

  xxxxxxx

  9

  Dishing up our food, Beauty whispered that I was to go and look under my pillow. After lunch, instead of going to the encyclopaedias, I rushed to my bed. Below the pillow I found a dirty slip of yellow matchbox cardboard. With the slip enclosed in my hand I cut quickly through C Dorm and went into the library. Downstairs the teachers were still eating. I sat up close to the shelves where I’d be inconspicuous. I took down a book. The scrap of cardboard was adorned with a few sentences in the most exquisite handwriting I’d ever seen:

  Karl, Come to the plum-orchard any afternoon around four when the hoys are down at the rugby field. I’ve come to visit.

  Klasie.

  Grinning, I slipped the note into my shorts. Was someone playing a trick on me? Who was Klasie? Jacques? I didn’t know his handwriting. And then, if it were him, how had Beauty known about the note? No, it could not be Jacques, he wouldn’t have given it to or even told Beauty; he would have gone and put it there himself. And why the dirty slip of Lion matchbox. Dom? Him and Beauty in cohorts. He is her favourite. Yes, maybe . . . I took it from my pocket to reread. Like calligraphy, each letter upright, curly, each linked to the next, the capital letters exactly the same height, the y’s perfect, almost as if the letters were printed by machine. Or by the surest hand in the world. And the name, Klasie, signed flamboyantly. Like Van Gogh. A name that could be signed at the bottom of a painting. Where had Dominic learnt to write like that?

  There was no question of my ignoring the note. Who ever’s hand had made the beautiful script knew that my curiosity was bound to get the better of me. Or did the sender mistakenly think I might know who he was? It had to be someone playing the fool. A grownup. It was grown-up handwriting.

  I didn’t go riding with Lukas. Instead I took Gone With the Wind and strolled down to the fort with Bennie and Mervyn while Dominic stayed to practise. I told them about Scarlett O’Hara and the American Civil War. As we entered the fort Bennie said he smelt fire. And kaffir. Look, clearly someone had made a fire near the back. We swept out dead coals and ashes. Mervyn guessed it was probably one of the farm kaffirs who came down to have a romantic camp-firefuck. Bennie said we should report it to Mr Mathison. The blacks aren’t allowed down here in our forts! We decided against reporting; didn’t want teachers snooping around our sanctuary.

  The ashes didn’t interest me. While Bennie and Mervyn spoke, my thoughts were elsewhere. Could it have been Dom, who would sneak down from the conservatory so that we could have a quick toss in the orchards? No; we had done it the night before. And why in the middle of the orchard when there were no leaves to hide us? I looked up, through the greening poplars, across at the orchards bathed in huge brush strokes of white and pink. And why not in the orange grove, where we did it in summer? Attention still on the mysterious note, but trying to hide my preoccupation, I told Bennie and Mervyn that Lukas and I were angry at Mr Walshe for refusing to let us name Cassandra’s four-month-old foal. We wanted to call it Sea Cottage for a horse that had been shot at the Durban July Handicap. Mr Walshe felt it was an unoriginal name and the associations with a wounded horse no good. What about Little Prince, I suggested to Mr Walshe, theres a wonderful book . . . But Mr Walshe said the little stallion was only going to be little for a while. What about calling Cassandra and King’s foal Dragon’s Prince? Mountain for the Berg, Prince to show he was heir to the King.

  Gone With the Wind — the thickest book I’d ever read — in hand, I drifted from the fort, saying to Bennie and Mervy I was off to read for a while on Second Rugby Field. Across the deserted field I cut into the bottom of the orchard, then doubled back through the blooming fruit trees as bees and insects zoomed around in the late afternoon sun. How am I to know for sure which are the plum trees? There were a few sections of plum, I knew from summer when the trees were covered in fruit, but now it was just the pink, white and purple of blossoms. Down the overgrown rows I strolled, darting eyes: will it be Dominic, or Jacques? Higher, closer to school.

  The little woollen cap stuck up above the kakibos amongst theflowering trees. Back turned to me. It may be a farmhand. But the shoulders were not covered in the uniform of the labourers: no blue overall. The head turned. Then, smiling, he rose. My heart leapt into my throat. No! No, no, no! What is he doing here? The scraggly beard, the long filthy hair sticking out in stringy oily strands from beneath the cap. The yellow smile, the missing tooth.

  More than a year had passed since I’d seen him in the Bowen Street garden; no, on Toti’s main street! My eyes flew over Groot-Oom Klaas. Klasie. Klasie. Klasie. Oupa Liebenbergs name for him. The man before me cast a glance at the footpath in the distance. Then he stepped in amongst the branches, most of him hidden amongst the blossoms. His grin spread. What is he doing here? He must go, at once. I’ll turn around and run. I felt powerless. It was like a nightmare. Here! Of all places. Bad enough when he showed up at home; but here! I stepped to the furthest reach of the branches.

  He moved towards me and I froze.

  ‘Hello, Karl’tjie.’

  ‘Hello, Groot-Oom Klaas?’

  ‘I thought I’d come and surprise you. Halfway house between
Durban and Jo’burg. A perfect stopover. Respite from the rigours of the road.’

  ‘How did you know where to find me, Uncle Klaas?’

  He chuckled, a ghastly wet smoker’s sound: ‘I always know where you are. Don’t you remember last year, I saw you in Amanzimtoti — where the waters are sweet? Instead of going on from Estcourt direct to Johannesburg, took a side road. Didn’t get any lifts, mind you. Walked all the way from the main road to here. Three days and three nights.’

  ‘Uncle Klaas . . . I’m going to get into trouble. Anyone could pass by, down the footpath and see me,’ I whispered, motioning with my eyes to the path two hundred yards away. ‘Were not allowed in the orchards. This place is very strict.’ I lifted the book to my chest.

  He stepped back into the wrapping of branches and pink blooms; into the centre of the row of trees. A phantom in a haze of pink blossoms.

  ‘No one can see me.’

  ‘Uncle Klaas . . .’ I began, wanting only to tell him to leave, but could not. A minute part of me felt pity or something humane. And, the proddings of intrigue. Where was he staying? And how did he get to Beauty? This could be an adventure, but no, it was not one I wanted! No, no, he had to leave. This could ruin everything. Suddenly my recent happiness seemed strung in a precarious equilibrium, about to be snapped. Into chaos. Not only was it too dangerous.

  It was shameful.

  He was mad, sick, disgusting, dirty. He was shameful but felt no shame. Shame by association. That was the problem.

  ‘Where are you . . . staying, Uncle Klaas?’

  ‘Below the ford.’

  ‘In the bush?’

  He nodded, perpetuating the smile.

  ‘Aren’t you cold?’

  ‘Fire, Karl’tjie, fire keeps one warm. And when it rains there are the forts. Some nice buildings you boys have down there. Yours is nice. Strong and neat. And soon the days will be warm. Summer is coming.’

  Oh my God. No. No. I smell kaffir, the ash! He’s going into our fort! No, this is too much. He must go. ‘How did you know which one, the fort, which one is mine, Uncle Klaas?’ I tried to smile, to hide the terror and anger.

  ‘I’ve been watching you for a while.’

  Every time he spoke my heart sank. Sneaking through the bushes, spying on me and my friends, living in my — our — fort. And soon the days will he warm, summer is cominglThat could mean only one thing: he’s planning to stay! For who knows how long!

  ‘Come with, you can see the day place. You can visit there, it’s safe.’

  ‘Uncle Klaas, I want to, but, they’ll throw you off the farm . . .’

  ‘Only if they find us! And if they chase me, then I can always comeback. I always do. Come,’ and he advanced from the cover of the tree, walked by me: a whiff of him, acrid, bitter, smoky. Kaffir. ‘It’s at least an hour before the whistle will blow.’

  ‘Uncle Klaas . . .’ I began to protest, but he walked on, the baggy brown slacks swishing through the oliebosse and kakibush. He was not like a man hiding, more like a king who owned the place. I trotted after him, casting glances behind me.

  ‘What’s that you’re reading?’

  ‘Gone With the Wind.’

  He snorted: ‘Crap. Who told you to read such rubbish?’ And without waiting for an answer: ‘Proust, Goethe, Wilde, Cesaire, Woolf, Dickinson, Hughes, Whitman . . . If you want to read, why not decent stuff ?’ Names I had never heard. ‘Have you learnt to control your boisterousness? I hope not!’ He laughed over his shoulder. ‘Uncle Klaas, please, you must speak softly.’

  We strode on in silence, cut south, away from the school, then across the river above our fort. Into the broad daylight he strutted, across the open veld on the other side of the stream. I wanted to weep. Out. Out. Out. In the open.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ he laughed, as if reading my mind, ‘you can always tell them I’m family. Your uncle. Your great-uncle. Surely family has a visitation right?’ He strolled on, not waiting for an answer again, clearly not expecting one either. Merely terrorising me.

  ‘You’re getting big. You could be a wrestler, you know. Do you and Lena still wrestle?’

  ‘No. We stopped.’

  ‘Pity. She’s a strong girl. Why did you stop?’

  ‘She got breasts.’

  ‘She used to beat you.’

  ‘Not after she got tits. I use to hit her on her tits and that stopped the wrestling because Bokkie said she’d get breast cancer.’

  ‘I saw your mum a few weeks ago in Toti.’

  ‘She wrote . . .’

  ‘You have a beautiful mother, you know that?’

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘Just so insecure. Very insecure. Pity. And so long-suffering. Martha the Martyr. Her selflessness will drive you crazy.’

  ‘... Uncle Klaas?’The answer was of little interest to me. I would rather have silence, but while we spoke I could try and forget about any number of eyes that may be upon me. De Man and the tramp. Did you guys see De Man crossing the veld with a white tramp? Uncle Klaas rambled on about my mother choking on her silence, always feeling sorry for herself while pretending to be happy, being too dependent on Bok. About Bok being a woman’s man with more charm than was good for any one soul. His torn shoes showed red socks, a tear in the calf of his one leg. And I could again smell him. If Bennie knew that this was the pong in our fort! The further we went the greater grew my revulsion and anger at the creature striding ahead of me. Who does he think he is, coming here and speaking like this about my family? He hardly knows us, sees us once a year.

  ‘Your father,’ he continued, ‘is a basic shit. Not unlike most of the world, I suppose.’

  If he didn’t stop I was going to turn around and walk away. How dare he — human dregs that he is — come here and talk about Bok in this way? He’s mad! Only a beggar. A vulture. Coming scavenging from the family whenever he needed money or food. Well, you won’t get a blue dime from me. Anyway, you wouldn’t be able to use Hills. As we approached the V Forest road I begged him to wait, to make certain no one was approaching; the riders could be returning at any moment. He chuckled but granted my request. When it was clear there was no one on the road, we crossed into the cluster of pines downstream from the bridge.

  ‘Uncle Klaas, I must go back. The whistle will blow and I’ll pick up serious trouble.’

  ‘And then of course cheating those black peasants with this curio business.’

  ‘Bok doesn’t cheat them. He creates work for them. Job opportunities and he has to make a profit. Uncle Klaas, I must go back.’

  ‘Were almost there, just come so that you can see where to come and visit.’

  Mad! He is crazy. Out of his bracket if he thinks I’ll set foot near him, ever again.

  Below the ford, between where one could still hear the rush of water from the sluices and above the wattles where the kleilat fights happened, he made his way through the reeds and a thick grove of bulrushes. Uncle Klaas leading me into the bush. We stood in a small clearing amongst the reeds. Nothing except a bundle of clothes and empty tins of curried fish; the evidence of a fire; reeds flattened where obviously he had been sleeping. A blanket; a plastic Pick and Pay bag. Horrible. How could he live like this.

  ‘We need another blanket.’

  ‘You have a blanket,’ I said, pointing. ‘You don’t need another.’

  He inclined his head to the reeds, shifted his gaze from me to there. I followed his eyes. The book almost dropped from my grip. There, behind the lush green stalks and leaves, was a black face, glistening yellowish eyes. I stared for only a moment. I turned on the man beside me. Terror, outrage. I shook my head. I was ready to weep. Suddenly I whispered: ‘Fuck off, Uncle Klaas. I didn’t invite you here. Go away. Don’t ever send me little notes again. Fuck off out of my life.’

  I turned and I ran, turned left on the road, crossed the drif, ran through the poplar forest to where the first forts began. Here I slowed down and began to walk; clutching the book to my heaving ches
t. Thinking of the mad gene.

  On a rock below the old pump-house I sat down, panting, trying to expel Uncle Klaas from my mind. And the other one. That he brings a black man here! I strolled back towards our fort, past a group of Juniors playing touch rugby, looking around, wondering whether we had been seen. Mervyn and Bennie were gone from ourfort. Across, below the cliffs on the other side, white flowers had begun to bloom. I stretched my neck, squinted to see what they were. Had not noticed them there before. Some sort of wild iris, perhaps. Opened the book — marked by a pressed vine leaf at page 56 — and tried to read. I had forgotten everything, everything the book was about. Go back to the first line, the beginning. What a marvellous sentence: Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realised it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were. What an original beginning! What is he doing here! When I write my first book, I will begin with a sentence of high originality such as this, so that the reader is caught, spellbound, compelled to read on. That’s so clever, so memorable. Beginnings; so very, very important.

  10

  Bok, Jonas and Boy went on elephant patrol to Ndumu and Mozi. A young Bantu had come to HQ to say a lone bull had come marauding from Mozambique and was raiding the maize and madumbi. Two women had been hurt and a village plundered.

  Late afternoon Bok and the boys stumbled unexpectedly into an encampment of rhino poachers. One of the poachers reached for his gun and fired a shot that struck Jonas in the arm. Boy fired and killed the poacher. They rounded up the rest of the gang, put on the handcuffs and walked them to HQ from where they were taken to the cells in Empangeni. Jonas’s arm wasn’t too badly injured and I went with him and Bok to hospital in Empangeni to have the bullet extracted. He was given eight stitches in his arm. When Bok removed the black thread with pliers a few weeks later the scar was blue and shiny; smooth and wrinkly to the touch of my fingers. Bernice’s belly scar had since gone from red, to pink, to light brown; the same smooth skin with tiny, tiny wrinkles.