The Ghost-Eater and Other Stories (4 page)

Life on the farm was slow, but waited for no one. We woke up the same time the earth did. Sometimes before the rooster could yawn, even before the varkblomme opened their petals near the vlei. Since Oom died the whole kroos went to go look for a home in Stêword. The day I decided to draai stokkies, I walked the devil's road willingly into his claws. Satang's kinners, Ma Ragel would say
.
The pine cone trees were darm still here. If you stood on the stoep looking at the beautiful still life, it looks like art, God's art.

The evening before I ran away from home, Dolf, Kallie en Oom Dui were sitting round the gêllie busy to sit en verkoop nôsens. While we were laughing and chatting, I looked at the warm coals, the ones that still had pieces of red in them. My eyes stood still, looking deeper and deeper into the coal. I realised that the piece of red was actually a little flame trapped inside the already-dead coal. There was a knot in my throat and I almost cried. I was that little flame. I knew if I took my things and left, Oubaas Grobelaar would never allow me to visit my family again. I would have to pay him with money. Oubaas Grobelaar gave me my first job on the farm as a wine-marker. I was good at reading and writing. Every Friday I wrote everyone's name on those two litre bottles and filled them with black wine, ticked their names in the book as I paid everyone, paid myself. I would have to leave these thoughts here and start new ones elsewhere. Liela had also decided to work in town; we hadn't seen her in years. I would have to leave the kaiings and skaappootjie we braaied as children in the Dover oven. Those memories didn't belong to me alone. All I had was this book I picked up years ago. It is all I will take with me tomorrow, I thought.

My first book had no cover, not even a name. Then and there I decided I would make that book mine, because no one wanted it. I started reading the book with no name, my
myne
book. It was the best piece of rubbish that I picked up at the rubbish hole close to our house in a long time. I was so proud of it, I stuck it under my white school shirt. It smelled of cow dung but it didn't traak me because I'd never had something that was mine alone. That's the day my love for words was born. I kept rhymes and stories in my mind that I would whisper to myself later when I was alone. Words were everywhere. In the morning when Klaasvakie's sleeping dust was still in my eyes, our little huisie smelled like bakbrood and moerkoffie that simmered on the Dover stove and the BB tobacco smoke floating from Katoet's pyp
.
All those smells I could spell. All those smells I could taste like the moerkoffie and the kaiings on my bread. It's darm all that Meteens could not get a hold of. I drank Meteens out of my life ever since I left Pêreberg.

When we were still wet behind the ears, Japie and I were playing down by Sileja-them's road playing with our spinning tops. We were still arguing about whose spinning tops should be on the ground to get an ertjie when Meteens came staggering down the hill with a black stallion that he stole from Willowdale, a neighbouring farm. He asked us to look after the thing. We decided to take it for a gallop when Ounooi the teefhond ran under the horse's legs. The horse had such a fright that he stood on his two hooves kicking with his front legs, neighing like a hysterical woman. Japie had already run away. I was the only one lying there, moaning on the ground. Meteens came to see why there was such a noise and he beginte go mad when he saw the horse donner into the bos.

Meteens is my eldest sister's husband. He said he caught Ketoet with his watches. He is always dressed grênd with leather boots and five watches on each arm.

– Jou gemors! Why did you let the horse run wild? Djulle ga gemoer word vedag! Bloody gedrogte!

I could see Mêg run out of the house holding on to her dress. – Ag, leave the child, he is smaller than you.

– You tell me fokkol, jou dikgat, djou useless bitch. Loep help Sileja in the kitchen.

Mêg didn't give him any gesig. She was a kind meisiekind. – Is jy ok, klonkie, wat's fout, she asked.

My foot, my toe, I moan.

She tore a piece off from her dress and made it into a knot. – Dê, she says. Bite on it.

– Why … Aaah, it's sore! I scream.

– Ag, don't be such a
tjankbalie
. It will heal soon.

She snapped my toe back to its position. Siestog, Ouma Ragel always said, she is a sagte hart kind. I didn't have a ma but Mêggie was a ma to me. She taught me how to iron a shirt in its naat and she was the one who forced her last R2 into my hand. It was still a lot of money then. She always told me, Klonkie, you must never hide your tears. It's the only thing that brings the heart a little bit of light. Mooi leer by die skool and carry God in your heart always, she greeted, standing by the gate with her arms folded.

All these memories made my eyelids heavy, lullabying me into a deep sleep. It really felt okay to sleep on my brother's lawn waiting for him to get home. I need to say sorry …

 

– Fraans! Fraans! Liewe Here, is it really you? What are you doing on Pêreberg? Jinne, man, look at you. Japie spat on the grass because the stench made him nauseous. Later he said had been away for two days to help Baas Fourie with the sow; she gave birth to seven piglets the day before. It was a difficult birth. And now he had to deal with his drunken brother who he last saw at the funeral eight years ago. How long had I been lying here?

– Boeta, I waited for you the Sunday afternoon.

– You're gesuip, Fraans. It's blêddie Tuesday.

– I'm sorry, Japie. Ekkiritie bedoelie. I lost control of the wheel, it was so misty and the road was muddy. I'm sorry sorry, my boeta.

– Bedaar! What are you talking about?

– Adrie and Korrietjie.

Japie sat with me on the grass. His eyes were wet but he'd promised himself he'd never cry, but his heart became small when he saw me lying there drunk and helpless.

– Boeta?

– Yes, Fraans.

– Do you still remember that rympie Juffrou Sheila taught us in school?

– Which one?

– Lamtietie damtietie doe – doe, my liefstetjie.

– Yes. Why?

– Sing it with me, Japie.

– You should stop drinking, Fransie. Oom Tas is driving you mad. This is pure dronk verdriet … ag toe,man … Okay, then. You will have to start first

– Lamtietie damtietie doe-doe, my liefstetjie, we both started.

 

Moederhart rowertjie, dierbaarste diefstetjie

Luister hoe fluister die wind deur die boompetjie

Heen en weer wieg hy hom al oor die stroompetjie

 

Doe-doe-doe blaretjie, slapenstyd nadertjie

Doe-doe-doe blommetjie, nag is aan kommetjie

So sing die windtjie vir blaartjies en blommetjies

 

Japie and I both started laughing. Japie took a deep breath. The tears made his heart lighter.

– It's in the past now, Japie said, talking to the sky, with a vague look in his eyes.

– Please forgive me, Japie. I looked at my brother, smiling. I had not felt like this in years.

– Forgive yourself first, Fraans, Japie says. Forgive yourself.

 

It happened near Marikana. My Uncle Louis, who is a regional school inspector for the North West Province, was on his way to Derby when he saw the man standing next to a car overlooking the Olifantsnekdam.

Uncle Louis explained: ‘I took a shortcut through Buffelshoek on the road that runs past the back of Gerhard Voorendyk's farm. It's a deserted stretch that nicks thirty kilometres off the distance and with a bit of seasonal luck you sometimes see the flamingos.'

Whenever Uncle Louis told a story we listened. He was married to our father's eldest sister, Francine, and his slender elegance was a contrast to the raucous men in our family, with the result that his telling was lodged in a curiosity of otherness.

Uncle Louis's back remained straight even as he leaned forward to continue: ‘As you all know, March is a scorcher in this part of the world, so when I waved at the stranger next to the blue sedan, I knew that the towel around his neck meant he was contemplating a dip in the same murky waters where your aunt and I often go swimming.'

A glint appeared in Uncle Louis's left eye and I invoked an image of him as a tall, naked fish with magnificent protrusions, unlike the small fins of my cousins, which I had noticed during our adventures around the various farm dams and canals which raised us in the 1960s of a suspended island.

My uncle sat back in the oak chair, pausing briefly.

‘As the man slowly diminished in my rear-view mirror, I envied his freedom, while I, on the other hand, had a tedious school inspectors' meeting stretching ahead of me.'

The quarterly administration meeting lasted nearly six hours and, by five o'clock, Uncle Louis was on his way back to Rustenburg: ‘Approaching Biesiespunt where I had earlier seen the stranger, I saw that his car was still parked in the same spot, with the passenger door wide open, but there was no sign of the man. Curiosity slowed me down, and I decided to stop and investigate. Beyond the rudimentary gravel landing where the vehicles were parked, the landscape declined towards the dam, first with abundant vegetation and then vleiland surrounding its banks. I followed a short, uneven track which must have been heeled by various animals. It was still very hot, probably about thirty degrees, and the thought of a quick swim seemed like a strong possibility, but first I had to try and find out what happened to the man. I scanned the area and called out a few times: “Hallooo, halloo! Anyone out there?” Then, a few strides on, I came to a halt.

‘Barely three metres in front of me, under the shade of a mopani tree, an enormous python was lying dead still, while slowly feeding on the shape of the man he had swallowed.'

 

It takes just over an hour; he leaves before the Friday traffic thickens. Soon after reaching the town, he turns right, down a narrow tar road amid dense bush. The sea is close, its cool, salty breath slipping through the slightly opened window. Right again, onto gravel, past a small red-brick house. A dog chained to a jacaranda tree barks at the car. Two more houses spaced between bushes, trees. The wind is shaking, tugging branches. Finally the cottage veers into view: a simple rectangle, unpainted concrete blocks, wide windows with peeling green frames. He stretches, goes round to the boot out of habit but this time there's no packed bag, just three textbooks and the tog bag with his water polo stuff he forgot to take out. Flotsam.

He needs to piss, wonders if there was any point. Fuck it, make yourself comfortable, he thinks; in his mind, he sees a man in an electric chair nonchalantly smoking a cigarette.

Inside is dark and musty. He tugs open the curtains wrapped up against the sliding doors, opens the windows above the kitchen sink. He almost laughs as he does so – he isn't thinking, is he? In the bathroom he lifts the toilet seat, pisses. On the sill, Julia's tortoiseshell Wayfarers look up at him. He glances away, shakes his dick, pulls up his underwear and shorts.

In the lounge, he pulls open the sliding doors. The wind blasts at him, scattering pot pourri from the bowl on the coffee table. A small patch of grass, then bushes, distant houses, and sea.

He closes his eyes; are they watering or is he crying? No, man. He can't be crying. This isn't about her. Well, not all about her. Where is she now? He can see her reading on the plane, scarf around her neck, a glint of a ring, fingers holding the book (Faulkner or Joyce). The image dissolves; now she's in the room that they had shared, naked except for a pair of his boxer shorts.

He yanks the door shut, closes his eyes again, listening to the wind's whistling like a kettle on the boil. Glass rattles like someone drumming his fingers uncertainly.

He goes to the bedroom, grey light bleeding in from the gaps between the curtains. The two beds, sleeping bags neatly folded. And no Julia. His dick is hard, he notices absently, as if it is something detached from himself. Julia lying on the bed stains the back of his eyelids.

That night. He is shaking slightly, floating on undeciphered feelings, being pulled under by them. The kissing, the dirty yellow light. Her tits. He cupped them like they were bags of jewels, licked them; they tasted salty, electric. She tugged off his T-shirt, stroked the narrow thatch of hair above his sternum. Kissing, tongues darting like fish around coral, teeth knocking vaguely, a hand travelling down to his dick; soft moan; another hand, his, brushing her pubic hair, fingers gingerly touching the wetness.

He opens his eyes, turns, slams the door shut. What is he doing? But he can't escape even with opened eyes the soft words ‘Sorry, we shouldn't, we can't' curdling in the air as she froze, shifting away from him.

She woke earlier than him the next morning. Her sleeping bag was rumpled up, a scale model of Krakatoa. In the kitchen, a pot of coffee still warm and not quite full, a mug with sediment winking at its base. Pressed firmly to the counter, a Post-it that said:

 

R, I'm sorry.

Thanks for the hospitality.

J.

 

Her car had gone.

He stretches his hands upwards, breathes. A tingle of fear, anticipation. He locks the front door, puts the key under the garden gnome.

Specks of sand graze his eyes. He blinks, starts walking, first down the short drive and then onto the path towards the sea. It must have rained during the week: the soil is black, soggy like chocolate pudding. When he looks ahead he can see Julia running, almost tripping in her flip-flops, the bikini knot peeping above her T-shirt.

He trips over a branch, collapsing forward, hands scooping into the mud. He climbs up, scrapes his hands clean, carries on.

There is no one at the lake. He pulls his T-shirt off, shivers. A coot battles its way across the stippled surface. He dives into the blue-grey. Shit fuck bollocks, it is cold. He can feel the way her legs encircled him, the way she drew close so that their heads were almost touching, their shivered laughs, mouths finding each other, kissing, hands looped tightly round each other's backs.