The Whale Caller (6 page)

Now he knows why she evokes a memory of his mother. It is her smell. Not from her breath. Not the alcohol or methylated spirits. The mouldy yet sweet smell that his mother left in everything she touched. Saluni exudes the same whiff. And it overwhelms him with long-forgotten emotions. The smell has a force that seems to be stronger even than the force of energy generated by the rocks, the waves, the moon and the sun. He hates her even more for appropriating his mother’s bodily odours, for reincarnating the grand old lady in the puny shape of a village drunk.

He breaks into a sweat and runs for dear life.

“I am a love child,” shouts Saluni after him. “Don’t do this to me, man, I am a love child!”

Saluni. She is a love child. This is what she tells everybody who cares to listen in the watering holes of Hermanus. It is a story she shares particularly with those who refuse to buy her a glass of wine. She is a love child, conceived on a windy day by a beautiful young woman who was involved in an illicit affair with an older married man. Much as the man professed his love for his young mistress, he would not leave his family for her. The pretty young thing pined for her lover for many years. She was consumed by her love until only her bones were left. For a long time she was a walking skeleton, and troubadours (yes, troubadours!) composed songs about her dire love. Then one day the bones just fell to the ground in a heap. After her mother’s burial Saluni’s aunts drummed it into her head that she was a love child and should be proud of it. Today she tells the habitués of the taverns that no one has the right to treat a love child shabbily. As a love child she must be handled with care and consideration.

Her mission for the day has been met with the usual failure. She is not giving up. She is relentless in her quest. She is only giving
him a little respite, until next time. She decides to take the thirty-minute walk to the outskirts of town to visit the Bored Twins at their mansion. She had promised to take them to the town centre to witness some of the wonders of the festival.

She knocks at the kitchen door, but there is no response. She tries the door and it opens, but there is no one there. She walks to the girls’ bedroom and to the parents’ bedroom. The Bored Twins are not there either.

“Girls, where are you?” she calls.

The only response is that of multiple echoes of her own voice. She walks out to the garden. She wonders where the Bored Twins could have gone. She had expressly told them not to leave the house this whole afternoon because she would come to fetch them to sample the pleasures of the festival. They were clearly looking forward to the trip. They may just be playing a prank on her, one of their tiresome hide-and-seek games. She creeps towards the nearest rockery and looks behind it. The girls are not there. There are many other rockeries and ledges and fountains that have long dried out. This used to be a wonderfully landscaped garden in the days of the ostrich baron, made to look wild and natural in order to blend with the surroundings while at the same time standing out as a work of art. But now all its beauty is hidden in an overgrowth of tall grass and bushes. She dare not walk deeper into the garden for she is deadly scared of snakes.

“Where are you, girls?” she calls once more. “I am not in the mood to play your silly games!”

Then she remembers the cellar. It is their favourite hiding place that even their parents do not know about. She walks into the house once more and tiptoes all the way to the cellar. Her tiptoeing is to no avail because the floorboards creak and squeak all the way In the passageway and on the steps to the basement, rats and other insects run in different directions. She hates creepy-crawlies and regrets coming all this way.

She opens the door, and there are the Bored Twins sitting on the floor, sulking! They tell Saluni that their mother has forbidden them to go with her to the festival even though their father had happily given his permission.

“Your mother can allow you to stray all over the countryside, yet she does not allow you to go to town with me?” says Saluni. “That is strange. I’ll wait for her and find out why.”

“She may come back late,” says the smaller twin.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll wait. We’ll sort the matter out and then tomorrow we’ll go,” Saluni assures them.

“But tomorrow the radio man may not be there,” moans the bigger twin.

She is referring to the local radio station, which has set up a booth at the main parking lot in town, where it broadcasts the activities of the festival live to the whole region. The presenters interview the performers, the out-of-town celebrities, the ordinary tourists and the organisers of the festival. The latter have assumed a celebrated stature in the community. Even the pastors who object to certain theatrical productions demand and are granted air time. When Saluni noticed that there was a special slot for broadcasting music by the groups and individuals of Hermanus, she thought it would be a great idea to take the Bored Twins to the recording booth to be recorded on compact disc that would later be played on the radio. Not only would this give the Bored Twins the fame they deserve, it would also provide her with the opportunity to showcase her bluesy voice—previously enjoyed only by the girls and the denizens of the taverns—to the broader community. The man at the radio booth told her that recording sessions were being held all day long on a first-come-first-recorded basis. The Bored Twins were very excited to hear that their angelic voices would be heard on radio all over the district.

Saluni tells the twins that it is best to wait for their parents
outside, since she is quite uncomfortable in the closed space of the cellar. Soon it will be dark, which will make things worse for her.

Saluni and the Bored Twins sit on the kitchen stoep, sulking. Saluni is able to sulk effectively because this afternoon she is almost sober.

When the parents finally arrive Saluni demands to know why the mother wants to deny her beautiful daughters the pleasures of the festival.

“Don’t you remember that today we were supposed to record our singing on the radio?” she asks.

“That is why I don’t want the girls to go to town,” explains the mother. “It is this recording thing.”

“You don’t want people to know of the beautiful voices of your twins?” asks Saluni. “You don’t want to share your children’s healing voices with the world?”

“I don’t want people to steal the voices of my children,” says the mother.

Saluni looks at the father, hoping for an explanation that will make better sense.

“Don’t blame me,” says the father. “I have been trying to reason with her… to convince her there is nothing to fear, but she won’t listen.”

“Of course there is nothing to fear. Why would she think there is anything to fear?”

“She is fearful of those recording machines. She says the machines steal your voice. After singing to those machines you go home with only the speaking voice but without your singing voice.”

Since no one can convince the mother otherwise, the sulking continues in the girls’ room, where Saluni spends the night, with her trusty candle burning. There are no bedtime stories tonight. In the morning she puts the small piece of candle that has survived
the night in her sequinned handbag, and sullenly leaves for town to haunt the Whale Caller.

At first there is a creaking noise like the wheels of an unoiled bicycle. It sounds as if it is just outside the Wendy house. Then other sounds join in. More structured. More sonorous. They are accompanied by a strong smell of salt and rotting kelp. The Whale Caller knows at once that the sounds, like the compound smell, come from the sea. The songs of the whales. The deeper sounds are transmitted in tremors through the waves and the rocks and the ground. He can feel the vibrations even as he sleeps on his single wooden bed. The high-pitched sounds are carried by the wind, with the smells of the sea riding on them. They penetrate the thin wooden walls of the Wendy house to massage his body until it feels completely relaxed.

There must be a mass choir out there. There is a tremulous bass that rises and falls as the waves drone in monotone in the background. There is lowing and bellowing. There are deep belches and screeching and gurgling. There are prolonged trombone notes and sharp piccolo staccatos. Cymbals and brushes and whistles join vibrating sopranos and flourishing trumpets and subdued church organs. The Whale Caller is tempted to grab his horn and run to the ocean to join the sublime choir. He listens for some time, but before he can act on his temptation he is lulled to a deep dreamless sleep.

In the morning he is not sure if he has dreamt the choir or if it is really out there. If he has not, then there must be a whole invasion of whales in the waters of Hermanuspietersfontein. After his ablutions and the ritual of spraying his body with essence, he dons his new tuxedo especially for the choir that has given him so much joy in the night. He selects Sharisha’s special kelp horn and
walks to the sea. If Sharisha is not there to enjoy the tuxedo and the special horn, then he won’t keep these items wasting in the Wendy house indefinitely. He will use them to welcome other whales, especially those that have given him so much pleasure with their nighttime music.

There is indeed an invasion of the southern rights. The Whale Caller can count up to twenty of them, including calves, spread over an area of a square kilometre or so. Some have come so close inshore that they are just outside the line of breakers from the beach. He stands in the morning mist and admires their streamlined bodies, short stiff necks and enormous heads that may cover as much as a third of the whole body. He watches as the muscular tails lazily propel the huge bodies.

He hears the sound of a kelp horn, not at all like his, playing some kind of a Morse code. He knows immediately that it is the official whale crier of Hermanus, Mr. Wilson Salukazana, the gracious gentleman from Zwelihle Township. He is alerting the tourists to the presence and the location of the whales. People are beginning to gather. Cameras are clicking and camcorders follow the languid movement of the behemoths. Some of the creatures are playing with floating kelp, manipulating it so that the fronds rub over their backs. The Whale Caller knows that they are trying to remove parasites from their bodies. This is indicated by the callosities on the whales, which are pink or orange instead of white, a clear sign of the presence of lice.

The Whale Caller walks to his peninsula. He stands on the highest boulder and blows his horn. The whales suddenly become alert. They expel the air through their blowholes with greater vigour. He blows his horn even harder, and finds himself playing Sharisha’s special song. A gigantic southern right erupts from the water, about a hundred metres from him. It rockets up in the air, and then comes crashing down with a very loud splash. As its head rises from the water again the Whale Caller’s heart beats like
a mad drum in his chest, for he sees the well-shaped bonnet that he knows so well, sitting gracefully on the whale’s snout. White like salt. He breathes even faster when he sees the wart-like callosities on the head, also white like rough grains of salt. Not pink or orange like the callosities of other whales. They are distinctively shaped like the Three Sisters Hills of the Karoo. He blows his horn even harder, and the whale opens its mouth wide, displaying white baleen that hangs from the roof of its mouth. Not dark baleen like that of other whales. It is a smile that the Whale Caller knows so well. Sharisha’s surf white smile! Once more she launches herself up in the air and falls in a massive splash. She performs these breaching displays in time with her special song that the Whale Caller blows relentlessly.

The Whale Caller changes the tune and Sharisha stops the aerial displays. She moves gently in a circle, the top of her fourteen-metre-long body gleaming in its blackness. The rest of the body below is greyish. Her skin is smooth. She breathes out white vapour from her double blowhole on top of her head and it rises up to five metres high, in a perfect V shape. Then she lies parallel to the water, and performs the tail-slapping dance that is part of the mating ritual. She lobtails repeatedly, making loud smacking sounds that leave the Whale Caller breathing more and more heavily. He blows the horn and screams as if in agony. He is drenched in sweat as his horn ejaculates sounds that rise from deep staccatos to high-pitched wails. Sharisha emits a very deep hollow sound. A prolonged, pained bellow. Then she uses her flippers to steer herself away from the Whale Caller. Breathlessly he watches her wave her flippers as she sails away.