Читать книгу My Only Story - Deon Wiggett - Страница 16

Back in my loft in Johannesburg, I talk to Ethan for the first time. He is a journalist in the Naspers tower and he perfectly matches the profile.

Ethan had ‘contact’ with Willem when he was at university, he tells me over the phone. Then he tells a story that seems out of place. He talks about a summer job he had at Die Burger, but he does not mention Willem.

Then he resumes where he left off: ‘When I was at university, he was in India. He sent me these emails that were … I’ve kept all of them.’

I am quite disappointed that Ethan has nothing else to share. He seems a sweet guy, and is clearly traumatised, but some raunchy emails to an eighteen-year-old student will not help me prove anything.

But now Ethan is thinking of ways in which he can help. ‘I must show you these emails!’ he says.

Then he points me to someone else, who says: ‘I know this guy, Mike.’

I perk up considerably. Thanks to my trawling, I now know the names and faces of everyone in Willem’s extended circle. Know them well enough that when the guy mentions Mike, I know straightaway who he is talking about.

Apparently Mike cannot stand Willem and had to go to considerable lengths to get away from him. Their relationship is just as I deduced from Instagram.

Mike is quite a bit younger than me and he used to work for Willem, which means that I know very well what his body looks like – Willem posts that sort of thing. The pictures were taken at a time when Mike was a central character in Willem’s life – the lad is smart, slender and smooth, and he has a certain look. I can only imagine Willem’s excitement the first time he caught sight of Mike.

I am surprised to hear that Mike has been spilling the beans, but I figure, if he is talking about Willem to other people, why not me? This could be my first breakthrough. If I can just get Mike to tell me his story, I can ruin Willem by Easter; a bit of bullfrog crucifixion would be appetising and apt.

I know exactly where to find Mike, so I send him a message.

It is an unseasonably chilly evening when Mike and I meet in a coffee shop. I get there first and I get us a little wooden table close to the door. There is just one other customer. At the back, a television quietly blares some soccer. I am drinking white wine, because in my head it is still peak summer, even as a gust of dead leaves blows past the window.

From the corner of my eye, I see Mike enter the coffee shop. I have buried myself in a novel, because I do not want our meeting to be awkward. You know how it is weird when you are meeting someone and you make eye contact a few seconds too early? Immediately, you must both look away to stare intently at the first thing you spot, you at some balsamic vinegar, him at an occasional chair. It is awkward enough when it happens with a friend; when it is a stranger arriving for an awkward conversation …

When Mike reaches the table, I look up from my novel. I get up, say, ‘Hello, Mike,’ and try to shake his hand.

‘Hello, Deon,’ he says, briefly extending his hand, but it is not much of a handshake and I am not sure he used my name – I am kind of having to reconstruct our dialogue here.

He sits down at the table, or rather, his right-hand side sits down next to the table, and he crosses his legs, both in the direction of the door.

‘What would you like to drink?’ I ask.

‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘I’m okay for now.’

The waiter is heading for our table, but I shake my head at him while trying to say ‘aw shucks’ with my eyes. The waiter does not mind. He has barely got back to his soccer match when someone scores a goal.

Back at the wooden table, young Mike is being somewhere between passive-aggressive and just regular active-aggressive. ‘Say what you want to say,’ he says, ‘and then I’ll decide if I’m going to tell you anything.’

His distrust catches me off guard. I wanted to tell him about my investigation in quite a matter-of-fact way, but my heart is beating wildly and my wine glass is emptying rapidly and I do not know if I can get through to Mike.

On an inkling, I take a different tack. I decide not to hide my pain from him.

‘Let me tell you my history with Breytenbach,’ I say.

At the wooden table, I am done, and Mike is staring at me. It does not feel like empathy. It feels like scepticism and condescension.

I clearly remember what he says: ‘Well, first thing I have to say is that I have a very strong personality.’

I take this to mean: ‘Can you get a grip on yourself? We are not alike and our experiences are not alike and whatever happened is not all that bad.’

Thankfully, I have managed to secure more wine from the soccered waiter, so I take a huge gulp and bite my tongue, somehow both at the same time.

Out of everything I thought I might hear, none of it was this. At this moment, even though I am supposed to be, like, a reporter or something, I turn into someone who feels mocked about my trauma; someone who feels barely believed. This must be what women feel like.

I pause briefly on women and black people, neither of which are dubious conditions. That is why, in this story, you will find few of either.

In their place, we must welcome an all-star cast of white men. Do not be alarmed; with noble exceptions, I do not wheel them in for applause. They are the men who have tried to chisel a toxic crack through my life story and masculinity, and therefore these pages must teem with them. But I promise to keep us at a safe distance; these men have only been brought here to clean up their own vomit.

There are black people who are truly awful, in the same ratio as in the other groups. Your straight-or-gay-or-plus black or Arab psychopath enjoys a good raping as much as the next white or Latin guy. My culturally isolated, apartheid-era youth surrounded me with white Afrikaans men, so it is from their ranks that my bullfrog was always likely to come. Opportunity comes to those who are present.

Then there are the women, evenly spread across races and places, who crave without end the power of raping children’s penises and vaginas and mouths and anuses and hands. In my own life, though, I have only received kindness from women; I do not know the face of a female predator. They are similar but different to the male kind, and, even though I cannot speak with authority, one must look out painfully for them too.

All boys and girls are objects of desire for certain kinds of grown-ups. If we are to keep them safe, we cannot profile by race, gender or sexuality. Paedophiles come from no single group; they are a group apart.

Their targets come from no single group either, which means none of us are born equal. Being a male survivor still affords me the systemic privileges of being a man. My failure to write here about female survivors of sex abuse is not through a lack of solidarity. I really, deeply and truly am sorry for what you go through. I am not the one who can tell your story, but if you have your own bullfrog, I hope this story may mean something to you too.

Mike really is not a bad guy; he has just seen too much of Willem. He does want to help – I mean, clearly he does not want to be here, talking to me, but still, he came. He is full of bravado, but he is terrified of Willem; terrified of Willem’s revenge if he even finds out we have met for coffee, even though neither of us has had any.

‘So in the time that you knew Breytenbach,’ I say, but Mike shakes his head. He wants to help, but he does not trust me, and I am out of ways to convince him. This is hard for me too, and I was not expecting any of it to go like this.

Mike’s legs, which have wanted to walk out since the second they arrived, are finally joined by the rest of his body. We agree to exchange more messages, but I think we can both tell it will go nowhere. Mike does not like me, and I am beginning not to like Mike. I try to seem cheerful and confident, but I am not feeling it. Mike did not even want to have a glass of water with me.

I pay the bill and leave the little wooden table and the quietly deafening soccer match behind. As I get into the Uber, I am still fuming, but now mostly at myself. I should have stayed in control of my emotions. I made Mike think I am weak. It was my first big break, and I’ve blown it.