Читать книгу Yellowbone - Ekow Duker - Страница 15

The sound of a car engine ruffled the still sheet that lay over the valley. André put his violin down with a frown. He’d come to appreciate playing out in the open with only the birds and the occasional buck for an audience. He was older now and there was a particular spot he enjoyed most. He’d found a shadowy copse of sweet-thorn trees at the bottom of a steep embankment. It was in walking distance from the house so he did not have to drive. The trees were huddled together so closely that their branches interlocked and their rounded crowns formed an unbroken canopy. He’d stumbled upon it by accident after yet another fight with his mother over his plans to emigrate to England. He’d stormed out of the house that day and left her on the doorstep, crying and calling out his name.

That was a few years ago now and he still hadn’t left. At first it was his mother’s hysterics that kept him in Mthatha; then it was the comfort of the routine he’d slipped into.

Beneath the trees André would lie naked in the grass, looking up at the vast expanse of the heavens, with his violin in one hand and masturbating with the other. It was stubbornly dissatisfying each time, but it was the only way he knew to relive the sheer ecstasy that consumed him whenever the angels appeared.

Suddenly André thought he heard a man’s voice. Or perhaps it was a woman’s. And then the flailing of a car engine that refuses to respond. It was an unwelcome intrusion because he regarded the small wooded area as his very own. Quickly, he put his violin back in its case and pulled on his clothes. He’d come to this part of the woods so often, his feet had pressed a pathway into the earth. He scrambled up the path and lay down behind the curtain of tall grass at the edge of the tarmac.

He saw a tall man with uncommonly black skin bent under the hood of a car. His wife, for it had to be his wife, was much shorter and she was visibly agitated. Her hands were balled into fists and she held them angrily against her hips. She paced up and down like a soldier on guard duty, taking a few small steps one way before turning and going back in the opposite direction.

André knew a little about cars and he thought of going up to help. But he experienced a keen, illicit pleasure in watching them so he stayed crouched in his hiding place a few metres away.

‘The engine needs to cool, that’s all,’ the man said. He spoke in English and, given the situation, was preternaturally calm. One would have thought that his car broke down every other day.

His wife stopped pacing for a moment. ‘Don’t you see how embarrassing this is?’ she cried in a shrill voice. ‘We can never go anywhere without breaking down at the roadside. When will you buy another car?’

The man unlatched the hood and let it fall with a loud clang. And that was when André saw the girl. She was tall, almost as tall as the man. He’d always found it difficult to tell a black girl’s age but she couldn’t be more than eighteen. But then she wasn’t really black at all. Her hair framed her head in a copper-coloured halo and her face was an unusually light shade of peach.

‘Did you hear it?’ the girl asked.

‘Hear what?’ the woman snapped. ‘We’re stuck at the side of the road. This is no time to be dreaming.’

The girl stepped into the road and André flattened himself against the embankment. There was a coltish awkwardness about her and yet she walked with the poise of a much older woman. She seemed to be looking directly at him.

‘Someone was playing music. I heard it.’

‘In the bush? There’s no one here except us,’ the woman said impatiently.

The girl took a few steps forward and stopped in the middle of the road.

‘It sounded like a violin,’ she said.

All of a sudden the man, realising the girl was in the path of oncoming traffic, hurried across to her.

‘Karabo!’ he cried.

But for some reason, he stopped before he caught up with her. A strange shyness seemed to come over him, as if he did not know what to do or what was expected of him. It was a few moments before he roused himself. Then he took her by the arm and steered her gently back to the car.

André slid back into the bushes. He plucked the burrs off his shirt and trousers and made his way back to the house and his now familiar life. There were not many violinists around Mthatha and it had not been difficult for him to find work. He still gave violin lessons to Mrs Harrison and also, now, to a handful of her friends. She had not progressed much beyond Twinkle Twinkle Little Star but neither she nor André seemed to mind. Parents asked him to teach their children and he accepted their commissions with feigned reluctance. He’d even begun to play at weddings. As expected, there were not many families who could afford him but he charged those who could, enough to make up for all those who couldn’t. And to his surprise, André discovered he didn’t mind playing at weddings after all. On occasion, he actually enjoyed them. The couple and their guests invariably knew next to nothing about music so he could play a little carelessly and no one was any the wiser. What was more, it was easy money and that eased the atmosphere at home considerably.

With the money he gave his mother, she bought herself a few new clothes, light cotton dresses in an assortment of colours. That pleased André because he had begun to tire of her creeping about the house like a mortician’s assistant. Marietjie even began baking again and in the afternoons the inviting smell of fresh bread swaddled the house.

Gradually, the thought of moving to London lost its urgency. Marietjie’s repeated warnings about the English took hold in André’s mind and as he was inherently lazy, he let himself be persuaded. He told himself he would go in the summer but then summer became winter and he began to look forward to spring. No one bothered them in Mthatha and the memories of Bloemfontein receded a little further every day. He hadn’t made any friends but then he didn’t want any. He was perfectly happy by himself. So he spoke less and less about London and Marietjie took care not to remind him. They didn’t speak about the engele either.

André might not have gone to London at all if it hadn’t been for Father Majola. He’d been asked to play at a wedding for a black woman from Johannesburg, a hard-charging corporate type who drove a blue Ford Mustang with a white racing stripe down the middle. She’d grown up in Mthatha and had her heart set on an elaborate outdoor wedding with the Wild Coast as her backdrop. André didn’t usually meet the brides before the wedding day itself, preferring to have his instructions relayed to him through a wedding co-ordinator, but this woman insisted on talking to him directly. They arranged to meet one afternoon in a modest coffee shop in the centre of Mthatha.

‘I want you to play “Ave Maria”,’ the bride-to-be announced the moment she sat down. She was late but made no apology for her tardiness. She had a thin face with a large obstinate mouth that laughed frequently, even when there was nothing to laugh about.

‘May I ask why?’

She looked at him in surprise. ‘My mother likes it.’

‘It’s your wedding, not your mother’s,’ André said. He was not usually so forward but there was a brashness about the woman that irked him.

She looked at him strangely. She was apparently not used to being questioned and certainly not in Mthatha.

‘I attended mass at the Vatican last year,’ she said. ‘It was the most amazing experience of my life. It took me ages to get a ticket but I managed to in the end.’

She looked like the sort of woman who always got her way. Then she took a deep breath as if she were about to launch into a lengthy discourse and André began to regret ever engaging her in conversation.

‘Ever since that day,’ she said, ‘I simply can’t get it out of my mind.’

‘What, the Vatican?’

‘No, “Ave Maria”. I want you to play it just like they sung it that evening.’

‘I take it you’re Catholic then.’

‘Yes, I am. Do you have a problem with that?’

André suppressed a sigh. There were a multitude of battle lines one could draw in South Africa. Race, gender, age, political affiliation and now religion. In the quietness of Mthatha, he’d thought he’d left all that behind.

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘My father was Catholic. I’ve attended mass once or twice.’

She clapped her hands together and let out a trill of excitement. ‘Why, that’s brilliant! That makes you Catholic by association, if not by conviction. Father Majola will be pleased. He believes a Catholic wedding should be as Catholic as possible, from the priest down to the waiters.’

André frowned. He thought he’d heard the name before but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where.

‘And if I wasn’t?’

‘If you weren’t what?’

‘Catholic by association.’

‘Oh, Father Majola doesn’t insist on it and anyway, I wouldn’t let him. It’s a nice to have, if you know what I mean.’ The woman looked at André across the table. ‘You look worried,’ she said. She’d shed her earlier belligerence and there was genuine concern in her voice.

‘It’s nothing. I was just wondering how the sound would carry in the open air.’

‘I’m sure it will be all right,’ she said. ‘ “Ave Maria” is such a wonderful piece the angels themselves will start to sing.’

André went pale and his knee banged against the underside of the table.

‘Are you all right?’ the woman asked.

‘Yes, of course. I just remembered there’s something I must attend to,’ he said. ‘A violin class.’ He got up quickly and shook her hand. ‘It’s lovely meeting you but I really must go,’ he said and hurried out into the street.

In the end, the wedding was as magnificent as the bride – whose name was Andiswa – had imagined. Amid the hubbub of the celebrations, she came looking for André. She found him sipping a drink by the bar.

‘Oh my god, your playing was exquisite!’ she exclaimed. Her narrow eyes flashed with painted glitter and delight.

André gave her a little bow. ‘You’re very kind. I’m pleased you enjoyed it.’

She clutched her lace-clad hands together and did a little curtsy of appreciation.

‘It was truly amazing! And I’m not the only one who thought so. Father Majola was so taken by your playing he wants to speak with you.’

‘What for?’ André asked. He looked up at an imaginary clock on the wall. ‘It’s quite late for me. I really must be going.’

‘Nonsense!’ she cried. And when André didn’t budge, she pouted in mock disappointment. ‘Really, André? On my wedding day?’

She seized him by the hand and led him to the decorated table where Father Majola was sitting.

‘Here he is, Father,’ Andiswa said. ‘He didn’t want to come so I had to drag him over here.’ She cupped a hand to her mouth and said in a stage whisper. ‘Be nice to him. He’s very shy.’

Father Majola turned ponderously in his chair. It was an ornate chair made of clear perspex and was not designed for a man of his bulk. His upper body turned first and it was only with the greatest of difficulty that the lower half of him followed. He was dressed in an immaculate steel grey suit with a white collarless shirt. He’d been given a lilac boutonnière and wore it with aplomb. Were it not for the heavy metal cross around his neck, he might easily have been mistaken for the bride’s father.

‘André, is it?’ He held out his large hand and waited for André to take it. ‘That was a marvellous rendition of the “Ave Maria”.’

André nodded. He wasn’t sure what he should say. The decorations were too bright and the chatter was too loud for his liking. He should have gone home when he had the chance.

‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ Father Majola said in his pulpit-ready voice. Several guests had already turned around to listen.

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Where are you from then? Such talent must have a provenance.’ Father Majola’s voice was as friendly as before but his grip tightened imperceptibly on André’s hand.

‘I’m from the Free State.’

‘Aha!’ Father Majola declared. He looked around him as if he were expecting applause. ‘We’re getting somewhere at last. Clarens or Bloemfontein?’

‘Bloemfontein.’

Father Majola raised his other hand and waggled his finger in the air.

‘I’m sure we’ve met before.’

André felt hot all of a sudden. He tried to tug his hand away but Father Majola’s grip was too strong.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Father Majola pulled André towards him until their heads were almost touching. His thick legs formed a fleshy trap around André. He lowered his voice and spoke directly into André’s ear.

‘You’re the angel boy, aren’t you?’

A violent spasm rocked André but Father Majola held him firm. He should have recognised the black man. He was much heavier now and back then his head had been covered in a sprinkling of closely cropped grey hair; now it was a polished dome with thick folds of skin coiled around his neck.

‘God gave you such a beautiful gift,’ murmured Father Majola. ‘Why did you run?’

It all came back to André in a screaming rush. The Sacred Heart Cathedral in Bloemfontein. The warm yellow brickwork. The gilded processions and the majestic sound of the organ. His father, trussed up in a dark suit, sitting in the spot reserved for him in the front pew. The Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. The twin crosses of the wooden confessional. Disbelief in the voice behind the curtain. His insistence. His stupid insistence. The questions. The hours of endless interrogation. The good priest, bad priest routine. So glaring, so obvious. Him crying and stumbling exhausted into the rain. The frantic cries of, ‘Elias! Elias!’ A huge black man, catching hold of him and carrying him back inside as if he weighed nothing at all. Then the large hands inside his shorts – probing, rubbing. The shouted words of scripture and tortured expletives. His mouth forced open, the salty taste of sperm snaking down his throat.

Now a sheen of sweat glistened on Father Majola’s broad forehead. ‘You have a unique playing style,’ he said softly. He made a fist and pretended to bow an imaginary violin. Then he gave a self-effacing cough and smiled sheepishly. ‘I’m not trained in music but I knew at once it was you. Won’t you come and see me at the cathedral tomorrow? You and I have a great deal to talk about.’

‘I think you’re mixing me up with someone else.’

Father Majola’s face split in a smile. He chuckled and patted André’s hand.

‘I notice you did not ask what I meant by angel boy,’ he said quietly. ‘How could I ever forget you, André Potgieter? Or would you rather I called you Elias Barnes?’

André tried to wriggle free but Father Majola’s grip was like iron.

‘Who would have thought we would meet again and here, of all places?’ Father Majola whispered. ‘They say coincidences happen much more frequently than we like to think. But I understand your hesitation. You play the violin like an angel. Is it so strange that the angels should recognise their own? Most people limp though life with no special favour, Elias. You, on the other hand, have been doubly blessed. First with a wondrous talent for playing the violin and secondly … well …’

His eyes narrowed and he chuckled softly. ‘You’ve been blessed with the other thing as well, haven’t you? That must be so bewildering for you, terrifying even. Believe me, Elias, I understand.’

André pulled his hand away and this time Father Majola let him go.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Father Majola pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. He was as tall as André and the metal cross nestled on his chest gave him an added air of authority.

‘Ah, the third denial,’ he said with a knowing sigh. ‘As a Catholic, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the significance of that.’

‘I’m not Catholic,’ André spluttered. ‘I never was.’

Father Majola held his hand out to André in a gesture of reconciliation.

‘As children we go where our fathers take us. I understand that also. Let us help you, Elias. Perhaps we were a little too …’ He glanced towards the bride and groom’s table where Andiswa and her new husband sat smiling among glittering fairy lights and garlands of white flowers.

‘Insistent,’ he said. He spat the word out of his mouth as if it were distasteful. ‘Perhaps we were a little too insistent when we first met you.’ He sighed again as if he were consumed by regret. ‘I’ve always prayed that one day, God would grant me the opportunity to apologise to you in person.’

He clasped his hands together and bowed his head briefly as if in prayer. André didn’t wait a second longer. He turned and pushed his way through the throng of wedding guests and was gone.