Читать книгу Yellowbone - Ekow Duker - Страница 7

André Potgieter kept mostly to the modest house he shared with his mother in a quiet residential suburb of Mthatha. It had a lush green lawn in the front and piles of building rubble at the back. Even though the Potgieters had arrived in Mthatha two years ago, they still only offered the briefest of greetings to the other white people they met in the street or in the shops before hurrying away. André would have preferred things to remain that way, for he was reclusive by nature and was happiest when he played the violin. But his mother, Marietjie, was adamant that he had to do something to earn an income. And so, reluctantly, André began to give lessons.

‘Come now,’ his mother said one morning, rapping her knuckles sharply on the kitchen table to rouse André from his apathy. He had hardly touched his breakfast. ‘You have Mrs Harrison today.’

André pushed his chair back from the table. The strips of toast lay undisturbed on his plate in the same regimented order as his mother had cut them.

‘I don’t know why the woman bothers with lessons,’ he said. ‘It’s impossible for anyone to learn the violin properly at her age.’

Marietjie interrupted him with a raised finger. ‘Mrs Harrison pays us good money. Or would you rather we went back to Bloemfontein?’

‘Money isn’t everything, Ma.’

His mother sighed theatrically and folded the dishcloth in her hand. She placed it on the table in a neat square and patted it once before she spoke. ‘The only people who can afford to say that money isn’t everything are people who have money already. People like Mrs Harrison.’

‘Claire.’

‘Mrs Harrison,’ his mother repeated, emphasising the title. ‘So what if she is as tone deaf as your pa?’

At the mention of his father André felt the rush of blood in his head and for a moment his face contorted into a leer. ‘You know that’s not why I play,’ he said, conscious of the hint of petulance that crept into his voice. ‘I teach only because I don’t want to go back to Bloemfontein. But I don’t want to stay here either. If I do, I’ll go mad. Like that black woman in the next valley.’

Quickly, Marietjie made the sign of the cross. ‘Where will you go then?’

‘I don’t know. To London maybe. They’ve got very good music schools over there.’

On hearing this his mother’s pale skin lost the little colour it had.

‘To London?’

André shrugged as if to indicate he was not particularly fixed on England but the set of his jaw must have given him away.

‘You surprise me, André,’ his mother said in an unnaturally loud voice. ‘I thought we’d talked about this already. You know what the English are like. Your pa …’

‘Stop it, Ma! Just stop it!’

André looked down at his feet, embarrassed by his sudden outburst. His feet were large and splayed out on either side and looked out of place compared to his mother’s trim proportions. He rubbed his hand over the fuzz of hair that grew down the sides of his face and over his chin. ‘I’m not fighting the Anglo-Boer War with you, Ma,’ he said. ‘Not anymore. That’s just ridiculous.’

Marietjie’s lips tightened. ‘Ridiculous, André? Is it really?’

‘Yes, it is, Ma. You hate Pa because he was …. because he is, English. Do you know how pathetic that sounds?’

André looked up at his mother with anguish. Her eyes were dark and wary.

‘You’ve seen them again, haven’t you?’ she said quietly.

André shook his head. ‘Not for a while.’

Marietjie came around the table and hugged him. Her hair fell about his face in a dark veil.

‘I’ll call Doctor Viljoen,’ she said. ‘He’ll know what to do.’

André pushed her away as gently as he could so as not to offend her. Her body was as light as that of a small child.

‘Please don’t, Ma. I’m not sick.’

‘I know,’ she said hurriedly. ‘You’re different, that’s all.’

André rose quickly to his feet, towering over her. He thrust his chin forward and made his way to the door.

‘I’m sure you know that if this were England in the Middle Ages, they’d have tied me to a stake and burned me,’ he said over his shoulder.

‘André!’ his mother cried. ‘You’re not to say horrible things like that!’

He stopped and gave her a long look. ‘It’s true, Ma,’ he said. ‘They’d probably have burned you as well. The mother of the witch must be a witch herself. There’s a certain logic to that, don’t you think?’

Marietjie’s voice grew shrill with hysteria. ‘We can stay here, André! I know it’s not the best but at least nobody bothers us.’

‘But they will bother us one day, Ma. You know they will.’

‘And you think London will be any different? You’ve never been out of South Africa and now you want to leave me? And go to England of all places! You just said they burn people over there!’

‘That was hundreds of years ago. They don’t burn people anymore.’

‘Go then!’ she cried. ‘Just get out of my house and go!’

Brusquely, she began to clear the breakfast table. She placed the dishes in the sink with a loud clatter and attacked them with a wet sponge. She muttered to herself as she washed up, a quick-fire stream of murmured complaint. When she was done she wiped her hands with the dishcloth and hung it on a cupboard handle to dry. She did not see André come back into the kitchen. He stood and watched his mother quietly, running a hand over his head and his neck where his hair was too long for a place like Mthatha. When Marietjie eventually turned around, she let out a small shriek. She had not expected him to still be there.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a low voice. His long arms hung loosely, clumsily, by his sides and his slightly pudgy middle sagged towards his feet. He felt awkward – he always felt awkward, even in his own home. Marietjie smiled at him and a web of fine wrinkles appeared at the corner of each eye. ‘You’ll be late for Mrs Harrison,’ she told him. ‘She may be English but that’s no reason to keep her waiting.’