Читать книгу The Shallows - Ingrid Winterbach - Страница 9

Two days a week Nick taught at a small private art school just outside Stellenbosch. He was substituting for one of the lecturers, a woman who’d suddenly had to take sick leave. He could have stayed on in the Stellenbosch house after he and Isabel split up, but he’d found the house and the town claustrophobic. There was nothing to keep him there any longer. The house had been sold. He’d bought the house in Cape Town; Isabel had gone her way. They were childless.

The students were mainly children of well-to-do parents. He didn’t expect much of them; it was rare for a student to surprise him. This was just a temporary job he was doing. His heart was hardly in it.

The day was oppressive. It was hot. The heat had persisted without a break for four days now. In the last few days there’d been fierce mountain fires around Stellenbosch and in the Franschhoek valley. No wonder that tempers were getting frayed: the terrible heat, the wind, the strikes everywhere, bloody confrontations with the police, public unrest.

Today he had to discuss his students’ projects with them. His first appointment was with one of the few students whose work interested him. The young man sat hunched up in his chair facing him, gazing fixedly at a point on the carpet. Spoke in a monotone. Long silences. He didn’t like talking about his past, he said. Spent a lot of time on the streets. What he wanted to evoke was his happy childhood. He wanted to work in a variety of media: painting, drawing, sculpting, text and film. He slowly edged a file across the desk to Nick. Nick paged through it: images of headless seagulls, hotels with broken windows, a deserted sanatorium. A photo of a small wax figurine of a child, his eyes sealed with pins. (If these were memories of a happy childhood, he didn’t want to know what the contrary would look like.)

All day long he was edgy with his students. The heat was torrid. The surrounding mountains were still burning. He thought he could smell smoke. The remote sound of helicopters, of sirens some distance away in town – fire engines or ambulances. He wanted to get away, he wanted to go and work in his cool studio. He’d had enough of students for a while. Most of them didn’t belong here, they had too little talent and their parents too much money. They didn’t know what they wanted to do, they weren’t really interested, they were on their laptops and mobiles all day long and they talked like barbarians. He knew he was prejudiced, but he thought they looked stupid.

The last student he saw had hair piled on top of her head in a blonde nest and she was wearing black shorts so tiny that he thought he could see the fold of one of her hairless (waxed) labia. Shameless. But no, of shame and shameless she knew, to look at her, equally little – her countenance was as uninscribed, as unfilled-in, as if no experience had ever left its mark on it. Neither good nor bad. Ever been penetrated, he wondered, that little plucked pussy? She was like something that had just crawled out of an egg, of which the carapace was still soft. Although you never could tell with these kids. Behind that shallow gaze could lurk a lifetime of experience of which he had not the faintest inkling.

How old could she be, he wondered, eighteen, nineteen? And what was she planning to do for her semester project? he asked. She wasn’t quite sure yet herself, actually. Her features were regular, her hair blonde, her limbs slender and well proportioned. Physically perfect, without the slightest visible flaw or defect. Was there perhaps a theme, a cause, that she took to heart (he asked wearily). He had to caution himself to be patient, not snide, not sarcastic, patient (the parents were paying a packet, the kid’s emotions were tender and budding, vulnerable). He should try to nurture the meagre talent that there was; who knows, under the right – encouraging – tutelage something might blossom forth after all.

Yes, perhaps she’d like to do something on her doggies. What kind of doggies did she have? he asked. As in miniature poodles, she said. Poodles, he asked, or as in poodles? As in poodles, she said, with a little frown. (As in, what’s his case? he thought.) What was she thinking of? he asked. (A scrapbook, perhaps? He had to restrain himself, be patient.) Was she thinking in terms of an installation, he asked, perhaps a video, a photo series, and from what theoretical perspective did she want to approach it – eco-criticism, the analysis of animal discourse that was so fashionable at the moment? (He knew he had to stop this. It was unfair, he could see a vague intimation of distress in her eyes, like a panic-stricken dog in water paddling to reach the opposite bank. Have compassion! he urged himself. She was a child, she wasn’t responsible for the gaps in her education.)

No, she didn’t actually know. Changed position uncomfortably on her chair, crossed one tanned, shaved leg over the other. She didn’t think so. But there was something else that she actually felt quite strongly about.

And what was that?

Satanism.

Satanism, he said.

Yes, she said, she wanted to do something on satanism.

What aspect of satanism, Karlien? he asked. (Or was it Karla? He glanced surreptitiously at the register in front of him.)

She’d seen a photo in You, as in a place that they’d discovered in Joburg, you know? (Sing-song rhythm, where did the kids learn to talk like that?)

He’d have liked to send her on her way with the brief to go and look into the life and work of Ilya Kabakov, into his life under Soviet rule. See if you can understand any of it, he’d have liked to say. But that would have been pointless, the child had been brainwashed, her head was full of clichéd phrases, her imagination formed by Facebook images. He wanted to give her the brief to go and look at all the representations of devils in the Middle Ages, but the kids no longer knew what the Middle Ages were.

Bring photos, he said, bring any information, any pictorial matter and think of a format.

*

After terminating the conversation with the girl, he decided to go and drink something in town until the traffic had subsided somewhat. The town was bustling, he struggled to find parking; it was hot, he was irritated.

He ordered coffee, scanned the newspaper. An article on the misdemeanours of some cardinal. Of course the portrait of Cardinal Niño de Guevara is beautiful, Isabel had said, a miracle, and also the two Vermeers, and the Halses, especially the Halses, they were among the few paintings that she could still look at with pleasure, but would it have made any difference if she hadn’t seen them? He could still delight in what the day had to offer, she’d said, whereas she could only think that at the end of this day she’d be a day closer to the end of their trip. Delight, he’d said bitterly, delight in what the day had to offer, what made her think that? She’s sorry, she’d said, sorry sorry sorry.

Someone touched his shoulder lightly. He got such a fright that he actually spilled coffee in his saucer, because for a moment he thought: Chris – Chris Kestell! (Chris, of whom by chance he’d dreamt the night before. Chris Bitterbile, a friend of Victor Schoeman’s.) The man had the same longish, greasy hair, the same large black-framed glasses and owlish gaze. The confusion lasted for only a moment.

Was the seat opposite him taken? the man wanted to know. The coffee shop was crowded, Nick was sitting at the single long table. Did he mind, the man asked, if he took the seat opposite him? Refusal was not an option, Nick was tired and tetchy, he didn’t feel like chit-chatting with a stranger, especially not now after briefly taking the man for Chris Kestell.

The man sat down opposite him. Nick carried on reading the paper. From the corner of his eye he could see the man’s hands trembling while holding his cup of coffee. He got another fright, because Chris’s hands had trembled just like that. Especially when he’d drunk more than usual the night before, or was embarking on some vehement diatribe (as was often the case). And even more than usual towards the end. Just before he topped himself. Trust Chris Kestell for a dramatic exit. Swallowed pills and a whole lot of alcohol, tied a stone to his leg, and drowned himself in the town dam. Ironic, because Chris had never wanted to set foot in water. Always sat on the edge with a bottle of liquor, nursing his foot fungus, hurling insults at the swimmers. Vigorously calling down obscenities upon their heads.

The man was watching him, noting when he turned a page. He clearly wanted to chat; Nick not. He hid behind the paper, but his peace of mind had been shattered. He couldn’t have his coffee in peace when he knew somebody was watching him. He got up, greeted the man with a nod, paid, and went out into the glaring sun. It was still too early to drive home, the traffic was still too heavy. He went and sat in the bar around the corner, even though he didn’t like the place. At least it was cool in there. As long as the man didn’t follow him, and why would he?

But would you believe it, it wasn’t long before the man came into the bar. This time he took a seat a little way along. Nick turned his back on him, but nevertheless got the creepy feeling that the man was watching him. This he did not like at all.

As he paid and left the bar, he found the man next to him. For a moment Nick was blinded by the bright sun. The man took him by the arm and said: ‘Are you sure we haven’t come across each other somewhere?’ From close by the resemblance to Chris Kestell was considerably less marked than he’d thought at first glance. For a start, the man did not have Chris’s mocking, ironic gaze. He seemed bewildered and one of his eyes strayed sideways as if on a mission. More than just a slight squint. A bit repugnant. ‘No,’ said Nick, ‘I’m sure we’ve never come across each other.’ He curtly wished the man goodbye and started walking briskly to where he’d parked his car. The man kept up with him at a trot. ‘Do you live in town?’ he asked. ‘No,’ said Nick, by now convinced that the man had a screw loose somewhere. If not even a trifle retarded. Whereupon he quickened his pace and left the man behind, he hoped.

*

Marthinus had invited him for a beer after work. When he arrived, Marthinus was sitting on the stoep. He came to meet Nick with a mug of tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Beautiful view over the city from here.

He told Marthinus that his lodger had had an epileptic fit the day before.

‘When I got home last night,’ he said, ‘I found her on the floor in her room.’

‘Oh no!’ Marthinus exclaimed. ‘You should talk to her, people go into altered states before such a seizure.’

‘The point is,’ said Nick, ‘that someone had threatened her just before. Someone who’s been targeting her for a long time and that she doesn’t want anything to do with. By chance a car stopped next to me when I got home and someone wound down the window and swore at me most foully.’

‘That doesn’t sound like chance,’ said Marthinus. ‘You have to be on the lookout. Keep your eyes and ears open. I have contacts. People who know what’s happening in the neighbourhood. I can find out from them.’

‘Did you know Chris Kestell?’ asked Nick.

‘I did!’ said Marthinus. ‘Weren’t he and Victor hand in glove?’

‘They were friends, yes,’ said Nick. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘a man accosted me in Stellenbosch today – actually followed me at first. When I saw him for the first time, I thought he was Chris’s double. But from close up not that much like him after all. Still, it was creepy.’

Marthinus got up. ‘Let me show you something,’ he said. He returned with a small book. ‘See what I came across by chance in a second-hand bookshop yesterday. Look!’ he said, and lit a cigarette, ‘check what’s written in the front.’

Nick looked. The title was A Biblical-sociological Justification for Racial Segregation in South Africa, by Professor J.G. Kestell, Professor in Old Testament Exegesis, also Moderator of the Dutch Reformed Church in South Africa. In the front was written, in Afrikaans: For Christiaan Gerhardus Kestell, from his grandfather, J.G. Kestell. Honour your God, your father, your leaders and your nation, and you will always walk in the light of righteousness. Below that, in a large rounded childish hand: This book belongs to Christiaan Kestell, and the date: 15 July 1966.

‘What does this tell you about the childhood of Chris?’ said Marthinus.

‘The childhood of Chris,’ said Nick in wonderment.

‘Can you imagine what such a patriarchal injunction would do to the spirit of an intelligent, sensitive child, somebody who off his own bat had started questioning the status quo? Then to be confronted with this lunacy? His grandfather was a minister, his father was a minister. Both of them foursquare behind apartheid.’

‘I did think that Chris had taken a bad knock somewhere,’ said Nick faintly.

‘But exactly!’ said Marthinus. ‘Here you have a possible key to Chris’s deep psychic wounding. Not to mention his great undefined anger.’

‘I suppose one could call it that,’ said Nick, not sure whether the whole Chris-business interested him that much at the moment. He looked at the table of contents, paged through the little book. One of the chapters was ‘Apartheid as vocation, the responsibility of the Stronger for the Weaker’. There were subsections such as ‘Intra- and Extramarital miscegenation’, and ‘The infiltration of non-European blood’. In the conclusion racial apartheid was seen as the task of the European race, failing which, racial interbreeding would result.

‘You must be right,’ he said to Marthinus, ‘that kind of thing could warp a sensitive child for life.’

*

When he turned into his street, Nick saw a black car slowly driving past his house. It seemed suspiciously like the car from which he’d been sworn at. Although he couldn’t say for sure. He hurried into the house. He found Charelle in the kitchen. She was making tea.

‘Was there somebody here?’ he asked.

No, she said, surprised. She’d come home a while ago and there was nobody here. Could she make him a cup of tea as well? He collapsed into a chair, relieved. He suddenly felt surprisingly moved by this gesture of hers.

He watched her while she made tea. He found her pretty. She had dark eyes and dark eyebrows, and a largish nose and a resolute mouth and her teeth were irregular. (Money for orthodontic work there had probably not been.) And then, the soft, abundant, dense head of curly hair. Delicately built. He generally preferred more robust women, but he found her attractive. Amazing that an adult (he assumed she was older than eighteen) could have such slender childish wrists. He was grateful, touched that they could sit together at the kitchen table like this.

He did not want to bombard her with questions, but there was a good deal that he didn’t know about her. He’d hardly had a proper conversation with her since she’d moved in. He didn’t want to be pushy, he didn’t want to spoil the new conviviality of their sitting there. She was shy, first of all he wanted to set her at ease.

How did she find her course?

She liked it. It was exciting.

Did she have any work to show him? (Immediately regretting that he’d asked it. Actually he wanted to be as little as possible involved with her life. With anybody’s life.)

She’d be happy to show him. (Her face changed colour slightly. A dark blush.) She’d get her portfolio together. He could see that she wasn’t entirely at her ease. He had just got up to make more tea, when the doorbell rang. At first he considered ignoring it. He didn’t want to disturb their companionable togetherness. But the bell rang again. Twice. Emphatically. But when he opened the front door, there was nobody outside at the gate. He switched on the stoep light. Closed the front door again. How had the person who’d rung the bell managed to make such a quick getaway? He did not like this.

He went back into the house. ‘Nobody,’ he said. She said nothing. Looked down at her hands.

‘This man who’s stalking you,’ he said, ‘is he capable … do you have reason to be afraid of him?’

She shrugged. She didn’t know. She thought his friends were a bad influence. And he was also thoroughly mixed-up in his head. But she didn’t know. It depended on who he was hanging out with.

In what way was he mixed-up in his head? he asked.

He’d had this thing about her ever since schooldays, but she’d never been interested in him. He’d come to Cape Town to look for a job. But she didn’t think he’d found one yet. She thought he was hanging out with tik-heads now.

Had she talked to him yet?

Not really since coming here. Just that once before she had the fit.

What had he said then?

He’d threatened her. (She looked down. Unwilling to talk.)

With what?

He’d said she wouldn’t get away. He’d come after her until she went with him. If she didn’t want to, he’d make her pay.

‘You can’t report him to the police?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘He’s done nothing yet,’ she said softly.

‘So do you have to wait until he does do something?!’ he asked.

She shrugged again.

The companionable atmosphere had been disrupted. Shortly afterwards she went to her room. He remained behind on his own at the kitchen table. Restless and disgruntled. That was how he’d sat at the table in their apartment in New York as well. Isabel had cried every morning. In the afternoon she hadn’t talked at all. Later he’d been afraid for her, she was so doggedly desperate in her blue dressing gown. They’d had moments of silent closeness on the subway, in streets on their way to museums, but the thrill of New York had largely passed them by. A sullenness had come over him. Nevertheless he’d still desired her at times. Desired her intensely. He’d wanted to blast open her blue dressing gown and stoke her like a furnace. Until she spontaneously burst into flame and they were consumed by it. In the museums only Oriental art had retained its appeal for him. The delicate hand of Jizō’s Bodhisattva Ksitigarbha from the twelfth or thirteenth century. The eleventh-century Bodhisattva from the Northern Song dynasty with its erect back and proud, enlightened-ecstatic facial expression. Western art, with very few exceptions, no longer did it for him. El Greco’s View of Toledo and the portrait of the cardinal; the work of Jeff Koons (Ilona’s trim little butt-hole).

Latish the next afternoon he shopped – for the first time in weeks – extensively for ingredients. Tonight he was going to cook. He wanted to ask Charelle if she wanted to join him for dinner. He hadn’t cooked properly for a long time and he was a good cook. He made a green Thai curry. The kitchen was filled with enticing aromas. The windowpanes steamed over. The unusual heat had broken. It had started raining suddenly. A good day for curry. He didn’t want to invite her officially, he was afraid it might scare her off. He’d take the chance. Perhaps she wasn’t even coming home, or had other plans, although thus far she’d not often gone out during the week. Not that he’d really taken note all that carefully before.

She came home in the early evening. Alert eyes, observant. How had she got home? Took a taxi, she said, then walked a few blocks. On her cheeks again the dark-red blush (from the brisk walk, with excitement?), and fine droplets of water in her dense hair. He invited her to have supper with him, he’d made food, he said, she might as well. At first she seemed a bit undecided. But she let herself be persuaded. Together they sat in the steamed-up kitchen. He and the child with the slender brown wrists like Tamar in the Bible. (Child?) Cut off from the world, and secure, while sitting here. She ate. She was evidently hungry. He hadn’t given much thought before to what she actually lived on, because in the fridge there was hardly anything: now and again a tub of yoghurt, a little block of cheese, a container with cheap margarine. He asked her about her family on the West Coast. When she’d started taking photos. They drank wine and she talked more freely than before. She’d started taking photos at high school, university students had handed out small cameras to the kids as part of a project. She’d been crazy about it from the start. She’d photographed everything in sight. Mainly the people of the town. The cemetery. The landscape. Gradually she’d become more daring. Before leaving the town she’d made a series of self-portraits in weird contexts. She had lots of new ideas – the ideas just came. She was enjoying her course at the art school – it was challenging, and the little job she was doing on the side wasn’t too bad. She helped out two afternoons a week in a friend’s hairdressing salon. Did the clients’ nails and so on. (To his shame he’d never even asked what she did.) She’d been in the city for two years now, but this was her first year at art school. She’d worked hard to save up for it. Her skin was remarkably soft, flawless like that of a prepubescent girl. They didn’t talk about the guy who was threatening her, but it was there, as a given between them. He was sure that she also sensed it.

The next day he experienced a strange excitement. He was going to cook again that evening. Perhaps they could now have supper together more often. At least she’d be having a decent, nutritious meal every day.

He planned the menu in detail. He was stepping with a lighter tread; the students were less irksome than usual. Even the girl who wanted to work on satanism seemed less ridiculous. He was patient with her, even though she didn’t seem to be making much headway. Perhaps she could do something with the installation project after all. He was supportive. To such an extent that in an unguarded moment he found her staring at him fixedly, something she hadn’t done before. Perhaps she thought he was trying to seduce her – how could he know what was happening in that head. Perhaps she thought he was planning to tumble her on the leopard-skin rug that she wanted to use in her installation (based on a You photo of a ‘satanic pit’ that had been discovered in an abandoned mineshaft), commit indecent acts with her. Kids nowadays were probably warned at length against paedophiles.

That evening he made an aromatic chicken dish. Top drawer, he thought. Charelle joined him more readily. They drank wine and she talked even more freely than the previous evening. Was Charelle a family name? he enquired cautiously. No, she said, coloured people were fond of fancy names. It was a bit of a fashion, names like Lisché and Shinique and Izona. What kind of people were her parents? he asked. She shrugged. Simple small-town people. Conservative. Religious. And she? She just shrugged again. But she did believe in the devil? She just laughed, shook her head in denial. They talked about the art they liked. She was clearly eager to get to know as much as possible about contemporary art. (Unlike his blasé, torpid students at the art school.) She had a habit of lifting her eyebrows when talking animatedly about something. (Towards the end Isabel’s eyebrows were like two crossed swords – pale, like her hair.) He told her about Ilya Kabakov, whose work he was studying with renewed interest of late. (To his regret there had been none of it to be seen in New York.) She listened with interest; lively eyes. He asked her about her youth. Her father had at first worked at a crayfish factory in Klippiesbaai, she was born there, but later they moved to Veldenburg, where he was now working for a timber firm. She’d gone to school there, in the town. But she’d known from an early age that she wanted more from life. She wanted to be an art photographer. That was her purpose with her training. Had she made many friends in the city? No, she was a bit of a loner. And the man, the guy who was pestering her? He’d only arrived in Cape Town at the beginning of the year.

He cautioned himself not to get too familiar with her, to keep an appropriate distance. The next two evenings they ate together again. She showed him her portfolio. He was impressed. Surprising, that this girl, who’d grown up in a small West Coast village, with probably no proper high school education and very limited exposure to international art, could produce work that was so fresh. Like Cindy Sherman, she posed and photographed herself in all kinds of artificial situations. One of these self-portraits had been taken in a butchery, with metres of sausage wound round her naked body. (It shocked him, he had to admit.) He shouldn’t underestimate her – delicate wrists or not, she was daring, focused and ambitious. If she could persevere, she could, with her natural talent and ingenuity, go far.