Читать книгу Circus - Irma Venter - Страница 13

Johannesburg, September 1986

“Ouch!” The woman next to me cringes when Jonas “The Hammer” Gumede takes a third consecutive blow on the chin. His head jerks to the side, his eyes unfocused. She shakes her head. “Brian Mitchell he ain’t.”

“Brian Mitchell is going to win,” I say, though I don’t know who she is. “He’s going to knock Alfredo Layne out.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Alfredo Layne? What do you know about boxing?”

She looks me up and down. I know what she sees. Faded sweater, school uniform, the skirt direly in need of lengthening, scuffed shoes, dog-eared standard-seven history book on my lap.

I return her gaze. It’s not like she can talk. I guess she’s about forty. Her bright-blue dress is thin and skimpy. Pep Stores, rather than Stuttafords. Bottle-blonde hair. And the accent? Afrikaans, but with a couple of twists I can’t place.

“I know enough.” I speak up to make myself heard above the noise in the Hillbrow Boxing Gym. Oom Tiny is having a go at Jonas for not being fit enough. Sweaty men are struggling to bench-press weights far too heavy for them. “I’ve been watching boxing for years.”

She nods, points at my history book. “What are you doing?”

“Studying. I have a test tomorrow.”

Her eyes search among the people on the floor. “Your dad training here?”

“No.”

She gives me an inquiring look.

“He travels a lot,” I volunteer reluctantly. “For his work. I have lunch here and study until my dad picks me up or Oom Tiny drops me off.”

I have no desire to say any more about myself. Next moment she’ll be asking about my mom, or my dad’s job. I close my book and get to my feet.

She stops me with a hand on my arm. “I’m Daisy. Daisy Czerniak. Just Daisy.”

“Adriana van der Hoon. Hello, Daisy Cze-… Czerniak.” I pronounce her name the way she said it, with a “che” at the beginning. Then I give in to my curiosity. “Where are you from?”

“Poland. It’s just to the left of …”

“I know where it is. Next to the Soviet Union.”

She leans forward as if she’s about to share a secret with me. “Before we came here, I was the best knife thrower in the entire Eastern Bloc. I had a circus act with my father. He taught me. The Great Czerniak. I could peel an orange from a distance of fifteen metres. Shoop, just like that!”

I size her up. Can it be true? I’ve seen her here a few times, mostly in Oom Tiny’s office. Never with knives. I think she might be doing the gym’s books. And where have you ever heard of a bookkeeper who has also been a circus performer?

She laughs at my disbelief. “Let’s have something to eat. You like ham-and-cheese sandwiches, don’t you?”

How does she know? Has she been watching me?

I look from her to Oom Tiny. Watch as he removes Jonas’s boxing gloves, turns and gives her a smile. A smile like I hope Peet van Vuuren will one day send my way.

I put my book in my satchel. “May I have coffee as well?”

Oom Tiny had a new machine delivered from Italy that grinds the beans and produces black coffee with a thin layer of foam on top.

It smells the way I hope heaven will smell one day.