Читать книгу Stiletto (English) - Karin Eloff - Страница 8

I am a Broederbond baby who grew up with double-ply toilet paper and fluoride pills.

Our home was a place that functioned on rigid routine. Great emphasis was placed on every possible aspect of education during my formative years, except ball skills.

(Those I would learn much later – but not the sort my mother would be proud of.)

My first memory is of my sister being pissed off with me.

I played with her sewing machine. It was a Fisher-Price toy, of quite good quality actually. It wasn’t every day that I had the chance to play with her stuff, but for some reason or the other that day I did. I must have been very small still, because I fitted into the pull-out drawer under her bed; I can remember I was still in nappies, because my bum was padded, or perhaps I was just fat!

I had scarcely lost myself in my own lovely sewing-machine world when an odd little creature with a mop of dark curls stormed into the room. Okay, I admit it, it was her room after all. She was probably about three or four years old, because the little body was still typically babyish: round tummy, round cheeks and short stomping movements. I can’t recall what she said at all, because I could not yet understand or speak Afrikaans. But it must have sounded and looked awfully angry to leave such an impression. Her tiny fists were balled and her fat little arms were swinging around fiercely like a windmill.

One short, chubby little leg had the jitters – like Elvis Presley in his early years. I didn’t have a clue what was going on, and she was certainly not singing Heartbreak Hotel, but I can well remember that the intensity of her reaction totally fascinated me.

It was my first meeting with rage. Wow, how interesting …

When I was a bit older, I would usually sneak into my parents’ room early in the morning to jump on the bed, shouting that I was the Pink Panther. Then, after my dad had left for work, we helped my mom make the beds and fetch the milk and orange juice at the front door. In those days the dairy still had a cart that left your order at the gate before sunrise – and no one stole it.

My mother’s dressing gown was maroon, and all the pockets were full of crumpled tissues. She must have had a really runny nose. In the late morning, we listened to Siembamba on the radio. Tannie Susan and Otterjasie were daily highlights. My sister and I were even studio guests on the programme once. I told all the friends about the Mac Mac Falls and the Bridal Veil, and then sang Koljander-koljander. It was my first public performance.

I remember already having a word for orgasm at the age of three. It was so gruesome that I don’t even want to repeat it here. No, really – but it’s a lot like the French term, little death.

Little death? I still haven’t a clue where I got it from. How I came to associate my orgasms with a sort of dying, God only knows. Did it perhaps surface from the collective unconscious? A previous life of which I was unconsciously conscious? Who knows?

I think my sister and I both had a strong connection to that collective reservoir from childhood. One morning she calmly announced, “Oumie’s dead.” When the telephone rang in the late morning, that was precisely the news conveyed to my mom.

My sister’s explanation? She dreamt it.

We moved house a lot before I went to school. At one stage we had a house with a large backyard; there was a huge hill and we used to roll down it. It was also there that I got my first cat. A black one. His name was Ponti, named after Carlo Ponti, husband of the stylish Italian actress Sophia Loren.

I remember vividly how I clumsily picked up Ponti for the first time and placed him on my bed. Black marks were left behind. Bloody cat. I was upset that he’d smeared his colour off on my bedding. How was I supposed to know that a cat’s paint comes off? My mother would be super pissed off!

I chased Ponti from my bed and was very angry with him. I only realised years later that it must have been the black polish from my shiny church shoes and not the poor cat’s paint. I had obviously climbed onto the bed with my shoes on to chase him, so you can imagine what my bed looked like in the end.

My mom was super pissed off. Shame. Ponti eventually ran away. He was actually a stray cat, my mother consoled us.

I’ve just remembered something else: we also wore unbelievably tight white stockings to church with the shiny shoes. They were so tight around my legs that I started worrying about varicose veins at the age of four. I could see what some of the old ladies’ legs looked like: covered in little purple stripes winding their way across their calves like roads on a map. It could only have been as a result of those tight stockings.

My sister and I could read and write long before we went to school. My mother took the matter of linguistic prowess very seriously – something for which I am infinitely grateful to her.

I sailed through school and university as a result of it. (Except for grade one.)

We also had a box full of mathematical games which unfortunately did not drive me crazy with excitement. My mom, however, saw to it that our toys were stimulating: magnifying glasses, germinating beans, little stones, Kewpie dolls and tins filled with buttons.

I think I was three when we got our TV. My sister and I always sat wide-eyed in front of the TV staring at the test pattern. When the letters started rolling, we hastily packed away our toys and blocks – it was time for TV to start! We were allowed to watch Haas Das, Thunderbirds and Die Muis van Mars. Much later Dallas too, even if it was apparently meant for adults. I didn’t understand what they were saying anyway. My dad was a big fan.

My first crush was on Piet die Weermuis (Pete the Weather Mouse). I don’t know why, but I just really liked him. I even had a Piet Weermuis necklace.

My next big crush was on Wilma from Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. She always wore such cool, shiny, tight-fitting outfits. After that it was the Australian singer Olivia Newton-John. I particularly liked her legwarmers and sweatband. It’s not that I displayed any homosexual tendencies; I think every little girl falls in love with someone they hope to be one day.

But I, sadly, did not become Olivia Newton-John.

The first man I was in love with was my father. He was my prince.

My mother sometimes allowed my dad to bath us, and I remember how gentle he was with me and my sister. When he had to comb my wet hair, he never pulled it. It was unbelievably important; he never hurt me.

The next person I fell madly in love with was the American pop star Donny Osmond. I was convinced that I would marry him one day, even if he lived in America. As if that mattered! My love for him led me to believe that I was capable of anything – even if I had to swim there. I started conducting interviews in my room about my relationship with Donny, in which I attempted to speak English with an American accent. The rest of the family stood behind the closed door laughing at me. They probably thought it was cute and terribly funny. I was mortified when I found out. How could they laugh at me? Sis.

All the required things were duly done with us: My mother took us to the dentist regularly, we were read stories in the evenings and we were taught good manners. I did not wee in my panties once, as far as I can remember. When I was in grade one, my mother decided I should take piano lessons. It would teach me discipline; unearth, refine and polish my deep-seated musicality. Bring me closer to Donny Osmond …

I didn’t fall for that one, but agreed nonetheless. I stuck it out until grade seven – long after my Donny Osmond phase was as old and tired as last week’s You magazine. I progressed to grade five piano in Unisa’s practical exams. I played the violin to the level of grade three. (And no, it didn’t sound like tortured teeth-pulling.)

When adolescence struck me like a sledgehammer, I naturally didn’t want anything to do with this classical shit – it was as uncool as wearing glasses or having pimples on your forehead. My parents assured me that I would one day bitterly regret quitting, but my argument was that I could always pick it up again as an adult if I wanted to. (Last year, when the bug unexpectedly bit again, I decided: now for something similar but completely different. I now play the cello.)

I had such good manners in primary school that I once put up my hand to ask the teacher if I could sit elsewhere in class, because I didn’t want to sit next to a stupid boy.

How did I know he was stupid?

Because. He just was. It was my decision.

But I did say please, Miss …

My mother believed in the Montessori teaching method, and there weren’t many such pre-primary schools at the time. As a result I never went to pre-primary. When I entered grade one, I didn’t know any of the rhymes that the other kids had learned in pre-primary, but I could read and write. My mother didn’t force me to write like a baby, and so I could write well, but eish – my handwriting was horrible; for me there was none of this writing neatly, “soft up and hard down” with the pencil.

It was probably more of a scribble, because no one could read it. I nearly failed grade one because I didn’t know the silly pre-primary rhymes and because my handwriting looked like a drunken spider had fallen into ink and stumbled across the page.

In grade two I got my first hiding at school. I spelled “Johannesburg” with two j’s. The teacher wanted to know if I was trying to be funny, but I didn’t understand what she meant. Later that year I broke her abacus and nearly developed an ulcer about it. I didn’t want to be naughty; I wanted to do everything right. Good kids simply cruise through life more easily. Everyone could see that. Nobody likes a rude, lazy child.

In grade four, as part of some project, we had to write letters to the South African soldiers doing compulsory military service on the Angolan border, and they even wrote back. I had no idea what was happening on the border or that the guys we wrote to were on occasion shot dead or blown up. I only remember how disappointed I was because I thought the guy who wrote back to me couldn’t spell very well.

I even became deputy head girl of my primary school. How about that!

My mother was very strict with us and didn’t allow me to shave my legs or to wear nylon stockings. The boys regularly teased me about my hairy legs. It was awful. Stockings were totally the in thing when I was in grade seven. You were really ultra cool if you wore stockings. I remember writing a letter to my mother in which I begged her for a pair, but she wouldn’t have any of it.

Early ripe, early rotten, was her opinion. So there was no hope for me, I thought.

But all was not lost. One Saturday afternoon in grade seven I was sitting in the bath. My sister, who was already in high school by then, flew into the bathroom and lobbed me a razor before rushing off again.

Thanks, I thought – but what the fuck now? I was very excited but didn’t have any idea what to do next. How do you shave your legs? Oh well, how difficult could it be?

I simply shaved everything off, including half my skin. I looked like a road accident. But I was ecstatically happy. The boys wouldn’t tease me anymore. I was finally more than just a prissy nerd; I was a prissy nerd with smooth legs. And shaving cuts.

There were at least one or two boys in primary school who liked me. In grade seven I took part in the school operetta and fell in love with Tickey the Clown. He became my boyfriend and sent me a small satin heart via Mienkie, the school slut. I didn’t think much of this relationship: we didn’t even speak to each other! Communication was really a problem. What relationship stood a chance with only bashful glances? What was the guy’s problem?

Mienkie was my relationship counsellor. Her advice to me was: “Tell him you’re sick of him – and that’s it.” And the relationship was over.

Then there was the boy who sent me green Super M milkshakes at break time. It was cool and everything, but again the lack of communication bothered me. At least the Super Ms were a better deal than the silly satin hearts. I liked his practical approach.

On Sundays we went to church, attended confirmation class, read the newspapers and braaied, as most suburban Afrikaner families did (and still do).

I slowly came into my own in high school. It was the eighties. Against the background of the state of emergency and the last convulsions of the bush war, everything was about politics. My parents were actively involved in politics, the Vrye Weekblad was launched, and there were a number of integration groups at school to expose us to black children.

Because I didn’t do sport, I joined political and cultural organisations at school. Grade eight was a very unhappy year for me. I was madly in love with a boy with punk hair and bad-ass mates. They were probably in grade eight for the third year running. Their voices had already broken. They were stupid, but sexy – simply because they were older and hornier than the rest of us. My heart was broken when The Punk announced that he and his family were moving to Cape Town.

My sturm und drang also resulted in my running away from home. I believed my mom was pushing me too hard academically and, to top it all, she dared think The Punk was a waste of time. I felt very hurt that she didn’t want to take my love for him seriously.

The entire school found out I ran away because I – wait for it – ran away to school.

Don’t laugh. It was heavy.

I didn’t go home that afternoon after school as usual. I decided to stay at school because there was a dance that night at which I could see The Punk. My parents were out of their minds with worry. I hid in the school cloakrooms. The head girl tried to convince me to go home. I was in a state. I felt my life was a dead-end street. The Punk was nearly on his way to the Cape and my mother was planning to ground me because, according to her, I wasn’t doing well enough academically. My life had no meaning.

A while before this, a matric guy had stopped me in the hallway, told me I was ugly and had a good laugh about it. Ha-ha-ha. I wore glasses and was terribly self-conscious about them. The Punk was the only person on this planet who thought I was beautiful. He told me so. I believed him. And now I was being kept away from him on the eve of his departure to the Cape. And why? Because I had to study. Well, fuck you all!

My father fetched me from the cloakroom. He put his arm around my shoulder, led me to our car and said, “I’m disappointed in you.”

We drove home in silence.

When I walked in the door, I thought my mother would be pleased to see me. I thought she would understand and stop putting me under so much pressure to do well academically. Instead she said she never wanted to see me again. Naturally she was emotionally drained and simply wanted to be a good parent, but I was devastated.

The rest of grade eight was dead boring. Grade nine too. At least I eventually discovered another source of excitement. My sister went out with a terribly intelligent guy and I was madly in love with him from the start. She said he would be our country’s president one day. His name was Chrissie. Chrissie Mulder. He later became Chris Chameleon and made very nice records, as he calls them.

Somehow I clung onto Chrissie’s existence throughout my entire high school career. For three years I watched him, until he left school. His movements and interests fascinated me. And gave me hope. He was also “different” and I could see how he struggled with it. I wasn’t the only one who didn’t fit in with the rest of the kids, who were only interested in netball and rugby.

I was a nerd with a free spirit. And so was Chrissie. There was no place for kids like us in our school. Every time he even looked in my direction or spoke to me, I would stammer and blush. I didn’t know how to talk to such a clever, sexy guy. I had wet dreams about him.

Even when he had finished school and I had another two years left, I thought only of him. I never went out with anyone in school again. My mother wouldn’t let me anyway, because I had to study. There was no time to become boy mad, as she put it. My obsession with Chrissie Mulder filled my heart and high school years; his whereabouts and actions were motivation enough to get up and carry on. Every day.

In time, I didn’t know how I would ever achieve anything like a normal relationship with a man, or have sex with one. I was so painfully shy! One day I scraped together enough courage to ask my biology teacher if a man’s penis looked like a dog’s. I had once seen a dog’s stiff pink polony and nearly cringed myself to death.

“Yes, Karin,” she answered without turning a hair.

Eeeeeeuuuw …

I decided there and then I would rather never have sex if that’s what a penis looked like.

In my final year at school I was supposed to be confirmed in the Dutch Reformed Church, but I was not entirely sure of my religious convictions. Our minister and I did not share the same world view, shall we say. I once mentioned the word “evolution” in confirmation class and was told: “I see trouble for you if you harbour such ideas.”

We had to memorise the Heidelberg Catechism without understanding what it meant, and we had to declare before the entire congregation that Jesus Christ was our only Lord and Saviour.

But I did not believe it.

I didn’t know precisely what I believed, but I was convinced the god I believed in was neither as stupid nor as narrow-minded as the church’s great master minds.

A world of differences lay between us …

One afternoon after school, as I sat reading the newspaper at our dining-room table, everything just became too much for me. On the front page was a photo of a black man impaled with a spear during the township riots. The thing was protruding from both sides of his body. I burst into tears and my mother rushed closer, thinking I was crying about the picture, but I was crying because I had to stand up and lie in front of a church full of people that coming Sunday. In a prissy little cream suit. At least it would be with stockings. (Hallelujah.)

It was too late to back out, because Granddad and Grandma would be coming afterwards for tea and cake. The announcement of a total about-turn in my religious convictions and state of mind would not go down well with them.

Go through with it, my child, you won’t regret it. Mommy’s proud of you.

So I stood there and lied.

And stopped going to church after that.

Deep down I was still a prissy little girl who did her homework obediently every day and had good manners and who was so bashful around members of the male sex that my cheeks started to quiver when I had to talk to them.

Ag shame, sister.

By this time you’re probably wondering how the hell I surrendered myself to the sex industry for more than six years.

Because I could. I wanted to.

I cannot put it any other way.

Because I learned to be brave (or is that perhaps dumb?) enough to find my own answers.

Because I wanted to see for myself what goes on in the darker side of suburbia; what happens when the lights are off.

And what you fall into when you step over the precipice and tumble into the dark abyss.

I knew light was always part of the darkness, and darkness always part of the light. And I knew there was no such thing as only one truth.

I always knew I could come back again, even if I had changed along the way. I didn’t want to become a fifty-year-old suburban housewife or career-driven businesswoman who is married for decades to a balding man with a paunch, has an average of 2,5 kids and then suddenly gets ants in her pants and loses the plot completely. Or becomes deeply depressed on realising that she never really experienced or enjoyed her youth.

Oh no. I went out to explore my wild side …