Читать книгу The Book of the Dead - Kgebetli Moele - Страница 10

Pretty, as the name suggests, was pretty. Girls like her were not for marriage but for show, so people believed. They believed that her kind were made for sharing amongst men, as no one man could ever handle such beauty alone without jealousy rendering him insane.

Pretty had her first boyfriend in Standard One. Every morning a man came to deliver his boss’s children to school and there they would find her at the gate. One morning, the man asked her to choose between his boss’s three sons. She chose Lehlogonolo, the eldest son, as they were in the same class, and with that she guaranteed herself half of Lehlogonolo’s lunchbox, which for a poor girl was luxury. Though she shared his lunchbox every day, she only kissed Lehlogonolo once – and that was in the presence of the driver, who had coached him – but this became the foundation of what she knew her beauty could do for her.

As she grew older Pretty learned quickly that her beauty scared men out of their minds, but she also learned that men don’t deserve to be trusted.

Only once had she trusted a man. Her Standard Four class teacher was someone she could talk to. She thought of him as a second father, as he appeared to be the only person in her world who was concerned about her.

She trusted him until one Friday afternoon when she found her back flat on his bed, her legs spread, her body racked with excruciating pain.

“Please don’t tell anybody,” he said afterwards as he put money in her hand.

And she didn’t tell anybody. Not because she didn’t want to tell her story, but because she never knew how to start telling or to whom she would tell it.

Monday came and some more currency was paid. She did not know what to say. Then Friday came around again and another appointment was made. Her legs took her to his quarters on Saturday, and there were new shoes and a beautiful miniskirt that she had to wear there and then. Dressed in the new clothes, she looked at herself in the mirror and for the first time in her life she saw herself as if she were looking through someone else’s eyes and was overwhelmed by her own beauty.

Then people started talking about her. She was a poor girl wearing expensive clothes, and it wasn’t long before the truth was exposed. Then the teacher tried to distance himself from her, but he couldn’t keep away. He tried to be discreet, but there were eyes that saw and tongues that wagged and waggled until the authorities could no longer continue to turn a blind eye.

After that Pretty tried to avoid the chilli-hot whispers and pointing fingers, but by the time she made it to high school her back had been forced down naked by many people she knew in the community. There were always men who wanted to be part of her life, and when they found that they fell short of her expectations they came with currency, and for a poor girl the currency was what mattered.

Then Bongani came along, when she was sweet sixteen. She didn’t even want to get to know him – there was nothing about him that interested her – but eventually his father’s money engulfed her and swept her off her feet.

Although she felt nothing for him, Bongani worshipped her. He even took her home and introduced her to his parents.

Bongani’s mother loved Pretty, and there would have been an engagement and a marriage if Bongani’s father hadn’t called his son to one side. “Son,” he said. “It is a good thing to have a wife. We all love your girlfriend, and are very proud of her, but you and your girlfriend don’t yet have the willpower to sit on the red-hot fire that is life. If your mother, son, ever had an affair, that would be the end of us as a family, but although there are many men who want your mother, they know what a strong woman she is. She has resisted them because she has the power to resist, and that is a quality that your girlfriend has not acquired yet. A woman without resistance cannot build a family. Wait, son, and eat it knowing what it is. Don’t be surprised later.”

Then there was a row in the family because Bongani’s mother was pushing for them to get married and his father was resisting. Some members of the family even thought that Bongani’s father hated Pretty for some reason, but his father, seeing what was happening, called a meeting. “We all love Pretty,” he said, “but I want to ask that they wait until they have both passed their matric. Then, if they still want to, they can marry and we can send them to university together, if they want to go.”

Pretty heard about the meeting and knew that after matriculation she would marry into one of the most affluent families in the community, and that she and Bongani would go to university together – if they wanted to. The thought made her smile.

A year later Bongani came to his father with tears in his eyes. He looked like he had just walked a thousand kilometres. “Son, stop crying,” his father said, hugging him. “Women are just like that. If you give them your heart they will always find a way to tear it apart.”

“She has not acquired the power to resist, Dad,” Bongani responded, his voice drenched in tears.

“She will grow up,” his father said, trying to comfort his son. “And maybe, when she has grown up, you will still have the power to look her in the eye and love her despite what she has done to you.”

But deep down they both knew that Bongani would never forgive her.

When Pretty split with Bongani she was doing Standard Nine and dreaming of becoming a lawyer and defending the defenceless. But after matriculating her dreams were put on hold for two whole years, while she listened to her father’s promises. “I am going to take you to the University of the North,” he told her. Which became, “I didn’t save enough, but let me talk to people . . .” at the beginning of the following year.

Pretty got a job in a supermarket. She didn’t like it, but she thought that if she worked there for a year or two she would save enough money to take herself to university. That thought gave her the strength to wake up every morning and go to work, but saving money was more difficult than she had thought it would be, and she soon discovered that the way she was living didn’t allow her to save.

One afternoon, when she was working, Sport came to the outlet because he had heard some people talking of her beauty. He had asked that they show him what they were talking about, but they had refused. “There is no need for that,” one of them told him. “Just go in there and walk around, if she is on duty you won’t miss her.”

Sure enough he didn’t miss her, and for the first time in his life Sport did not know how to conduct himself in front of a woman.

It was later, during her lunch break, that he approached her. She was window-shopping, unaware that Sport was following her in his sports car, a GT. I have seen beautiful women, but none have scared me as this little girl does, he said to himself, shaking his head.

When Pretty went into a shop, Sport parked his car and followed her. Inside he greeted her humbly: “Hello.”

She acknowledged him with a gesture.

“My boss sent me to tell you that you can have anything you want.”

“And where is your boss?” she responded, smiling.

“You will see him. He is waiting outside.”

“I don’t want anything, I am just looking,” she replied. “Tell your boss that I said ‘thank you’.”

“Then I say, on his behalf, that you can take anything you want, anything you want even if you don’t want it . . . Take it for your cousins.”

Slowly he persuaded her, and eventually he bought her a very expensive pair of shoes, a leather jacket, a pair of jeans, a shirt and some cologne.

They were laughing when they left the shop. “I was instructed to drive you home safely,” he said.

“By your boss, I guess,” Pretty said.

“You guessed right.”

And that was how Sport bought his way into Pretty’s heart.

There was nothing wrong with Sport. He seemed to be a sweet man who liked the finer things in life. Pretty never asked how he earned his money, she just accepted whatever he presented of himself, but Sport asked her all about her life and it puzzled him that she never asked about his. “I have asked you nearly everything about your life,” he said one day when they were together, “but you have never asked me anything about mine.”

“I think it is a good thing not to know too much,” Pretty said. “I just accept things as they are, at face value. Don’t you think that’s for the best?”

“No.”

“Well, I think that it is. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss. This way, at least, I don’t know that I’m being lied to.”

“You didn’t lie to me, did you?”

“No, but there are questions that I would advise you not to ask.”

But after using and abusing her for a couple of months, Sport found himself unable to do anything without having her by his side. “Where is your boyfriend?” he eventually asked.

“Finally,” she said, smiling at him. “Finally you ask ‘the question’. But, now, I don’t know whether to lie to you or tell you the truth. Which do you want me to do?”

“Lie.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“And what am I?”

“You said lie, and I lied.”

Sport looked into the distance as if he was calculating something. “The truth then, Pretty,” he finally said. “Where is your boyfriend?”

“You mean my boyfriends.”

The answer didn’t surprise him; somehow he had always known that she had more than one, but the honesty of her answer made him love her more than ever.

“How many do you have?” he asked.

“I have lost count; they come, they go.” She smiled. “But do you really want to know?” she asked, the tone of her voice changing. “Do you really want to know? I don’t want to lie to you, so if you don’t want to know, please don’t ask.”

“Do you love your boyfriends?” he asked.

“I have sex with them, if that is where you are going with this.” She smiled and gave a laugh that aroused his soul. “But why are you so interested in my private life today? Because, let me tell you, Sport, I don’t like to reflect on what I am. I don’t like what I am. It is not what I want to be.”

While she had been speaking she had changed; her eyes had turned red and her voice had become angry. “You can use me as you want,” she continued, “but please don’t stir me up.” She stopped as tears filled her eyes. “Don’t touch my heart.”

“I wasn’t stirring,” Sport protested. “I just wanted to understand why a beautiful, intelligent girl is stuck like you are.”

By now the tears were flowing out of her eyes, and she opened the door to get out of the car. “Bitch, what do you think you are doing?” he said, intending to scare her, but immediately he felt ashamed.

“Yes, say that again,” she said, stopping to look at him, half in and half out of the car. “Say it again. Say it. Use me like all the other bitches you have used. Don’t come here pretending that you want anything more than what you really want. And don’t blame me when I give it to you.” Her voice, though calm, held a violence that scared him.

They looked at each for a moment, then she wiped away her tears. “You are not the first one to buy me expensive shoes,” she said. “You are not the first one to buy me cologne. Men have bought me things all my life, and you know what the funny thing is? I have never asked them for anything. No. They just buy me things, like you did. They just do it.” She paused to catch her breath. “You all make up stories,” she continued. “‘My boss this . . .’, ‘My boss that . . .’ I always say ‘no’, but they buy me things anyway, just like you did. And, somehow, I have learned to love the fact that they buy me things, because deep down I know that they don’t care. After they ejaculate they will move on to someone else, and there will be somebody else for me too. I don’t like it, but I didn’t choose it either.”

“Is that what you think of me?” Sport asked.

“That is what I know about men,” she replied, “and you are a man as I am a woman.”

“Pretty, I want to help you.”

“You are stirring me up! Please stop.”

“Listen to me . . .”

There were people who had stirred her up before and none of them had ever honoured their promises, but Sport was different, and a few months later Pretty found herself at the University of the North, all her hopes and dreams on fire, the goalposts just three more years away.

Sport was so committed to Pretty that, for once in his life, he focused only on her. He had always had lots of girlfriends, but with Pretty he had found everything he was looking for. He did not need to be with another woman. But Pretty was pretty and it wasn’t long before she had a fellowship of wannabe boyfriends, and eventually one of them began to share the stage with Sport. Inevitably, one Tuesday night when they were busy in bed, Pretty heard Sport’s GT roaring outside, but she dismissed the idea because Sport only ever visited on weekends – saying that he didn’t want to interfere with her studies. But then there was a knock on the door, and the knock was Sport’s.

“Who is it?” she asked, and immediately he knew something was wrong because she had never asked him to identify himself before.

Sport knew that the room had burglar bars on the outside, so he relaxed and waited to see what would happen. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Pretty opened the door. Behind her the boyfriend was sitting on a chair, his books open and a pencil in his hands, trembling a little.

The truth was obvious, but Sport didn’t want to believe it. He pushed past Pretty and offered his hand to the boyfriend, watching as the pencil slipped and fell. Sport picked it up, trying to catch the boy’s eye as he gave it back to him, but his eyes were running all over the room.

“Don’t you think that study time is up?” Sport eventually asked.

The boy didn’t know what to say.

“I mean that you can go now,” Sport continued. “You can continue studying tomorrow . . .”

Then, finally, the boy offered Sport his hand and they shook hands very hard.

After the boy had left Sport turned to Pretty, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to compose himself. Even though he had been half expecting it, the fact that she had another boyfriend had hit him hard. He didn’t know what to do.

Pretty had talked herself out of almost every situation with men, but this time she didn’t know where to start. “I am sorry,” she finally said, but it was as if he didn’t even hear her. “Sport, I am sorry,” she said again, trying to break his silence.

Finally, Sport looked at her, but it was too much for him and he made for the door.

“Sport, don’t leave me,” she cried.

He paused at the door and wiped away his tears. It was the first time in his life a woman had ever made him cry.

“Sport, I am sorry,” she said once more, as he opened the door.

“For what?” he asked violently, closing the door and turning back to her. “What are you sorry for?”

In his line of business you were only sorry when you got caught; sorry because you got caught, but not sorry for the act itself.

“Sport, I am sorry,” she repeated, trembling with emotion.

“You’re sorry. Yes, Pretty, I understand. But what is it that you are so sorry for?” He took a step towards her and she tripped on the corner of the bed, anticipating the fist that she knew was coming.

“For the last time, Pretty,” he said, looking down at her, “what are you sorry for?”

Then he thrashed her, and by the time the campus security came to rescue her there was nothing pretty about her.

* * *

The morning after Sport had caught her with her boyfriend, Pretty sat down to think about her prospects. Her father’s money had finally come through, but it wasn’t even enough to keep her going for a month, and the student fund was only available for the next study year. The truth of it was that without Sport’s financial support she would have to abort her studies. It was either that or go begging to him, and she was determined not to do that. She had never begged a man in her whole life. If there was any begging to be done, she was always the one to be begged.

She sat on the single bed, her back to the wall, hugging her legs for comfort, thinking about Bongani and what could have been. Then she began to think about all the other men that she had got naked with, wondering if one of them could help her. She fought the thought, but it wouldn’t go away. Just ask, this once, something inside of her said. They are the ones that came to you. They got what they wanted. Ask and get what you want too.

She had never been inclined that way; men were always the ones to come to her with offers, but she had to ask this time. She made a list of all the men that she had got naked with, then separated them into three categories: Grade A, Grade B and Grade C.

Grade A men were those who were family men with financial power. Herbert was the first on the list. She called him at his bottlestore and caught him first time. After they had greeted each other she put forward the purpose of her call: “Well, I am sorry to call you, Herbert, but I have some difficulties with my studies, financial difficulties, and I don’t have anywhere else to go. I just thought that maybe you could help me somehow.”

“I will call you back,” he said, after she had given him the residence phone number, but then he cut the call without even saying goodbye.

Immediately, Pretty felt worse than she had ever felt before in her life and she took to her bed.

Herbert called her the next morning. “How much do you want?” he asked.

She wasn’t sure how to respond to the question, so she stayed quiet, calculating.

“Pretty, I said how much do you want?”

Then she told him how much she owed the institution and he gave her all of it, plus fifty per cent.

After Herbert, Pretty tried the next man on the list and then the next. Almost all the men put something towards her education, and that was how she put herself through the University of the North. They had used her, and she was using them in turn.