Читать книгу Nicky & Lou - Nataniël - Страница 7

Marcus Marcus waited two weeks before he returned to Doctor Friedland’s office. He did not make an appointment, he just left an envelope at reception. This is the story he wrote:

When I was nine years old our teacher, Miss Nita, told us we were going to have a concert to celebrate Spring. She said we were going to sing a song and all the girls were going to stand in front, because they were going to be the flowers. She said the boys were going to be in the second row, because they were going to be the fruit. She said everything was going to be white.

Then Dwight Moolman put up his hand and said the only white fruit he knew was a litchi and if he had to be a singing litchi his two brothers would never let him go home again.

Then Miss Nita said certain young peaches are also white and really beautiful. She said the white symbolised purity, peace and new beginnings.

Then Dwight put up his hand and asked her if she knew that the Klux Klax Klan in America wore only white.

Then Miss Nita said Dwight should stop sitting in the sun with his sandwiches. She said when polony sweated it could lead to hallucinations and distorted fantasies. She said it was even worse if there was margarine involved. She said there was no such thing on earth as the Klux Klax Klan.

During the first practice I stood in the middle of the second row. We sang a song called ‘Polly the Peach Says Hello Hello’. After the practice Miss Nita said I should move a little bit towards the left. The next day she told me to stand at the end of the row. After the practice she told me to bend my knees so that I wouldn’t be so visible. She said I was a tiny bit darker than the other children.

When I got home I started crying and told my mother Miss Nita said I was not white enough to be a peach. Mother said Miss Nita was a lonely woman who couldn’t make a friend if she volunteered as a trampoline. She said the clever people in the government had machines that tested babies when they came out and they wrote on my certificate that I was white.

The next day Miss Nita told me I was not going to be a young peach at all. She said I was going to be at the back with Fergus, we were going to be the workers that watered the peach tree. Fergus was a rude boy who looked like a scratch pole because his family only took baths for funerals or court cases.

I ran home and cried again. Mother put her arms around me.

We are white, she said, We have papers. And it’s not any of Miss Nita’s business, but I will tell you something. Everybody comes from somewhere. You come from us, we came from our parents and they came from their parents. Except for your grandfather, he came from a boat.

What boat? I said.

Before your grandmother became a member of church, she was very adventurous and extremely friendly, said mother, So, once, when the boat came to the harbour, she was really, really friendly to one of the crew. So friendly that he came back two years later. And then she was friendly again. Now, he was not one hundred percent white. He was from somewhere. And now we all are a little bit from somewhere. It is called exotic. It makes us very special. Look how well Uncle Manny is doing business with those people from the East.

That night my mother paid slow Alfred R40 and told him to go to Miss Nita’s house. She told him to wear a vest and take a bottle of wine. The next day Miss Nita’s eyes were red, but she smiled the whole day. She told me I had a new part in the concert.

On the night of the performance four fat children carried me onstage. I wore a golden crown and sat on a golden chair. I sang a song called ‘The Persian Prince Says Hello Hello’. People talked for days of how exotic it was.

These days I think of that night all the time, in fact, every day as I walk into the warehouse where I work with my Uncle Manny who imports clothes from the East, fashion made with child labour, stolen ideas and fake labels.

It’s against the law, I say.

The law knows nothing, says my uncle, We do this for the people. We take a bit from the rich and show it to the poor. It’s like Robin Hood. And these idiots buy anything with a label, it gives them hope.

I too have hope. That one day I will know what I am and what it is called. Exotic is not good anymore, these days, if you’re a whore, they call you exotic, if you use drugs, they say you have exotic habits, if you torture geese for their livers, they say you have exotic taste.

I will have a wife and we will have children. But not before I know what I am and where I should be. Until then I’ll wait. Until then I’ll just be a prince from somewhere.

(from the Coronåtion stage production, 2009)