Читать книгу 150 Stories - Nataniël - Страница 23

On the second day, more magic waited for Billy-Dean.

On that day his search took him to the garage where he used to work. There he used to sit in the cardboard office in the corner of the workshop, answer the phone, tell people Mr B was out, and balance the books.

It was in that office that he drew the first picture.

Billy always used to make little drawings of houses that he dreamed of living in one day. Sometimes he drew people inside the houses. Beautiful women with dresses he saw in movies and tall men with moustaches. In the sitting room Marilyn was always standing at the window, wearing a long white dress. Billy never got the face right, but you could recognise her by the hair.

And on top of the sitting room there was always a bedroom. This room he kept for Vincent. There was never a door or a window because angels didn’t need that.

Then one day in the office, Billy drew another house, with wings in the bedroom.

And when Mr B went out, he drew the body, and then the face. Billy could never figure out where the face came from, but it was there and it was right. From then on he couldn’t stop. He drew pictures whenever he got the chance. Vincent was in every room. Sometimes there wasn’t even space for Marilyn.

Billy-Dean worked at the garage for almost two years. Mr B used to scream at everybody, but never at Billy. And every time Mr B discovered an angel between the accounts, he just went pale and said nothing.

So now, on the second day after Billy-Dean’s death, he went into the cardboard office, took out all the angels, burned them and washed his hands. Then he went home.

At home his wife was making a dress for the funeral.

Mrs B was a thin, tall woman with a bald patch. On top of her nose her eyebrows connected and on her forehead she had a mole with one long grey hair. She had long, thin breasts which she rolled up and bandaged every morning to create a bust.

Mrs B was cutting the collar when Mr B walked in and said, I need a drink.

And how will you hold the glass, said his wife.

With my … said Mr B and then he had a mild stroke, for both his hands were missing.

Like mist before the sun, said his wife, and cut the collar.

But I just washed them! said Mr B.

And didn’t you do that well, said his wife.

Dance with me! said Mr B. Please! It will bring them back!

All right, said his wife seductively and played with the mole. But then we have to do it like in the old days. Like the first time. Remember how you threw up in the bouquet? And on the honeymoon, how you tied my tits behind my neck to make a cleavage? And how I saw the whole of the Kruger National Park on my stomach, because you liked it tight? Those were the days.

I’ll do anything! said Mr B and grabbed his wife.

Say you love me, he said.

Snake shit, she said, and danced passionately.

Why B, she said, your mouth is disappearing. Is it because you washed it after you kissed Sheilah from the boutique?

Why B, she said, your arms are disappearing. Is it because you washed it after every massage in the maid’s quarters?

Why B, she said, your crotch is disappearing. Is it because you washed it so well after every fuck next door?

Then the doorbell rang.

Buite op die stoep staan Billy-Dean se jongste sussie. Sy’s nog bewerig van Sagte Lucas se stoep.

Sy sien hoe gaan die deur oop en ’n kop sonder mond hang in die gang.

My ma vra of Oom sal help kis dra, sê sy en wonder wat de hel die kop gaan doen.

But then the thin, hideous wife of Mr B appeared behind the head. Tell your mother it will be a pleasure, she said. Tell your mother it will be an honour. For both of us.

Then she lifted her dress above her head, rustled her feathers, and with her left wing hit her husband through the face.

(uit White Soul, Maart 1993)