Читать книгу Look At Me - Nataniël - Страница 13

Whether we drove directly from home, or we first went to Wellington, or my little brother was dropped off somewhere, or I was wearing a hat or not, details like these were all erased by my second emergency coma. Only the very worst moments, the life-threatening images, the most barbaric sounds, those remained. We must have parked somewhere, we must have walked far, my father would have held my hand, perhaps a blanket under his arm, my mother would have carried a bag or a basket, at some point we would have stood in a queue, bought tickets, sucked on orange ice lollies.

The experience starts suddenly, explodes like a surprising scene – smell, temperature, sound, movement, feeling, everything at once. I must have been wearing sandals, my feet are white from the dust and it is more than just seeing, I can feel it, dry, dry, dry. Hard soil with light powder that puffs round your ankles, trampled grass, straw-like and sharp, it stabs between my open toes like knives. For some reason I am smaller than usual, short and close to the ground, I reach up, up, but I stay down. I see dusty shoes, men and women all in the same shoes, some shoes are brown, now sandy from the dust, some shoes are black, now grey from the dust. All shoes are visible, trouser legs end at the ankle, dresses’ hems and petticoat ruffles too.

The dresses: Each a wide, flared skirt, with narrow pleats going up to the waist, shapeless bodice, puffy sleeves with bows on the elbows. The colours are dull, light pink, light blue, light yellow, light green. Nobody stands still, the dresses are in a hurry, definitely on their way to an event, everyone is called. I am too short, I cannot see the world, the dresses ball around me, I am an ant on a bazaar table, surrounded by sponge cakes, a big finger is going to squash me any minute. I jerk myself higher, I see their shoulders, white cloths hang like on the backs of armchairs. I jerk myself again, even higher, there are no faces, no hair, only bonnets, white things that first bulge like the heads of the octopuses in my picture book, then point to the front. At the back pleated flaps hang like in the windows of The Earth Houses.

I know my parents are on either side of me, but I don’t look at them, I stagger through the chaos like a wind-up duck, bent over like our town’s fat men walking at night, can’t go on, dare not stop, can’t go on, dare not stop.

Where are we? I call.

This is the Goodwood Showgrounds, says my mother, It’s the big Republic festival.

We have to go! I yell.

What are you talking about? says my mother, We haven’t even found a spot yet!

What are these people doing? I yell.

They’re dancing in front, says my mother, Look at that! Heavens, did you know so many people could make circles?!

In front of us appears a field bigger than the church, the school and the dormitory grounds combined. There are people who have formed circles and are now holding one another’s hands. Man, woman, man, woman, the men are wearing waistcoats, blue or orange. Waistcoat, puff cake, waistcoat, puff cake, thirty or forty in a circle, thirty or forty circles in an empty space. All the circles are moving in circles, it’s pretty. Ugly makes pretty. But the pretty is only the circling of the circles, not the bonnets, also not the waistcoats, also not the shoes and DEFINITELY not the sounds. Ugly makes ugly. They sing. The whole lot sings. It is a cheerful melody, they sing with enthusiasm, but like all outdoor singing it disappears immediately. There are musical instruments, a big platform serves as a stage; fabrics, orange, white and blue, span the carcass. On top there is an upright piano played by a woman in a bonnet, there is a half-moon of men with guitars and accordions and a wild bear with a cloth hat behind a set of drums, I recognise all the instruments. Right in front is a man with pitch-black hair and a bow-tie, he raises a silver bellows and pulls it open and closed like when Grandfather gets the fire going. The bellows screams murder, The Vuurhoutjies are torturing a cat or chasing a piglet.

It’s called folk dancing, says my mother.

And those are the last words of the day.

I see how my father throws open the blanket, how my mother sits down and takes a tupperware container from the basket. We are going to stay here for a long time, in this flat hell. Nero is suddenly there, life-sized between two accordions, he lifts his fist and jerks it down. The gates lift and the lions storm. They devour the man with the bow-tie and bellows first. Blood on the bonnets, blood on the shoes. Thump, thump, hammer my ears. And then all sound is gone. It is quiet again. Like in Riebeek West it is a throng of people, open mouths, hand gestures, crowds in the arena, crowds looking on, I hear nothing.

The next Saturday my mother carries her basket out the front door.

Come, she says, Go wash your hands so we can go. And take some of your books so you have something to do.

Where are we going now? I ask.

We’re going to braai! says my mother, I told you already. And fetch your brother’s red blanket, he’ll be asleep before we eat.

I’ll get the blanket, but I’m not going!

What did you say?

I’m not going, I hate those people.

Since when do we talk like that? Where did you learn that word?

Their house is ugly and they say stupid things.

Eben! calls my mother.

My father appears from the garage.

Someone has decided he’s not going, says my mother.

My father looks at me.

Are you going to get in yourself or do I have to come and fetch you?

I go up the stairs, walk into the house, do not wash my hands, grab the red blanket and get in the car. Five minutes later we stop at the house with the forget-me faces. My baby brother jumps out and runs to the swing behind the trailers. The people come out to greet us, the woman looks at me.

Isn’t he getting out?

No, dear, says my mother, He’s full of nonsense again.

Enjoy the wait! says the woman.

Stupid thing.

I lie on the back seat, the hours feel like weeks. If they keep on taking me to places I don’t want to be, I’ll show them. There in the back of the car I declare war. I don’t know yet that it will be a fifteen-year war, but I have begun to learn that the decisions I make when I am furious are my best, then nothing makes me change my mind. So I lie down until my legs go numb. Once my father comes to look. I lie with my eyes closed. Later my mother opens the door.

Here are some choppies, she says, And that thin sausage you like so much. And braaibrood. And foam pudding. With custard. Come, eat quickly.

I pretend to sleep. My mother leaves. Later I do fall asleep and only wake up when my father lifts me up and carries me inside. My stomach aches from hunger. I feel terribly sorry for myself, but I won’t cry, or eat, or talk. It’s war.