Blind Date at a Funeral (14 page)

I slowly sat up and watched her as she ran. She was beautiful. I was surprised that she was alone.

Her body was perfect. Her running motion was dreamlike. So smooth and comfortable. It looked as if she were gliding along the beach. Although she was moving quickly, she was running in slow motion.

I stood up. She didn't see me.

I hopped over the railings onto the sand and kicked off my shoes.

I was lonely. It was off-season and there were hardly any people at the hotel. I was actually feeling quite depressed. So I decided to run with her. I certainly needed the company and thought that making friends would help the way I was feeling.

She looked so relaxed. There was no tension or pressure governing her stride. I needed to share that vacuum with her.

I started running towards her.

She saw me and slowed a little.

I yelled for her to stop.

She didn't.

I yelled again.

Nothing.

I tried to catch up with her, but she was too quick for me.

I tripped over my own feet and fell.

I must have looked like a complete idiot.

I was just about to walk back to the hotel when she acknowledged my existence.

It was classic. She just kicked to the left and without altering her stride, moved in a long, lazy arc towards me.

I smiled and jogged towards her.

We met where the water meets the sand.

I didn't know her. She didn't know me, but there was some strange kind of understanding. We bumped into each other and tumbled onto the beach together, half in and half out of the water.

A wave splashed over me and I got soaked.

She waited patiently for me to remove my wet clothes.

The weather was so awful that nobody else was on the beach. And to be honest, I didn't care if anyone saw me running on the beach, almost naked, in my Jockey Slimjan underpants.

Besides, in essence, she was pretty much naked herself and I wanted to move with the kind of unencumbered freedom she appeared to be running with.

So I left my clothes in a pile on the beach.

And we ran.

And ran.

And then she suddenly turned and ran back down the beach to where she came from and she disappeared.

I never saw her again.

But someone at the hotel who also saw her that day tells me she was probably an Irish Setter. He said her red hair was a dead giveaway. Probably a show dog.

She could very well have been an Irish Setter for all I know. Or some kind of Pointer. I don't care what kind of dog she was though, because she was good company on a bad day.

(Soundtrack: ‘Two of Us' by The Beatles)

I was five years old and enjoying a walk in the neighbourhood with my nanny, Esther.

Esther was a large, cuddly Sotho woman, who was very generous with her hugs and warmth. I always felt safe with her.

It was a beautiful afternoon and Esther was holding my hand as we walked. The sky was a deep blue and the jacaranda trees were draped in a patchwork of purple blossoms.

As we strolled along the street, Esther chatted to many of the domestic workers who were sitting on the grassy sidewalks during their lunch breaks. Esther knew almost every person we passed on the street. I loved to listen to the passionate chatter, even though I could not understand what Esther was saying because she was talking in Sotho. I was having a great afternoon nonetheless.

Then everything changed.

A South African Police van screeched to a halt beside us. Two police constables jumped out of the van and started chasing a number of domestic workers, who got up and tried to run away when the vehicle arrived.

Esther and I watched in horror as the police rounded up five or six women and threw them into the back of the police van.

Esther put her arms around me, shielding my eyes from the goings on. Then she started slowly edging away from the van.

I tried to look over my shoulder. ‘What are they doing?' I asked, bewildered.

‘They don't have passbooks,' said Esther, turning my face away. ‘Come, we must go quickly.'

She grabbed my hand and started walking back down the street.

‘Hey, you!' came a voice from behind us. It was one of the constables. ‘Stop.'

Esther froze.

‘Let's go,' I urged.

‘Haai eh-eh,' said Esther, grabbing my hand and breaking into a run.

‘Ek gaan jou moer as jy nie stil staan nie!' yelled one of the policemen.

Esther stopped and faced the policeman.

‘Waar is jou donderse pas?' said the constable, in Afrikaans. ‘Where is your damn pass?'

‘My pass is at the house,' pleaded Esther. ‘We can fetch it.'

‘You don't have a bleddy pass,' said the constable. ‘Don't you know you can't just walk around here without a pass?'

The constable grabbed Esther and half pushed, half threw her into the van. I saw her grimace as she scraped her knee on the threshold.

The door slammed shut, trapping Esther inside.

‘You can't leave this boy here by himself,' she shouted through the mesh bars. ‘He is only five years old.'

‘Laat waai,' said the second constable, ignoring Esther and getting into the van.

I'll never forget the horrified look on her face as the van pulled off.

I stood there frozen. Not knowing what to do.

The van suddenly lurched to a stop and the constable got out and opened the van door again. He pulled Esther out.

‘Go,' he said. ‘And make sure you have your pass next time, né?'

Then he got into the van and they disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Esther, ever the stoic woman, brushed her apron off, straightened her doek, clucked a few times in disgust, took my hand and we walked home.

(Soundtrack: ‘Slow Train Coming' by Bob Dylan)

It was December.

I was on the train to Cape Town for the December holidays. In the Karoo, an old man and his grandson got onto the train. They sat opposite me in the compartment without even saying hello.

The old man was wearing a hat with some kind of feather tucked carefully into the band. The boy seemed extremely angry. He would not look at his grandfather. He tapped his foot incessantly. Neither of them spoke and the silence was rather uncomfortable.

The grandfather looked straight ahead and the boy stared out the window at the empty Karoo. The grandfather looked uneasy. He kept on pulling his jaw forward and adjusting his collar and tie.

The old man looked at me once and nodded.

I smiled.

The boy stared out the window at the empty Karoo.

The old man wanted to talk. I knew this because he kept making eye contact with me. He'd open his mouth as if he were about to speak. Then he'd clear his throat and close his mouth again. I did it for him. I asked him where they were headed.

‘Bellville,' he said

I nodded. We sat in silence again.

Later, I asked him if they'd been on holiday. I saw the boy grimace slightly. The grandfather looked over at the boy. The boy stared out the window at the empty Karoo.

The old man suddenly leaned forward. I did the same. He spoke as if the boy wasn't there. He told me how the boy had run away from home, got mixed up with the wrong crowd. I saw the pain in the old man's face.

It seemed like the old man needed to talk. To release the dull ache that had welled up behind his sad eyes.

‘I had to force him to come with me,' said the old man, nodding his head in the boy's direction. ‘The little bastard, he escaped twice, but I'm fast for an old man. I played for Griquas under-20.'

The boy flashed him an angry look and then stared out the window at the empty Karoo.

The old man said nothing for a while. Then he spoke again. He told me he'd gone to fetch the boy, snagged him in Bloemfontein, and now they were on their way home to spend Christmas with the family. The old man managed a smile. He looked at the boy again.

The boy stared out the window at the empty Karoo.

I dozed off.

I don't know how long I slept, but the slowing of the train woke me up.

The boy was gone.

His grandfather was sound asleep. The old man's mouth was open and his head was tilted back against the seat. His hat had fallen off and was resting awkwardly against the armrest.

I must say I had a feeling the boy was going to disappear the first chance he got. I had him figured out the minute he sat down. I could just tell.

I felt sorry for the old man though.

Shame, man.

I cleared my throat and leaned forward. Then I leaned back again.

I thought if I woke him up he would still have a chance to catch the boy. I really felt bad for the old man. There is something very endearing about sleeping people. A sadness almost. I didn't quite know how to wake him and tell him the boy was gone. I didn't want to see the pain in his face.

I didn't have to.

The boy came back a few minutes later with two steaming cups of coffee. He woke his grandfather and gave him one of the cups.

They drank their coffee …

… while I stared out of the window at the empty Karoo.

(Soundtrack: ‘Chariots of Fire' by Vangelis)

Playing international rugby for your country is a wonderful thing. I loved representing the Springboks. One of my good friends was an All Black. We played against each other a number of times.

My friend was a little stronger than me, but I was a little faster. And although we were the best of friends, there was no holding back when we competed against each other.

He was particularly good at rucking and would use his boots without mercy if he came across me holding onto the ball on the ground.

There may not be a better feeling in this world than playing an inter­ national game of rugby for your country.

I remember one memorable game in particular.

It was an unseasonably warm winter's day in Johannesburg. The pitch was perfect, the crowd was roaring and I was feeling pretty strong that day.

I remember cradling the ball just before the kick-off and recalling names of some of the Springboks who played before me. Names like Dawie de Villiers, Frik du Preez, and Syd Nomis, to name a few.

I always felt good cradling a rugby ball in my hands.

My father had been a very good rugby player and I inherited his love for the game. He played scrumhalf for Dale College and captained the first team. He often took my brother and I to Dale College reunions when we were little boys.

He would take us to the rugby ground and show us where he once caught the ball behind his own post, and jinxed and sidestepped this way and that, finally scoring a try under the opponent's posts. Or the time he took the ball on the blindside of a five-yard scrum and scored a winning try in the last minute of a grudge match against Grey College.

Dale would play the traditional Selbourne College game on the Saturday afternoon of the reunion and we would sit proudly next to my dad, our hero, as he sang the school war cry alongside all the schoolboys in the stands.