Moffie (25 page)

Everybody but the pilot, who does not shut down the motor, gathers around the insurgent. They are bent over him, the one Ovambo listening with his ear close to the man's mouth. He straightens up, cups his hand and talks into the senior officer's ear.

The chopper leaves, and the men start dragging the prisoner back to wherever he is kept. Soil is glued to his frayed clothing where sweat and urine have soaked it. But the real damage is not to his frame; he is shredded from within.

‘We can never talk about this, Nick.' Mal is waxen, goose bumps on his arms.

‘No, we have to get out of here. If they know we've seen this, we'll be in deep shit.'

 

I fondle the wire-bound diary in my top pocket. I want to record what I have seen, but decide against it. Removing the little book, I look at it as if for the first time, even though it is so full of my thoughts and feelings.

There are poems I wrote about the war, my infatuation with Ethan—referred to as ‘E' and never as
he
. There are two good gesture drawings and many small sketches for sculptures, which I decide look way too much like Henry Moore's.

Most of the writings in the book are prayers, and surprisingly many of them are prayers of thanks. I analyse concepts; inter­pret my experiences. There is much about joy and love, and even more about death, woven between plump Picasso-esque draw­ings with turbulent expressions and figures of skeletal children.

 

 

G
ood night, Mom.'

‘Good night, you two. Did you wash behind your ears?'

‘Yes, Mom. You always ask us that.'

‘I know, and your necks?'

‘Yes, Mom, you always ask us that too.'

‘You should see what your collars look like. Don't worry, boys, I believe you. Come here . . . mm, you smell so nice.' She has both of us in her arms, me on the right and Frankie on the left.

‘Say good night then, and run along. I'll come and tuck you in later.' We kiss her—left cheek, right cheek and then on the lips. When she lets go, I can feel her need to hold on.

‘Good night, Dad,' we chorus.

‘I'll tuck you in tonight,' he says, and we leave the room, which is warm with the glow of the paraffin heater. Mom calls after us, ‘Remember your prayers, boys! Sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite.'

Our father follows and tucks us in.

‘Tight, Dad, please, tight.'

‘No, Nicholas, not too tight. Then you can't kneel to say your prayers,' Frankie says.

‘Tonight you can just lie on your backs and say your prayers. It's OK, God will understand. Good night, boys.'

‘Good night, Dad,' we say in unison.

‘How much do you love me, hey?' he asks.

‘We love you as much as all the ships.'

‘And trains . . . and planes,' Frankie adds.

‘And cars . . .' Then we start naming them—Pontiac, Chev, Ford, Valiant, Volkswagen, Mercedes, Land Rover, Mini, Austin, Cit­roen, Renault . . . Uhm . . . Aston Martin, Ferrari, Jag . . .

‘OK, boys, that's enough. Sleep tight now.'

 

 

T
he coffee's ready. Where's your fire bucket?'

‘Here, thanks.' I unclip the handle and swing it around, then secure it with its slide to make sure it will not slip out and tip the coffee over me.

‘What's the time?'

‘One-ish.'

‘Shit, three more hours to go.' In the bunker the smell of the coffee mingles with the dust from the sandbag walls. In some places the hessian is torn and sand has leaked out. Ahead, over my R1, is the shoulder-high slit we look through. Hour after hour I watch as the Southern Cross does an almost 180˚ turn on its invisible axis. Over and over I mark south and recalculate the position. It's very reliable, and each time I remember Jeffrey's and saying goodbye to Storm. He would not approve of me be­ing on the border.

Through this little window of war I feel the power of the stars. Their eternity makes this conflict that is so large in my life seem tiny.

To the right of us, in no man's land, is the shower trailer, and on the other side of the landmine area stands a house. Must have been the foreman's cottage before the war, I think. The house is dark, and I imagine that it would have been a good cover if I were planning an attack on our base. I should keep my eye on the building. But it makes me uneasy. To the right of the struc­ture, much further behind it, is a palm tree, which is my marker for south. I close one eye and line it up with the sights of my rifle. How far in that direction is home? I wonder.

The coffee tastes better than anything I have ever tasted in the army.

‘Hey, Mal, this is awesome. What did you do? I mean, how did you make this?'

‘I made it with long-life milk, no water.' He is proud and hap­py that I like it. ‘And lots of coffee.'

‘Shit, it's nice. But where did you get all the milk?' That is the question he has been waiting for.

‘I stole it.'

‘WHAT? Are you mad? What else did you steal?'

‘Oh, you're going to love me!'

‘I already do, that's why I want you to be careful. I'll crack if you end up in DB.'

‘Biscuits, and not dog biscuits either.' He produces a packet of Romany Creams.

‘Jeez! We'd better push the wrapper in between the sand bags, or burn it.'

‘Yes, Dorman doesn't need much of an excuse to get rid of us.'

‘Have you ever hated anybody so much?'

‘Yes, my sister's husband.'

‘Oh, the macho dude.'

‘Yes. And I put pool chlorine in his hair-growing lotion.'

‘What!'

‘I stayed with them for a while. He was such a
doos
, such an absolute fool, I can't tell you. Telling me I'm a sissy and that kind of shit. But he had this receding hairline and he religiously rubbed in this hair-grow stuff. My sister also had to rub it in from time to time.'

‘And?'

‘Well, I just sort of doctored it a little. He got such a rash he stopped using it. Even my sister's hands would burn. And now he's completely bald.'

‘Wish you could do that to Dorman.'

‘You know what was the most fucked up thing of all? I lusted after him!'

‘Man, you're a mess.'

‘Let me tell you something else.'

‘NOW what have you done?'

‘I sheila'ed in Dorman's bush hat.'

‘No!'

‘And pissed on his clothing before I hung it up to dry.'

‘Fuck, you like living dangerously. He's going to know it's you!'

‘And you? Who do you hate that much?'

‘Mm.' I look out and for a fleeting moment I imagine see­ing shadows crossing no man's land. A shudder scuttles up my back.

‘There are so many
dooses
, but I reckon the closest I ever came to hating was this one uncle . . .
oom
Dirk.'

‘What did he do?'

‘He was just always really mean to me. He had huge, pap tits that hung down, with big, hairy nipples. I'd make up these fan­tasies and have my revenge on him. Boy, did he suffer.'

‘Hell hath no fury like a moffie scorned.'

‘Look, LOOK! Did you see that?' I urge as a shooting star streaks across the night sky. ‘You know, a meteorite actually hit the earth here in Namibia some time ago. At Hoba, near Groot­­fontein. We did this trip to uncle Ben's and then to Etosha.'

‘Nick, do you know what you're going to do? I mean, after the army?'

‘Sure. I'm going to study art. And you?'

‘Marketing, I guess. I want to do something that I can use in other countries as well.'

‘Why, you're not going to leave, are you? Shit, am I going to have to travel to New Zealand or somewhere to visit you?'

‘No, Canada! Vancouver. I hear it's great.'

‘No way! Do you have any idea how hideous the weather is there? You just stay here. Shit, where will I find another best friend?'

‘Well, you never know. Things aren't looking good here, man. I mean, we all know it has to change, and I don't see how it can without major shit. These Boers will never give up without a fight.'

‘I really love this country, I mean South Africa. I can tell you, I've been overseas, and I don't want to live anywhere else.'

‘The blacks hate us, man, and I don't blame them. Look what we've done to them.'

‘The only hope is for the Boers to give up apartheid and pray that the blacks forgive us.'

‘Yeah right, dream on! By the way, do you know what they call the guys you like over there?'

‘No . . . gorgeous?'

‘No, twinkies.'

I know Malcolm would rather talk about men than politics, but I'm thinking about the future, which is now, after the army, real grown-up stuff.

‘But I also can't go with the commies, you know, Mal.'

‘Yes, well, if the commies take over, we won't even be allowed to decide what work we want to do. They'll decide for us! What happens if the commies tell me to be a gynie?' He pronounces it
gaaaynee
and we both laugh.

‘We need a miracle, a fucking miracle, with no precedent in this world; something so outrageously against human nature, something that has never been seen before . . .' I say this quietly to myself, as though thinking it aloud. For some time I look out over my rifle at the great Namibian night.

Behind me Mal has fallen asleep on the ground, leaning against the sandbag wall. The future seems darker than the night ahead. How will we resolve it? I feel heavy, tired, and I check my watch: almost three—one more hour.

‘Mal . . . Malcolm.'

‘Hm?'

‘You asleep? Chat to me, man, I'm falling asleep too.'

‘OK,' he yawns. ‘Who's doing the last shift?'

‘Oscar and Pieterse.'

‘Hey, Nick, I'm going to wake them, OK?'

‘Sure, why?'

‘Maybe . . . Mmaayybee Oscar has a
pishoring
, and I can have a cheap thrill.'

‘Pervert!'

‘I have to go and sheila.'

‘OK, you go for a shit and let the twinkie defend the base all on his own.'

‘You're no twinkie, sweetness, look at these muscles.' He grabs my biceps and squeezes them.

‘Go shit, just don't fall in the long drop, and I hope Oscar has a hard-on just for you.'

 

Just imagine how this base will erupt if they had to hear shots. Please God, let us not be attacked on my watch, please. But what if I save the day and become a hero? I might even get a medal for bravery. I wonder if it merits bravery? No, I'd rather there be no action.

 

 

B
ronwyn is a good girl, you know, Peet,' uncle Dirk says with deliberation. ‘She's going to make some man a good wife; such a well-adjusted child.' My father returns the compliment, paus­ing between sentences, which seems to add sincerity to what he says.

Then uncle Dirk says something that will stay with me for the rest of my life. ‘Such a pity Niklaas is such a flop.'

With a ringing of amplified emotion in my brain, I look at my father.
I'm sitting right here next to you. How can you let him talk about me like this?
I ask wordlessly.

My father avoids my stare and busies himself with stoking the fire. The wood releases sparks that rise in a twirl and light my father's face, revealing a frown; but there is no protest.

Flop, structureless, nothing forgiving about it. Flop, flop, flop, soft and spineless like jelly, tormenting me, over and over, each time hating him more, and my father for not defending me. I can't tell my mother, I'm too embarrassed. I start obsessing that there is something really wrong with me.

The Afrikaans pronunciation of my name—Niklaas—is inten­tional, to stress his dislike of me. He emphasises the last part—Klaas—which is what Afrikaners call a slave. Then he drops the first syllable and calls me Klaas.

 

 

W
e have a gift for you, Nicholas,' Storm says with a smile. He places a loosely folded paisley bandanna in my hand. Wrapped inside are three shells threaded on a thong. It is like the one he wears, and there is something almost sexual about the gift. He hangs it around my neck and adjusts the length for the shells to lie in the indentation of my breastbone.

When I walk back to the house, I take my shirt off to feel the movement of the shells against my skin. I bend over to the side to see if they can touch my nipples. When they do, I feel a hard­ening, a tingle in my pants, and my nipples become erect with excitement.

I know this gift is going to cause a reaction. Uncle Dirk's Zephyr is parked outside. They are all in the lounge having tea when I walk in, dressed only in my red swimming trunks, with the shells lying on my tanned skin. They are in dark suits, dressed for church, filled with restraint.

At the window the thin curtain billows, then the moving air can no longer hold it, and it falls back—for a few moments the only thing moving in the room.

In uncle Dirk's mouth is a biscuit, and he stops halfway stuff­ing another in. It just waits on his lips to be worked in.

They stare at me. My mother's face drains, and suddenly I feel as if I've betrayed her, driven by my need to show how different I am. In my father's face is the shame I see so often. Then the room fills with cousin Michael's shrill, ‘Look, Pa, Nicholas is a moffie, a hippie, just like you said!' There is another squeal of glee from Michael. My father gets up and moves towards me.

‘Take that thing off, you bloody little girl, you disgust me!' My mother jumps up and moves towards me. My father reaches me first, grabs the necklace, but it holds and my neck gets jerked down. One of the shells breaks in his hand. Then he takes the thong on either side of my neck and rips it apart.

Clearly on his way to get rid of the necklace, my father starts heading for the back door. I have sunk to the floor and grabbed his leg. He walks with me like a weighted shoe, my mother in tow, begging. The Hoffman men jostle for position to watch the spectacle.

Nothing can stop my father from opening the corrugated door of the outside toilet and dropping my beautiful gift into the stink­ing, dark mess.

 

In the evening I watch the sun set over the distant hills. The haziness allows me to look directly at the sun. Far on the horizon the deep red disk hovers above a hill in perfect complementary contrast. Then it distorts to an oval slipping into a void. Even­tually only a sliver hangs over the horizon, not letting go of this day, as I never will.