Moffie (31 page)

And I cry for my non-existent relationship with my father . . . and for holding on.

I sit bent over, my head on my arms. He comes to comfort me, puts his arm around me, and I can feel him sobbing too. Eventually he says, ‘You are that boy, I mean man, he was talking about. My son was in love with you, wasn't he?'

I nod. ‘Yes, it was me. He never told me, but it was me. You see, Mr. Stassen, I could have prevented it. How can you ever forgive me?'

‘No, Nicholas, it's not your fault. I think it's clear from this,' and he shakes the blue pages gently. ‘We are the ones . . . no, I . . . I'm the one who failed my son.' The last words come out in gulps of emotion. He says ‘no, no' over and over, and then he repeats Dylan's name and cries. Eventually he says, ‘Thank you for the letter you sent; it meant a lot to me. I should have contacted you.'

‘You did write.'

‘Yes, I did, but I should have done more. Thank you for coming. Do you know we used part of the poem you had sent as an epitaph on his stone? You were so important to my son, and we made no effort. I'm so sorry, Nicholas, I failed you too.'

‘No, Mr. Stassen, I understand. Really, I do. My father and I . . . it's never worked out between us. He knows nothing about me, and he doesn't want to either. I understand how difficult it is for a father.'

‘Perhaps you should tell him, talk to him?'

‘Yes, I will, but he won't understand. I know that.'

‘You know,' he says, ‘Dylan was right. I wouldn't have accepted it. But only now, after this loss, do I realise how wrong I would have been.' Again, he is quiet for a long time. Then he says, ‘He will be like the words you wrote in your letter: forever young.'

I notice a photograph in a walnut frame. Dylan and an attractive man stand on either side of an impeccably groomed woman. Dylan has that intense expression that I know so well. When Mr. Stassen sees me looking at it he says, ‘Dylan with his grandmother, and that's my younger brother, good-for-nothing; lived with my mother in New York. She spoilt him terribly, that's why he ended up the way he did. I wanted to be sure Dylan didn't end up like him, so I was always very strict with him; perhaps too strict.'

We are both still looking at the picture when he says, ‘Dylan was with her when she died, just outside Bergdorf Goodman . . . massive heart attack.'

I gasp, but decide not to say anything about our last conversation, hoping he reads the gasp as one of sorrow.

‘Is there anything I can do for you? Anything?'

Without having to do much thinking, I say, ‘Yes, there is something. Would you be able to get good medical care for our friend Malcolm? I really don't want him to lose his hand.'

‘Consider it done, Nicholas. If it is medically possible for his hand to be saved, you can rest assured it will be, whatever it takes.' He asks for Malcolm's full names. I give him his number, rank and name, fleetingly thinking how conditioned I've become—giving Malcolm's number before his name.

 

When we eventually get to the car, he says he would like me to stay in contact and hands me an envelope. ‘This is for you. I should have seen to it that you got this, but I just . . .' his voice trails off, but he knows that I understand.

‘If you ever need me, Nicholas, I will be here.' I thank him and extend my hand, fighting an urge to hug him. When he takes my hand, he places his left hand over our grip.

The driver, who has been standing attentively beside the open door of the car, closes it after I slide from the grip of his employer. I wind my window down. Dylan's father leans on the door, pressing down on it with a weight I can feel as if it is me he is leaning on.

‘I would have been proud to have you as . . . as . . . my son's friend. How I wish things could have been different.'

I whisper, ‘Thank you.' He taps the door gently, and the driver pulls off.

 

***

 

How hopeless is hopeless? Where does one stand in oneself when one takes everything, every single thing, one's very breath, one's thoughts, one's history? Forever . . . What is forever when a life is ended? Is forever not just the length of a lifetime? How are time and distance and living measured where he is? Where is he? Surely I was there when the decision was made? Somewhere close. Surely he carried it around with him? Yet I never noticed. What did he think just before he squeezed the trigger? Did he hurry into the act? How large is the argument? Is there an argument? Is there a part that disagrees, makes a case for life?

 

 

A
n hour after lights-out I crawl out of bed to the toilets, choosing a cubicle below one of the two exposed bulbs. I carefully open the letter Mr. Stassen has given me. Inside I find a page from a standard issue army notebook and a bunch of small pages pinned together. On the single sheet Dylan wrote:

 

Empty is not when there is no longer anything inside—but when a container can never hold anything ever again.

Lonely is not when there is nobody; lonely is when there IS and you walk away.

Desperate is when they rip your soul from within you, dangle it in front of you and then dry it and cage it.

Pain is not something you feel, something you can package and identify; pain is when anything . . . anything else is better, including the complete unknown.

 

On the other papers he wrote:

 

Fate stares at me disdainfully, as though we have just come upon each other. In her stare I can see there has been preparation.

She beckons and I follow to a cliff. ‘Look,' says Fate, ‘look down there, all the way to the end; there peace is waiting.'

Before me my life lies clear, well lit in perfect sight, no distant perspective, even though it is far and long—it's all clear, I stare into its black, icy face.

Deepgrooved valleys like tracks

Deepgrooved valleys like a maze

Deepgrooved valleys like a jail

 

There are other, untidier writings with corrections crossed out, and in some places he wrote three words before finally choosing one. I don't understand every sentence, but it is clearly desperate.

 

Does the moon miss man? Why does it look at us all the time? Proclaiming our pain. What a hassle this coloured castle! Don't bother to have a party.

She takes another gin

The tin still has a din but hollower than before

Every negative space in my forest is a masterpiece and my fullness is depicted by taste

 

The following day I am issued a travel pass and a ticket back to Oudtshoorn, for ‘light duty' until the stitches are removed. On the same day, Malcolm is transferred to a private hospital.

That night I board a train.

 

***

 

‘Hey you, Scank-muffin.'

‘I must say goodbye now.'

‘No way, really?'

‘Yes, they're sending me back.' In the background, The Sutherland Brothers are singing
Arms of Mary
.

‘No, Nick, think of something. Complain about headaches or something!'

‘Well, I sort of did, but they say if I had concussion they would have known. The doctor had me sussed. In any case, he said I could phone anytime to find out how you are. How's your hand?'

‘Shitty. I'm so pissed off about this. Why did this have to happen to me? Shit.'

‘They're going to sort you out.'

‘Yes, I know. Thanks for organising it. I still can't believe everything you told me about Dylan. Shame, man.'

‘He must really have been hurting, Mal. It must have been terrible. I just don't know why I didn't see it. His dad asked me not to tell anybody, but I reckon, well, Dylan was one of us, and we're family.'

‘Yes,
boet
, or should I say sis?' He laughs and says, ‘Funny, you'd think he had everything to live for, and actually he had nothing. Look at my folks, my background . . .'

‘I reckon in a way your background gave you the strength to cope. I mean, your dad isn't going to put any pressure on you. That's a huge gift, you know. You're blessed with a different kind of wealth.'

Just before I leave they play
Substitute
by Clout.

‘Shit, Mal, this song reminds me so much of Paul Roos. I can't believe it, but it was just last year that I was still at school. It feels like another lifetime.'

‘Not even a year, Nick . . . not even a year.'

‘Hey, Nick, I love you, my best friend.'

‘And I love you, Blondie.'

Walking away, I know he is watching me. At the door I turn, smile and wave.

 

Ethan drives me to the station in the MG he was given when his mother got a new Range Rover.

‘Before we leave I must quickly drop this off at Ward 22.'

‘Ward 22! That's where they send the gay guys, isn't it?'

‘Not only the gay ones, all the people the army thinks are “subversive” or different.'

‘Shit, I didn't know it was right here.'

‘Yes, 1 Mil.'

‘Wow. Can I come in with you?'

‘OK. But I must warn you, Nick, it's not pretty. Those guys are buggered up, man.'

‘I've heard stories.'

‘Nothing you've heard comes close, believe me.'

At an office we are told to go to a room at the end of a series of wards. The sealed file that Ethan has been instructed to deliver, has to be handed to a certain staff sergeant and nobody else.

There are about six beds in each ward, most of them empty. Where there are patients, they seem to be very ill—curled up and staring blankly at nothing.The entire area feels covered in a layer of despondency. Suddenly I am overcome with fear that they could decide I'm sick too, because to them I am.

‘Ethan, I think I'm going to wait outside.'

Walking back, I feel vulnerable and try to look as un-mad as possible. As I step outside, I see Deon sitting with a group of patients in a demarcated area.

I greet him, but he looks at me like a dog that wants to please its master, struggling to understand what is required of him. He is clearly drugged and searching for a memory, tilting his head slightly and narrowing his eyes.

My first instinct is to remind him who I am, which I do. Eventually he seems to start remembering. Should I remind him of the
bokshom
boys, or that evening before he was taken away? Or would that do more harm than good? His speech is slow and lethargic. I get the impression that he knows what he is saying, but finds it difficult to formulate the words. But it is clear that he trusts me and knows that I am from the ‘outside.'

‘They're shocking me,' he says idly.

‘Why?' I ask.

‘Because I'm gay.' There is a long silence in which he looks at me with sad, milky eyes. I know he wants to say more, because he moves his head and throat in a way that suggests he is trying to almost regurgitate words. I want to put my arms around him and tell him it's going to be all right. While I wait for him to get the next sentence out, I notice how thin and wasted he looks. When the mind is damaged, the entire body becomes infected.

‘It's OK,' I eventually say. ‘It really is. Just take your time.'

‘They are . . . they . . . they do bad things to us.' There is no correlation between the words he is saying and his body language.

‘Like what?'

‘Can you tell my parents that I'm here?'

‘Don't they know?'

‘No, none of these people, none of their parents know where they are.'

‘How do I get hold of them?'

‘I can't give you the number now. If they see me . . . I can't take the chance.'

‘I have a way,' I say, knowing that Ethan will help.

‘How?'

‘I have a friend; he works at 1 Mil.'

‘Please, please, I must get out of here. I'll die. I know I will. People disappear here.' He glances at the medics sitting in the corner, who also serve as guards. Instinctively I move closer to the door to get out of their field of vision.

‘What are they doing, Deon?'

‘If they catch me trying to get out, they'll send me to Klippies.'

‘What is Klippies?'

‘It's a sanatorium.'

‘Why would they send you there? It doesn't make sense.' I see that the thought of that place makes him withdraw, so I change the subject and ask how long he has been here.

‘I don't know,' he says unhurriedly, appearing even more distant.

‘Since Infantry School?'

‘Yes.' He tries to pull himself together, looks at me almost calmly and says, ‘People disappear here . . . completely. The next morning their beds are rolled up and they're gone.'

‘Surely they are just taken to another hospital, or maybe they're just sent ho . . .'

‘No, no, they are gone forever,' he interrupts me. ‘It's the really sick ones, the ones that . . . that . . . are weird. When they go mad from the stuff that these people do to them.'

‘What kind of stuff?'

He starts talking, but then he bends forward and shakes his head saying, ‘No, no, NO!' over and over. He shivers, and suddenly he starts sweating. I steady him and help him to sit down. He hangs on to me, but I try to keep my distance, for it feels as if he won't let go if I allow him a hold.

‘Deon,' I urge him, ‘you must be careful. If we attract attention, they'll send me away.' But I am more nervous that they might keep me ‘in.'

He starts talking again, this time deliberately, lucidly and eerily calmly. I get the feeling that he is talking without picturing the things he is saying; just knowing he has to get them out.

‘They put us in a mortuary with body parts. It's like a cool room: dark, very, very dark. One at a time. Everywhere you look there are just bodies or pieces of dead people.' His voice has become loud and he is sobbing.

‘Deon, shh. Not so loud. Take your time.'

‘They turn off the lights and they leave us there, alone, for a long time.' For the first time he seems to be beating the drugs that are chaining him. It attracts attention from a patient near us, who starts making howling noises. He comes towards us, and as he focuses on us, he starts wailing. Deon tries to shoo him away, but the situation quickly unravels. Another patient gets involved, starts talking gibberish and then starts barking like a dog. Deon grabs hold of me and starts crying.

Two guards rush towards us and start pulling Deon off me. They grab his arms and twist them behind his back. The other two patients are pushed so roughly that they fall on the asphalt. Deon is cowering and wailing. One guard twists his arm further and pushes it forcefully behind his neck. Deon buckles over, crying and begging. Within seconds they have him up the steps and away. I am told to wait outside the complex, but before I reach the door, Ethan is at my side.

‘Sorry it took so long.' Then, looking at me, he says, ‘What's wrong, Nick, what happened?'

‘I'll tell you in the car.' Which I do.

‘Nick, I have a friend who worked in Ward 22. We must never talk about this. Please promise me you won't repeat this to anyone.'

‘I promise.'

‘My friend who worked there asked for a transfer, which didn't come easy. If it weren't for his parents' contacts, he would never have got out. They make those medics and guards do dreadful things to the patients so that they are kind of part of it. He made me promise never to tell anybody. He told me they put the guys in the mortuary for two days and two nights, with body parts all over the place—people who died on the border, pieces lying open on trays, everywhere, man.'

‘I was hoping it was the drugs talking.'

‘There's a boxer, and they have this boxing ring, and all the officers sit around watching this guy fuck up the patients. They put gloves on the guys and then he carries on until he has knocked them unconscious. This champion boxer . . . against patients on Stelazine.'

‘What's Stelazine?'

‘It's a tranquilliser, sort of makes you not care, but only some patients are on it.'

‘Shit, Ethan, I've heard of the hormone treatment and the shock treatment, but this is torture, man.'

‘And there's nothing we can do about it. Property of the state, remember!'

‘But you will try and find out where Deon's parents are, won't you?'

‘Of course.'

Ethan puts the roof of the car down and we drive in silence, enjoying the feeling of freedom. Sitting next to him, I resolve to get on that train tonight knowing I have achieved something, feeling that we have progressed in some way, no matter how small.

As we approach The Fountains, I tell him about the little steam train that used to run there and how it was the highlight of our visits to Pretoria as kids. To further dispel the misery of what I have just witnessed, I force myself to think pleasant thoughts: kissing Ethan, holding him. Wouldn't that just make everything worthwhile?

Then something inside me falls into place. ‘Ethan, you know, I survived the border and it was the most profound experience, but I will not allow it to scar me. I'm going to take all the positive out of it and learn from it. I will not let the shit get to me.'

He smiles, looks at me for a moment and says, ‘And at the end of next year we're finished with the army, except for camps.'

‘Forget camps, Ethan, I will never do them. You can count on that. I've seen enough. There will be a way out, and I'll find it. I will never do a camp. And I won't allow any of this to get to me. If I do, they've won. Our happiness does not depend on what life deals us, it's how we deal with it!' This makes me think of Dylan. ‘You know, because Dylan came from such a privileged background he actually suffered a lot more. His whole life was plotted for him and he just had to fit in: school, university, what to wear, how to act. He once told me that he didn't have a choice of what to study. It was decided for him—a business degree—and he HAD to excel.'

‘What did he want to study?'

‘I think literature. He wanted to write, be creative. More than anything else, he wanted freedom. Malcolm, on the other hand, had no pressure like that. Do you know, even at primary school he took two buses to school on his own, bought a newspaper and read it. Best of all, his father didn't even know where his school was!'