close my eyes and remember the whole back garden. The trees – fig trees, lemon trees, mulberry trees, trees without fruit, trees with thin creepers hanging down, trees from which birdcages swung with open doors, with wild branches like creatures dancing too close to one another with arms held high – grew all the way up to the outbuilding with the laundry room, storeroom and garage. Only the garage door didn’t have a screen. Rows of neatly laid bricks formed a track to the wide gate. And there was a vine-covered trellis, abundant with grapes that never ripened, beneath which it was always cool and dark, but always also beautiful. Green curls draped themselves lazily over the thin tarred poles.
Here my mother mentioned to Mrs Joubert that we didn’t have a piano, but that I was definitely going to take music lessons and that I would have to practise somewhere. Mrs Joubert explained that she had a bit of a lie-down in the back room every afternoon at three on the dot, and that I was welcome to use her piano, it wouldn’t disturb her: a dining-room door, a hallway door and a bedroom door lay between her sleep and my talent.
I practised with stupid fingers, three afternoons a week, from three o’clock to four o’clock. Curious and driven, I discovered and memorised my simple phrases, alone in the dusk, thankful for the piano and the biscuits that now and then were left for me, but each time, as in most other places I would visit later in life, completely uncomfortable. Both productive and ill at ease. DIE ONGEMAKLIKE LEWE. THE UNCOMFORTABLE LIFE. The book and song that I always wanted to write, but never would, got its name here.
Then, on a perfectly normal day, I walk into our house, I may have been at school or with The Stoepsusters or with people with food, but I have been away for a few hours. As usual I run to the kitchen. My mother is sitting at the table, my brother is in his high chair. My father stands at the sink. They look different.
What now? I say.
Nothing, says my father.
The newspaper is on the couch, go get it quickly, I want to show you something, my mother says.
I turn around. Something is wrong. I walk to the lounge and look at the couch.
Where is the newspaper? I yell.
Behind you! my father yells.
I turn around. Against the wall is a piano. Dead quiet, bolt upright, brand new, made of matt wood in the latest fashion, a gallant stool with four curly feet, all here in James Bond’s room. I lift the lid and stroke the keys. I don’t say thank you, I don’t play a note, I don’t sit on the stool. I stare. My family stand in the door.
Whose is it? I ask, my voice hoarse.
Yours, you silly child, says my mother.
From Byleveld’s store, says my father.
In no other place where we would live as a family would I ever be as happy as in that house with the room with the piano and the bamboo and the sun and the grey jazz furniture. I cannot remember Mrs Joubert’s face any more, but every time I think back to The World Screen Headquarters there is another window without a screen, another door standing wide open, even more light. Maybe there never was a single screen, who knows?
It might be different now, but in those days a child definitely did not know what his parents’ income was, how much they had to sacrifice for a big moment. And even today a child seldom knows when headquarters appear nearby, when the opportunity to touch the unreachable shows itself, when a portal, disguised as an ornament or instrument, appears.
The Art of Fighting
Was it the answer to my parents’ prayers? Was it the trick of an evil fairy or pure coincidence? Japan is very far from Riebeek-Kasteel. But it does indeed happen, a judo instructor is prepared to train the town’s sons once a week in an Eastern martial art. We can choose, rugby or judo.
I am almost eight years old and for weeks have felt deeply wronged after the girls at a birthday party were each given a doll with a white dress. These dolls’ clothes are made of a special fabric, you can draw patterns and pictures on it and then wash it, and do it again and again! The boys each received a fire engine. I make a hole in the roof of mine and start filling it with coins, I’ll buy my own drawing clothes.
We have to play rugby or do judo, I tell my mother.
A judo outfit is very expensive, says my mother.
What does a judo outfit look like? I ask.
Like pyjamas, exactly like white pyjamas, says my mother.
I’m doing judo! I say.
I’m going to colour in those pyjamas, cover them in drawings of dragons, perhaps stick shiny things on them, that is what I decide.
We buy the pyjamas at school, the jacket doesn’t have any buttons at all, only a belt. Tuesday afternoon three o’clock we all stand in the hall. There are mats on the floor. We stand in rows, white pyjamas, light-blue belts, we look like dwarfs in a storybook with only one colour. The instructor is young and friendly, he doesn’t look as grumpy as the other teachers who coach sports. He tells us that he gives judo lessons every afternoon in another town, it’s a privilege for him, judo makes the world tolerant and safe.
Judo consists of sudden decisions and movement, he says, We don’t attack, we defend.
This gives me confidence. I raise my hand.
Can I make my belt green or pink?
Some of the boys snort.
In judo we have levels, you don’t colour your belt, you earn it, says the instructor. My heart sinks to the floor, old and young, they all disappoint you, nothing is what it should be, nobody is tolerant, nothing is safe. But it is better than rugby.
Before we can fight, we each have to pick a friend, I pick Gideon. He has a soft face like me and also cries at athletics. The instructor explains grips and throws. And that it is important to know how to fall. One must throw and the other one must fall. Gideon hesitantly grabs at my belt. My jacket falls open.
Don’t, I say.
I lay myself down and Gideon lies on top of me. Later I lie on top. When the judo instructor comes closer, we pull a bit on each other’s clothes. Judo is not so bad. I just don’t know how they will ever decide who is attacking and who is defending.
On a very warm Tuesday afternoon I walk home after another judo class. I’m annoyed because of the heat and because of my clothes and belt that never change colour. I want a vienna at the corner shop, but a judo outfit doesn’t have pockets and so I don’t have 5c with me.
You! Pudding face! a voice says.
I look around. Right behind me is Fudge. (He was a tall child who looked as if he spent every day by the sea, tanned with policeman muscles, brush-cut hair and orange eyebrows. Everyone knew he looked for trouble with children and was friendly to grown-ups. He was bigger than any of the children in school, perhaps he was stupid, but nobody asked.) He’s never spoken to me before. Why now? What’s happening? I look straight ahead.
You! Doll-boy! he says.
I hear all the menace and all the flames of hell in his voice. I feel hot behind my neck, over my whole head. And ice-cold behind my legs, I am shaking like a little machine, it will never, ever stop again, this is how a child changes into a ghost.
Butterfly!
