you coming? she asked.
Her handbag hung from one arm, my brother from the other. He recognised me and laughed with an open mouth, he bent his knees and jumped up and down with his short little legs. Go home, play noisily until dinner, bath until the whole floor was under water, that’s what he waited for on dormitory days. But I didn’t feel like playing. Something was happening. What was the Yellow Juffrou doing? I knew sleep helped children grow, but I was awake the whole night.
The next day school took hours, just finish now! I stormed down the stairs, past the tennis courts, in through the dormitory’s front door, came to a stop in the entrance hall and panted, waiting for all the children to disappear into the dining hall for lunch and The Smell. I prayed Prentjie’s door would be open.
Finally. The corridor was empty. Prentjie’s door was open. Next to his bed, exactly where it had been drawn, was a table. I gasped. That was why he had his own room! That was why he was so small! That was why he didn’t speak! There was magic happening here, it was a chosen room!
But why only the table? Why not a chair? Was the Yellow Juffrou worried she would get caught? I opened my school case, I grabbed a pencil. The children didn’t eat for long, afterwards they went to their rooms to change and play before homework. Whatever was going on here, I was still sorry for Prentjie. Next to the table I drew him a chair, I drew quickly and the feet were skew, but the magic would fix them. I also drew him paintings against the wall, storybooks in a row, an extra window that overlooked a river with fish and small boats, a big potplant with finger leaves like the one on our porch, a tin of biscuits, another tin of rusks, a radio, a standing lamp, two fat cats and a bicycle. It would be a glorious room; after this Prentjie would be my friend.
Your mother is going to kill you, a voice said.
I jerked around. One of the kitchen ladies was standing in the doorway. She was the one who always sliced and stacked the smelly bread.
Who scribbles on a wall? she asked.
The Yellow Juffrou, I said.
Your mother will kill you twice, you can’t say the Yellow Juffrou!
She drew the table, and then the room made it real! I’m only drawing little things, he has nothing!
She only marked where the table should go, as an example, so the workers would know where, all the older children are getting desks next to their beds!
No!
I sobbed out loud. The kitchen lady twitched her nose.
Don’t cry, she said, They’ll hear you. We’ll get a cloth and quickly clean this up.
She turned around and disappeared.
I cried from fright and because there weren’t any miracles and because of being killed twice. And because of Prentjie who only had a table. Two kitchen ladies appeared. Each with a big cloth and a spray bottle. The first one put her hand on my head.
Go wash your face, we won’t tell a soul, she said.
I walked down the hall. I could hear them talk.
What happened here? asked the one.
The funny one wanted to do magic, said the other. His poor, poor mother.
Church Camp, Beef Mince, Nero
I sit in the back of the car. Next to me is my baby brother in his car seat, a primitive contraption of metal, canvas and leather, a grotesque garden chair minus the feet. My mother sits in front with a basket on her lap. At the back of the car my father is putting the last of the set of blue suitcases in the boot. He gets in the car and turns the key. We reverse into the street, my father pulls the hand brake, it goes kkrrr! like when the dog bites through a bone. My father gets out, closes the gate and gets back in the car. We drive past the small vineyard, up the hill, past The Stoepsusters’ house, and turn right. My stomach feels hollow, the anxiety mouse starts gnawing at me. For nice things – Grandmother’s Wellington, shopping trips, Johannesburg’s Cape (that’s what Grandfather called Paarl) – we always turn left.
Where are we going? I ask.
We’re on our way to the church camp, says my mother.
Where is it? I ask.
A little bit further, says my father.
What are we going to do there? I ask.
We’re going to visit, says my father.
And sing, says my mother. We’re going to read the Bible, tell you children stories, we’re going to hold hands and dance in circles. And we are going to pray a lot.
But we can pray at home too, I say.
Sometimes a person needs to go away for a little while, says my mother. You need to be with people who think and believe like you do, you need silence so you can concentrate.
Krst, krst, gnaws the mouse.
But we can concentrate at home, I say.
Sometimes children need to talk less and just be obedient, says my father.
He turns left up a narrow street, stops before a metal gate, winds down his window and waves his arm. Someone pushes open the gate and we drive inside and park in a carport. There are lots of cars, rows and rows of them in parallel.
Here we are, says my father, Let’s go look for our rondavel.
Our home was at the upper end of Riebeek-Kasteel, the church camp was right in the middle of Riebeek West. The distance between the two was six kilometres. My parents had packed every suitcase we owned, strapped my little brother to an insect and woken my anxiety mouse so we could drive less than ten minutes to dance in circles and to concentrate.
My father opens the boot.
Rugby ball, soccer ball, beach ball, I brought them all, he says, There are lots of children here and plenty of space, you can play until you get tired.
Those were the last words I heard. After that I saw mouths moving, saw eyes blink, saw the sun rise and set, saw people scurry about, saw hands playing the guitar, saw matches light lanterns and saw blankets cover mothers and their babies. There was a row of mini-buildings with pointy roofs; cement, asbestos, corrugated iron, wood, cardboard, who knew what had been used to manufacture these human holders, who knew why my father called them rondavels. There were a few trees in a big open area with poor grass (my one uncle’s first wife always put on her sunglasses in the fear that she would have to drive past poor grass. Hate it! she sighed. Apparently this was the result when a lawn got just enough water not to die, but too little to be properly green), a hall where gatherings took place, a side veranda where meals were served at long tables, and next door a square building that consisted of a storeroom and a big kitchen. Where these two buildings met there was a square, dark and out of sight, with rubbish bins and crates and gardening equipment. I came to have a look every day. At some stage one of the world’s big and invisible rulers, Perversion, gives every child an invisible little helper that leads him to places and situations where improprieties – naughty things – might take place. It was here that, on the last day, when the expectation of going back home gradually restored my hearing, I saw two workers having a fist fight and one hissed the deadly command, Die, pig,
