she finally managed to get him out of the house. She took the kids’ squeegee spray bottle, filled it with water and added vinegar. Then she squirted the cat from a distance. When her employers came home, they insisted on sending her to the clinic to have her wounds cleaned and disinfected.
As the cat sat bolt upright on the edge of the swimming pool, Ousie Maria was jerked back to the present. She watched the cat as it looked into the water, as if calculating its chances of swimming. It appeared tense and kept looking around. Then it started turning round and round as if possessed. It jumped high up and sideways. Once again it leaned over the water. In the kitchen, Ousie Maria was trembling. The third time the cat peered into the pool, it seemed to lose its balance and fell into the water. Instantly, it started to yowl and thrash around.
Ousie Maria gasped. What now? She was frozen to the spot.
High in the sky, a migrating bird began to sing cheerfully as if encouraging Bonaparte to climb out of the pool. Ousie Maria remained in the house, waiting for her employers or the kids to come back. A short while later, the cat’s struggles ended and all became still.
The first to come home were the children, Buhle and Mbuso, from St John’s College in Houghton. With the children by her side, Ousie Maria finally felt brave enough to go out to the pool to show them the dead cat. Bonaparte was floating with his mouth open. Fourteen-year-old Mbuso stood at the edge of the pool and stared. His sister, twelve-year-old Buhle, stood further away. She kept on closing her eyes with her fingers.
“What happened?” asked Mbuso, prodding the dead cat’s ribs with a stick.
“I have no idea,” said Ousie Maria, who stood next to Buhle. “The cat was fine and walking about along the pool. All of sudden it fell in and drowned, all by itself. It was acting strangely . . . Perhaps it was stung by a bee.”
“I must go tell Karen and Jan,” said Buhle. The kids from the neighbouring family went to the same school as Buhle and Mbuso and were probably also home by now.
Ousie Maria agreed that it was best that Karen and Jan Moerdyk hear the news from their playmates, but when they came over to the Phalas’ swimming pool, they looked devastated.
“Oh my God,” said Karen. “He just came from the vet two weeks ago.”
The Moerdyks gave Bonaparte a proper burial the following day. Auntie Nurse, their domestic worker, told Ousie Maria afterwards that Bonaparte was buried at about ten in the morning, and the children did not go to school. Some friends of Sandra, their mother, had arrived the previous day for a night vigil and more had come for the funeral. During the proceedings Sandra did most of the talking, and it was as if she had lost a human being.
“My friend Bonaparte, your death has carved deep furrows into my soul,” Sandra had said, closing her eyes. “Time and tears may repair the gap a little, but it will never completely heal. We mourn you, and will do so until our last breath.”
Bonaparte was put inside a small casket and buried at the corner of the garden near the sneezewood tree. The family, all dressed in black, stood silently next to the cat’s grave.
What madness, Ousie Maria thought, hearing Auntie Nurse recount the events of the funeral. So Jaco and Sandra Moerdyk didn’t go to work because they had to bury an animal? And why were the kids brought into this madness and kept out of school?
“Bonaparte, we have many happy memories of life with you, my friend. It’ll take time to be comforted in our loss,” said Jaco, as he spread soil over the grave. “I still remember when I first got the job at Sasol in Rosebank and drove from Cape Town to Johannesburg with you on Sandra’s lap next to me.”
Sandra chimed in: “Oh, my beloved friend! Remember that? You were still a baby; it was before Karen and Jan were even born. Every time we played Bob Dylan’s ‘Forever Young’ you nodded your little head as if you knew the song. I bought you a bottle of milk at Laingsburg. Oh, how you loved that! Rest in peace, my dear friend.” She wiped a tear from her face.
Bonaparte had been part of the Moerdyk family for almost sixteen years. Sandra seemed the most affected by the loss. According to Auntie Nurse, who hurriedly shared the gossip on her way back to her township home that evening, Sandra had sat on the edge of the bed for hours after the funeral without talking to anyone. Then she stood up and looked through the window at the Phalas’ house for a long time.
Apparently, Auntie Nurse was left to answer the door for flower deliveries and condolence cards sent from the children’s school, in between clearing the plates and cutlery left by the funeral guests:
I’m thinking of you in this difficult, sad time – from the headmaster.
We know it’s hard, but try to stay strong. Thinking of you. Many hugs – Love from your Grade 10 class.
Sad you’re grieving but glad you’re coping; that’s NB – from your friend Claire.
May love, warmth and gentle hugs embrace you and try to soothe you.
None of the cards came from the Phalas. They could not mourn. For them, as for Ousie Maria, a cat was just another animal. It could not be equated to a human being. In fact, to most Africans a cat is a symbol of witchcraft and bad luck.
Yesterday, when young Mbuso tried to remove the cat from the swimming pool, Ousie Maria had harshly warned him against doing so. She convinced him that bad luck would follow him if he touched the animal. When he still insisted on removing it, Ousie Maria warned him that she would tell his father. Mbuso had a deep reverence for Mohapi Phala.
“I can’t let you invite witchcraft into your family,” Ousie Maria had warned Mbuso. “If you continue doing this, I’ll have to quit and go home immediately. Then you can tell your parents that you made me go.”
With those words, Mbuso had to wait until Jaco came back from work to remove Bonaparte from the pool.
Lulama Phala knew her husband still believed in witchcraft, although they had been living in Forest Town for nine years now. His upbringing in the Free State town of Warden was not shaken off that easily. But, to be honest, Lulama was more concerned that the death of Bonaparte was going to affect her relationship with Sandra. She was also worried that the kids might have been affected by the sight of the dead cat in their swimming pool. Mbuso had described to her how horrific the drowned cat had looked. She could see that Buhle was traumatised, as she vowed not to swim in the pool again. That night, lying in bed with her husband, Lulama tried to convince him to take both the children to the clinical psychologist.
“Darling, it’s just a dead cat,” said Mohapi, looking at the ceiling. “It’s like seeing a dead rat. There’s no difference at all.”
“Yes, to us it’s just a dead cat, as you say. But what about the kids, honey? This may be harmful and affect their schoolwork. You should have seen Buhle. She’s even afraid to go to her room. She’s still in the TV room at the moment because she can’t take her mind off that cat.”
“No, no, no. Come on now. You can’t be serious. It was just a fucking dead cat. Let me go speak to her,” he said as he put his slippers on and left the bed.
“Where are you going now?”
“I’m going to talk to Buhle.”
“You can’t do that. You can’t talk to her about a dead cat at this hour of the night.”
Lulama tried to hold
