note and put it on the kitchen table. Johan had responded to the note and left his response on the kitchen table and thus had begun something that was not quite new between them, a relationship that was lived out through correspondence.
Gemma and Johan struggled at first, jotting down only a few hesitant and halting lines, but with the passing of time the notes became longer, more elaborate, containing much more than just what was deliberately not being said. Eventually they began to enjoy the silence. Gemma would take trips to Haddon & Sly to buy reams of paper in pretty pastel colours. She particularly agonised over the type of pen to be used and often bought more than one for them to try out. He was the first to sign the note ‘with love’, to which she responded with a ‘Dear Johan’.
‘Dear Johan, just back from H&S. I trust that I have found the perfect pen. Try it out and let me know what you think.’
‘Dear Gemma, it writes like a dream. I believe this is the one.’
‘Remember that first letter that you sent with the bleeding ink?’
‘I was too excited and nervous to notice what the ink did.’
‘Oh … Dear Johan …’
It was this particular correspondence that Emil found on the kitchen table when he returned home from his first term at the Selous School for Boys.
His parents spoke to him, of course. His mother had pointedly superficial conversations with him: He appeared thinner; was he being well fed at school? He was getting positively brown; was he spending too much time in the sun? He was growing taller; did he need new uniforms already? He was getting handsomer by the day, was it not such a pity that there were no girls at the school? Did he know that blushing became him? His father, still unable to meet Emil’s eyes, asked more or less the same questions about school to the space above Emil’s head: The schoolmasters were all right, were they? He had since heard something of a Master Duthie; not causing any problems, was he? He understood how older boys could be towards newcomers; how were things on that score? This friend that he had made, this Courteney Smythe-Sinclair, was proving to be a good friend, was he? And this Master Archie, was he the proper sort? And the animal’s warm heart; he really had had to eat it, had he?
The fact that his parents broke their silence for him must have seemed to them to be an act of kindness. Emil wished that he could have felt it as such, but he could not. The little that they said to him made him feel as if they had brought him into the world only to have very little interest in him.
He knew that this was unfair, but he felt the cruelty of his situation keenly because he remembered the days on the BSAP outpost – days that were filled with laughter, love and lukewarm lime cordial. Days lived together with his mother, and not his father, wearing the red cloche hat.
His father’s wearing of the red cloche hat had created a crisis within the Coetzee household and it had taken only a term at the Selous School for Boys to teach Emil why. In his Religious Studies class, Emil had been taught that God created man to have dominion over all the other living things of the land and sea and that it was man’s mandate, as the superior being, to not only name all living things but also to categorise them and thus create an order of things from the seeming chaos. The primary pursuit of man, therefore, was to make the world not only habitable but knowable, and known as well, which was why the voyages of discovery and imperial expansion had been so important; they fulfilled the sacred covenant between God and man. God had chosen the European man to spread the light of Christianity and civilisation to the rest of the world. As a result, men, real men, men like Frederick Courteney Selous, held sacred their covenant with God. They wore it as a badge of honour and made it a point of pride. Emil understood that no European man working in the service of God and King would willingly give up this destined and privileged position, even for a brief moment, and in that same view, Emil understood that his father, in choosing to appear feminine, had, for a brief moment, given up his position and irredeemably and irreparably upset the natural order of things. There was no hope of return from such a sorry state of affairs.
Due to the many silences that the flat contained, Emil always felt that he had to escape it. He found refuge in the places that he had struggled to love before: the Centenary Park, the Municipal Bathing Pools, the theatre. He tended to go to the theatre whenever he acutely missed Courteney, who spent his holidays in Essexvale being fattened, pampered and cossetted by a mother and six sisters who were hell-bent on restoring his cherubic state.
As the years went on Emil found himself, during his school holidays, seeking solace in the peaceful jacaranda-, flamboyant- and acacia-lined avenues of the suburbs that he could get to within five minutes of walking down the perfect straightness of Selborne Avenue. Here in the suburbs, Emil would listen for sounds, any sounds, of family life – children playing and laughing; dogs barking and being told to voetsek; wives screaming and demanding that their husbands tell them why they liked dancing with Victoria so much; husbands saying that they had had enough; the sound of a slap and the slam of a door – in an attempt to experience, albeit vicariously and briefly, the lives of others. Emil welcomed all of the sounds but they were few and far between in the serenity of the suburbs and he often wondered if the silence that had taken hold in his family existed in other families as well.
Emil’s walk through the suburbs would usually end at a colonial-style house with French windows, a red wraparound veranda and an English rose garden that was so much like the house that his mother had dreamt of living in once upon a time, not so long ago. Emil would stand outside this house and stare at it for a moment and wonder … just wonder if things would have been different if …
The house had been built by and belonged to Scott Fitzgerald and even though he called it home, it seemed to need more than one person to make it so.
Scott Fitzgerald, who was no longer a policeman and was now an advertising agent, was more often found at home than at work because, while he had a comfortable office in the city centre, he rarely used it. Since he still harboured dreams of becoming an author, he preferred to be at home, where he could labour over his manuscript on his Remington Noiseless Portable Typewriter whenever inspiration struck. Although that was the idea, what he usually did with his time at home was dash off memorable phrases of preferably less than six and definitely not more than twelve words, and he did this so easily and wonderfully that he was permitted to work from home.
He was the best in the country at writing advertisements. A housewife would, while comparing prices (as housewives always do), recollect one of Scott Fitzgerald’s six-word jingles that she had heard on her 1940 HMV New Yorker Smart wireless and make what she believed to be a highly informed decision. A retired engineer knew that by providing for all his needs through Morrison’s Mail Order Catalogue, he could best stretch his pension funds because a carefully placed advert in the Railway Review had told him so. A young man, wanting to impress his sweetheart and his boss alike, went to buy his first Rolex watch at T Forbes & Son, Ltd, on Abercorn Street because, according to the intertitle he had read at the bioscope the night before, the watches sold there were for men who meant business. The newly engaged young lady who wanted the best honeymoon that money could buy knew to subtly suggest the New Woodholme Hotel in East London to her fiancé because it was said by The Chronicle to be modern, situated on a golden beach and overlooking the sparkling Indian Ocean. The frugal housewife, the retired engineer, the impressive young man and the aspirational fiancée acted individually without knowing that they had all been spurred to action by one man, Scott Fitzgerald, such was the amorphous nature of his power.
Ever since he had arrived in the City of Kings, Scott Fitzgerald had encouraged Emil to call him Uncle Scott. When Emil visited him, Uncle Scott would, as soon as Emil arrived, gratefully stand up, move away from the typewriter and the bottle of whisky (a sad cliché if ever there was one, he often lamented), grab his overcoat, regardless of what the weather was like outside and say, over his shoulder, ‘Ah …
