The Smell of Apples: A Novel Page 4

  When Doreen has gone, I ask Mum about the guest.

  'He's taking a shower after the long flight. Remember -you and Use are to use our bathroom for the week.'

  'Where did he fly from, Mum?' I ask.

  'From New York. But he's from Chile. He had to fly via New York though, and then to Johannesburg and only from there to DF Malan. These overseas flights are extremely tiring.'

  'That's for sure,' says Use, as she comes into the dining-room. 'When I came back from Holland last year, all I wanted to do was sleep for two days.' As usual, she thinks she knows everything.

  'Well, then you can just imagine - Mister Smith's journey was probably three times longer than yours from Amsterdam,' says Mum, and she lights the tall yellow candles in the middle of the table. She dims the lights and the candle-flames dance in hundreds of tiny flickers on the crystal glasses and porcelain dishes.

  'What does Mister Smith do in Chile, Mum?' I ask.

  'He's a general, like Daddy. But to us he's just Mister John Smith on a business trip from New York - you know that, for if your friends ask, don't you?' says Mum, looking down at me with a concerned frown between her brows.

  'Yes, Mum, of course I know,' I answer, letting my

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  finger run through a candle-flame to see whether it gets burned.

  'Don't play with fire,' says Use. 'You'll wet your bed.'

  As I pull a face at her, Dad comes in.

  'So, young man! The holiday hasn't even started and you're already terrorising your sister.' He bends forward to kiss us all hello, then asks me: 'Are you bored already?'

  'It's not me, Dad. It's her, pestering me!' I wish I could wipe the snigger off Use's face. Whenever she thinks she's won a victory over me, she sucks in her cheeks and makes a stupid pout at me, acting like she's a famous film star.

  'What have you been up to today, Marnus?' Dad asks.

  'I've been playing with the Scalextric, Dad. But the green car keeps going faster than the red one, so it keeps coming off the track.'

  'And ... did you find the fault?'

  'Ja, Dad. I think it's the contact wire at the bottom that's not tight enough. I flattened it out a little just now, and it's going a lot better. But round the corners I still have to take it slower than the green one.'

  'I trust you are refreshed and ready for your first South African meal?' None of us notice Mister Smith in the doorway until Mum suddenly speaks in English. We all turn to look at him, 'And I hope you've made yourself at home.'

  When he smiles back, his white teeth show below his black moustache, and he says: 'You are very kind. In my country we say, mi casa es su casaV He's wearing different clothes than when I saw him through the window. His wet hair is neatly parted on one side of his head.

  'John! Good . . . You've already met Leonore, so let me introduce you to my children. This is Use, and this is my son, Marnus.'

  'Pleased to meet you, Mister Smith,' says Use, and steps

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  forward to shake his hand the way we've been taught. Mum says it's rubbish that women shouldn't shake hands. She says if more women could learn to shake hands there'd be more women like Golda Meir in this world. Even though she's a woman, Golda Meir is the one who's going to teach the Arabs a lesson.

  'The pleasure is mine,' the General answers, and his eyes move from Use to Mum, and then back to Use: 'Obviously you are your mother's child. But then, you may just as well have been sisters,' he says in his funny accent. But he speaks good English.

  In the meantime I've moved closer to shake his hand. It feels as though his eyes are looking right through me.

  'Pleased to meet you, Mister Smith,' I say, and I feel my ears go red because he saw me peeking through the window. Mum's going to die if he says anything about me at the window. Mum says peering through windows is the kind of thing one expects from the poor whites in Woodstock. But when the General speaks to me, he doesn't say a word about the window:

  'Ah, you are Marnus,' and he rolls the 'r' of my name like people who really speak Afrikaans, not like when an Englishman says it: 'And you are a carbon copy of your father.'

  I don't know what he means by carbon copy, but I smile anyway and nod my head. When we sit down to dinner and while Dad is speaking to the General, I whisper to Use, and ask her what a carbon copy is. She glares at me, irritated because I've disturbed her interest in the grownups' conversation. She hisses at me in Afrikaans: 'He says you look like a photocopy.'

  I'm surprised and I wonder what he means. 'A photocopy?'

  'Yes, sod. A photocopy or a blueprint of Dad. Now

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  shut up before Dad hears you whispering at table.'

  I touch her hand under the table to ask about something else, but she quickly digs her nails into my skin without even moving her eyes from the conversation for a moment. For the rest of supper I don't say another word.

  Until a while back, I used to try everything to get into Use's good books, specially because Mum said she couldn't take much more of us two carrying on like cat and dog. After one of our arguments about who should wash the dishes on Doreen's day off once a month, I decided to do my best, for Mum's sake, not to fight with Use any more. I thought everything was going well until one day, with the Moby Dick thing. Even though I don't like reading as much as Use, I decided to tell her about the books I read and liked - just because I thought it would help us to live peacefully and because I was sure it would stop her treating me like a child. After I read Moby Dick, my favourite story in the whole world, I told her about it and she was very interested in the whales and the ship and everything. While I was telling her about Queequeg and the different kinds of whales and about how horrible Captain Ahab was, she kept quiet and it looked like she was really interested and that she was taking me seriously for a change. After I finished telling her the story's terrible end, she nodded her head slowly and said: 'It sounds like an excellent book. I definitely want to read it. But I'll read the real Moby Dick - yours is only a revised edition for children.' And when she said that I walked out of the room because I knew that nothing I say or do will ever get her to stop treating me like a baby. She's never going to change, so I just gave up and I've been trying my best to ignore her ever since.

  Supper is bobotie and rice with raisins. The General thinks it's wonderful and asks Mum whether it's a real

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  Afrikaans dish. Use says that bobotie is actually a Malayan dish, but Mum says it's the food the Voortrekkers ate on the Trek to the north. Dad says that real Afrikaans food is braaivleis and when he explains what it is, the General says they have something similar called pariada, or something like that. He says that's when they braai sheep over the coals in Chile, and Dad says it does sound a bit like braaivleis. When Mum asks about the other food in Chile, he says they have many dishes with rice because they have all kinds of Spanish influences in the food. I wonder if he is some sort of Spaniard, because his skin is so dark and his hair and moustache are almost pitch-black. His arms are also covered in black hair and there are thick veins running up his forearms. Almost like Dad's.

  The General asks about our lovely house and Dad tells the story of how he and Oupa and Ouma Erasmus came to South Africa. He tells the General how it was just as well that Oupa left Tanganyika when he did, because twenty years later all the white farmers were chased off their land and everything was lost. Uncle Samuel, and people like Sanna Koerant and the Oberholzers only came out then. Once the Communists from Peking began indoctrinating the blacks, the blacks took over in Kenya and Tanganyika, and the Masai and the other tribes were too stupid to see that Mao Tse-tung was taking them on a wild goose chase. Where have you ever heard of a Masai or a Kikuyu or a Wachagga that knows anything about running a farm?

  When Uncle Samuel and the rest started coming out, they said the beautiful farmhouses at the foot of Kilimanjaro and Meru had become sheds for goats and cattle. The blacks prefer to live in shacks rig
ht next to the once beautiful farmhouses. Uncle Samuel said the paradise where Dad grew up was becoming a place of misery and poverty. The big game hunters from America and

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  England had all gone home and the ships that once steamed in and out of Dar es Salaam had found better ports of call. Mombasa's white beaches were going to waste because the new government didn't have a care in the world. Business was coming to a standstill and even Oupa's hotel, The Imperial, had started showing signs of wear. The building hadn't as much as felt a paintbrush in years and plaster was cracking off the balconies in big chunks. Where the wind blew tiles off the roof, no one ever replaced them and sometimes they would simply knock a piece of old corrugated iron across the holes to keep out the afternoon thundershowers.

  'Ja,' Dad says whenever he speaks about Tanganyika, 'for the one that's not worth his salt, heaven can turn into hell overnight.' He says he'll never forget what the Communists and the blacks did to Tanganyika. And Dad says we shouldn 7 ever forget. A Volk that forgets its history is like a man without a memory. That man is useless.

  Dad says the history of the Afrikaner, also the Afrikaners from Tanganyika and Kenya, is a proud history. We must always remember that and make sure one day to teach it to our own children. Even the Prime Minister, Uncle John Vorster, said something similar in Pretoria the other day when someone asked him about the Coloured question. Uncle John said that the Coloureds will never be able to say that we did to them what the English did to the Afrikaners. The Afrikaners' struggle for self-government, and for freedom from the yoke of British Imperialism, was a noble struggle.

  But now the blacks are trying to do to the Republic exactly what they did to Tanganyika. They're trying to take over everything we built up over the years, just to destroy it as they destroy everything they lay their hands on. Of all the nations in the world, those with black skins

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  across their butts also have the smallest brains. Even if you can get a black out of the bush, you can't ever get the bush out of the black.

  Uncle Samuel, who began apple-farming near Grabouw after coming out from Tanzania, built real toilets for his Coloured workers. But before the month was out the morons had started using the toilet bowls as fireplaces. Uncle Samuel always says you should give the Coloureds the minimum because then you'll suffer the minimum. All they want is the dop. They all prefer a dop of wine to money, anyway.

  The Bantus are even dumber than the Coloureds. Luckily the Coloureds still have a bit of sailor-blood in their veins. But by now even that flows so thin, that they're mostly alcoholics who booze up all their wages over weekends. More often than not, they're criminals who won't ever get to see heaven. St Peter, who stands at the portals of eternity, will pass out stone-cold when he smells their breath.

  But Doreen, she's a good girl and she might go to heaven. In heaven she'll live with other Christian Coloureds in small houses and the Lord will reward her for never boozing it up like the rest. Also because she never nabs Mum's sugar like Gloria does from Mrs Delport. Gloria, the real flooze with the purple lips who fancies herself to be a real madam - her type will never inherit the Eternal Life.

  Dad opens another bottle of wine and fills the grownups' glasses. Me and Use are only allowed a glass of wine with Sunday-afternoon meals. The General says they make a good red wine in Chile too, but our wine is the best he's ever tasted.

  l And what do you do besides preparing wonderful meals for foreign guests, Leonore?' the General asks Mum, and I can see she's happy about the compliment.

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  From the corner of my eye I can see Dad turn his head to look at Mum. By candlelight Dad looks younger than usual, and when he and Mum laugh at the General's question, he has the same soft lines around his mouth as in their wedding photographs.

  'Well,' Mum begins, Tm something of a singing teacher. So I have a couple of pupils a week, including my daughter. Other than that, I have quite a full programme running these two from one activity to the next. They're involved in a hundred activities which keep me on the go. Being a mother is really my full-time job!' she says and smiles at me and Use.

  4 And do you sing yourself, Leonore?' he asks.

  'Oh, not any more, really . . . other than in the church choir . . .'

  'My mother,' says Use, chipping into the conversation, 'could have been a great contralto—' but Mum cuts her short.

  'Oh Use, please! I was terrible . . .' And Mum holds her glass up for Dad to fill.

  'No one who's terrible sings Dido at such an early age!' says Use, and Mum looks shy.

  'You were DidoV the General asks, and Mum nods with a smile before saying: 'Yes, but that's a century ago. Now I teach others the lessons I learned.'

  Dad rests his hand on Mum's arm and begins telling the story of how they met while he was at West Point Military Academy: 'We were introduced by a military attache during an informal gathering of South African diplomatic staff in Washington. Leonore had been asked to the US and Europe to perform traditional Afrikaans music at all our diplomatic missions. She stayed on for a few months after we met, and came back to South Africa with me once my course was over. We tied the knot the moment we got home.'

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  'Yes, once one is married with kids, one obviously has different priorities,' says Mum, and Dad gently strokes her forearm.

  The General nods his head. He smiles at me and Use, and asks Mum: 'Have you ever regretted your decision . . . to give it all up?'

  'Heavens no! How could I, with everything I have now?' Mum laughs and takes a sip from her crystal wineglass.

  The General looks at Use and asks: 'So you also sing, then?'

  Use nods and says yes, while she pushes a strand of long blonde hair behind her left ear, like she does when she tries to be grown up.

  'At least you will follow in your mother's footsteps,' he says. His eyes are as blue as Terence Hill's in Trinity, and they're shining in the candlelight.

  'I don't think so,' answers Use. 'I may become a doctor or a teacher. I enjoy literature as much as music'

  'Oh, you like reading? I love it too . . . Do you know our great woman writer Gabriela Mistral, who won the Nobel Prize in 1945?'

  Use thinks a while and then shakes her head: 'No, I'm sorry, I don't know her - but I do know Pablo Neruda! He is from Chile, isn't he? And he won the Nobel Prize only two years ago, I think.'

  The General seems a bit uncomfortable, but he smiles, and says: 'Yes . . . Neruda is Chilean, but he is not popular with our people.'

  Dad says we should move to the lounge. Him and Mum walk ahead with Use following. The General is behind Use, while I stay at the table for a while to lick the last cream from the apple-tart bowl. As I'm licking my finger covered in cream, the General turns back to the table and asks: 'Are you the face in the window - or are you hiding

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  a half-wit in the attic?' He raises his one eyebrow and pulls a funny face at me.

  "Ja dis ekj I start, almost forgetting to change to English, 4 I mean, yes, it's me.'

  I wipe off the cream that's dripping from my chin.

  North of us, Van Schoor and his men are cornered. I can hear him calling HQ over the radio. With the radio on, the sounds of battle are right here in our midst. At times Van Schools voice disappears in the noise of tanks and mortar fire. His platoon is trying to move north-east, towards Techipa, hut Cuban tanks and armoured cars have cut them off. He calls over the radio, telling HQ that his platoon is done for, they can V run any more, he begs Ruacana to send in the Imp alas. But we already know, the Impalas can't get near without being taken down by the MiGs.

  My section-leaders come to ask whether we We going to move.

  'No, ' / answer into their confused faces, 'well wait for orders from HQ. We don V know what i going on out there. We could walk smack-bang into an ambush. '

  The black section-leader stares at me after the others have turned away. He is one of two Xhosas
in the platoon. Not that it matters up here. Our faces are all blackened and at this stage he knows I'm as frightened as him, and bullets don 7 know the meaning of discrimination. While he's staring at me, it is again as if nothing up here seems to matter, and I leave the radio's volume turned up, making sure he can hear Van Schoor's hoarse voice calling to the Colonel for help. He is shouting in Afrikaans and English and Portuguese - all at once.

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  Before Dad has his shower and drives to work every morning, he takes a plastic bag with old bread and dry porridge that Doreen puts out, and comes to feed the seagulls below my window. Whenever Dad's away with army business, it's my job to get up and feed them. When we're all away, like during the holidays when we're at Sedgefield, the gulls must make a plan and find their breakfast somewhere else, or they must be satisfied with what they can get down at the harbour.

  On sunny mornings in summer, there's already a flock of twenty or so sitting out on the lawn waiting for Dad to come out. After so many years they know the story, so they know that Dad comes through the front door with their breakfast just before six every morning. Some have been coming to our garden for such a long time that Dad can identify them from a tiny mark on their legs or from markings on their beaks or wings.

  The moment the front door opens, they make such a racket that I sometimes wake up. I lie and listen to them for a few minutes and fall asleep again after all the screeching dies down. On mornings when I feel like getting up early, I go downstairs when the squawking starts. The ones that have been sitting, waiting on the lawn, fly up in a flash, and from all directions the latecomers fall from the sky like small torpedoes. Sometimes it looks like the whole of False Bay's gulls are coming down on our house. Then things turn into a real circus, as they try pushing each other aside, screeching and shoving with their wings to be the first to get at the food. They whirl around our heads and pick the food from our fingertips. When we roll the porridge into small round balls and throw it high up into the sky, it's like a fountain of feathers bursting up into the blue heaven. When one of them gets the ball before it's reached a good height, the others come down again and complain bitterly.