The Smell of Apples: A Novel Read online

  Mark Behr

  When they hover around our heads and in front of our faces, it looks as if they're paddling with their wings, and their legs and little webbed feet move to and fro like little oars. We can't help laughing at them, because they push their heads forward as if they're begging and they want us to see how hungry they are. Dad feels sorry for them sometimes, and then I fetch some Herzoggies from one of the tins in the kitchen, so that we can spoil them a little. While I'm in the kitchen getting the biscuits, they wait out there, still squawking and hovering around Dad. They trust him because they know him.

  On the Simonstown side of my room, against the window-pane, there's a photograph of Dad with boxing gloves. With his gloves facing forward, he's looking at the camera with his head cocked to one side. He's still very young.

  We sometimes go to the boxing in the Good Hope Centre, or at other times we listen to the matches on the radio. When Arnold Taylor knocked out Romeo Anaya of Mexico and became the world champion, it was an almighty big day for the Republic. We listened to the fight on the radio, and when they played 'Die Stem', Dad had tears in his eyes.

  Just before the General came, we also listened when Pierre Fourie fought against Bob Foster in Johannesburg. It was the first time in the Republic that a non-white fought against a white. The referee let Foster win because he's black, even though Pierre should have won the match. But overseas they're bringing politics into sports, and they discriminate against us white South Africans.

  The other big hero for Dad and me is Gary Player. Dad always says that Springboks may come and go, but the one Springbok that will always wear the green and gold is Gary Player.

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  Next to Dad with the boxing gloves is another photograph of him with Uncle PW Botha. It was taken when Uncle PW became the Minister of Defence. Dad says his money is on Uncle PW to pull the wagon through the drift. He says the politicians are making a mess of things, and it's time the defence force showed them how things ought to be done. Our hope for the future rests on men like Uncle PW.

  In another frame there's a photograph of Mum singing. Use says it was taken when Mum was Dido in the opera. She's wearing a long nightdress that falls in folds around her feet. In the bottom corner there's an inscription in white ink: To Leonore - lest you ever forget to use your voice, Mario. I think Mario was the guy who sang in the opera with Mum.

  Sometimes, when Dad isn't home, you can hear Mum singing at the piano in the lounge, or in the bathroom. She sings all kinds of stuff from the operas and I think she might be missing the concerts and the overseas trips. Whenever she sings in the bath it's as if the whole house goes quiet to listen. Late one afternoon, when I went downstairs while she was singing, I found Doreen standing quietly in the passage, holding her rag and bucket in one hand, just listening to Mum's voice fill the house. When Doreen saw me, she quickly bent forward, and made as if she was wiping something from the floor. Then she quietly walked into the kitchen. I think she was ashamed for being caught out, because when she left for the train a while later she didn't even say goodbye.

  Dad and Mum don't want Use and me to travel to school by train. In one week two white women were raped by Coloureds at Salt River Station. It's the most dreadful of dreadful disgraces if a woman gets raped. Mum says it's even dangerous these days for young boys on the train,

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  because you get exposed to all kinds of bad influences.

  So Mum drives us around in her green Volkswagen Beetle. When she's parked outside the school gates between all the other Beetles we can spot her a mile away because hers has a little black roof. There are always so many Beetles parked in front of Jan Van Riebeeck that we could easily walk to the wrong one. Whenever we're on the open road playing road-cricket, we're not allowed to choose Beetles, because there are thousands of them, and whoever chooses them always ends up winning.

  Mum fits in her singing lessons between the driving around. At the beginning of each week, Use and I must tell her exactly when we have after-school activities. That way Mum can cancel some of her lessons in advance if one of us needs to be picked up or dropped off somewhere. Jan Van Riebeeck Primary finishes earlier than the high school, so I'm not as dependent on Ma, because I just go and wait for her at Frikkie's house after cricket or rugby. This year Frikkie and I also started doing karate at the gym in Buitenkant Street.

  On Friday afternoons we have Voortrekkers. I'm the team leader and Frikkie is my deputy. Our team is the Lions and our motto is: Voorwaarts. The Spiro twins are Boy Scouts and we always fight about which is better: Voortrekkers or Boy Scouts. We always say the Boy Scouts is naff. Use used to be a Voortrekker until last year. But when she came back from Holland, she said she was lagging behind in her school-work because of all her activities. When she stopped Voortrekkers, Dad was very disappointed, because Use would definitely have become a Presidentsverkenner; only the top Voortrekkers become Presidentsverkenners.

  Because Use is so good at everything and because she's older than me, she has more after-school activities. In the

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  winter she plays netball on Mondays and Wednesdays, and in summer she sometimes has athletics three times a week. Besides her sport, she also has an extra music lesson on Friday afternoons at the College of Music, and she also accompanies the Jan Van Riebeeck choir. For the hour Use's music lesson lasts, Mum waits in the car. Even though it can't be nice for Mum to sit in the car like that, I don't care much that the music lesson is on Friday afternoons because it gives Dad and me some time to be alone. Dad has installed a modern radio and tape-player into the Beetle for Mum to listen to music while she's driving around or waiting.

  Before, when we had to wait for Use, we used to visit Tannie Karla, when she still lived in a flat in Sea Point. But after Mum and Tannie Karla had the big argument, we never went back.

  Other afternoons, while we wait for Use at the high school, Mum and I listen to the Afrikaans serials on Springbok Radio. My favourite is Die Wildtemmer, about the ranger on the game-farm. The woman in the story is Jenny, with red hair like Zelda Kemp. The ranger in the story's name is Le Grange, and the game-farm is Randall's Ranch. The story always makes me think of Oupa Erasmus in Tanganyika. Uncle Samuel has lots of cines and photographs of Oupa going on safari close to Kilimanjaro and Meru. In the winter, when it's cold and rainy, we sometimes drive out to Grabouw, and watch Uncle Samuel's films. Dad and Uncle Samuel always tell us great stories about Tanganyika and about Oupa Erasmus and about how good it was to live in East Africa.

  Dad was only three weeks old when Oupa and Ouma took him on his first elephant safari. Sanna Koerant loves telling the story about the time only the women were in the camp and the Masai came. Dad was sleeping in his cot

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  and Sanna Koerant, Ouma Erasmus and Tannie Betta were playing cards on camp chairs close by. Some Masai women came out of the bushes and walked up to Dad's cot. Before Ouma could do anything, one of them picked him out of his cot and held him against her while all the others came and stood around. Ouma wanted to scream or fire some shots to scare them off, but Sanna Koerant put her hand on Ouma's arm and told her to sit still. She said the Masai were giving Dad their blessing. As soon as the half-naked women had strolled off, Ouma rushed to the cot to see if Dad was all right. Because the Masai never wash and because they drink real blood, Ouma was worried that Dad would catch some terrible disease. When the Masai walked off into the bushes again, Ouma told the servants to heat pots full of water so that she could scrub Dad. Old Sanna always howls with laughter when she tells how Ouma poured half a bottle of disinfectant into the water before she scrubbed Dad, who was screaming blue murder.

  Ouma scrubbed and scrubbed until she thought she'd killed all the germs. Then she rinsed Dad with clean water. Sanna says she laughed at Ouma so much because of all the scrubbing that Ouma got quite angry with her and told her she didn't know how one woman could be so insensitive to another. When old Sanna has
finished telling the story, she cackles with laughter again, and her little teeth curl out over her thin bottom lip like yellow mealie pips.

  Tannie Betta once said that all the white children who grew up near Meru have yellow teeth. Uncle Samuel said it's true, you can go and look at the children of Kilimanjaro, their teeth are all white. Then old Sanna burst out laughing again, and she asked: 'Where are the children of Kilimanjaro?' Uncle Samuel got upset with her and said she shouldn't start her nonsense again.

  When IVlum's students come to our house for singing

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  lessons, I have to behave quietly, politely and keep in the background. I know the rhyme off by heart already, and I repeat it silently to myself when Mum says: 'Marnus, my boy, today you must be quiet, polite and in the background. The students pay a lot of money for their lessons. Money doesn't grow on trees . . .'

  'Quietpoliteandinthebackground,' I say over and over to myself while I race the Porsches around the track. I can hear Mum at the piano in the guest-lounge, doing scales with one of her students. Up and down he sings the same notes, until I can't stand it any more and I shut my door.

  It's Friday afternoon and the General is off somewhere again with Dad. So Dad won't be home early today, like he usually is on Fridays. That's a pity, because I'm getting bored with the Scalextric. The longer I have it, the less fun it is to drive both cars myself. It's much better when someone else drives one and we can race each other. But I'm really disappointed because Dad isn't here and I hate it when something happens that keeps him from home on Friday afternoons. That means I'll probably have to go along with Mum to Use's stupid music lesson. It also means that Dad and I have missed out on our weekend swim. If Dad were here now, we'd go swimming at Sealrock along Muizenberg beach, and after that we would sit on the front veranda together playing chess and listening to music while the sun set behind the mountains.

  Friday afternoons are the best times for Dad and me. We go for a long walk along Muizenberg beach, and while we walk to the spot we call Sealrock, we talk about the week and about everything there's hardly ever time for because Dad has to work so hard. We know almost all the fishermen who fish from the shore and along our way we ask whether the fish are biting and whether they heard about this or that one who caught such and such a fish at

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  this or that spot. The old fishermen call Dad mister and I wonder what they would think if they knew that he's really a general.

  When we reach Sealrock, and only if there aren't other people anywhere near us on the beach, we go up the dunes and take off all our clothes, and then we run down to the sea and into the waves - completely starkers. Dad gives me a bit of a head start, and then I sprint down the dunes and across the beach to see if I can get to the water before him. Sometimes I make it, but other times he catches me from behind and he picks me up and carries me under his arm, right into the waves. I shout and scream like mad for him to wait, but before I know what's coming, we crash down into the breakers. The water's so icy in winter that I almost lose my breath, but Dad says we're bulls who can't be scared off by a bit of cold water.

  Then we swim out far beyond the breakers, and for a while we just float on our backs in the swell. Out there Dad is always very quiet, and if I speak too much he says I should keep quiet and listen to the sea and the gulls. If we're deep enough we can't even hear the cars driving along Strandfontein Road, and the specks of fishermen disappear behind the waves. Then it feels like Dad and I are the only people in the whole bay, and even though Dad never says so, I always think he's remembering Oupa Erasmus who went missing out there. When Dad wants to stay in the water for too long and I start getting tired, he turns around on to his stomach, and I hang on to his shoulders like a piece of floating sea-bamboo.

  The first couple of times that Frikkie was with us, he was too scared to go in because he was frightened of the seals. Dad tried to explain to him that we've only seen seals out there a few times and that we'd come back to shore the moment Frikkie felt tired. I could see from

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  Frikkie's face that his excuse about the seals was an old wives' tale and I think the real reason was that he can't swim as well as me. But Frikkie refused to budge and later on Dad and I went in alone while he stayed up against the dunes like a real little drip. I was irritated with him because Dad felt so sorry for him. Dad and I would just be in the water a couple of minutes before we'd have to go out because Dad was worried that Frikkie was unhappy. Dad said that Frikkie would come in once he saw there was nothing to be frightened of. He also said that I was not to tease Frikkie about his fear of water. One doesn't tease another about such fears, rather you help them to overcome the fear. I haven't ever teased Frikkie about it, although I've thought about it once or twice, when he gets smart-arsed with me.

  It turned out just like Dad said, because after the third or fourth time, Frikkie took off his clothes without saying a word about the seals. Frikkie and I ran down the dune and got to the waves quite a while before Dad. I think maybe Dad let us get there first that time, just so that Frikkie wouldn't get scared from me screaming as Dad carries me into the waves. We used to come back to the beach when Frikkie got tired, but nowadays, since he's not scared any more, I hang on to Dad's shoulders and Frikkie hangs on to mine. Then the three of us float around for ages, back there behind the waves.

  I go downstairs into the study to phone Frikkie and ask if he wants to come and visit. He's allowed to go on the train by himself, but first he has to call his mother at her shop to ask permission. When he comes to visit over weekends, Mum drives him home on Saturday night, so that he's there for Sunday school the next morning. But now the Sunday school is over for the year, so maybe he'll be able to stay for the whole weekend. During

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  holidays we don't go to church as much as during term anyway.

  The Delports go to the Groote Kerk next to Kruger Plain, and we are in the Dutch Reformed Fish Hoek congregation. Our church in Fish Hoek was built when the little stone church in Kalk Bay got too small for all the False Bay Afrikaners. Andrew Murray was the first dom-inee in the Kalk Bay church and now it's a sort of national monument. Dominee Cronje has been the minister in Fish Hoek for years, and everyone knows him and Mrs Dominee. They live in a big double-storey pastorie that looks out across the long beach at Fish Hoek. Whenever we go and visit them, Mum and Mrs Dominee mostly speak about the flower arrangements and cake sales for church, and Dad tells Dominee about national affairs. The pastorie has a big entrance foyer that's covered in beautiful stinkwood panelling. As you come into the pastorie, there are oil paintings and all kinds of hand-woven carpets that Mrs Dominee brings back from her trips to Israel and other countries. One of the big paintings in the foyer is of a father and his children on the beach. It could be somewhere along Muizenberg, because the beach is long and flat with dunes in the distance, and far in the background it looks like the Hottentots-Holland. The man in the picture is speaking to his children, and in the bottom of the painting, written in big letters in the sand, it says: 'Honour Thy Father and Mother'. When I look at that painting, I sometimes wonder why only the father is there.

  Frikkie phones back and says he can come over, but he has to go back on Sunday morning, because they're going for lunch with his grandmother in Stellenbosch. His mother said he can come to my place, but he had to promise not to behave like a hooligan like last time he was

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  here. Last time Frikkie stayed over was when it was my birthday party. Then he got into trouble for breaking leaves off Mum's aloes and then rubbing the aloe juice in Zelda Kemp's mouth. Zelda was still crying when Mrs Delport came to fetch him a while later, and on Monday Frikkie told me that his father had given him the most terrible hiding.

  Dad never gives us hidings. He says if you raise a child properly, it won't ever be necessary to lift your hand against that child. But Use got a hiding once. It happened when I was still too
small to remember, but I think Use must have been about seven. One day, a Bantu came to our house to see Dad. He came by train and Dad took him into the study, where they spoke behind the closed door. At some stage, Dad had to fetch something from the car. Because Bantus are so scarce in the Cape, Use took the chance to have a closer look at the one in the study. We're mainly used to Coloureds, because they're the only ones allowed to work here legally. When Bantus come here to work, the police send them away because they try and take everything over. It's the same with the Coolies in the Free State. The Coolies aren't even allowed to stay over for one night, because once they sit, they stay sitting. The coolies were only brought from India to chop sugar-cane, but now they've taken over the whole of Durban. Bantus mostly live in Natal, the Free State and the Transvaal.

  So Use wanted to check out the strange visitor. She stuck her head into the study, and before he knew what was coming, she said: 'You ugly black kaffir!'

  She was about to run off when she bumped slap-bang into Dad, who had heard what she said to the Bantu. Use says that Dad picked her up by her arm and carried her straight to our bathroom, and he gave her the one and only hiding of her life. Then he took her back to the study and

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  forced her to apologise to the Bantu for calling him a kaf-fir. We aren't allowed to use words like 'kaffir' or 'hotnot' or "houtkop because they're also human, and Dad says we should treat them like human beings.

  Frikkie says the word 'kaffir' means 4 spit', and Gloria always says that kaffirs are the scum of the earth. Once, when Frikkie told her that she was half-kaffir herself, she just laughed and said: 4 No way, Jose! There's lots of milk in this coffee!'