The Smell of Apples: A Novel Page 7
hairs. I stoop forward against the tree-trunk, and push my pelvis up and forward. The object between my fingers is light brown and covered with tiny wrinkles. When I flatten it slightly by pulling it further out through the fly, the powder-blue vein, which runs from the base right up to the head, stands out clearly. I can see the blood pulsing on the inside of the vein, but Vm not sure. I pull back the foreskin and the damp pink head moves out into the light. With the foreskin completely back, the dark pink encirclement of the head turns darker till it's almost purple. At the front I can see the opening clearly, and when I pick it up and squeeze it slightly, it resembles a small mouth with tiny lips in the act of yawning. When I turn it around, underside facing up, as if in fine stitches a shaft runs from the base to where the drawn-back fold of the foreskin begins and it disappears into the softer tissue. I undo the fly's remaining buttons. I push my hand through the cloth and lift out the balls. From the upward tension they are smooth and without wrinkles, like shells of abalone, and in minute tracks the network of veins colour the skin in different colours. Here, the sparse hair is lighter. At the base of each hair, there is a slight mound - miniature walls around young trees to retain the feedwater. Beneath the weight in my sweaty palm, I feel the coolness flowing through the skin, and I move them gently back through the fly.
Before supper, Dad introduces the General to Frikkie as Mister Smith. For the whole meal he and I are quiet, although Frikkie is always fairly quiet when Dad's around. We sit listening to the grown-ups' conversation. Use has to get her money's worth by having something to say to everything. A while back I heard Dad say to Mum that Use
Mark Behr
has become too big for her boots since she came back from Holland. Sometimes she rolls her eyes like a real little lady when Dad speaks to her, and I can see he's getting tired of it.
Dad tells the General that the rest of the world is against South Africa because we have all the gold and diamonds and other minerals. We also have the sea-route around the Cape. He says the outside world hides behind the thing with the Bantus - but at least we didn't kill off all our blacks like America did to the Red Indians and the Australians to the Aborigines. Dad says you can say a whole lot of things about the Afrikaners, but no one can say we're dishonest. We don't hide our laws like the rest of the world.
Dad says one of the problems is that all the best blacks were taken away by the slave merchants. The blood that was left in Africa was the blood of the dumber blacks -that's why you won't find an educated black anywhere. Have you ever heard about a Bantu inventing something like a telephone or a wheel or an engine? No. Dad says it's because all the clever ones and the strong ones were shipped out of Africa to America. Now America has all the clever blacks and they think they can come and teach the Republic how to deal with ours. The rest of the world is stirring up our natives to make them think the Republic actually belongs to them.
But, says Dad, we've got a strong army, and right around South Africa there are Portuguese colonies that aren't as against us as the rest of the world. Dad has lots of good contacts in Lourenco Marques and Luanda, where South Africa still has good friends. Dad often goes to Angola and Mozambique, but mostly we're not supposed to tell anyone. He mostly goes to LM to teach the Portuguese what to do about the Frelimo terrorists. The
The Smell of Apples
terrorists rape women, plunder the shops and put bombs into schools to blow up little children. The terrorists get their guns and bombs from Russia.
When we're at Frikkie's house, we listen to LM Radio sometimes. They play pop music on LM all the time, and Mum doesn't want us to listen to it. Pop music can cause you to become a drug addict. Before Lucifer was thrown out of heaven, he was the angel of music, and so it's only logical that the Communists will use pop music to take over the Republic. The Beatles have even said that they're more important than Jesus. The Beatles and Cat Stevens are really instruments of Lucifer and the Antichrist, but mankind is too foolish to read the writing on the wall.
Last year, just before Use got the prize to go to Holland, we all went on holiday to Lourenco Marques. Dad had to see some people there for his work and we stayed in a beautiful old house on Inhaca island. At night we had to sleep under white mosquito nets and it felt like we were on safari, even though there weren't any lions or elephant. Use and I swam for hours in the clear blue water. The LM water is lukewarm and there's hardly ever any wind. When Mum and Use were tanning on the beach, I snorkelled in the shallow reefs or I fished with a handline.
Dad took some time off from business so the two of us could go deep-sea fishing. It was one of our nicest holi T days. One day while we were out on the deep-sea, Dad caught a blue marlin of over 500 lbs. We strung it up between two palm trees on the beach, and Use took a photograph of us standing with the marlin. In the photograph I'm stretching my arms into the air to show that the marlin is longer than me, even with my arms stretched up.
They all speak Portuguese in LM. It's funny to hear Bantus speak Portuguese and I couldn't stop staring at them. The one old black guy who worked on our boat was
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named Agostinho. He tried to teach me some of the names of fishes in Portuguese, but most of them were too difficult. One evening we had dinner in a small restaurant between the palms, and when I said something about old Agostinho speaking Portuguese, Dad told me that there are other countries in Africa where the blacks almost all speak French. I laughed and said it would be funny the day old Chrisjan was working in the garden and he leaned on his spade and suddenly let rip with some French sentences.
While we were in Mozambique, Dad and Mum acted like they were just married. They walked around holding hands and some nights they left us at home and went for long walks on the beach. Sometimes they stayed away for ages and only came back after we had gone to bed. There wasn't any electricity on the island, so Mum and Use never straightened their hair, and it went very curly, just like at Sedgefield when we've been on the beach for the whole day. With the curls hanging down to her waist and with her skin all tanned, Mum was prettier than ever, even prettier than in her opera photos, where her skin is white like wax. In the evenings she wore long loose dresses covered with bright patterns and she never put on any make-up. While I was diving I picked up two big shells from the reef, and Mum stuck her earrings through them and wore them from her ears for the rest of the holiday.
One evening, while Dad had to go somewhere for a meeting, Mum said the holiday felt like a second honeymoon to her. Then she told us about when her and Dad went to Victoria Waterfalls for their honeymoon, and it was then that she bought her first pair of slacks!
'Didn't you ever wear slacks during the tour of Europe and America, Mummy?' Use called out, like someone who's quite surprised, and Mum shook her head and laughed.
'Before I left South Africa to go overseas, Oupa
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Kimberley gave me a stern warning about all the evils lurking in the backstreets of Paris, London and New York. Not that he or Ouma had ever set a foot outside the Union borders, but anyway, they were beside themselves with worry about what would become of their eldest daughter. The fact that by then I'd been singing on all South Africa's stages meant little to them.' Mum looked out across the waves breaking on to the beach below the house. 'But parents are like that about their children, I suppose. We convince ourselves that strange places are more dangerous than our own. Maybe it has to do with what old Sanna always says: "Better safe than sorry".' And we laughed about Mum quoting one of old Sanna Koerant's wisecracks.
'Was Dad wearing his uniform when you met him in America?' I asked.
Mum kept quiet for a while. Then she said: 'Ja, he was. And from the moment I saw him, alone to one side of the room, I felt he was the man for me. I was so homesick and when this young Afrikaner officer with the broad shoulders and handsome face appeared in front of me like Sir Lancelot, I fell in love with him almost at once. I ended my programme by singing S. Le Roux Marais's 'Heimwee', and Daddy cl
apped so hard that I - unbelievable as it sounds - told the accompanist that we'd do the song again as an encore. Can you believe it?' And Mum laughed so loud, her beautiful voice must have reached the other side of the island. Then she said: 'While I sang I could see the longing all over his face, and I thought: A man in uniform, who can be so touched by music . . . Well, that was that!'
'There's a lot of trouble now in the Portuguese colonies,' says Dad. 'We can't say what's going to happen in
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Mozambique and Angola. If they go, the only thing that can save South Africa is our Defence Force.'
The Russians first want to take over Mozambique, and then the next step is our Republic with its gold, diamonds and platinum.
But America is just as stupid. With all their threats of not selling arms and ammunition to the Republic, they play right into the hands of the Communists. The other day, after twelve drunk blacks were killed by police at Western Deep Levels gold-mine, some countries said they were going to stop selling arms to South Africa. They just won't listen when Uncle John Vorster explains to them that they don't really understand the problems we face in this country. Dad says it doesn't matter that much what the rest of the world says, anyway. From now on we'll just make our own weapons, weapons that are far better for our own conditions than those we can get from other countries. What does an Englishman or a Frenchman know about guns that will be best for South Africa, anyway? No one else understands what's going on in the Republic. After the Arabs cut off the oil, we did our own thing with SASOL, and now we'll do our own thing to make arms and ammunition as well. Dad said the same thing earlier this year when he spoke about the role of the army at Jan Van Riebeeck's Langenhoven festival. It's the centenary of Langenhoven's birthday this year. Langenhoven wrote our national anthem, 'Die Stem'. Because Dad was head boy of Jan Van Riebeeck, and because he is so high up in the Defence Force, the school asked him to speak at the celebrations. Dad based his whole speech on the words Langenhoven wrote for the anthem. In his speech, Dad said that Langenhoven was our volk's most beloved poet. He was a fighter for the rights of the Afrikaans language against British Imperialism. At the end of the speech he
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said: 'Blood may still flow, but this country will be made safe for our children, even if it does cost our blood. As our forefathers trusted, let also us trust, O Lord. With our country and our people all will be well . . . because, the Lord Almighty rules" Then all the people on the pavilion next to the rugby field gave Dad a standing ovation. Mum was sitting next to the Minister. When everyone stood up, he turned to Mum and said that if he had any say in it, Dad would be sitting in the Cabinet too one day.
The other countries can carry on playing into the hands of the Communists, it won't do anything to us. Let them listen to fools like old Kaunda of Zambia, if they want to. Dad tells the joke about a man who was arrested the other day in Lusaka for running down the street shouting: 'Kaunda is mad, Kaunda is mad!' The man was sent to prison for ten years - one year for being a public nuisance, and nine years for revealing a state secret! All of us laugh, except Use, who just sits staring down at her food. There was an article in Die Burger the other day about old Kaunda crying crocodile tears when he spoke to journalists about what was happening in South Africa. But all his tears couldn't prevent the French from building the Mirage F-l for us. The F-l flies at twice the speed of sound, and besides France and Spain, the Republic is the only other country in the world that's going to own them.
'Well,' says the General, 'at least you have friends in Chile.' And he and Dad smile at each other.
'And in the USA,' adds Dad, and they burst out laughing, as if they share some secret.
Frikkie and I have decided to join the army when the war comes. The army is better than the air force or the navy where all the poofters go. Well, I said, everyone who goes to the navy isn't a poofter, because Oupa Erasmus was in the navy. Then Frikkie said, not everyone, but
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most of them. Dad also said the navy isn't all that important, because the enemy will come from the north, not from the sea. It's on the army's shoulders that the biggest task rests and it's the army that will keep the terrorists out.
I look at the General and wonder what he looks like in uniform. Dad's visitors from abroad never wear their uniforms. But in his big book full of photographs I've seen the grey Chilean uniforms. Some of Dad's books about other armies are in different languages. My favourite one has three columns on each page, with German and French and English to explain all the coloured pictures. At the top of every column it says: Der bunte Rock, or Le Costume Militaire, or in English, Military Costume. The book has the loveliest pictures of uniforms through the ages. My favourite is the light blue and white uniform of the Bavarian Royal Corps of Archers in 1854. The Archers wore silver helmets with white plumes, and their black boots stretched right up to their thighs. Across their chests they wore a big four-cornered star with gold around the edges and on their shoulders they had white-tasselled epaulettes.
I wonder whether the General's been in the war, because Dad says there's always war in Chile. The Communists are everywhere. The General takes a sip of wine and, over the edge of the glass, his eyes catch me staring at him. He smiles at me and I feel my ears go red. The whole table looks at me to see why he's smiling.
'OK, Marnus,' says Dad, 'you two can excuse yourselves now.' And he explains to the General: 'They have to get up early in the morning to go fishing. If they sleep late, they miss out on the best fishing time.' Dad knows that when Frikkie is here we usually go fishing on Saturday mornings.
While we excuse ourselves from table, the General keeps
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his eyes on me, and I have to look away. Then he asks: 'So, you are a fisherman?'
'A little bit,' I answer, and I wish we could get out of the dining-room now, but he keeps on speaking.
'Shore fishing, or do you use a boat?'
'We fish from the beach at Muizenberg. But sometimes Dad takes us out with a navy boat - a Namacurra.'
'Maybe you can take me along one day.' He smiles at me and glances at Frikkie. 'You and your friend.'
I look at Dad before answering: 'Yes. If you want to.'
'If we have time,' says Dad, 'we could go and wet the line a little tomorrow morning, before we go to Langebaan.'
'I would like that. Would you mind if we came along?' He looks at me and Frikkie.
'No, you can come. But we only have two fishing rods. But you can use mine.'
It's the nicest thing in the whole world, to go fishing with Dad, and I want the General to see.
'Well, then, we'll see you at Muizenberg in the morning. We'll come as soon as Mister Smith wakes up. We won't stay for long, because we have a lot to do tomorrow.'
While Frikkie waits for me to kiss Dad and Mum good night, Dad asks him: 'Did you get the bait for tomorrow, Frikkie?'
'Ja, Oom, y he answers. 'Marnus told Doreen to bring some from the market.' It always looks as if Frikkie is standing at attention when he speaks to Dad.
'Good night, Mister Smith,' I say, and look back at him as we walk from the room.
'Buenas noches, young men,' he answers, and adds with a smile: ^Todos los chicos son iguales, which means: all boys are the same.'
As we walk out I hear Use ask him to repeat the
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sentence, and as soon as he has, she calls after us: 'Todos los chicos son igualesV
'I hate her!' I whisper to Frikkie, as we go to brush our teeth in Dad and Mum's bathroom.
'I think Use's in love with him,' Frikkie says. 'Did you see the way she looks at him?'
'You're mad!' I answer, and some toothpaste spurts from my mouth and sticks to the mirror.
Upstairs, I set the alarm-clock for four. The best time for fishing is before sunrise and it's at least three quarters of an hour's walk to our spot. Once we have our pyjamas on and we're lying in bed in the dark, I can't keep
quiet any longer.
Softly I say to Frikkie: 'I want to tell you something. But you're not allowed to ever tell anyone else.'
'I swear I won't,' he answers.
'Promise?'
'I promise.'
It's so hot tonight, and the windows are open. Every time the waves break it sounds as though they're breaking right underneath my window. The rumble of the last night-train comes past and then you hear nothing except the sea. I'm about to start speaking, but then I think of Dad. I know I can never tell.
'Well, come on,' I hear Frikkie's voice from the other bed.
'I can't. I can't tell you.'
'Come on, man. I've already promised.' He's getting irritated.
'No. Stop it, I can't tell you.'
'Come on, Marnus. I always tell you everything.'
Now he's got me feeling bad, because he's my best buddy. He always keeps our secrets safe. Our biggest secret is about the time we saw a Coloured mating with a girl.
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Frikkie says it's not mating, it's screwing. We saw it in the dunes near Macassar, when we went fishing there. The Coloured was on top of the girl and his mister was inside her thing. It was the same as when Frikkie's dog Chaka mates with another dog, except that the girl was lying on her back, with him on top of her. Frikkie says that's the way people do it. We decided afterwards that it's our secret and no one else must ever know. Our other big secret is about the maths, but we know that's a secret without even having to say so to each other. Frikkie's father would pull the skin off his butt if he were to find out, and Dad would be so disappointed in me that I wouldn't know where to go. When I'm saying my prayers some evenings and I'm praying for God to forgive me for allowing Frikkie to copy, I just start thinking about Dad finding out and then I promise I won't ever allow Frikkie to copy my work again. But the next time he sits there scratching his head with the pencil, and it looks like his little eyes are going to pop out of his head with worry about the fractions, I just slide my open maths book across the dining-room table.