know he is in a better place, said the preacher.
May the bastard burn in hell, said Grandmother, Let’s go and eat.
Let us not judge, said the preacher.
He has not cheated on you, said Grandmother.
Let us forgive, said the preacher.
Fine, said Grandmother, But just him, he’s dead.
Then she got up and walked straight to Elizabeth Nel.
Slut, she said and slapped Elizabeth so hard you could hear it echo.
Since then I have been back to church many times. That is where I first wore black and became an equal. That is where I watched Elizabeth Nel disappear for good. That is where I first experienced everything that my life has become. Trust and mistrust. Happiness and fear. Judgement and forgiveness. And learning all the words to all the songs. So that my ears would never burn from feeling left out again.
(from the Coronåtion stage production, 2009)
Friedland
The crime in this country has brought along a whole new set of social solutions. When somebody says, Why don’t you pay me?, you say, I’ve been robbed. When somebody says, Why didn’t you come?, you say, I’ve been hijacked. When somebody says, Why didn’t you phone?, you say, My phone has been stolen. People will believe you and forgive you. But with every crime comes punishment, mostly for the victims.
Recently, while I was talking to a client, two large ladies stole the contents of my bag. After the discovery came shock, harsh words, phone calls to cancel credit cards and then the visit to the police station where they not only filled out a form, but also tested my emotional strength, character, patience, courage and faith. Spiritually broken, but grateful, I received my case number.
Next came the toughest challenge known to mankind, acquiring a new driver’s licence, a humbling process that confirms the theory of other life forms, far more advanced than us. It was still dark when I arrived to join the queue that would take me to the end of all goodness. After four hours I reached the first of three counters: one for paperwork, one for interrogation and a third one because where else must that woman sit? After that I was shown to a room where I had to wait for the eye test.
Next to me sat a tall, middle-aged woman with a textured suit the colour of pain, thick stockings, medicinal sandals and a yellow fringe sculpted with a single curler and extreme heat. On her lap was a huge black bag from which the breath of Satan was rising. Every five minutes she took something from the bag and placed it in her mouth. After an hour she looked at me and spoke with a strange accent.
Do you like cheese? she said.
Yes, I said, But only with wine. After five. In the company of people wearing heels.
She put her hand in the bag.
You should try this, she said, It is made from the milk of the twisted-horn goat. You find it in only one place in the world.
I hope so, I said.
Herzgegovnia, she said.
Never heard of it, I said.
Why would you? said the woman, We have no oil, no nuclear, no movie stars. But now I’m here. I love your country.
Why? I said, We have no oil, no nuclear, no movie stars.
Yes, said the woman, But you can do anything. You can live anywhere. Now I can get a driver’s licence. And say my favourite word.
What is that? I said.
Penis, said the woman, In my country, you say that and you’ll be dragged behind a farm animal until there’s no skin on your knee-caps.
Why? I said.
Because of the soldiers and the police and the secret people. They did as much damage with that thing as with the gun. My people will not forgive.
Is that why you came here? I said.
I came here for the child, said the woman.
You want one? I said.
No, she said, I just have to make sure he’s safe.
Who? I said.
I worked for a man, she said, He was one of the secret people, dangerous and powerful and full of evil. Had thousands killed, made thousands disappear, said he’s cleaning the land of his forefathers, purifying the blood. Then he had a son and everything changed, he stopped the evil, went into hiding, cried at night and raised the boy. When the war ended, his comrades all went to court, got shot or went to jail. But he escaped and came here. I love this country, anybody can come here, no questions, no problem.
Where is he now? I said.
He lives twenty minutes from here, said the woman, Says he now wants to help people. He has an office and they come. He calls himself Doctor Friedland.
And you? I said.
I keep my eye on him, she said, He’s a good father, but you never know. Evil lives in the heart, not the memory. I’m looking out for the boy, he’s nine years old.
Behind the counter the eye-test woman sighed and said, Next.
Next to me the cheese woman sighed and said, Penis.
I got my licence and now I’m sitting here. And this is what I’ll do. First I’ll finish this story. Then I’ll have a cup of tea and find a phone book. I will look up the address of Friedland and when I find it I will gather everybody I know and we will go there.
(from the Coronåtion stage production, 2009)
Allergy
When I was a young boy, before puberty clouded my brain and made me lustful and moody, several women had huge influences on my life and the shaping of my character.
One of them was Mrs Gagiano. She lived in the same street as us, just on the other side of an empty piece of veld. Her house was incredibly long, it sat almost directly on the street, stretching from one end of the property to the other. It was also the narrowest house in the world, sometimes if you entered too excitedly, you walked right out the back. Nobody knew why the house was built like that, it was like living in a drawing. Mrs Gagiano had a husband and children, but nobody knew where they were. My father said they were probably hunting for food because she never cooked anything that was filling.
Mrs Gagiano was busy in the kitchen every day, but she only made preserves, little cakes, dainty sweets and tiny tartlets. She wore shapeless floral dresses and pointed shoes with no heels. Sometimes she would tie ribbons to the washing line and call it a maypole. Once my mother saw us dancing and came running down the street. She told Mrs Gagiano to stop, she said boys who danced with ribbons became theatrical and developed weight problems.
Another woman who had a major impact on my young life was my piano teacher, Miss De Roode. She was very old and spoke softly with a Dutch accent. I could never understand what she was saying and cried after every lesson.
One day my mother told me it was Miss De Roode’s birthday. She wrapped twelve square biscuits in paper and told me to give it to her. At the piano lesson Miss De Roode took a bite out of one of the biscuits. Then she said a Dutch word and fell forward. She lay on the floor with her eyes wide open and her tongue hanging out of her mouth. I did not know what to do so I played my most difficult piece without any mistakes, then I went home.
I told my mother Miss De Roode was lying on the floor.
It’s probably the nuts, said mother, Not everybody can eat nuts.
The next day Mother baked two large caramel cakes. She put one on a plate and told me to take it to Mrs Howard’s house.
I would have gone myself, she said, But Miss Jennifer is coming to visit.
Mrs Howard was a large, gentle woman with very small feet, she looked like a genie that was not completely out of