it wasn’t a question.
Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D major was one of André’s favourite pieces, one that required all his concentration. The fingers of his left hand moved swiftly up and down the fingerboard and with the other he made the bow caress the strings with barely restrained ferocity. This was the only time he did not feel ungainly and uncoordinated – when he was playing the violin. One of his teachers had often said that his dexterity when he played was at odds with the clumsiness of his frame. André closed his eyes as his features contorted with pleasure. It was as if he were dreaming and playing in his sleep. With an impetuous slash of the bow, his upper body began to spasm with an almost sexual ardour … and that was when he saw them.
There were three of them. They swept in from over the cornfields, their wings beating powerfully like large birds, and came to a gentle stop at the edge of the patio. There they hovered, staring directly at André, without making a sound. It became noticeably cooler and the air tingled as though a storm were about to break.
André’s fingers stumbled momentarily but he dared not stop playing. These weren’t picture-book angels, all radiant in white robes and with pink, chubby cheeks made for blowing golden trumpets. No, the angels assembled in front of him were not like that at all.
The first angel was so pale his skin was almost translucent. Blood, because it could only be blood, coursed through a filigree of veins that ran up his calves and lost itself in the dark shadow between his legs. His chest was as broad and muscled as his arms and as he drew closer, his wings twitched powerfully, as if he might take flight at any moment. His wings were not a virginal shade of white as one might expect an angel’s wings to be. They were speckled with grey markings and heaved gently as the angel breathed, like two bunched, feathered creatures crouching on the angel’s back.
Then the second angel unfurled his wings with a sound like a heavy sheet snapped by the wind. André’s nose crinkled as a strong gust of air buffeted him. This angel’s wings were like a dragonfly’s but with none of the insect’s fragility. His wings split the sunlight into a million shards of iridescent colour that fell on the angel’s body in a brightly jewelled sheet. His penis was thick and hung in an imperious knot between his legs. He was perfection itself, a sculpture in mosaic into which some passing god had kissed life.
Suddenly André heard a voice growling in his ear.
‘So you think you’re a Christmas shepherd, my boy?’ His father – Trevor Barnes. ‘You see fucking angels, do you?’ Then the slither of leather on cloth as his father released his belt from his trousers and wrapped it around his fist.
André’s fingers stumbled again but now the third angel was above him. Unlike the other two, this angel’s forehead was criss-crossed with deep lines. His wings beat slowly and deliberately as though he were treading water. He had the look of a man who had seen too much and did not like much of what he saw. Then he tipped forward slowly from the waist, his feet lifting behind him as if there were a metal rod pinned through his hips. He turned unhurriedly through the air and stopped when his face was level with André’s.
They stared at each other for a long, drawn-out moment and André thought he saw a deep sadness in the angel’s eyes. Then the angel reached out his hand. To cup André’s chin or to draw him closer, André couldn’t tell. He shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the angels, all three of them, were gone.
Mrs Harrison rose to her feet and clapped with unrestrained enthusiasm. As she clapped, the folds of skin beneath her arms wobbled uncontrollably.
‘Bravo, André!’ she cried. ‘Bravo!’
‘Did you …’
‘Did I like it?’ Mrs Harrison exclaimed. ‘I loved it! You shouldn’t hide such talent, you know. I might only be a beginner but I must say, you’re bloody good.’
‘Thank you.’
André looked out across the fields where the heads of corn began their silent march to the horizon. The sudden chill had disappeared and he leaned against the wall to catch his breath.
‘Come and sit for a while,’ Mrs Harrison said in a kindly tone. ‘You look like you’ve run a marathon.’
André looked up at the clock on the wall. Like everything about Mrs Harrison, it was oversized and showed its age.
‘I’m afraid we’ve run out of time, Mrs Harrison. I really must be going.’
‘Won’t you have some water at least?’
‘No, thank you.’ He wanted to get away as soon as possible so he could be by himself. That was what he liked about Mthatha. Solitude was never far away.
‘You’re an odd little bugger, André Potgieter,’ Mrs Harrison said as she escorted him to the front door. She gripped his arm as if she might keep him with her a while longer. Her odour had changed. Now it was redolent of over-ripe fruit and freshly tilled earth.
‘Next Thursday then?’ she said.
‘I’ll let you know, Mrs Harrison,’ replied André.
CHAPTER 5
Karabo stood in the doorway watching her father. Teacher was huddled over a thick hardcover book that lay half in and half out of an oblong patch of yellow light cast by a reading lamp on the kitchen table. The book was so thick the pages arched ponderously under their own weight.
It was quiet in the house, with no sound other than the distant rumble of a passing truck and the crinkle of pages turning. Karabo liked watching her father. The way he peered at each page over the top of his glasses and followed the text with his finger made him look very clever. Sometimes he would tap the page twice with the tip of his forefinger and cast his eyes up at the ceiling. Or he would reach for the piece of paper he always had at his side and scribble on it. She watched him do this several times, then turn the paper over and begin again on the other side.
‘What are you doing?’ Karabo said.
Teacher whipped around and for a few startled moments, he did not look like Teacher at all.
‘Shouldn’t you be in school, Karabo?’ he asked. He snapped the book shut and turned it over hurriedly with the cover facing upwards.
‘What are you reading?’
In any other family, such questioning of an elder would have drawn a sharp reprimand and a slap, but Karabo knew Teacher didn’t mind her being inquisitive.
‘Nothing.’
Karabo stared at her father until he let out a sigh. ‘It’s just a book I borrowed from the library.’
Karabo read the title on the spine, then said out loud: ‘Teacher, what’s genetics?’
He glanced at the book, then pushed it away. Then he dragged it back towards him and patted the cover as if it were a child and he needed to console it.
‘It’s a bit too complicated to explain.’
‘But you told me nothing’s too complicated. Not if you take it step by step.’
He turned around in his chair and drew Karabo into him. He wrapped his legs and his arms around her and nuzzled her neck until she squealed with delight.
‘Do you know why I love you, Karabo? You’re much too clever for your own good.’ He kissed her lightly on her shoulder. ‘Genetics is the study of how genes get passed from generation to generation.’
‘What are genes?’
‘The things that make us what we are. Like the coarseness of my hair. Or the sound of my voice.’
Karabo pressed her hand against his forehead. ‘Or the colour of your skin?’
She felt Teacher’s arms loosen around her.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Like the colour of my skin.’
Karabo reached across the