Sliced and Diced Page 7
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After dinner, the mood was subdued. We were probably thinking the same things. John and Roger both seeing the English soldier last night had put us all in a spin. Mom didn’t want to hear about it and as a result dinner had been a quiet affair. Irene gave Roger a few strange looks over her plate that I had trouble interpreting; I wasn’t sure I really wanted to interpret them. Irene and I went to bed early, not that either of us could sleep. We heard Roger and John talking in hushed tones in the dining room. Their disembodied voices drifted on the cold air. Although the outside walls of the house were thick, the walls inside the house were as thin as plasterboard, but I still couldn’t make out what was being said. I imagined them sitting in front of the fire, their heads bent, whispering like conspirators, plotting something nefarious. They talked for an hour after the rest of us went to bed.
The wooden floors creaked as they walked down the passage. Once the door to the boys’ room was closed behind them, I was finally able to get some sleep, but it didn't last long.
A strangled scream penetrated my sleep fogged mind. I stumbled out of bed, tripped over one of Irene’s bags. Candle light danced on the walls in the passage. The rest of the family gathered outside the boys’ room. We were all groggy, all of us except John. John looked scared. John was never scared.
“Where’s Roger?” I asked. No one answered. Mom wore a pair of my father’s old pyjamas and held a candle out in front of her. She was the only one who looked more awake than asleep. Her maternal senses kicking in. I’d seen her look like that on more than one occasion when I was a child. My screams had woken her up in the middle of the night, my nightmares had made for many a sleepless night, but this time I hadn’t been the one screaming.
“Where’s Roger?” I asked again. John simply shook his head. Shock and something else, which I didn’t recognise, twisted his face. It was only then that I noticed the blood. His hands and feet were covered in it.
“John.” Mom was holding him with one arm while still holding the candle with her other hand. I didn’t even notice her move. “John, you need to talk to me.” Her tone was gentle yet strong. “You need to tell us what happened. Are you hurt?” she asked as her eyes searched for any visible wounds.
Irene swept passed me, stormed into the bedroom, and promptly let go of a blood curdling scream. The pain in her scream made my stomach turn to water and my legs start to shake. I didn’t want to go into that room, but knew I had to. I had to see.
Roger’s corpse lay on his blood soaked bed. His throat had been ripped out and his chest had been turned into a sieve. Blood seeped through his mattress and I heard the drops of blood splat as they hit the wooden floor. Bile rose from my stomach and up my throat. Irene stood frozen next to me staring at something in the corner, opposite Roger’s bed. It took me a few moments to realise what she was staring at. A man in a red uniform, holding a bloody bayonet, was looking at us. He wanted something from us. It was as though he was speaking to us without using actual words. He wanted Roger’s bones, and if we didn’t give him Roger’s bones, he would kill John and every other white man that set foot on the farm until he got what he wanted. Philamon's words about the bones came back to me. If only I hadn't dismissed them as being superstitious nonsense.
Irene and I stumbled out of the room, holding on to each other, struggling to breathe.
“We need to leave right now.” my voice was hoarse and sounded strange to my own ears.
“What the devil is going on?” Mom screeched.
“We need to get out of here right now. Don’t argue, just move,” I said as I shoved my mother towards the kitchen and the back door. The car was parked in the barn and the kitchen door was the fastest way of getting to it. John took Mom’s candle and led the way in silence. The car keys were on the kitchen counter. Irene grabbed them as John unlocked the back door. Ice cold air knocked the breath out of our lungs as we stepped outside. Snow and wind gusted around us and blew out our candle. Our sock-clad feet sunk into the snow. Our pyjamas were not warm enough. We hadn’t had the time or the presence of mind to grab our coats or shoes.
We were wet and frozen when we reached the barn, the double corrugated-iron doors shook as the wind smacked into them. Rats scattered as we pushed the doors open. The car was John’s double cab Ford 4x4. It was the only vehicle that any of us possessed that could handle the dirt roads out here. We climbed into the Ford and waited for John to start the engine. John turned the key in the ignition, nothing happened. He turned it again and all we heard was tick tick tick. The battery was as dead as Roger. John rested his forehead against the steering wheel and sighed. It was a sigh that held all the sadness and resignation of an impending death.
“We could walk to the nearest farm,” Irene said, a small tinge of hope in her voice. It was the calm before the storm. Being calm in a bad situation was a family trait. When it was over we would all fall apart.
“On foot it would take hours. Even with the right clothes on, we’d freeze to death before we reached the Van der Westhuizen’s place,” John said.
“Would someone please tell me what is going on?” Mom asked.
“Roger is dead, the English soldier is pissed, and he’s going to kill me next if we don’t bury Roger’s body in his grave. Does that about sum it up?” John looked over his shoulder at Irene and myself.
“You heard him too?” Irene asked. John and I nodded.
“Well...we can’t stay here,” Irene finally said.
“So, what do we do?” I asked, already knowing the answer, but I needed someone else to say it.
“We do what we have to,” John said as he climbed out of the Ford.
The sky was lighter when we emerged from the darkness of the barn. The new day didn’t make the situation seem any brighter. I held onto the hope that it had all been a horrible mass hallucination caused by smoke inhalation or that Roger had played a really nasty trick on us. I held onto the hope that when we got back inside the house, Roger would be awake and sitting by the fire, playing with his camera. But he wasn’t. We huddled into the boys’ room. Roger was exactly where we’d left him, dead in his own blood. Irene cried when she saw his body again. I couldn’t cry, not yet.
John and I looked at each other and nodded. John took Roger’s feet and I took his hands. We carried him out through the kitchen; a trail of blood followed us.
“Maybe we should put some shoes on this time?” I asked as we reached the small patio outside the Kitchen door.
“Good idea,” John said and lowered Roger’s feet onto the cement floor.
The dry socks, boots and warm coat made me feel human again. Almost. Roger’s corpse was heavy and by the time we reached the two graves, my back was killing me. The graves were encased in concrete and the black marble headstones were engraved with the dates on which each soldier had been killed. There were no names. They were simply called the unknown soldiers. Only their countries were used as identifiers. The grave on the right belonged to the English soldier.
John left me alone with Roger's body while he went back to the barn to fetch the pickaxe that Philamon had used for my father’s grave. I shivered and choked back the tears and the nausea as I looked down at Roger’s bloody face. He would never smile or snap a picture again. He would never ruffle my hair or give me advice about men. I wanted to scream into the wind, but it just got stuck in my throat. I didn’t hear John as he came up behind me. I barely felt it when he put his arms around me.
“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered into my hair. “I don’t know how, but we’re going to get through this.”
“I know.” I looked at the concrete and blinked the tears away. “The concrete’s frozen, so it should shatter if you smack it hard enough.”
“Well, don’t you sound like a building engineer,” John said as he ruffled my hair.
“Nah, I’m just trying to sound intelligent. Someone has to.” The smile I plastered on my face felt all wrong. Would it ever feel right to smile again?
It was dark again by the time we’d gotten the concrete laid. We hadn’t done a fantastic job. It would probably crack, but it was done. We'd have to give Philamon a raise. The English soldier's diaphanous form stood at the edge of the grave looking at us. I couldn't decipher his expression, and then he simply disappeared. Maybe both Roger and the English soldier would be able to find some peace. Hopefully we'd be able to get home, but I doubted any of us would ever be able to set foot on the farm again. Then there was the question of explaining Roger’s disappearance. But that was something I’d worry about later, when we were safely home.
The Forest
One of the things I love about living in Johannesburg, or Jo’burg or Jozi or whatever name you want to call this city, is the trees. I love that it feels like living in a forest. A huge sprawling forest. It doesn’t matter where I drive, there are trees everywhere I look. Whether I’m driving along the M1 or in suburbia. There the trees are, lining the road. Sometimes I forget that I live in such a large and dangerous city, but I guess that comes with the territory. Every forest has its predators and Jo’burg isn’t any different.
I drive along Jan Smuts, heading into town. I just drove through a suburb called Forest Town. I’m not exactly sure why it’s called that. It doesn’t have more trees than any other area, but it’s still a pretty cool name for a suburb.
I remember the first time I noticed that I was living in a veritable forest. I was in my very early twenties and had just started work at the Grace Hotel in Rosebank. It rose out of the trees, all red brick and colonial. I took my breaks from the front desk, on the veranda, outside the restaurant where guests chatted about their tours to Soweto. Only this city could turn its biggest Township into a tourist attraction.
Sunday brunch was in full swing. The Grace is known for having one of the best Sunday brunches in the city. I tuned the sound of cutlery out as I made my way over to my usual spot next to the lap pool. I rested my arms on the wall and looked out over the city. Jozi city skyline rose up ahead of me.
It took me some time to realise what I was seeing. The expression ‘couldn’t see the wood for the trees’ came to mind. I don’t know why I’d never noticed them before and I guess most people don’t really see them either. A green carpet spread out in front of me. Red rooftops jutted out of the green adding to the beauty of the tapestry.
The memory makes me smile.
My smile is quickly wiped out by some dickhead in a 4x4 that thinks keeping his hand on the hooter will somehow magically make me drive faster. But he has a point. I’m late. If I’m not at the ad shoot in a few minutes I’ll be in trouble. Traffic in town moves quickly. The dickhead drives past me and crosses the Nelson Mandela Bridge, thankfully leaving me alone.
Buildings stretch up to meet the sky on either side of me. Somehow trees manage to grow in the shadows of these urban giants.
I turn into Market Street and start looking for the yellow and black sign that the production company has set up to mark the building that we’re shooting in. Security guards with yellow bibs stand on the street corners giving citizens a false sense of security. I can’t help but wonder what some of them would do if there was a robbery.
Turning into the underground parking lot, I start searching for the elusive empty spot. I spiral downwards, further into the earth. Industrial lights flicker as I drive into a slightly flooded basement. The parking lot is completely full. A man in a tight, dirty T-shirt tells me to park against one of the walls. I hate parking someone in, but I don’t have a choice. I try and get as close to the wall as I can without scratching my car. Dirty T-shirt guy has disappeared into the gloom. I step out of my car and grimy water gushes into my high-heeled sandals and seeps between my toes.
“That’s just great.” I hiss as I a slam my car door closed. I’m going to be stuck with dirty feet for the rest of the day and most of the evening. It’s going to be a long day. Another car drives up behind me. I can see the driver hesitate. I don’t recognise him. Probably fresh meat. I grab my bag out of the boot and sling it over my shoulder. As I shut the boot, Fresh Meat tries to do a three-point turn in the narrow alleyway. I cringe as he scrapes a black BMW. For his sake I hope the owner of the car isn’t anywhere close by. He reverses again and almost smashes his car into the wall. I shake my head and check my watch. I’d better get going. I don’t have much time to find out where they’re keeping us extras or movable props or background as they call us.
A security guard sits on a stool, looking bored.
“Where’s the film shoot?” I ask.
“On the roof,” he replies in a tired voice and eyes me suspiciously.
I press the button for the lift and wonder if I should have brought disinfectant with me. I’m going to have to add it to my list of items for surviving a shoot. On my list, so far, I have a bottle of water and a book, as well as the usual stuff like three changes of clothes and a spare pair of shoes, just in case they decide to soak me in water from head to toe again. You never know what they’re going to do to you on these things. I always prepare for the worst.
The lift is packed with extras carrying oversized bags. Slowly making our way up twenty floors, we all look up and watch the flashing numbers count the floors. The lift stops with a bounce and the doors creek open slowly. There’s a bit of a jostle as to who gets out first. Some of the guys think that they should be the first ones out and some of the girls think that they should be. I hang back and let the kids sort themselves out. As I watch them, I realise that I’m getting too old for this shit.
We step out into what looks like a construction site. There are no tiles or carpets on the floor, just plain concrete. Ladders, tools and cables are strewn all over the place. I follow the crowd into our holding area. There are no chairs so most are standing around at the open windows trying to get some air, while others use their bags as seats. There’s no aircon and not enough windows. Luckily there is a snack and coffee table, so at least they’ll feed us on this one.
I spot Paola and the usual suspects sitting under one of the windows. We’re the old guard. The women over twenty-five who have been doing this for a while. We’ve probably been doing it for too long. I dump my bag next to Paola, who looks more like a sixteen year old than the mother of a six-year-old little girl. I then try to find the person with the sign-in list. If we don’t sign in, we don’t get paid. I take a long look around the room. There are about fifty of us extras. We’re being stored in a long cavernous room that runs along the side of the building. I spot the makeshift tent that’s supposed to be the dressing room. Two women stand next to the dressing rooms doing make-up and hair. So they’re going to make us look pretty for this one. I always love it when they do our make-up. It makes you feel special, that you’re not just a movable prop.
I spot someone scribbling on a clipboard. It’s the sign-in sheet. I stand in the higgledy-piggledy line that’s supposed to be a queue. While I wait to sign in, I start looking for the other important thing. A bathroom. When you wait for hours and all you have to do is talk shit to other people and drink coffee, you end up needing the bathroom a lot. I soon realise that I have a problem. I don’t see any toilets and I didn’t see anything that resembled one when I got out of the lift. This is not good.
I finally get the list and sign in.
It’s now time for the other mission. Time to find the bathroom. It’s vitally important. Bathrooms aren’t only for bodily functions. They’re also for wardrobe changes. The so-called changing roo
m tent is rather dangerous. For one thing, I don’t particularly like getting changed in pitch darkness. It’s creepy. Plus the young boys think it’s funny to accidentally go into the girls’ side of the tent. I personally don’t enjoy it when the guys hold open the flap for all to see me when I’ve got a pair of pants around my ankles and nothing but my bra on. But that’s just me. Some girls actually enjoy the attention.
“Anybody found the bathroom yet?” I ask Paola and the rest of the old guard.
“There isn’t one.” Paola looks up at me with big brown eyes.
“What?” I say, hoping that she’s joking.
“What’s supposed to be a toilet is now a storage room.”
“That’s great.” I tap my foot in irritation and take another look around the room. I’m not going to give up that easily. “I’m going to take another look around. Anybody want to come with me?” I ask.
“Not particularly,” Paola says with a grin. “I’m comfortable.”
I look down at her sitting on her scrunched up bag. She doesn’t look that comfortable. I shrug and walk off in search of the Holy Grail—a clean toilet.
I start my search in the construction site that should be an entrance hall. I spot Dirty T-shirt guy coming up the stairs. Shock or something like it crumples his features into a mangled mess. I hesitate to ask him the all-important question, but my need overwhelms any sensitivity issues.
“Sorry to bug you, but do you maybe know where the bathrooms are?” I ask, trying not to be too pushy.
He doesn’t look at me. Maybe he didn’t hear me, so I’m about to ask him again when he points down the stairs.
“Thanks,” I shout back as I run down them, heading towards relief.
I spot a door at the bottom of the flight. I grin as I push the handle down. My grin quickly disappears and I understand the look on Dirty T-shirts face.
White tanned legs wrap around a dark brown waist. Pants around his ankles and all I see are his Nubian bum muscles flexing. Groans escape from their mouths, as he trusts into her. She rakes long painted nails down his back leaving red welts in their wake. I back out the door as quietly as possible. The basin is probably not safe to use now. I really should have brought some disinfectant. I follow Dirty T-shirt up the stairs with the same stupid look on my face.