14

 

They’re visiting us for the day at our rented holiday house in Jeffrey’s Bay—in-laws of my mother’s sister Fran. They’re poor, so don’t talk about money. They refer to their son, my distant cousin, as Blackie, or Ossie or Oscar.

He has dark skin and hair and a striking presence. I sense in him a gentle strength that I find mysterious and attractive, but because he is related to my cousin Michael I take it for granted that he feels the same about me as Michael does. So I escape on a trip around town, pushing my draadkar—my little wire car—with its long steering shaft.

I have constructed a fantasy around saving a man: I am the only one to make it over the final obstacle in time, and in a brave, crowd-pleasing move I rescue him. What he looks like is the best part of the fantasy—I only need to dip my mind into my barrel of handsome boys.

Early evening, deep into their visit, uncle Dirk sends Michael to pour him another brandy and Coke. Then he calls me to the balcony. He has devised a wrestling competition on a dirty mattress lying in the corner. The children have been paired off with those closest to their age, and I see my sister battling it out with the cousin a year older than she is.

The dark corner has an eerie luminosity caused by the light from the adjacent room. A shaft of light falls over the bodies like a chevron.

The boys must take off their shirts. From behind him uncle Dirk puts his arms over Blackie’s shoulders and rests his hands on the boy’s chest. Michael returns with his father’s drink, which he tastes. Then he nods and places it on the balcony wall.

The dust from the mattress makes me sneeze. But there is something more hanging in the air—the fear of shame. Uncle Dirk is swaying, with Blackie still in front of him. His head is turned to the mattress, but his attention is on Blackie. His mouth is in a dog-on-heat smirk. He is somewhere between humiliating me and touching the boy. In the corner of his mouth white spittle stretches and shrinks as he speaks. His right hand plays over the boy’s chest, and I see how his thumbnail rubs over Blackie’s nipple.

Suddenly I’m angry, confused about my sudden attraction to the boy and jealousy towards my uncle. Uncle Dirk has it all his way. He pretends not to notice the boy squirming under his hand as he stands shouting instructions to the two on the mattress. When he realises that Blackie wants to break free, he puts his head down and rubs his face over the boy’s hair.

The round is over. The object of the game is to pin your opponent’s shoulders to the mattress. Uncle Dirk lets go of Blackie, and now it’s my turn against his son. This is the main event. I find the idea of touching my cousin distasteful.

‘Riiiightio, here we have the Flop-Klaas-Kaffirrr . . . annnd Michael!’ he shouts into his glass as if it were a microphone. Then, in a softer voice to his son, but still loud enough for me to hear, ‘OK, take your time, and I don’t care if you hurt the sissy.’

Looking at the man with as much hate in my eyes as I feel in my heart, I know instantly that this is what he wants. He whispers instructions to Michael, holding his arm too tightly, trying to impress on him the importance of this contest. My cousin has fear in his eyes.

Suddenly the world is the size of a double-bed mattress; the fight a religion, invented by this small god of ill intent. His future is under this dim light, fed by alcohol mixed with Coke and tainted by desire. To him his son’s opponent is from a different place, an unwilling participant whose future will not be affected by the outcome of this match. No way out, and for Michael there can be no prospect of losing. I am instructed to remove my shirt and get on the mattress. My first inclination is to simply lose, but the apprehension I feel in Michael is almost amusing, and suddenly the thought of winning excites me.

As we grip each other’s bodies, everyone starts cheering for Michael, except Bronwyn and Blackie, who are quiet. Little Dot is confused by it all and she starts yapping.

For several minutes we strain and groan, and then uncle Dirk pulls my feet from under me. Michael plunges down on top of me. Dot jumps on the mattress, barking hysterically, and then I hear a loud yelp of pain. Michael pins my left arm down, moves over me and clasps my other arm. Somehow it doesn’t bother me. My concern now is for the safety of my dog.

With unexpected strength I pull Michael upwards. He overbalances and slips off the mattress, still clutching me. In doing so, he pulls me over on top of him. I know immediately that I have him fixed.

‘One . . . two . . .’ I hear Blackie counting, excitement in his voice. Then Bronwyn joins him, but uncle Dirk stops the counting as the excited audience shout each number, enjoying what they now know is a victory over this adult.

‘No, no, it’s a disqualification; they’re off the mat. Get up, get up.’ Irritated with his son, he wrenches me off him. ‘Start again and stop cheating, Klaas.’ Quite self-possessed and full of confidence I smile at Michael, not with affection or goodwill, but with a smirk of knowing the outcome. He is red-faced and flustered.

I win the next round with ease, my opponent being weak with fear and close to tears. When I have him pinned down, his head is over the side of the mattress.

‘Come here, before your father says I am cheating again,’ I say, pulling him back onto the mattress.

Drawn by the noise and Dot’s whimpering, my mother comes to see what is going on and tells us to get cleaned up for dinner. As we walk down the passage to the bathroom, Blackie looks at me and winks.