"Pete! Pete!”
The dim morning light struggled through the pale-green curtains. The alarm clock was difficult to make out, 06:44?
“Pete!” The knocking grew louder. It wasn’t a dream. A dull pain had taken possession of the area just behind his forehead.
“I’m sleeping,” Pete said, but the words got stuck in his mouth.
His dad opened the door.
“I’m sleeping. It’s Saturday.” Pete pulled the duvet up to his ears.
“We have a surprise for you,” Rikus said.
“Can I have it in three hours?”
“No, Pete. We are going to the mountains today. Your mom called yesterday and there is a chalet available at Thendele tonight.”
“Can’t we leave a little later?”
“Come on, sleepyhead. Get your butt out of bed. We’re leaving at 07:30, on the dot.” Rikus left the door open as he walked out.
Sleep wouldn’t surrender, though, and dragged him away to a rugby field that lay empty. Frost covered the grass, and one pair of footprints led to the Ladysmith High School pavilion. Someone whispered in his ear. He couldn’t quite make it out. It sounded like a girl, or perhaps a woman.
“Pete, we’re leaving in twenty minutes.” His mom’s voice pierced the sleep bubble.
Pete raised his head slightly. “I’m up.”
Pete curled up on the backseat of their spearmint-coloured VW Passat. He almost fell asleep numerous times, but the discomfort kept forcing him to change position.
Only after they stopped at the Busy Bee shop in Ladysmith for a few snacks did Pete slowly start to wake up. Almost every kilometre beyond Ladysmith the countryside changed, from the aloe-covered hills proudly parading their burned-orange arrow points stretching out to the watery expanse of Spioenkop Dam, to the farmland around Bergville, which formed a tapestry in shades of yellow, brown and dusty green, reaching towards the dramatic horizon and the Drakensberg in all its glory.
The road swept into the heart of the mountains. In the distance, the majestic Amphitheatre winked: the crown jewel of the Drakensberg.
A familiar excitement nestled in Pete’s belly. Ever since he could remember, this was one of his favourite places in the world. He loved everything about it, from the Zulu villages along the twisty roads, with their meticulously crafted thatched rondavels, children waving and smiling at you as if you were family, and thin lines of smoke curling out into the bluest morning air, to that moment of pure anticipation when you arrived at the gates of the Royal Natal National Park.
As you left the thatched gatehouse behind and reached the top of the hill, the Amphitheatre, the snaking Tugela River, and the deep-green patches of forest hiding in the folds of the mountains greeted you. The curves and shapes of the rocks were perfect, and Pete knew that in the shadows of the mighty mountain hid a tiny silver slither, a shy giant, who only stepped out when it rained. His eyes searched the deep curves of the Amphitheatre, but it would not reveal his favourite, not yet at least.
“Have you spotted the Tugela Falls?” Pete’s mom asked.
“Not yet, I’m looking. I think it’s hiding from me.”
“It’s the drought. It will probably only be a trickle at the moment,” she said.
“I’ll find it, don’t worry about that.”
After a quick pitstop at the main reception to buy firewood, they drove next to the Tugela River to where the road became a two-track concrete path. The concrete path was steep and curved around the side of a hill. Rikus had to focus intently to stay on the path. At the top, Thendele lay in wait: a few dozen thatched chalets all with uninterrupted views of the Amphitheatre. Pete reconsidered his earlier thought: this wasn’t one of his favourite places, this was his favourite. He dreamed of travelling the world one day, climbing the Eiffel Tower, seeing the pyramids of Giza, visiting California, Hawaii, the Amazon, but he couldn’t imagine that there was anywhere else on the whole planet more splendid than this.
“It’s a clear day.” Rikus pointed to the intense blue painted across the sky. “If we’re going to see Halley’s Comet anywhere, it’ll be here,” he said, smiling broadly.
It was only then that Pete realised what his surprise really was. It wasn’t an outing to his favourite place, it was the prospect of the thing he had been dreaming of for most of his life, to see the Halley’s Comet his grandad had described.
Since reported sightings of Halley’s Comet had started at the end of January, Pete had occasionally gone out into the garden at night with his dad’s binoculars. But he had not seen a thing. Experts said it was a bad year for it, some suggested it had to do with where it was passing in relation to the earth, others said it had something to do with the position of its tail. All he knew was that it didn’t cover the whole sky; this wasn’t his grandad’s comet, this was just, nothing.
The truth was, however, that with everything that had happened since the start of the year, Halley, his biggest childhood dream, had been pushed to the furthest reaches of his mind. He looked at the sky and wondered how something so important to him, something that had consumed so many hours of thoughts and dreams, had just lost significance. Because life happened. But being here now lit a spark in him, pushed Halley front and centre, and the excitement in his grandad’s eyes came alive again. Tonight, he thought, tonight’s the night.
“I brought a magazine that shows you exactly where to look,” his mom said.
“We will find that bloody Mr Halley’s comet even if I have to drive my Passat up those mountains,” Rikus said.
“Language, Rikus,” Deanne reprimanded. Rikus just smiled at Pete, looking more like a naughty schoolkid than his dad.
After unloading the car and eating a few cheese-and-tomato sandwiches, they locked the chalet and started walking down the hill to the start of the Gorge. It was a route they had walked many times, a lengthy one that could easily take six hours there and back. The route, as the name implied, followed the Tugela River into a gorge at the foot of the Amphitheatre, where the Tugela Falls crashed and cascaded over ancient rocks before becoming a beautifully understated river, which meandered across the breadth of Natal until it reached the warm waters of the Indian Ocean.
Pete loved the Gorge. There was always something to look forward to. The initial part was quite flat, the river’s soothing rumbling against the millions of age-smoothed pebbles and rocks a faithful companion. The first major sight was the Policeman’s Helmet. Sheer sandstone rock, expertly crafted by the wind over millennia into the shape of a British bobby’s head, hat, eyes, nose, everything. Pete always wondered if he would ever see a real bobby, or perhaps the Queen’s Guard standing statuesque against the walls of Buckingham Palace. That would be amazing to see, despite his grandad’s stories of old, about the red-necked souties and how brutal they were during the Anglo-Boer War. Being surrounded by nature at its unspoiled best made him wonder what it must have been like during the war. Waiting behind rocks and molehills for someone who wanted nothing more than to kill you. His mind jumped to the bomb in Newcastle, where a man wanted nothing more than to kill them, and wondered, which was worse? An official war, or this undercover, half-war, where power stations and people were blown up at random.
“Dad, if you were black, would you have fought against apartheid?” Pete asked as they left the Policeman’s Helmet behind and the first yellowwood forest approached.
“Jeez, Pete, I don’t know? That is quite a strange question,” Rikus said.
“I was just wondering about what drives people to do things, like in Newcastle?” Pete said.
“Anyone who intends to kill innocent people is a lunatic,” Deanne said, a frown digging into her forehead.
“Not just terrorist stuff. I wonder, if we were black, if we would be part of some anti-apartheid movement?” Pete said.
“Just remember the blacks think differently to us. We consider things more logically; you could say we consider things more individualistically, whereas they are influenced as a group, and that is why it’s easier for nutcases to convince them to do inhumane things,” Rikus said.
“Is that a black thing? Wasn’t that exactly what happened in Germany, with Hitler?”
“Yes, but that was different. Hitler was ... well, also obviously a man with more screws loose than a hardware store in a tornado, but he somehow brainwashed a clever nation, because they were angry and fed up and he told them what they wanted to hear.” Rikus went quiet for a few moments as they entered the cool comfort of a yellowwood forest, tucked away in the side of the hill. He stopped next to a stream and filled his bottle with the slow-moving, ice-cold water presented by the mountains. He took a large sip and handed the bottle to Deanne.
“Ag, Pete, I don’t know. I just heard what I said in my head, and it does sound like the same thing as what the blacks might be feeling. What I do know is that they think differently. I think it’s a cultural thing.”
“Don’t you think it’s an educational thing?” Pete asked.
“Education, no. All the blacks have schools, some just decide not to go.”
“But they run for kilometres to get to school, and most of the schools only have one class, so regardless of age everyone has to attend the same lessons.”
“When did you become an expert on black education?”
Pete thought of Petrus, and the picture he had in his mind of what his school must look like.
“Just some of the kids chatting at school. I don’t know if all the stories are true,” Pete said. “But to come back to my question, would you join a movement – if you were black?”
“I don’t know,” his dad replied, staring at the ocean of green around them. “It depends, I suppose.”
“On?” Pete asked.
“Well, if you have nothing, your kids are hungry ... if the police beat you and stuff ... I suppose things like that would change anyone,” Rikus said.
“Therefore, we need to thank God every day for everything we have,” Deanne interjected.
His dad seemed to snap out of a trance and started walking again, out of the forest and into the bright sun. He walked with renewed vigour.
“I tell you what, you know how to suck the joy out of a beautiful walk,” Rikus said with a big smile. He pulled Pete’s cap over his eyes and both he and Deanne burst out laughing.
A couple of hours later, Pete was enjoying the shade of a yellowwood tree, happy to have seen his beloved Tugela Falls, albeit just the trickle his mom had predicted.
His dad always said that walking in the Drakensberg was better than a session with a psychiatrist: “Bring all your troubles and a few hours in the mountains will sort it out.” Pete was laughing on the inside. He suspected he’d require several months in the mountains to work through all the things in his head.
The image of Renate slipping her hands under Gareth’s shirt made him want to shout at the mountains, hoping that the echoes would somehow carry to wherever Gareth was and bounce him into the ground, face first. Not that he would take her back, not after last night, never. His thoughts turned to rugby, and he realised that by now the first-team game would be over. He knew it was probably wrong to hope that his school had lost, but just once he wished Vryheid would trample Dundee, running man-sized holes through Gareth and John-John.
He could see Mr Theunissen begging him to come back, and Renate telling him how silly she was, and how she would do anything to make it up to him.
“Right, time to head back. I want to braai before sunset,” his dad said and stood up, arching his back. Pete was startled, he had been miles away.
They filled their bottles with the sweetest water Pete had ever tasted and set off on the same route by which they had come. Pete left his thoughts of Renate, Gareth and Mr Theunissen behind at the foot of the waterfall. His mind was now with Petrus and Sarita. Every so often he would glance at his watch without noticing the time. Hoping with everything in him that they would be back home before three the next day. Guilt awoke in his belly: the idea that they were only good enough when times were hard; when life was good, he didn’t go, he barely even thought of them. Would they forgive him? Had he done to them what Renate had done to him?
Had Petrus asked Uncle Gerrit about finishing matric? Did Sarita have a boyfriend? Was she still having nightmares about Rudie? He wondered about what his dad had said, that blacks thought differently to whites, and wondered why he thought Petrus understood him, even though they barely knew each other. It was in the way he looked at him. It was like when Barend looked at him, but different, as if there were no secrets or barriers. It was strange. Perhaps his dad was right, perhaps they thought differently and what he thought he saw in Petrus was just something a white person didn’t understand, it was just different. Perhaps Petrus didn’t read him like a large-print book, perhaps it was just something in his mind. Whatever it was, he wanted to say sorry, to them both. He would be a better friend from now on.
He stopped.
“Are you okay?” his mom asked.
“Yeah, I’m just ...” He started walking again, faking a smile to his parents until they reached the path that led to their chalet. The thought spun around in his mind: was he friends with a black now? And with an Indian? Did that night make them friends? Just thinking it felt like he was breaking the law. But farm kids were friends with blacks, he thought, so it was surely fine. His mom was definitely friends with Christina, but he somehow doubted she would name her as one. What was the protocol? Was it okay to have friends like that? Probably, he thought, as long as no one found out. What would Barend say if he knew he spent his Sunday afternoons with a black and an Indian? Would he be cool with it, or shun him? No, Barend was solid, his best friend. He might not like it, but he wouldn’t shun him, not ever.
His dad might not like it, and possibly neither would his mom. She would probably say she was fine with it, but “people will talk” and “we’re such a small community” – her standard response to most things controversial.
After dinner, with a crackling fire in the stone fireplace keeping them warm, they sat around the table discussing which trail to walk the next morning.
Then Deanne took out her magazine and all three of them studied the pull-out of where exactly Halley’s Comet would be at what time. According to the article, the best time to see it was between nine and ten at night.
At nine, armed with three cups of steaming Milo, binoculars and warm jackets, they stepped out into the chilly night. The air was still and all was quiet, except for the distinctive deep “hello” of a nearby owl. Stars spanned the whole horizon, only broken by the large black mass of the mountains to the west. The Milky Way looked like a cloud of cotton wool someone had placed among the stars. It was breathtaking. Stargazing in Dannhauser was pretty special, but this was something to behold. They stood next to one another, turning their heads from side to side to take everything in.
“According to the magazine, it must be around there somewhere,” Rikus said, pointing slightly to the right and above him.
“Where?” Deanne tried to follow. He pulled her close, letting her stand in front of him and leaning his head against hers. He took her hand and pointed the way.
“I can’t see it,” Pete said.
“Here, take the binoculars,” his dad said.
Pete searched the night sky until his neck hurt, still nothing. He gave the binoculars back to Rikus who scanned the sky slowly, with incredible patience. Pete watched him closely, and then his dad stopped. He removed the binoculars, blinked and looked through them again.
“There,” he said, pointing straight up.
“Did you see it?” Pete asked.
“Yes, it’s right there. It looks like a large star, but if you look at it closely you will see there is a yellowish shadow behind it, like a tail.”
His dad handed him the binoculars again and carefully pointed to the spot. Pete looked, adjusted the binoculars, and pressed his eyes hard against the eyecups.
Then he saw it. At first, he thought it was a star, but it was slightly brighter, a little hazy with a yellow tint. After a minute of staring, he spotted the comet’s tail. It was short and fat and so fuzzy that it was difficult to see. He looked at it for as long as he could, until he thought his neck would snap, and then handed the binoculars to his mom.
His mom was delighted when she saw it, giving a shrieking yelp of joy. The owl answered back as if it saw the comet too. Pete couldn’t believe he had realised a childhood dream. He had finally seen Halley’s Comet, and it was almost a bigger let-down than Renate. This was not the sky being sliced open by a silver bullet; this was merely a blurry speck that might just as well have been a star hidden behind a lone fleecy cloud. Perhaps they all just wanted to believe that it was the comet. But he had seen it, that was what mattered, he told himself, and then started laughing.
His mom looked amused. “What’s so funny?”
“I was just thinking about grandad’s story about Halley’s Comet,” Pete said.
“It was one of his favourite stories.” His mom’s voice betrayed a distant longing.
“I compared his story with what we saw tonight and wondered what Halley’s Comet story I would tell my grandchildren. I mean, the comet didn’t exactly tear the black sky apart in an explosion of brilliant light.”
Both his parents laughed.
“But at least I can tell them that their grandfather’s bad neck comes from Halley’s Comet: I looked up for so long that I could swear I heard a clicking sound, and I feared my head would be stuck like that forever. Forever searching for that bloody comet.” Pete smiled, and his parents’ laughter grew louder in the night.
“See, I told you not to use that word in front of Pete, now look.” Deanne play-slapped Rikus on the chest.
“I’m sure he’s heard a lot worse at school.” Rikus winked at Pete.
“Right, let’s leave Halley to continue illuminating the night sky. I want to walk to Sunday Falls tomorrow morning, so it will have to be an early one,” Rikus said, still smiling, and hung his arms around Deanne and Pete, ushering them back to the chalet.
“The comet is SO bright, I hope we can sleep tonight,” Pete said. His mom’s face was one big smile. She pulled Pete in and kissed him on the cheek.
The drive back was always filled with melancholy. Every kilometre took them closer to reality, to all the things they had left behind, all the things the mountains couldn’t take away. Perhaps he should become a nature conservationist and live in the mountains forever. He liked the idea. His dad wanted him to study engineering, and his mom believed being an accountant would be a better route. He still didn’t know what he wanted to do; engineering and accountancy sounded boring – too much maths to be fun. Maybe a geologist, or a journalist, something where there was some adventure, something more than maths.
Ladysmith came and went, and Pete looked at his watch. It shouldn’t take longer than an hour to get to Dannhauser from there, and as it was just after one, there was a good chance of seeing Sarita and Petrus. The thought made his sense of guilt flare up again, but he fought it. He had to see them. It didn’t matter what was said, he just wanted to lean against the pool table, drink his Coke and watch Sarita’s rogue strand of hair as it defied her best efforts to keep it out of her face, and Petrus tugging his ear every time he got nervous. That’s all he wanted.
“Damn it!” Rikus said.
“What’s wrong?” Deanne asked.
“I think we have a puncture. I’m going to pull over.”
Pete saw the pool table, the Coke, Sarita and Petrus slowly slip away.
“How can I help?” Pete asked, leaning in between the two front seats. Both his parents gaped at him as though he was a bright-green Martian stepping out of a spacecraft.
“Uh, get me the spare and the jack, please,” Rikus said, taken aback.
Pete disappeared behind the back of the Passat and, as quickly as he could, lifted out the spare tyre and the jack. He placed them next to his dad and raced back to get the tool bag too.
“You seem eager?” Rikus said.
Pete sat on his heels to help his dad with the jack. “Ag, you hear all these stories of people being robbed next to the road ...”
“Thanks for your help, Pete. It’s a shame those blood ... those silly nuts were stuck. Without your help, we would have been there until midnight, so thanks,” Rikus said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his dirty hand. Pete half-smiled and nodded. His watch shouted at him – 14:58.
Pete and Rikus were quiet the rest of the way. Deanne continued telling them about her plans for the church bazaar in July, which she was organising together with the dominee’s wife. She spoke at incredible length about what a pain it was to put together the traditional bazaar concert. Both Pete and his dad nodded at appropriate times, and occasionally not, hinting that they weren’t fully engaged, but Deanne continued without drawing breath.
At 15:47 they drove into Dannhauser. The only activity in Main Street was the wilting shadow of an isolated cloud. On the right, the Naidoo and Sons sign turned its face away from Pete, shunning him for his detestable desertion. He tried to catch a glimpse of the alleyway in front of the shop and saw a gold-coloured Datsun standing outside, its brake lights on.
Sarita’s eyes appeared in his mind. The luminescent hazelnuts danced a slow, sad dance. Music played, a lonesome violin mourning in the wind. In remorse there is no escape, Pete thought; it becomes a second shadow that never leaves you.
“I wonder what this guy is up to?” Deanne said. Pete craned his neck to try to see what his mom was referring to.
“Up to no good, that I can tell you. Probably just robbed a shop,” Rikus said, immediately upset.
Pete saw a familiar shape come into view. Petrus was running barefoot on the pavement, wearing a dark-red shirt with a faded picture on the front and the safari-suit shorts Pete now knew so well. His stride was graceful and full of power, every step propelling him forwards, effortlessly.
“Perhaps he’s just running,” Pete said.
“Running away from a crime, more likely,” Rikus said.
Because he's black?
“He doesn’t even have running shoes on,” Rikus said.
“Maybe he can’t afford them,” Pete said.
They were driving right next to Petrus. He looked up and saw Pete’s face in the car window. A smile enveloped his face, but he didn’t wave, as if he knew.
“What is he smiling at? I think I should call the police,” Rikus said.
“If it’s a crime to run and smile, then I’m in big trouble,” Pete said.
“This is different,” Rikus said.
Because he's black?
“Pete is right,” Deanne said. “He is probably just doing a bit of running. Blacks love running, and on TV you always see them running barefoot; besides, he doesn’t appear to have anything on him like a bag or something. I don’t think he is running away with stolen goods. And it looks like he is just a kid.”
“Don’t let age fool you,” Rikus warned.
When they arrived home, Rikus didn’t call the police; instead, he went for a late-afternoon nap. Pete played with Jimmy outside, thinking of Petrus, running back home after an afternoon spent with Sarita. He thought of Sarita, her sweet soft voice, and Petrus standing next to her, Coke in hand. Jealousy gave a dozen or so unexpected quick-fire jabs, right into the centre of his gut. He felt guilty about feeling jealous, but he couldn’t shake it; no matter how much he ran around with Jimmy, he couldn’t shake it.