Porlock and Abacus were arguing about Gansbaai’s name while vlekking the fish in the new harbour.
‘Gansbaai is a stupid name for a fisher’s village. I mean there is no geese here except for Oom Hannes the sewage trucker’s geese that think they’re dogs,’ says Porlock and he runs his knife over a juicy, fat snoek’s scales.
‘No man, Porlock. You don’t know nothing about this place. Abacus knows about everything,’ Abacus says.
Porlock looks at him skew-eyed. He can never understand why Abacus can’t just talk about himself as I or me. Why must he always use his own name when speaking about himself? Jissus. Just like a malletjie. But Porlock decides to listen to him. He has been waiting to hear the story from the horse’s mouth.
‘It’s no use looking at Abacus like that. Do you know who Abacus is? I am the first learner of Gansbaai Primary when the school was still in the V.G.K church hall. My grandpeople came here when Gansbaai was still called Gansegat, man. Good days, good days, yes, good days.’
‘Look Abacus,’ Porlock says, ‘I know all of this already. Get to the point.’
‘Watse point?’
‘Ag dammit, you know, where does the name come from?’
‘Everyone thinks it comes from that year when it rained so, and then all of a sudden it didn’t rain anymore and a bunch of geese came running down the mountain where the name Gansbaai is now written among the proteas, but my grand people knows otherwise,’ Abacus goes on, ignoring his friend.
Then Abacus takes a snoek and grabs it by the tail, slaps it on the table, presses on it, and cuts the fish on the side while looking at Porlock. He can vlek fish with his eyes closed, and perfectly too. He takes out the guts and puts the vis kuite aside, and then he cuts off the head. He can taste pepper-seasoned viskop with onions and potatoes, lekker. He and Porlock have about twenty fishes to vlek, but he doesn’t care, he has other matters on the heart.
‘Nou ja, now tell your grandpeople’s story,’ Porlock says.
‘When the Chainoukwa still lived in the valleys, before there were streets, harbours and so on, my grandpeople lived on the white sand by the beach.’
‘But Abacus, you are talking about a hundred years of history. I was not asking for that long ago,’ Porlock laughs.
‘Will you keep your word, so that I can tell the blooming story?’
‘No, go on Abacus, man. I am just pulling your leg.’
‘Right, where was Abacus? Yes, my grandpeople’s history. We have been fishing for hundreds of years here. But the thing about the geese has to do with my great Uncle Doelie. People have told many stories about him. All lies, I tell you. All lies.’
‘Didn’t Doelie kill all those geese? They said so. He was a mad man who lived up in De Kelders caves and he waited for the geese and just like that killed all of them.’
‘Keep your word, I say! He only killed one goose. Just one. He never even ate it.’
Porlock looks at Abacus funny. He is usually to himself, wrapped up in his grey beard that is turning slightly red from all the tobacco he smokes with his pipe. Right now he reckons Abacus has also gone mad and he understands that Abacus would want to defend his people.
‘Ja, ja old mate,’ Porlock says, ‘Oubaas Maties will be here in a while. Let us finish vlekking the snoeke.’
The next day Porlock waits for Abacus at The Blue Whale Kantien where they usually buy a plastic. The Blue Whale is still the cheapest here, R10 for half a litre of wine. They come to town every day and sit there at The Blue Whale Kantien. Porlock hopes he will score some odd jobs like the fish vlekking yesterday. He is sure that Oubaas Maties will ask them again. But where is that Abacus then today? Porlock wonders.
It’s only later on that he sees Abacus walking up the street. He looks slightly different when he comes up to Porlock.
‘Ma my liewe Lord! Man? Old Abacus but you then combed your hair. Wat de hell for?’
‘I could see yesterday you didn’t want to believe Abacus. So today, here I am again to tell my story and no chiming in or I’ll give you my backhand, do you hear me?’
Porlock, already a bit drunk, pushes his lips forward, holds his hands upright, shaking his hands as if to say, ‘Fine, I won’t look for shit with you today.’
Abacus lifts up his shirt and from under it, he takes out a leather book. ‘In here, in this book is the history of this place so written by Abacus and I will now read it to you, Porlock my friend.’
Abacus takes a sip of Porlock’s wine and begins. He starts reciting:
- In the caves of old De Kelders did Doelie live
- In harmony with our grandpeople written on the walls
- But one day old Doelie dreamt a dream
- The most frightening image of a goose
- Half him, half goose
- So he prayed and prayed for the geese to return
- So that he could set his spirit free
- So old Doelie’s prayers came true
- And he stabbed the goose on the left
- Where parts of him was
- And threw the goose in the fountain
- So angry was the geese that they came running down the mountain
- And headed for the fountain
- And sat there
- Then they left
- Then never came again.
‘Jissie, Abacus. That was better said than the Dominee, sjoe!’ says Porlock, clapping his hands.
Inside the book is only the poem and a picture of old Doelie. The rest of the pages have a R100 rand note pasted on each of the remaining pages.
‘Abacus’ savings. Every year Abacus pastes a R100 rand note in this book for the day when Abacus dies. Abacus wants to be buried at the De Kelders caves. You see, my friend, on the second page it is written what Abacus wishes. Short and sweet. The day when Abacus dies Abacus wants to join his grandpeople and wishes to do so by being buried in the De Kelders Cave.’
Abacus closes the book and tucks it under his shirt. He and Porlock sit there and watch the people walk past them in the Main Road. Some of them don’t even care about him and his friend sitting here, day after day. They are not bergies. Abacus and Porlock know Gansbaai better than any of these people walking here. Abacus knows about waiting. Any day now their ship will come in. Yes, any day now, he thinks to himself and tieps next to his friend.
Later that afternoon Abacus wakes up. His friend is still tieping. He plants his elbow in Porlock’s side and Porlock wakes up.
‘What time is it in the afternoon?’ Porlock asks.
‘Time to give your heart to Jesus,’ he jokes and gets up with the help of the wall that he presses against.
‘Where are you going now?’ Porlock asks.
‘I’m going to see my lawyer.’
‘Your lawyer? That you get where?’
‘None of your beeswax. Guthrie and Theron are where I am headed. Are you coming then?’
‘No,’ says Porlock. ‘Oubaas might be coming to look for us and then who is going to tell him where we are, huh?’
Abacus scurries down the road.
‘Hey, Abacus?’
‘What is it? I am going to be late for my appointment.’
‘So what is the story now actually?’
‘What story?’
‘You were supposed to tell me where the name Gansbaai comes from.’
‘I did, you just didn’t listen properly.’
‘Okay, will you tell it to me again?’
‘Yes, tomorrow.’