EVERY MONDAY MORNING IN Paarl Boys’ High we file into the hall. The headmaster, Visoog Vorster, is feared for his run-up when he canes boys. While he tells us of God and other deep things, his fisheyes gander for a victim.
There is an unwritten law at Paarl Boys’ High that you look Visoog Vorster in the eye while he is up there, an invading viking in the bow of a ship.
At Paarl Boys’ High all laws are unwritten. You find out through hearsay, or by being caned for it, Lars told me.
While Visoog Vorster drones on, my eyes wander across the rows of grim teacher faces up on stage, to the honours boards bearing the names of Paarl Boys’ old boys who have gone on to play rugby for South Africa. The names go hazy, drift out of focus.
I am up at the dam with Bach, making a raft out of wine barrels. We pitch a tent on the raft to camp out on the water. Above the tent flutters the tattered, moth-eaten Union Jack that long ago lay on the coffin of Grandpa Rudd’s brother, killed in the war. During the night, water seeps into the barrels and into our sleeping bags. We abandon ship, and the Union Jack, having survived Hitler and moths and games of pioneers and Indians, sinks under the moon.
– You there, barks Visoog Vorster, jabbing his finger in my direction.
My heart jolts and I feel a sudden squirt of pee in my pants.
– You there, at the end of the third row, stand up.
Another new boy, scared white like me, stands up. Five hundred boys fix their eyes on the stumpy kid called Stompie. I’d rather run into Turkish gunfire at Gallipoli than change shoes with Stompie.
If Visoog Vorster is after your ass, Lars told me, you never get away with under three cuts. Three stinging cuts, drawn out because of the time Visoog needs for each run-up. Lars said he lets you choose from a row of bamboo canes on top of his cupboard before making you bend over his desk.
– What do you think you are doing, boy, looking around while I’m speaking?
Stompie sobs, but that just winds up Visoog Vorster.
– Wait outside my office and stop snivelling like a girl, he yells.
Stompie stumbles past frowning teachers, through a door under the photograph of the bald prime minister.
Having put Stompie in his place, Visoog Vorster calms down.
– You know, boys, Paarl Boys’ did not become the foremost rugby school in the history of this land by giving in to feelings. Discipline is what has made South Africa strong. Boys from this school, boys who may have sat in the very chair you are sitting in now, have gone on to govern this land. Think of it.
Visoog Vorster glances at the prime minister.
– You know this isn’t a country where things just fall into your hands like a ripe plum. You are not yet ready to understand politics. You have to leave that to us, who are older and wiser.
We nod, as if to say, yessir.
He goes on to read the results of the weekend rugby and a dozen teams stand up in turn. One boy, Franzi, scored a hat trick. He is cheered and called up to the stage to shake hands with Visoog Vorster himself.
The day I stand face to face with Visoog Vorster, I wonder if I will be a Stompie and be caned, or a Franzi and be cheered.
Hall ends with the singing of the school song and Die Stem. We stand stock-still, heads cocked at the orange, white and blue flag.
– We will live, we will die. Us for you, South Africa.
Back at our desks, we chant Latin. Stop. There is a tok tok at the door. It is no mischievous tok-tokkie who runs away ha ha. It is Stompie, sobbing and squeezing his ass.
The teacher bids him sit down. He gives Stompie a handkerchief, tells him to wipe his nose, not to be so melodramatic, that it won’t kill him. Stompie flinches in his desk as if his ass is wired to a rat cage and the rats are gnawing the hell out of him.
A tap of the bamboo cane against the blackboard draws us back to our Latin.
– Amo amas amat amamus amatis amant, we chant in unison.
The bell goes and we stampede out.
As is the custom, Stompie jerks his pants down in the toilets. We gasp at the flaring red welts across his white ass. Stompie smiles. For us, Stompie, short-ass stub of a boy, is a hero.