Beautiful Screaming of Pigs (6 page)

My mother took a long time to get ready. When she eventually emerged she was wearing make-up and perfume, two things she had sworn on principle never to use again after she’d left my
father. She simpered and twirled around for me to see. She had on a green skirt and sandals and a white blouse. Around her neck was a string of pearls that I dimly remembered my father giving her
after he came back from an overseas trip somewhere. And it was only after we had crossed the yard to our car and were driving through the sultry streets again that I noticed she had shaved her legs
– another broken covenant.

Though full night had fallen and there were clouds in the sky, the heat was unbroken. ‘God, it’s unbearable,’ she said, dabbing at her neck with a hanky. The headlights in the
car were erratic and at night she always crouched over the wheel alarmingly, as if in preparation for disaster. As we went she pointed out places of interest on either side: ‘the
administrator general’s house,’ she told me, ‘the police station... that’s the way to the airport... ’

Godfrey wasn’t a student anymore; he worked for SWAPO now. We were going to fetch him at his house, which was in the township. The view I could see from my hostel room window included the
road we were on now. There was a clear dividing line where Windhoek came to an end and Katatura began; as we crossed over this line I said to her, ‘Are you sure you know where we’re
going?’

‘Of course I’m sure. I’ve been here hundreds of times. You don’t have to worry, Patrick. It’s perfectly safe, I promise you.’

I’d visited perhaps three or four townships in my life. A few times, when I was small, I’d been with my father when he drove one of his workers home. But those trips were distant
memories and belonged anyway to another point in history: before 1976, before Soweto happened. In recent years, of course, the townships had become war zones. These days the soldiers that
weren’t sent up to the border were sent to the townships instead – a different sort of border. Somebody from my matric class at school, a boy I hadn’t known very well, had been
killed in one of these township battles.

Although they were usually invisible, the townships were always close by. They encircled our cities like besieging battalions. They were always just out of sight, over a rise, behind a hill,
discharging smoke and noise and a daily cargo of flesh. Buses and taxis came in and out, trains rattled in their guts. The newspapers at night carried stories of the terrible things that happened
in them. We’d made them what they were, then despised them for what they weren’t. They were a negative print of our lives.

Godfrey lived in an untarred little street, with tiny houses clustered close together like clams. There were no pavements, no lights. We swerved around a group of boys playing soccer in the
gloom, who seemed utterly uninterested in us, then passed a horse that was ambling aimlessly, and pulled up at a house like any of the others. There was a warm breeze stirring as we got out.
Perspiration pricked out the line of my spine. I followed my mother through a lopsided gate, across a dusty yard, to a tin door. As we were about to knock a skeletal dog came running at us, but it
was tied to a chain and couldn’t come close. Only after it jerked up short did it start to bark – furiously, manically, but somehow without passion.

The door opened suddenly. Godfrey was a short, squat figure in a red T-shirt emblazoned with a SWAPO slogan. He looked completely impassive, but then suddenly smiled at my mother and put out a
hand to squeeze her arm. Just that: the small gesture of greeting; and I remembered what she had said about how cold he was. But the effect was tender, and when he shook my hand I could feel how
much soft warmth came through his big fingers.

‘Come in,’ he said.

I followed my mother, who followed him, into a small kitchen. The walls and floor were bare concrete. There was a table with a plastic cloth on it and an old woman sitting on the other side. She
had a cataract in one eye, and a blue cloth tied around her head, and her expression didn’t visibly alter when my mother went to embrace her effusively. ‘This is Elizabeth,
Godfrey’s mother,’ she said. ‘My son, Patrick.’ The old lady sat stiffly, her arid hands on the table playing with a small, orange pen. The colour of this object, its
anomalous presence, drew my eyes down to it, but she just kept turning it in her stiff hands.

We sat, while Godfrey brewed a pot of tea on an electric plate. He performed his alchemy in silence, while my mother chattered anxiously about the long drive up here, the heat, the excitement in
the air. Then, as he thumped two smoking mugs down on the table, he said abruptly, ‘Andrew Lovell’s been killed.’

‘Who? Oh, him, God. What happened?’

‘He was shot. I heard just now. Somebody in a car, they have no clues.’

‘That’s terrible. I can’t believe it.’

‘Biscuit?’ Godfrey said, holding out a tin.

‘I’ve lost my appetite. Have a biscuit, Patrick.’

‘Who’s Andrew Lovell?’ I said.

Godfrey’s eyes settled appraisingly on me. My mother said:

‘He was an activist, darling. He worked for SWAPO.’

‘Who shot him?’

‘Don’t be so ignorant, Patrick. South Africa did it, obviously. Some undercover agent, one of their hitmen.’

‘But why?’

‘How can you be so naïve?’ But she didn’t explain. She sipped her tea and looked at Godfrey, her gaze softening sentimentally. ‘Are you hungry yet?’

‘I have to go to Swakopmund,’ he said.

‘What? When? Not
now.
.. ?’

‘Not now. In the morning. Andrew was organising a rally there, I have to take over from him. And there is going to be a memorial service.’

‘God. Swakopmund. This is very sudden.’

‘Is your car okay for the trip?’

‘My car... ? We’re going in my car... ? Yes, it’ll be okay.’ She became peevish as the inconvenience of it hit her. ‘I thought we were going to stay in Windhoek. I
don’t want another long drive.’

‘I’m sorry about that. But this is what’s happened. We’ll be back in time for the elections.’ He was looking at me again. ‘Maybe Patrick would like to stay
here.’

‘No,’ my mother said, ‘he can’t stay on his own. He’ll come along. You’ll like Swakop, darling,’ she assured me, ‘it’s very pretty. On the
coast, north of Walvis Bay.’

‘I know where it is,’ I said. ‘I was in this country before, remember?’

I’d spoken sharply, but the silence that followed was more watchful than angry. Godfrey shook the biscuit tin and said, answering her earlier question, ‘Yes, I’m hungry.
Let’s go.’

On the way out the dog came running out of the darkness again. But this time its rush was friendly; Godfrey went down on one knee to pet it. And as he looked up at me, grinning, I saw that he
was just a young man, not much older than me, who also, perhaps, felt a little shy and awkward in my company.

The restaurant was up a winding staircase, on a sweltering balcony, jammed with umbrellas and people. My mother had told me that it was a site famous for local revelry, that
had only recently opened its doors to all races. The manager, an anaemic German with a lick of blond hair, fussed us to a table at the far edge, overlooking the street.

‘You would like wine?’ Our Aryan host smiled tightly.

‘Beer,’ Godfrey said.

My mother ordered a bottle of wine for me and her. She had recently become vegetarian again and she wanted only a salad to eat. Godfrey ordered a steak, and – after a hesitation – I
followed him. Then she and Godfrey slipped into a closed conversation, whispering to each other and giggling, while I leaned on the railing and watched small events in the street. The wine went
straight to my head and turned my tiredness into lightness: it felt pleasant to be here.

They were busy re-connecting after their long break, smiling coyly at each other and rubbing hands. There was a lot of sexual energy in the air. He didn’t seem cold to me – there was
no reserve in the way he touched the back of her neck, or draped his arm possessively over her shoulders. Their mutual absorption allowed me to study him properly for the first time. His skin was
deeply and strikingly black, making his big teeth seem vividly white. His hair came down into a sharp widow’s peak in the middle of his forehead.

When the food came he transferred his attention from my mother to his plate. He ate voraciously, with single-minded attention. She was just getting warmed up to the game and was a little put out
at being neglected in favour of a steak. So she turned serious:

‘What’s the mood in the country?’

‘The mood? Can’t you see?’

‘Well, we only arrived today. It’s hard to draw conclusions.’

‘People are happy,’ he said shortly, and went on chewing.

‘It’s a big moment,’ she said.

‘Sure. For us, it’s a big moment.’

‘Not just for you, Godfrey. For the whole continent. It’s the beginning of the end, we all know that. South Africa’s going to follow soon.’

He made a snorting noise that could have been agreement or dismissal, and ordered another beer. My mother was miffed and soon after went lurching off to the toilet. Godfrey and I were left alone
together for the first time. We tried not to look at each other.

He gave a soft belch. ‘So,’ he said.

‘So.’ I smiled. ‘I know your voice from the telephone.’

He smiled too, but he wasn’t going to follow this line of conversation. ‘You said you’d been here before.’

‘Not to Windhoek. I was up on the border.’

‘Yes. Fighting.’

‘I wasn’t much of a fighter,’ I said.

He adjusted his T-shirt, so that I could see more clearly the image of the clenched fist, the slogan. I wasn’t sure whether I was being baited, or whether the talk was innocent. I had no
desire to talk politics, much less the politics of the South African war on the border. I said:

‘I had a little crack-up there. I don’t know whether my mother told you about that.’

He was watching me, and I noticed he had a fleck of blood in the corner of one eye, such as one finds in a fertilized egg. He seemed about to answer, but then my mother came back and the
conversation veered off in a safer direction.

There was a heavy storm brewing as we drove back to the hostel. Lightning fizzed high overhead, throwing the streets into sharp relief – streets usually struck into
torpor by flies and dust, now full of frenzied activity. Even late at night, cars and people were moving everywhere. From remote and forgotten corners of the country, from points on the globe I
could hardly pronounce, soldiers, officials, observers and voters converged in gathering droves. Bunting lined the streets. Election posters crammed onto poles and trees. YOUR VOTE IS YOUR SECRET.
VOTE FOR TRUE PEACE. I THINK THEREFORE I VOTE. SWAPO flags and DTA banners, bits of graffiti, discarded leaflets. The feeling was poised somewhere between a party and a riot.

At the hostel the night guard gave us a cursory glance and let us through. But as we walked over the grass I saw somebody watching from behind a curtain. My mother was quite drunk and making a
lot of noise, screaming with laughter and hanging onto Godfrey’s arm. She kept telling us to keep quiet, though we weren’t making a noise, and then going off into fits again.

We hadn’t even got to our rooms before the bald man, the manager, was there. ‘I’m afraid we don’t allow visitors after eleven,’ he said. ‘It’s a rule,
I’m sorry.’

My mother was suddenly sober. ‘He’s not a visitor,’ she said. ‘He’s staying the night.’

‘You didn’t make a booking for him.’

‘It’s my room. I made a booking for my room.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s not allowed. This is a same-sex hostel.’

‘A same-sex hostel,’ she said, ‘or a one-race hostel?’ She was icily furious and I could see there was a scene coming.

‘Mom,’ I said. ‘Just leave it.
Why don’t you go and stay at Godfrey’s place tonight?’

‘This kind of thinking,’ she said, ‘will be history soon.’

The bald man was going red, but the moment – and the scene – thankfully passed. ‘All
right,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and stay somewhere else with my
boyfriend
.’

It took her a while to pack her overnight bag. Then she came and touched my cheek and said, very seriously, ‘Patrick. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Mind what?’

‘Me going. You’ll be all right on your own.’

‘Perfectly fine,’ I said, but I wasn’t sure whether this was what she’d really wanted to ask. There was a weight to the little question that made us both feel
uncomfortable.

‘We’ll come and get you in the morning,’ Godfrey said. ‘Sometime after breakfast.’

She started to say something else, but by then Godfrey was manhandling her, all angles and skin, through the door. She waved once, weakly, then I heard her renewed giggling floating up the
stairs.

Abandoned in the passage, I felt suddenly desolate. That innocuous fluorescent light, those slippery tiles, were the shore of a strange foreign land. I heard the car start up below, drive off.

I went to my room and sat there for a while. I knew that I couldn’t sleep, despite my tiredness. On the floor below, some UNTAG officials were having a party; I heard music blaring.
Outside, the lightning sizzled.

Then – though I hadn’t planned it – I went to phone my father. It was after midnight and I woke him up, but I could hear he was pleased that I’d called.

‘How you doing, Patrick?’

‘Fine.’

‘The drive okay?’

‘Yup.’

Then, because there was too much to say, we didn’t speak at all. In the pause, lightning flickered again; I could hear its burr on the line. I found myself saying:

‘Dad, she’s... ’

‘Is she with him?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They’ve gone now.’

My father made a noise: maybe just a swallow, but it sounded like a tiny glottal cry. For an instant, joined by a thousand kilometres of umbilical line, the telephone united us both. I opened my
mouth to speak, but at that moment the storm broke outside. The phone went dead in my ear.

I’d been posted to the border in April the previous year, along with thousands of others: a rankless, nameless number. After basic training I was flown in a Dakota to the
far north of South West Africa – now Namibia – and deposited at the side of an airstrip in the bush.