The book of happenstance. Ingrid Winterbach
Читать онлайн книгу.
but was icy cold towards me. From his side, reconciliation was not an option. Never could I have foreseen that foxy Felix, with his warm, freckled skin, who just a few months before had regarded me with such passion, such tenderness, such loving certainty, would turn his back on me so implacably. The more he distanced himself from me that evening, the more hysterical I became. What did I want from him? That he should take me back into his arms? That he should smile on me tenderly and intimately as he had done in bed some weeks before? That he should promise eternal fidelity, after I had made it clear that he was not the right man for me? Felix revealed a different side of himself that evening, the existence of which I had never suspected.
Marthinus Maritz is dead. Felix I never saw again; he had been head of some language institute or linguistics department somewhere up north before dying in a car accident in his early forties.
The poet Marthinus Maritz, filled with grim and misguided yearning, walked with a slight stoop. His torso was fleshy, his feet pointed slightly outwards; his heavy, dark, bearded head was too large for his body. His gaze was at once challenging and bewildered; in his eyes was the light of poetic possession. His first volume of poetry was a huge success. He was passionate about poetry, ambitious, intellectually energetic – even indefatigable – but an emotional cripple. A despairing, tormented man. His childhood had been difficult, his mother had neglected him shamefully, her lovers had mistreated him. He was married; we attempted something sexual once or twice, but we were verbally attracted to each other, not physically. His first volume of poetry was hailed as a gift of God to the language. Where else in Afrikaans is there another debut – a comparable volume, in fact – in which pain, uncertainty and emotional abandonment are expressed equally poignantly, where there are as many heart-rending poems about youthful illusion and despair as in that first collection of poems by Marthinus Maritz? He could not equal that again. Wallace Stevens was one of his favourite poets. The motto in that first volume was a quotation from a poem by Stevens. Marthinus was an incongruous figure, and he felt himself increasingly disregarded and isolated. He abandoned poetry, tried to make money. Succeeded. His business enterprise was a huge success; he became very wealthy, took up poetry again, but could never write anything to match his first volume. Perhaps he thought that if he became a fat cat like Wallace Stevens, he would be able to write like him.
Marthinus was a man with a penetrating intelligence and an uncontrolled aggressive streak that ran like a faultline through his personality. His aggression was mostly directed at women, though. I did not realise it then. That evening, when I ranted hysterically and deliberately spilled wine on Felix’s new white mohair carpet, Marthinus slapped me on both sides of my face with abandon. I recognise the intensity only now, thirty-odd years later. It gave that man great pleasure to slap me publicly, on both sides of my face, so that the fingermarks were visible, ostensibly to calm me down. Felix du Randt, my ex-lover, looked on expressionlessly and fetched a cloth to mop the red wine from his expensive new carpet. It was clear that everything he had previously emotionally invested in our relationship he had now reinvested in that costly white woven mohair carpet. He regarded the wine stains with abhorrence. I doubt if he would have intervened if Marthinus had treated (punished) me even more roughly.
But besides Marthinus Maritz, Felix du Randt and Herman Holst, there appears to have been a fourth person present, the indistinct Freek van As, who observed everything that evening and had a conversation with me about Plato, if I am to believe him. The editor has disappeared, the poet and the former lover are dead, only Freek van As remains. After twenty-seven years he strides forth from the nebulous regions of the past to remind me of an incident that occurred in my late twenties. Am I still interested? It is over and done with, that period of delusion and poor judgement.
*
“The most arresting part of the book I began telling you about yesterday,” I say to Theo Verwey the next day, “is perhaps the description of the funeral procession of the dead rap singer. A spectacularly extended procession. The rich man gets out of his car to watch it. The body of the deceased is exhibited in the hearse, somewhat tilted, if I remember correctly, so as not to lie flat, and his voice on cassette – immensely amplified – accompanies the procession. Just imagine. In this extended funeral cortege there are also dervishes. What would that be in Afrikaans again?”
“A derwisj, a Muslim mendicant monk,” Theo says. “From the Persian darvish, meaning poor.”
“The mendicants dance,” I say. “They whirl round and round. It’s one of the most exquisite moments in the book, the description of the whirling, turning dervishes.”
Theo Verwey nods politely.
“The rich man then fantasises about his own funeral,” I say. “He has about five chance sexual interactions with women during his journey through the city, and he fantasises about the role that each of these women will play at his funeral. Although it’s hardly a journey – rather a slow progression. He sees his wife a couple of times – from the moving car he sees her walking past on the pavement, he sees her passing him in a taxi. They eat together once or twice. He asks her during one of these casual meetings when they will have sex again.” I look down at the tip of my shoe. “At the end of the book they have a brief sexual encounter. In a standing position, somewhere.”
Theo Verwey looks surprised.
“She clasps her legs around his body,” I say. “It’s a passionate rendezvous.”
Theo’s eyebrows arch even higher.
I speak with averted eyes, my tone of voice slightly ironic.
“His wife is a poet,” I say. “Although the man doesn’t think much of her poetic abilities. They’ve been married for only two weeks. She’s also very rich. I’ve mentioned that already. Heiress to an astounding banking fortune. In the course of the day the man trades ever larger sums of money, against the counsel of his financial advisors. He loses everything. His wife’s money as well, which he steals in a deceptively simple – astonishingly simple – digital or cyber transaction. I’m not sure exactly how.”
Theo Verwey is now listening with undivided attention.
“He tells her that he’s lost her money, but she doesn’t really believe him. Before he left his apartment that morning, he first talked to his dogs.”
Theo Verwey gazes at me wordlessly for some seconds. “Do you recommend it,” he asks once again, “to wager everything you have knowing that you might lose it?” He smiles. Something ironic in his voice as well? “To steal your wife’s money only to lose it in some risky transaction?” He is still smiling.
I also smile. I get my breath back. This is further than I have ever gone with anybody in one morning. This is further than we have ever gone with each other.
*
That evening I lie on the couch in my garden flat as on the evening before. I am renting the smaller ground floor of the house, the owners occupy the large upper storey. I had my landlord replace the locks on the front door and install a sturdy security door immediately. They were out on the day that the burglary took place. According to him, they have never had a burglary before. Ever since the incident I have been feeling uneasy.
I contemplate the event. What kind of thief leaves behind clothes, jewellery, shoes, a CD player, CDs and a television to steal shells? A disturbed thief with perverted needs? A thief with a secret agenda? A thief whose left hand does not know what the right hand is doing? A Dr-Jekyll-and-Mr-Hyde thief? Dr Jekyll carefully enters the house, Mr Hyde pulls the clothes out of the cupboards and sweeps the shells from the table with a single movement of the arm. Dr Jekyll, the aesthete, steals the shells, Mr Hyde, the thug, urinates and defecates on the carpet. Dr Jekyll bundles the clothes back and carefully packs the shells into a box. I do not like this – besides being bitterly upset about the loss, I do not like the idea that someone specifically targeted my shells. The event rests like a dead weight on my chest. My chances of getting them back are slim, judging by Constable Modisane’s tone of voice. The recovery of stolen shells is hardly a priority for the police anyway.
I need to talk to someone, but I do not know to whom. I can picture my ex-husband’s reaction if I told him about this. I can imagine his condemnatory