It Might Get Loud. Ingrid Winterbach
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says Karl. Is he sure it’s not perhaps a family visit? What’s he having? asks the man. Nothing, thanks, he was just on his way out. And again he tries to slip away, give the guy the slip, get out of his vital sphere.
Wait, says the man. Places a gentle, but firm, hand on Karl’s arm. Just a moment, he says. Karl looks down at the hand on his arm. It’s not a hand, it’s closer to a deformed talon – its colour is a deep, deep, no-holds-barred – shocking – purple-red, a colour he wouldn’t normally associate with human skin. Instinctively he glances at the other hand too, now resting lightly on the counter. Same colour.
Skiing accident, says the man, following Karl’s gaze. Almost didn’t survive. Frostbite in both hands. The age of miracles hasn’t passed, has it? I think I know who you are, says the man. Karl says nothing. The brother of Ignatius Hofmeyr? (Oh no, Karl thinks, oh no.) Am I right? Karl considers for a moment saying it’s not him, he’s never heard the name Ignatius. The man takes off his dark glasses. Now he looks even more like Jeff Bridges. Pale eyes. It looks as if they’ve been exposed to too much snow glare; the irises have a weird, flat glitter, as if the Big Bang is reflected in them. Karl nods lightly, affirmative. In that case, says the man, we have an urgent matter to discuss. Shall we have something to drink first? Karl’s mouth is dry. A beer, thanks. Ignatius is in trouble, says the man, he’s in serious trouble. Call me Joachim, he says, and extends one purple talon to Karl. Karl hesitates before shaking the man’s hand. It is cold, with a squamous texture, like the hide of a leguan.
Over the man’s shoulder Karl sees them still arguing outside, he think he hears Stevie saying kak, kak, it’s all kak they’re listening to, forget it all, start from scratch, before the Joachim guy closes in with still greater persistence, wholly claiming Karl’s attention and totally obstructing his field of vision with his obdurate presence.
‘You have been sent to me tonight,’ says Joachim, ‘because I have an important message for you.’ (What does the man mean – who sent him?’) ‘Your brother Ignatius and I are friends. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but Ignatius is in mortal peril. I happen to know that you’re on your way to him. That’s good. You must make him understand that he must get in touch with me urgently before it’s too late. I may be able to help him. If anybody can still help him, it’s me. I have the necessary knowledge. You may well understand nothing of all this now, but believe me when I say that Iggy has ventured into dangerous territory. Take my word for it. He’s walking a tightrope. There are powers battling for possession of his soul. It’s not a foregone conclusion that he’ll survive psychically. The adversaries are strong. They are cunning and demonic. Look at my hands,’ says the man, and holds out his two hands to Karl as if for closer inspection. Karl stares, he’s never beheld anything like it – two beetroot talons.
‘I got off lightly,’ says the man. ‘I suffered damage only to my body. On the face of it a skiing accident. But much more than that. Call it a close encounter. Call it a confrontation with a hostile power, call it evil, call it what you will. Call it a power dormant in all of creation – a hard, bitter rind enclosing the sweet fruit of truth. I was lucky to escape with my life. Damage to the body – that’s the least. Iggy may not be so lucky. He is very close to the abyss. Once he’s in it, nobody can reach him. Do you want another beer, or perhaps something stronger?’
‘Something stronger, thanks,’ says Karl. His mouth is exceptionally dry, even after the beer.
‘You do realise the gravity of the situation, don’t you?’ asks the man. Karl nods. ‘You understand that Iggy’s soul, his being, is imperilled, that he’s moving on the brink of a bottomless abyss?’
Karl nods. He rubs the thumb and index finger of his right hand gently and unremittingly against each other; he has an overwhelming urge to wash this hand, with which he’s shaken Joachim’s hand.
‘I am afraid that Iggy may already be moving in the Sitra Achra, the other side, the realm of the demons, the Sheddim. He’s already had too long an intimate conjunction with it. He has focused for too long on these things – bridges have been built, intimate conjunctions established. This imperils his life, as I’ve said.’
Karl gulps. ‘How do you know this?’ he asks.
Joachim regards him for a moment in surprise.
‘I know it,’ he says, ‘because I’m an initiate. Iggy and I have been walking the same road for a long time. It’s because Iggy possesses knowledge that his situation is so perilous.’
‘Knowledge of what?’ asks Karl. Though soft, his voice sounds shrill to his ears.
‘Knowledge of the world,’ says Joachim, ‘and of the worlds behind the observable world – the material or physical dimension of reality, the lowest of the four spiritual worlds.’
Karl nods. A wrong number has suddenly popped up in his head. He has to get away from here. Quickly. Before something bad happens.
‘I’ll do that,’ he says, ‘I’ll definitely convey your message to Iggy. Thank you.’ And before the chap can get in another word, Karl turns round and makes his way nimbly and fleet-footedly through the other customers in the bar, but the man is equally nimble and fleet-footed, because before Karl has reached the front door, Joachim has clutched his arm again with one of the beetroot talons, forcing Karl to turn round and face him.
‘You think I’m talking rot, don’t you, you think I’m a freak and a charlatan,’ says the man (for sure, thinks Karl), his face close to Karl’s, his crazy, white-pale Big Bang eyes keeping Karl’s gaze captive.
‘More dedicated, more sincere people than Ignatius have perished before now,’ he says.
‘What is it that you people are engaged in?’ Karl asks.
Joachim is silent for a few moments. Just fixes Karl with his stare. ‘The true nature of things,’ he says, ‘the truth behind the illusion.’ He’s silent again. ‘That’s what Ignatius should be engaged in,’ he says, ‘but at the moment he’s engaged in a struggle for the survival of his soul. And believe me,’ says the man, ‘that’s no mean struggle.’
At that moment Stevie and the two men who were with him, the two chaps who said nothing all the while, come in from outside, from the courtyard. As Stevie walks by Karl, on his way out, he flashes him the V-sign and says: ‘We’re Motörhead. Don’t forget us. We play rock and roll.’ Karl laughs, flashes the V-sign back, and over Joachim’s shoulder wistfully follows the little group with his eyes as they go out by the front door and turn right.
‘Here’s my number,’ says Joachim. He gives Karl a card, lets go of his arm and disappears again in the direction of the bar.
*
Iggy’s parcel is still lying unopened in his room. Not just yet, he thinks. He struggles to drop off to sleep. At three o’ clock he gets out of bed. He slips the Jiffy bags onto his hands and opens the parcel. He deftly chucks the brown paper wrapping into the dustbin.
Inside the package is a pile of A4 sheets, neatly folded in half, typed. (He remembers the holiday when Iggy taught himself to type.) On a separate sheet, in Iggy’s spidery scrawl – in case Karl still had any doubts that it really came from him – is written: To my brother, Karl Hofmeyr, this account of the months of my drawn-out agony. Read and reflect, but be assured, the time of my salvation is at hand.
He starts reading the document and wishes it was less legible.
In these days, Iggy writes, the plot against me is coming to fruition. A certain person is set on conquering my soul and if possible, on murdering it. I shall not mention the person’s name, but in due course it should become clear who it is.
After these opening sentences Karl can read no further. He thinks: Later. Not now. Where does the frostbite fellow fit into the picture, would Josias Brandt have anything to do with Iggy’s condition, and what does Iggy mean by the time of his salvation being at hand?
*
A few years ago Iggy had a paranoid incident. It lasted for a few months. He recovered.