Erich Rautenbach - The Unexploded Boer

Published by Zebra Press

an imprint of Random House Struik (Pty) Ltd

Reg. No. 1966/003153/07

80 McKenzie Street, Cape Town, 8001

PO Box 1144, Cape Town, 8000 South Africa

www.zebrapress.co.za

First published 2011

Publication Zebra Press 2011

Text Erich Rautenbach 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owners.

The sources on page 141 constitute an extension of this copyright page.

PUBLISHER : Marlene Fryer

EDITOR : Robert Plummer

PROOFREADER : Beth Housdon

COVER DESIGNER : Michiel Botha

TEXT DESIGNER : Monique Oberholzer

TYPESETTER : Monique van den Berg

ISBN 978 1 77022 165 9 (print)

ISBN 978 1 77022 207 6 (ePub)

ISBN 978 1 77022 208 3 (PDF)

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Dedicated to the memory of my mother, Shirley Graham,

who gave me life and then saved it on countless occasions.

Similarity to any persons living or dead or presently engaged in the process of reincarnation is purely accitentional, though in some places names may have been changed to protect the guilty. There are some real people in here whose names I borrowed as a sort of tribute. Those names might be real. Well, maybe. Anyway, if real people do exist and their names have been changed, then they will know who they are. But this is really just a story, an allegory with ... umm ... archetypical overtones set in a country that no longer exists. Also, some of the places changed their names in the time that followed, because for a while the land had entered a fictional world of temporary names, and many names are being remembered again, some being forgotten, others living on in infamy like used toilet paper in a dry gutter.

But whats in a name anyway?

CONTENTS

Time. Is this the time for a story? All I have, now, is a little old story from a long time ago, but old becomes new as the wheel turns round. I first wrote this story in the northern autumn of 1976 when I was in a hospital in a village somewhere in the Aquitaine region in France, home to the finest prune plums on the planet. It seemed like the first time I had stopped moving, stopped running, for years.

I was immobile, with a full leg cast, so the nurses brought me the yellow paper from between the X-ray photos and gave me pencils and I wrote the story by hand, with accompanying sketches. For two and a half months I wrote. Every detail, every person, was fresh in my mind. Time has weathered my memory and many of the gargoyles have long since dropped from the temples of my imagination, so much may have changed in the telling over the years since that version.

The thing is I was trapped in another demanding storyline and, after leaving the hospital on an 800-kilometre motorcycle ride with a kid named Frdric, I ended up in a situation in Paris in early 1977 the time of the Ramones, Serge Gainsbourg, Patti Smith, Alain Stivell with this guy, Malik the Moroccan, who cleaned his nails with a stiletto knife and lived in an apartment in Saint Michel with two greasy sidekicks and three Doberman pinschers.

To this picture we add the words: I owed him money.

I had to leave Paris in a hurry, and very carefully, because Malik wasnt the only dodgy customer in my life, and in the ensuing disparu I forgot about my manuscript, which is probably still somewhere in Paris. Here is some of what I remember

1

This, muttered the small, dark-haired man, is a Parabellum with dum-dum bullets.

A what?

The entire natural world seemed to anticipate his words before he spoke them. The clear, cold sunlight played through the trees, fracturing like in one of those Bergman movies that film buffs would watch at the old Labia Theatre on Orange Street in Cape Town, where the street curves near the Mount Nelson Hotel with its colonnades and tall palm trees.

He said it so softly. He didnt shout. Perhaps he had rehearsed that line for months in front of the mirror at his mothers house, angling his face this way and that, flipping up the collar of his jacket, adjusting the light and hoping to look cool to whom to me? Is this some fantasy script, me just a bit player in his personality opus? What the fuck is the point of telling me the make or the specs of his gun?

I lowered my gaze from his face and saw the object in his hand. It was pointed directly at my head through the open window of the Volkswagen. Shit! The morning sun glinted on the dull metal. My hung-over brain tried to catch up with his statement as I sat there in the passenger seat with the money and the dope in my lap.

I wouldnt even have pegged him for a cop, with the standard joller look about him, the slightly cool mullet, leather jacket and earring. Like a small-town guy trying hard to be hip in the big city.

The money was in a cloth bag with the Standard Bank logo. I flicked my eyes to the side and all my friends were gone, way down in the yard. They knew to move away when guns were in play

When Id woken up that morning things were weird, but when you are young and stupid you get used to the weirding of things. That morning I woke up in Endicotts garage, which was separate from the house, at the end of the driveway. Now, I admit that I had at times regained consciousness in funny places after Id just got too tired and crawled away like some animal to lay down my weary head, but this was indeed one of the oddest. I woke up under a pile of wood, lumber, planks. While I was sleeping, somebody had covered me in wood, a big heavy pile of it. Not just a few pieces, but enough for a fence-building party. Who the hell would do that?

Early in the morning, Id wriggled my way out of the woodpile and staggered out of the garage, babelas from the bottle of brandy Id been drinking the evening before but feeling okay, young and strong. Life lets do it again! I went out into the sunny chill of late autumn and across to the kitchen.

Hey, where the heck were you last night? Endicott asked in a slightly accusing tone.

I was here, I got tired and fell asleep in the garage, I countered. Its been a long trip. Im sorry, man.

Bullshit. We looked for you in there, but nobody found you, and Donny took off, he stated flatly.

I was covered in wood, I said. Who did that?

I have no idea what youre talking about. Maybe you should cut back on the drinking.

Maybe. I just want to get this finished and leave this place, Endicott, I explained wishfully. I just want to get to my life. This is my last trip and then Im going, getting the fuck out of here.

Ja well, theyre gonna come back this morning, my brother and his friends. Want some coffee?