The Smoke That Thunders Page 13

  The day ended with a loud, passionate celebration of life. Using God’s gift, they sang as only Africans can – with beautiful and mysterious harmonies wrapped in haunting minor keys, accentuated by hypnotic driving rhythms. This music ignites one’s soul and empowers communities to defy struggle, tragedy, and oppression. In its celebration of life, this music calls forth a spirit that renews hope and faith. This heavenly choir mesmerized Peter and touched a heart that for so long had been out of reach.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Little Man in the Mustang

  Chad’s anger mounted each time Peter approached him about going to Soweto. By the end of the week, his anger verged on rage. If Peter had asked one more time, Chad may well have exploded on him. In reality, he never would have joined Peter in that escapade; an enticing bribe, a heartfelt entreaty, or a life ending threat – none could have swayed him. Days before, he had made his own plans for that Saturday; the time had come.

  Late Saturday morning, Chad borrowed Simon’s bike. Sarah’s parents would be on their usual Saturday errands, and with the favorable weather, Johan would be joining his workmates to play a round of golf.

  Lisa opened the door. “What do you want, you damn Yankee?”

  “I’ve come to ask you to marry me. What do you say?”

  She sneered and snapped. “You’re so full of kak.” Then, with exaggerated yearning, she whined, “I’m still waiting for Peter to ask me. I shall wait and wait, forever if I must. Sarah’s in the shower, so you may as well be on your way. There’s nothing here for the likes of you.”

  “You best enjoy my presence now, for you may never see the likes of me again.”

  “And that would be a bad thing?” Lisa laughed. She then said in a most serious tone, “You really shouldn’t be here.”

  “Maybe, but here I am. Where is Sarah?”

  “Too busy for you.”

  Sarah appeared, wrapped up in a pink towel with a matching one wrapped around her hair like a pink turban. She did not blink when she saw Chad at the door. “You going to leave him stranded at the door, Miss Piggy?” Not that Lisa had the figure that elicited such a nickname, rather because she insisted on wearing her hair in pigtails every day of her life.

  Chad froze as his eyes fixed on Sarah. He felt like a wondering child staring at a Christmas present, resisting the insatiable urge to tear the wrapping paper off, but on the verge of giving in to the temptation to peel back the packaging, just a bit, to take a peek.

  “Let me get dressed,” Sarah said as she went off to her bedroom.

  Lisa declared with a now serious and forceful tone, “You shouldn’t be here! You really better go!”

  Sarah shouted from her room. “Shut up, Miss Piggy!”

  Lisa rolled her eyes and stated she had to finish writing a letter. “I have this pen pal in England. She used to live next door. They moved back because of all the stuff going on. Her parents are chickens, running back to England.”

  Chad perceived a distinct hint of jealousy in the last sentence.

  Sarah took more time than needed to throw on jeans and a shirt. She returned wearing a red blouse, buttoned only three-quarters of the way to the collar, and a short white skirt with slits on the side.

  Chad’s spirit soared, and his confidence was emboldened. Oh yes, she’s dressed to impress. He had rehearsed his speech countless times. He would state unequivocally that it was time their relationship progress to something more.

  Sarah looked at his confident face and said, “I haven’t much time, but it’s nice to see you. I’m going out now now.”

  His spirit and confidence plummeted, but he managed to hide his disappointment. “It’s a great day to go to the river, sit around, and talk a bit. Maybe we could take a picnic.”

  “That’d be great, but—”

  Before her next word came, the obnoxious roar of an oversized engine turned both heads toward the living room window. Chad recognized the smooth beating of the V-8 motor immediately. His cousin had driven one, a sixteenth birthday present that he managed to total just two weeks later. The imported cherry red, 1969 M Series Mustang convertible, with its envied Cleveland 251, 290-HP engine vibrating, settled in front of the house.

  A diminutive, but well-built young man with jet-black hair nearly on his shoulders jumped out and strutted toward the front door. There was no mistaking who it was; this was the illusive bodybuilder.

  Not that impressive, Chad thought. Obviously, the man’s obsession with muscles and imported sports cars is a result of the little-man syndrome. He’s just a pitiful little man striving to overcome his self-loathing as an undersized human being.

  Chad watched him swagger toward the house, and he quickly threw his words out, “I thought he was … I thought you …”

  “No. Well, not ex—”

  The door opened, and the man barged through the door as if he was arriving home after a day’s work. He spoke with what Chad perceived as feigned self-importance. “Wie is dit, Sarah?”

  Sarah responded, “Dit is die Chad, die Amerikaanse. Ontspan. Chad, this is Philip. Philip, this is Chad.”

  Philip studied Chad’s eyes. “Waarom die hel is hy hier?”

  At least she’s told him something about me. He knows he has something to be jealous about. That thought fueled slight hope but also triggered some anxiety in Chad.

  “No reason, Philip. He is just a friend. Moenie enige probleme veroorsaak nie, asseblief. Jy kan mooi wees. Okay?”

  Chad extended his hand. “Hoe gaan dit met yo?” His attempt at the Afrikaans greeting evoked only a dead stare. He tried again. “It’s good to meet you, Philip, a pleasure.”

  Chad’s hand remained on offer. The Afrikaner finally grasped it and squeezed hard; Chad refused to flinch.

  With a triumphant grin, Philip said, “We’re going now. See you around.” The words were declared as a warning, not a pleasantry.

  As he whisked her through the door, Sarah blurted out that they were going off to Johannesburg to go ice-skating with friends.

  Chad’s emotional bubble imploded with that morsel of information. He said, “Oh,” and then, with his head held high, he walked through the door and went to his bike, which was resting on the hedge in front of the house. He nodded at Philip, who was staring his way. In his heart, a scream of desperation begged to come out.

  Chad pulled the bike around to face the street. He could only imagine what the driver of the Mustang would be saying to Sarah as he watched him mount Simon’s pre-war girl’s bicycle with its pink basket hanging from the handlebars. His foot was on the peddle, ready to push off when Sarah ran back up to the house.

  “Forgot my bag,” she said with a wink and whispered under her breath, “My birthday’s next week. We’ll do something.”

  She was in and out in a flash. Another wink came as Chad peddled past the Mustang and Sarah took her place next to the one Chad had thought was the ex-boyfriend.

  Chad rode off, dreading what would now be an endless Saturday of wondering what had just transpired. Questions taunted him: Is she playing two guys at once? Am I reading the signals wrong? Is she just a flirt, a female addicted to teasing guys?

  He determined to cling to hope. The roly-poly bastard is certainly not good enough for her, even if he is runner-up to Mr. South Africa. He would see her the next day and tell her what he felt. Tomorrow. She will have to decide where this relationship will go and where that squatty-bodied Boer bodybuilder wannabe will go.

  ***

  The three savored Simon’s traditional Saturday meal of eggs, sausage, and chips. Peter and Chad ate slowly. Peter was desperate to talk about his day and waited patiently for someone to ask about it, but neither did. He lined up his knife and fork on his plate and pushed it to the side of the table. “I had an amazing day.”

  Chad had just finished his last bit of sausage. He sighed, and his leg started bouncing under the table. Under his breath he muttered, “Here we go.”

  Simon re
sted his chin on his hands and said, “Tell us then.”

  Peter did his best to captivate them with the smells, the sounds, the joy, the excitement of his adventure. He recounted the scenes with all the vividness he could conjure: helping at the school, painting and cleaning, playing soccer with the kids, sharing the meal, learning some Zulu phrases, and of course, the music. He oozed more enthusiasm than Chad had seen in two years of friendship. Then he moved to his editorial comments about the disgusting and degrading situation the government was forcing the Africans to live in. Peter’s enthusiasm gave way to a passion that was out of character, a passion that caused even Simon to squirm and fidget.

  Peter assumed this glimpse of reality would evoke sympathy and empathy. Not only was he disappointed, but he was also very hurt. At the end of his discourse, Simon said in a very matter-of-fact manner, “Peter, unfortunately apartheid is a necessary evil that helps the country. It helps all the people. It does keep peace – among the tribes and peace for us all. It is not good, but it is what it is.”

  Chad responded with the confidence any White South African. “Yeah, it keeps warring tribes at bay. Everyone is taken care of. You want this country to be thrown into a terrorist war like Rhodesia?”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed as he bit his lower lip. Then he exploded. “That’s bullshit! Goddamn bullshit! The Whites just choose to ignore the reality of what’s going on. They ignore it because they don’t want to see it. Dumisani is right. The Whites are just out to protect the world they created. You really don’t see that? How can you be that blind?”

  Simon responded in a calm tone, exuding a confidence that he possessed more knowledge and understanding than this foreigner. “I disagree with a lot of what the National Party does, but it’s complicated, Peter. It’s not fixable by anger, by revolution, or by do-gooders.”

  Peter began to feel uneasy with the intensity of his own emotions, feelings that seemed to be driving him to attack his friends. He stood up and looked at his friends, searching for words that would be more powerful; none were found. He walked out the back door and slammed it shut.

  Simon and Chad ignored the silent declaration of anger. They simply shook their heads at one another and poured another cup of tea.

  “It’s this Roger, isn’t it?” Chad asked, expecting no answer. “I think he’s mesmerized by that posh English accent and his overbearing manner,” Chad said.

  Simon replied, “I’m afraid Peter is failing to see the complexity of the precarious moment in this nation’s history, but don’t condemn his passion. It’s good to see a little fire in his eyes.”

  “Geez, give me a bucket of water. It needs to be put out.”

  Simon laughed, sipped more tea, and asked, “And your day?”

  Simon chuckled throughout Chad’s description of his meeting with Philip. When Chad mentioned his plan for the next day, Simon replied, “A fine idea. You need to get on with it or get over it, lest this become a distraction from your work with the church. Dad’s mentioned his concern.”

  “It’s not and will not be a distraction, Simon. Don’t worry.”

  ***

  Peter hoped he had slammed the back door with force enough to declare the depth of his anger. He stood looking up into the sky searching for the Southern Cross. Warring emotions inside his belly fought for dominance: hurt and disappointment needed to be honored with quiet tears; anger and indignation demanded he go in and give them a piece of his mind; frustration told him to just scream out into the night – to scream something, anything mean and foul.

  “Master! I am sorry, I will go to my room.”

  “Shit! Oh God! You startled me, Themba. No. Gee, I’m sorry. And what have I told you?”

  “Ja. Peter, not Master. Peter, I will go to my room.” Themba sat on a stool outside her room sipping rooibos tea – a South African herbal tea with a strong aroma and a bittersweet, nutty taste that many find somewhat unpleasant. Those who drink it adamantly proclaim this bush tea is a cure-all, from strengthening bones and teeth to relief from stress and irritability, even offering protection against cancer.

  All Peter could see was the whites of two eyes and the gleam of a smile illumined by the light of the half-moon. It took Peter’s retinas another moment to dilate and bring into focus her warm, gentle face – round, with full lips, a wide nose, and eyes large and brown; eyes that reflected an innocent determination to never let go of the joy of life.

  Peter said, “Nonsense. Let me sit here with you under the stars while you enjoy your tea. I will not accept no for an answer.”

  “Dankie. May I serve you a cup of my red bush tea? It is fresh brewed.”

  “That would be cool … lekker.”

  Themba went into her room and quickly returned with an oversized blue tin cup. Her red bush tea filled the air with its unique aroma – an odor the uninitiated would find pungent. With a gratified nod, she said, “This will be very good for you. You will sleep like a small child tonight.”

  “Thank you. That’s great.” Peter sipped from his tin cup, looking at Themba, impressed again by her kind smile and trusting eyes. “Themba, how do you … I don’t know … how can you stand to live so far from your family? I mean ... how do you handle it, deal with it? I don’t understand. How you can live this way?”

  Themba chuckled politely. She paused, holding a thoughtful gaze she said, “We do what we must do, my family and I.”

  “But surely you miss your children, your husband.”

  “Every moment, but they are with me in here, and I am with them.” She pointed to her heart, then her head. “They shall never leave me. I know my children are safe with my family. I know, too, they will work hard at school and do very well for themselves. I am very proud of them.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Goodness! Well, my Nelson is oldest. He is twelve. My husband named him after Nelson Mandela – after Mandela was gone to prison. My husband dreamt the day our son was born that he too would be a great man, a man that will encourage and bring hope like Mandela. He is a patient boy. Every night, he demands to read to his sisters and brothers. He wants to help them learn. He says he wants to be a teacher. Last week, my Nelson was scolded at school for stealing another child’s lunch. After he came home, his naughty brother said he had taken the food. Nelson took the blame so his brother would not get the beating. I was very cross with Nelson, because he must let his brother be – oh, what is the right word? – take his own punishment. Nelson said he would rather take the beating and teach his brother what is right. That is Nelson. His heart is very good, maybe too good sometimes.”

  “Can a heart be too good?”

  “A heart cannot be too good, but a good heart needs much wisdom if that heart is not to be broken too much. My Nelson, he will grow in his wisdom. He will be a fine man. Now my youngest, Andrew, is only four, but oh my, he thinks he is older! He talks and talks. At dinner, we tell him, ‘Andrew, you must be more quiet so others may speak,’ but he still talks and talks. We tell him again, ‘Now you are to be quiet.’ He will be quiet for a moment and then stand on his chair and shout, ‘I am trying to be quiet, but inside me I am screaming!’”

  Themba told more stories of her children. They laughed together at how children are children. When Peter asked about her husband, she said, “He is a good man. He works hard to please his boss.” She sighed, adding, “It is too hard to be apart so long. It hurts a family, Peter. It hurts a marriage. It is hard for husbands to be faithful in this way we must live. I do not like that, but I understand it.”

  “You must … I think I would hate White people if I had to live as you have to.”

  Themba smiled again, her eyes gleaming with determination. “We do hate the way things are, and we long for it to stop. We pray for it to end. We hate the bad laws that make our lives hard and that make hatred between Blacks and Whites. But Peter, we know we stand with our ancestors, and with them, we must honor what is good, what is right. What is right is that we do rig
ht. Black or White or Indian or Colored, we all live together in this world. We share this world. If I hate you, I hate myself. If I hurt you, I hurt me. If I kill you, I kill a piece of me. We call this ubantu. I do not want to hate Whites, for then I would hate me. I would hate all Africans. I do not want that. Ubantu, Peter, ubantu. In our tradition, the most honor you may offer another is Yu, u nobuntu. It says such a person has this good spirit, this ubantu. It is our belief in ubantu that tells us not to hate and says to work hard to live together. Ubantu invites us to help one and the other, not to destroy the other.”

  Peter went back inside, fixed cups of cocoa for his friends, and apologized for being a jerk.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Time Has Come

  Both Chad and Peter had insisted that they needed to meet, needed to talk; neither Sarah nor Cindy knew what to anticipate as they settled into separate booths at Jackson’s that evening.

  Chad attempted to interpret Sarah’s pensive mood. She seemed to become more of an enigma with each successive encounter. He prided himself in manipulating what he had labeled ‘the desperate sex’; it had been his gift and challenge. Sarah was different though. He so wanted to understand her, to know her, to love her. He had debated long and hard how he should approach her after the debacle on Saturday. He still had not decided. After placing their order, he said, “Look at those two. Peter looks like a lost meerkat that wants to run away.”

  Sarah leaned over and quietly said, “He always does. What do you think he wants to talk about with Cindy? Did he tell you anything?” Strange excitement accentuated her last question.

  Chad leaned over and with a very concerned tone whispered, “Peter is going to tell her he’s a homosexual. Shhh!”

  Sarah’s mouth dropped as Chad nodded with pressed lips, confirming it was indeed true. She became flushed and said, “Cindy is going to be devastated, just devastated. She’ll be … well, more than devastated … She’ll be…” She could not find the right word.

  Chad spoke, “Really? I didn’t know she … well, that she liked him. Not like that anyway.”