Read Online Cruel Crazy Beautiful World by Troy Blacklaws - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Troy Blacklaws
Tags: General Fiction
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act.
The dog follows us to the garage, snuffing at my heels.
A butcherbird is a peg on the clothes line.
A rat runs along the rim of the zinc backyard fence.
The dog goes after the rat and clangs his feet against the zinc. The butcherbird flies away.
– I hate that bird, says the priest. He dives and pecks at all the other birds.
In the garage there’s an old MG and the Vespa. The Vespa is a perky red.
– She’s beautiful, isn’t she? I take her out for a run every now and then, but I’m losing feeling under my feet. It’s a mystery ... and they haven’t found a cure. The doctor forbade me to ride.
He runs his fingers around the chrome rim of the headlight.
– I had hoped my son would want her, but he’s not coming home.
– Where’s he?
– London. He’s a money man. Thinks this country has gone to the dogs.
Then, sensing how racist this sounds:
– Oh, I’m sorry. That’s not how I see things. Yet I do fear for the future. So far the Xhosas have outwitted the Zulus. Mandela and Mbeki were wily. But I prophesy the Zulus won’t bow to the Xhosas forever. Historically they are the warrior tribe. And now Zuma is jousting the Zulu spear at the sky.
– He’s a clown.
– But he can dance a Zulu war dance and sing a song calling for his gun. And he has a grassroots following. And Africa has a habit of shooting herself in the foot. My son begs me to go to London. He’d put me up in his attic in Camden. I’d have no dog, no yard, no freedom to follow a road along the lagoon on a whim or walk along the beach for miles. London’s no life for me. All the wan faces on the tube, sandwiched like grey ham between pages of the newspaper.
– I spent my young boyhood in Amsterdam. I remember the cold gnawing at my ears and toes. I remember the empty playgrounds in winter. I remember the steep stairs and how my socks never dried.
And I remember how folk never smiled in the winter. I remember a Moroccan whore in a pink-lit fish tank whom Zero paid to show me her buoyant tits. I was just eleven. He was worried I’d turn out gay.
– That’s the other thing. Stairs. I have not told my son I have to focus just to walk along a flat path.
I hand over Zero’s wad of rubber-banded rands to him. He pockets the money without thumbing through it.
– If you’re ever lonely, come over for tea. I vow not to lure you into my church.
I hop onto the Vespa.
– She’s been a good girl. You keep an eye on her. The roads are hazardous with all the jaywalking dogs and the crazy taxivans.
His eyes glisten as he bids his Vespa farewell. His dog, sensing his master’s maudlin mood, licks his scabby shins.
18
S OMEWHERE SOUTH OF BLOEMFONTEIN.
The Pajero sharks on along the N1 through the Karoo. An arid land of lone windmills flashing steel petals to draw sheep to water tapped from dark, unseen rivers.
Now and then a deserted road dusts away from the highway.
The tarmac ahead is quicksilvery under the sun. That’s perhaps why Nina doesn’t see the karakul sheep in time to dodge it. Or perhaps it’s the marijuana in her blood that blurs her senses. Either way, the Pajero’s front fender flips the sheep high into the sky.
Jabulani and Nina tilt their heads in sync to follow the fight of the sheep till it vanishes overhead. Then they swivel their heads to see it land on the tarmac behind them.
Nina swings the Pajero hard off the tar. It spurts up dust. The motor stalls.
– Fuck, tunes Nina. I never saw it.
All you hear is the silver-winged tones of R.E.M. gliding out over bleak veld, over distant, earthed sheep.
They climb out and walk up to the sheep. It is still breathing, in jerky gasps. Its feet are folded up neatly under it. Its wool has no hint of blood in it. The only sign that it has just flown over a Pajero is a stoned look in eyes curiously free of accusation.
Nina tips up her shades to stare deep into its glassy eyeballs.
– We can’t just ride on. It’s got to be bleeding inside.
– You
The dog follows us to the garage, snuffing at my heels.
A butcherbird is a peg on the clothes line.
A rat runs along the rim of the zinc backyard fence.
The dog goes after the rat and clangs his feet against the zinc. The butcherbird flies away.
– I hate that bird, says the priest. He dives and pecks at all the other birds.
In the garage there’s an old MG and the Vespa. The Vespa is a perky red.
– She’s beautiful, isn’t she? I take her out for a run every now and then, but I’m losing feeling under my feet. It’s a mystery ... and they haven’t found a cure. The doctor forbade me to ride.
He runs his fingers around the chrome rim of the headlight.
– I had hoped my son would want her, but he’s not coming home.
– Where’s he?
– London. He’s a money man. Thinks this country has gone to the dogs.
Then, sensing how racist this sounds:
– Oh, I’m sorry. That’s not how I see things. Yet I do fear for the future. So far the Xhosas have outwitted the Zulus. Mandela and Mbeki were wily. But I prophesy the Zulus won’t bow to the Xhosas forever. Historically they are the warrior tribe. And now Zuma is jousting the Zulu spear at the sky.
– He’s a clown.
– But he can dance a Zulu war dance and sing a song calling for his gun. And he has a grassroots following. And Africa has a habit of shooting herself in the foot. My son begs me to go to London. He’d put me up in his attic in Camden. I’d have no dog, no yard, no freedom to follow a road along the lagoon on a whim or walk along the beach for miles. London’s no life for me. All the wan faces on the tube, sandwiched like grey ham between pages of the newspaper.
– I spent my young boyhood in Amsterdam. I remember the cold gnawing at my ears and toes. I remember the empty playgrounds in winter. I remember the steep stairs and how my socks never dried.
And I remember how folk never smiled in the winter. I remember a Moroccan whore in a pink-lit fish tank whom Zero paid to show me her buoyant tits. I was just eleven. He was worried I’d turn out gay.
– That’s the other thing. Stairs. I have not told my son I have to focus just to walk along a flat path.
I hand over Zero’s wad of rubber-banded rands to him. He pockets the money without thumbing through it.
– If you’re ever lonely, come over for tea. I vow not to lure you into my church.
I hop onto the Vespa.
– She’s been a good girl. You keep an eye on her. The roads are hazardous with all the jaywalking dogs and the crazy taxivans.
His eyes glisten as he bids his Vespa farewell. His dog, sensing his master’s maudlin mood, licks his scabby shins.
18
S OMEWHERE SOUTH OF BLOEMFONTEIN.
The Pajero sharks on along the N1 through the Karoo. An arid land of lone windmills flashing steel petals to draw sheep to water tapped from dark, unseen rivers.
Now and then a deserted road dusts away from the highway.
The tarmac ahead is quicksilvery under the sun. That’s perhaps why Nina doesn’t see the karakul sheep in time to dodge it. Or perhaps it’s the marijuana in her blood that blurs her senses. Either way, the Pajero’s front fender flips the sheep high into the sky.
Jabulani and Nina tilt their heads in sync to follow the fight of the sheep till it vanishes overhead. Then they swivel their heads to see it land on the tarmac behind them.
Nina swings the Pajero hard off the tar. It spurts up dust. The motor stalls.
– Fuck, tunes Nina. I never saw it.
All you hear is the silver-winged tones of R.E.M. gliding out over bleak veld, over distant, earthed sheep.
They climb out and walk up to the sheep. It is still breathing, in jerky gasps. Its feet are folded up neatly under it. Its wool has no hint of blood in it. The only sign that it has just flown over a Pajero is a stoned look in eyes curiously free of accusation.
Nina tips up her shades to stare deep into its glassy eyeballs.
– We can’t just ride on. It’s got to be bleeding inside.
– You
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