Read Online Embrace by Mark Behr - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Behr
Tags: Fiction, Coming of Age
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I’m sorry. Deeply, deeply sorry if I have offended you, Mr Cilliers.’ I waited for the dismissal. I hate you; I’ll say you made it all up. That you tried it and when I refused you became angry.
‘What do you want me to do, Karl?’ His voice as tranquil as before. At last I looked up at his back; made out that he was looking at me in the black glass. I felt spent. As after a day of diving or swimming or hard riding. Stars, flickering through my field of vision. Dizzy again. Could doze on my feet. Hear my own voice, tired and distant as though sourced from a place not my lips: ‘Anything you think, Sir.’
The picture begins to blur as he turns to me. I try to hide the tears by again averting my eyes. Wipe them with the back of fists no longer feeling anything.
9
It was almost dawn. Bok thought it could be rain coming through the thatch, brushing his cheek. Only when the burn of a million white-hot needles shot from his eyes into his head and he screamed in agony did he realise what it was. Hands rubbing at his eyes he stumbled to the kitchen and felt for the red Tupperware jug. He poured the milk between his batting eyelids, over his face; the entire jug. There was no relieving the fire ablaze from eyes to brain. Bleary, bumping against the reed walls he found his way to the bed and felt for the holster and the loaded revolver. He fired two shots through the roof and lay with his face in the pillow, writhing. He heard the footsteps of their running; shouted for them to come in. They found him there in the darkness. With his arm over his eyes he told them he was blind. He told Jonas to take the revolver to the bathroom. The rinkhals lay coiled on the toilet seat. Jonas fired three shots and the snake bounced, twitching, to the cement floor.
Boy had never driven a motorised vehicle until that morning. The Land Rover, in first and second gear, all the way to HQ. From there Willy Hancox took Bok to hospital in Matubatuba. A week later we got home from visiting Bokkies family in Klerksdorp. Bok, eyes puffy and red, was still wearing dark glasses.
10
Before meals we stood in line on the arched stoep. At the very front were the Standard Twos, then the Threes, leading all the way up to the Sevens at the back; nine years old to fifteen; the line roughly from short to tall, broken only occasionally by a boy taller than his peers. Like Lukas, behind Dominic and me amongst the Standard Fours in our Junior year. Standard Seven prefects patrolled the stoep to ensure absolute silence in line.
We filed quietly in. Plates were collected from the counter behind which Matron Booysen supervised the black staff dishing food in spoonfuls. Beauty had taken a liking to Dominic ever since we first arrived. Once a term he returned from home with a gift for her. I didn’t bring gifts, but my association with him had bought me her generosity. She knew our likes and dislikes. Matron Booysen’s eyes, drawn into slits against the smoke drifting up from the cigarette between her lips, scanned the plates to make sure none was favoured. Dominic despised the fish in mushy white sauce: Beauty dug around for the smallest piece possible. I could not countenance Brussels sprouts: Beauty scooped five tiny, shrivelled ones onto my plate.
On lunch duty was Marabou, then our class teacher, whom we still called Miss Holloway. Once we all had our food and were standing behind our chairs, she chose a name to say grace:
‘Karl De Man. It’s an English week.’
I prayed. ‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful, and may he also grant the teachers strength to say their own prayers. Amen.’
Muffled giggles from the boys at my table. I read Dominic’s amused lips: Stupid. The prefect at the head of the table grimaced. Apprehension knotted my stomach. Miss Holloway gave us permission to be seated. Over the clutter of chairs came her command for me to excuse myself and wait outside.
Passing the Seniors, I
‘What do you want me to do, Karl?’ His voice as tranquil as before. At last I looked up at his back; made out that he was looking at me in the black glass. I felt spent. As after a day of diving or swimming or hard riding. Stars, flickering through my field of vision. Dizzy again. Could doze on my feet. Hear my own voice, tired and distant as though sourced from a place not my lips: ‘Anything you think, Sir.’
The picture begins to blur as he turns to me. I try to hide the tears by again averting my eyes. Wipe them with the back of fists no longer feeling anything.
9
It was almost dawn. Bok thought it could be rain coming through the thatch, brushing his cheek. Only when the burn of a million white-hot needles shot from his eyes into his head and he screamed in agony did he realise what it was. Hands rubbing at his eyes he stumbled to the kitchen and felt for the red Tupperware jug. He poured the milk between his batting eyelids, over his face; the entire jug. There was no relieving the fire ablaze from eyes to brain. Bleary, bumping against the reed walls he found his way to the bed and felt for the holster and the loaded revolver. He fired two shots through the roof and lay with his face in the pillow, writhing. He heard the footsteps of their running; shouted for them to come in. They found him there in the darkness. With his arm over his eyes he told them he was blind. He told Jonas to take the revolver to the bathroom. The rinkhals lay coiled on the toilet seat. Jonas fired three shots and the snake bounced, twitching, to the cement floor.
Boy had never driven a motorised vehicle until that morning. The Land Rover, in first and second gear, all the way to HQ. From there Willy Hancox took Bok to hospital in Matubatuba. A week later we got home from visiting Bokkies family in Klerksdorp. Bok, eyes puffy and red, was still wearing dark glasses.
10
Before meals we stood in line on the arched stoep. At the very front were the Standard Twos, then the Threes, leading all the way up to the Sevens at the back; nine years old to fifteen; the line roughly from short to tall, broken only occasionally by a boy taller than his peers. Like Lukas, behind Dominic and me amongst the Standard Fours in our Junior year. Standard Seven prefects patrolled the stoep to ensure absolute silence in line.
We filed quietly in. Plates were collected from the counter behind which Matron Booysen supervised the black staff dishing food in spoonfuls. Beauty had taken a liking to Dominic ever since we first arrived. Once a term he returned from home with a gift for her. I didn’t bring gifts, but my association with him had bought me her generosity. She knew our likes and dislikes. Matron Booysen’s eyes, drawn into slits against the smoke drifting up from the cigarette between her lips, scanned the plates to make sure none was favoured. Dominic despised the fish in mushy white sauce: Beauty dug around for the smallest piece possible. I could not countenance Brussels sprouts: Beauty scooped five tiny, shrivelled ones onto my plate.
On lunch duty was Marabou, then our class teacher, whom we still called Miss Holloway. Once we all had our food and were standing behind our chairs, she chose a name to say grace:
‘Karl De Man. It’s an English week.’
I prayed. ‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful, and may he also grant the teachers strength to say their own prayers. Amen.’
Muffled giggles from the boys at my table. I read Dominic’s amused lips: Stupid. The prefect at the head of the table grimaced. Apprehension knotted my stomach. Miss Holloway gave us permission to be seated. Over the clutter of chairs came her command for me to excuse myself and wait outside.
Passing the Seniors, I
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