The Beautiful Screaming of Pigs E-Book

Damon Galgut

• Herausgeber: Atlantic Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 193

Beschreibung

FROM THE BOOKER PRIZE-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE PROMISE SHORTLISTED FOR THE MAN BOOKER PRIZE, 2003 A year ago Patrick Winter was in Namibia completing his military service. Now, during the first free elections, Patrick has returned to the country he defended; the place where he fell in love for the first and only time. With the country poised to change forever, Patrick is forced to revisit his past and scale the wall that he has built around his painful memories of love, war and loss. 'An astonishingly sensitive writer.' Irish Times 'Engaging and enduring... devastating in the lucidity and austere assurance of its prose.' TLS 'A work whose psychological observation is as subtle as its political analysis.' The Times 'A beautifully written and thoughtful meditation on love, loss and longing.' Attitude

Leseprobe

THE BEAUTIFUL SCREAMING OF PIGS

Damon Galgut was born in Pretoria in 1963 and now lives in Cape Town. He wrote his first novel, A Sinless Season, when he was seventeen years old. His other books include Small Circle of Beings, The Quarry and, in 2003, The Good Doctor, which was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, the Commonwealth Writers Prize and the International Dublin IMPAC Literary Award.

First published by Scribners, Great Britain 1991 Published in Abacus by Little, Brown and Company 1992 Revised edition published by Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd 2005

This paperback edition published by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd, in 2006.

Copyright © Damon Galgut 1988, 2005

The moral right of Damon Galgut to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

Extract from Ajax by Sophocles and translated by Robert Auletta used with kind permission of the International Theatre Bookshop.

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 permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

1 84354 462 8 eISBN 978 0 85789 173 0

Printed in Great Britain by

Atlantic Books An imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd Ormond House 26–27 Boswell Street London WC1N 3JZ

www.groveatlantic.co.uk

It’s not easy to be on this earth

With its warrior stars and furious men;

It’s hard to pierce the night

And difficult to see the day;

But if we aren’t careful

With every moment, every sight,

The dark will come in with the tide

And the future will wipe us out.

Ajax by Sophocles

Author’s Note

This book has troubled me since it was first published in 1991. The rhythms of the language have always sounded discordant on my ear. It has been many years since it was last in print, but now that it is being reissued, I have taken the opportunity to rework it. It is not a new book, but it’s not quite the old one either.

A bit of historical background is perhaps in order. At the end of World War I, the German colony of South West Africa was placed under South African mandate. Later, South Africa refused to hand it over to the United Nations, choosing instead to fight a long and bloody war with the South West Africa People’s Organisation (SWAPO). In 1989, under the interim control of the United Nations Transition Assistance Group (UNTAG), South West Africa held its first free elections.

THE BEAUTIFUL SCREAMING OF PIGS

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

We came down the drive. The headlights picked out the house, the garage, the silent, patient figure in front.

‘Oh yes,’ said my mother. ‘There she is. Waiting for us. She’s always waiting. Like the sphinx.’

‘Mom,’ I said.

She came forward to welcome us. Diminutive, dour, she was wearing the same soiled apron I remembered from every previous visit. It was two years since I’d last been here.

She came to me first. ‘Patrick,’ she said. She held me by the shoulders.

‘Hello, Ouma,’ I said.

Then she went to my mother. They embraced cautiously, with tender hostility, in the wash of light from the car. The engine was still running.

I was given the room in the attic, where the roof sloped down. I had always slept here, since I was a small boy, in the days and days I’d stayed on this farm, when my mother still loved my father.

I unpacked my clothes, though it wasn’t necessary to do so: we were leaving again the next day. But for some reason the orderly routine, as well as the friction of fingers on cloth, was comforting to me. I sorted and stashed my clothes into drawers and pushed them carefully closed. Then I sat on the bed, staring out the window, to where the last of the sunlight was fading. It gave me a small shock when I turned to see my mother watching me from the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. I didn’t know how long she’d been there.

‘You gave me a fright,’ I told her.

‘Sorry. I thought you knew I was here. Do you want a pill?’

‘No. Thank you.’

‘Supper’s almost ready.’

‘I’ll be there,’ I said. ‘I’m coming now.’

But she didn’t go. She stayed there, watching me.

We sat in the dining room, my grandmother, mother, myself. We ate in silence, our iron spoons dashing the plates, and I kept my gaze fixed downwards, on the surface of the table in front of me. There were burn marks and scratches and stains in the wood, a whole history of damage. A chill was coming up from the slate floor, like the presence of the house added to our own.

Ouma sat at the head of the table, in the place she’d occupied ever since her husband had died a couple of years ago. Whenever she needed anything she would lean forward and ring a heavy metal bell with a shake of her wrist; the surprisingly delicate note it gave off summoned a black woman, who came in from the kitchen on bare feet.

‘Anna,’ my mother said the first time she saw her, ‘how are you?’

Anna gave a little curtsy and a shy smile, but she didn’t answer. I had no memory of Anna from before, but the servants were moved around from job to job on the farm at my grandmother’s whim, so she may have been hidden behind the scenes somewhere. Ouma disapproved of friendly connections with her underlings, and frowned almost imperceptibly now through the deep silence that set in the cold room, in which the only audible sound was the scraping of Anna’s feet on the floor.

After supper, we moved out to the back stoep. We sat in a row on three wooden chairs, looking out towards the mountains. The moon was up and in its light bats were flying and flickering over the orchard.

‘When are you leaving? You don’t want to stay an extra day?’

‘No, no,’ my mother said. ‘We have to go in the morning, after breakfast. We have a schedule to keep to.’

‘Ah,’ Ouma said with ironic awe. ‘A schedule.’ She sucked on her teeth and said to me, ‘Your father called, Patrick.’

‘Howard called here?’ my mother said, incredulous.

‘He wants you to phone him tonight.’

‘Oh, right,’ I said. ‘Okay. Sure.’

‘It’s a power trip,’ my mother said. ‘He’s trying to get at me. Don’t call him, Patrick.’

Anna came in on her flat, calloused feet, bringing coffee on a tray.

‘Hoe voel jy, Patrick?’ Ouma said.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’m much better, actually.’

‘Heeltemal gesond?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘That will take a long time.’

She made a sound in her throat that could have been sympathy or disapproval and slurped her coffee. My mother looked sideways at me and winked.

My mother, though it was hard to believe, had grown up here on the farm. In my younger years my visits here had been filled with wonder at this fact. I had walked about the dusty veld, trying to work out how it had given rise to her. There was no trace of her rural beginnings in my mother’s face. No evidence of this other, earlier self in the woman who had brought me up.

There was an old photograph of her – small and sepia – hanging next to the phone and I studied it now as I held the receiver and turned the handle to get the operator. It showed a little girl in a dark dress, standing against a backdrop of trees, her hair in pigtails, grinning for the camera with a square, exact gap where one of her front teeth was missing.

‘Hello?’

‘Cape Town,’ I said and gave the number. There was a sibilant pause before it began to ring. My father’s voice was loud. ‘Howard,’ he said, speaking it like an accusation.

‘Dad?’

Another pause. ‘Patrick?’

‘Yup.’

‘How are you?’

‘Fine. I’m fine.’

‘You taking your medicine?’

‘Yup. What’s the matter?’

‘No, nothing. I wanted to find out how you are, that’s all. Do you mind?’

‘No.’

‘How’s your grandmother?’

This said with a slight scoff, which for some reason irritated me.

‘She’s fine.’

‘And your mother?’ This was the real reason for the conversation; both of us knew it. Although he and my mother had been divorced for some time now, he still felt anxiety whenever she left town, as though she might never come back.

‘She’s also fine. We’re all fine. Dad, what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, I told you. Just checking up. I’m your father, do you mind?’

‘No,’ I said lightly. Some lies are light.

‘What time are you going tomorrow?’

‘I don’t know. After breakfast, Mom said.’

‘Okay. What time do you get up to Windhoek?’

‘I don’t have a clue. I’ll call you from up there, when we arrive.’

‘Do that. And you take care of yourself.’

When I’d put the phone down the silence seemed to sizzle in my ear. I went back out to the stoep, where my mother and grandmother had drawn together into intimacy, holding hands and whispering. They went quiet as I arrived.

‘I’m going to bed,’ I told them.

‘What did he want? Did he ask about me?’

‘No.’

I kissed them both goodnight – my grandmother’s face rough and cool, my mother’s warm and smooth – and went up to the attic. From the window the moon seemed magnified, swelling toward fullness. I undressed and put out the lamp and rolled into bed. I lay there for a long time, my hands behind my head, listening to the sounds of the house. I heard my mother come up to the room underneath; heard her brush her teeth and mutter to herself as she got ready for bed. Then there was quiet. Perhaps another half hour passed before I realised why I hadn’t fallen asleep. So I got up and swallowed my pills. Prothiaden, Valium. In a little while I was sleepy. I rolled on my side.

CHAPTER TWO

We were going up to Windhoek to visit my mother’s lover. She had met him there eighteen months before while she was lecturing at the academy. All I knew about him was that his name was Godfrey and that he was twenty-six years old. Also, of course, that he was black.

I wasn’t disturbed by this fact. A numbness had crept into my life, so that no fact could hurt me again. My mother, since she had parted from my father, had given herself to much stranger things than this. Living with her in our little cottage in Cape Town, I had been witness to passions far more curious than men. So when my mother had come back from her stint of teaching in Windhoek with news of her lover, I wasn’t alarmed by his colour.

I had spoken to Godfrey many times on the telephone. He phoned her twice a week, late at night. In these calls, strangely, he never acknowledged that I was her son, and I didn’t refer to his relationship with her. We never called each other by name, though we were always carefully polite. He had a clear, deep, level voice. He called sometimes after midnight. According to my mother, this was his way of trying to catch her out. ‘He’s madly jealous,’ she said – and she fuelled his jealousy by going out when she was expecting him to call. Or she would make me answer the phone sometimes and pretend that she wasn’t there.

‘I want to talk to Ellen.’

‘I’m sorry, but she’s out.’

‘Out where?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure. With friends.’

‘When is she getting back?’

‘I really don’t know.’

‘Tell her Godfrey called. Godfrey. Be sure to give her the message.’

‘I’ll tell her.’

Afterwards she made me describe his tone, and repeat in exact detail what he had said. Although I was happy to play this game for her, I did feel sorry for him, this young man so very much in love. She was seventeen years older than him, and of course I wasn’t much younger than he was. She’d got married to my father when she was only twenty. She was still studying drama then, and he had just completed his degree in business science. They were an unlikely match, but my mother had fallen pregnant and one thing led to another. She dropped out of drama school at the end of the year and became a wife.

Although she did try her hand at a few acting jobs over the years, she had never really had a career of her own. Her big role was the one she played as a housewife, a mother, a maker of homes. She set about remoulding herself in the image my father desired. He was ashamed of her rustic Afrikaans beginnings, so she learned to speak English without an accent. She made it her duty to acquire cosmopolitan tastes and values, which she picked up from the people and homes that were the new backdrop to her social life. ‘I grew up in a hurry,’ she told me bitterly. In exchange, my father provided money and material consolations. We were raised in great style. I arrived in the world three years after my brother Malcolm. By then there was already no trace of that earlier, other woman: Elsa de Bruin had disappeared and in her place there was Ellen Winter, who might have been born in Constantia.

In those years she didn’t smile much. I remember a composed, vacant, bloodless face, eyes wide and dark, with long lashes. And her hard mouth, with lips that were slightly too thin to be sensual. It could have been a cruel face, but there was no cruelty in her. Not even the deep grief she later claimed to be feeling – grief for her lost other life – showed up anywhere. Her moods were as level and blank as her face. She was very quiet. I would often come into the lounge, my father and brother out for the evening, to find her sitting alone in a chair, listening to the ticking of clocks which filled the house like a kind of music.

‘What are you doing?’ I would say, disturbed at this vision of solitary waiting.

‘I’m sitting,’ she would answer. ‘Just sitting.’

I looked for tears, but her face was always passive. Nevertheless, on some level below words, I could sense her pain. I would run at her, butting her with my head, trying to jostle her out of her frozen reverie. Sometimes I succeeded: she might get up with a faint smile and say, ‘Go and bath. We’re going out for dinner tonight.’ Then I would go and get myself ready and meet her downstairs half an hour later, both of us dressed up, as if involved in some old-fashioned courtship. And this strange, chaste illusion would continue through the evening: in half an hour we would be seated opposite each other at an intimate table, while waiters pressed menus into our hands, and a piano played softly in the background.

At times like these I was happy to be alone with my mother, brother and father elsewhere, all rivals for her affection removed. I believed I could make up for the lacks and absences in her life. I would whisper my wishes across the white table-top, the candle flame bending to my breath. ‘Let’s go for ice cream,’ I’d say, ‘when we’re finished here.’

‘All right,’ she’d whisper, dropping her voice in thrilling collaboration with my fantasy, ‘a big white ice cream, on a cone.’

‘And a movie after that.’

‘Yes, a movie,’ she’d say, falling into a contemplation that only just included me. Movies and ice cream were things that never occurred to my father; I suggested them for exactly that reason. And we walked along the beachfront together, arm in arm, licking our ice creams in a kind of dazed complicity. My mother was white and long and cold, like any ice cream cone.

When I was much younger she allowed me to sleep in her bed sometimes. These were extraordinary nights: half-waking, half-sleeping, I was stranded, it felt, in an acre of sheets. She lay at my side, elegant even in sleep, one arm stretched out next to her. She would let down her hair before she went to bed and it lay strewn across the pillow: a pattern in black, one of the shadows that the moon cast in through the window.

Once – only once – did she cry out in her sleep. A long and tangled moan that came out in pain: ‘Howard... Howie... what have you... done... ?’

The meaning of this remained unsolved; a secret buried beneath her white, moonlit face. She breathed softly as she slept. Too softly sometimes: I woke once in the night and thought that she had died. I called and clutched at her with greasy hands, and cried when she woke up and cradled me in her embrace. ‘Were you afraid I’d left you... ?’ I didn’t answer. I couldn’t find words to express what it would feel like to be alone in the house with Malcolm, and with Dad.

As I grew older she wouldn’t let me share the bed anymore. ‘You’re too big now,’ she said. ‘You’re not afraid of the dark anymore.’ It was never the dark that had driven me to her, but I didn’t say anything. In any event, she no longer shared a bed with my father and her new one, in the spare room downstairs, was too small by half. So I stayed in my own room above, emptiness all around, sensing her heat.

When my father was at home all trace of her affection went underground. She became formal and even polite with me. She would sit in the study at night, in one of the leather armchairs, keeping her hands busy with tapestry or sewing or writing a letter. She murmured very softly when she spoke. Only by tiny signs – the brushing of fingers at the table, or a glance toward me in front of the television – was I assured of her continuing love for me, expressed so wholly when we were both alone.

When I remember these scenes now it is a kind of emptiness I feel; and yet our lives were full. Full in the material sense, with objects and ornaments and opportunities for diversion. I had my own room, with a bathroom to myself. Our house was three stories tall, carpeted throughout, the walls covered in expensive paintings, every table laden with china or silver, all of it real. My father, that cultured boor, knew what to buy, though he took no pleasure in it; he was sending out coded signals of wealth and gentility. ‘I would rather go to India for the real thing,’ he told us, ‘than buy a perfect copy in South Africa.’ His possessions shored up his precarious high standing.

He needed to advertise his sophistication, because it was entirely fake. His real love was for hunting. The walls downstairs were covered in animal heads. He had killed every one of them, he would tell his visitors proudly, as he showed his collection of guns and rifles. He never tired of handling them, taking them apart and cleaning them, his hands more loving on those hard bits of metal than they’d ever been on us. ‘With this,’ he would tell you, ‘I killed that,’ pointing to the head of a kudu above the fireplace. ‘And with this one, I took that.’ An impala near the door. ‘This little baby brought that one down.’ A warthog, its bristles shining.

His proudest claim of all was the leopard in the entrance hall. Preserved in its entirety on an island of wood, teeth drawn back in a snarl.

As a boy I was horrified and fascinated by the leopard. I would lie for hours on the cool tiles of the floor, trying to look down its throat into the darkness it contained. I imagined my father, down on one knee, holding steady while the leopard charged. It was a huge disappointment to learn later – from Malcolm, who had been there – that this wasn’t the way it had happened at all. ‘We chased it for miles in the Land Rover,’ he said. ‘It was wounded, it couldn’t run properly. Dad shot it in a tree when it tried to get away. He didn’t even get out.’

My father, for all his ornaments and paintings, looked as if he belonged outdoors. He was a fat and sweaty man, with brown hair cropped short and a neat moustache, stained at the edge with nicotine. He had a heart problem, but he liked to smoke cigars and drink. He had blue eyes so pale as to be almost without colour. He would stare at me sometimes, with amazement or disapproval, from those eyes, rimmed with resin and short white hairs, like the bristles of the warthog on the wall.

‘Why are you so small?’ he demanded.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You must eat properly. Do you eat?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ellen, does he eat?’

‘Yes, Howie, what are you talking about? You’ve seen him eating.’

‘Do you play sport, Patrick? At school?’

‘He doesn’t like sports, Howie, you know that.’

‘Nonsense,’ he bellowed, surging up suddenly onto his short and slightly bowed legs. ‘Come with me,’ he commanded, taking me by the back of my neck.

He took me, on that day and others, to the broad expanse of lawn outside. I would stand, trembling with a fear that I could smell in my nose, at the edge of the flowerbed. And wait. ‘You must watch,’ he told me. ‘Watch it all the way into your hands. You got me? Don’t blink.’

And then he would hurl the ball: oval, dark, a dangerous shape of leather. It hissed toward me through the late afternoon, an embodiment of all that was most frightening to me, and all I could never do: I dropped the ball. I turned my head in fright and it would glance off my blunt hands, spinning away into the flowers. ‘Sorry,’ I cried. ‘Sorry, sorry... ’

I ran to fetch it.

‘Give it up, Dad. Don’t even bother.’

This from Malcolm, who would sit on the lowest step of the veranda. And laugh.

‘Leave me alone,’ I said, as much to my father as to him.

‘That’s enough, Malcolm,’ Dad said.