Danie Marais

Op die dag wat my nefie Adriaan dood is
was hy 31 jaar en 9 maande oud.
Al die treine het nie gaan staan nie.
Niemand het eers geweet nie.
Ek en Karlien en Lolla het by my ma'le Nuwejaar gehou.
My pa het spesiale wyne oopgemaak.
Ons het gedink dit was 'n lekker aand.

My nefie Adriaan se lyk
is eers twee dae later gevind
in sy eie woonstel
in Tamboerskloof
kaal
op sy eie sofa -
een of ander oordosis.
Daar was nie 'n brief nie.
Niks is gesteel nie.
Die polisie het nie vuilspel vermoed nie.
Dit was dalk 'n ongeluk.
Sy sagmoedige worshond, Neelsie, was by hom.

Neelsie was altyd by hom.
My nefie was 'n dokter.
In Bredasdorp se hospitaal het mense gekla
oor hy sy rondtes saam met Neelsie gedoen het.
'n Verpleegster uit die hospitaal het geskryf
hoe lekker hulle vir hom gelag het.
My nefie het graag stoute grappe vertel.
Hy kon mense goed namaak.

Pasiënte het geskryf om te sê
hy was 'n vriendelike, deeglike dokter.
Ek het nooit heeltemal geglo
dat Adriaan 'n grootmens
of 'n dokter was nie.
Vir my was hy die kleintjie,
die jongste nefie,
die een wat van olywe gehou het
toe ons nog daarvoor gegril het.

Op die dag van die roudiens
was my gedagtes bome in die wind.
My nefie was bipolêr.
Vier jaar gelede het ek hom in Londen
radeloos depressief gesien.
Hy't vertel van 'n ski-vakansie.
Hy't gesê die Alpe het na karton gelyk -
so asof iemand hulle vir 'n skool-musical wit geverf het,
maar die NG-dominee het aangedreun…
Op my dertigste verjaardag daai jaar
het Adriaan my Richard Ashcroft se
‘Alone With Everybody'
persent gegee.
Ek het nooit rêrig daarna geluister nie,
altyd gedog Ashcroft is 'n poser,
maar die dominee het aangedreun…
Dit het gevoel of ek op die strand
enkeldiep in die water staan
en die see begin terugtrek.
Die stroom was sterk,
die sand om my voete het verdwyn,
maar die see en die dominee het nie opgehou nie,
want ‘lewe' is 'n woord
wat die dood terugtrek.


Op die dag van my nefie Adriaan se roudiens
het ons familie se verlede vir altyd verander -
die dood
was skielik sigbaar in ou foto's
van kinderkersfeeste
het sy koue skadu gegooi oor kleintyd
se strandvakansies
het van ons boomhuis en sandkastele
'n voorbode gemaak
het ons beste herinneringe
se ribbes gebreek.

Maar die orrel het gespeel,
'n lied is aangehef,
die dominee het sy hande uitgestrek
en die woord ‘Adriaan'
se nuwe betekenis
het ons ontgaan.

Buite het die son gebrand.
...

On the day that my cousin Adrian died
he was 31 years and 9 months old.
The trains didn't stop.
No one even knew.
I and Carline and Lolla were at my mother's for New Year.
My dad had opened a special wine.
We thought it was a great evening.

My cousin Adrian's body
was found only two days later
in his own flat
in Tamboerskloof
naked
on his own sofa -
some kind of overdose.
There was no letter.
Nothing had been stolen.
The police didn't suspect foul play.
It had probably been an accident.
His sweet-natured sausage dog, Neelsie, was with him.

Neelsie was always with him.
My cousin was a doctor.
At the hospital in Bredasdorp people complained
that he did his rounds with Neelsie at his heel.
A nurse at the hospital wrote about
how much they'd laughed at him for that.
My cousin liked to tell dirty jokes.
He could mimic people very well.

Patients wrote to say
that he was a professional, friendly doctor.
I had never quite believed
that Adrian was an adult
or a doctor.
To me he was still the small boy,
the youngest cousin,
the guy who loved olives
when we were all still disgusted by them.

On the day of the funeral
my thoughts were trees in the wind.
My nephew was bipolar.
I had seen him four years before
desperately depressed in London.
He told me about a skiing holiday.
He said that the Alps looked like cardboard -
as if someone had painted them white for a school musical,
but the Reformed Church pastor droned on …
On my thirtieth birthday that year
Adrian gave me Richard Ashcroft's
‘Alone With Everybody'
as a gift.
I never really listened to it,
always thought Ashcroft was a poser,
but the pastor droned on…
It felt as if I was standing on the beach
ankle-deep in water
and the sea beginning to pull back.
The current was strong,
the sand around my feet vanished,
but the sea and the pastor didn't stop,
because ‘life' is a word
that pulls back death.

On the day of my cousin Adrian's funeral
our family history changed forever -
death
was suddenly visible in old photos
of children's parties
threw its cold shadow over our childhood
beach holidays
turned our treehouse and sandcastles
into premonitions
broke the ribs of
our best memories.

But the organ played on,
a hymn was sung
the pastor stretched out his hands
and the new meaning
of the word ‘Adrian'
escaped us.

Outside, the sun burned.
...

Rambla de Catalunya aan 'n feestige tafeltjie
Met 'n rooi tafeldoek;
Alles laat en vol, orals die klank van Spaans -
Spaans met mense in,
Vol van ver en weg, koue bier en tapas
wat so mooi ruik
dat alles na 'n ander lewe moet proe,
maar jy sê ek moet asseblief "bitte keine Witze machen"
want jy gaan huil,
jou oë swem al klaar.
Jy weet nie wat nou skielik so vreeslik fout is nie,
seker hormone, maar jy't jou die hele dag lank
sien dikker lyk in hierdie blink winkelvensters
as elke vrou so oud soos jy in hierdie mooi stad
en jou hare val uit en jou vel pak op
en ek moenie vir jou sê dat jy vir my mooi is nie
want hoe sal ek weet want sien
ek kyk nooit eers meer rêrig vir jou nie.
Dis die probleem met my, sien?
Ek's altyd êrens anders, maak mos altyd
of alle ydelheid nonsens is.
Ek dink mos alles is buitendien uit rot en verval
aanmekaargesit,
maar ek moenie glo dat ek so vir jou help nie
want die ander mans is in elk geval "überhaupt nicht"
glad nie soos ek nie
en jy wil vir ander mans ook mooi wees, sodat
hulle na jou moet kyk, sodat
jy kan goed voel saam met my
en ek sê maar hulle kyk, hulle kyk
ek sweer,
maar dis nie oortuigend nie want jy sluk
so absoluut redeloos bedroef, jy kyk so
godverlate deur my
dat ek onredelik woedend wil raak van onmag, maar
ek drink maar ernstig bier,
probeer simpatiek toemaar kyk, probeer
jou hand vat,
maar jy trek weg en ons sit maar so
tot jy nie meer kan nie en sê ons moet
asseblief ‘bitte' hotel toe en bed toe
jy voel naar van misrabel jy't 'n klip in jou maag,
"einen Stein im Bauch",
jy's jammer jy weet nie, seker niks,
"es geht schon wieder"
maar nou huil jy rêrig en ek
ek sit en kyk
na jou
sit net
en kyk na jou.
...

Rambla de Catalunya at a festive little table
with a red tablecloth;
late everywhere full, everywhere the sound of Spanish -
Spanish with people in it,
full of far away, cold beer and tapas
that smells so tasty
that everything must taste of another life after this,
but you say would I please "bitte keine Witze machen"
because you're going to cry,
you eyes are already swimming.
You don't know what's suddenly gone so wrong,
probably hormones, but the whole day you've
been seeing yourself getting fatter in these shining shop windows
if every woman gets old like you in this beautiful city
and your hair failing out and your bright suit on
and I'm not to tell you that I think you're beautiful
because how would I know because look
I just don't really look for you in a crowded room anymore.
The problem's with me, you see?
I'm always somewhere else, I always act as if
all vanity is nonsense.
And I also think that everything is made
of rotting ruins,
but I shouldn't think that I'm helping you
because anyway other men are "überhaupt nicht"
totally unlike me
and you also want to be beautiful for other men, so that
they have to look at you, so that
you can feel good with me
and I say but they do look at you, they do look
I swear,
but you're not convinced because you swallow
your sorrow so absolutely, so irrationally, you look so
abandoned by me
and it makes me want to become irrationally angry, out of
powerlessness, but
I just take a serious sip of beer,
try to look sympathetic, try
to take your hand,
but you pull away and we just sit there
until you can't do it anymore and say that we should
‘bitte' go to the hotel and bed
you feel nauseous with misery you have a stone in your stomach,
"einen Stein im Bauch",
you're sorry you don't know, maybe nothing,
"es geht schon wieder"
but now you're really crying and I
I sit and look
at you
jut sit
and look at you.
...

Vanoggend ons kat salig
opgekrul in die wasgoedmandjie gekry.
Een slapende poot oor haar kop,
twee wit agterpote
sirkel voltooi.

'n Kat is sy eie bed,
eie huis, party, geloof, beweging, verbond.
'n Kat is ‘n perfek onverstaanbare woord van pels.

Mense is nie so nie.
Mense is padtekens op die bodem van 'n oseaan
gedroom van woorde.
Mense staan leeg.
Mense is ‘Te Koop'.
Mense is 'n doodloopstraat.
Mense vat wat hulle kan kry.
Mense fladder soos motte om 'n maan van lank gelede.
Hulle kan hulself nie help nie.

Katte kom woon net in mense
wanneer hulle moeg, lus of honger is.

Mense wonder al eeue lank oor katte.

Huiskatte eet hulle mense
net wanneer hulle mense reeds dood is.

Soms ontmoet jy iemand wat nes 'n kat is.

Jy vind die betekenis van jou lewe
in die klank van haar naam.
Jy hardloop hande-viervoet agter haar parfuum aan,
maar as jy haar kry
verander haar oë
jou hande in skietgebede
jou tong in sand.

Sy verdwyn soos donker in die nag.

Al wat van jou oorbly
is die buitelyne van 'n leemte -
'n kringetjie rook
bruin koffiering op 'n wit bladsy
trouring in jou laai.
...

This morning I found our
cat sleeping happily curled up
in the washing basket.
A sleeping paw over her head,
two white back paws
completing the circle.

A cat is its own bed,
own house, party, religion, movement, union.
A cat is a perfectly irresistable word of fur.

People aren't like this.
People are road signs on the bottom of an ocean
dreamed in words.
People are empty.
People are "For Sale".
People are dead-end streets.
People take what they can take.
People flitter like moths around a long-ago moon.
They can't help themselves.

Cats come and live with people only
when they're tired, thirsty or hungry.

People have been wondering for centuries about cats.

Housecats eat their people
only when they are already dead.

Sometimes you meet someone who is just like a cat.

You find the meaning of your life
in the sound of her name.
You run hand-over-foot after her perfume,
but when you get her
her eyes change
your hands into shooting ranges
your tongue into sand.

She disappears like darkness in the night.

The only thing that remains
is an outside line of emptiness -
a wisp of smoke
brown marbling on a piece of white paper
wedding ring in your drawer.
...

Ek het foto's geneem op al die ver plekke
waar ek was sonder jou;
foto's wat moes bewys hoe volledig
my lewe nou sonder jou is.
Ek het gelate probeer glimlag
vir die kamera
soos 'n man van die wêreld,
wou beslis nie lyk
na 'n ou wat nie 'n paar soene
en 'n verspeelde kans kon oorleef nie.
Maar my foto's uit Noorweë, Griekeland en Thailand
het nie ontwikkel in die prentjies
wat ek beplan het nie.
In die donkerkamer
het jou gesig
oor en oor aan my verskyn.
Die druipnat velle wat ek in 'n ry uitgehang het
was die oorbeligte beelde
van my lewe sonder jou;
die foto's wat ek aan mense gewys het
die gebleikte poskaarte
uit my nuwe lewe aan jou.
En tog het ek gehoop
die foto's sou jou oortuig.

Dit het nie.

Dis jammer, het jy gesê, dat ek
in Europa so 'n vicarious lewe lei.
Die woordeboek vertaal vicarious
as plaasvervangend, middellik, tweedehands.

Ek het driftig van jou verskil,
gesê dis net Toearegs en Amasone Indiane
wat nie 'n sogenaamd vicarious lewe lei nie.
En wanneer hulle om die kampvuur sit en stories vertel
is ook hulle lewens middellik,
tweedehands en plaasvervangend,
het ek bygevoeg.

Maar in die donker kamer
langs die slapende lyf van die vrou
met wie ek nou my lewe deel
weet ek, soos altyd,
presies wat jy bedoel.
In die donker
vat jou woorde weer
met sagte oë
aan my.
...

I've taken photos of all the distant places
I've been without you;
photos to prove how complete
my life is without you.
I've tried to adopt smiling expressions
for the camera
like a man of the world -
certainly didn't want to seem
like a guy who couldn't survive
a couple of kisses and a wasted opportunity.
But my photos from Norway, Greece and Thailand
didn't develop into the pictures
I'd planned.
In the dark room
your face appeared
over and over again.
The dripping skins that I hung out in a row
were the over-exposed images
of my life without you;
the photos I showed to people
bleached postcards
from my new life to you.
And yet I still hoped
the photos might persuade you.

They didn't.

It's a pity, you said, that I
lead such a vicarious life in Europe.
The dictionary explains ‘vicarious'
as: ‘temporary', ‘indirect', ‘second-hand'.

I disagreed with you impatiently,
said that only Tuaregs and Amazonian Indians
didn't live a so-called "vicarious life".
And when they sat around the camp fire and told stories
their lives were also indirect,
second-hand and temporary,
I added.

But in the dark room
by the sleeping body of the woman
who I share my life with now
I know, as always,
exactly what you mean.
In the darkness
your words hold me
with soft eyes
again.
...

LEA ANDREWS
GOUSBLOMSTR. 9
WESBANK
MALMESBURY
7300


Toe ons - my suster, my neefs en ek - klein was
het ons dikwels by Lea in die kombuis gaan eet.
Sy het ons stories van kabouters vertel
wat sy self uitgedink het.
Daardie ure van my kinderdae is dit wat ek onder
die Engelse woord ‘spellbound' verstaan.

Lea is die bruin vrou wat by my ouma Max
in die huis gewerk het vir meer as veertig jaar.

Sy het soos my ouma van ons,
die kleinkinders en ons ouers, as "die kinders" gepraat.
Met elke verjaardag en kersfees was daar altyd
'n kaartjie en 'n geldjie met ‘Liefde'
Van Lea.

Lea het nooit 'n man of kinders gehad nie.
My ma sê daar was êrens 'n oom wat kleintyd
met haar gelol het. Ek het Lea
nooit self daaroor hoor praat nie, maar sy
het dikwels op haar beslissende manier gesê
dat sy nooit juis baie tyd vir mansmense of enige ander
lui, slegte ‘skepsels' gehad het nie.

My Oupa Dirk was 'n dominee in die Sendingkerk in die Kaap.
Toe hy Alzheimer's kry en bedlêend word,
het Lea geglo ‘Meneer' se versorging
is 'n opdrag van die Here, 'n kans
om Hom te dien.
Sy en ‘Juffrou' het oupa Dirk gebad en gevoer
en gehelp met dieselfde onwrikbare geloof
waarmee hulle skaapboud en bruin aartappels voorberei
of druiwekonfyt gekook het.

Oupa Dirk is na jare se terminale, slopende aanwesigheid
uiteindelik oorlede.
Lea en Ouma Max het vasberade aangebly in Leipoldtstr. 23
om saam aan die kombuistafel te sit,
om te bid en tee te drink,
TV te kyk en te treur,
Huisgenoot en Bybel te lees en te wonder
oor "die kinders".
Ouma en Lea kon nooit saam aan die eetkamertafel sit nie,
maar hulle het in Parow-Noord verbete saamgebly
om vir die rose, die skilpaaie en die rotstuin,
die buurt se honde en mekaar te sorg
tot hulle nie meer kon nie,
tot Ouma Max moes ouetehuis toe.

Die Panaroma-oord was ongelukkig te veel van 'n wegwedstryd gewees.
Dit sou vir Ouma nooit meer as 'n wagkamer kon word nie.
Nie dat sy net gaan lê het nie.
Sy het dikwels vertel hoe mooi die maan van die dak af is
waar die ‘oumense' vanweë die steil trappe
nie meer kon uitkom nie.
Maar die maan en die dak was nie goed wat Ouma
kon water gee of voer nie,
nie goed waarvoor sy kon omgee of sorg nie.
Sy sou daar nooit anders as nutteloos voel nie.

Lea het op 80 nuut begin.
Met spaargeld het sy 'n eenkamerwoonstel laat aanbou
by familie in Malmesbury.
Tussen platgetrapte heinings, daggarokers,
hoenders, armoede, eende en Vaaljapie -
die gesukkel van Wesbank -
het Lea begin tuin maak
asof die res onbenullig was.

Toe ons die eerste keer in Gousblomstraat afdraai
was dit maklik om te raai waar Lea nou woon.

Lea het in haar tuin aan my gesê:
"Basie Daan, 'n bietjie mooi rondom jou is mooi
vir almal om jou."
En toe het sy 'n bietjie nagedink en bygevoeg:
"Dis as jy ‘n mens is wat omgee."

Lea het vandag 90 geword.
Ek was nie daar nie,
Ouma ook nie.

Nadat Ouma dood is,
het Lea vir my neef Jean gesê dat sy vir die eerste keer
nie meer die moeite wou doen
om soggens op te staan nie.
Dit het nie gelyk of daar meer rede voor was nie.
Maar nou gaan sy glo weer aan, speel toneel
saam met 'n kerkgroep
en woel nog steeds in die tuin.

Ek onthou vandag hoe ek
Ouma en Lea die laaste keer saam gesien het.
Ek het vir Ouma by die ouetehuis gaan haal.
Met 'n melktert en 'n ou selfoon vir Lea
is ons Malmesbury toe.
Ouma vra twee keer of ek al genoeg geëet het,
maar sy praat nie so baie soos vroeër nie.
Dit is net die nuwe tronk langs die pad
wat hulle vir "die kwaaddoener" gebou het,
waaroor Ouma kan opgewonde raak.

Toe ons by Lea aankom,
loop Ouma deur Lea se tuin
asof dit haar ou tuin is.
Lea was bekommerd oor my neef Jean se motor en wou weet
of dit 'n kar is wat "skree as die volk aan hom vat".
Ek het gelag en gesê:
"Nee, Jean se ou kar is nie so deftig nie,
moenie bekommer nie."
Ouma was nog steeds ‘Juffrou' en Lea net Lea,
maar Ouma se effe neerbuigende raad
kon kwalik haar jaloesie verbloem.
Sy sou baie liewer nog wou tuin maak saam met Lea
as om saam met die oumense in die son te sit,
maar Ouma was aan die glip.

Na haar kritiese inspeksie van die tuin
gaan sit Ouma en ek aan Lea se enigste tafel -
Lea, soos altyd, 'n tree weg op 'n kombuisstoeltjie,
half om 'n hoek;
Oortjie, die steekhaarbrakkie, aan haar voete.
Lea het "haar plek" leer ken in 'n ander tyd,
kon net so min aan tafel saam sit
as wat daar plek vir haar in Ouma se ouetehuis was.
Dit was vir albei ondenkbaar.
Maar ons het saam melktert geëet en tee gedrink.
Ek het vir Lea gewys hoe om met die selfoon te werk.
Sy het aandagtig geluister, maar effe
wantrouig na die apparaat gekyk.

Ouma het vertel dat haar kop "nie meer vat nie."
Sy was oortuig dat dit die pille se skuld was - die pille
wat die dokter haar teen duiseligheid gegee het.
Lea het saamgestem:
"Juffrou is mos nie so nie", het sy gereken,
maar bygevoeg:
"Ai, Juffrou, 'n oumens is soos 'n ballon -
een gaatjie en jy's weg."

Ouma en Lea het nie meer veel gehad om te sê nie,
maar die stilte tussen hulle
was nie leeg nie.
Veertig jaar van vertroue en welwillenheid
het tussen hulle gelê
soos 'n gedeelde herinnering.

Na 'n tweede koppie tee moes ons groet.
Dit was die eerste keer wat ek
Ouma vir Lea sien omhels het.
Lea kon nie terugdruk nie.
Sy was verstar.
Lea het nie gehuil nie,
maar haar oë was kniediep
in helder water.

Ouma het met groot moeite in haar sitplek omgedraai
om 'n laaste keer vir Lea te sien en te waai.
Ek het weggetrek
en die ou metaalblou BMW
het begin beweeg,
het weggedryf met ons binne in
en Lea in die agterruit,
na 'n plek sonder woorde,
'n plek sonder sein.
...

LEA ANDREWS
9 GOUSBLOM STREET
WESBANK
MALMESBURY
7300


When we - my sister, my cousins and I - were small
we often used to eat in Lea's kitchen.
She'd tell us stories about goblins
that she made up on the spot.
I understand those hours of childhood
by the English word ‘spellbound'.

Lea is the brown woman who worked for my granny Max
for more than forty years.

She called us "the kids" in the same way that my granny
talked about her grandchildren and our parents.
Every birthday and Christmas there'd be
a card and some money and "Love
From Lea".

Lea never had a husband or children herself.
My mother says there was once a man who
showed her a good time
for a while. I never heard Lea
talking about it herself, but she
did say sometimes in her decisive way
that she'd never had much time for men
or any other "lazy, wicked creatures".

My grandad Dirk was a pastor with the Mission Church in the Cape.
When he got Alzheimers and was bedridden,
Lea saw it as a God-given task
to take care of ‘Mister', a chance
to serve Him.
She and ‘Missy' bathed grandad Dirk and fed
and helped him with unswerving faith,
just as when they cooked a leg of lamb and roast potatoes
or made some grape jelly.

After years of his grinding, terminal presence, Grandad Dirk
passed away at last.
Lea and Granny Max stayed on at 23 Leipoldt Street
to sit together at the kitchen table,
to pray and drink tea,
watch TV and mourn,
to read Family and the Bible and to wonder
about "the kids".
Granny and Lea could never sit together at the dining room table,
but they stuck together in Parow North
to care for the roses, the tortoises and the rock garden,
the neighbourhood and each other
until they couldn't anymore,
until Granny Max had to go to the old age home.

But the home, called Panorama, was too much like an away match.
It would never be more than a waiting room for Granny.
Not that she just gave up.
She'd often tell us how beautiful the moon was, seen from the roof
where the "old people" couldn't go anymore
because of the steep stairs.
But the moon and the roof couldn't bring
water to granny or feed her,
she couldn't care or worry about things like that.
She would never feel anything other than useless there.

Lea started again, at 80.
She had some money saved and had a one-room dwelling built
on the property of family in Malmesbury,
among fences kicked flat, dope smokers,
chickens, poverty, ducks and ‘Muddy Jack' -
that raw wine from Westbank -
Lea began making a garden
as if all the rest was nonsense.

When we turned into Gousblom Street for the first time
it was easy to guess where Lea now lived.

In her garden Lea said to me:
"Master Daan, a little bit of beauty around you is beauty
for everyone around you."
And then she thought a moment and added:
"That is, if you're a person who cares."

Lea turned 90 today.
I wasn't there,
and neither was Granny.

After Granny died,
Lea told my cousin Jean that for the first time in her life
she did feel like bothering
to get up in the morning.
There did not seem to be a reason anymore.
But she's going about again, acting in plays
with a church group
and turning the soil over in her garden.

Today I remember the last time
I saw Granny and Lea together.
I had fetched Granny from the old age home.
We drove to Malmesbury
with a milk tart and an old cellphone for Lea.
Granny asked twice if I had eaten enough,
but she didn't talk as much as she used to.
The only thing that got her excited
was the new jail they'd built
for ‘the bad people'. Too close to the road.

When we arrived at Lea's,
Granny walked around in Lea's garden
as if it were her garden.
Lea was worried about my cousin Jean's car and wanted to know
if it was a car that "screamed when you touched it".
I laughed and said:
"No, Jean's old car isn't so fancy,
don't worry about it."
Granny was still ‘Missy' and Lea still Lea,
but Granny's mildly condescending advice
barely disguised her jealousy.
She would much rather have worked in the garden with Lea
than sit in the sun with the old people,
but Granny was on the way out.

After her critical inspection of the garden
Ouma and I sat at Lea's only table -
Lea, as always, a step away on her kitchen chair,
half turned to the corner;
Little Ear, her stiff-haired pooch, at her feet.
Lea had learned "her place" in another time,
and just could not sit with us at table -
any more than there was a place for her at Granny's old age home.
For both, this would have been unthinkable.
But we ate milk tart together and drank tea.
I showed Lea how to use her cellphone.
She listened closely, but she looked
with some mistrust at the device.

Granny said that her head "couldn't take things in anymore."
She was convinced it was the pills - the pills
the doctor had given her for dizziness.
Lea agreed:
"Missy isn't like that," she said,
but added:
"Oh, Missy, an old person is like a balloon -
one little puncture and it's gone."

Granny and Lea didn't have much to say,
but the quietness between them
wasn't empty.
Forty years of trust and benevolence
lay between them
like a shared memory.

After a second cup of tea we had to go.
It was the first time I'd ever seen
Granny embrace Lea.
Lea couldn't pull back.
She was confused.
Lea didn't cry,
but her eyes were knee-deep
in clear water.

Granny turned with great difficulty in her seat
to look at Lea one last time and wave.
I pulled off
and the metallic blue BMW
moved on,
floated away with us in it
and Lea in the rear window,
to a place without words,
a place without signal
...

Paris, hier bin ich
meinem Kopf vorauseilend,
Meinem Kopf eines ewigen Tuareg-Piraten
Sinnbild des Schmerzes,
ich komme, hier bin ich
den Tabak der Ironie kauend.

Hawad, Horizontenentführung
Beste Hawad

Toe jy op die verhoog verskyn het
hier in Bremen
voor ‘n afgerigte gehoor vol ontwerpersbrille
het ek nie geweet wat om te verwag nie.

Op die feesprogram van International Poetry on the Road
word jy as "die enigste digtende Toeareg"
geadverteer.
Daar is min dinge wat my so minagtend laat snork
as hierdie soort neerbuigende politieke korrektheid.
Hulle kon jou net so wel as
‘olifantman' of ‘vuurvreter' aankondig.

Maar toe jy, Hawad,
met jou willewragtag-James Brown-afro en denimbaadjie
begin brom en breek in Toeareg
was ek net bly dat hulle jou genooi het.

In 'n stywe Noord-Duitse lesingsaal het jy my laat hoor
hoe mens in die moedertaal van woestyn
streng met voorvadergeeste en Navo moet praat;
hoe jy die wilde woestynwind paai
in 'n sterwende taal.

Hawad,
as jy so sou te kere gaan op ‘n straathoek
sal hulle jou opsluit.

As jy so sou huil en bid
op 'n anonieme sterfbed in Parys
sal die mense dink jy praat in tale
en die dosis verdubbel.

Beste Hawad
Ek wens jy kon weet
hoe ek verstaan -
verstaan van praat
met 'n koue, nat Novembernag in 'n taal
wat my vrou nie verstaan nie;
hoe ek weet van skipbreuk-roei met die tong
in 'n sinkende idioom.

Hawad, ek sien jy weet hoe dit voel
om dooie woorde te slinger na stilte
as die diep woestynnag
oor jou tent kom buk
om die kampvuur uit te doof.
...

Paris, hier bin ich
meinem Kopf vorauseilend,
Meinem Kopf eines ewigen Tuareg-Piraten
Sinnbild des Schmerzes,
ich komme, hier bin ich
den Tabak der Ironie kauend.
Hawad, Horizontenentführung
Dear Hawad

When you appeared on the stage
here in Bremen
in front of a focused audience of designer glasses
I didn't know what to expect.

In International Poetry on the Road's festival programme
you'd been advertised as
"the only Tuareg writing poetry."
There are few things that make me snort with contempt
more than this kind of condescending political correctness.
They could just as well have described you
as an ‘elephant man' or ‘ fire eater'.

But when you, Hawad,
in your whirlwind James Brown afro and denim jacket
began to growl and clack in Tuareg
I was happy that they'd invited you.

In a stuffy North German lecture hall you let me hear
how a person should speak to ancestral spirits and to NATO
in the mother language of the desert;
how you can stroke the wild west wind
with a dying language.

Hawad,
if you went crazy on some street corner
they'd lock you up.

If you cried and prayed like that
on an anonymous death bed in Paris
people would think you were speaking in tongues
and double the dose.

Dear Hawad
I wish you could know
how I understand -
understand talking
with a cold November night in a language
that my wife did not understand;
how I know about rowing with the tongue
after a ship wreck
in a sinking idiom.

Hawad, I see you know how it feels
to sling dead words into silence
as the deep desert night
bends over your tent
to put out the camp fire.
...

Ons sit waarskynlik 'n laaste keer saam in 'n restaurant.
Die plek se naam is La Veronica -
die ene minimalist chic in die gothic deal van Barcelona, nogal:
pragtige slaaie, 'n bottel rooi wyn en ‘n bottel water voor ons,
'n huwelik agter ons
en jou bril is donker en jou top is oorlogrooi.
Die stoele en tafels is wit wit oblivion wit.
My hemp is blou, raserig Hawaii-blou.
Party mure is rooi, jou oorlogrooi,
en ander mure is wit wit.

Ek praat nie meer nie,
maar jy klim nog 'n laaste slag in -

Jy sê
ek moenie dit ooit weer durf waag om vir jou
enige iets
van nuwe kanse of ‘n nuwe begin te sê nie.
Dit is 'n krisis!
Jy ly!
Jy is onder in die put!
It is not a learning experience!
Moet almal Joego-Slawië toe gaan om te leer
hoe oorlog en dood en verwoesting is, eh?!

Jy sê, sagter nou, 'n ander ou het jou jare gelede ook verlaat
in 'n verhouding, wat jy gedog het, okay was.
"Er war auch ein lieber Kerl.
Menschen haben ihn gemocht."
Ja, hy was ook 'n liewe ou soos ek, sê jy,
maar dit het jou groot plesier verskaf
toe jy later gehoor het,
dat hy steeds probleme met vroue het,
vertel jy en maak jou mond eers finaal toe
in 'n dun, bitter lyn.

Uit frustrasie draai jy 'n suikersakkie nek om
sodat wit suiker stadig val
op die raving oranje tafeldoek,
terwyl jy begin huil agter jou donkerbril.

Ek drink rooi wyn en voel naar.
Dit is uitmergelend om jou so te sien,
maar ek sê niks meer nie
want ek weet jy luister nie.

Ek laat jou maar huil
want al wat ek skynbaar rêrig onthou
is 'n woonstel op die bodem van 'n troebel hemel,
'n ‘Wohnung', 'n gehuurde eensaamplek
waar mens altyd weer raas en heimwee gekry het,
waar die stort op full blast altyd net gedrup het,
waar jy altyd reeds geslaap het,
waar net jou poster van Betty Blue bo die hi-fi
laatnag vir my gewag het om alleen huis toe te kom
en haar favourite razor sad songs te speel.

Ek onthou 'n huweliksbed
waar my liefde na 'n jaar of twee
altyd eers moes
moddervoete afvee of nat hare droog maak of naels sny of houding kry
voor dit soos 'n hond op die grond
of buite op die balkon moes slaap,
terwyl ek soos 'n insomniac soft-toy
snags langs jou kom lê het.

Jirre, Schatzi, ek sweer ek onthou
van 'n woonstel en 'n huwelik soos
'n olifantbegraafplaas vir drome -
'n plek waar liefde en potplante
vir dood agtergelaat is.

Maar jy hou op huil,
kyk na die byna leë bottel wyn,
die vol bottel water
en sê ingedagte, jou stem vreemd:
"Tja, irgendwie waren wir nie große Wassertrinker."

En nou swem my oë
want ja, somehow was ons nooit groot waterdrinkers nie,
op een of anner manier was ons net nie
nooit-ooit whatever, somehow, in elk geval, nie.

Ons drink in stilte die laaste paar slukke wyn -
die restaurant se cool acid jazz
blowing blowing gone;
twee heavily tattooed punks wat skateboard onder die arm
langs die groot glasvensters verby verby kom.

"La cuenta, por favor."
...

We sit together in a restaurant, maybe for the last time.
The name of the place is La Veronica -
rare minimalist chic in Barcelona's gothic deal, at that:
lovely salad, a bottle of red wine and a bottle of water for us,
a marriage behind us
and your glasses are dark and your top is the red of war.
The chairs and tables are white white oblivion white.
My shirt is blue, a noisy Hawaian blue.
Some walls are red, your war-red,
and other walls are white white.

I don't talk any more,
but your climb into one last battle -

You say
I shouldn't ever dare to even start trying
to say anything to you
about new opportunities or a fresh start.
This is a crisis.
You're suffering.
You're right down there in the muck.
It is not a learning experience.
We should all go to Yugoslavia to learn
all about war and death and destruction.

You say, more softly now, another guy had also left you years ago
when the relationship, you thought, was okay.
"Er war auch ein lieber Kerl.
Menschen haben ihn gemocht."
Yes, he was also a nice guy like me, you say,
but it afforded you a lot of pleasure
when you heard later
that he was always having problems with women,
you tell me and then close your mouth finally
into a thin, bitter line.

Frustrated, you twist the neck of a sugar sachet
so that white sugar falls slowly
onto the raving orange table cloth,
while you begin to cry behind your dark glasses.

I drink red wine and feel sick.
It's harrowing to see you so,
but I don't say anything
because I know you won't listen.

I let you cry
because all I can really remember apparently
is a dwelling under the dome of a troubled sky,
a ‘Wohnung', a hired place of loneliness
where people were always noisy and getting homesick,
where full-blast effort always came out at a drip,
where you had always already slept,
where only your poster of Betty Blue above the stereo
waited for me late at night to come home alone
and play her favourite razor sad songs.

I remember a marriage bed
where after a year or two
my love always had to wipe
its muddy feet or dry wet hair or clip nails or assume the position
for this like a dog on the ground
or outside on the balcony had to sleep,
while I came to lie beside you at night
like an insomniac soft-toy.

Gee, Schatzi, I swear I remember
a home and a marriage like
an elephant burial ground for dreams -
a place where love and potplants
had been left for dead.

But you stop crying,
look at the nearly empty bottle of wine,
the full bottle of water
and say thoughtfully, in a strange voice:
"Tja, irgendwie waren wir nie große Wassertrinker."

And now my eyes swim
because yes, somehow we had not been great water drinkers,
in one way or another we were just not
never-ever whatever, somehow, anyway.

We drink the last few swigs of wine in silence -
the restaurant's cool acid jazz
blowing blowing gone;
two heavily tattooed punks with skateboards under their arms
walking past the huge windows.

"La cuenta, por favor."
...

Ek doen die
Saterdagaand-te-veel-retro-bier-met-
happy-hour-in-die-Heartbreak-Hotel-nommer.
Ja,
ek doen toe weer die ou
"man-who-wants-to-live"-drink-naweek-bier-roetine
pligsgetrou soos 'n omie
wat sy bene probeer terugwen na 'n beroerte
sy oefeninge-nommer.

Ek doen die-nagtrem-huis-toe-nommer -
ek check die
paartjies-koer-saam-teen-die-koue-item;
ek sidder stilletjies vir die
alleen-bum-uitgepass-tenie-ruit-
met-die-blou-spinnerak-wat-opkruip-tenie-nek-tattoo-routine.

Ek doen die skielike-bevlieging-uitwaai-in-die-nag-nommer
om die-walking-on-Miles-Davis-blaas-blou-trompet-
oor-die-diep-rivier-met-die-olie-neon-drome-op-scene
te loop-speel.

Ek doen die inval-by-die-flat-
storm-die-yskas-nommer.
Ek doen die Judy-Garland-op-die-vensterbank-
met-Amaretto-en-melk-
"somewhere-over-the-rainbow"-
wat-die-dokter-my-verbied-het-program.

Ek doen weer die uit volle bors
"What-now-my-love?-
now-there-is-nothing-
I-feel-the-world-
closing-in-on-me-"
die "What-now-my-love?-
now-that-it's-over-
-there's-only-sky-
where-the-sea-should-be-"
nommertjie.

Maar ek doen veiligheidshalwe ook die selfkritiese-
1-2-3-blok-myself-
is-die-gedig-noodsaaklik?-
-prosedure
Ek doen die skud-en-skop-die-ou-moedertaal-
soos-'n-defekte-Coke-outomaat-in-'n-uitgestorwe-Bahnhof-
op-'n-klein-Duitse-spookdorpie-lank-na-middernag-roetine.

Ek ruk en pluk my kop-taal-hart soos 'n pinball-masjien
en dan doen ek skouerophalend
die-Send-nommer -
sit af die computer,
verlaat die gedig-kamer,
borsel tande,
loop gly paling en sy
in die bed.

In die bed lê ek dan elektries
stil, wa-wyd wakker -
kyk deur die blindings
hoe swart die nag
hoe sekel die maan.
...

I do the
too-much-retro-beer-during-happy-hour-
on-Saturday-evening in-the-Heartbreak-Hotel number.
Yes,
then I do the old
"man-who-wants-to-live"-drink-weekend-beer number
as dutifully as some old guy
trying to win his legs back after a stroke
does his exercise routine.

I do the late-tram-home number —
I check the
couples-cooing-together-against-the-cold item;
I seethe quietly for the
bum-passed-out-alone-against-the-window-
with-the-blue-spider-web-tattoo-that-creeps-up-his-neck routine.

I do the sudden-inspiration-blowing-in-the-night number and
walk along playing the strolling-to-Miles-Davis-blowing-blue-
trumpet-over-the-deep-river-with-the-oil-neon-dreams
scene.

I do the raid-on-the-flat-and-
storm-the-fridge number.
I do the Judy-Garland-on-the-windowsill-
with-Amaretto-and-milk-
"somewhere-over-the-rainbow"-
that-the-doctor-proscribed programme.

With the full power of my lungs
I do the
"What-now-my-love?-
now-there-is-nothing-
I-feel-the-world-
closing-in-on-me"
the "What-now-my-love?-
now-that-it's-over-
-there's-only-sky-
where-the-sea-should-be-"
little number.

But for safety reasons I also do the self-critical-
1-2-3-block-myself-
is-the-poem-necessary?
Procedure
I do the shake-the-head-the-old-mother-language-
like-a-defective-Coke-despensing-machine-in-an-abandoned-Bahnhof-
in-a-small-German-ghost-village-long-after-midnight routine.

I pull and pluck my head-language-heart like a pinball machine
and with a shrug of the shoulder I do
the Send number -
turn off the computer,
leave the closed room of poetry,
brush teeth,
walk slide eel and she
in the bed.

In the bed I lie electrically
still, wide awake -
look through the blinds
how dark the night
how sickle the moon.
...

In Lusern dryf die witste swane
op die Reuss se glashelder turkoois
by 16de eeuse Barok dekor
voor sneeuberge verby.

In Lusern in die hotelkamer later
huil jy jy's lief vir my
maar seks in 'n ouer verhouding
is moeilik vir jou net
te veel soos ou pantoffels,
soos gewoonte,
jy's jammer, jy is rêrig lief vir my, maar
ek was al hier
in hierdie deurgetrapte ouwêreldse holte
in hierdie klankvaste plek
waar drome so vanselfsprekend
in leë eggo's ontbind.
Ek het net nie gedink
dat ek saam met jou
hierlangs sou kom nie;
nooit werklik geglo
dat ek eendag met geleende groen oë
sou kyk na jou
soos 'n toeris sal kyk
na die koue poskaart-swane
van lieflike Lusern nie.
...

In Lucerne the white swans float
on the glassy turquoise clarity of the Reuss
past 16th-century Baroque decor
and past snowy mountains.

In Lucerne in the hotel room later
you cry that you love me
but sex in an established relationship
is difficult for you a bit
too much like old slippers,
like habits,
you're sorry, you really love me, but
I am already here
in this broken-down Old World hole
in this insulated place
where dreams decompose into empty echoes
so unremarkably.
I hadn't thought
that I would ever come
here with you;
never really believed
that I would one day look at you
through borrowed green eyes
as a tourist looks
at the cold postcard swans
of gentle Lucerne.
...

In die lou badwater voel ek
die drukkende somerhitte.
Dis of ek sweet
onder my papnat, gewasde hare.
Die sonbesies buite
klink soos 'n sameswering.

In die bad onthou ek vandag
my kuiers by Leon met die groot ore
toe ek 11 was.

Leon was 'n bedorwe enkelkind in 'n groot huis
met 'n swembad en 'n tennisbaan
en 'n klomp plate en 'n ouma
wat altyd tuis was
om koekies en koeldrank aan te dra
as ons Wham of Michael Jackson luister.

Op die tennisbaan
het Leon my altyd maklik geklop
tot ek eendag 'n set gewen het.
Leon kon dit nie hanteer nie.
Hy't sy tennisraket op die grond neergegooi
en binne toe gehardloop.

Ek het onseker bly staan
op die vuurwarm tennisbaan.
Die kombuis se sifdeur het agter Leon toegeklap.
Die sonbesies het te kere gegaan.
Bismarck, hulle reuse-Rottweiler -
'n knorrige, opvlieënde bliksem -
was tussen my en die agterdeur.
Vir Bismarck was ek bitterbang.
Hy't een keer na my gehap.
Ek het nagmerries oor hom gehad -
hy het altyd van agter gekom.
Met die grom en die omkyk
was dit te laat.
Sy kake het gemaklik om my ribbekas gevou.
Sy tande het in my vleis weggesink
soos stewels in modder.
Hy het my in sy bek opgetel -
ek kon my hopelose tennisskoene in die lug
sien spartel.
Ek was te bang om te skree.

Terwyl ek oor Bismarck angstig was,
het die swart tuinier vir my geglimlag
en gewaai.
Leon het my al vertel
hoe hy die tuinman bekruip
wanneer hy gras sny,
en met sy BB-gun skiet.
Ek kon nooit verstaan hoekom
die tuinman met my vriendelik is nie.
Kon 'n mens 'n verskil
tussen my en Leon
sien?
Ek het gewonder of die tuinman
net so bang vir Bismarck was soos ek;
of hy Leon gehaat het
soos ek hom sou gehaat het
as ek die tuinman was?
Dat die tuinman vir Leon eendag
met sy tuinvurk sou doodsteek,
was nie vir my onwaarskynlik nie.
Die somerhitte en my angs
het sy wit glimlag
tot 'n hatige gryns verwring.
Die bloed in my ore
was harder as die sonbesies.
Ek het naar en duiselig gevoel.
Niemand het kom help nie,
want niemand was van enige gevaar bewus nie.
Ek het vriendelik vir die tuinman gewaai…

As ek so bang vir binne
en bang vir buite
soos vandag in die bad dobber
weet ek nie hoe om uit te klim nie.

Buite patrolleer Bismarck die aarde.
Binne glimlag die tuinman
lewensgroot.
...