LITMIR.BIZ

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The heat was torrid. The surrounding mountains were still burning. He thought he could smell smoke. The remote sound of helicopters, of sirens some distance away in town – fire engines or ambulances. He wanted to get away, he wanted to go and work in his cool studio. He’d had enough of students for a while. Most of them didn’t belong here, they had too little talent and their parents too much money. They didn’t know what they wanted to do, they weren’t really interested, they were on their laptops and mobiles all day long and they talked like barbarians. He knew he was prejudiced, but he thought they looked stupid.

      The last student he saw had hair piled on top of her head in a blonde nest and she was wearing black shorts so tiny that he thought he could see the fold of one of her hairless (waxed) labia. Shameless. But no, of shame and shameless she knew, to look at her, equally little – her countenance was as uninscribed, as unfilled-in, as if no experience had ever left its mark on it. Neither good nor bad. Ever been penetrated, he wondered, that little plucked pussy? She was like something that had just crawled out of an egg, of which the carapace was still soft. Although you never could tell with these kids. Behind that shallow gaze could lurk a lifetime of experience of which he had not the faintest inkling.

      How old could she be, he wondered, eighteen, nineteen? And what was she planning to do for her semester project? he asked. She wasn’t quite sure yet herself, actually. Her features were regular, her hair blonde, her limbs slender and well proportioned. Physically perfect, without the slightest visible flaw or defect. Was there perhaps a theme, a cause, that she took to heart (he asked wearily). He had to caution himself to be patient, not snide, not sarcastic, patient (the parents were paying a packet, the kid’s emotions were tender and budding, vulnerable). He should try to nurture the meagre talent that there was; who knows, under the right – encouraging – tutelage something might blossom forth after all.

      Yes, perhaps she’d like to do something on her doggies. What kind of doggies did she have? he asked. As in miniature poodles, she said. Poodles, he asked, or as in poodles? As in poodles, she said, with a little frown. (As in, what’s his case? he thought.) What was she thinking of? he asked. (A scrapbook, perhaps? He had to restrain himself, be patient.) Was she thinking in terms of an installation, he asked, perhaps a video, a photo series, and from what theoretical perspective did she want to approach it – eco-criticism, the analysis of animal discourse that was so fashionable at the moment? (He knew he had to stop this. It was unfair, he could see a vague intimation of distress in her eyes, like a panic-stricken dog in water paddling to reach the opposite bank. Have compassion! he urged himself. She was a child, she wasn’t responsible for the gaps in her education.)

      No, she didn’t actually know. Changed position uncomfortably on her chair, crossed one tanned, shaved leg over the other. She didn’t think so. But there was something else that she actually felt quite strongly about.

      And what was that?

      Satanism.

      Satanism, he said.

      Yes, she said, she wanted to do something on satanism.

      What aspect of satanism, Karlien? he asked. (Or was it Karla? He glanced surreptitiously at the register in front of him.)

      She’d seen a photo in You, as in a place that they’d discovered in Joburg, you know? (Sing-song rhythm, where did the kids learn to talk like that?)

      He’d have liked to send her on her way with the brief to go and look into the life and work of Ilya Kabakov, into his life under Soviet rule. See if you can understand any of it, he’d have liked to say. But that would have been pointless, the child had been brainwashed, her head was full of clichéd phrases, her imagination formed by Facebook images. He wanted to give her the brief to go and look at all the representations of devils in the Middle Ages, but the kids no longer knew what the Middle Ages were.

      Bring photos, he said, bring any information, any pictorial matter and think of a format.

      *

      After terminating the conversation with the girl, he decided to go and drink something in town until the traffic had subsided somewhat. The town was bustling, he struggled to find parking; it was hot, he was irritated.

      He ordered coffee, scanned the newspaper. An article on the misdemeanours of some cardinal. Of course the portrait of Cardinal Niño de Guevara is beautiful, Isabel had said, a miracle, and also the two Vermeers, and the Halses, especially the Halses, they were among the few paintings that she could still look at with pleasure, but would it have made any difference if she hadn’t seen them? He could still delight in what the day had to offer, she’d said, whereas she could only think that at the end of this day she’d be a day closer to the end of their trip. Delight, he’d said bitterly, delight in what the day had to offer, what made her think that? She’s sorry, she’d said, sorry sorry sorry.

      Someone touched his shoulder lightly. He got such a fright that he actually spilled coffee in his saucer, because for a moment he thought: Chris – Chris Kestell! (Chris, of whom by chance he’d dreamt the night before. Chris Bitterbile, a friend of Victor Schoeman’s.) The man had the same longish, greasy hair, the same large black-framed glasses and owlish gaze. The confusion lasted for only a moment.

      Was the seat opposite him taken? the man wanted to know. The coffee shop was crowded, Nick was sitting at the single long table. Did he mind, the man asked, if he took the seat opposite him? Refusal was not an option, Nick was tired and tetchy, he didn’t feel like chit-chatting with a stranger, especially not now after briefly taking the man for Chris Kestell.

      The man sat down opposite him. Nick carried on reading the paper. From the corner of his eye he could see the man’s hands trembling while holding his cup of coffee. He got another fright, because Chris’s hands had trembled just like that. Especially when he’d drunk more than usual the night before, or was embarking on some vehement diatribe (as was often the case). And even more than usual towards the end. Just before he topped himself. Trust Chris Kestell for a dramatic exit. Swallowed pills and a whole lot of alcohol, tied a stone to his leg, and drowned himself in the town dam. Ironic, because Chris had never wanted to set foot in water. Always sat on the edge with a bottle of liquor, nursing his foot fungus, hurling insults at the swimmers. Vigorously calling down obscenities upon their heads.

      The man was watching him, noting when he turned a page. He clearly wanted to chat; Nick not. He hid behind the paper, but his peace of mind had been shattered. He couldn’t have his coffee in peace when he knew somebody was watching him. He got up, greeted the man with a nod, paid, and went out into the glaring sun. It was still too early to drive home, the traffic was still too heavy. He went and sat in the bar around the corner, even though he didn’t like the place. At least it was cool in there. As long as the man didn’t follow him, and why would he?

      But would you believe it, it wasn’t long before the man came into the bar. This time he took a seat a little way along. Nick turned his back on him, but nevertheless got the creepy feeling that the man was watching him. This he did not like at all.

      As he paid and left the bar, he found the man next to him. For a moment Nick was blinded by the bright sun. The man took him by the arm and said: ‘Are you sure we haven’t come across each other somewhere?’ From close by the resemblance to Chris Kestell was considerably less marked than he’d thought at first glance. For a start, the man did not have Chris’s mocking, ironic gaze. He seemed bewildered and one of his eyes strayed sideways as if on a mission. More than just a slight squint. A bit repugnant. ‘No,’ said Nick, ‘I’m sure we’ve never come across each other.’ He curtly wished the man goodbye and started walking briskly to where he’d parked his car. The man kept up with him at a trot. ‘Do you live in town?’ he asked. ‘No,’ said Nick, by now convinced that the man had a screw loose somewhere. If not even a trifle retarded. Whereupon he quickened his pace and left the man behind, he hoped.

      *

      Marthinus had invited him for a beer after work. When he arrived, Marthinus was sitting on the stoep. He came to meet Nick with a mug of tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Beautiful view over the city from here.

      He told Marthinus that his lodger had had an epileptic fit the day before.

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