Walking among chickens

Vicky Scholtz

“Moenie my voete soen nie — Ek het nou net tussen die hoenders geloop.” — Zola Budd

Lying on her back in the sun, the shaggy carpet tickling her nose at a level just below the threshold of irritation, Traci sighed deeply and licked the crumbs from her fingers. Hershel’s apple slices were the closest you could get to satisfaction in this Universe, in this age. Peter shifted slightly, snuggling further into his silence, and Traci felt with just a moment’s shudder of admission how easy it was for the Universe to shrink down to the insular smugness of Stellenbosch, all the Ages fulfilled in this moment. Ignited by Camus, Sartre, Kafka, their weltanschauung existed without reference to unhappy childhoods, social inequity or the gasping abyss of the future. Armoured in leather jackets, purple jeans and wife-kickers, their hard-arsed insouciance alternating with periods of the blackest despair marked them as art students as much as their permanent burdens of meranti planks, hammers and buckets of PVA.

In a world bounded by Nina Hagen, Yello, Shawn Phillips and Sylvia Sass, populated by Steppenwolf and anything by Rene Clair or Fellini, more immediate concerns were anaesthetised by the thick smell of linseed oil and molten hard ground, filtered through tactile strokes of sap green and alizarin crimson, Payne’s grey and Prussian blue, textured in wood cuttings or burnished copper. The world was seen as line and colour, form and texture whose meaning was projected by the seer, and in which such sensory overload left no place even for sex.

Traci had struggled hard for this sense of place. Although no longer bullied in the playground or teased to tears in the classroom, she was “othered” in more subtle ways and gathered around her a cloak of other misfits — artists, radicals, ageing hippies, the unstable — and called them friends. Through them she learned the names of her othernesses, wrapped them bright in dyed cloth around her body, claimed them as strengths and denied the deficit. Her repeated election as class rep confirmed her belonging, her acceptance on her own terms by her peers, despite the obvious differences. They, for example, dressed at Foschini and cut their hair at Plumb Crazy, while Traci’s finances left her raiding second-hand shops and buzz-cutting her own hair, and stealing garlic from the local market gardens for the bread-and-water pizza they cooked in Peter’s electric frying pan.

Peter, while marginally better off, enjoyed the lifestyle of balancing on the edge, his only luxury being the motorbike which allowed him to live in a separate entrance a little way out of town. His shy smile peeked out through his full-face helmet when Traci appeared, but mostly he screened himself behind a long, floppy fringe — years before such things were fashionable. They lived passionately, thought deeply and experienced life with an intensity known only to sensitive souls such as theirs — the philosophers, poets and artists of their and preceding generations.

But as the candles burned lower and the incense diffused, the midnight skinny dips in the dam became less frequent, the stolen garlic less pungent. Peter withdrew into a shroud of more intense neurosis, as Traci’s orbit extended outward into more absorbing activism and Hershel needed to find a new market for his profound apple slices. In search of ever more vibrant images for her lens, her canvas, her etching plates, Traci ventured increasingly deeper into the forbidden darkness of the Townships, the burning bushes of fomenting schools, and the insights of Marx and Trotsky. Peter retreated into The Bell Jar and moved to a smaller, darker room far from town. When Traci could no longer justify her presence at University and left to donate her labour to the Struggle, Peter dropped out amidst talk of burnout, breakdown and befoktheid. Blindly, they tumbled headlong into the snarling abyss: the future must have crept up on them, unnoticed.

Anyone who has ever been to Cape Town in the winter knows how easy it is to fall victim to the bleak greyness which stretches one day to the next, the unending rainy misery which defines any day between April and October, washing away any tendrils of hope that took root in the summer sunshine. Traci sat upstairs in the small flat, staring out at the city skyline over the warm, fragrant head of her infant son. When his sleepy sucking finally relaxed its grip on her nipple, she laid him down beside her on the unmade bed, and picked up the incomplete letter she’d begun earlier in a desperate rush of nostalgia. She’d had no word from Peter since leaving Stellenbosch, had no idea if he was even still alive, or how the letter would find him. Still, coming across an old letter he’d sent one holiday — inviting her to his mother’s house in Knysna — was a sign she couldn’t ignore, and she duly addressed the letter care of his mother, sealed and stamped it, and put it aside for posting, should the rain ever abate sufficiently to allow her out of the flat to do so.

Traci’s heavy heart dragged her slowly downstairs, where she filled the kettle and switched on the heater, an indulgence she was beyond denying herself in her current condition. She’d fallen pregnant too soon in her new job to qualify for maternity leave, too soon in her marriage to qualify for trust, too soon in her life to qualify for peace of mind. In the space of months, her ceiling had gone from the sky, to this fly-specked peeling paint hovering ominously low above her head. She missed the positive feedback of work, the sense of meaning she derived from her small contribution to Building a New South Africa, the distraction of other lives, other problems, other possibilities. Here, stuck in the flat with a small baby, she was confronted everywhere by herself. That same self which, as a student, had seemed such an exciting reference point from which to survey and comment on the whole of the Universe, the distillation of all Thought and Creation, the pinnacle of all that had gone before, bored her to bourgeois tears. Longing for her lost self-importance, she sought her erstwhile co-conspirator, hoping that the connection could restore the apple, unbitten, for the apple slice.

The reply, when it came, surpassed her expectations. Peter was in town, studying again, wrapped as ever in the dark cloak of depression. With the weather lifting slightly, they arranged to meet one afternoon when his timetable permitted, at an anonymous spot not far from the flat. Traci arrived at the Gallery a few minutes before the appointed time. She carried the pushchair up to the top of the stairs, and sat down on the top step. She looked out over the sweep of the Gardens, scoured to a dull grey by the south-easter. It took a while before she spotted Peter, tucked next to the granite at the foot of the stairs, staring up at her.

“Hi!” she called, waving. Peter smiled shyly beneath his fringe and unfolded his lanky body, instantly recognisable in the same leather jacket, dark jeans and heavy boots. Peter looked intensely at Traci, whose hair had reverted to its natural mouse colour and was cropped into a short but feminine style. She had attempted to lighten her gloom by dressing in a flamboyant scarlet shirt-dress, purple ski pants and crimson boots, all handmade (the boots made by the Fairheads, but she’d gotten them on sale) as the constraints of living on UIF dictated.

“Wow,” confessed Peter, “I wasn’t sure it was you!”

“Lucky I spotted you, then,” countered Traci. “Why were you hiding?”

“Not really,” Peter shrugged, “but I saw Ghosts of Christmas Past arrive earlier, and I didn’t want to be interrogated on how I am and what I’m doing and do I still paint, by people who weren’t interested in me then, and aren’t likely to be now!”

“Let’s go and get some coffee then. I’d rather not have to make small talk with the ghosts of the past either!”

They walked slowly toward the coffee shop. Peter peered into the pushchair. “Is this the new guy? What’s his name?”

“Zwelinzima. It means ’the world is a rough place’.”

Peter chuckled. “I reckon Camus would approve of that sentiment. So, another outsider. How old is he now?”

Traci told him, in weeks, and Peter paused to calculate. He nodded. “March people are the best.”

“He’s Aries, which is another story altogether!”

As their coffee arrived, Traci asked, “How’s your course going?”

“OK. The people aren’t so cool, but the work is OK. You know, those verkrampte types who start twitching if you say ’shit’.”

“What are you planning to do when you’re finished?”

Peter shrugged. “I’ve still got two years to go. Bet you didn’t know I was interested in plants and nature and stuff?”

“Why not? You were always painting landscapes, and your etchings were always full of plants. I used to think you had a vivid imagination, or a good memory, because I’d forgotten what the world outside the studio looked like!”

“Fuck! I forgot about that! It just seemed to me like we were always chained to our easels having to paint that awful anorexic model. What was her name?”

“Tracy!” Traci grimaced. “She was hardly anorexic! She used to invite herself to lunch with Anneline and them and gobble them out of house and home! And then still pack in a doggy bag for her kids!”

“Anneline — she was the one who looked like a monkey, and always painted those nauseous pictures?”

“That was Annelise. Anneline was OK, made a bit of a big deal of the ’I don’t live with my parents anymore’ bit, though.” Traci bit into her apple slice and brushed the crumbs onto the floor. Not as good as Hershel’s ...

“And that gay guy who painted those kitschy pictures? What was his name?”

“Marius? He had an exhibition last month. The papers slated it.” Traci still read the reviews, although she’d last attended an exhibition as a student.

“God, they were all so phoney, so ... cool! As if they were the only ones who understood life. Without ever having read a book!”

Traci thought of all the books she’d read, and wished she understood life a little better. Or at all.

Peter interrupted. “I’ve still got your copy of The Bell Jar.”

“Keep it,” she shrugged.

“Thanks! I read it once a month to remind myself.”

Traci didn’t ask what he needed reminding of. At an appropriate time, they parted, without having touched — even accidentally.

Moving to the suburbs, Traci found part-time work, a crèche, and the beginnings of a sense of self. She learned how to fake friendship and to make friends, and discovered the profundity of frivolity. She politicised the personal, instead of merely personalising the Struggle, and found community in her uniqueness. As she began to understand Relationships, she began to enjoy sex, and to understand their connection as casual rather than causal. She took part-time courses, developed interests into hobbies, watched her child grow with amazement. She started to paint again, and began to write. Her friends thought her profound, she found them loving, caring, available. She dabbled in relationships and once came too close for comfort to love, barely escaping the tidal wave of emotional havoc which followed its spectacular eruption. She worked hard at it, but Traci did eventually become the tough cookie she’d always aspired to be.

Then one day, Peter phoned.

She wasn’t sure how he’d found her number — it wasn’t listed and she’d moved so many times since their last contact, reconstructing the chain would have defied Sherlock Holmes. Not that she’d tried to lose contact; it was simply a by-product of the direction in which her life had moved and his had stayed put. Though, to be honest, this point, or the realisation of the determination which must have driven him to find her, occurred to Traci only afterward. At the time, she had other things on her mind.

Or rather, as Rob suggested to her kindly, she must have had something on her mind to compensate for her not having anything on her body. Lying naked on her bed, indulging in the smug afterglow that followed a particularly passionate bout of lovemaking with Rob, she’d ignored the insistent ringing until Rob finally suggested she answer it in view of the person’s insistence, which he read with his polite Englishness as signalling an emergency. Reluctantly, she acceded, stretching a lethargic arm across his hairy chest, still drizzled in the heat of their passion. His nipple responded obediently, and she stopped, distracted by the possibility which started to surge within her own hungry body. Rob leaned across and passed the phone to her, and she bit back the rush of disappointment as she answered.

“Hello, Traci?” the voice sounded distant, hesitant.

“Yes, hi, can I help you?” Traci’s words belied her thinly disguised irritation. The telephone cord stretched across Rob’s gleaming body, and she tweaked it a little, letting it snake through the moist, coiled hairs, leaving a trail of goosebumps. Promising, Traci thought lustfully.

“It’s me, Peter,” the remote voice insisted. “I need to speak to you about something important.”

“This isn’t really a good time,” Traci mumbled distractedly, her fingers running lightly down the cord, onto Rob’s waiting body, where they traced patterns in the moisture. “Where are you? Give me your number, I’ll call you back just now.” Rob rolled onto his stomach and passed Traci a pen. Traci ran it playfully along his spine, watching his buttocks clench responsively.

“I  ... you can’t, it’s a public phone. I need to speak to you now. It’s  ... it’s really urgent!”

Traci’s pen wandered over the rise of Rob’s buttocks, the gentle rounding of his hips, the strongly muscled thighs, watching them twitch and shudder expectantly. “Can I phone you later, at your mother? I’ve got her number somewhere.” Traci’s voice was hoarser, more urgent, betraying her mounting excitement.

“No, I’ve left there, my mother doesn’t know where I am. Traci, this is important, just say yes or no. I know it’s asking a lot, but you’re the only one ...”

“Peter, I really can’t speak now. If I can’t call you, can you call me later? This evening, maybe?” Traci nibbled lightly along Rob’s flank. He shifted and rolled onto his back, distracting Traci so that she barely heard Peter’s tearful outpouring.

“Traci, I know it’s asking a lot, but there’s no-one else I can ask. My life is a mess, completely fucked up. I can’t go home — I fought with my mother’s boyfriend and she threw me out. Last year. I haven’t seen her since, she’s changed her number, I tried calling. He hates me, tells me to get my act together — for fuck’s sake! Can’t they see that’s what I’m trying to do? I left my job because I wasn’t being honest — I was selling myself out, saying yes when it should have been no, smiling at those smug bastards when I wanted to kill them. And he — he says, I’ve put him in the eyes! That I was given the job as a favour to him, and I’ve fucked everything up for him! Even my mother hates me now, she listens to what he says and I can’t say anything! I can’t go back there — I can’t go anywhere! You have to help me!”

Traci’s tongue dipped into Rob’s navel, and she emitted a low moan which Peter took as a sign to continue.

“I’ve been kicked out here, too, but I’ve found someone I can work with — a therapist — I think I trust him, I’m sure he’s OK. He’s bright enough, which is important. Most of them are so stupid, how can you respect someone you can see straight through? But he’s bright, he’s OK, I’m prepared to give it a go but he wants total commitment. He’s not stupid  ... He knows how tough it’s going to be.

“But I need a place to stay, with someone who knows me, how I really am, someone I can trust  ... Traci, there’s only you! You’re the only one who really knows me, the only person I’ve ever met who’s like me, the only one I can trust. I mean, all these years on, we’re still the same people, we’re outsiders, we need  ... Traci, you’re the only one I can ask! I’m all packed and ready, can I come and stay with you?” Peter’s voice was desperate, pleading, crying loudly in her ear against the immediacy of her body’s demands.

“I’ll have to think about it,” Traci tried stalling, “It’s not just my decision, I don’t live alone — and this place is tiny! Call me later  ...”

“I can’t wait! I must know now! If I can’t stay with you, there are things I have to do  ...” Peter’s voice trailed off and Traci had a bad feeling about what that might entail. She glanced nervously at Rob and planted a quick kiss on his stomach.

“It’s not fair, you can’t just phone me like this and expect an instant answer. There are all sorts of implications. I need to think about it.” Rob’s fingers looped languidly through her copper hair. Traci smiled, and mouthed silently to him that she wouldn’t be long.

Peter’s voice pleaded, “I’ll hardly be around — it’s pretty full-time, and I’ll have homework in the evenings. You’ll hardly know I’m around  ...”

As the love juices leaked slowly down her thigh, Traci remembered the night-long discussions, the donkey-boiler bath, the motorbike rides into the mountains. She heard the angst of Neil Young’s “Helpless helpless, he-elpless”, and tasted the intense innocence of the apple slices. She knew she was Peter’s only hope, that the desperation in his voice was genuine. She swallowed slowly, and looked across at Rob’s waiting body. Traci knew that her words, once uttered, would spawn consequences, no longer within her control.

The whisky tasted bitter in her mouth. Her stolen afternoon faded into the smudgy twilight of late summer, still warm enough to be sitting outside when her son returned. The unsurpassed passion of the afternoon driven from her mind, she turned her attention to her son’s enquiry. “Peter phoned. He’s the guy who painted the picture of the plants, in the lounge. He phoned earlier, wanting to come and stay here, with us. I haven’t seen him since you were a baby, so you won’t remember him. He used to be a friend of mine, we were at university together. He was ... a very dark person, I don’t think there was very much happiness in his life.”

Traci’s son looked at her, puzzled. “Why do you speak of him in the past, as if he’s dead?” he asked. Traci looked up, surprised. She shrugged. “He probably is, by now. I said no.”

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