Better Things
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BETTER THINGS by Jeanette Malherbe Submitted in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of MA Creative Writing in the School of Language and Literature Studies, University of the Witwatersrand. November 2011 1 Contents Page A Red-letter Day 3 Face to Face 9 Good Eating 14 The Hooks in Jazz 19 The Good Life 27 Seamstresses of Malimode 33 Psalmen en Gezangen 41 A Life Shared 48 Heart’s Blood 54 Uma Casa Portuguesa 61 Ukuhlalisa Umsamo 69 Chief of the Monkeys 78 Tea and Coffee 83 The Paid Piper 88 A Good Day for Loki 95 Running the Gauntlet 102 The Immaculate Character 109 Ash 116 Torn Apart 125 Spiritual Supremacy 138 Homesick 148 Gifts of Fortune 154 2 A Red-letter Day A longhair lilac-point Himalayan walks along the paving under the acacia trees, high-stepping over the mud washed down by the sprinklers and avoiding the thorns. Her coat lifts in the breeze, her tail waves behind her. Anna Purrna of Khorasan has been visiting the shrubbery that lines the driveway. For the rest, this place is paved over and bricked up. Houses front the other side of the road, each in a different style but all equally huge, with only a token garden before each one: four standard roses here, a row of squared-off golden privets there. From somewhere above the cat, a loerie’s creaking call sounds; she looks up, locates the bird on a high branch and sits down to consider it. Her long fur has picked up mud, leaves, twigs. When the loerie, unsettled by the flat blue gaze, flaps off, she rolls over on the driveway, rubbing her back against the rough paving. A gardener comes past carrying a rake and spade; he stops to rub her ears and tickle her tummy. She waves her paws about in the air. One of her people is calling. ‘Anna Purrrrna, Purrna, Purrna, Annaji, come, come kits.’ Mahadevan swoops her up, draping her over his shoulder where she settles, looking at things with interest from this new vantage point. He strokes her, talking as he walks. ‘Flirting with the gardener, you little ho? You’ll jump into the wrong arms one day and get stolen. I’d like to know how you got out this morning with the windows all closed. How will we ever clean you up? We’ll have to wash your feet. Mandy will hold you while I scrub. You’ve got to look your gorgeous best today’. Home is a Spanish-mission style double-storey with two formal saguaro cacti on either side of the carved front door. ‘I’ve got her,’ Mahadevan sings out as they enter. ‘Found her in the drive, rolling in the dirt. Just look at her!’ He holds her up for inspection. Mandai comes into the hallway from the kitchen, wiping hands on a dishcloth, and raises theatrical eyebrows at the sight. ‘Haiyai, this is going to be a long job, Deva. Look at her feet - even the nails are caked with mud. Come, bring her into the kitchen, I’ve got the kit there.’ ‘We’ll need a basin of warm water too, and the nail brush. Let’s spread out a big bath towel.’ A white Persian with fur somewhat shorter than Anna’s rubs up against Mandai’s legs. ‘No, not you today girl. You’re staying home to keep Kheis company while Anna goes to the Nationals.’ 3 Anna Purrna is easy to work with. Except for her feet, she enjoys being groomed. They chat as they rub fragrant powder into her fur and brush it out, clean her ears and teeth, do all the hundred and one things needed to prepare her for the judges. ‘I think she’s going to take Best of Breed’. ‘Oh that’s a cinch. It’s Supreme Champion we’re going for: Best Cat in Show! Just look at that perfect breed-standard conformation. OK, we know she’s slightly too heavy for perfection but rather that than too small. Her coat’s in great condition, the lilac points are spectacular.’ ‘But what if she doesn’t like the judges? Remember Bloemfontein? Disqualification under Rule 7: Fractious Cats?’ ‘Nevah! She’s a sweetie-pie. It was that terrible brutal judge who got her back up, poking about in her ears and forcing his fingers into her mouth. Of course he was going to get bitten and scratched.’ ‘Maybe a little something to calm her down just before we get there? A small squirt of diazepam? There’s some left from Kheis’s op.’ ‘Nah, it’ll only make her sluggish. The judges want to see a bright lively animal.’ ‘Just a bit of catnip then?’ ‘She doesn’t need it, sweetheart. She’s a relaxed good-natured queen. Just like me.’ Mandai laughs at his own quip. ‘Not Mozambican, no MBA, but otherwise just like me - a sweet laidback queen. We’re all just going to take it easy today. Nationals or not, it’s just another show, so relax!’ ‘Yeah, you can say that, but you know how nervous I get.’ The competition is being held at the Northgate Dome. Long before they get there, coming in from the east along the highway, they can see it, rising vast and silvery-grey on the green veld. The sheer size of the thing induces awe and a tuning-up of nerves. Deva and Mandai, with Anna Purrna in her handcrafted teak catbox on the back seat (giving tongue in long drawn-out cries because she hates the car), feel the tension mounting. Mandai loves it. ‘Hey, we did a product launch at the Dome when I was still with Shongwane Macarthy. Must have had every CFP in Gauteng there. A banquet for over 900 people, tables stretching so far you couldn’t see the end of them. Food was lousy though.’ The words ‘Dome - Doom - Dome - Doom’ keep pulsing in Mahadevan’s head. There is a gnawing at his gut, so he chatters. ‘I came to a baby competition here once when I was just up from Durbs. Drove my cousin and her baby. I was staying with them. The baby show was in one part and in another there was a boxing ring and seats built up on scaffolding with screens. There was high fencing all round and over the 4 ring, and two guys were fighting in it. It was like with no gloves, no rules man, just kicking and hitting to kill each other. It was only over when one guy stopped moving. I think they called it Martial Mixed Arts. A bit like wrestling only they couldn’t get out of the ring. Blood all over the place and the audience screaming for more.’ ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of cage fighting, never seen any. They have far-out stuff here, like female body-building competitions and horse fairs with racing round the outside. Exhibitions of fake limbs and false teeth, you name it.’ They have arrived a bit late and the only parking they can find is far from the Dome’s entrance. Mandai levers the box up and off the back seat of the BMW on his thighs. They each take a sisal handle and half-walk, half-trot towards the distant entrance. Mahadevan clears his throat. ‘I always take much more weight because you’re such a shortass. This damn box needs wheels.’ ‘Hey, like a little circus wagon - let’s paint it red,’ Mandai gasps. ‘Then we’ll charge people to come see our wild Himalayan tiger.’ ‘We - we’ll teach her tricks. Juggling, somersaults.’ ‘Whoo hoo, can you just see it! A highwire act with all three of them!’ So they arrive, out of breath and laughing. The entrance is noisy: people shouting greetings to friends, trying to chat above the mewing and miaowing, yowling and howling of their cats, as they wait in line to register and get their tickets. Anna Purrna is P33, thirty-third in the Persian ring; she will be judged late. Inside, people are making their way to their particular breed’s area, marked on high boards, and settling their cats down with a favourite titbit or a tickle. Mahadevan and Mandai carry Anna to the PERSIAN sign and find their place on a table at the rear. The Dome looms over them solidly; no windows, no doors, only artificial light. Deva tries to draw a deep, steadying breath, but manages no more than a shallow gasp. There is a man-and-wife team beside them, fussing over a smallish smoke Persian on a white cushion. Deva catches a sidelong glance from the woman, sees her whispering to the man, and knows that he and Mandy have been sussed and condemned. He swallows two or three times, and says casually to Mandy that he needs the loo. ‘It’s always when I get excited, Mandiji.’ Deva has a joint in his pocket. If he can just get by himself, outside, somewhere alone and quiet for ten minutes, he’ll be alright. ‘You take over here. Just stroke her gently a bit - dry your hands.’ ‘My hands aren’t wet man! Go on then. Don’t be long, judging starts in five minutes.’ 5 Mandai watches his partner swaying his way through cats, trestle tables, people until he disappears around the entrance door. Then he pulls a bunch of catnip from his pocket, pushes two leaves through the box’s fretwork lattice. They disappear quickly into the flat mouth below Anna’s moustaches.