Johnny Golightly Comes Home
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Johnny Golightly Comes Home Patrick Mark Hopkins A creative work and reflexive essay submitted to the Faculty of Humanities, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts by Research Johannesburg 2007 The young man frantically packing in his first-floor room at the Transvaal Hotel in Volksrust’s main road certainly does not hear the screech of the goods train as it slows for the nearby Charlestown siding. This despite the fact that he opened the window a few minutes ago to allow fresh air to penetrate the stifling fug built up by the ancient air conditioner and three-bar heater in the corner. The chill blast from the snowstorm that had gusted and howled since mid-afternoon helps him focus, slightly, as it pierces the blizzard of alcohol, cocaine and terror swirling in his mind. He is short, probably five seven or eight, slight, and somewhere between handsome and pretty. His skin is like cream, well cared for with expensive moisturisers, and he has the grey-green eyes of a cat, now darting to see if he has forgotten anything. His jaw is angular, not strong, his mouth soft, his blond, diminishing hair, cut short except for a wisp at the front that is gelled into a spike. His voice, which keeps exclaiming, ‘Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!’ is effeminate, as are his small hands, which he keeps clapping fretfully to his head. He is wearing combat boots, skin-tight camouflage pants and a leather bomber jacket beneath which is a red T-shirt bearing a yellow hammer and sickle. The complete effect is as intended, macho camp. It is entirely at odds with his surroundings. The red-brick Transvaal Hotel is as featureless as similar establishments that blight most small towns. He had groaned when pulling up earlier in the evening, but there was nothing he could do. His car had skidded about ten kilometres from the town, and Laing’s Nek Pass on the other side of Charlestown, which he still had to negotiate, would be far more treacherous, maybe closed, with snow already settling on trees and banking on the verges. And he sighed audibly when he saw his room. Threadbare mustard curtains that hung just past the sill; a green chair with a cushion covered in the same fabric as the drapes; a chipped, slatted wooden table on which he had put his suitcase; and a pair of creaky, uncomfortable beds covered with bright orange throws. 2 And between the beds a once-white shag rug from the same era as the two kitschy pictures on the hospital green walls – one of a tearful, bug-eyed child peering up to the heavens, and the other of a weathered fisherman tending his nets. When he entered the hotel he had noticed a larger print behind the reception desk. This one depicted a Great Trek scene, with men battling to get an ox- wagon up a rocky hillside while their bonneted womenfolk looked on. Here, now, a group of eight men and a woman carrying a baby is extracting the master key from the harassed night clerk. It appears that the leaders of this lynch mob, rage frozen on their faces, is a trio of swarthy men with long, unkempt black beards. One of these is made to look even more ferocious by an aquiline nose kinked by an old break. With them is a sandy clean-cut young man, the husband of the woman with child, and four scraggly giants with wide shoulders and enormous bellies. Once the key is obtained they make their way to the staircase, where the man with the crooked nose turns to signal silence by placing his index-finger to his lips. But halfway up the baby cries. The man in the room is ready to flee when he hears the bawl, and in a moment of clarity jambs the chair against the door. But he is soon to discover that this is only effective in the movies, because shortly thereafter the sandy boy has the key in the lock and the door effortlessly open. ‘Fucking fairy,’ he screams in Afrikaans as he bursts into the room with his companions. The victim backs away, trembling uncontrollably, his eyes wide, seeing nothing but a blur. One of the black beards comes at him, arms flailing, but he manages to jump out the way. By now his mouth is so dry his tongue sticks to his palate. As he circles away one of the fat men grabs him in a bear hug, presenting him to crooked nose who unleashes four quick jabs to the face. The man is then flung to the ground where he begins shouting for help from a mouth gushing blood. A 3 boot crashes into his stomach, another into his back, forcing the wind from him in a great whoosh. As he gasps for air he gets a kick in the face and another on the thigh, propelling him against the wall beneath the sill. Realising he could be killed, he summons every reserve of will and strength to get quickly to his feet, open the curtain and leap from the window. As with the assault, which seemed to take place over an interminable time rather than an awful flash, he now appears to hang for an eternity before crashing awkwardly onto the pavement. Before the pain can rise from his smashed ankles, coursing through his body with power enough to loosen his bowels, he tries to stand, only for his feet to crumple, and he sags down and rolls onto his back. He will not remember much of what happens after that. Snowflakes, but no recollection of the biting cold. Car doors open, close, engines start, tyres squeal, then a long pause, which in reality is less than a minute. And then something extraordinary – a vision. He is convinced he is not hallucinating, that he is fully conscious, more lucid than ever. The train whistles as it comes into Volksrust, and at that moment the clouds are parted by a celestial light so blinding he has to turn his head. From it emerges an angel who gathers him up and carries him to a carriage on the train. All the while he feels a weightlessness, like a flake on a breeze that blows him inside to where he is brought before an Andy Warhol God, who places a hand on him and says, ‘You will be healed, Messiah, now go forth and fulfil your destiny.’ 4 Part 1 Epiphany 5 Chapter 1 On returning from the Last Supper I sat to write a story of two books. The first was Eccentric South Africa; published six years ago in 2001. The other was this work. While I have authored many others, these were central to my being as they dealt with my obsession with extraordinary people. I am often asked what defines these exceptional characters. I start by telling of my stay at a guesthouse in Ladismith in the Klein Karoo when there was a sudden commotion among staff bringing in the laundry. They had spotted a Cape cobra entrancing the owner’s seventeen-year-old toothless Maltese poodle. A gallant neighbour, an attorney and nudist who had been mowing his lawn dressed only in a sun hat and running shoes, bravely hurdled the fence and dispatched the snake with a blast from his shotgun. To much hooting and applause he placed the cobra in a packet, dumped it in a bin and joined the guests on the wide verandah where he unblushingly hung around for the rest of the afternoon drinking wine. Most would consider the lawyer to be eccentric, but for me he was merely quirky. What I am speaking of is far removed from this; like the radical environmentalist who slept in trees so he would not disturb the natural movements of nocturnal creatures. During my time with him I witnessed him calling birds, which came from all directions to perch on his outstretched arms, and he once wrapped a freezing puff adder in cloth and placed it in the sun to revive. But while I can tell the difference between the offbeat and the aberrant, I cannot define an eccentric because their unpredictability makes them indefinable. There is, however, a discernable pattern in all their lives, which I discovered while doing a story on the calling to become a traditional healer. Like the shaman, the true eccentric at some point experiences a devastating physical or psychological trauma, during which they have an epiphany. This is followed by a period of denial, throughout which pressure builds to the point where the person becomes 6 ill. At this stage they have another vision; one so powerful that most are convinced it is the word of God, while the remainder believe it is the stirring of the god within. Regardless, all are certain that if they do not act upon it they will die; making it their messianic purpose. Then I met a man who sowed such confusion amongst these ideas that it nearly killed me. But I run ahead. ***** It was October 1964. I was twelve years old. I arranged myself comfortably on top of my great-great-grandmother, Lady Julia Orenmore (1830-1922). Perched on a sphinx-like outcrop above the Mtoti River, all the graves looked onto the Drakensberg. But from her elevated spot the view was most dramatic, stretching along the spine of the dragon from Injasuti in the south to the Sentinel in the north.