By 6.30 he sits down at the kitchen table while his wife makes the bolognaise. Usually they have a nice little chat. He compliments her, he would come up from behind and hug her. He tries his best. They don’t have much time on other days and nights. Eddy’s bar work saps his energy.
What’s up? You look stressed.
I can’t talk now, she says.
One of the children has waddled in. Eddy puts his beer down (even his glass is chilled on Tuesday nights) and re-buttons the child’s pyjama top.
When then?
You’re the man to say. You know what you’re like. And you know what Eddy, it actually stresses me when you’re like this. She tries to lift the heavy saucepan to turn the flame down.
Give it to me. He’s up in a flash. He’s got hard, wiry muscles. He seems to have an abundance of energy on these nights.
Eddy Prinsloo runs the local bar six days and six nights of the week. He opens at 11 am and closes around ten, it all depends. He keeps the glass shelves spotless, the upside down bottles with tot measures for whisky or brandy or gin shine, the antique White Horse whisky mirror behind the shelves is buffed, even the kudu and gemsbok horns mounted on the wall are dusted and polished with transparent Cobra wax. Most important of all is that the till never bounces.
Seekoegat Great Karoo
Every month he introduces a new cocktail. It used to be every week but that’s too hard. He gets his ideas from the back of the Kahlua bottle or from the back of the Amarula bottle or from overseas magazines left behind by flashy hotel guests. His latest cocktail is dry champagne, strawberries, crushed ice, a dash of lemon and the glass, sparkling, is pre-rinsed with exactly three drops of Angostura Bitters. His employer, mr Jannie van Niekerk, has tried it and smacked his lips. So far no hotel guest has ordered the new cocktail yet. And the regulars from the town (very small) are wary of anything that’s slightly out of the ordinary.
Eddy keeps on trying, genuine. He can’t say he hates his job. He simply can’t. What bothers him most is the wide world out there and him trapped behind a stupid bar with a stupid floral shirt and a permanent grin on his mug.
Mr Jannie Van Niekerk adores Eddy. He would stay away for up to a week to see to the running of his tavern in Observatory, Cape Town. During his absence he hands some of the reins of the hotel as he likes to call it, to Eddy.
Eddy this and Eddy that, his wife says. That gold chain around his neck and the aftershave, Yardley or whatever. And the rings on the fingers and always so chummy. There’s something fishy about you and that mr Van Niekerk of yours.
What’s wrong with your head? I’ve worked in that bar for fifteen years. Look at all the things in this house, your food mixer, the flat screen, where would we have been without mr Van Niekerk?
She stirs the spaghetti so that it doesn’t stick. She doesn’t even glance at him. He knows she knows her worry and whatever’s spawned it will have to stay until they’re in bed. She’ll make no more attempts to tell him what’s the matter. Every now and again she wipes loose hair, oily, from her forehead. From this he can tell that she’s bothered.
It’s supper time now. Everybody sits down at the table, the children are restless and irritable. As soon as his plate’s clean he goes straight to the TV. From 8 pm onwards, 8.15 is the absolute cut-off point, he’s out of bounds to his family. From then on he listens to BBC world radio which he picks up via the television set. First he listens to BBC world news then to the night’s discussion of a topic, followed by phone-ins from all over the world. Literally the whole world: Addis Abeba, Athens, London of course, Nairobi, Santiago which is the capital of Chile. All the different voices trying to speak English as best they can, all delivering their opinions vigorously, feverishly sometimes.
House in a Karoo town at night
Eddy’s got the BBC’s number on his cell phone. It’s 00447786206080, a hell of a number. By Tuesday’s he’s topped up his credit with the cheaper Vodago top-up cards avalaible from Pep Stores. He’s ready to go. From tuning-in many times before he knows how quick you have to compose and send your SMS message or else your take on the topic is not heard and gets lost in the stratosphere. Forever.
Chocolates wrapped in shiny papers on the coffee table to his left and a fresh beer, he’s onto his fourth, on the coaster. On the arm rest immediately under the fingers of his right hand, the remote control. The quality of the phone-ins differs and he’s ready to adjust the volume at any time. It gives him the shivers to know that he, a barman, a nothing really, can chip in on an important topic all the way from Western Cape, South Africa.
Tonight’s topic is whether you think your country’s leader should stay away from the opening of the Beijing Olympics in protest against the oppression in Tibet. Eddy’s already made up his mind. He feels strongly that mr Thabo Mbeki, a weakling compared to Mandela, should stay at home. No two ways about that. His smart Boeing should remain in its hanger until further notice by the people of South Africa. Solidarity with the oppressed - isn’t that what African leaders should feel in their marrow.
Shouting and carrying-on. Eddy looks over his shoulder into the dimly-lit corridor – they only use low watt long-life globes - at arms in pyjamas that flail, one of the children is kicking about on the floor. He holds back, he tries not to be annoyed. It’s unusual for them to misbehave like this. They obviously sense their mother’s stress. He knows his family inside out. What’s the matter with her? He should have made time to hear her out.
A British caller, a woman, is given a turn. She speaks clearly and calmly. These callers often have most clout. Eddy admires Ross Atkins, the BBC’s man who handles the programme. He admires his quick rebuffs, his gentle but firm way of cutting off dumb callers. There is a Turkish Delight centre in the chocolate he’s selected next. He rewraps it neatly and swops it for another shape.
The British caller is so well-spoken and so fluent. It’s quite disgusting how everybody picks on China suddenly, she says. Look at our, she means the British Empire’s, record in India and in Africa. For heaven’s sake, she says.
His wife has no intention of controlling the children tonight, that’s become obvious. She is trying to get him back. The bolognaise too wasn’t up to scratch. He can taste food made without love.
For fuck’s sake (it’s too hard, his family is making it impossible for him), can you lot just give me one night. Just one. I’m never here. Fuck! (He says ‘fak’).
Lots of Chinese callers from all over the world are given a chance. The BBC’s man is good to them. Whether they’re from Toronto or from Düsseldorf in Germany, no matter where their lives have taken them, they’re all still pro-China.
Shop in Karoo town
Tibet. Poor, freedom-loving, non-violent Tibet. And the Dalai Lama, what a man. He’s not unfamiliar with the Dalai Lama’s thoughts from chats at the bar. It’s the Tibetans’ Mandela. He remembers a line by the Dalai Lama. It goes like this: in one type of compassion there is not only a sense of empathy toward the object of compassion, but also a sense of responsibility in that you want to relieve that suffering yourself. That’s a more powerful compassion than empathy. These are true words.
Eddy’s all fired-up now. His knee is bouncing up and down, he’s gulped the last of the beer in one go. Create message. His thumb is sweaty. Text message - this is what he wants to say, this is what he wants the world to know.
For fuck’s sake Shané, can’t you keep the children quiet. A few minutes is all I ask
He’s almost in tears, prickly as hell. The fucking arrogance of the Chinese. Text message. All caps, no, it should be caps and lowers. His thumb slips as if it’s too big for the buttons. OK. Calm now. He knows exactly what to write. Come on Eddy, if you don’t get it out now it’s going to be too late. Start with a cap: World leaders should not go.
No, that’s too long. It’s going to cost. Leaders shouldn’t go. China’s wrong-doing. No, that’s not the word. What’s the word again?
Those children are going to drive him mad. What’s the word? He knows the word. It’s 9 pm already, he’s message will be too far back in the queue to be broadcasted. Fuckit.
Shané! Now the bloody dog’s joined the kerfuffle.
Atrocities. He’s got the word. Delete wrong-doings. Write: China’s atrocities are inconveniently overlooked. If the country in question was South Africa pre-’94, there’d be no question. No, delete. If the country in question was South Africa before ’94, there will be no argument. Mbeki should stay. Eddy Prinsloo South Africa. He’s got it, he’s said it.
Eddy! Come and help me with your son. Do you think this child belongs to me only?
Fuckit.
Shané comes from behind so quickly that he can’t stop her even if he had wanted to. She whacks him across the head with a towel still wet from the children’s bath. He holds his head, his thumb searching for the SEND button.
This is my only night, my only chance of getting out of this miserable shithole of a town with its petty little people. I can be part of the world, fuck! Just one night, an hour, not even. And you won’t give it to me.You just don’t understand, do you Shané. You just don’t.
Well why don’t you get out there and become part of whatever? Why don’t you just get out?
This is Ross Atkins from the BBC. Thanks very much to all our callers, the three people here with me in the studio, everybody who took time to send text messages. If you want to log onto our site …
You don’t know, you don’t want to know. He gets up and sends the bowl of sweets and sweet wrappers flying. He sees Shané’s face in front of him, he can read it: loathing.
He walks out into the night, the chill of autumn against his bare arms. He closes the gate behind him and walks onto the dirt road in front of their house. He can cry, he can scream about his lost message. He looks up. The stars and milky way are all bright and distinct. There is no sound.
He is a barman. That’s all. There’s nothing else out there for him. In a while he’ll turn in, crawl into bed next to Shané, beer on his breath. He’ll force himself to ask for forgiveness. That’s it.
© Eben Venter in Diversity is Power. An anthology of Surinam and South African writing. Ed. EKM Dido. Writers in Exchange: 2008
