Cruel Crazy Beautiful World Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF TROY BLACKLAWS

  Karoo Boy

  “The most colorful book I have ever read.” —Chris Martin, lead singer of Coldplay

  “Karoo Boy is told in the voice of a spectacularly original young male protagonist who in his own way is as captivating and memorable as Holden Caulfield.” —John Berendt, author of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil

  “A beautifully evocative coming-of-age story.” —Bryce Courtenay, author of The Power of One

  Blood Orange

  “Tantalizingly beautiful.” —Desmond Tutu

  “Troy Blacklaws beautifully lays bare how it took raw guts for a young white boy to resist apartheid.” —Antjie Krog, author of Country of My Skull

  “Blood Orange is an important, vital voice to add to the tapestry of literature coming out of Southern Africa. Such vibrancy is rare in any literature. Coming out of such a legacy of violence and pain, it is nothing less than a miracle.” —Alexandra Fuller, author of Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight

  Cruel Crazy Beautiful World

  “Mesmerizing and evocative. I am in awe.” —Deon Meyer, author of Blood Safari and Trackers

  “Cruel Crazy Beautiful World beautifully chronicles the hazardous fates of the scatterlings that immense historical waves leave on the beach.” —Phillip Noyce, director of Rabbit-Proof Fence and The Quiet American

  “Bold, poetic, terrifying.” —Terry Westby-Nunn, author of The Sea of Wise Insects

  “The words immediately took me into the world of the novel and made me look in a fresh way into the room behind the eyes.” —Witi Ihimaera, author of The Whale Rider

  Cruel Crazy Beautiful World

  A Novel

  Troy Blacklaws

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  for Daniela Bows

  Johnny Clegg for letting me snatch words from his song. Peter Godwin for casting an eye over Zimbabwe storyline. Isobel Dixon, Scott Eddington, Jason Hinojosa, Andrew MacDonald and James Scorer for reading pencil-in-hand. Lisa C. for her deft editing and Megan Southey at Jacana for proofreading. Nigel Gwynne-Evans for being my sherpa on Table Mountain. Anderson Tepper, Chris Crutcher, Cindy Hood, John Johnson, Juliet, Leon Kandelaars, Zakes Mda, Micha, Geoff Roberts, Helena Spring, Joshua Sternlicht, Tim Volem for their faith in my storytelling. Craig Morris and Greig Coetzee for lending my words wings. Hugh Masekela, and Bafo Bafo for magic tunes.

  It’s a cruel crazy beautiful world ...

  – Johnny Clegg & Savuka

  1

  CAPE TOWN. DECEMBER 2004.

  A boy tracks a skinny dun cow along a caged footbridge over the N2 highway out of town. The bridge is wired in to keep crazy cows from jumping and bitter boys from dropping bricks onto motorcars that shark along the tarmac below. For such boys Mandela’s longed-for freedom is a joke.

  A haze of smoke and summer dust hangs low over Crossroads shantytown.

  Behind us the sun hovers over Table Mountain.

  On the roadside a tow truck, like a morbid mantis, dreams up its next victim.

  And on the radio Miles Davis blows high, cicada notes.

  See my old man with a lazy palm on the wheel of his mystic-green ’74 Benz and his other hand combing his ducktail. Zero Cupido: in his faring Hawaiian shirt and snakeskin boots, he looks the part of a dodgy Cuban dealer in an American film. In fact he’s half Cape Malay, half Cuban. With just a jot of Hottentot blood. In theory he’s Muslim. In reality he loves his whisky and pig and hasn’t gone to mosque for a long time. He has no intent to go on Hajj, yet he enjoys orientating his life to Mecca. He draws an arrow in the sand with his foot whenever he’s on a beach. He has pencilled an arrow under the roof of the veranda. Ghosting through Cape Town, he’ll cast his eyes starwards to find south and then figure out the angle to Mecca. That imaginary notch in his mind keeps the world from spinning too randomly, he tells me.

  Now, out of the blue, Zero’s put his snakeskinned foot down. Jero, the freeloading’s over, he said to me. He’ll no longer fork out good money (?!) on a son who is a drifter and a dreamer: forever lolling on the harbour wall, forever sipping cocktails with flaky gay artists, forever writing sappy po-ems. He spat out the word poems as he might a litchi stone. He has no time for fucking daffodils dancing in the breeze. It’s unclear whether he is recycling the one line of poetry he recalls from his school days, or is calling all poets and other artists daffodils.

  My old man sees himself as a realist. He endlessly waxes his Benz, fills his hands with a whore’s tits, slices kudu biltong against his thumb, douses his fish and chips in vinegar, turns sizzling chops with his bare fingers and licks them off. He has zero finesse at the bone. His idea of fine-tuning is running a kind of spit cloth through the barrel of his Colt 45, or measuring and adjusting the gap in his spark plug. He wants the spark to jump far ... so it burns clean.

  I silently scorn his world of dabbling and dealing, of whistling at schoolgirls in skimpy skirts and shooting pool in murky bars, of totting up takings on a Lion matchbox and smoking fat Havana cigars.

  It’s a mystery to Zero how I’m so tuned into the ephemeral, into things neither here nor there. I’m fazed by the sound of old men sucking air through gaps in their teeth. I sniff the wispy smoke from under a just-unlidded beer bottle as if it is perfume. I love Parma ham shaved in opaque slivers. I linger in a cinema long after a film ends to ride out the vibe as long as I can. I enjoy arthouse films with their zen endings that hang in midair. I gaze into a lava lamp until I see flamingos and phantoms. I listen to indie folk and whimsical garage instead of hard rock. All this renders me a moffie in his eyes. A free-verse fairy with a footloose soul.

  He has a point. I still have zip on paper after two years of reading for my thesis on García Márquez at the University of Cape Town. I got lost in the dusty labyrinth of his Latin American mind. All the thoughts I placed on paper somehow became poems ... and a play. Lost? This is beyond imagining for Zero. He never goes beyond the Cape Flats without a map in hand. He loves to unfold a road map and follow the N2 all the way to Durban with a finger. Then to laugh at my fumbling bid to origami the map along the original folds again. Ironic, for a man of such hazy ethics to be so focused on compass points in a land where booming shantytowns render maps old overnight.

  I curse him for exiling me to survive all alone out in Hermanus: boondock harbour town south-east of Cape Town. Hermaanus. I hope you’ve never heard of it.

  We go by a fire raging on a highw
ay island. A wizardy old man shakes a fly whisk at the flames.

  My amigos pity me. At dusk today they’ll all head down to the Cape Town harbour for sundowners. They’ll jabber their dreams of recording music and put forward their beer-foam theories on why Mandela’s rainbow dream fell out of focus in this land of antithesis. And where will I be? In Hermanus, other side of Hangklip, far from the jazzy verve of Cape Town.

  – My father and my father’s father were fishermen in Kalk Bay, Zero intones. Jero, my boy, you come from a long line of fishermen.

  He swivels his focus away from the Benz icon to glare unblinking eyes at me, to spook me out.

  This is, I think, his bid to prove the futility and absurdity of my reading García Márquez.

  – But Dad, this sea’s been fished dry and the fishermen are dying out. Besides, my other grandfather taught philosophy.

  He taught in Vienna until 1937. Then he sailed for Cape Town. He was one of the few lucky Jews. Lucky to have eluded the Nazis then. Lucky too to have keeled over before his daughter fell for a Muslim.

  Zero flicks my words out the wound-down window with his ducktailing hand.

  – And he had to sell newspapers to put a roof over his head when he came out to Cape Town. Philosophy won’t put fish and a beer in your hands. I tell you flat, my boy, if you want to survive ... you have to have something to trade.

  That’s Zero’s Survival Tip #1.

  He’ll hand you his hard-earned wisdom free of charge. One hand palm up (as if balancing the circle of the wheel) and the other with fingers down (tapping on his drum-taut gut), he may just remind you of Buddha calling on the earth to witness his moment of illumination.

  I look away out my window and see four nude youths on the rim of the road: painted from head to foot in white clay, they perch on the roof of a gutted motorcar. I catch the thudding of a boom-box bass and see their eyes pan after us.

  They linger in my mind long after they fade in the rearview. The white clay renders them invisible to the spirits who want to waylay them during this hazardous limbo time when they’re no longer cow-herding, lizard-catching boys and not yet men.

  In the past, when they verged on manhood, Xhosa boys would be sent out of their mother’s hut far into the untamed bundu to learn to survive by hunting and foraging. You’d never see them during the in-between time. Now there’s hardly any bundu left and the only wild animals are tourist-hustling baboons, feral dogs and cocky rats. Each day another row of shanty huts is conjured out of the dust of dying, dwindling bundu. And each day folk stray further and further out to seek firewood.

  Zero takes the exit for the Strand. Bullet holes scar the sign. This is a surreal Nevada rather than the Nirvana foretold.

  Apartheid depended on static, unequivocal signposts. Nowadays signs shift all the time. Words on them fade, or hang skew after kamikaze taxivans wipe out a post. They become shanty roofs or, flipped, advertise a barbershop or a shebeen or second-hand coffins. Even roadside milestones get pinched to hold down canvas tents in the southeaster banshee-wind. Names of the dead vanish from graveyards, the brass letters traded for drug money. The time when words stood still on poles is long gone. Words just won’t stay put.

  – But you don’t catch fish, Dad, I dare shoot back at Zero after the long lull.

  This too is scripted. I find holes in his logic and he just shifts the focus.

  – I trade in other things.

  – And one day they’ll put you in jail.

  Zero laughs. He levels his eyes at me again and taps his forehead.

  – I’m too savvy for them, my boy.

  Then he winks slyly.

  – I leave no spoor. No proof.

  He blows air through fluttering lips. His shot at drama falls flat. You’d think he’d ditch the theatrics with me. I’m not duped by his act. His mates, on the other hand, hang on his quips and tips as if he’s a god.

  His mates being his sidekicks: Canada Dry and Dove Bait. Men who’d die for him, he loves to tell me. There’s always a sulky hint that I would not.

  He’d found a job in the dry docks for Canada Dry, that jackass of a dope-dealer, when he came out of jail.

  For Dove Bait, cocky Casanova of the Cape Flats, he’d found a doctor to hook out a girlfriend’s unloved foetus with a bent bicycle spoke.

  And then there’s another mate of his he’d hid in our attic for two years after he ran his foe Black Mamba down dead in the taxi wars. In his case it’s harder to tell how he reads Zero. He’s flinty and taciturn. He survived in the attic on tinned sardines and books I took out of the university library for him. He got hooked on Freud. When he ventured out again, he shaved his head bald to elude Black Mamba’s boys, had Phoenix tattooed on his forehead and juggled tingalinging Chinese Baoding balls in one palm. The old, upbeat taximan they called Bahaya was dead. Instead we had an iguana-eyed backyard guru in a faded pink Lacoste shirt who could dart a sparrow out of our lemon tree with his blowpipe.

  Canada Dry, forever spaced out on grass, would jibe that the blowpipe was a ganja bong from the Congo and that it was as long as Dove Bait’s dong. Phoenix alone never cracks jokes, is never bawdy. He hears all their tall macho tales with a wry smile in a corner of his lips. Sometimes he gives me a conniving wink. He’s even-keeled and zen as a spirit level. And yet I imagine he too would die for Zero.

  – No proof, echoes Zero.

  – So you’d rather I become a crook than a poet?

  – You piss on the hand that feeds you, Jerusalem.

  Zero spits gob at the wind. His calling me by my full name is a sign he’s riled.

  – Besides, in other countries you can freely trade the things I sell. The law’s fickle. Yesterday’s jailbirds are today’s heroes in this crazy land. What’s black market now you’ll find in the 7-Eleven tomorrow.

  He puts his foot on the gas to go past a smoking, tilting taxivan. A Zola Budd. As we go by we hear the squawk of chickens in a cage on the taxi roof.

  Zero wags his trigger finger at me.

  – Just remember this. This crook money put you through university. And you still beg for pocket money whenever you go out.

  I just keep my eyes on the road ahead.

  At the Strand a black dog lopes along the sand. A longboarder rides the foam.

  I remember Miriam, my mother, scolding my father for going too far out to sea with me. He’d bait and cajole till the sand fell away and I doggy-paddled. He thought I was scared of the deep. I never told him I was scared of sharks, for he would have called me a moffie. My mother was not as far gone then. She’d stay huddled in the Benz and doodle on the margins of the newspaper till they became a mosaic of mermaids and turtles and nude girls. Or she’d sit on a sarong on the sand and peel a mandarin and flip the peels into my father’s snakeskin boots.

  She still taught girls how to paint on silk, then. And she still coloured her lips.

  – One day I’ll find a way of surviving by the pen.

  – Survive, hey? By writing po-ems? Tell me then, what does a po-em fetch in the market?

  This from the man who once told me magical stories out of his head. How did he end up so money-minded and arid?

  A Chevy Silverado pickup rides hard on our tail.

  – How much will folk fork out for a fresh metaphor, hey? And will you mark down one that’s fingered? Or does it flower, like an opal or a pussy, if you handle it?

  Just so, my old man, unwittingly, uses poetry to put down poetry.

  The Silverado flashes his headlights at us to shift left so he can zoom by.

  Zero, glancing in the rearview, stays in his groove.

  The Silverado hoots.

  Zero flicks him a finger. No Silverado cowboy is going to hustle him off the road.

  The Silverado hoots again.

  Zero just laughs.

  Opals. Another sideline of his. Along with uncut diamonds.

  As for the other thing, an image of my sallow mother floats into my mind. Zero never goes out with her. There w
as a time when he had had to hide his white-skinned girl behind a veil. And the taboo had spiced their romance. She’d wear a slit-eyed burka to the beach and a Malay head cloth to the drive-in. The law forbade them to marry, so they went to Amsterdam. After Mandela came out of jail, they came home to Cape Town with my sister and me as mementos of their exile. And in Mandela’s rainbow land they no longer had to dodge and dive ... but by then their love had run dry. And folk no longer saw flicks at the drive-in.

  While Zero cruises all over the Cape, my mother haunts the front yard, mumbling to her gnomes arcane words I am hard put to decipher. If she’s not communing with her gnomes she’s drifting in a dream.

  Just ahead of us a surfboard flies off the roof rack of a jeep. It flick-flacks on the tarmac.

  Zero swings hard to dodge it.

  2

  LIMPOPO RIVER.

  Just as a rogue surfboard scratches paint off a Silverado far to the south, Jabulani Freedom Moyo surfaces from the muddy Limpopo that runs from Botswana to Mozambique and forms the border between Zimbabwe and South Africa.

  As he runs along a bald footway under a power line, he reflects on how he became a fugitive.

  Not that long ago he was still an English teacher at a high school in Bulawayo, in the Ndebele southlands. In the afternoons he coached cross-country, javelin, long jump and football. Though he cursed all the marking of papers, he loved the upbeat dialogue with his students.

  One day, over tea in the staffroom, he’d remarked to his colleagues that Mugabe looked like a joker in his vivid, Java-print shirts – West African style. They had laughed. They felt no love for that Shona man who had commandeered their country. But one rat had felt it his duty to report him to the headmaster.

  The headmaster (a Shona posted to Bulawayo by Mugabe) had made Jabulani stand up in front of all the schoolchildren in the school hall when he read out the crime (mocking Mugabe) and the verdict from Harare: Mister Moyo was fired. The headmaster had reminded his school that Mugabe was taught by Jesuits and had studied overseas and was therefore no joker. He’d said Mister Moyo was lucky not to be jailed.