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On the pavement there was a man lying on his side with his legs drawn
up. Snoring loudly, he lay with his cheek pressed to the paving slab, his
open mouth a slack hole. One arm was tucked under him, elbow jutting behind,
in front his hand palm up. The other arm was bent prayer-like, the hand laid
palm down on the pavement before his face. He was lost in the grateful
oblivion of the dead drunk. Henry stepped round him and crossed Albert Road. Treaty Road was a narrow side street marked by a church school on the
corner. Grimy and dilapidated, the school blended in with the surroundings.
Pausing, he looked up at the wall and contemplated the cross surmounted by
the name of the school. He sought for an apposite phrase. Did the cross
merely symbolise 'Church', or did the locals regard it as signifying
something more complex and abstract like, 'the love of Christ', or, 'the pain
and suffering of mankind?' What of Promise, Justice and Goodness? Did any of
them regard it with bitterness as a symbol of 'superstition and ignorance'? A gust of paper and grit blew across the street and he hurried on.
Although the clouds were few the blustery southwest wind robbed the afternoon
sun of its warmth. He saw no sign of the tree. The road seemed to end at a set of rusty
gates in a wall of crumbling brick that surrounded a half demolished
warehouse. Beyond lay the railway tracks, a factory and the docks. When he
approached the gates he saw that the road turned to the right and followed
the wall. There at the end was a tree. He had seen the white milkwood at Mossel Bay, the Post Office Tree.
Huge, gnarled and ancient, maybe six hundred years old. The Treaty Tree was
not as impressive, though its thick, twisted trunk was evidence enough that
it had been standing there for some three of four hundred years. He admired
the dense foliage, the rich dark green of the shiny, rounded leaves. The tree
was protected on one side by a wall in which was set a brass plaque
proclaiming the monument. Next to the tree had stood a house where the
commander of local Dutch defences had formally handed over the Cape to the
British after the Battle of Blaauwberg in 1806. He tried to imagine how unspoilt the area must have been in 1806. Low
dunes with grass and yellow flowering sea pumpkin, and sails in the bay. Now
look at it. The plot of grass where the house had stood was kept neatly mowed
by the Council and there was a park bench. But the view beyond was grim. The
ugly utilitarian shape of a warehouse made more unsightly seen from the rear,
a derelict site littered with rubble and refuse, the long, crumbling brick
wall. He turned from the tree and was confronted by a coloured woman. He had
not noticed her approach. "Master, gee vir my 'n sigaret. Asseblief, Master." "I don't smoke" Henry replied. She looked about thirty and wore tight black pants and a dirty blue
cotton coat. Her hair was concealed by a woollen cap. She had a shapely
figure but her face looked raddled and puffy. She carried a plastic bag and
he heard the clink of empty bottles. "You don't smoke, Master? I'm a smoker. I'm also a drinker."
She giggled. She was probably drunk: there was an aggressive air about her.
He began to move off. "Give me ten cents, Master. Vir 'n dop" He shook his head. He tried to imagine the kind of life she led. "Do you know about this tree?" She looked blank. "Did
you know that this is the Treaty tree?" She eyed him suspiciously. How remote she is from me, he thought. Of course she knows nothing of
the tree. It was a tree. What did she care? "You want to come with me?" She asked, gesturing towards the
wall. He was a little surprised and began to walk away. Bound to be diseased,
anyway. Then out of curiosity he turned. "How much?" "Five rand." He laughed. She came and stood close to him.
"Net twee rand." She was dark skinned and her face was marked. He
could smell the wine on her breath and see the offensive boldness in her
eyes. "Net twee rand. Kom jy?" She was slightly impatient. Henry made a motion with his hand and she understood. He followed her
to a point where there was a break in the wall. There was nobody in sight.
She led the way to the partly demolished building and they passed through a
doorway into a room that had four walls but only the sky above for a roof. How easy to do the wrong thing again. No clamour of warning in his
head. Merely a vague idea that this was not the right thing. No intuitive
surge of feeling to counteract the rising curiosity, excitement, and sexual
urge. Just a faint, toneless voice disinterestedly making a statement: wrong.
How unpersuasive. His heart was thumping fast and he felt shaky in the legs. She turned
round and put down the bag, the bottles rattling together on the cement
floor. "Kom" she said, smiling to reveal two missing teeth. Henry
unzipped and lowered his trousers and she began. Henry was particularly excited by the darkness of her
hand, the contrast of brown against white. She was expert and unhurried
and he stood leaning against the wall, arching his body back in sacrificial
abandonment. Then he clutched her hand holding it down, hard. Henry gave her the money and hurried away, wondering why he felt so
unashamed of himself. Why did I do it? It was such an easy defeat. I don't' think I put up
any resistance at all. Possibly I didn't even realise I was being attacked.
But then, what was wrong with it anyway? A minor incident in the daily
economic life of the city. A straightforward transaction between two persons,
one providing a service, the other, the consumer, paying the agreed price
upon satisfactory delivery of said service. No coercion, no exploitation. No
exploitation? Well, of course there was exploitation. I exploited the
vulnerability of a 'fallen woman' and paid her to perform yet another
demeaning act, thereby further undermining what was left of her self-respect
and regard for her fellow beings. But what if she had come to Palmerston Road
and knocked on my door and offered to clean the windows for two rand? If I
had then given her the choice, clean the windows or milk the bull for two
rand, I'm sure she would have gone for the bull without hesitation. Ho-hum,
who am I trying to deceive with this specious bluster, this beating about the
bush? There's no necessity for an ethical debate - in my own eyes, according
to my own values, according to my own notion of how human beings should treat
each other, my action was plainly immoral. Instead, what I should be trying
to determine is why I repeatedly succumb to the wrong impulse. Maybe the
initial impulse can be ascribed to my active imagination and openness to
novel or exciting situations. A dilettante's unencumbered disposition at
play. But the conception of possibilities should be accompanied by judgement
and choice. The moment the migratory thought of hiring the woman's services
crossed my mind an alarm bell should have sounded. A neon sign should have
lit up proclaiming a bold warning. Something like ACHTUNG, or WATCH IT, PAL,
or PAS OP VIR DIE GEVAAR. Without a moment's hesitation that clear warning
should then have been heeded. I should have immediately turned my back on the
temptation, discarded the impulse and walked away. For my own physical safety
and peace of mind it should become an unquestioning habit, as automatic as a
conditioned response in a laboratory rat. I see the danger; I don't even
think about it; I just walk away. And to hell with the voices extolling life
as an open-ended adventure and deriding the insipid gentility of virtuous
action. Taken from The Life of Henry Fuckit To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.
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