Zakes Mda - The Whale Caller

She watches him watching the rescuers, who are trying once more to keep Sharisha cool as the winter sun returns with a repeat performance of yesterday’s heat. They tie a rope to her tail and all pull in unison, attempting to drag her out of the shallow water to freedom. “A boat,” a man suggests. “Its engine will cause a racket but it will save the whale.” People remember how a humpback that had beached itself near Van Staden’s River Mouth in the Eastern Cape was saved that way. In no time the engine of a pilot boat is revving about sixty metres offshore. The rope tied to the whale’s tail is connected to the boat by swimmers. The boat then tries to drag the whale away from the shore into the surf. But this southern right is too heavy. And the rough sea has no intention of cooperating with the pilot boat. The rescuers have to stop the attempt when they realise that the only thing they will achieve is to inflict further injury on the whale. Already they can see blood oozing out where the rope has dug deep into the flesh.

A young southern right is wistfully watching all this activity from what would be the blue depths if the sea was not so black. No one knows where it came from or why it is watching a beached whale. It is just curiosity, a scientist explains. Southern rights are known for their curiosity. But Saluni can see the callosities that the Whale Caller has always been so proud of. The little Three Sisters Hills just like the mother’s. It is Sharisha’s calf.

Politicians arrive: city fathers and mothers; mayors and members of Parliament from rival political parties; hacks and hangers-on. They all want a photo opportunity with the whale. Cameras click away. Television crews interview the politicians instead of the emergency workers and scientists who have spent the night trying to rescue the whale. Politicians make better sound bites and will not mess up the news programmes with facts. The rescuers are irritated by the flurry of activity that contributes nothing to saving the whale. Unfortunately politicians like to think that they were created for some useful purpose on earth. They hog the spotlight and make sure that the newspaper reporters are noting down their views on how the whale can be saved. One even brings a box of tubes of suntan lotion that he suggests should be spread on Sharisha’s back.

“That is the worst thing you can do to a beached whale,” says a scientist.

An onlooker wonders aloud why politicians are such a dumb lot, as if they have all come from the same dysfunctional womb. Another spectator thinks she has the answer: “Any moron can be a politician. You only have to declare yourself one to be one. But to be a scientist you need some measure of intelligence.” This generates guffaws from those who are within earshot. Saluni observes that the Whale Caller does not join in the laughter. He is looking fixedly at Sharisha. And then after some time he turns his eyes to the calf. And then back to Sharisha. Each gets about five minutes of his gaze at a time.

New waves come and break on the rocks near Sharisha and on her body There are cheers all around. There is hope yet for Sharisha. But the water recedes again and she is more naked than ever. There has been no change in her position.

A member of the provincial legislature wants to know how the stranding happened. It is as if he expects somebody to be held responsible and that heads should roll, in the parlance of his trade.

“There are many reasons for stranding,” explains a scientist from the whale museum. “Sometimes whales just become disorientated and end up on the beach. It is likely that this is what happened in this case. Poor navigation because she was disorientated by the storm. Who knows? Loss of orientation can even be due to parasites and diseases and interference by ships.”

Although the Whale Caller betrays no emotion, Saluni is well aware that he can hear all this, and that he must be feeling terribly guilty. Scientists are not as intelligent as the onlooker thought they were after all.

The scientists and emergency workers confer in a huddle. Saluni cannot hear what they are saying. The discussion is very animated. She notes that the politicians don’t seem too pleased to be left out of the conference. They wait expectantly and surge forwards when one of the scientists leaves his group to make an announcement. Even the onlookers are attentive. “We have decided to kill the whale,” he says.

The Whale Caller breaks the silence: “She is still alive, surely she can be saved. You people can’t be that cruel.”

All eyes turn to the muddy vagrant. No one recognises him as the man who used to play a kelp horn for the whales.

“It is an act of kindness and not cruelty,” says the scientist. “The whale is still alive but weak and barely breathing. Its lungs are partially collapsed. We must end its suffering once and for all. We are going to use explosives… probably trigger an internal implosion.”

“What about an injection?” asks a mayor of a neighbouring town. “It would be humane to use an injection.”

The local politicians glare at him angrily as if to say: Go strand your own whale. This one belongs to Hermanus. You can’t partake in our glory.

The scientist patiently explains to him, obviously for the benefit of everyone else, that the whale is too big to be killed by a lethal injection or shooting. Explosives will save the whale from further agony and will ensure a quick death. The politicians from the national legislature are more concerned about South Africa’s image in the international community. “They will accuse us of savagery and barbarism,” says a member of Parliament. “The markets will react negatively. The rand will go down.”

“The rand will go down if we stand here and do nothing,” says the scientist, beginning to lose patience.

“The rand will go down in any case,” says a sceptic. “Someone farts in Bolivia and the rand comes tumbling down.”

This brings about another round of guffaws, which the member of Parliament interprets to be at his expense. He leaves in a huff, his entourage in tow.

Saluni watches as they rig Sharisha with dynamite. The insolent fish was bound to come to a sticky end. At last there will be peace in the world. And in the Wendy house. She can see the Whale Caller’s pain as the emergency workers place more than five hundred kilograms of dynamite in all the strategic places, especially close to Sharisha’s head. He will get over it. When he realises the folly of his infatuation with the fish he is sure to get over it.

The spectators are ordered to move as far back as possible, and to lie flat on the ground. The Whale Caller does not move. He just sits there as if in a daze. Saluni feels like jumping out of her hiding place, grabbing him by the hand and dragging him away to sanity. But she decides against it. He is likely not to take kindly to that. It would probably only make things worse. She retreats with the rest of the onlookers to a much safer distance above the cliffs.

Like a high priest in a ritual sacrifice, a man stands over a contraption that is connected to the whale with a long red cable. With all due solemnity he triggers the explosives. Sharisha goes up in a gigantic ball of smoke and flame. Saluni is not lying down. She is watching the Whale Caller, who has steadfastly remained dangerously close to the explosion down below. He is not lying down either. He is looking intently at the red, yellow and white flames as Sharisha rises in the sky It is like Guy Fawkes fireworks. The glorious death brightens the sky like the pyrotechnics that are used by rock bands in cities like Cape Town and Johannesburg. The sounds are like those of a thousand heavy-metal bands that are particularly heavy on spandex and playing all at once, deafening as one stick of dynamite ignites another in rapid succession. The onlookers cheer and applaud like the carnival crowd they have become. Saluni throws up.