Брайс Куртенэ - The Power of One

‘It’s just a name I gave myself. Now it’s my real name,’ I said.

‘Ja, I know man, it’s the same with me. They call me Klipkop because I box and can take any amount of head punches. Now I sometimes find it hard to remember my born name.’

For a moment I was stunned. ‘You box?’ I asked.

‘Ag ja, man. In this place if you want to get on you have to box, but I like it anyway. On the weekend we travel all over the place to fight, it’s much better than rugby, man.’ He took three mugs down from a cupboard above the small sink. ‘Lieutenant Smit is the boxing coach, he used to be a heavyweight.’ He paused as he spooned a heaped tablespoon full of tea from a much used tea caddy into the pot. ‘But all the easy stuff is over now, man. Next month I have my first professional fight. There’s good money in the fight game. I’ve got a nooi in Sabie and we’re thinking of getting married.’ He poured the water from the electric jug into the tin teapot and then stirred it with the tablespoon before placing the lid on the pot. ‘Do you box, Peekay?’ He asked the question to be polite and did not expect my reaction.

My heart was pounding as I spoke. ‘No, but can you teach me please, Meneer Oudendaal?’

He looked at me in surprise and must have seen the pleading in my eyes. ‘First your jaw has got to get better, but I think you’re a bit young anyway. Lieutenant Smit teaches also the warders’ kids but I think the youngest in the junior squad is already ten years.’

‘I can be ten. I’m ten in class already. I could be ten in boxing easily and my jaw will be better in eight weeks,’ I begged.

‘Hey, whoa! Not so fast! Ten is ten. On the form we wrote you were seven years old only.’

‘If you fight first with the head and then with the heart, you can be ten years old,’ I said.

‘Magtig, you’re a hard one to understand, Peekay. You’ll have to ask Lieutenant Smit, he’s the boss. But if you ask me, I don’t think you’ve got a snowball’s hope in hell.’

‘Will you at least ask him for me?’ I rasped. The excitement made me over-project so that my throat was strained.

‘I’ll ask him, man, but I already told you what he’ll say.’ He picked up the pot and poured tea into the three enamel mugs, added milk, three teaspoons of sugar and stirred them all. He went to the cupboard and took out a tin and prised it open. ‘That blêrrie Kaffir! We had nearly a quarter of a packet of Marie biscuits in here, now they all gone. It’s time that black bastard went back into a work gang. Take your cup and bring the milk, Peekay. If you come again, next time we’ll have biscuits.’

‘Please, Meneer Oudendaal, you won’t forget to ask the lieutenant? You see, I’ve got to start boxing because I have to become the welterweight champion of the world.’

I said it without thinking. It was more a thought expressed aloud than a statement. Klipkop whistled. ‘Well you’re right, man, with an ambition like that you’ve got to get started early.’ He paused, two steaming cups in one hand, the teapot with the sugar bowl balanced where the teapot lid would normally have been in the other. ‘Me, I’ll be happy if I can beat the lieutenant’s brother in Nelspruit next month.’ He turned and looked over his shoulder at me. ‘You can call me Klipkop if you like, I won’t mind, man.’

I followed him back into the office where Lieutenant Smit was working on some papers. Klipkop put a mug of tea down in front of him. ‘Peekay wants to ask you something, lieutenant,’ he said and turned to me. ‘Ask him, man.’

Lieutenant Smit hadn’t looked up from his papers but he gave a short grunt. ‘Please, sir, will you teach me how to box?’ I asked, my voice down to a tiny squeak.

He still didn’t look at me but instead lifted the tea to his lips, and first blowing the steam from the surface took a sip from the mug. ‘You are too young, Peekay. In three years come back, then we will see.’ He was taller than me even when he was sitting down and now he looked down at me. ‘We read about you in the paper. You have lots of guts, that’s a good start, but you are not even big for seven like a Boer kid.’ He ruffled my hair. ‘Soon you will be ten, just you watch.’

At that moment an African came into the room. He was quite old and looked very thin, wearing the coarse knee-length grey canvas pants and shirt of a prisoner. In his hand he held the teapot lid. ‘I have come to make tea, baas, but the pot she is not here,’ he said slowly in Afrikaans. He stood with his head bowed. In two bounds Klipkop had reached him, and grabbing him by the front of his canvas shirt he lifted the African off his feet and gave him a tremendous swipe across the face. The blow landed with a loud, flat sound and the black man’s face seemed to squash in slow motion as Klipkop’s huge hand landed on the side of his nose and mouth. Klipkop released his grip and the man fell at his feet, whimpering.

‘You black bastard! You stole the Marie biscuits. Not just one, you piece of dog shit, you stole them all!’ He gave him a kick in the rump.

‘No, baas! Please, baas! I not stole biscuit. I good boy, baas,’ the old man pleaded and still holding the teapot lid he locked his free arm around Klipkop’s ankles.

The warder turned to Lieutenant Smit. ‘Please, Lieutenant, can’t we transfer this black bastard to the stone quarry? First he steals sugar, now the Marie biscuits.’ He looked down at the whimpering African at his feet. Blood from the prisoner’s nose had dripped onto the shiny toe of his boot. Klipkop kicked him loose, sending the black man flying against the wall where he hit the back of his head with a thud, the teapot lid clattering to the floor at his side. ‘He’s bleeding on me, the filthy black shit house is bleeding all over my boots!’ He thrust one foot towards the dazed African slumped against the wall. ‘Lick it off, Kaffir, make quick!’ The stunned man bent over the proffered boot and licked the blood from the toe cap, then, without being told, did the same with the other boot, at the same time holding his hand up to his nose to prevent further blood spilling on the warder’s boots. ‘Now wipe your filthy black spit off my boots, you black bastard, I don’t want foot and mouth disease!’ Lieutenant Smit, who hadn’t even looked up, grinned at the joke. The African removed his canvas shirt, and trying to sniff back the blood commenced to wipe Klipkop’s boots with it. ‘On the floor also,’ the warder said, pointing to several scarlet drops of blood on the floor. The black man wiped the drops of blood from the green linoleum floor. ‘Now get up and clear out, you bastard!’ The African scrambled to his feet and Klipkop gave him a flying kick which sent him sprawling again. Crawling on all fours, his shirt clutched in one hand, the black prisoner fled from the room.

Klipkop examined his hand. ‘They got heads made of blêrrie cannon balls.’ He grinned. ‘I’m learning, man, notice I didn’t hit him this time with my fist.’ He turned to me. ‘Always remember, when you hit a Kaffir stay away from his head. You can break your fist on their heads, just like that. Hit him in the face, that’s orright, but never on the head, man.’ He made a fist and rubbed it into the palm of his hand. ‘I got a big fight coming up, I can’t afford a broken fist from a stinking Kaffir’s head.’

Lieutenant Smit hadn’t said a word. He took another sip from his tea. ‘We can’t send him to the quarry, man. He’s had rheumatic fever, he’d die in a week. Besides he is the first Kaffir we’ve had who can make proper coffee and tea.’ He pointed at the cup in front of him. ‘Not like this shit. I told you not to stir it and to warm the pot first.’ He turned to look at Klipkop, with just the hint of a smile on his face. ‘Next time, man, ask before you hit. I ate the blêrrie Marie biscuits, I never had breakfast this morning so I ate them.’