Ingrid Winterbach - It Might Get Loud

He washes his hands. He phones the guest house woman in Colesberg to hear whether the person did indeed drive through today. Yes, for sure, the man will leave the parcel for Karl with the manager of the Wimpy. Karl doesn’t know whether to rejoice or despair. He’s in for a gruelling day. He can feel misery stalking him. He feels like a mouse in a trap. Wriggling will get you nowhere. Surrender and await the knock-out blow.

He washes his hands. Makes his way to the Wimpy. Knocks at the manager’s door. The guy is on the phone. He signals to Karl to wait. On his desk is a packet of soggy chips. While talking, he eats the chips. Greasy hands. Karl looks around to see if he can spot Iggy’s parcel somewhere. Perhaps he can make a dash for it while the guy is still on the phone. Nowhere to be seen. He’ll come later, when the man has finished eating, and, Karl hopes, has washed his hands. No such luck. The man has done talking, he wipes his hands on a paper napkin (not very thoroughly), and comes to greet Karl with outstretched arms. Oh my God, is the man going to embrace him. One of those expansive types. Karl retreats a few paces. How can we be of service?! the man asks exuberantly. His mouth gleams with grease. He’s coming to collect a parcel, says Karl. Certainly, certainly, says the man. Now where could he have put it? Opens the drawers of his desk, looks on one of the shelves. Here it is, under a little pile of papers. The parcel is wrapped, as before, in brown paper. Worst case scenario. With plastic he could perhaps have coped. He holds out the parcel to Karl. No way can Karl take it from him. Not a hope in hell.

The man is standing in front of him with the parcel in his outstretched hand. Karl turns on his heel. Must just go and lock my car quickly, he calls over his shoulder. With thudding heart he rushes out and goes to stand outside the Wimpy. In God’s name let the man not follow him outside. After a while he goes back. He asks one of the waitresses please to ask the manager to give her the parcel intended for him. She should say he’s sorry, he had to run an urgent errand elsewhere. She looks a bit puzzled but thank the lord agrees. Bless her soul. He takes up position behind a large artificial palm so that the manager wouldn’t be able to see him if he should come out of his office. The woman knocks at the manager’s door. She emerges a while later with the parcel. Karl has in the meantime slipped a Jiffy bag over his hand. The woman must make of it what she can. He takes the parcel from her. She looks a bit surprised. He thanks her warmly and gets out of there as fast as possible.

He throws the parcel onto the back seat. Just as he thought, full of grease stains. For fuck’s sake.

*

At ten o’ clock he checks out of the guest house. Tomorrow his room number will coordinate inauspiciously with the date. Then that’s another day written off. He checks into the hotel. The carpets in the passages are threadbare and the rooms smell of mothballs, but at least the place isn’t full of frills and flounces. With a Jiffy bag over each hand he carefully removes Iggy’s letters from the brown paper in which they’re wrapped. He places them in a plastic bag. Now he must find a suitable place to sit and read them. Just not the Wimpy. Their coffee is undrinkable in any case and in the Wimpy in Estcourt the waitress picked her nose. Their standards of hygiene probably leave something to be desired all over the country. The fact that the manager ate chips in his office confirms his suspicion. He finds a little place that doesn’t seem too inauspicious. He switches on his cell phone again — he switched it off the previous evening. There are three missed calls. Must be the Josias bloke. He switches off the phone again. He doesn’t want to be disturbed by the man right now. For a second time he starts reading Iggy’s letter to him.

IN THESE DAYS THE CONSPIRACY against me is maturing. A certain person has for a considerable time now been intent upon conquering my soul and if possible, murdering it. I shall not mention the person’s name, but it should in due course become apparent who he is. He is influential and respected in the circles in which he moves, though they are not the kind of people with whom I would voluntarily associate. Let me be specific: the person enjoys the respect of those people he consorts with.

He is an artist, and although the work he produces, as I have mentioned, is not without merit and is highly regarded in certain circles, it is not the kind of work that I can ever bring myself to admire. I shall in due course furnish the reasons for my reservations.

This person has gradually made it his purpose to draw me into his sphere of influence, to as it were win me over as an acolyte, nay, more, as a disciple, and when he realised that he could not succeed in this, he made it his purpose systematically to inflict harm upon me, to destroy me, to annihilate me — I make so bold as to allege. Not my body alone, but my very soul.

Soul murder, that and no less than that, he has made his purpose.

How did all this happen?

Quite gradually, since I moved in here.

Initially he purported to be my friend. He cordially invited me to come and stay here. Here I would feel at home, he assured me, and here I would be able to work without disturbance. He put a comfortable room at my disposal, with a beautiful view of the mountain. He was enthusiastic about my paintings and encouraged me in various ways.

He also encouraged me to look at his work, and we had long, to my mind meaningful, conversations about it. It was not that I felt particularly attracted to the kind of work he produces — too dark, and in retrospect, with the insight I now have, completely perverse — but I was open-minded enough to view it attentively and to enter into discussion with him on the subject.

For a while things went well and I thought that I had at last found a place where I could rest the sole of my foot. Everything was to my taste — the room provided for me, albeit small and simple, with only the basic amenities: a bed, a table, a wardrobe, but with a splendid view of the mountain (oh, how that view filled me every morning with joy and ardour for the day ahead). It was only the kitchen, in the main house, that was not altogether to my taste — the hygiene of the place left much to be desired, in my opinion. (I can now see that it is a kind of devil’s kitchen, a place of doom and destruction, a place that is not only literally filthy, but also figuratively an unclean space.) As far as possible I tried to avoid it. Fortunately the setup here is such that the kitchen area and my room are fairly far removed from each other. I tried to the best of my abilities to keep everything I need — a kettle, a few pieces of crockery, some cutlery — in my room, and to make use of an outside tap to wash everything that I used. Even the animals on the farm I found unobjectionable.

But gradually, so gradually as initially to be hardly perceptible, his attitude to me changed. I started noticing it in casual comments that he passed. Something about my work, or my appearance. Comments with a false bottom, so that I was not sure whether I’d understood him correctly.

These comments gradually became more critical, so that I could no longer ignore them, or merely imagine their implication. I started seeing that they were aimed at unnerving me.

I started suspecting that through flattery, through all kinds of sweet-talking and false compliments he was not only trying to get me in his power, but that he was making certain covert propositions to me. These propositions were of a sexual nature.

The set-up here, furthermore, is such that a considerable number of people pass through — friends of the person, other artists, quite apart from the people living here permanently: a young black woman and her children, for instance, a sculptor — a large, strong man — the only one who is still well-disposed towards me. Also quite a few children of various ages, who are purportedly under the person’s wing.