Breyten Breytenbach - Mouroir

It became so bad that I could no longer trust myself with the gun. One night, it was late and just about no traffic left on the streets — because for purposes of my work I often had to move about when the good law-abiding citizens, the virtuous Zweiks, were already snoring away in their eiderdowns — a young woman as suddenly as a cat appeared from a doorway in front of me on the sidewalk and before I could even think the gat was in my fist ready to blow her to high heavens. Luckily I realized just in time that it was probably a night-walker in a hurry to catch the last tram or train, perhaps with the thighs still clammy. But you must know how dangerous it was — I very nearly wiped her out. And then I would for sure have been in big trouble. I could no longer risk walking the streets with my side-arm and yet I felt I had to, exactly because of the mysterious pursuer or spy.

One of my old mates, Gregor Samsa, was called up for his military service (too stupid to invent, like we did, cripple dependants which would have gotten him a dispensation). Several of us, all old classmates, decided to go and have a decent booze-up for old times’ sake, and to see him off properly. It was a weekend and Gregor was due to leave the following Monday night, or maybe the Tuesday morning. Saturday and Sunday we fêted right through. One chap could tickle the piano a bit and we sang and danced and drank like swine. It is with joy that you take leave of your youth, but it also hurts. That is the magic spell — that you can howl from happiness and drunken sadness because everything is so transient, so perishable, without your being capable of understanding it then. Later perhaps yes, and by then you’re too cynical for tears. Nevertheless, it’s only the present that matters. .

Monday I ran into Gregor on the street and he reminded me that I promised to spend tonight, the last night, with him and his girlfriend. All right, all right, I agreed, although I didn’t remember a thing about any promises, and we made a date for meeting up again at eight o’clock in the hotel on the old town square. I was restless: I just could not shake off the uncomfortable feeling of “the other person”.

The afternoon I went to buy some bullets for the pistol I’d taken over from K. On the black market to be sure, because I naturally have no legal licence for the thing. Such papers one couldn’t get hold of very easily by us, and with forgeries you’re always taking a risk. And as usual I went to pull off two shots outside town because you can never be too careful with stuff you buy under the counter — sometimes the powder is wet or the cartridges defective. And when you have to shoot, you come short.

Towards six o’clock I walk into Gregor again. His girl is with him and they’re already on their way to the hotel. He insists that I must join them.

“No, Greguška,” I said; “look, we’ve got an appointment for eight and I shall definitely be there. Count on me. But now I’ve got to go home first and eat something, you know, then we’ll see each other in a little while.”

Gregor didn’t want to know. I could just as well come for a snack with them in the hotel, he insisted, and like that we’re all together, and seeing as how it’s going to be the last night. . The true reason was that he just couldn’t face up to the boredom of being for two hours alone with the girl. To say goodbye is galling enough. I, on the other hand, wanted to be by myself a bit, and I was afraid too — of what I can’t very well imagine. I explained to him about the unlicensed firearm I carried on me, that I’m a bit apprehensive about perhaps starting to shoot wildly in the drunkenness of seeing him off, and an accident is quicker than a thought.

“Your war games are still ahead!” I teased him.

“Ach man,” Gregor laughed, “if that’s your only worry! Why don’t you just take out the clip and hide it away on your body? Then you can’t start throwing lead, however slap-happy you may become. And tomorrow, when you’re sober and cooled off, you reload the thing and Franz is your uncle!”

So I had nothing to oppose his argument with. I therefore took the clip from the pistol and tucked it away in a small sewn-on hiding-place in the lining of my pants under the belt. The clip was full — six cartridges. Plus one in the barrel which I removed also. That made seven. I remember I counted them. The discharged pistol I put in my inside pocket.

These precautions turned out to be unnecessary after all as we didn’t really get into our stride with the drinks. Probably because we were still saturated from the excesses of the preceding days. We ate, knocked back a few Pilseners, and on top of that several cups of coffee. Drunk I never was.

It was a lovely evening, quiet, not a breath of wind. Bright moon like a clean-washed car in the sky. And the moonshine like dust where the car has been passing. Night birds whistled and trilled. . By closing time we got ready to stroll home at a leisurely pace. Our drinking companions of the weekend would never have credited our demure behaviour. In our country the men often have to be chucked out at closing time. But it’s not at all like with you people here, even though the police there are armed too. A copper can’t just go for his gat there. You’ll never know how many guys I met in the cooler who were there for assaulting an officer! I tell you, the ordinary citizen there very easily gives a policeman a few of the best. And he’s not branded for that. As long as you don’t get involved in politics!

We were full of good food and good talk and a little melancholy under the moon at the thought of the last embrace. Gregor Samsa was to accompany his girlfriend to her parents’ place just out of town; I was to go along till about halfway before turning off to my flat. The streets were empty. Weekdays the workers go to bed early. We sang a little, like

Shine on, shine on harvest moon

Up in the sky —

when suddenly, from nowhere in the street ahead of us a voice started calling.

I shan’t remember what the voice shouted; I don’t believe it addressed us by name. But we knew it was meant for us. And I, I most definitely knew that this was the secretive presence that had been following me so stubbornly.

Just out of reach in front of us the enticing voice moves. We can’t make out anything. Neither light nor movement. Always it keeps taunting us. Does it dare us to come closer?

To the edge of town I walked with Gregor and his girl. There the road splits in two — left to the nearby neighbouring village where her parents have a small plot, right to the broken-down manor house of a ground baron from before the revolution. Just before you get to the ruins and just about bordering on the town there’s a reasonably dense forest. In the moonlight the tree-shadows were very dark and solid. The trees floated in the light pools breaking through the foliage. The voice came to a halt in that forest and called out to us to approach.

“Greguška, you take the girl along. I’m going to look who or what’s hiding among those trees.”

“Are you completely off your bloody rocker, or what?” Gregor wanted to know.

I take the magazine from the small bag under my belt and slip it into my pistol. “I’m armed. There are six bullets in the clip. I count them with my thumb. Plus one which I push into the barrel. That makes seven. I’m not a fuck scared.”

“No, you’re crazy! How do you know it’s not a deliberate trap? Just imagine someone’s lying there, waiting for you in the. . in the. . the dark, with a machine-gun? What will your little fart-a-puff mean to you then, hey? Don’t go, man. Someone is surely trying to lure you out of town to do you in. Leave it alone, I say!” And I consider his words. Could well be he’s right. At that time there were indeed all sorts of strange things happening. Particularly the back-and-forth over the border. Americans and Lord knows who all infiltrating people. Underground organizations. Networks. Vendettas. It’s true, I could very easily walk straight into a shooting party.