Ivan Vladislavić - The Folly

Mrs Malgas came into the bathroom to talk some sense into her husband.

She found him wallowing in the muddy water, with his feet propped on the taps. He was preoccupied with his blisters, which had appeared in exactly the same spot on each hand: the web between thumb and forefinger. He prodded each blister in turn with the forefinger of the other hand, hoping that they would pop, but they held their shape tenaciously, like blobs of molten solder.

Mrs turned her attention to his feet. She didn’t care much for them in this naked state, against a background of creamy ceramic tiles; she preferred them in shoes. They were childish feet, too soft and pink for the large brown body they were required to support. Their creased soles and shapeless toes made them look like underinflated bath toys.

His whole anatomy was stubbornly indifferent to her evaluations. She left him to soak.

But she was on hand, when he had dried himself, to rub some of her cold cream into the back of his neck, which was sunburnt after all.

The Buccaneer Steakhouse in the Helpmekaar Centre was one of the finest establishments of its kind anywhere. Its corporate motto was on everyone’s lips: “Pleased to meet you, meat to please you.” The Manageress, a Mrs Dworkin, and Mr Malgas were on first-name terms, so she was happy to take his order over the phone: two racks of ribs, one with chips and one with a baked potato.

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Mrs said peevishly. “We always make do with a snack on Saturdays and I’m not going to change the habits of a lifetime just because of Him.”

The Buccaneer was famous too for its cut-throat prices and speedy service, and within half an hour Malgas and Nieuwenhuizen were sitting on their stones at the foot of the dead mountain, in the mothbeaten light of the hurricane-lamp, with the distinctive customized polystyrene containers open on their knees. Nieuwenhuizen had chosen the baked potato and it steamed enticingly as he sliced it open with his plastic knife. He unwrapped a little brick of butter and dropped it into the gash.

“Baked in their jackets,” Malgas said under his breath, repeating a phrase that Nieuwenhuizen had just used: “I’ve always loved them baked in their jackets.” Malgas sighed and salted his chips. “It’s better to give than to receive,” he mused, “although receiving can also be good. Look, there’s even vinegar in a little plastic bag — they think of everything.” He bent his head over the ribs and breathed in a blend of BBQ Sauce and charbroiled lamb; by a happy coincidence, the Buccaneer’s spicy marinade combined exquisitely with the delicate herby aroma of the heap. . tarragon. . cinnamon. . kakiebos. . It was perfect.

But what was that? Something medicinal had seeped into the mixture and threatened to spoil it entirely. Eucalyptus? No, lanolin? Camphor? Malgas sniffed again, and ascertained that the offensive smell was coming from the back of his neck! All at once he became acutely aware of how fresh and clean he was. There were creases in his shorts where creases had no business to be. There was a parting in his newly shampooed hair. The tops of his long socks were neatly folded — not once, but twice! “I’ve made an unforgivable booboo,” he thought angrily, and forgave himself immediately. “The thought of bathing wouldn’t have entered my head if she hadn’t turned up her nose and run the water.”“Ingenious contraption,” he said to cover his embarrassment.

“Notice the built-in hinges here, and the little triangular compartment in the corner for Sauce. Brilliant.”

Nieuwenhuizen peered into the container, grunted, wiped his fingers on his safari suit and tore another rib from the rack. When they had eaten their fill they moved their stones back in preparation for the bonfire.

”Say a few words, Father,” Malgas suggested.

“Why not? I’m in a talkative mood.” Nieuwenhuizen gathered his thoughts as he scoured the grease from his palms with a handful of sand, and then called for silence, cleared his throat, and began: “We have dined sumptuously, thanks to the generosity of our friend and colleague Malgas. Now let us enjoy a blazing fire and sit around it chatting amiably.”

“Hear! Hear!” Malgas exclaimed. “Well spoken!”

Nieuwenhuizen took a match from a waterproof container, struck it, and dabbed the base of the heap with the flame.

It wouldn’t burn.

“It so happens,” said Malgas, reaching into the darkness and producing, with a flourish, a king-size pack of Blitz Firelighters.

Nieuwenhuizen shook his head resolutely.

It was a crestfallen Mr who barged through his house a few minutes later, snatched a key from a hook and went to the garage. Mrs followed him silently to the back door and waited there until he returned carrying a petrol tin.

“You be careful with that,” she said.

Mr took two six-packs of beer from the fridge (Lions and Castles).

“You be careful with that too,” she said, following in his footsteps to the front door and watching after him through the bars of the security gate. Then she went back to her stool in the darkened lounge.

Nieuwenhuizen took the petrol tin and departed for the top of the heap. Malgas wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “You’ll get your boots dirty,” he crowed. Malgas was left behind at the camp, staring dejectedly at his Hush Puppies. Nieuwenhuizen went up the heap in leaps and bounds and in no time at all he was standing on the summit. Instead of emptying the petrol into the “core,” as Malgas had proposed, he raised the tin in an expansive toast and kicked his heels.

Malgas took the opportunity to break the Firelighters into sticks and spike the lower slopes. When that was done, he saw that Nieuwenhuizen was still occupied, so he slipped off his garters and pushed his socks down to his ankles. He ruffled his hair. He began to feel much better. Nieuwenhuizen stopped dancing and started pouring libations, first to the cardinal points of the compass and then to the lesser-known points in between. NNW, SSE, NWS. Malgas stretched himself out on the ground, rolled over a few times, and then looked up at the stars. They were far away, no argument. Mrs liked to describe them as pinpricks in a velvet tarpaulin. They had names, which the fundis were familiar with, and they were said to be “wheeling.” Furthermore, your stars foretold. If you understood how to join them together, like puzzles, you could arrive at mythological beings and household names. “He probably knows just how to do it. He’s travelled. Why don’t I, when I know so much about the world? Over coffee I — blast! — the chocolate digestives!”

When Nieuwenhuizen eventually returned he was greeted by enthusiastic cries of “Speech! Speech!” but he waved the request aside. His adventures on the heap had had a marvellously soothing effect on him, for he patted Malgas between the shoulder-blades and handed him the matches. “Do the honours — you’re the guest. I’ll get the lights.” He doused the hurricane-lamp.

Afterwards, when he recalled his conduct in these unusual circumstances, Malgas allowed himself a flush of pride. It would have turned out badly for him had he followed Nieuwenhuizen’s lead and stooped to light the fire. In the heat of the moment, however, he was able to acquit himself with grace and composure. An image came into his mind — a match, like a tiny rocket, blazing an arc through space — and this godsend saved the day and impressed it on his memory as one of beauty and balance. His hand found exactly the gesture that was required to scrape the head of the match along the side of the box and propel it on its journey; the match, igniting as it entered the atmosphere and burning ever brighter as it flew, found precisely the triumphal trajectory that would bring it, when it was at its brightest, to the heap, which was by now embroiled in a miasma of volatile fumes; the heap sucked in its breath, soured with the smell of petrol, its tangled limbs shuddered, it gasped — and blurted out a tongue of flame so huge and incandescent that it turned night into day and extinguished the stars.