Ivan Vladislavić - The Folly

“The horns,” said Mr to Mrs, “the horns of the monsters.That was what did it. He finally saw my point of view. If he builds that house of his one day he’ll have me to thank.”

particoloured. Castanets, chromium-plated, Clackerjack (regd. T.M.). Willow-pattern Frisbee. Mickey and Minnie, blessed by Pope (Pius). Pine-cone. Crucifix, commemorative, balsa-wood and papier-mâché, 255mm? 140mm. Calendar, Solly Kramer’s, Troyeville, indigenous fauna painted with the mouth, 1991. Clock, Ginza, broken (TOCH?)

It turned out that the factory couldn’t deliver before the weekend because of a strike (living wage, benefits, maternity leave) and so Malgas made a detour through Industria on his way home from work and picked up the nails himself. Two hundred and eighty-eight of them came pre-packed snugly in two wooden boxes designed to hold a gross each, and the remaining dozen had been taped into a bundle and wrapped in brown paper.

Everything about this example of the packager’s craft reassured Malgas. The grainy deal boards and ropy handles spoke of concern for safety in transit and overall effect; but there was attention to detail too, in the countersunk screw-heads and the spacing of the stencilled lettering: THIS SIDE UP. Rush-hour traffic gave him pause, and by the time he arrived at the site he was almost convinced that the gigantic nails would be perfect for the construction that lay ahead.

He loaded the boxes from the back of the bakkie into the barrow and wheeled them to the camp. Nieuwenhuizen had excused himself from this activity so that he could rummage through his portmanteau; Malgas therefore took the initiative and stored the boxes in a cool, dry place under the tree.

Then he went back for the package containing the surplus dozen — the Twelve, as he thought of them. No sooner had he returned with those under his arm than Nieuwenhuizen found what he was looking for: a leather bandoleer, well loved but little used, to judge by the patina of dried Brasso on its buckle and the marrow of congealed dubbin and fluff clogging its many loops.

While Nieuwenhuizen strapped the bandoleer over his shoulder, Malgas took the initiative again and prised open the first box. He found a thick layer of shredded paper the colour of straw. Excellent. He threw the paper out and there they were: one hundred and fortyfour of the finest nails money could buy, neatly stacked in rows of twelve, with the direction of the heads alternating stratum by stratum to compensate for the taper of the shanks. Even his exceptional sensitivity to packaging had not prepared him for this fastidious arrangement, and his admiration for the nails redoubled.

“Now that I see them here like this, in their proper context, I begin to see what you’re driving at,” Malgas mused. “There’s something about them, l can’t quite put my finger on it. .”

Nieuwenhuizen looked into the box and smiled. He extracted one of the nails, blew a wisp of paper off it and slipped it into a leather loop. It fitted.

“Ah,” said Malgas.

“Fill me up,” Nieuwenhuizen commanded, spreading his feet and raising his arms as if Malgas was his tailor. He continued to smile benignly while Malgas loaded the bandoleer.

Malgas found it a satisfying task, punching out the dubbin marrow with the sharp point of each nail, wiping the goo off on his pants, and tugging the shank through until the head rested securely against the loop. Progressively, he was careful to research and develop an energyconserving rhythm. There were thirty-six loops. Nieuwenhuizen bounced up and down on his toes, discovering his new equilibrium. Malgas was surprised his skinny legs didn’t snap under the load.

“My hat.”

Malgas unhooked the hat from a thorn, beat the dust out of it against his thigh, punched its crown into shape and placed it on Nieuwenhuizen’s head. Nieuwenhuizen cocked it rakishly and asked, “How do I look?”

“Striking. What’s the word. . debonair.”

“I like that. I feel debonair.”

Nieuwenhuizen struck a few carefree poses and this gave Malgas a chance to examine his outfit more closely. He cut a fine figure. The only item that jarred was the bandoleer. In Malgas’s opinion it was excessive. The longer he looked at it, the less he liked it. It was pretentious. A plain pouch on a leather belt would have served just as well. Now that he’d conjured up a pouch, he couldn’t prevent a stream of plain images from gliding through his mind — the open face of a ballpeen hammer. . a sturdy clod crumbling between a strong finger and thumb. . a sap-stained scythe. . a gush of chlorinated water from a hose. . a sjambok. . ploughshares. . hessian pantaloons. . hieroglyphs of mud dropping from the treads of a work-manlike boot. These uncalled-for images — who had summoned them? — and their stately passage — who was beating the drum? — gave him the creeps.

“You’ve got your nails,” he said, rolling back the tide, “and rather too big than too small, I suppose. But, forgive me for pointing it out, you’ve got nothing to nail together. Forward planning is becoming more and more urgent. It’s high time you ordered your materials: bricks, cement—”

“Enough is enough in any man’s language!” Nieuwenhuizen said crossly. The fellow was already getting too big for his boots. “Timber and allied products —”

“Shut up.”

“Pardon?”

“Be still. I can’t take this obsession with brass tacks a minute longer.”

“Tacks?”

“You’ve got hardware on the brain, my friend, and it leaves you no room for speculation.”

This outburst offended Malgas deeply. He had made a substantial contribution to recent developments, and Nieuwenhuizen knew it. Why was he distorting the facts? Nevertheless Malgas stammered an apology. “I’m just trying to be practical.”

“You’re so practical,” said Nieuwenhuizen, who had not anticipated a defence, and repeated, “You’re so practical,” while he thought of what to say next. Then, without emphasis at all, “If you’re as practical as you say you are, answer me this: Have you ever given a moment’s thought to the shape and size of the new house?” By “ever” he meant since Malgas had been privy to his plans; and it must be said that this was exactly what Malgas understood him to mean. He went on regardless. “No you haven’t, there’s no need to state it. But let me tell you that I, for one, have to think about the new house all the time. Hardly a moment goes by that I don’t think about it. I can see it before me as clear as daylight this very instant, even as I’m speaking to you. Can you see it? Hey? Can you name one little nook of it? Is it on a rack up here in the warehouse?” And he emphasized this final question rather crudely by rapping on Malgas’s skull with his knuckles.

Such cruelty was out of character, and Malgas shrank from it in confusion and disappointment. “Not really. .”

“There you are. That’s what I’m talking about. No conception of the new house, but you’re worrying yourself sick over what it’s made of! You’d better sort out your priorities, man, or we won’t be able to carry on collaborating on this project.”

“I’m sorry Father,” Malgas mumbled. “Collaborating,” spoken in anger, had pierced him to the quick and the hurt was written all over his face. “I’m a simple soul, as you know. Now that you mention it, I’d love to see the new place. I’d give my eye-teeth to see it (as Mrs would say). But I’m not sure I can. You haven’t given me clues. Shall I try anyway? Let’s see. . Is it a double-storey by any chance?”

“There-there, say no more.” Just as suddenly as it had flared up, Nieuwenhuizen’s rage died down again. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’ve expected too much of you, I thought you’d pick things up on your own, without guidance, and now we’re both suffering because of my presumption. Perhaps it’s not too late to make amends.”