Tommy Wieringa - Joe Speedboat

‘I didn’t know it was a costume party,’ Joe mumbled.

India made the rounds carrying a tray with glasses of beer and cava. She was wearing an olive-green T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. Her skin was brown and shiny, on sunny days she rubbed lemon juice in her hair and it had turned blond. It was like we were seeing her for the first time. We couldn’t take our eyes off her.

Little clumps of people were coming along the Lange Nek, on their way to the inauguration of Papa Africa’s boat. It was a mild August day, not too hot, with a whispering in the poplars. The party got off to a slow start, the guests didn’t mingle, they clotted. Some people felt uncomfortable with Regina’s extravagant presentation and Papa Africa’s somewhat tense aloofness. But of course he was tense, who wouldn’t be? His ship’s design was based on old memories and not some detailed plan, and that suddenly caused him to doubt. Had he remembered correctly, were the proportions right? He had put on his linen suit at Regina’s insistence, but he would much rather have worn overalls, for this was a workday, not a holiday.

There was a bit of laughter among the guests now and then, but mostly they just waited. The things-aren’t-what-they-used-to-be men were there as well. They stood close together, fluted glasses of sugared gin in hand, looking all around. Nothing escaped their attention; later on, back on their bench, all of this would be reviewed in minute detail.

Here and there people picked at the hors d’oeuvres laid on long tables. Regina had spent days preparing the little snacks. Seasoned meat on skewers lay beneath foil, for roasting later on. There were flat Arab loaves and bowls of red and green tapenades, and for the children — none of whom were there — she had baked almond cookies in the form of Lomark roosters. There lay a woman’s love, and not a hungry soul in sight.

Piet Honing tied the ferry to its moorings and came on land. He shook Regina’s hand.

‘A fine-looking vessel, ma’am, isn’t it? Yes indeed. A real beauty.’

His gaze cruised over the tables of food behind her back. She took him by the arm and said, ‘Come on, Piet, help yourself. Please, people, do have something to eat!’

The Eilanders’ Peugeot station wagon came roaring in from Lomark, Kathleen Eilander at the wheel. She parked with two wheels up against the embankment and yanked on the emergency brake. Julius Eilander climbed out, his hair tousled, looking like an escaped hostage.

‘Kathleen!’ Regina cried. ‘How wonderful to see you!’

‘Oh, you look divine, Regina! Is that the boat? What a jewel, simply gorgeous! Where’s Mahfouz? I just have to tell him how much I admire it!’

‘First have a drink, have something to eat! Eat! Oh, there’s going to be so much left over.’

Julius Eilander followed in the wake of his wife’s warlike enthusiasm. Piet Honing and Papa Africa were down by the boat, speaking the wondrous abracadabra only they understood. Running their hands over the wood, their lips formed words regarding the ship. Until a squall blew in between them.

‘Mahfouz, how wonderful! I’m so proud of you. .’

The Egyptian grinned sheepishly at Kathleen Eilander. Her husband seized Mahfouz’s hand and cranked it forcefully.

‘Good job, good job. You will take me out for a spin soon, won’t you, old boy?’

About fifty people had gathered by the waterside. The ship was ready, waiting in the chocks to be pushed over the rubber mats and into the water. Papa Africa took off his shoes and socks and rolled up his trouser legs to just below the knee. Joe, Engel and Christof did the same, and even Julius Eilander sat down to untie his laces. Three more men removed their shoes as well. John Kraakman of the Lomarker Weekly took pictures.

‘Are we going to be in the paper?’ India shouted.

Kraakman licked his lips.

‘Wait, don’t move, that’s right. .’

He took a photograph of India smiling at the camera with her big, strong teeth, behind her the men discussing the way to go about it. The sides of the ship were waist high and their bare feet made them vulnerable. Papa Africa slid out of his jacket and handed it to Regina, who draped it carefully over her forearm to keep it from wrinkling.

‘A kiss, my love!’ she said theatrically.

She gave him a real film kiss, full abandon, eyes closed. With one arm she held him loosely around the middle, the other, on which the jacket hung, she held prettily outside the embrace. He returned her kiss with a more workaday one, a kiss alloyed with embarrassment; where he came from, intimacies between the sexes were not displayed in public. Then he turned and went back to the others. The men took hold of the gunwales, Papa Africa moved to the stern. ‘On “go”.’

‘ Yalla! ’

They heaved as one.

‘ Yalla! ’

The ship slid a few inches. This was how the pyramids had been built, the Sphinx, the royal tombs. . Papa Africa shouted, the men leaned into it, an observer might have been reminded of a stranded whale being pushed back into the waves. Slowly the boat slid toward the water, the men in front already up to their ankles.

‘ Yalla! Yalla! ’

Two, three more times they pushed, then the felucca slid into the water with remarkable lightness. Papa Africa was standing up to his waist in the water with both hands on the stern.

‘Darling, your trousers,’ Regina said, but he couldn’t hear.

He climbed into the boat, loosened the halyards and lowered the sail into place. The ship almost rammed against the side of the ferry ramp. Everyone held their breath. Joe waded in up to his knees to help, but it was no longer necessary, Papa Africa secured the sail and fastened the boom. He ran to the helm and steered, away from the ramp, toward open water. Then he lowered the leeboard.

The ship drifted calmly into the stream. Kraakman’s camera clicked, Papa Africa brought the ship around on the wind. People sighed as the sail billowed and unfolded like a dragon’s wing. The ship was heeling, leaving a trail in the water. Papa Africa peered tensely at the top of the mast, then back at us. We couldn’t see the expression on his face, but when we applauded he waved. Sometimes pleats appeared in the sail and Papa Africa steered to catch more wind. A little further and he would be out of sight, past the Bethlehem freight docks.

The guests were cheerful. They had witnessed a victory; the launch had gone as well as one could hope, and that lent the afternoon a symmetrical beauty. Papa Africa disappeared around the bend in the river, the people went back to the table with soft drinks, beer and snacks. Mr Eilander remained barefooted, waiting at the waterside for the ship to return. Sparrows bathed in the dust beneath the poplars, the world was at peace. Regina’s gaze kept returning to the river.

‘So you’ll be attending polytechnic?’ Kathleen Eilander asked Joe.

Joe shook his head.

‘But I thought your mother said you were?’

They were silent for a bit. Then Kathleen, who was taller than Joe, leaned over to him again.

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Become an artist. I guess you can’t really say that. You’re either an artist or you’re not, so you can’t really become one. The way I understand it, you go to art academy to figure out if you are one. Engel, for example, he’s an artist and everyone knows that. But me? I’m good at making things, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’

His gaze travelled over her face, his mouth headed toward a laugh.

‘What is it?’ Kathleen asked. ‘Is there something on my face? Here?’

She wiped her lips with her fingers.

‘Now there is,’ Joe said. ‘A little bit of lipstick, higher. . yeah, there.’