The Power of One (15 page)

Jackhammer had been helped to his feet by his seconds and was still standing in the center of the ring supported by them as the referee called Hoppie over. Holding Hoppie's hand up in victory, he shouted, “The good book tells the truth, little David has done it again! The winner by a knockout in the fourteenth round, Kid Louis!” The railwaymen cheered their heads off and the miners clapped sportingly and people started to leave the stands.

As the boxers left the ring, Jackhammer still supported by his seconds, Gert, the waiter who had taken bets in the dining car on the train, entered the ring and began to settle the bets. It had been a tremendous fight and even the miners seemed happy enough and would stay for the
braaivleis
and
tiekiedraai
—the barbecue and dance—afterward.

It took four big railwaymen to get Big Hettie down from the top of the stand where we had been sitting. She had finished one half jack of brandy and was well into the next and so was in no state to make it to the bottom on her own.

“We showed ‘em. Our boy sure socked the bejesus out of the big Palooka! Jaysus, Peekay, what a fight, heh? A darlin' boy with the heart of a lion.” Big Hettie was speaking in a soft, accented English, which came as a surprise. “Oops!” she said as she nearly missed her step and fell heavily against two of her helpers, who were laughing almost fit to burst.

We walked over to the ring, where Gert was paying out. Big Hettie had one hand resting on my shoulder as though I was a sort of human walking stick. “I always speak the Irish tongue when I've had toomush brandy. Me darlin' father, God rest his soul, he used to say, ‘M'dear, only the Irish tongue is made smooth enough fer a dacent drinkin' man when he's had a few.' And he was right, you cannot get properly sozzled speaking the
verdomde taall
” I said nothing. Hoppie must have told Big Hettie I was a
rooinek,
but I wasn't taking any chances and my camouflage remained intact. I saw no point in letting her know there was an enemy or even a friend in her midst.

At the ringside the men were lining up to be paid. As we drew closer Big Hettie, reverting back to Afrikaans, shouted at Gert, “You good-for-nothing
skelm!
Where's my five pounds?” Speaking Afrikaans seemed to have an immediate sobering effect on her. She moved imperiously to the head of the queue, where Gert took five one-pound notes from his satchel and handed them down to her.

“Thank you for your business, Hettie,” Gert said politely.

Big Hettie squinted up at him. “And don't you forget our little business either, my boy. Three cases of Crown Lager for the mess tomorrow night. Bring them early so I can put them on ice.”

“You said only two,” Gert whined.

“The Afrikaner in me said two, but it was such a good fight, the Irish in me says three. You won big anyway, the odds were against Hoppie Groenewald winning.”

“Sheesh! I didn't win so big, there was a last-minute rush to bet on Hoppie.”

“Pig's arse! You won't eat steak till next Christmas if it isn't three cases for my boys,” Big Hettie snorted. By this time she seemed completely sober.

“A man might as well not make book with you around, Hettie.” Gert grinned and turned back to his other customers.

Hoppie came out of the tent just as we reached it and was immediately surrounded by railwaymen. He looked perfect, except for a large piece of sticking plaster over his left eye where Jackhammer Smit had butted him. Well, not absolutely perfect. In the light you could see his right eye was swollen and was turning a deep purple color.

Bokkie and Nels were with him. Neither could stop talking and throwing punches in the air and replaying the fight. I was too small to see Hoppie as more and more railwaymen crowded around him. Big Hettie grabbed me and lofted me into the air. “Make way for the next contender,” I heard Hoppie shout. Hands grabbed hold of me and carried me over the heads of the men to where he stood.

Hoppie pulled me close to him and put his hand around my shoulder. “We showed the big gorilla, heh, Peekay?”

“Ja,
Hoppie.” I was suddenly a bit tearful. “Small can beat big if you have a plan.”

Hoppie laughed. “I'm telling you, man, I nearly thought the plan wasn't going to work tonight.”

“I'll never forget, first with the head and then with the heart.” I hugged him around the top of the legs. Hoppie rubbed his hand through my hair. The last time someone had done this, it was to rub shit into my head. Now it felt warm and safe.

It was almost three hours before the train was due to leave and most of the crowd had stayed behind to meet their wives after the fight at the
tiekiedraai
dance. Miners and railwaymen, as well as the passengers traveling on, all mixed together, the animosity during the fight forgotten. Only the Africans went home because they didn't have passes and wouldn't have been allowed to stay anyway.

With a slice of Big Hettie's chocolate cake already in me I could scarcely manage two sausages and a chop. I even left some meat on the chop, which I gave to a passing dog, who must have thought it was Christmas because from then on she stayed with me. She was a nice old bitch, although she looked a bit worn out from having puppies and her teats hung almost to the ground. She walked slowly, like old bitches do, and after a while I felt we'd always known each other. One ear was torn and her left eye drooped, probably from a fight or something. She was a nice yellow color with a brown patch on her bum.

It had been a long day and I was beginning to feel tired. I'd never been up this late when I was happy. Hoppie found me and the dog sitting against a big gum tree nodding off. Picking me up, he carried me to the utility. I was too tired to notice if the old yellow bitch followed us.

Big Hettie was sitting in the back of the truck, her huge body almost filling it. She had a fresh half jack and was using it to conduct herself in song, “When Irish eyes are smilin', sure it's like the mornin' breeeeze!” I was amazed at her raucous sound. I had never before encountered a woman who couldn't sing.

“Shhh, Hettie! the next contender wants to sleep,” Hoppie said.

Big Hettie stopped, the brandy bottle poised in midstroke. “Me darlin' boy, come and give Hettie a big kiss.” It was the last thing I remember. Big Hettie was speaking Irish again. I guess she must have gone back to being drunk.

I
woke at dawn to the by now familiar lickety-clack of the carriage wheels. From the color of the light coming through the compartment window, I could see it was the time Granpa Chook would come to the dormitory window and crow his silly old neck off. I supposed he had conditioned me to waking at first light.

The light that fled past the compartment window was still soft with a greyish tint; soon the sun would come and polish it till it shone. The landscape had changed in a subtle way. Yesterday's rolling grassland was now broken by occasional
koppies,
rocky outcrops with clumps of dark green bush, each no more than a hundred feet high. Flat-topped fever trees were more frequent and in the far distance a sharp line of mountains brushed the horizon in a wet, watercolor purple. We were coming into the true lowveld.

I sat up and became aware of a note pinned to the front of my shirt. I undid the safety pin to find a piece of paper with a ten-shilling note attached to it. I was a bit stunned. I'd never handled a banknote, and it was difficult to imagine it belonged to me. If one sucker cost a penny, I could buy 120 suckers with this ten shillings. On the piece of paper was a carefully printed note from Hoppie.

Dear Peekay,

Here is the money you won. We sure showed that big gorilla who was the boss. Small can beat big. But remember, you have to have a plan—like when I hit Jackhammer Smit the knockout punch when he thought I was down for the count. Ha, ha. Remember always, first with the head and then with the heart. Without both, I'm telling you, plans are useless!

Remember, you are the next contender.

Good luck, little boetie.

Your friend in boxing and always,

Hoppie Groenewald

P.S. Say always to yourself, “First with the head and then with the heart, that's how a man stays ahead from the start.” H.G.

I was distressed at having left the best friend after Granpa Chook and Nanny that I had ever had, without so much as a good-bye. Hoppie had passed briefly through my life, like a train passing in the night. I had known him a little over twenty-four hours, yet he had managed to change my life. He had given me the power of one—one idea, one heart, one mind, one plan, one determination. Hoppie had sensed my need to grow, my need to be assured that the world around me had not been specially arranged to bring about my undoing. He gave me a defense system, and with it he gave me hope.

In the early morning the lickity-clack of the carriage wheels sounded sharper and louder as though racing toward the light. It was only by concentrating hard that I could hear the cadence of someone breathing, first an inhalation, deep and mournful, then complete silence for a few moments and then a powerful whistling sound as a great volume of air was exhaled. At first I thought it might be a part of the train. After all, I was not much of an expert on trains.

But then I began to suspect that the whistling sound had something to do with the smell in the compartment. It was so severe I had to cover my nose with my sheet. Holding my nose, I peered over the edge of the bunk. In the bunk below me lay Big Hettie, still fully dressed. She was heaving in her sleep like a beached sperm whale. With every intake of air her bosom and stomach rose almost to touch the bottom of my bunk. Wow! Kapow! What a stink! Her arm was stretched out with her hand planted firmly on the carpet, acting as a prop to prevent her from tumbling to the floor.

On the bunk directly opposite her was a smallish suitcase and a very large square wicker picnic hamper. Big Hettie and I had the compartment to ourselves. Which was just as well, as Big Hettie's brandy breath filled it and I knew that if I remained in my bunk I was done for. I moved to the bottom of my bunk and managed to push the compartment window down. Sitting as close to the window as possible, I gulped at the fresh air flying past. Then, withdrawing my head when my nose was almost frozen, I removed the
doek
from my pocket and, carefully folding Hoppie's note and the ten-shilling banknote together, I tied it into the corner together with Granpa's shilling. Then I pinned the
doek
back into my pocket, feeling dangerously rich.

Dangling from my bunk, I managed to swing clear of Big Hettie's body to land with a soft thud on the floor. My heart beat wildly at the thought of waking her up, but it soon became apparent that she was pretty fast asleep. The door to the compartment was open just a crack, and using both hands I slid it open just enough to squeeze through into the corridor. The corridor window almost directly opposite was half open, and by standing on my toes I could get my nose into the fresh air.

I stood there watching the early morning folding back. It can be very cold in the lowveld before the sun rises, and without a blanket I soon began to shiver. I tried to ignore the cold, concentrating on the lickity-clack of the carriage wheels. I became aware that the lickity-clack was talking to me:
Mix-the-head with-the-heart you ‘re-ahead from-the-start. Mix-the-head with-the-heart you're-ahead from-the-start
, the wheels chanted until my head began to pound with the rhythm. It was becoming the plan I would follow for the remainder of my life; it was to become the secret ingredient in what I thought of as the power of one.

It grew too cold to stand there in the corridor with the window open, so I made my way down to the end of the carriage and sat on the lavatory with the door closed. Then I felt like having a piss and I did that and pulled a lever at the side of the toilet and a trap door at the bottom of the toilet bowl opened directly onto the tracks. The noise of the wheels rose up at me and you could see a blur of gravel and a flash of sleepers as the train whizzed over them. I stood there with my hand on the lever; since the episode with the Judge I had thought a bit about shit. At the hostel we did it in tins which would be taken away every week and empty tins that smelled of disinfectant would be put

in their place. I often wondered where they took all the stuff. At least, now I knew what the railways did with theirs.

It grew too cold even in the lavatory, so I made my way back to the compartment. As I slid back the door, I saw that a calamity had befallen Big Hettie. The arm that had propped her up all night had finally collapsed, and she lay with the top half of her massive body on the floor while her legs remained on the bunk. The skirt of her dress had ridden up to cover her face. With each intake of breath, it was sucked tightly against her face, and with every exhalation it billowed out like the collar on a frillnecked lizard. Her huge legs, bluish white and laced with varicose veins, stuck out of an enormous pair of shiny pink bloomers, the elastic ends of which reached down to just above her knees. She appeared to be carrying most of her weight on her neck and shoulders, and I observed that her face was growing increasingly flushed and tiny bubbles were forming at the corners of her mouth. I tried to wake her by shaking her as hard as I could. “Wake up, Mevrou Hettie,” I begged, but she just grunted and inhaled, was silent, and exhaled with a whistle of stale air and a short snort that brought on the bubbles. I soon realized that she couldn't remain half in and half out of the bunk in such a topsy-turvy position, but lifting her back onto it was plainly beyond me.

I climbed over her body and onto her bunk. By propping my legs against the walls of the compartment and using all my strength, I managed to push both her legs off the bunk so that they landed on the compartment floor with a great plop. I was sure this would wake her. Her huge body now filled every inch of floor space between the bunks, as neatly as if she had been canned in a sardine factory in Portugal, but she did not wake. The bright red color soon left her face, and while she continued to whistle she did not snort, which I took as a good sign. Soon even the bubbles stopped.

I climbed onto her tummy and managed to pull a blanket off her bunk. I pulled her dress down, covered her with the blanket, and, with some difficulty, managed to get a cushion under her head. She gave a soft sigh and then let go a huge burp that was damn nearly the end of me. Boy, did she stink!

The blanket wasn't big enough to cover her entirely. It fell like a small blue tent, covering her bosom and tummy and reaching to the top of her legs. The Big Hettie tent was pitched right in the middle of the compartment, inhaling and exhaling and whistling away.

I wrapped myself in the remaining blanket and sat with my nose at the open compartment window. There was simply nothing else I could think to do. The sun was coming up over the distant Lebombo Mountains, and the African veld sparkled as though it was contained in a crystal goblet.

There was a sudden rattle at the door and a single sharp word, “Conductor!” Whereupon the door slid open to reveal a slight man in a navy serge uniform just like Hoppie's. Only this man looked very neat and his boots shone like a mirror. Around the edge of the elliptical blue and white enamel badge on his cap it read,
SOUTH AFRICAN RAILWAYS—SUID AFRIKAANSE SPOORWEG
, but unlike Hoppie's, which had the word
GUARD
written across the center, this badge read
CONDUCTOR
. I don't suppose it is important to know what a badge says, but when you're small and on your own, you've got to gather all the information you can, as fast as you can. Good camouflage depends on this.

The man at the compartment door wore a thin black moustache that looked as though it had been drawn on with a school crayon. His bleak expression suggested someone already soured by the burdens of life. He looked down at the Big Hettie tent with her head only inches from his polished boots.

“Mevrou Hettie fell off the bunk, Meneer,” I answered in a frightened voice.

“Why me? Why always me? Why always Pik Botha? Why not somebody else? What have I ever done to anyone?” He looked directly at me. “Does she belong to you?” he asked in an accusing voice. Before I was able to reply, he put a finger and thumb to his furrowed brow and with a wince corrected himself. “No, of course not. That is Big Hettie.” He gasped as the realization hit him fully. “My God! Big Hettie is on my train!” He sounded as if he were about to cry. “What am I going to do, man?” he wailed.

“I—I don't know, Meneer. She was just here when I woke up.”

Pik Botha sniffed, jerking his head back. “Well, I'm telling you now, man, she can't stay like this!” He looked down in distaste at the slumbering woman, then stuck his hand into the compartment, leaning slightly over Big Hettie. “Where's your ticket? Give it here, boy,” he said.

“I have it here, Meneer,” I said, hurriedly fumbling with the safety pin where Hoppie had pinned my ticket to the clean shirt I had changed into for the fight.

“Bring it here, man, I can't climb over this dead cow to get it.” I crawled along the bunk and, by stretching out my arm as far as I could, managed to reach his hand.

“This ticket is not clipped,” he said accusingly. “You got on this train who knows where? I'm not a mind reader, this ticket is not clipped, man!”

“I didn't know I had to give it to be clipped, Meneer,” I said, suddenly fearful.

“It's that
verdomde
Hoppie Groenewald! He did this on purpose to make work for me. Not clipping tickets is an offense. Just because he is going into the army he thinks he can go around not clipping tickets. Who does he think he is, man? What do you think would happen if we all went around not clipping tickets?”

“Please, Meneer, Hoppie clipped everybody's ticket. He only forgot mine, that's the honest truth, honest!” I pleaded, frantic that Hoppie would get into trouble on my behalf.

“Humph! It wouldn't surprise me to find that that one lets dirty kaffirs ride for nothing and then does bad things to their women. He is not a married man, you know. First I lose one pound ten shillings betting on that big ape from the mines and now that one who calls himself after a nigger boxer goes around not clipping people's tickets.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I'm afraid it is my duty to report this,” he said, his lips drawn thinly so that his crayon moustache stretched in a dead straight line across his upper lip.

“Please, Meneer, he hates kaffirs just like you. Please don't report him.”

“It's all right for you. You're his friend, you'll say anything.” He paused as though thinking. “Orright, I'm a fair man, you can ask anybody about that. But mark my word. Next time that Hoppie Groenewald is going to be in a lot of trouble or my name is not Pik Botha.” He withdrew a pair of clippers from his waistcoat pocket and clipped my ticket.

“Thank you, Meneer Botha. You are a very kind man.”

“Too kind for my own good, boy! If you help others all you get is a kick in the face. But I am a born-again Christian and not a vengeful type. The Bible says, ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,' but sometimes, I'm telling you,” he nudged Big Hettie with the toe of his shiny boot, “the cross the Lord expects me to carry is very heavy, man.” He gave Big Hettie several more quick nudges with his boot. “Wake up, you old cow! This compartment is the property of the South African Railways and it says in the rules, no passenger shall decamp on the floor of the carriages. Wake up! You are officially breaking the rules lying there like a dead cow.”

Snort, sigh, breath in, silence, breath out, whistle, snort was all he got back.