excess adrenaline.
He began to walk north along the beach. He was looking for the absolute conviction he had felt in the Yellow Rose, that this is what he must do; as if the universe was pointing the way with a thousand index fingers. It was like twenty years ago when he could feel the absolute rightness of the Struggle?that his origins, his instincts, his very nature had been honed for that moment, the total recognition of his vocation.
Someone had to say, ?This far.?
He was a warrior and there was still a war in this land.
Why did it all sound so hollow now?
He must get some sleep; that would clear his perspective. But he did not want to, did not feel attracted to the four walls of the hotel room?he needed open space, sun, wind and a horizon. He did not want to be alone in his head.
He had always been a man of action, he could never stand by and watch. That is what he was and what he would be?a soldier, who faced the child rapist and felt all the juices of war flood his body. It was right, regardless how he might feel now. Regardless that this morning his convictions did not have the same impregnability.
They would start to leave the children of this land alone, the dogs, he would make sure of that. Somewhere Khoza and Ramphele were hiding, fugitives for the moment, invisible. But some time or other they would reappear, make contact or do something, and he would pick up their trail and hunt them down, corner them and let the assegai do the talking. Sometime or other. If you wanted to get the prey, you had to be patient.
In the meantime there was work to do.
?I was clueless about money. There was just never enough. My father put a hundred rand a month in my account. A hundred rand. No matter how hard I tried, it would only last two weeks. Maybe three if I didn?t buy magazines or if I smoked less or if I pretended I was busy when they went to movies or to eat out or chill . . . but it was never enough and I didn?t want to ask for more because he would want to know what I was doing with it and I would have to listen to his nagging. I heard they were looking for students at a catering business in Westdene. They did weddings and functions and paid ninety rand for a Saturday night if you would waitress or serve, and they gave you an advance for the clothes. You had to wear black pantyhose and a black pencil skirt with a white blouse. I went to ask and they gave me a job, two sweet middle-aged gays who would have a huge falling out every fortnight and then make up just in time for the next function.
?The work was okay, once you got used to being on your feet for so long, and I looked stunning in the pencil skirt, even if I say so myself. But most of all I liked the money. The freedom. The, the . . . I don?t know, to walk down Mimosa Mall and look at the Diesel jeans and decide I wanted them and buy them. Just that feeling, always knowing your purse was not empty?that was cool.
?At first I just did Saturdays, and then Fridays too and the occasional Wednesday. Just for the money. Just for the . . . power, you could say.
?Then in October we did the Schoemans Park golf-day party. I went outside for a smoke after the main course, and Viljoen was standing on the eighteenth green with a bottle in his hand and such a knowing look on his face. He asked me if I wanted a slug.?
They must have injected him with something, because it was morning when he woke, slowly and with difficulty, and he just lay with his face to the hospital wall. It was a while before he realized there was a needle and a thin tube attached to his arm. He was not shaking.
A nurse came in and asked him questions and his voice was hoarse when he answered. He might have been speaking too loudly, because she sounded far away. She took his wrist and in her other hand held a watch that was pinned to her chest. He thought it was odd to wear it there. She put a thermometer into his dry mouth and spoke in a soft voice. She was a black woman with scars on her cheeks, fossil remnants of acne. Her eyes rested softly on him and she wrote something on a snow-white card and then she was gone.
Two colored women brought him breakfast, shifting the trolley over the bed. They were excitable, chittering birds. They put a steaming tray on the trolley and said: ?You must eat, Sarge, you need the nourishment.? Then they disappeared. When the doctor arrived it was still there, cold and uneaten, and Griessel lay like a fetus, hands between his legs and his head feeling thick. Unwilling to think, because all his head had to offer was trouble.
The doctor was an elderly man, short and stooped, bald and bespectacled. The hair that remained around his head grew long and gray down his back. He read the chart first and then came to sit beside the bed.
?I pumped you full of thiamin and Valium. It will help with the withdrawal. But you have to eat too,? he said quietly.
Griessel just lay there.
?You are a brave man to give up alcohol.? Matt Joubert must have talked to him.
?Did they tell you my wife left me??
?They did not. Was it because of the drink??
Griessel shifted partially upright. ?I hit her when I was drunk.?
?How long have you been dependent??
?Fourteen fucking years.?
?Then it is good that you stopped. The liver has its limits.?
?I don?t know if I can.?
?I also felt like that and I have been dry for twenty-four years.?
Griessel sat up. ?You were an alky??
The doctor?s eyes blinked behind the thick lenses. ?That?s why they sent for me this morning. You could say I am a specialist. For eleven years I drank like a fish. Drank away my practice, my family, my Mercedes-Benz. Three times I swore I would stop, but I couldn?t keep my balance on the wagon. Eventually I had nothing left except pancreatitis.?
