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NOTES:

CHRISTIAN CATEGORY: SPRING 2008 - HIGHLY COMMENDED

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"Redemption"

by David Abbott - Durban, South Africa

HIGHLY COMMENDED: "CHRISTIAN" CATEGORY, SPRING 2008

Harry Van Zyl paused for breath on the fourth floor landing then knocked at the door of Mr. Joubert’s flat. There was no response so he knocked again. Harry guessed the woman was there, but she was not sure of him and so was afraid to answer his knock. A pity, he thought, but she would have to open the door. He waited; he heard a shuffling within. Was she eyeing him through the spy hole in the door? He knocked again.

At last his knock was answered by an elderly coloured woman in an apron, a yellow duster in her hand. He recalled the lady from his previous visit. She was always busy polishing the furniture in the lounge or about some odd job while Mr. Joubert paid over the rent monies to him, always busy with housework when Van Zyl called; place always smelt of floor wax.

She smiled shyly and stood back to invite him in.

“Mr. Joubert is not in, but the two rents that were late are ready for you. He was expecting you this evening... He will be very sorry to have missed you. He wanted to talk to you about Frikkie, you know, that man on the floor below, a sad case.”

He knew all about Frikkie, a late payer, always in arrears with the rent.

She led Van Zyl into the living room. It was good that Joubert was at last taking an interest in his home again. He wondered how often the woman came in to clean up. An old pensioner like Joubert could not afford to pay much in the way of wages. In exchange for collecting the tenants’ rent Van Zyl had reduced Joubert’s rent. Now, because of Joubert’s extra expenses with the cleaning woman, he decided to reduce his rent again. The old man had all but lost the will to live after his wife died three years ago. Now the parquet floors shone. The old ball and claw imbuia furnishings gleamed. Crisp new doilies were on the tables and chair backs.

Van Zyl was conscious of the woman’s eyes on him. He picked up the two envelopes with the flat number and name of the tenant written on each.

“Muller hasn’t paid his rent again. Damn that man. Ask Mr. Joubert to phone me, will you? This tenant is a nuisance. And tell Mr. Joubert I’m very pleased to see he’s joined the human race again. This must be the neatest flat in the block.”

The woman’s face glowed with pride.

Van Zyl sniffed. “That curry smells good. You also cook for Mr Joubert? Don’t tell him I said so but the flat is neater now than when Mrs. Joubert was alive but she was very sickly towards the end, poor woman.”

Arriving at the first floor, Van Zyl noticed the open door of Muller’s flat and decided to pay a visit.

 Frikkie Muller was a problem tenant, a drunken slovenly fellow, beyond redemption, in Van Zyl’s opinion. Many were the times he could have evicted Muller for not paying his rent or getting into arrears and having to pay it off in installments. But the sparsely furnished bachelor flat was Muller’s last hold before the fall into the gutter. Unemployment. The street, the park bench. Methylated spirits. Van Zyl knocked on the door but there was no answer, so he entered. There were pieces of miss-matched furniture in the living area. A pine wood table and two ladder back chairs. A solitary armchair in front of the TV set, on with the sound down. A side table with an empty glass on it. A three quarters empty brandy bottle on the floor. Bed sheets for curtains, a film of dust everywhere.

In a corner on an unmade bed lay Frikkie Muller, sleeping off a binge, still in his greasy work overalls, toes protruding from evil smelling socks. Van Zyl shook him by the shoulder but Frikkie did not stir. He mumbled and murmured under his breath. Again Van Zyl shook him. Frikkie’s body flopped about like a rag doll. He opened his eyes and, recognizing Van Zyl, struggled up on an elbow, a shapeless smile on his face, and waved his other hand at a jacket hanging over a chair, gasped audibly. “The rent… in my wallet,” and fell back on the greasy pillow.

Van Zyl found the wallet but, aside from some loose change, it was empty.

“There’s no money in the wallet. What have you done with your rent, Frikkie?”

Frikkie groaned.” I must’ve lost it or been ripped off. You know what it’s like, Mr. Van. Man gets drunk and people take advantage. Maybe I was mugged or some woman... I’ll pay you extra next week. S’true Mr. Van. You sommer wait for me at the factory an’ catch me as I come through the gate with my pay.”

“How many times have we had this conversation, Frikkie? It’s the middle of the month and you haven’t paid.”

“I won’t let you down, Mr. Van,” Frikkie whined.” Some one in a bar must a’ took me. You know, taking advantage when a bloke’s…”

“I’ve been patient with you but it’s time the flat was cleaned up and given to a new tenant. Look at the filth you live in. You’re a disgrace to the building, to the other tenants, to humanity; you are…”

“Ag, please, Mr. Van. I got nowhere to go. If I leave this pozzie I’m gunnu die. A hobo in the street, Mr. Van, you a good man. Don’t do that to me. I got nothing, no frou, no fambly…”

“In every way you are a hobo,” Harry Van Zyl said. He would not weaken.                         

“I work, Mr. Van. Honest dirt. That’s grease on my hands.”

Frikkie flung a gnarled hand into the air which fell back and rested on the bed, like a thing in itself, a separate entity, a life of its own. It was work-worn; honest dirt, as Frikkie said, but he had a weakness and Van Zyl had had enough.

“No. I want you out of the flat. It’s time you took a look at yourself. You live like a pig. This flat is a disgrace.”

“Ai, now don’t get personal, Mr. Van.”

“It’s about time someone told you the truth. You’re a pig. One push and you’re in the gutter.”

“Don’t tune me grief. You getting personal now. I never got personal with you, Mr. Van,” he whined “you gotto watch what you say or I’ll drop you in the dwang very quickly—big trouble an’ all. Think I don’t know the score?” he finished with remarkable confidence, a knowing smirk implied that he and Van Zyl shared a secret.

“You threaten me again and I’ll throw that corpse of yours down the stairs and lock you out, you filth, you scum…”

“Ai, now you got it wrong… oh, yes you got it wrong. You can’t talk to me like that. I might take a drink or two now and again, but I’m a’ honest bloke, only you don’t know. An’ I’m a human been too.” Even Frikkie seemed dubious about this claim, for he paused and seemed to consider his words. He had a need to qualify them. “I got feelings, Mr. Van.”

“You’re scum. I should have evicted you long ago.”

Frikkie elbowed himself up and after a struggle, swung his legs off the bed and onto the floor. He looked at Harry Van Zyl through sunken eyes and for the first time real anger, righteous indignation, showed on his narrow, pinched face.

Van Zyl experienced a feeling of unease. He racked his brain for the reason behind Frikkie’s threats. The man spoke with conviction; that self-righteous rage... Of course, it was the drink talking; bloke was still drunk, had never seen him sober; or perhaps he was still hung-over.

A devious expression came over Muller’s face. “You wannu make like you don’t know what I’m talking about, not so ai, Mr. Van? But you know, man. Don’t play dumb with me. I don’t care who you let your flats to. You just remember you got no right to come barging in here an’ treat me like dirt while you breaking the law an’ all. You high an’ mighty rich people think peoples like me is rubbish, ai. You people don’t give a damn about us types,” Frikkie said resentfully.

Van Zyl was mystified by the turn the conversation had taken.

Frikkie scoffed. “You want me to believe you don’t know what’s going on in your own building? Unner your own nose? You want to act innocent? Ag, please, man! Clean, honest dirt,” he raised his hands, “see, but you... Ha! Break the law, man! Yah. Think I dunno my rights? And you should be ashamed of yourself…”  Frikkie protested, almost primly. Van Zyl laughed.

At last Van Zyl thought he knew what Frikkie was driving at. Some woman was entertaining men in her flat. It had happened before. The building was close to the harbour, a convenient place for sailors to visit. In the past, prostitutes had used these flats for business – until an official complaint was lodged and Van Zyl was able to evict them. Taxis used to turn up at all times of the day and night, dropping off seamen of every race and nationality, and not a few locals, thus risking charges under the Immorality Act—far more serious than a charge for soliciting.

Of course it was none of Harry’s business. He could not be held responsible for what his tenants got up to. He could only act once the police received a complaint, and then evict them.

At least the women paid their rent on time, Harry thought, ruefully regarding Muller, who in his ignorance believed a prostitute was using a flat to ply her trade. Idiot.

“If you think a tenant is using her flat as a brothel, lodge a complaint at the nearest police station.” He tried to imagine the likes of Muller complaining to some one in a police station; surely he would be thrown out or locked up himself? The man looked like a hobo.

It was Frikkie’s turn to look confused. He scratched his head. Fumbled for the cigarette packet, found it empty and glanced hopefully at Van Zyl, received no encouragement there and so salvaged a dog-end from a heap overflowing the lid of a tin that served as an ashtray, and coaxed from it a lungful of smoke. Picked thoughtfully at a milky white big toe protruding from a hole in his sock, from which rose the stench of athlete’s foot. Toe jam.

 “What you talking about, Mr. Van? You pretend you don’t know. You wannu know something, ignorance is no excuse in the eyes of the law.”

 This coming from Frikkie; he couldn’t believe his ears.“I’m sure you speak with the benefit of experience, Frikkie, what with all the times you must have spent in the cells after one of your binges…”

 Frikkie looked sly. “I’m talking about...” Silently pointing with his thumb at the ceiling. “That woman living with the supervisor. This is a white group area. And what about the Immorality Act? You get me now? You breaking the law, so it’s you that get in trouble if I report you.”

As Frikkie uttered the threat his expression underwent a transformation and his eyes focused on a point behind Van Zyl. Frikkie’s mouth fell open in a silent cry of shame and regret. He collapsed on the bed and hid his face in the pillow.

Van Zyl turned slowly. Standing in the doorway, a bowl of curry in one hand and a plate of bread in the other, was the elderly coloured woman from Joubert’s flat. She smiled uncertainly and stepped into the room. There was sadness in her eyes, a plea when she looked at van Zyl. Had he learnt her secret? That she was not a maid but a woman of a man. How would he treat her? Would he evict her? She had heard Muller’s threat, witnessed his remorse. She had come as a woman lending support for one in need; but in Muller’s shame was the seed of redemption, for she had forgiven him. Suddenly she seemed to tower over them; in giving she had received far more than they could ever return, even Muller’s remorse; she was suddenly a woman of considerable presence, for she had bestowed on Muller more than he would ever receive in his life.

She put the food on the table and addressed Van Zyl in a quiet, dignified voice. “It’s not healthy, living the way Frikkie does. The food will do him good. You must eat, Frikkie,” she said in a kindly voice. She smiled at Van Zyl.

 A lifetime seemed to pass in those few moments. He could not trust himself to speak. For an undecided moment the woman looked from Harry to Frikkie then quietly left the room.

He couldn’t look at Frikkie who’d buried his face in the filthy pillow; he couldn’t stay and continue his demands for payment; he felt only his own shame; there was Frikkie, and there the woman had gone, and here in this dwelling there lingered a terrible injustice. Muller’s remorse had merely revealed a side to him which men like Harry feared to look upon—his own conscience. His skin burned with shame.

Copyright (c) 2008 by David Abbott - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!
 

COMMENTS FROM OUR COMMISSIONING EDITOR, Jo Holloway:
Very vernacular (in character as much as wording) and endemic to the South African experience, thus it struck chords with me that it may not have with the English and American judges. For me it was well drawn and I found it easy to visualise the characters, and to hear them speak, though the ending was a little insubstantial. I felt a date at the beginning would have indicated more clearly the era, since threats of the Immorality Act would no longer be relevant and there is nothing else to inform non-South African readers that this is in the past. Also, a bit more attention to use of paragraphs would benefit the writing.

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