Moffie by Andre Carl van der Merwe Page A

61.’
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    Saturday, 2 February, 1980.
    When the long, brown hair was shaved off the boy’s head, I was watching a monument being defaced in a coup d’etat of a new order. We greeted this new world with a ‘number one’ haircut. The same and yet so different. Now, two days later, blisters cover our inflamed necks where our long hair used to curl down to our shoulders.
    The changes thrust on us define the new creatures we become in a world seen from different angles. I have become a planet torn from its orbit, left searching.
    The first week of our acquaintance I spend only watching. This boy has a voice as tranquil as a glider in flight, beyond the mess, tests, injections and abuse.
    The ‘browns pants’ we have to tuck into our boots are so unintentionally sexy on him. He is a perfect 32 as he tries on the trousers—a layer of taupe fabric shrink-wrapping my passion.

7
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    T he red ribbon slides between my thumb and index finger like mercury, and I savour the movement. The thin band continues its journey and then gently flies free. The next ribbon beckons, pointing the way to a secret covenant I know I will embrace.
    Ethan has told me nothing else but that I should be at this spot, at this time. It is here, behind the tent-town barracks, that I discover the first red ribbon tied to a shrub. For a moment I ponder the magnitude of this tiny symbol. In the tents behind me the other servicemen are resting before tomorrow’s early training session. I am probably the only one in the entire company experiencing a sense of euphoria. I turn slightly to the right and see the next ribbon hanging in the still Highveld air.
    This is the seventh Sunday in camp, the last one before we leave for Oudtshoorn. I feel a mild sense of accomplishment; partly for getting through this period and partly for the confidence one feels when one is elected to an elite group—even if it entails going to a place one dreads. But for now my world is Ethan, and time is a series of ribbons.
    Each one leads me further up the hill. Tonight Mama Africa is again giving so uniquely from her abundant heart. There are no clouds. In the east a moon steals upwards and to the west the setting sun reminds me, for a brief moment, of Storm.
    The last ribbon takes me over the hill that now separates us from the army. Ahead of us is a training area that is not used at night and definitely not on a Sunday evening. There is only a slim chance of being caught here, but it is still a possibility too frightful to contemplate.
    Ethan is sitting smiling at me. Around him are four candles, and in front of him is food, but at first I only see him. Something reckless wells up inside me, and I feel filled to overflowing.
    From a parcel his mother arranged to be sent from Johannesburg, delivered yesterday, he takes imported Camembert, Brie, Parma ham, bread and pâté—food we only dream about, food not in the vocabulary of most of the troops. For me, just being here, the fact that it is me he has invited to share with, is what centres the night.
    â€˜Ethan.’
    â€˜Hey, Nick. Let’s have some decent food!’
    â€˜Ethan, I can’t believe this, man!’
    â€˜No one saw you, I hope?’
    â€˜No, I checked.’
    â€˜I hope no one finds the ribbons,’ he smiles.
    â€˜No chance, they are too far away from the rest and it is already too dark. If you hadn’t told me where to start, I would not have found the first one. Ethan, this is very special. Thank you.’
    The setting sun on Ethan’s face turns his skin a smooth, deep brown. As he breathes in it is as if he inhales the light, which feeds him from within and then shines through his skin and blue eyes.
    â€˜We are lucky it is such a stunning sunset, I’ll say that for Middelburg.’
    â€˜Yes, it is. Ethan, I am speechless.’
    He pulls the cork from a bottle of red wine and it sounds like something being freed.