“I had an old boyfriend who said it was always
better to buy books by the bakkie load.”, she said as we walk through the
retirement village library, and talk while we look for the new titles that
Penny has added to the shelves. “He used to go to auctions and buy these ‘lots’
of books and other bits and pieces, enough to fill the back of his bakkie. Then
he’d go home, sort through them and put the books he didn’t want outside on the
pavement.” She sees the incredulous look I give her and quickly adds, “They
were gone the next day. Theo said that the Bergies who stayed on the mountain
were the most literate homeless people in the world. They were ex doctors,
lawyers; professional people who went nuts and couldn’t live in the real world
anymore.”
We walk up the stairs; I take my time with each
step and make sure that she does not need to rush to keep up. “Theo loved to
collect stuff. His house was full, and there were books everywhere. They were
in piles on the floor, in the kitchen, in the bathroom; everywhere. He once
found this old couch at the side of the road. He loaded it onto his bakkie and
he brought it home. It was in terrible condition, the fabric was torn and the
springs stuck out; but he just chucked a throw over it and used it. He was very
good with his hands. He loved to fix things. I gave him half a propeller that
my ex left behind. He sanded it down, polished it and hung it on the wall. It
looked beautiful. He always found value in everything. In one of the auction
lots he found a series of pressed dried flowers that a woman had collected and
framed. He said that she had taken the time to create that, and now someone was
just throwing it away. It made him angry that people could be so dismissive of
other’s feelings and achievements. He said it was precious, so he hung it up,
and of course it fit right in with all the other things he had in the house.”
I check the notice board inside the entrance of
the village clubhouse, my advert is still tacked under the portion labelled
‘Social’. We walk down the stairs onto the road that leads to my car. “My
daughter loved Theo, she called him Maverick, because he was unorthodox. She
said that he was her favourite boyfriend of mine. She would spend hours at his
house, snuggled in a chair reading, or just chatting to him. She said the house
reflected his personality, that it was full of character. She loved how it was
full of things; not in a hoarder kind of way, or old person knick knackie; just
comforting, like a good book. She felt comfortable amongst his clutter. I had
another boyfriend whom she hated. He was a minimalist and everything in his
house was stark, white and bare. She said that it was the same as his
personality, that he did not have one, and the house was a true reflection of
his character. He only spent some of the year here, and he had another house
overseas. He told me that when his wife died he got rid of most of her things,
oh, he kept some photographs and paintings, but most of the other things went.
He made it minimalist too. My daughter said that it was like he was wiping her
out of his life so that he could move on, I thought she was too harsh. She
really hated him – but she loved Maverick."
We take our time walking to my car. She picks
at a plant here and there, pinches off a leaf, and removes an old flower. “We
got together after his third wife. He had an affair while we were together. She
was an art professor at the university. He broke it off with her when I found
out; he said he wanted to try to make it work between the two of us. Then one
day soon after the breakup she arrived at his house, caused such a scene,
screaming, throwing things, and when Theo wouldn’t humour her she stormed out
in a rage. Later that night he got a phone call from her, she was in hospital.
She said that she had caught the train home, had been attacked, and been raped.
He rushed out to be with her. He supported her in her recovery for a long time
after that. We didn’t last much longer after that. Something never felt right
about what happened. Many years later, when I spoke about it to his son, he
said that he thought that it had all been a figment of her imagination. He said
he never really believed her story, and that he thought she was psychotic. She
never really seemed normal to me, she didn’t live in the real world, and I did
not understand how she managed to teach at a university. But, it is funny how
academia seems to draw the strangest people.”
I unlock my car with the remote and put my bag
in the boot. She carries on walking down the path that leads to her cottage. I
open the windows in my car to let the stifling air out and lean against the
passenger side door. She rests her arms on the balustrade that lines the path
and waits for me to finish. The sun is hot on my face and arms. She stands in
the shade. “He always said I was the only normal one he ever dated. He said
that he loved women, he didn’t care what they looked like. He could manage
long-term relationships He was married three times, but he also had many
affairs. He was attracted to psychologists, and you know what they say about
why psychologists choose to go into that profession; it is to fix themselves.
It never worked out with any of them. He said they were all nuts. I told Theo
he projected his issues onto them, that it wasn’t them that had the problems,
that the issues were all his, and that he was looking to them for solutions. I
often told him that he should see someone to help him work through things, but
he refused. Years later, he phoned me and said that he had finally gone to see
someone. He said that he walked into her office, they looked had at each other
and she said ‘I don’t think this is going to work out, I think we should have
an affair.’ And, they did. I couldn’t say that I was surprised, that kind of
thing happened to him a lot.”
“Was he that attractive?” I ask. My arms are
tingling from the sun; I slide my arms behind me and lean on my hands. “Well,
he had the most beautiful green eyes, with long dark lashes. He had curly dark
hair and a small beard. He was a climber and so he was broad shouldered, and
had a lean body and legs. He was reverse rich. He came from a very wealthy
family, but he hated them, so he went out of his way to look as scruffy as
possible. He wore button down shirts, but they always had stains on them, with
cut off jean shorts, and slops. Those slops you get at the Zimbabwean markets,
the ones made out of tyres. And, he never wore underwear. He is a wildlife
conservationist. He once went into the bush to track some animals in the wild;
he spent those two weeks naked. That was the type of guy he was.”
“Mentally he wasn’t right though. I know he
said that he loved women, but I thought he actually hated them. He hated his
mother. He said ‘What kind of mother abandons her son, how could she send a six
year old to boarding school?’ She sent him to Bishop’s, it was a very expensive
Catholic boys’ boarding school. Well, it was what the rich did in the fifties.
He hated it there. There were rumours about molestation and abuse that floated
around about the school, but I never really believed them. Then one night I
went to a party at a friend’s house, he had gone to Bishop’s. I asked him about
the rumours; he gave me this funny look, and said that whatever I had heard was
true, and worse than I had heard. Then he turned his back on me, and walked
away. I didn’t know what I had done wrong. Later that evening his wife, a
psychologist, spoke to me about it. She said that I had upset him, that he was
still traumatised by his time there, and that 60 percent of her patients came
from Bishop’s. I never questioned Theo’s stories about Bishop’s again.”
She straightens up and takes a step down the
path. I start to walk back to the driver’s side of the car. “Even though we
broke up after the art professor, we still stayed in touch. Every few months I
used to get a call to see how I was doing and to catch up. He’d ask me to marry
him and I’d laugh and say no. A few years back he bought a piece of land in the
Cape. It had a small house on it, and he converted everything so that he could
go ‘off grid’. He asked me if I would like to come for a visit. I said no
because I didn’t want to drive on my own to the middle of nowhere. So he
offered to come and pick me up when he had to come to town to do a collection
from the university. And he would drop me off a week later. I agreed, and I
went. It was ok for the first few hours, but by the end of the first day I
couldn’t take him anymore. It was terrible. I wanted to leave and I was trapped
there. He was okay in small doses, for a few hours even, but not for a whole
week. He was too intense, his moods fluctuated, and I couldn’t take it. It was
a horrible experience. I don’t know how I lasted the whole week. I remember
taking a lot of long walks. He still phones me and asks me if I want to come
and visit. It is easier to say no now that I am in Joburg. My daughter still
loves him.”
She smooths her hair back, and takes a step away
from me. “He is semi-retired now. He works about three hours a week at the
university, consulting and handling the overseas students. He is in his
sixties, and the twenty-year old girls still throw themselves at him. He is
that type of man, he is attracted to women, and women are attracted to him. You
should meet him some time.” “I don’t think so,” I say, as I climb into my car
and close the door, “He sounds dangerous.” She laughs, turns away, and waves
without looking back.
Author’s note: The basis for this story was a conversation I had with an elderly
student. I have adhered mostly to her portrayal of the facts as she experienced
them.
Sources regarding
abuse at Bishops Diocesan College, Cape Town:News24 – Police investigate sex claims at Bishops. 2014/08/03. http://www.news24.com/SouthAfrica/News/Police-investigate-sex-claims-at-Bishops-20140803
Accessed 2017/05/07
IOL News – Boys expelled from Bishops for bullying. Williams, M. 24 March,
2000.
Accessed 2017/05/07
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