The JRB presents new short fiction by Duane Jethro.
Perdjie
He had not expected the traffic official to grant the application for a bespoke licence plate. Garish, long and slightly crude, the name would never fly. But the thunk of the official’s approval on the crumpled application form stamped in his heart a sense of pride that until that moment had not been fully apparent to him. Perdjie, that would be the name displayed on his new Mercedes Benz. It was appropriate, he thought, for a machine bought with the surprising winnings from his horse’s remarkable run of good fortune. He was fine with that. Of course they could not squeeze in all the letters of the original name he’d put forward. But the traffic official, himself a punter, and a regular at the Lansdowne betting tote, had been taken in by the tale. The hope of a hot inside tip was also a bonus. He suggested a more simple and tasteful name. That is how he settled on Perdjie, leaving the fantastic but cumbersome full name for another place and time.
All of the race officials struggled with the name of his horse. But honestly, he didn’t care. Pumpkin Time, Flaming Rock, Belly Dancer, these were the standard names coloured punters had had to put up with as horse aficionados for their entire lives. Being so long in the game, he was determined to shake things up. He remembered the confused scowl on the official’s face when he first pushed the orange application form across the desk to get his horse registered for racing at Kenilworth: Dalawhatyoumust. They could never register such a name, the registrar said. It had to be English and vivid and memorable. There was no race announcer who would agree to reading out such a moniker. But he gently insisted, sweetening the deal with a bottle of fine whisky, and a lekker surprise in the bottom of the box to make it nice for the uncle. And so it was that Dalawhatyoumust was registered as a legitimate competitor in the South African and international horse racing circuit.
The power of names confounded him. He had a stable full of beautiful, promising horses, his smallholding in Philippi a busy little place of breeding, rearing and training … but less than average performance. Appollo, Zeus, Striding Commander, these were the weighty names he’d given his horses, but they performed not much better than donkeys, even in the lowest-stakes races. For years he’d attracted jeers at the racetrack whenever he went to settle his registration fees. Sitting on the stoep one night, sipping a brandy and coke, he wondered whether perhaps, more than breeding, more than training or luck, it was in the horse’s name that true sporting prowess lied.
He had not thought much of the horse when Anton had first called him to tell him about the upcoming auction. Something about its pedigree and the billionaire swindler’s stables. A fire sale, the trainer had said. To him, the black colt looked pretty average. The other bidders had also overlooked it, passing it up for horses with more defined histories of performance. And, truth be told, with his father’s passing and the struggles with his wife, he hadn’t had much time to think about horses at all. But he put up the money and they delivered the animal, small but energetic. He’d had to register the name within three days. It was at the tote, after a heavy day’s drinking and banter, in the midst of all of the responsibilities suddenly placed at his doorstep, that the name came to him, Dalawhatyoumust. In the end, that is all one could do, take responsibility for the things that presented themselves to you. It was a fine name for the horse to carry forward. At the very least it would break the streak of cocky English names that he’d reached for in vain so many times before.
Given that he was a tiler, this horse business was a strange obsession his friends just couldn’t fully understand. But then they had never fully appreciated these majestic and graceful creatures, with their explosive, untameable energy. He appreciated every one of his poor horses for the simple fact of their mystery, however flawed, slow and costly. Wandering about the yard, he’d stroke his beasts, chiding them in Afrikaans for embarrassing him, but always holding out love for their beauty and individual character. And in all of them he sensed, in a strange way, the power of the first horse that had captured his fascination.
He had felt so special having had a chance to go with his Deda to work on the Saturday morning. Having just started Sub A at Springbuck Primary School in Lotus River, he felt that there was a kind of responsibility being put on him as a six year old, when Deda took him along to Mr Van Der Merwe’s farm in Philippi to help with the stables. The rush of the raw smell of farm life hit him as soon as his Deda opened the creaky doors; damp, earthy and stinky, like manure. He carried a little bucket of feed, walking behind his Deda who was pushing a krywaa filled with hay towards the thud and snorting of the horses. It was frightening and exciting all at once, and he was overwhelmed by all the sensations, of sights and sounds that reverberated through his bones, of so many boisterous animals in the care of his father.
And in the far corner there was an especially loud commotion, a horse fiercely banging up against the stall door, menacingly huffing and puffing and stomping its hooves. Just then, Mr Van der Merwe stepped in, a tall white man wearing green dungarees over a white shirt, dirty, high boots and thick glasses. ‘Gan kyk daar Jan, die perd is heel oggend ongelukug.’ ‘Ja baas.’ That was the first time he heard his father say the word baas. They walked down to the end of the row, where the uproarious horse was banging against the stable door. ‘Bedaar, D’Artagnan,’ his father said, coaxing the horse with a handful of hay and soft words.
It was a mighty brown stallion, with a shiny coat, twitchy wiry muscles and a beastly smell that was too much for him. Alvin stepped back, wanting to run. But his father put his hand on his shoulder and told him, ‘staan vas’. Then he picked him up from under his shoulders to show him the horse in all its glory. He took his hand and pushed it through a gap in the door, saying, ‘Vryf sy nees. Hy hou van daai.’ Alvin felt its warm, heavy breath, and then the bristly, soft, smooth nose as he followed his Deda’s lead. And he felt the horse’s roaring snort calm to a rhythm as the beast took delight in his gentle strokes. He couldn’t believe that such a ferocious animal could be so easily tamed, soothed by hay and petting. And forever more, after that fateful day, his nightmares and dreams would be filled with visions of D’Artagnan, a heaving, beautiful beast that would rush forward with his greatest suppressed fears, or deeply hidden aspirations. The night after first meeting Chevon, at a twenty-first birthday party, he dreamt of D’Artagnan running with great delight through a lush green meadow. He awoke the next morning knowing she would be his wife.
At his Philippi stables, however, none of his horses had lived up to the otherworldly prowess of the horse of his childhood. They’d all flopped. Chukus, as they kids would say; firecrackers that failed to pop. Despite the training and feed and costly supplements heaped on them, they were all duds. The black colt, however, was different. It took to training with enthusiasm, gobbled its feed, and complied smartly with its handlers.
The punters laughed him off at the tote when the horse’s name came up on screen as a contender in its first race. Dalawhatyoumust. The broadcast was paused as the announcer took a moment to check if a mistake had been made on the race card. But the atmosphere changed after the horse’s third straight win. Suddenly the Whatsapp messages started coming in. Punters who’d never paid any attention to him suddenly wanted his time. ‘Kwaai win.’ Everybody wanted to buy him a drink, have a chat, and come by to see the horses. In his heart, however, he felt uncomfortable with his newfound success. He’d meant it to be a joke, the name of the horse. And now, the animal was seeming to be fulfilling a dark prophecy. Leg after leg, heat after heat, it won, smashing long-set records. And it drew more and more public attention to him, a simple tiler, with a small stable, with every leaping stride. There was a sense of growing expectation thrown up by his horse’s churning of the turf.
And so it was, while offloading rubble at the tip in Strandfontein, that he received a text from John Clark, South Africa’s top racer. ‘Alvin, congratulations on your horse. Let’s have lunch soon.’ Leaving the site, driving down Baden Powell Drive, he watched the brown-stained seawater lap up on the white sandy beach. He’d caught the attention of the Big Shots. He was now in the game.
Chevon was unsure about her make-up. She’d spent all morning getting ready. He reassured her that she looked fine as they left the house. But she was nervous. It was the first time they were going to go to a fancy lunch in Constantia. The fortunes of his horse had also turned things in his marriage. Before, the tote and his stables had been a refuge from arguments and strife. Now, they had become the source of shared expectation, of dreams of hard-fought-for success that rolled out endlessly like the loop of verdant turf at Kenilworth. They arrived early, parked the Nissan Bantam bakkie in the far back, between the staff and delivery vehicles, and took the booked table on the patio. It was all so intimidating, the menu, the posh people, but Chevon told Alvin, ‘Hou jou kop. Ons is innie ding hier.’ They ordered Appletizers, not knowing what much else on the French menu meant, and waited.
John Clark pulled into a reserved bay at the front of the restaurant in a huge black Porsche. The meeting was brief. Clark did not even bother greeting Chevon. He wanted to buy Alvin’s horse, and was willing to offer 100K—cash. The money was in the car and he had the contract with him for the sale. They could do the deal right then and there. Alvin remained calm. The offer was not just insulting, but, as they said on the Cape Flats, it was like being taken in the face—a bald-faced humiliation. In three months’ time was the JB Met, where his horse would be a contender against Blue Velvet, Clark’s prize-winning horse.
‘Mr Clark, thank you. But my horse is not for sale. It is in training to win the Met. We look forward to competing against your fine horse there,’ he said politely, before paying for their drinks and leaving without shaking hands.
Chevon chewed him out all the way back to Grassy Park for being soft and not telling that man like it was for insulting them like that. But he stayed quiet, steering the rickety bakkie through the traffic. The horse had brought this unsettling good fortune into his life. There was much preparation to do.
Despite his quiet confidence, the horse’s performance began to flag over the next few races. Second and third were its best placings. Worse was to come. In the final proving gallop, against an aged mare, the colt perversely fell back, resisting the jockey’s most furious thrashing, and steadily trailed the sparring horse to the finish. They suspected an injury, but none could be found. It was unnerving. Chevon was already speaking to real estate agents about a house in Plumstead. The celebration party was being finalised. But now it seemed the horse was failing him at the very moment it mattered most.
The Kenilworth racecourse was like a second home. But for the Met it transformed into a huge gala, which for many many years he and his family had not been able to access. Now, they were not only allowed in, but were taking centre stage. His horse had been given fantastic odds, not seen since the nineteen-eighties. The whole family was kitted out in suits made by a tailor who serviced Athlone’s Atlantic Star minstrel troupe. They wanted to show off their colours. Before the race, Alvin went down to the stables to meet his jockey and trainer. Mike, the rider, wore a pink jumper, and Anton was checking the last details before the race. In the stalls, Dalawhatyoumust calmly grazed at a clutch of hay. They were all set, Anton confirmed. The horse was in shape and they would have a good run. Mike felt good. Alvin walked over to the stall and reached in. Stroking the horse, he whispered softly in its ear, ‘Vedalla them.’
The laaities were already starting to cry from overexcitement by the time he got up to the premier’s box to watch the race. It was hot, and everyone was beginning to unbutton their stuffy shirts. His heart raced as he watched the horses being corralled into the starting stalls. This was it. There were loud cheers as the doors cracked open and the horses leapt into the race. Dalawhatyoumust was slow out of the blocks, and Blue Velvet and the rest of the ticket surged into commanding positions over the first five hundred meters as his horse fell back into fifth. But then, steadily, over the next thousand meters the black colt dropped its competitors one by one, passing the lead contender with two hundred meters to go. Their box went berserk as the horse rushed past the competition towards the finishing line, Mike raising the whip in celebration as he crossed fifty metres ahead of the pack. Tears streamed down Chevon’s face as she embraced Alvin, the kids rushing to hold onto them. Alvin looked over the celebrating crowd to the scoreboard, where Dalawhatyoumust was emblazoned at the top. He turned and raised his glass of JC le Roux to toast Clark and his entourage, who stood forlornly consoling each other in the booth next door.
Sliding into the driver’s seat of his car in the traffic department parking lot, Alvin had to chuckle. Perhaps the horse had been just too fast for him. On the Monday morning after the race, he had wandered down to his stables, still babelas, only to find his horse missing. So too was Anton. Days later, his niece found a few pictures of him on Insta with cocktails and bikini-clad women at a lux resort somewhere in the Middle East. Before he could report it, they were deleted. Anton and the horse were never seen or heard of again. Alvin adjusted the aircon, lit a cigarette and checked his phone. A new sensation, Prince of Persia, was tearing up the Dubai racing circuit. His punter friends insisted it was his horse. But he didn’t have the strength to fight the metaphysical forces that had briefly brought that equestrian bolt of lightning into his life and written his name into history. They were alright. Driving off, he fell into a daydream, D’Artagnan lazily roaming a lush, golden hayfield.
~~~
- Duane Jethro is a scholar and writer who lives and works between Cape Town and Berlin.
