African Pens 2011: New Writing From Southern Africa by Coetzee J. M

Author:Coetzee, J. M. [Coetzee, J. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781431406258
Amazon: 1431406252
Goodreads: 28133675
Publisher: Jacana Media
Published: 2011-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

Martin Hatchuel

Martin Hatchuel feels a strong affinity for the Eastern Cape Province, and is particularly interested in the South African War of 1899-1902. ‘I feel you need to understand that war in order to understand the politics of 21st Century South Africa,’ he says. ‘I love exploring them both.’

Pinch

Pinch was the game they invented when they were boys running together on the veld behind their village in the wild and lonely Karoo, the only boys in their tiny settlement where Meiring’s father ran the district’s post office and trading store and Ludolf’s father drank the mampoer he distilled under an overhang in a valley half a day’s easy ride from his house. Pinch was when you sneaked up on your opponent without him seeing or hearing you and you caught the delicate skin at the side of his neck or under his arm between your thumb and forefinger and you twisted; and, of course, Pinch turned back on you if you were caught before you pinched.

And that was what made Pinch so addictive: they knew each other so well that it was almost impossible to succeed. They could feel each other, the one when the other came close; they knew each other’s needs, each before the other knew his own; they saw the world together, each through the eyes of the other.

As he lay in the cold and the dark, Ludolf tried to remember their scores. Meiring had always been in the lead, always a little more secure, a little more cunning, but he’d had his turn and there were times, satisfying, shout-inducing, laugh-till-you-hurt times when Ludolf had Pinched first and won (and when he’d lost he’d had to take his punishment, Meiring with his neck in an arm lock, drilling his knuckles into the poll of his head and shouting ‘Give up yet? Give up?’ And Ludolf would never give up and he’d wrestle back, hooking his leg and tripping them both until they landed giggling in the dust and panting in each other’s arms).

They hadn’t played Pinch since they’d joined the commando almost eighteen months ago.

Meiring stirred in his sleep. Ludolf could smell his animal smell and felt the rough, filthy cloth of his jacket against his cheek. He tried to tuck their blanket under his shoulder behind him and he reached over and tried to push the far corner over Meiring’s chest. But it was too small. He felt the cold come in from behind, down his legs and into his boots and creeping up his back from the crack where his trousers had parted from his shirt. There was nothing he could do but push their bodies closer together to try and draw what he could from Meiring’s warmth.

The smell was nothing: they’d got used to the stink of each other long ago and they’d got used to sleeping in pairs like this, sleeping as all the men did when they were on commando and the nights in the veld were cold beyond cold and a fire was unthinkable and they had nothing but each other for warmth.

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