Embrace by Mark Behr Page B

descended in the hall. No one moved. I was not breathing. We waited for the miscreant to be named. It could be any one. Or all of us.
    ‘Louw,’ he hissed, opening his eyes; black, flashing and terrible, ‘now that you are in Standard Seven and nice and big, let me tell you: you are not singing a fucking death march.’
    Silence. Brief relief. My mouth relaxed and I breathed in, then out, allowing my fingers to unbend from the sheet music.
    ‘This is not a death march. Nor is it a requiem. Stop dragging, dragging behind the piano. And stop scooping from note to note and sounding like Shirley fucking Bassey.’ He paused.
    ‘Do you hear me?’
    ‘Sorry, Sir.’
    ‘Don’t sorry me!’ Glowering at Louw, he took a pace towards the quartet. ‘If you can’t do it, fuck off! As jy soos ’n donnerse meid wil sing, get out of here and come back when you can do it properly. Where’s the Portuguese diva when I need him? Verstaan jy my, Louw?’
    ‘Ja, Meneer.’
    His nostrils flared, his chest heaved. Then, abruptly, immaculately transformed, there was a different voice altogether: ‘Later, later, when we get to the Agnus Dei — if we ever get there because this is the most useless choir in the history of the universe — in section eleven, then, Louw, you can do your tragic stuff. There you colour your voice black and grey. Just before the Dona nobis right at the end in six months’ time . . . that’s heavy, war-like, guilty, sad. But that’s far away. Understand?’
    ‘Yes, Mr Cilliers.’
    All of you, not just him. Do you understand what’s going on here?’
    ‘Yes, Mr Cilliers,’ in unison.
    ‘I want you to think . . .’ And he stopped, turned around and stalked to the far end of the hall. From there, when he spoke at last, his voice carried, echoed from the ceiling along the library corridor and back down to us: ‘The crucifixion. Die kruisdood, Christus aan daardie kruis, verstaan julle?’
    ‘Ja, Meneer.’
    ‘The Mass is a re-enactment of the sacrifice on the cross and through it we gain merit from God. We sinners . . .’ He was quiet for a while and sat on the back of a chair. ‘The Mass continues the work of redemption — throughout time. We are asking to be made worthy through God’s mercy. Worthy through mercy to sup from the body and blood of Christ. Just think of that, boys, just let your minds imagine for a moment that you are asking for forgiveness and mercy so thatone day you will be allowed to take Communion. The Catholics amongst you do it young, the rest of us only when were older. But that’s beside the point. For now, we all imagine ourselves begging to be allowed at the table. The Last Supper. This is a plaintive mood, it is not one of death. Red. Think the red of dawn, okay? Red voices. Brilliant pink on the high notes, sopranos. And altos, purple on the lows. Purple. There is hope of eternal life, even as each of us knows we are not worthy to enter these sacred mysteries.’
    His voice trailed off He walked back to take his place to the side of the pianist. ‘Do you get what I’m telling you to visualise?’
    ‘Yes, Sir.’
     
    ‘Okay. Right. Goed. From the Kyrie before Erskin.’
    Later, I faced him where he was seated behind his desk in the conservatory. Light from open windows rested in squares on the lawn. Warm humidity filling the room seemed to palpitate with the ringing of crickets and frogs from the orchard. The sounds peeled off the walls and resounded back down to the river.
    ‘I asked you to come,’ he said, and paused for a while looking me in the face, ‘because I thought you may have something on your mind.’
    I nodded. Stared down at the linoleum floor.
    ‘What is it, Karl? What’s bothering you?’
    A quick glance at him. Suddenly at a loss for words. Down again at my own bare legs and sandalled feet. Above my knees the hair was standing on end. Jesus. Now that I was here I was terrified.
    ‘Karl?’ Reassurance in the voice using my first