«LOCKDOWN CAPE TOWN» (2021)
The story behind the series of paintings
Back in 2020, during the lockdown, I spent three months housesitting in Cape Town while a very close relative was facing death far away.
Through this series of paintings, I created a tool of communication between us. I later wrote this short story.
1 |
Midday, Day 1 |
Barnard couldn’t believe his eyes. As he turned his Jeep into Main Road Springbok he saw people everywhere, either queuing up in front of shops in an orderly fashion, or frantically hauling goods away. The rush took him by surprise. He tried to make sense of it. What were these people preparing for? The biggest party in the world? The end of the world? What was going on?
He had arrived in a rural town 500 kilometres north of Cape Town. It was a Thursday. Not even a Friday. Or was it?
All of a sudden Barnard gasped at the possibility that his chronological continuum had been severely affected while he was in the Kalahari desert. Ever since he had wanted that time out, he had been in a different space. When his phone battery had died, he hadn’t cared. Now he did. Passing the digital signboard of a Standard Bank building on Main Road, counting 11.17am, Friday, 27 March 2020, he knew he had made a mistake. His timing was one day off: instead of lockdown starting in more than a day, he had to rush back to Cape Town urgently and sort things out before nothing would be the same.
After driving way too fast across the Knervsvlakte, the Cedarberg and finally past Atlantis he did a quick detour to Sea Point to get his stuff. He reached Plumstead just as the sun went down. When he turned off the ignition, he gazed at the silhouette of the two-storey wooden building jutting out into the crimson sky above the street like a ship tied to a jetty. How would he manage to stay there? All alone, without knowing anyone in this part of town?
That’s when he saw Jake in the driveway, busy loading cement bags and solar panels onto a trailer. Wasn’t it a bit late for that? Shouldn’t he be on his way by now? He was relieved to see him and went up to his friend.
It had been Jake who had started a conversation just after the president had announced preparations for the lockdown. «Barnard,» Jake had begun at Pirates Tavern in Wynberg.
Barnard remembered the evening with Jake vividly, because just after two beers had been placed on their table by a thinly clad brunette, a chubby man with a blue face mask had stepped up, sprayed the surface of the table with some green chemical, wiped off the liquid and muttered, shrugging, «the new hygiene regulations.»
The man’s initiative was rather appropriate at Pirates, long before Covid. The bar was a run-down dim cavern that had seen its best days in the middle of the previous century. Perfectly fine for two old friends talking about the unvarnished aspects of life far away from glitzy Cape Town.
«Barnard, listen, my brother, look at me,» Jake began again. «I’ve got to get out of here. Out of Plumstead. Out of this whole damn suburban life. It can’t go on like this. You should understand better than anyone else. Am I not like you, a nomad, someone who sees the world from a hitchhiker’s point of view, who doesn’t need all of this?” Jake waved indiscriminately at the walls, as if addressing some invisible witness.
“You’re free, you’re someone who wakes up in the morning wondering where the next adventure hides. To find it is what drives you. And then somehow you encounter that happy ending.»
Jake moved closer, Barnard moved away. He didn’t identify with Jake’s character study of himself and sensed that something inevitable was about to happen.
«I work 16 hours a day and still I sleep badly,» Jake began again, «and yes, there is Carolina, and we are happy, and there are the children, super sweet, but what am I left with? My years are rushing by. Is there an alternative? Am I supposed to be playing online bingo with Scottish grannies, should I obsess over the sex lives of deep-sea molluscs to get another PhD, or worst of all squeeze my balls into brightly coloured lycra trousers, while pedalling like a mad man across the peninsula?»
Jake didn’t look happy.
«Don’t get me wrong, I had chosen this, God knows why. But five weeks, – us, — locked up together in this house, – the thought of it alone makes me crazy..»
– Pause-
Barnard wondered if Jake had rehearsed his speech. His friend was a gifted speaker, one could listen to him for hours and laugh a lot, but Jake’s flow of thoughts bubbled a bit too smoothly. Something was off. «That’s why – I need you, Carolina needs you, we all need you. We need you to help us.»
«What do you want to do?»
«We think of something big: we want to start building a small house in the Karoo. That has always been my dream. The lockdown could turn out to be a gift of God for us. If you help us.»
Barnard knew he couldn’t say «no». Nevertheless, he tried to buy himself some time. «What about your parents and your workers, can’t they look after your animals and water plants?»
It was a question that didn’t need an answer. He knew that during the lockdown, the government prohibited any non-essential activities. No one would be allowed to travel to manage the complex ecosystems Jake used to create his EcoPools, to feed dragonfly larvae, worms and turtles, check the filters and the water supply.
Barnard understood. The idea of house-sitting guaranteed the survival of the biology necessary to run the company until business picked up again.
There was no way out, so he nodded and mumbled «Ok, sure, why not.»
As he helped Jake put the last equipment onto the trailer, Carolina appeared, sandwiches in hand, a quick beso left and right. «We couldn’t think of anyone we’d rather leave our house with», she said. Then they drove off, the family of five. The children waved to him from the back seat. Their Citroën C3 and trailer were stuffed to the max, as if they wanted to emigrate, forever. Off towards the M5 and N1 to a place in the Karoo semi-desert, a little spot with water and enough space to await whatever decided to appear before them. «Nunca se sabe», Carolina, a native of Andalusia, had laughed when they talked about the Karoo void. Although her words were meant to be a joke, no one had felt like laughing.
Barnard turned towards the house and wondered: had anything been forgotten? He wished he had made a list. There would be no opportunity to retrieve things he had left behind. He began to bring in boxes with notes, canvases and paints. Finally the small suitcase, a boardcase. On his travels he had learned to reduce himself to hand luggage. Thick socks for the cold Cape winter, a hot water bottle, heat blanket, cooker and immersion heater. And his hammock. He placed it carefully on the terrace in front of the kitchen.
He felt the tension and didn’t want to stumble over an invisible limit, or feel the pain because he had ignored clear indications that would make him pause. Instead he slowed down and made himself some tea. But where were the glasses, where the cups, where the honey? While the water kettle grew hotter, he lay down in the hammock and finally, yes, he took a deep breath.
2|
Fine lines, strokes and wires form fences, harmless in front of this enormous sky, but terrible on the land for those who wander. Cutting earth and water veins, and islands of vegetation. Yes, there is a need to migrate, an essential need to move!
Isn’t that what triggers the instinct of elephants, wildebeest and antelope? And what about humans? Do they get entangled in dreams and fear when facing barriers?
I, you, we all close our doors, streets and neighbourhoods, the normal is no longer normal, and as I stare at the ceiling, I realise that movement is not natural, but a privilege.
More fine lines appear in my mind’s eye, outlines of living beings, held together, just as a river needs its banks so as not to flow apart, not to lose sight of its destination. Like rock paintings who need outlines to avoid blobs of colour, without meaning, full of coincidence. We need outlines to be able to move within the lines. It is a question of composure.
My thoughts draw me back to the desert I had to see before the lockdown, places of vastness, untethered, unrestrained. I can no longer move freely for who knows how long.
3 |
In the desert I had seen a rock painting of a zebra cub. It was freshly born and still wobbly on its feet – sketched in ochre on sandstone, an unknown painter and a subject immortally bound together by a brief encounter.
I watched the animal on a rock cliff, the sun was pressing hard on the stone. I felt dizzy.
Trying to orientate myself, I walked on, got lost, reached a small lake with blooming water lilies.
Later I drove past shimmering salt lakes and an oasis to a lonely petrol station. There was radio reception. «The first cases have arrived in the Northern Cape,» the announcer said, as if talking about a railway distributing special cargo around the country. I drove on and on, towards the Kalahari, the sun weaker, the sky burning, but the heavenly fire would soon be extinguished. I couldn’t be as fast as the sun, it was outrunning me, and soon I was in the dark, urgently needing to find a place to sleep. Herds of springbok disappeared into nothingness, leaving only the patter of their hooves.
I felt the deep grooves in the gravel road, I was rocked back and forth, and pledged, please don’t break an axle. Suddenly a gate. I opened it, just like that. I drove on, without headlights, in fear of being stopped, the stars shimmering pale. No moon.
I parked behind a wind pump. While inflating the air mattress, I felt the starry sky upon me, a thousand eyes watching.
What must it have been like in the past to roam hundreds of kilometres? A wasteland today, but a magical home in the past, I believed. Or so I wanted to believe.
Soon I was overcome by a deep tiredness. When I opened my eyes again, it was still dark. I got behind the wheel and drove further north through the night. At dawn I reached the desert and stopped at a waterhole when three giraffes approached unnoticed.All of a sudden they were just there. I took out my diary and wrote: “how absurd is it to think that the wilderness has a right to exist because it is tolerated by humans.”
Now I don’t know whether that is true or not.
My gaze was lost in the distance. I was overwhelmed by the dunes that rolled towards me from the horizon. Here and there something pink peeked out, like the flesh of guavas, but most of it was an endless succession of sand, some grass and flowers, with buzzing butterflies and flying ants.
I saw ostriches and gemsboks. Flocks of birds rustled everywhere, but none was like this one grey, inconspicuous bird, comparable in appearance to a wagtail but with a snow-white breast. I had never seen such a bird before. As it warbled its bewildering succession of notes, its small chest heaved, its beak stretched upwards, filling the vast space with sounds that seemed so alien to me. As if this delicate life revealed something of the primordial mystery of the world.
Meanwhile, I could watch clouds billowing into the metallic blue sky until they met as shining white bodies in an embrace. They pushed into each like copulating bodies. Soon thereafter it began to rain. A double rainbow stretched across the horizon.
Two young jackals were playing in the grass, I saw two cheetahs, two gemsboks, two ostriches. The whole universe seemed to manifest itself as a couple.
As I drove along, I listened to classical music, the Piano Concerto in G major by Ravel.
A few kilometres further on, a lioness was snoozing at the edge of the track, just like that. She seemed to be asleep, but appearances were deceptive: her tail kept darting through the air to scare away annoying insects.
I parked the car close to her, turned off the engine and left a narrow crack between window and chassis. I could hear her breathing and purring. She didn’t seem to take any notice of me. I looked at her for a while. Then I knew why: her face reminded me of my childhood. Or to be more precise, the Sunday afternoons I spent in complete contentment with my family. Whether it was in the car on the way back after a long hike in the mountains, or when we all lay down together on the colourful Persian carpet after an excessive meal. The sight of the lioness triggered a feeling of great peace in me. In her presence I felt that I had arrived, no matter where I was. As if everything had been said. As if everything had been done.
4 |
Evening, Day 1
First it gurgles, then a timer in the aquarium goes off. Guppies, Sumatran barbs, swordtails. It’s an hour after dark. That’s right: Close the door! Lock everything! The whole city does this.
He enters the balcony, climbs the ladder onto the corrugated iron roof. From up there he has a wide view from the Hottentots-Holland mountains all the way to Table Mountain. He gazes at the panorama and becomes very quiet. The air is nothing but air.
Back inside, he carries loose notes and travel diaries in his arms like a little child, filled to the brim with the secrets he has collected, and piles them up like little skyscrapers on a desk to form a vertical model city. There it is, his experience and thinking, his knowledge, his images and feelings, his thoughts. All that goes through the mind of a man who had travelled the world.
An isotype analysis of his cells and bones would be able to prove where he had spent those years: 60 weeks in the jungles of Borneo, 12 in the ice of Antarctica, 9 on Easter Island, 110 weeks in Iceland, 45 in Ethiopia, 170 in Portugal, always on the move. Until now.
Now he’s in Plumstead. Locked up.
Before he puts his mobile phone aside, he sees a WhatsApp message from his mother.
He had told her about his trip to the desert. He sees her reply, a voice message, presses play and hears her voice.
«It must have been great days that you experienced. I see the whole country spread out before my eyes and I can imagine a lot, I already know a lot. The wide sky, the red earth, the lioness at the edge of the path. Simply magical.
As a mother, I would have liked to have been closer to my boy all these years, but with our many travels together through Africa, you gave me a great gift.
Now you are setting yourself up. I hope you have enough to eat, that there is nothing you run short of. I am also a person who likes to be alone. Everything is relaxed here, I don’t have many appointments left.»
He tries to concentrate on his mother’s words, but his attention wanes. She speaks very slowly, makes many pauses. Her voice is hoarse, dry. All of a sudden he falls asleep. He no longer hears the rest of the voice message:
«Good, I’m fine, even if the perspective is unfamiliar, but I’ll manage what’s coming. At times the pain is terrible, it’s as if something is hitting me with full force in the pit of my stomach, but don’t worry. Please let’s talk on the phone soon. It can all happen very quickly now.»
5 |
Morning, Day 2
The night is quiet. Four million people, yet everything is different from what it was. No one makes a sound.
His communication with friends and family have become exclusively digital. They are important to him, perhaps even vital, who can say what else might happen? The social network gains a special quality. In this new everyday, they are the buffer that stabilises life’s inconsistencies before they add up to some real craziness.
Before dawn, he opens the door to the terrace. It’s walls are covered with passion flowers. Some shoots announce a harvest of thick fruit, rich in sour pulp, others are still blossoming. The ground is damp, he walks barefoot, he strides, attentive, reverent. Past the natural swimming ponds, the sleeping frogs. Even though he cannot make out the mountain in the darkness, he knows about it’s existence. After all, «the mountain» has been an anchor for him throughout his life. Prominent elevations have always limited his horizons and invited him to dream towards the beyond. As a child it was the Brocken in the Harz mountains, in Seattle it was Mount Rainier, in Rio Corcovado. Now it is Table Mountain.
He reaches the kitchen, switches in the hot water boiler, cuts ginger, looks at the long table. He sees the stacks of paper, hesitates. They resemble humans, monks perhaps or spirits that come alive overnight. How should he deal with them? What to make of it? He doesn’t know. Instead, he just opens the computer and begins to type out what he encounters on paper.
At eight o’clock sharp, the national anthem sounds from loudspeakers at a nearby school. Usually this is the moment for school children to gather and sing the anthem. Only that today no one goes to school, surely not tomorrow and maybe never again. Why hasn’t the caretaker turned off the national anthem?
Is there still a caretaker?
Maybe the anthem is not supposed to stop playing at all, maybe there was an order from the very top to convey normality, a reminder of the way things used to be. «Nkosi sikele Afrika».
Later, a group of guinea fowls strut across the street. Nothing else is stirring, nothing at all until he steps onto the terrace.
That’s when a squirrel jumps out of a tree, over the pointed fence, across the road disappearing into a neighbour’s property. Free. Gone.
6 |
I had long held a wish to find time to archive texts and scripts amassed throughout my travels. This wish had become more and more urgent lately.
Now I’m in lockdown. For 20 more days, at least. At most, I am allowed to go to the nearest supermarket. The range of goods is restricted. No cigarettes, no sandals, no books, no T-Shirts with printed slogans, no surfboards.
The fundamental logic is whether something is vitally important or not.
Walking a dog in the street is not. Doing it anyway is considered a criminal offence.
Alcohol is not essential to life, it’s sale therefore prohibited. Pineapple is banned because it can be used to produce alcohol.
Police and 120 thousand soldiers monitor the population‘s compliance. Any violation is severely punished with pre-trial detention and imprisonment of up to six months: Because someone didn’t put on the mask. Because someone went to the beach.
I can’t run away from this, the airports and national borders are closed. The need to retreat has become a forced reality. My wish to have time to sift through my notes has come true.
7 |
Morning, Day 3
People jump rope, do push-ups, practise yoga. A long-distance runner completes a marathon on a high-rise balcony, reports his achievement on social media platforms and is congratulated by millions.
Suddenly everyone is so persistent! Puzzle games and chess boards have long sold out. Some are busy copying the Bible or the Koran word by word. Others hoard toilet paper.
These are fun times. The internet is abuzz with self-made slapstick comedians: parents trying to hide from their children in the confines of their flats. Of children irritated by a parental lack of cooking skills. Some film themselves during “skiing vacations” or “beach holidays” in front of photo wallpapers. Neighbourhoods await the nightly ritual of banging cooking pots and pans. In hospitals nurses perform dance classes on corridors. Alienated from the wider world, there are no limits to self-expression.
Thus, it wasn’t rising sea levels due to climate change, or the terror of an imminent nuclear catastrophe that gave humans a thorough sense of community. Instead it is the reduction of people’s contrived living conditions. It is their globally awakened dark humour but also a fear of overcrowded hospitals and cemeteries.
At the same time urban habitats are visited by the wild. Pumas in Santiago de Chile, dolphins in the canals of Venice, elephants in Indian cities and penguins in African suburbia! Without any further ado these species reconquer our space. As we take a sabbatical from hectic lives, nature takes a holiday from us.
The big debate about immigration is suspended for now, but what will the pandemic do: is it a catalyst of communal radical rethinking or the magnifying glass of individual egoism?
Will there be demands for more privilege, or more devotion to solidarity? Will wealthy countries snatch masks and vaccines from the poor?
8 |
Noon, Day 3
He picks up the first piece of paper, a quote of Lao Tzu:
Heaven attained the One and became pure.
The earth attained the One and became solid.
If the heavens were not pure through this, they would burst.
If the earth was not firm through it, it would stagger.
He had never understood the content of these words.
It would take time to crack the core of this statement. He had no interest in doing that. He likes the unsolved riddle.
As he searches further, he discovers sketches of the ninth cosmic dimension in physics, the chemical composition of musk ox fragrance. He had earned his living for many years with connections and details spanning centuries and fields of interest.
Another bit of information: during the times of discovery, captains of Portuguese caravels realised that their staff was often overwhelmed to identify left and right, or port side and starboard side. To avoid confusion they instead hung garlic cloves on the starship side and onions on the port side. Thus Europe discovered the world whilst shouting “garlic” or “onion”!
Such curiosities and footnotes have no more value.
He leaves the computer and climbs onto the roof. He looks at Plumstead. Scans for bipeds, but does not find any. A thought: four million years ago the first early humans, half naked, equipped with inconspicuous biting tools, unable to frighten another animal with their grunts, cautiously stalked a piece of carrion guarded by lions and hyenas. How in the world was it possible that this strange creature was not instantly destroyed?
Four million years later the same beings fly across oceans in aeroplanes and race along motorways in vehicles powered by the essence of solar rays.
Crazy?
Stop.
He looks in the direction of the motorway, which is empty.
He looked at the sky. The contrails have disappeared. Evolution has disappeared.
Later he writes emails to colleagues he had worked with. To a bus driver in Quebec, an egyptologist in Cairo, a biologist in the Pantanal, a local tour guide in Lisbon. People with whom he shared a world that no longer exists.
He knows that they too had become dissatisfied with the negative effects of an industry that made people addicted to distance. An industry that manages to destroy the authenticity it sells.
The tour guide narrative evokes a scenario in which a formerly paradisiacal state, is suddenly destroyed by flood, revolution, volcanic eruption, massacre, drought, iconoclasm, famine, human sacrifice ritual, war and plague. A spooky setup that keeps visitors awake on long bus routes or in endless museum galleries. Now that the whole world has been hit by disaster, Barnard wonders how his friends are doing.
Now that their audience has evaporated.
He takes the next paper. What else could he do? He reads and notes and files away, and is only pulled out of this activity late in the evening. Suddenly he hears a laugh, outside, in the somewhere. He does not know where the laughter comes from, nor does he know the reason for it. It is the first living human voice he has heard since he found himself in lockdown! The laughter moves him so much that he has an urgent desire to sing.
He stands upright and begins to intonate Schubert’s «Forelle». At first his voice trembles, he had not used it for days, then, gradually, it begins to sound stronger. When he has finished the song, he listens to his recorded soundtrack and is surprised when he becomes aware of a melody that comes from the outside!
He opens the door. The sky is deep blue. There it is again: the sound undoubtedly comes from a clarinet. And a trombone. There is also a rattle, a drum. He sings the “Forelle” again, and again. Meanwhile, the shrill sounds of bagpipes and of a vuvuzela pierce the night. He keeps singing, the same song over and over again. The mesh of music emitted by unidentifiable neighbours doesn’t integrate well, each sound remains independent. Nothing follows the same destination, and yet everything belongs to each other.
9 |
Noon, Day 4
He fries carrots with melted butter. He massages his fasciae and does stretching exercises. Then he sits down at the table and works.
The weather is good. Later he writes an email to his sister. She is in the Caribbean with her husband.
«How are things going with you? Were you able to replace the defective solar panels and repair the sails? How are the cooking skills of your new sailor Yannick? Vegan is nice, but what happens if your husband lands a fish?
Thank you for your description of the curious dolphin that swam around your boat for a long time. It touched me very much. How wondrous such an intense encounter!
What are the other sailors doing? Are they staying or are they going back to Europe? And you? During our last exchange, you wanted to go to Colombia to wait out the hurricane season. But will they let you into the ports there? Guadeloupe is certainly not a bad place to get some rest. Are the croissants there as delicious as in European France?
Four days ago I was still at the ocean myself, in Seapoint. After quickly getting my things out of my flat, I saw big container ships in the distance, ploughing tirelessly around the cape. Onshore, everything was deserted, a twilight loomed over the horizon, huge grey waves crashed against the rocks. Suddenly I had the idea that the big boats were spaceships. The rest of humanity had gathered to leave earth as soon as possible. I, on the other hand, had decided to stay behind, I was literally the last of the Mohicans. I stood on the edge of our planet and watched the exodus of human life towards space. Crazy!
Do you remember the opening credits of Star Trek?
«Space, endless expanses. It is the year 2200. These are the adventures of the Starship Enterprise, which, with its crew of 400, travels for 5 years to explore new worlds, new life and new civilisations. Many light years from Earth, the Enterprise penetrates galaxies never before seen by man.»
Starship Enterprise, Bonanza, Flipper, Lassie, Skippy the Bush Kangaroo. That day, the view of the sea catapulted me back into our little world in Drütte. Was it because we lived in an ark back then, behind high sandstone wall together with Robby and our parents? Suddenly that time was very close. I wondered what our Dad would say about the current events.
As you know, he often asked himself of what was going on behind the stories put out by the powerful. Our parents used to hold up a mirror to make us aware of what might be hiding beneath the surface. They asked «Whose aquarium are swimming in?».
They went on to entice us: «Think outside the box», «Don’t get too comfortable». Their favourite introduction was: «What if?»
As a child, I found those thought experiments funny, and a bit exotic. In 1975 I saw pictures of the hasty escape of the US Americans from Saigon, and a few years later similar scenes in Tehran. All of that happened far away. The Fall of the Wall was much closer, 21 kilometres to be exact. And now Covid. Countries closing their borders, introducing curfews, infection stats growing exponentially, flights cancelled. A situation has arisen that we were warned about again and again at the time.
The longer we live, the more realistic the unexpected becomes.
«Are you prepared?». «Are you ready?» I’m sure you are and I’m looking forward to see what happens next, with you, with all of us. Fortunately, we are in the internet age, we can exchange ideas and news rapidly.
I say goodbye for today, with the greeting that’s en vogue now: «Stay safe and sane».
10 |
Afternoon, Day 4
He begins work on his first painting. He squeezes the paint onto a large plate, sets up the canvas and brushes it with the first pigments. His movements are controlled. He has learned that uniformity is conducive to letting something unknown arise from within. By opening the paint tubes, he has given his consent to this process. He is ready to submit to a question.
When he pauses for the first time to put on water for a cup of tea, he realises the theme of the painting. It is about sanity, about common sense.
It’s about himself.
He paints the picture of a human body, from the inside out.
The question is: What remains of the human being when skin and bones and flesh and organs have been stripped away?
He presses new pigments onto the plate.
He knows that the answer will paint itself.
In the last evening light, he lays the brushes down and steps onto the terrace. The mountain glows. He undresses and slowly climbs into one of the natural swimming ponds. The stones at its edge are still warm from the sunlight, the water is cool. Summer is drawing to a close. The seasons follow their course. In the morning, the sun rises from behind the mountains, runs north and disappears behind Table Mountain. Unaffected by viruses or people.
With every breath, more water seeps over his skin.
He has all the time in the world.
Already the water is at his shoulders, he exhales and sinks to the bottom. He feels himself reaching a state of suspension.
How long can he stay under the surface?
When he comes back, he notices that he is being watched.
On the leaf of a water lily, only a few centimetres from the tip of his nose, a frog does not take its eyes off him.
11 |
Early morning, day 5
He finds no peace.
The colours continue to paint.
He had made use of the pigments and brushes, but had not been able to prevent them from using HIMSELF as a canvas.
Once activated, they continue what he had begun, ceaselessly casting a flood of flickering and glowing imagery on his retina, whether he is awake or asleep. They are unpredictable, wondrous images, their deeper meaning hidden from him. He cannot hold on to them.
Whether fully conscious or not, transferring the mysterious flood of light to a medium seems quite impossible. After all, he does not work at the speed of light! And yet he dwells over the question of what could happen to him if he were to allow himself to enter the state of full awakeness. Would he be condemned for ever and ever to live nervously?
Reluctantly, he resolves to be more cautious next time.
Weak, he gets out of bed, staggers into the bathroom and sees his blood-shot eyes. The image frightens him, he sees something he should not have seen. He switches off the light and feels his face.
His neck is soft, although the skin has already wrinkled in some places. His hands feel the prominent chin with the dimple. The narrow lips, the fine nose, the deep eye sockets, the laugh lines, the bristly eyebrows, the slightly arched forehead. He switches the light back on. The man in the mirror remains a stranger to him. Had he already changed so much in these days? He had not become aware of it, but the image does not lie.
He starts shaving his beard, then his whole body. All the hair, even on his legs. He feels drawn to it, he has never done this before! Why shouldn’t he do it now?
Then he stands under the shower. The hot water rushes down on him but it takes a long time for the succession of colourful images to be rinsed away. Only when the water temperature drops does he leave the shower cubicle.
He has now decided to paint in this house only in the early hours of the day. He needs distance.
It has become very clear: It is important not to let the banks of his river of life fray too much. Important questions are raised at these edges. Answers become visible here. He has to follow up both the answers and the questions that become apparent. It is a matter of making a suddenly occurring moment as benignly favourable as possible.
Even when the answers do not reveal themselves, when he tries to pierce the big plump universe without a drop seeping from it, he can’t back down, neither in painting nor in writing. Even while working on the stacks of notes the information and insights do not visualise themselves according to the random principle, but follow a voice of their own. Should he thus let the writing work by itself? Let notes penetrate each other, explode, repel, meet, overlap and detach themselves?
He has often witnessed sensory illusions. For example, when a stationary train suddenly seems to start moving, although it is not the train itself that is moving, but another train on a neighbouring track.
He finds it bewildering that common sense can be easily overridden. He is disturbed by the inaccuracies of his perception, precisely because of their supposed harmlessness.
If it is so easy to misinterpret a course of events, even if only for a moment, can’t social interaction then just as easily go off the rails in the face of current challenges? In a world of Trumps and Bolsonaros and Brexits, it has become difficult to distinguish. Or is it?
«No», «nonsense», Barnard then thinks and calms down: the train only leaves when the time of departure has arrived. Fake is fake and real is real. «You’d have to be pretty stupid not to be able to tell the difference,» Barnard says to himself.
The thought reassures him and he adds, a bit too aloud: «Let it be, because it will all go the way it wants to go».
12 |
Morning, Day 5
He stirs the colours and paints the picture until the bell rings. It is 12 noon on the dot. He puts the brush aside, although the painting is far from being finished. But the handle of a clock demands that it is finished! And so be it.
He then carries it into another room, locks the door and puts the key on a shelf in the kitchen, to avoid any relapse.
Then he listens to the radio. A station in Montreal plays Italian pop songs. When France Culture talks about the connection between Böcklin’s Toteninsel and the psycho thriller Shutter Island, he zaps on. This would certainly have been a very exciting analysis, but it is too much for him, too dangerous.
Only in the late afternoon does he turn to his stacks of paper:
The total weight of biomass that falls to the ground in autumn is so great that it affects the rotation of the earth.
The moon’s gravitational pull lifts earth, even if only by a few centimetres very day.
«Is this useless knowledge?» he asks himself. For the others it may be that, but he cannot part with it. He has made a pact with knowledge.
He must paint, read, write, think and believe, above all believe: that everything has a meaning.
13 |
Evening, Day 5
The wind is getting stronger, the clouds hang low and heavy. They are illuminated by street lamps that no longer serve any purpose.
It had been reported on Cape Talk that the crime rate had dropped dramatically since the begin of the lockdown because no one stays away much from their home anymore.
He does some yoga exercises on the roof, the tree pose. «Don’t get stiff,» he tells himself.
The tangled mountains of clouds over the horizon confirm the weather forecast, according to which a large Antarctic cold front will roll over the Cape next night. Fresh snow is expected to fall in Wintershoek and on Matroosberg. He wonders how a wooden house like the one he is staying in will react to strong winds. Like a Norwegian stave church, which, exposed to the fierce wind begins to swing harmoniously, apparently taming the wind?
The bushes by the house begin to beat on the walls in wild staccato.
He startles.
He feels dull and listless, like a seasick man in the hull of a decrepit boat drifting disoriented in the middle of a churning sea without a rudder.
The houses in the neighbourhood groan under the weight of the gusts. Branches and twigs scratch across the corrugated iron roofs with sharp fingernails.
One could be forgiven to think an army of giants and giantesses is stumbling through Plumstead.
He stands at the window, but sees nothing other than distorted images, created by raindrops blown away. Like hastily wiped off tears.
He thinks of his mother. He tried to reach her several times the day before without success.
Again a gust of wind hits the house.
He listens into the movement of air to imagine which obstacles might stand in its way.
It is a deep, black night.
14 |
Morning, Day 6
Today is rubbish collection day!
He will open the garage door, pull the black bin across the pavement and place it at the edge of the road.
In doing so, he will take a look at his friend’s house, the building he now lives in.
Jake and Carolina had assured him that the rubbish truck normally arrives at 9am, but what is normal now? Is there even a rubbish collection service any more?
There is a chronological sequence of events on rubbish days. Before the arrival of the municipal waste truck, rubbish is separated by an army of people entering the road with shopping trolleys in search of recyclables such as glass, aluminium or cardboard. What about these «bergies»? Will they be able to do their jobs despite strict lockdown laws? Will their job be considered «essential»?
Shortly before 9 a.m., there still is no sign of the Bergies, but a man appears opposite. It’s like high noon: two men face each other.
The other wears colourful shorts and flip-flops. An olive green T-shirt stretches tightly over his wide belly, hanging down to his knees. He is unshaven, has large hands. He calls out in a booming voice:
«Hello stranger, how are you getting on?»
«All good on this side, and you?»
«Crazy times,» the man nods, turns around and disappears again.
Was that a reference to the evening when he had belted out the Schubert song so loudly that its sound carried through the neighbourhood? Barnard wonders.
He looks on. The road seems much wider than usual, the house of his friends all the bigger. Then he hears a wild hissing and squealing. The rubbish collection is on its way!
A white truck turns into the road, brakes sharply. Two men jump onto the asphalt, grab two rubbish bins. They are jerked and shaken at the rear of the vehicle. Fascinated, Barnard observes this noisy convoy. The truck seems like a huge hungry animal, like a monster, a scavenger.
He wonders how humans not completely unlike his neighbour or himself, managed to develop such a vehicle? And what about the cars and all the other things that otherwise so visibly fill everyday life?
Not only are the people imprisoned, but most of their technical extensions as well.
Then he sees the man at the steering wheel. Small, lanky, red cap. He raises his hand in greeting, the man returns the gesture. Then the monster snorts away. And with it people who are allowed to be on the road. Who can experience what the city feels like in these times. Never before had the job of a rubbish man seemed so promising to Barnard.
He brings in the barrel. On the way into the house, he picks some stalks of lemongrass, heats up water, then dials his mother’s number. She doesn’t pick up.
15 |
Afternoon, Day 6
Since this morning I feel a great restlessness inside. I can’t seem to reach anyone important to me. While my Whatsapp inbox used to be filled with messages, today it has become very quiet. On top of that, there are two power cuts! The first time I checked the fuses, I found that the electricity units had run out. The mobile phone, however, was still charged. I was able to buy a few kilowatt hours online and enter the code into the prepaid meter. Lucky again!
Later the power went out in the whole neighbourhood. “Load shedding”, South African for “black out”. Two endless hours later, everything started up again, but still no sign of new messages. I have not been able to reach my mother either. What is going on there?
I turn on the radio and listen to current statistics.
South Africa counted 27 new cases and zero deaths. The worldwide number is 4791 new dead. A total of 42032 deaths so far. In the UK, a 13-year-old boy died of covid. The UN Secretary General calls the pandemic the greatest challenge facing humanity since the Second World War.
I hear a speech by the Director General of the World Health Organization:
“Good morning, good afternoon and good evening.
As we enter the fourth month since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, I am deeply concerned about the rapid escalation and global spread of infection.
Over the past 5 weeks, we have witnessed a near exponential growth in the number of new cases, reaching almost every country, territory and area.
The number of deaths has more than doubled in the past week. In the next few days we will reach 1 million confirmed cases, and 50 thousand deaths
Three months ago, we knew almost nothing about this virus.
Collectively, we have learned an enormous amount.
And every day, we learn more.”
He speaks of a solidarity alliance involving thousands of volunteers to help develop a vaccine and urges humanity to keep their distance, wear a mask and wash their hands as often as possible.
II see a list of worldwide incidences. South Africa, Germany, France, USA, Brazil, Portugal, Iceland – the countries that interest me most. Where I feel, I might say, «at home».
I skim the online offerings of The Guardian, Süddeutsche Zeitung, O Público, Le Monde, then Bild, the funny paper. But no, this is not an April Fool’s joke.
It is the first of April, but today no one is joking, the large media houses refrain from humour m.
I switch to the South African Daily Maverick and read that a few weeks ago a family from Durban came into contact with the disease during a skiing holiday in Austria and brought the virus back. And that tourists from high-risk countries such as Germany and Britain had conducted tours into townships in Cape Town and Johannesburg only days before the lockdown came into effect.
16 |
Early morning, day 6
I still haven’t reached her.
I left messages but there are only grey hooks that do not turn blue.
At some point I can’t wait any longer. I have to get out, into the air, into the distance. I try to imagine what it would be like if I could leave the house. Just like that, I step out onto the empty street and start marching towards the mountain.
I take two plastic bags, stuff loafs of toast bread into the bags, lock the front door, walk past the swimming ponds and open the garage door. It is pitch dark. The asphalt is damp. Do I look like someone who has just returned home from shopping for «essential groceries»? I don’t quite believe it myself. In the distance, the blue lights of the roadblocks flicker on. I skirt them widely. I am aware that I could be convicted of a crime for travelling without permission. I must not get caught.
At the railway subway of Plumstead station I see some homeless people. They warm themselves by open fires. They do not notice me. Have I become invisible?
After six kilometres I reach the foot of Table Mountain National Park. I climb over barbed wire that was apparently laid out to prevent people from entering the mountain during lockdown. I walk up to Elephant’s Eye in the dark and avoid turning on the mobile phone light. Is this how an animal feels?
My eyes get used to the light of the stars. My path is guided by them. I hear nothing except for my pulse that races loudly through my ears,.
Meanwhile, dense fog lies over the suburbs. It shrouds the artificial light and everything else that could remind us of people, their streets, harbours and cars. I look around. It is as if no human being had ever been here before.
It’s is as if the Lockdown had neutralised everything else. This entire terrible yet crazy colonial history including genocide, economic progress, modernity, destruction. And with it all classifications: Geological formations, plants and animals no longer bear names. There is no age attribution, there is no context, there is no danger.
I only see what is. Not more and no less.
I crouch down under a rocky outcrop and take off my shoes. I place the soles of my bare feet on the ground and feel a regular throbbing beneath me. It is like a heartbeat rising from the depth.
Does this vibration come from the ocean waves that are hurling themselves towards the Cape Peninsula after the storm, it’s detonations spreading through layers of ancient sediments? It remember that elephants sense vibrations over many kilometres through the soles of their feet. That they communicate with each other this way. Has the world become so quiet that humans could also hear with their feet?
It does me good to stand on the earth with bare feet. I lean against a rock.
After a while I hear noises that are much louder than the supposedly dull crash of waves. I hear a rumbling, a humming. It gets louder, as if something is approaching me. Am I awake or dreaming? Then I open my eyes and see the face of a lioness right in front of me!
She is barely a metre away from me. I recognise every detail, her thick fur, her nose, her mouth, some hair sticking out, but above all her eyes. We look at each other. She is peaceful, she does not move. I cannot escape her gaze. Her eyes are like a well, they are eternity.
She reminds me of the lioness I saw in the Kalahari, and yet she is different. She purrs deeply. Loud and firm. I am sure I have seen her face before, perhaps all my life. I feel a great desire to touch her, to put my hand on her face, but as I tentatively try to reach out to her, I suddenly feel a familiar fear arise.
Because she might get too close to me, or because at some point she won’t be there any more?
I watch her. Slowly and deliberately she closes her eyes. As if she was tired, as if it was enough now. She turns around and has suddenly disappeared.
Swallowed by the darkness.
17 |
Morning, Day 7
I wake up from this dream. The lioness on the mountain. Immediately the face of my mother appears before me. Without thinking, I know what I have to do.
Despite the distance, I will accompany her as intensively as possible until the end.
We will remember our shared experiences. She will tell me about herself, about the past and about today. Everything that goes through her mind. Her fears and her joy.
Meanwhile, I’ll be painting
about my feelings, about what happens during the lockdown.
For her.
For my Lioness.
—–
This story was first presented to the general public as part of the art exhibition «Bernd Bierbaum: Lockdown Cape Town» in October 2020 in Cologne, a year later at the Kulturschloss Hamburg-Wandsbek, and will again be shown in May 2023 in Stadtgallerie Havelberg, near Berlin.
