Call Me Israel Read online

today. Leo Weinthal built the original in 1897. He was a bigwig editor of a weekly paper called ‘The Press’.

  He was said to hang out with all manner of famous people like Paul Kruger and Sammy Marks. I have always thought the name to be a bit weird and then discovered that it was named after his wife, Rosa and Khaya from the Zulu for house, thus the “house of Rosa”.

  Later in 1902 the house was occupied by the colonial administration, this was the housemaster's queue to make his exit to England. In 1908 the house was used as an institution of education and the ‘Transvaal University College’ was born. Then there is something about 1930 and the name change to the University of Pretoria and the later in 1980 when the house was nothing more than an empty shell, a literal ghost of its former splendour.

  In 1980 the house was moved brick by brick to the end of the track. It was moved out of the city to its place of residence, as we know it today. This moved coincided with the University's 50th birthday. My last smidge of info was that the house was opened in its fully restored glory on the 25 October 1985, only 6 days before Halloween.

  Unfortunately that was a dead end. I would have liked it if I could find out that the child was a Halloween decoration gone bad. It would have been so much easier that way, a quick exorcism and voila, but unfortunately I had no such luck. South Africa is not that big on Halloween.

  That night I said my ‘Hail Maries’ and went to sleep with the lights on. Neither worked as I am not Catholic and nightmares piss on lights.

  Wednesday started with me waking with as scream in my throat. I took a shower with the curtain open to watch for any suspicious activity. Nothing had eaten me by breakfast so I went to class, it was the first one I had attended in a very long time but due to some negotiations the previous night, certain promises were made. I had also sworn off beer and women, women were easy, as they are not as easy as it is said in varsity.

  After what seemed like an eternity I was back at home. I took a beer from the fridge and sat down with my photos. The beer that I had sworn off was the ones you drink at night, swearing off daytime beer is crazy talk.

  The photos were actually very good, I had listened to the guy with the glasses, I forgot his name, and used the light. That sounds like something from Star wars. "Use the light young Skywalker". It worked; you could see I had a gift, well I think so.

  There was something wrong with one of the rose bushes next to the porch. The shadow was much more substantial than the flimsy rosebush.

  The next photo did not have anything out of place, but the one after that was even scarier. In one of the arches there was a shadow with nothing to cast it. I studied the rest of the photos and later saw that all of the pictures had some kind of misplaced shadow somewhere.

  I was on my fourth beer when I took out the magnifying glass. If there is one thing I could have changed, that would have been it.

  None of the pictures were more than shadows until I came to the picture that I took first, the shadow next to the rosebush. In it you could see an eye and a horrible snarl.

  Shivers were crawling up my back and into my kidneys as twilight slithered over the courtyard outside. I had proof, I had Proof! It would have been better news if I only had the time to share it with somebody.

  I longed for my days at my former residence, lots of friends lots of noise. There were disadvantages to being a seventh year student. Most people, most of my friend only studied three years. I have never felt so alone.

  At twelve o'clock I remembered that most of the days of the week were named after Norse gods, Wednesday or Wodens-day from the Latin translation of Odin’s day and now Thursday or Thor's day, the god of thunder. That did not help me sleep any better. I had moved my bed out of my room and was sleeping on the carpet as the idea of sleeping on a bed with hiding space beneath freaked me out.

  I had to tell somebody anybody, I would tell them in the morning. Morning did not come.

  There was a zephyr blowing through my room. I thought I had closed all the windows. I ignored it and tried to sleep again but coolness blew over me. There must have been an open widow somewhere, but I was sure I locked everything up tight. I, being extremely paranoid at the best of times would not have left a window open. I got up; luckily all the lights were on. I have recently discovered my new fear of shadows, sciaphobia, not to be confused with achluophobia because that is fear of the dark. I was not afraid of the dark it was the shadows that lurked in the dark that scared me.

  The front door stood wide open and instead of smelling cool night air perfumed with yesterday-today-and-tomorrow or Jasmine there was the distinct smell of burned grass. The smell you smell kilometres from a veldt fire, the smell that creeps into your head and clogs your nose for the rest of the day.

  I knew I did not leave the door open. I should have run into the night. I should not have stopped. My feet should have reverberated on the empty street, I should have shouted for help. I did not do any of those things, I stood there frozen. I was scared.

  I closed the door and as I turned I knew he would be looking at me with his boiled eyes and agonized features. I saw him standing in the door of the now dark room, his silhouette framed by my dark red curtains, dark as boiled blood, almost black. The smell changed now because of our proximity, it was more like a mixture of BBQ pork and burned hair.

  I shouted but no sound escaped my chocked throat. The sickly sweet smell gagged me and tears were rolling down my face as I felt death’s bony hands gripped my heart. I stood there shaking, knowing, and waiting.

  I closed my eyes and was at an open field. There were train tracks close by. I knew it was the sight were the Kya Rosa would be built eventually.

  In the distance were a few squatter houses, not like the squatter camps today that can sprawl for miles. There were only a few and half hidden, as the government back then was not so lenient towards the plight of the squatters.

  I opened my eyes and the shadow had moved forward. The kitchen lights were also off now. I was still frozen, I closed my eyes again. I saw the police escorting people off the newly acquired piece of land. There was nobody left the field was deserted. I saw a round faced women look back. In her eyes I could see she left something behind. She tried to run back, but the constable restrained her.

  I did not open my eyes but I knew he was in front of me.

  I saw a man in a floppy hat set fire to the grass next to the dwellings of corrugated tin and plastic. It was the easiest way to clear the rubbish strewn around. I saw the mother running back but it was too late. The dry grass and the wind was a deadly combination. The police stopped her again she cried and shouted but they did not understand her. She hid her boy under a burlap sack as she thought they would come back later and feared for her son in the hands of the police. She was not aware that they did anything wrong. Her apprehension had forced her to hide him as she reckoned it was best to leave him. I her mind they would be together before nightfall, she was wrong.

  I opened my eyes. I looked into his eyes; his dead eyes and I did not see a yearning for understanding, compassion or an act of contrition.

  Fire but not the physical type, the fire of years of unreserved loathing, had burned his eye. This was the face of retribution. Retribution for a life lost a life destroyed even if it had not been done intentionally. Revenge was sought.

  Call me Israel; actually that is not my real name. When I was still living in the university residence I had a tendency to start fights and when the first punches would be thrown my friend would mockingly shout, “Israel the Philistines are upon you”. I adopted the name as I always thought it sounded cool starting conversations with, “Call me Israel”, like in Moby Dick; Call me Ishmael. I live for a good pun. I lived for a good pun.

  Now that I feel the noose around my neck and the little burned hands impossibly strong at my back, I am glad I took the time to write down my story. I think he made me write the story as a warning or a sick boast, either way if you read this you will know it to be true.
As my feet leave my desk I will fight for breath but get none, and they will find my body in a few days and say: “The stress of his studies must have gotten to him, him being a 7 time loser” and they would be half right.

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  R P Bezuidenhout