100 Papers
by Liesl Jobson
Joe had an hour before his piano student was due. He was not looking forward to the arrival of Jayde Cilliers’ mother, with whom he had ‘had words’ last lesson.
Jayde was a sweet six-year-old with missing teeth who started piano lessons three months earlier. She could play C, G and D major scales perfectly over one octave, hands together. She was nearly finished John Thompson’s “Easiest Piano Course”. The little girl had made excellent progress. Her grandmother had returned from her holiday. The week before, all the letter names had been pencilled in to her book below each note, and all the fingerings written above in the old woman’s spiky script.
When he challenged Mrs Cilliers about the intrusion, she said they merely wanted to fast-track their daughter’s musical career.
“It’s taking much too long,” she complained. “ Maryna Hertzog is playing a Haydn concerto with the Johannesburg Philharmonic Orchestra next month. I’m sure Jayde is far more talented than she is.”
Joe rolled his eyes. He wanted to say that the fast track was for athletes, not pianists. He wanted to say that Maryna’s precocity was a measure of her mother’s monkey tricks, not the child’s inherent musicality, but Mrs Cilliers interrupted him, pronouncing her mother-in-law quite competent to assist Jayde.
“Ouma has been a church organist for fifty years. Music runs in the family…”
He tried explaining that Jayde needed to develop reading skills that would enable her to play unassisted. He suggested in a conciliatory tone that Ouma should perhaps assume the responsibility of Jayde’s musical education. He liked that idea. No, Ouma travels too much. The interruptions would be inconvenient. He tried to say that Jayde needed consistent, not conflicting, information. His opinion was spurned.
Joe had spent the morning practising the hefty score of “Footloose” and already, it bored him. Six weeks of rehearsals was scheduled to commence that evening at the local high school. Page after page of extended hammering chords was a recipe for tendonitis. So far, the glissandi had blistered the back of his index and middle fingers. His head hurt.
There was neither beer in the fridge, nor chocolate in the pantry.
Joe pocketed the shopping list that Marcia had scrawled on the fridge. He headed off to the Spar five blocks away. All the way there, he sung, ‘Been working so hard, I’m punching my card, eight hours for what?’
Joe entered the bottle store adjacent to the grocery section and picked up a six-pack of Castles. He was glad Marcia had left a short list. Next he grabbed three bars of dark chocolate and then he put the bread, milk, eggs and cheese into the basket. He looked at the last item on Marcia’s list.
100 paper. Or was it papers…
He wondered what Marcia meant. He battled to read her doctor’s scribble handwriting, but knew better than to return home without it, whatever it was. He asked a cashier. They were usually pretty good at figuring out what his wife wanted. If the cashier couldn’t work it out, he would call Marcia on the cell phone, but she didn’t like interruptions of her ward rounds. The cashier seemed to know what the mystery item was, and walked with him to the stationery section, where she squatted beside the envelopes and wrapping paper and removed an exam pad from the pile.
Croxley. A4 Examination Pad. Feint & Margin. 100 pages.
It looked right. He collected a “Beeld” at the till and paid for his goods. Back at the studio, he had time for a beer or a crap. Not both. The beer would keep.
Joe took his newspaper with him into the bathroom and made himself comfortable. He sighed as he read the leader article. South Africa’s rugby bosses were rubbishing each other in public yet again. The Minister of Sport had intervened in the ruckus. Joe folded the newspaper into a readable square, held it with one hand and reached for the loo paper with the other. The empty cardboard cylinder spun on the dispenser. He studied the glob of hardened glue that held the last scrap of double-ply in place. He studied the shameful headlines: ‘Rugby-skande!’
The doorbell rang. He looked at his watch. The Cilliers were due at 2.00 pm, four minutes time. They could wait. The lavatory window was open a chink. The familiar gardenia scent of Nina Ricci’s ‘Lucky Day’ perfume wafted into the room. He recognised it. Marcia had a bottle on her dresser. Jayde chattered away in Afrikaans.
“Wil Ouma nie in die kar wag nie? Dis lekker warm in die son?” Don’t you want to want to wait in the car, Ouma? It’s so nice in the sun.
“Nee, nee, ek kom saam.” No, I’m coming along.
“Maar Ouma sal nie, soos Mama, met Meneer baklei nie?” You wont fight with my teacher, like Mama?
“Beslis nie, Skattie, ek moet net hierdie Engelse onderwyser kêrel leer les gee…” Absolutely not, Darling, I must just show this English teacher fellow how to teach.
Joe unfolded the newspaper. He ripped the first page in half, right through the scowling André Markgraaf. Joe tore it in half again. He crumpled the glowering Brian Van Rooyen with the rubbing washing action that he’d used on telephone directory pages in the long drop of his childhood.
He was glad of the newspaper. The exam pad would not have been as soft.