Then a scary thought strikes him. What if Sharisha is about to go back to the southern seas? What if what he witnessed yesterday afternoon was a final romp, a farewell orgy? Southern rights mate in winter Like the rains, this friskiness in the middle of summer is unseasonable. Perhaps it is heralding her return to the southern seas, though others will be here for another month or two. Sharisha may be on her way to the southern seas already. He jumps out of bed, has a quick wash in a plastic basin, dons the black tie, grabs his horn and runs to the crag. It is dawn and he can hear the songs of the whales. Humpbacks, he concludes. The songs are structured and high-pitched. It can only be the songs of the humpbacks. They are communicating with other humpbacks that may be on breeding grounds hundreds of miles away, for their sound carries well under water. Southern rights sing their songs in a much lower frequency.
The Whale Caller is pleasantly surprised to see Sharisha close inshore, singing her big heart out. Once again she has learnt to sing like a humpback, a skill she had once acquired but unlearnt in the southern seas. How she does it remains a mystery, for only humpbacks are able to produce the pulsed clicks that Sharisha is producing now. There is a look of fulfilment about her.
The Whale Caller joins in the music with his kelp horn and together they sing until the sun rises. Sharisha has indeed managed to make him forget Saluni.
Saluni. She refuses to be forgotten. She is discovered sitting in front of the Hermanns Roll of Honour, above the Old Harbour with the brittle boats. She is guarded by two big grey guns on both sides of the stone column. Cannons of a bygone era. Both plaques of the roll of honour — nailed onto the column and freshly polished by enthusiastic war veterans for the Kalfiefees — reflect a tired yellow light that forms a halo above her head. The sun has returned today. The first panel, older and duller, has eleven names, citizens of Hermanus who died in World War One (1914–1918), and another list of twenty-eight names of those who “gave their lives for freedom” in World War Two (1939–1945). The brighter panel has only four names, citizens of Hermanus who were killed in some war that is not mentioned. It is described only as the Republic of South Africa Roll of Honour 0973–1979)- They dare not even whisper the name of the war, for they died on the border defending apartheid.
She looks as if she is part of the monument, surrounded by the spiky silver-coloured chain that enhances the monument’s militariness. She sits on the ground, her head now buried between her knees. No more halo. She is exhausted from carousing with sailors till the early hours of the morning. She is a battle-scarred soldier nursing old wounds. The tourists who are congregated like New Age worshippers behind the monument ignore her. They are more interested in getting their turn at the orange telescope that is next to the marble altar with pictures of today’s deities — a humpback and a southern right — and the sacred inscription: Whale-Viewing Site — Indawo Yoku bukela Iminenga.
Saluni. She is merged with the monument and is in a world of dreams when the Whale Caller, on his way to Mr. Yodd, discovers her. At first he mistakes her for a mangy dog licking its wounds. But when he gets closer he sees the familiar red hair and red stilettos. And black fishnet stockings this time.
“Why did you disappear?” he demands, without ceremony.
She is startled only a little, and looks up at him. Her hang-overed eyes betray amusement even though she pretends to be annoyed. She snarls at him: “Can’t a lady take a nap without being rudely awoken by some… handsome… gentleman?”
The Whale Caller insists: “Why did you disappear?”
“From where?” she asks.
“From everywhere. You just vanished. People don’t just vanish like that.”
“Be a sport, will you? Get me something to drink.”
“I have been looking for you everywhere,” he says in anguish.
“Okay, now you found me.”
Just like that. As if it was the most natural thing for him to look for her! As if she had been waiting there to be found by him! As if they have been looking for and finding each other all their lives!
“So please get me a drink of water,” she says. “My throat is on fire.”
“I’ll do better than water. I’ll get you something else to extinguish that fire.”
He buys her a vanilla and caramel cone from an ice cream vendor. She snatches it as if it is something he has always owed her. Not even a “thank you.” She licks it with exaggerated delicacy
“Now that you have found me what do you plan to do about it?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I was off to some place on some business,” he says lamely. “I didn’t imagine I’d find you here.”
“And all along I thought you were a man of boundless imagination! What is the business some place that you are off to?”
He can’t tell her about Mr. Yodd. That he was going to his grotto to confess about her. The whole thing would sound foolish to her. He feels awkward and doesn’t know what to say next. She is now standing up and looking him straight in the eye. He is flustered and her amusement irritates him.
“So, what happened to you?” he finally asks.
“Nothing happened. I just got sick. Had a rash all over my body. Had to stay in bed for two weeks.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he says. “There must be some bug doing the rounds.”
Then an idea strikes him: “Do you want to look at the whales? Let’s go and see the whales.”
“What for?”
“I thought you liked whales. I see you every day when I am blowing my horn. Before you had the rash, I mean.”
“I don’t come here to watch the whales. I come here to watch you.”
She enjoys standing there watching him squirm in embarrassment. He realises that he looks foolish but does not know what to do about it. If he could he would wipe the smirk off her face.
“I like you… not the whales,” she adds. “That horn of yours!”
“I must go now… somebody is expecting me.”
But he does not go. He stands there timidly, watching her lick the ice cream and chew the cone with suggestive sensuality, all the while looking deep into his eyes. He would like to change the embarrassing direction of this conversation, but he is at a loss for words. She saves him by blurting out: “What’s your fascination with whales, anyway? They look stupid.”
Now he is offended.
“They are beautiful,” he says.
“Beautiful? They have all those ugly warts on their ugly heads!”
“They are not warts… they are callosities… and they are beautiful… and… and those southern rights are graceful… and they are big.”
“Not big enough. The blue whale, yes… if they were the blue whale, then I would respect them.”
“How would you know about the blue whale? I am sure you have never seen one. They don’t come close to shore.”
“It is the biggest mammal on earth… that I know for sure. But these whales of yours, they are like toys… they don’t tickle my fancy… they are too small for me.”
He feels insulted. He walks away from her without another word. Why on earth was he searching for such an obnoxious person?
“If you were a whale you would be the blue whale,” she calls after him, laughing.
He does not look back. He must get as far away as possible from such indecorous remarks. The sweet and mouldy smell follows him for a while but fizzles out as he gets further away from her cackling.
Without thinking much about it Saluni takes the direction of the mansion. She has not seen the Bored Twins for two weeks and she misses them: their peals of laughter, their singing, their storytelling. The singing, especially, has a healing effect, and she can do with some of that at this time. If they had sung for her at the worst moment of her rash, she is certain it would have healed quicker. But then she had misguidedly made up her mind that she never wanted to see them again, ever. Now she has forgiven the dear hearts. She yearns for them. Hopefully they are not out there in the marshes playing in the mud and plucking off the wings of butterflies, letting them suffer a lifetime of crawling without the benefit of flight. Or breaking the legs of the praying mantis, punishing them for feeding on other insects. Their parents are likely to be working in the vineyards. At harvesttime they leave home at five in the morning and only return after seven at night. If this is not the season for such work — Saluni does not bother to follow the cycles of the vine, except to imbibe what comes from the grape — the parents will be in the townships and villages of the district, collecting scrap metal in a donkey-drawn cart and selling it at the recycling centre. The Bored Twins, she feels, need her because they are all alone throughout the day. She cannot bear a grudge and let the little angels suffer.