He is chewing on his macaroni and cheese with relish when he hears a song that has a familiar ring to it. Though the sound is quite distant and very low, he is able to isolate it from the festive noises that permeate the environment. He leaves the food on the table, takes his kelp horn and dashes out. At the gate he looks cautiously to the right and to the left, expecting to see Saluni. But she is not there. There is a tinge of disappointment in him that makes him angry with himself. Is he perhaps suffering from the syndrome of the victims of constant physical and psychological abuse who long for the abuser when the abuser is on vacation? He wades his way through the festive crowds and briskly walks to a high crag overlooking the ocean. On the horizon he sees a speck that he immediately identifies as a whale. It might be Sharisha. At a distance the whale’s song sounds like Sharisha’s. He curses himself for his failure to welcome her in style in his new tuxedo. There is no time to go back to the Wendy house to change.
He blows his horn and the whale responds. It is a haunting sound that is carried by the waves that race to the shoreline until they hit the rocks at the foot of the Whale Caller’s crag, producing white surf. His ears are trained to hear these songs even at such a great distance. As the whale sails closer its outline takes shape. Patiently, he waits, occasionally blowing the horn in response to the whale’s song. A crowd of curious tourists gathers behind him. Much as he strains his eyes he cannot see callosities on any part of the whale’s body. Instead he sees very long flippers and a small dorsal fin that is positioned far back on the body. He begins to doubt the whale’s identity. His doubts are soon confirmed by the whale’s blow, almost three metres high and pear-shaped. That cannot be Sharisha. That, in fact, is not a southern right at all. It is a humpback. The dorsal fin is a further confirmation. It is a male humpback, and he guesses that it is almost fifteen metres long. As he walks down the crag he chides himself for being furious at the deceitful humpback. He should be furious with Sharisha instead. The humpback was singing its song, as humpback males are wont to do, though traditionally they sing at night, constantly composing new songs during the mating season. The deceitful humpback has started quite early in the day, perhaps practising for the nighttime mating rituals. But the deceitful humpback is not deceitful at all. Sharisha is the one who is an impostor in this case. After discovering that humpbacks were better singers than southern rights, the Whale Caller had taught Sharisha to sing like a humpback. The Whale Caller should rather be furious with himself, and not with the randy humpback. Not even with Sharisha. For the song, that is, not for Sharisha’s standing him up.
He is too despondent to return to his Wendy house to finish his lunch. He slowly works his way along the cobbled path that winds down the bluff. He decides to sit on a green wooden bench that is placed near the meandering path for those who want to relax and admire the sea. He has lost sight of the humpback, which decided to sail in a different direction after it could no longer hear his alluring kelp horn. He watches a father with a fishing line leading his wife and a brood of children of varying ages. The mother gingerly holds a picnic basket. They walk precariously on the steep rocks to a hillock of boulders that juts into the sea. On this peninsula they sit down and begin to fish or just watch.
Although he regards this as his peninsula, he does not mind that the fishing and picnicking family have invaded it. He does not need it today. He usually likes to stand on it when he communes with the whales, especially when Sharisha is here. It separates him from the gawkers, be they curious locals or tourists, who’d otherwise crowd around him when he blows his horn. They never come close to him when he stands on the tip of the peninsula because they do not want to risk walking on the precarious boulders. The family obviously feels quite adventurous today.
The Whale Caller is startled by Saluni, who daintily walks down the path, holding a bunch of wilting flowers. She sits on a rock just below his bench and puts the flowers next to her. She does not give him a second look, and he decides that this time he will really stand his ground. She takes off her pencil-heel shoes and puts her feet in a pool of clear water that is separated from the rest of the ocean by a sandbank. She has given him her back and he notices her flaming locks that are tangled and are not restrained in a black net this time. He also notices that the roots are black with a few streaks of grey. He thinks she would look more dignified if she had not dyed her hair. As her dainty feet play in the water he stares at her stockings that have many runs. There are red spots in some places where Cutex nail polish was used to stop the runs. But this hasn’t helped much as the runs always manage to find their way around nail polish. The stockings are obviously not pantyhose since they are tied with elastic bands just above the knees. The Whale Caller observes this when she crosses her legs and lights a cigarette in a long black holder. Her nails are manicured and painted red. She holds the cigarette holder quite elegantly; blowing delicate smoke rings in the direction of the Whale Caller. Her whole demeanour is delicate and elegant. Her clothes are clean but almost threadbare. She wears a fawn pure-wool coat over a green taffeta dress. She always has the coat on, even in the middle of summer.
After ignoring him for some time, she turns to look at him and her sun-drenched face cracks into a smile. Later the Whale Caller will learn that she is a creature of the day, hence the sun-drenched face. He averts his eyes. Once more she has triumphed. He is highly irritated by her cheek. He stands up to leave.
“May I follow you?” she asks.
“You always do… without asking me,” he says.
“You always show anger in your eyes,” says Saluni, “so I thought today I should be nice and ask.”
She gives him the flowers. He is puzzled.
“What do I do with these?” he asks.
“It is a peace offering,” she responds.
Now he knows why she evokes a memory of his mother. It is her smell. Not from her breath. Not the alcohol or methylated spirits. The mouldy yet sweet smell that his mother left in everything she touched. Saluni exudes the same whiff. And it overwhelms him with long-forgotten emotions. The smell has a force that seems to be stronger even than the force of energy generated by the rocks, the waves, the moon and the sun. He hates her even more for appropriating his mother’s bodily odours, for reincarnating the grand old lady in the puny shape of a village drunk.
He breaks into a sweat and runs for dear life.
“I am a love child,” shouts Saluni after him. “Don’t do this to me, man, I am a love child!”
Saluni. She is a love child. This is what she tells everybody who cares to listen in the watering holes of Hermanus. It is a story she shares particularly with those who refuse to buy her a glass of wine. She is a love child, conceived on a windy day by a beautiful young woman who was involved in an illicit affair with an older married man. Much as the man professed his love for his young mistress, he would not leave his family for her. The pretty young thing pined for her lover for many years. She was consumed by her love until only her bones were left. For a long time she was a walking skeleton, and troubadours (yes, troubadours!) composed songs about her dire love. Then one day the bones just fell to the ground in a heap. After her mother’s burial Saluni’s aunts drummed it into her head that she was a love child and should be proud of it. Today she tells the habitués of the taverns that no one has the right to treat a love child shabbily. As a love child she must be handled with care and consideration.