She clapped her hands together and let out a trill of excitement. ‘Why, that’s brilliant! That makes you Catholic by association, if not by conviction. Father Majola will be pleased. He believes a Catholic wedding should be as Catholic as possible, from the priest down to the waiters.’
André frowned. He thought he’d heard the name before but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where.
‘And if I wasn’t?’
‘If you weren’t what?’
‘Catholic by association.’
‘Oh, Father Majola doesn’t insist on it and anyway, I wouldn’t let him. It’s a nice to have, if you know what I mean.’ The woman looked at André across the table. ‘You look worried,’ she said. She’d shed her earlier belligerence and there was genuine concern in her voice.
‘It’s nothing. I was just wondering how the sound would carry in the open air.’
‘I’m sure it will be all right,’ she said. ‘ “Ave Maria” is such a wonderful piece the angels themselves will start to sing.’
André went pale and his knee banged against the underside of the table.
‘Are you all right?’ the woman asked.
‘Yes, of course. I just remembered there’s something I must attend to,’ he said. ‘A violin class.’ He got up quickly and shook her hand. ‘It’s lovely meeting you but I really must go,’ he said and hurried out into the street.
In the end, the wedding was as magnificent as the bride – whose name was Andiswa – had imagined. Amid the hubbub of the celebrations, she came looking for André. She found him sipping a drink by the bar.
‘Oh my god, your playing was exquisite!’ she exclaimed. Her narrow eyes flashed with painted glitter and delight.
André gave her a little bow. ‘You’re very kind. I’m pleased you enjoyed it.’
She clutched her lace-clad hands together and did a little curtsy of appreciation.
‘It was truly amazing! And I’m not the only one who thought so. Father Majola was so taken by your playing he wants to speak with you.’
‘What for?’ André asked. He looked up at an imaginary clock on the wall. ‘It’s quite late for me. I really must be going.’
‘Nonsense!’ she cried. And when André didn’t budge, she pouted in mock disappointment. ‘Really, André? On my wedding day?’
She seized him by the hand and led him to the decorated table where Father Majola was sitting.
‘Here he is, Father,’ Andiswa said. ‘He didn’t want to come so I had to drag him over here.’ She cupped a hand to her mouth and said in a stage whisper. ‘Be nice to him. He’s very shy.’
Father Majola turned ponderously in his chair. It was an ornate chair made of clear perspex and was not designed for a man of his bulk. His upper body turned first and it was only with the greatest of difficulty that the lower half of him followed. He was dressed in an immaculate steel grey suit with a white collarless shirt. He’d been given a lilac boutonnière and wore it with aplomb. Were it not for the heavy metal cross around his neck, he might easily have been mistaken for the bride’s father.
‘André, is it?’ He held out his large hand and waited for André to take it. ‘That was a marvellous rendition of the “Ave Maria”.’
André nodded. He wasn’t sure what he should say. The decorations were too bright and the chatter was too loud for his liking. He should have gone home when he had the chance.
‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ Father Majola said in his pulpit-ready voice. Several guests had already turned around to listen.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Where are you from then? Such talent must have a provenance.’ Father Majola’s voice was as friendly as before but his grip tightened imperceptibly on André’s hand.
‘I’m from the Free State.’
‘Aha!’ Father Majola declared. He looked around him as if he were expecting applause. ‘We’re getting somewhere at last. Clarens or Bloemfontein?’
‘Bloemfontein.’
Father Majola raised his other hand and waggled his finger in the air.
‘I’m sure we’ve met before.’
André felt hot all of a sudden. He tried to tug his hand away but Father Majola’s grip was too strong.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Father Majola pulled André towards him until their heads were almost touching. His thick legs formed a fleshy trap around André. He lowered his voice and spoke directly into André’s ear.
‘You’re the angel boy, aren’t you?’
A violent spasm rocked André but Father Majola held him firm. He should have recognised the black man. He was much heavier now and back then his head had been covered in a sprinkling of closely cropped grey hair; now it was a polished dome with thick folds of skin coiled around his neck.
‘God gave you such a beautiful gift,’ murmured Father Majola. ‘Why did you run?’
It all came back to André in a screaming rush. The Sacred Heart Cathedral in Bloemfontein. The warm yellow brickwork. The gilded processions and the majestic sound of the organ. His father, trussed up in a dark suit, sitting in the spot reserved for him in the front pew. The Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. The twin crosses of the wooden confessional. Disbelief in the voice behind the curtain. His insistence. His stupid insistence. The questions. The hours of endless interrogation. The good priest, bad priest routine. So glaring, so obvious. Him crying and stumbling exhausted into the rain. The frantic cries of, ‘Elias! Elias!’ A huge black man, catching hold of him and carrying him back inside as if he weighed nothing at all. Then the large hands inside his shorts – probing, rubbing. The shouted words of scripture and tortured expletives. His mouth forced open, the salty taste of sperm snaking down his throat.
Now a sheen of sweat glistened on Father Majola’s broad forehead. ‘You have a unique playing style,’ he said softly. He made a fist and pretended to bow an imaginary violin. Then he gave a self-effacing cough and smiled sheepishly. ‘I’m not trained in music but I knew at once it was you. Won’t you come and see me at the cathedral tomorrow? You and I have a great deal to talk about.’
‘I think you’re mixing me up with someone else.’
Father Majola’s face split in a smile. He chuckled and patted André’s hand.
‘I notice you did not ask what I meant by angel boy,’ he said quietly. ‘How could I ever forget you, André Potgieter? Or would you rather I called you Elias Barnes?’
André tried to wriggle free but Father Majola’s grip was like iron.
‘Who would have thought we would meet again and here, of all places?’ Father Majola whispered. ‘They say coincidences happen much more frequently than we like to think. But I understand your hesitation. You play the violin like an angel. Is it so strange that the angels should recognise their own? Most people limp though life with no special favour, Elias. You, on the other hand, have been doubly blessed. First with a wondrous talent for playing the violin and secondly … well …’
His eyes narrowed and he chuckled softly. ‘You’ve been blessed with the other thing as well, haven’t you? That must be so bewildering for you, terrifying even. Believe me, Elias, I understand.’
André pulled his hand away and this time Father Majola let him go.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Father