Stronger Than Lions - 5. A Spy In The Land of Canaan

Chris’s house was in Constantia, that beautiful, expensive valley of mountain vistas, city vineyards and Botoxed housewives sipping Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc on rotation.

We drove up to the wrought-iron gates of a large Cape Georgian and I whistled.

‘Jeez, dude. Your place is huge.’

He looked a little uncomfortable. ‘It’s called an expensive divorce settlement. Mom kind of took my dad to the cleaners.’

He pulled up next to a gleaming smoke-grey Mercedes, and I changed the topic. ‘So when did you move in?’'

‘Just before Christmas. We’re still unpacking.’

We got out and Chris motioned me to the kitchen door. The Thing looked comically out of place next to the Merc.

‘Dad tried to buy me a brand new Land Rover for Christmas. It was so weird. I said no. I mean, the biggest thing he’s ever bought me was a Swiss watch for my sixteenth. Maybe he was feeling guilty about leaving.’

‘Respect, dude. I don’t think I would have been that gracious.’

He looked back proudly at The Thing. ‘ I couldn’t really have parted with her now, could I? My brothers fixed her up and gave her to me for my eighteenth birthday last year. I was like so inspired I passed my driver’s the next week.’

He led me into the kitchen. ‘Mom!’ he yelled. ‘We’re here!’

‘Coming, sweetie,’ said a distant voice. Chris made a beeline for the fridge and grabbed a bottle of milk.

‘Want something to drink?’ he asked. I shook my head.

He glugged greedily.

I heard footsteps. ‘Christopher. Don’t drink from the bottle, I know you are!’

Mrs Hathaway was a small woman with wild red locks and an intelligent, freckled face. She looked like Julianne Moore having a bad hair day.

Chris put down the bottle with a guilty grin and walked towards his mother. He looked rather adorable with a milk moustache.

‘Hello, Chrissie,’ she said, kissing her son.

He pulled up his nose. ‘Gross, Ma, you’ve been smoking,’

‘I need my vices.’ She looked at me and smiled. ‘You must be Caleb.’

I nodded and held out my hand. ‘Hello, Mrs Hathaway.'

‘Fiona. So nice to meet you.’

She wasn’t at all what I had expected—all Earth mother draped in layers of beads and bohemian fabrics. I couldn’t quite imagine her in a nurse’s uniform. She had a broad, sunlit smile and I knew immediately where Chris had gotten his pearly whites. Neither she nor her son seemed to belong in this massive house.

‘You’re our first official guest,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy he’s already made a friend. Thank you so much for helping my son out.’

I felt I should be the one thanking her. ‘It’s nothing, ma'am.'

‘Has Chris offered you a drink?’ She walked to the fridge and poured herself a glass of wine. ‘This is a really nice Chenin Blanc, right here from the cutest little vineyard up the road. There’s beer too if you prefer.’

‘Mom!’

‘I’m still seventeen, Mrs Hathaway,’ I said awkwardly. ‘But thank you.’

She covered her face. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to be all grown-up about my baby becoming a, well, grown-up. And you seem so mature, Caleb.’

‘Thanks, ma’am.’

‘Please call me Fiona. You boys help yourselves to whatever you like, but don’t overeat because I’m cooking tonight.’

Chris folded his arms and leaned back against the fridge. ‘Well this is news, Ma. You haven’t cooked since we got here.’

‘We have a guest,’ she said, indignant. ‘You must excuse my son, he’s a bit of a hooligan. To think that I was in labour for seventeen hours with him. You know, I really didn’t want a Caesar because I pushed out all his brothers, but my little man here just didn’t want to come out.’

‘Ma,’ Chris groaned, squirming a little. It was disarming seeing this big guy helpless in front of his tiny dynamo of a mother.

She pinched his cheeks and he stuck out his tongue.

‘You’ll always be my baby. Okay, the dragon will leave now, I think I’ve embarrassed my son enough for the day.’

‘That’s my mom,’ Chris said, throwing up his hands. ‘Sorry.’

‘She’s awesome.'

‘Sometimes she is. Let’s chill out a bit before we get to work? I know you’ve been swimming all afternoon, but I’d love to get into the water.’ He pointed to the back garden with its massive sparkling pool. In the distance was a postcard view of the Constantia Valley.

‘This is fucking amazing,’ I said.

I followed him through the large expanse of the house, up the stairs and down the corridor to his room. It opened up on a terrace directly overlooking the valley with Table Mountain in the distance. There was a large sleigh-bed and an oak desk with a brand new iMac. I tried not to do the maths of how much money was floating about.

Comic books were stacked up against the wall along with several boxes that still had to be unpacked. Rugby balls, dumbbells, fitness magazines and CDs littered the floor. Chris was a bit of a slob, I thought with a grin. He seemed to like Calvin Klein briefs and Abercrombie boxers (probably imported) as there were several scattered around the room.

I imagined he looked pretty impressive in them.

‘Sorry about the mess.’

‘No—it’s cool,’ I said, walking towards what looked like a vintage Star Wars poster. ‘Is that…’

‘Ja, it’s real.’

‘Oh my God. I don’t believe it.’

‘My dad took my eldest brother to see it when it first came out. Matthew loved it so much my dad bribed the cinema to give him the poster.’

‘But that was like... 1977? You must really be the baby of the family then.’

‘Ja. I have three older brothers. Matt’s like 36. He’s been more like a second dad than a brother to me.’

He plopped his bag on the bed. ‘Dump your stuff and let’s get changed.’

And just like that, he peeled of his clothes until he was standing wearing nothing but a pair of white boxers.

I was used to changing rooms, but had never seen someone who could have been a Men’s Health cover model up this close. I blinked: had God edited him in Photoshop or something? His body was defined but not bulging; his outlines were powerful, but graceful. This was not fair. He had a trifecta of abs, tight pectorals, and, fucking hell, the kind of legs you found on Greek statuary.

I realised I was staring and fumbled in my gym bag for my swimming kit. Chris had found a pair of boardshorts and promptly kicked off his boxers. He was now completely naked. I hoped to all heaven he didn’t hear me gasp. I tried to avert my gaze but couldn’t help glancing at the obvious.

I felt my face flush. He definitely wasn’t getting any complaints from the ladies.

‘Oh, sorry,’ he said, jumping into his boardshorts. ‘Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m not shy but I forget other people are.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Plus it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.’

My face flushed a second time.

‘C’mon, bru. You have nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘Yeah right,’ I said. I hurriedly put on my swimming trunks and then put my gym shorts over them—I was not going to be seen dead in a Speedo anywhere outside the school pool. ‘I’m not built like you dude.’ No-one is, I thought.

‘That’s not a problem.’ He looked me up and down. I wanted to hide.

‘What do you mean?’ And why are you looking at me like I'm some kind of museum specimen?’

Chris chuckled. ‘Sorry, man. I just meant that with a bit of a gym routine we could get you to set a few hearts aflutter. You just need a bit of meat on your bones. You’ve got good definition and you’re like well-proportioned.'’

‘Ha!’ I shook my head. ‘I think you’re smoking something strong.’

‘I mean it, bru. Give me two months and I’ll turn you into a machine. And maybe I'll teach you to defend yourself against those fuckers.’

I was now completely discombobulated.

‘Dude. Why are you being so nice to me? You hardly even know me!’

He lowered his head and softened his voice. ‘Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to come on too strong. I do that sometimes.’

‘No it’s not that—it’s just… you’ve been so super kind to me and you hardly know me. You must think I’m a total loser with all the shit I get myself into.’

He didn't say anything but walked up to put his hand on my shoulder. It felt wrong. It felt right. Oh my, yes, it felt right.

The Magisterium that lived in my frontal lobes was struggling to parse a lot of sentences. Did Jesus also have cognitive dissonance in the desert? Or was that in the Garden of Gethsemane? How dare you compare your little quandary with the anguish of your Saviour? Would all the superegos in my brain kindly help themselves to a big steaming cup of shut the fuck up?

‘Bru,’ he said, ‘you’re not a loser. Really awesome people usually don’t realise they are awesome.’

I snapped out of my little psychodrama. ‘What are you going on about?’

He was unperturbed. ‘I said, you are not a loser,’ he continued. ‘Those other fuckers are the losers. Let me help, I could use a little pet project.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have a friend much skinnier than you who I…or is it whom I… it is “whom” right? You’re an English boffin too I bet?'

Holy Mother of the Objective Pronoun. I knew the universe was random, but I did not until now know it could also be sadistic, shamelessly conjuring up beautiful young men whose grammar I couldn't criticise.

I took a deep breath. ‘It is indeed "whom", strictly speaking.'

He smiled. 'Well there you go. As for my friend, whom I got so ripped, after two months I had to tell him to stop admiring himself in the mirror all the time.'

'I don't believe you, but now I'm curious, and please slap me if I'm ever that vain.'

‘Offer stands,’ he said, and headed out of his room. ‘I'll start planning your new gym routine like tomorrow. Let’s get into the water.’

* * *

We horsed around in the huge pool for at least an hour. It had been ages since I was in a pool doing anything but serious swimming. Spent, we eventually clambered out of the water. Chris’s abdominal muscles tensed and relaxed rhythmically as he breathed, like a cat’s paws when it’s in a deep state of kitty nirvana.

I had to frog-march him to his desk to get to the actual purpose of the afternoon. If there’s one thing I do well, it’s organise things: within a few minutes I had laid out the Form IV and V chemistry syllabus for him, making a list of all the bits he needed to brush up. I even formulated a study plan on a spreadsheet. I was about to start on trigonometry when Fiona called us for supper.

Despite her protestations about being a lousy cook, Fiona had conjured up a Moroccan lamb dish from memory,

'It's a souvenir from a jaunt in North Africa when I was a student,' she said, dishing up for me the first and most sublime tagine I would ever taste in my life.

'This is amazing, Mrs Hathaway.'

Chris had a lazy look on his face. 'My mom can recall any recipe instantly, but gets lost in her own house.'

I suddenly missed Mom very much. Although very different in appearance and manner, it seemed our respective mothers shared the same passion for life.

Fiona was getting more and more animated as dinner progressed. Chris was looking a bit concerned.

‘That’s enough Ma,’ he said, holding a hand over her glass as she reached to empty the bottle of wine she’d been nursing since we’d arrived. She looked at him for a second and gave him a little smile.

‘I’m going to have a cigarette outside, boys,’ Fiona said, and excused herself. We finished our ice cream in silence.

‘Sorry man,’ said Chris. ‘My mom likes her wine every now and then.’

'No worries.’ I changed the subject, something MacLeods do best. ‘Shall we tackle some trig?’

‘Sounds good, bru.’

We took a last dip in the pool before he drove me home. It was a clear night, and we lay on recliners looking up at the stars. I traced out constellations on my finger and rattled off the mythology behind them.

‘How come you know so much?’

‘Fear of contact sports,’ I said, only half-joking. ‘When you don’t run around on the field you read a lot of books to pass the time.’

‘Ha. So what’s that one?’

‘That’s not a star. That’s Jupiter.’

‘You're too clever, man. I could lie here all evening, but I guess we have to get you home.’

I stood for a long time at my window, gazing out at the lights of his car getting smaller and smaller as he drove off. So many thoughts were racing through my mind. How busy the past two days had been. How this guy was rapidly becoming one of my best friends. How good it had felt to have his arm around me.

‘Oh fuck,’ I said aloud.

The Magisterium delivered its speech from the cerebral throne, cautioning my heart. Caleb MacLeod’s brain could be a haughty little thing; it had ingested atomic theory at a time when other kids were sticking Monopoly pieces up their noses. It had figured things out and was calmly offering explanations. You have a crush, it said. No need to panic, it continued. Perfectly normal for a kid your age when you’re busy adjusting to growing up. Also an understandable distraction to your emotional trauma. That’s fine. You’ll get over it. You don’t even need to pray about it. St Jude’s got it covered already.

Except my brain and all its counsellors were wrong.

I didn’t know it yet, but I was completely, madly, and head-over-heels in love with Christopher Hathaway.