Carol’s Column

In the thick of the brown

Murder is a fearful crime, for what can be worse than to take a life. There is nothing more precious than life and to snuff it out is to create a darkness that is eternal.

The line between life and death is so thin, so fragile, so tenuous.

"I am a murderer," said my daughter, her dark eyes anguished, a look of despair on her face. She placed her head in her hands and wept.

What could we say. She was indeed a murderer. She had taken a life.

It happened this way. For two years, Clinton Friedman, Winnie Mandela and Eugene Terreblanche lived happily together.

Clinton Friedman, originally from Grahamstown, had returned home when my youngest unmarried son left for Cape Town. A goldfish of distinction, he'd travelled widely, participating in student demonstrations, accompanying Jamie on a fishing trip to Port Alfred, a skiing trip to the Malutis and even a camping safari to Botswana.

"He's getting on in years," said Jamie on his last visit home, "I think the travelling's getting to him."

Which is why we placed Clinton in my daughter's fishbowl wherein resided Winnie Mandela and Eugene Terreblanche.

Clinton Friedman was a handsome fish, long, thin and pinkish. Winnie Mandela was magnificently black, with somewhat bulbous eyes and a distinctively large tail, whereas Eugene Terreblanche was predominantly faded white.

The three flourished together. Until last week when Nicky discovered Eugene Terreblanche, fat and bloated, floating upside down. Although still breathing, he looked as sick as a dog.

Nicky, who is experienced in fish resuscitation, immediately righted him and rubbed his stomach gently. Upon which he seemed to recover slightly and swam slowly around the bowl.

However, the following day, I heard a screech from Nicky's bedroom. "Eugene's dead," she cried.

There he was, floating limply at the top of the bowl. It seemed indeed that he'd breathed his last.

As is traditional in this family in times of tragedy, we gathered together for the funeral. Which was difficult as our toilet is small and with nine people, three dogs, one cat and two goldfish, it was a tight squeeze.

Nicky held Eugene Terreblanche gently, said a few pertinent words of farewell, and then dropped him down the toilet for his sea burial, so to speak.

It was then it happened. She screamed. "He's alive, he's alive."

We peered into the bowl. Sure enough, there was Eugene Terreblanche swimming vigorously around. It was a miracle, obviously the cold water of the toilet bowl had brought him back to life.

As Nicky bent down to retrieve him, he quickly flipped his tail and disappeared down the S-bend.

Jamie, always excellent in an emergency, shot downstairs, uncovered the manhole and waited, tea strainer in hand, to catch Eugene Terreblanche as he emerged.

Alack, he never came and it was obvious that he was already en route to the municipal sewage plant.

Nicky was distraught. "Can't we do something," she wept. "There must be a way of getting him back."

Diplomatically, we explained that the likelihood of Eugene Terreblanche surviving under these circumstances was remote.

Jamie was particularly tactful. "He took one breath of sewage and died immediately," he said.

"I'm a murderer," wailed Nicky and retired to her room to grieve. Nothing we said would console her. "He was alive and I killed him," she kept saying.

To be honest, Clinton Friedman and Winnie Mandela didn't seem too distressed at the loss of their close companion. In fact, if anything, they were perkier than they'd been when Eugene was with them.

"It's probably because they have more lebensraum," observed my spouse cynically.

That night, dinner was a sad affair. It was obvious that guilt sat heavily upon Nicky's shoulders.

"I wonder where Eugene Terreblanche is now?" she said pensively.

Jamie has always been a man of few words. "In the brown stuff, like the rest of South Africa," he said.

He could be right.

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