Carol’s Column

The day the grapevine broke down

We heard our son was getting married when Nina Apfelbaum phoned me on her return from visiting her son Hubert in London.

“You must be thrilled about Ralph,” she said.

“Thrilled?” What had my second son done?

“Congratulations,” she gushed, “you must be so happy to hear he’s getting married.”

“Happy?” I spluttered. This was the first I’d heard of it.

“I don’t believe it,” I said. “Ralph’s studying; he has his finals next week, there’s no way he’s getting married, he hasn’t got time. Anyway, he’s much too young.”

“I suppose it is awkward,” she said, “perhaps he’s waiting for the right moment to break the news to you.”

My maternal nose began to twitch. “What news?” I snapped.

“The fact that your son is marrying a Mongo.”

“A Mongo?”

“Oh, it’s so exciting,” twittered Nina, “Her name is Abaringa, she comes from Zaire and is quite exquisite. She’s at least two metres tall, a lawyer and plays the bagpipes. Hubert says she’s breath-taking, and her father’s a chief, which makes her a princess.”

Sensation

I thought Nina Apfelbaum was joking. She wasn’t. “All the South Africans in London are talking about it,” she said. “The news caused a sensation, a white South African boy marrying a black princess.”

It’s an extraordinary thing. You think parenting makes you immune to shock. Nevertheless, I put the phone down in a daze.

Outside, I heard my husband arriving home from work. I poured him a stiff whiskey, so stiff that the golden liquid lapped against the lip of the glass, and that was without ice or water.

“Sit down, I’ve got news for you,” I said.

“What’s so terrible,” he smiled. “The drains are blocked, there are rats in the roof, your car broke down, my mother’s coming for dinner ... why do you look so grim?”

“Your son Ralph is getting married,” I blurted. “To a Mongo from the Congo.”

He laughed with relief. “For a moment I thought you were serious.”

Giant

“I am,” I said, “Her name is Abaringa and she’s a bagpipe-playing lawyer who’s also a giant.”

“Well, she sounds an interesting girl,” spluttered my husband as he choked on his whiskey, “but I thought a Mongo was an orange antelope.”

“That’s a bongo,” I muttered. “Mongos are one of the indigenous tribes of Zaire.”

Everyone reacted differently. “My brother the prince,” giggled Nicky. “I bet she’s a great basketball player,” said Jamie. “Mazeltov,” said my mother. “Abaringa? Is that a Jewish name?”

“A Mongo from the Congo? Wonderful,” said my mother-in-law. “Just hold on while I jump out of the window.”

We immediately phoned Ralph. “So what’s news?” I asked chattily.

“Nothing, Ma, I’m working like a dog, I write in a week so I can’t speak now. Bye.” The conversation was briefer than a stikini and he didn’t mention marriage or Mongos.

“It’s suspicious,” I said to my spouse. “He’s avoiding speaking.”

“Relax,” said my husband. “Wait until he tells us.”

Of course, we couldn’t really talk of anything else, and by the end of the week we were all pretty excited at the thought of a royal betrothal.

Then last night Nina Apfelbaum phoned. “Carol, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I made a terrible mistake. It’s not your Ralph who’s getting married, it’s another Ralph.”

Just as well. I’ve always hated the bagpipes.

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