The Big End

There are phrases that have the capacity to chill the soul, to bring on a great and impenetrable darkness, words that can instantly snuff out stars and cause the universe to begin falling back in on itself.

“It’s the big end.”

“The big end of what?”

“Everything.  Your motor’s totally stuffed. It’ll have to be towed.”

“But it’s only just been serviced.”

The mechanic wipes his oily hands on an oily cloth.  He is all knowing, an adept in the mysteries, on first name terms with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

“They stopped making these models five years ago,” he says, his voice tinged with a curious mixture of sadness and disdain.

“It was serviced less than a week ago.” 

It’s a chant, a litany.  It cannot make things right.  It is old magic, useless now.

He shrugs. “It’s amazing you made it this far.”

There are no more words for a while, only the high, faint sound of the wind plucking the telephone wires by the side of the road.  It has become a world of far horizons, of desolation, a world of tumbleweed and overdrafts.

He drops the bonnet with a bang.  No care is needed. The thing is dead. 

“How far is it to town?”

The mechanic seems puzzled by the irrelevance of the question.  He shrugs again.  How far is too far? 

“About 15km,” he says.

You nod. He nods.

“All right,” you say.

He gets busy.  He backs up his big truck. He takes out chains. You turn to the wife and kids. They are sitting in the car. The signs are bad but they still have hope. 

“What does he say?” she asks.

“It’s something called the big end.”

“Can he fix it?”

No he cannot fix it.  Nobody can fix it. It is the big end.

“He’s going to tow us.”

“Whoopee!” says the younger child.  It is the exuberance of youth. It is not knowing about spares available only in Bloemfontein. It is not knowing about bank managers and impossible bills.  It is not knowing about the big end. It is innocence.

“We’ll have to spend the night.”

“Whoopee!”

It is not a long journey to the tiny town but the mechanic drives slowly.  The great plain stretches away in all directions, a vast, blank yellowing sheet.  Trees dot the parched expanse like pointless punctuation.

Your daughter hides her face when cars pass.  She cannot be recognised.  It is not cool to be towed.  Samantha’s father has a brand new BMW, one of the very big ones.  Samantha’s father’s car never breaks down.  Samantha’s father thinks you should buy a new car every two years. Samantha’s father …

“Shut up Paula.”

There is one hotel: The Majestic Hote.  The mechanic’s cousin owns it.  You will get a good rate, he says.  He drops you there.  He will see what he can do about the car, he says, and goes away.  You look up at your new home.

“I wonder what happened to the L?” your wife asks.

It was eaten by Time.  Time is gnawing at the Majestic Hote.  It has licked the paint from the walls and the colour from the curtains.  Time pauses as you mount the well-worn steps, its mouth full, watching.

“You’re in luck,” the one-armed man at reception says. “We were chock-a-block last night: big bus party.”

Your small son stares up nervously at the empty sleeve. 

“Will it be just the one night?”

What is the answer to that?  Time swallows in anticipation, waiting in the shadows, eager to know the answer too. 

“I’m not sure.  There’s a problem with the car. It’s the big end.”

The one-armed man winces. “Ouch,” he says. “Old car is it?”

No it is not old.  It has just been serviced. It is not new, but it is not old.  The Majestic Hote is old.  It has been round the sun 89 times without stopping.  It has never been serviced.

“Eight and nine, enjoy your stay,” the man says. He holds out the keys on their big wooden paddles.

Eight is a large room with a high ceiling.  You can trace the outline of continents among the fine cracks in the plaster on the walls.  Africa is there, and South America.  Italy is half formed above the door.  There is a hand basin in one corner. When the Majestic began its journey round the sun there were no en suites.  There are none now.

“What a dump.”

There are calls to make, people to tell, bookings to shuffle.  Your wife gets busy with the cell phone.  The signal is unsteady.  She tries one corner then another.  She leaves the room. The kids come in as she goes out. 

“Where are we exactly,” the girl asks.  She is cross. There is no en suite.

“We’re in the Majestic.”

“Is that the same as Hell?”

No it is not the same as Hell.  There is a swimming pool. 

“It’s full of frogs eggs, yuck,” the boy says.

It is still not the same as Hell. There are no frogs in Hell. Frogs are sin free; they cannot be admitted.

“Go for a walk.”

Dinner is at seven in the dining hall. The chock-a-blocks are long gone on their bus, leaving behind empty chairs and the strange orderly silence of idle knives and forks.

“Can’t we get MacDonald’s?”

There is no MacDonald’s, there is no Kentucky.  There is table d’hôte, a shy serving girl with white teeth, a big chandelier, old pictures and set places.  There is thin soup followed by fish. The children complain in whispers.

The one armed man comes in.  He stops beside the table.  He looks down at the mangled fish.

“Everything all right?” he asks.

Everything is fine, thank you.  The meal is fine and the rooms are fine.  The frogs and their eggs in the pool are fine. Where can we hire a car?

The man looks doubtful. “That could be a problem,” he says. “It’s a long weekend, school holidays. It would have to come from Bloemfontein, assuming you can even get one there.  There’s a big convention on.”  He sees the despair in the children’s eyes.  He takes pity. He winks at them. “Enjoy your stay, worry about it tomorrow.  My cousin’s been known to work miracles.”

Yes, there is always that.  When hope is gone there is that at least.

Have coffee by the pool; it is cooler there, the man says.  The moon will be up soon. The shy serving girl will bring black coffee on a tray. 

The kids choose to watch TV.  It is an old set.  There is only one channel. The picture flickers, the sound comes and goes. 

The water in the pool is like black silk.  The stars seem to float there, rippling in the soft spiral wake of a thousand unseen tadpoles. A hot breeze blows in from the parched veld, rustling the big strelitzia leaves.

“How long do you think we’re going to be stuck here?”

We will be stuck here forever.  With the big end everything ceases.  There can be no holiday on the beach or in the mountains because there will be no money.  There can only be thin soup and dry fish in the Majestic Hote.

“I’ve no idea. Let’s go to bed.”

You wake in a bright light.  Your wife is speaking, shaking you by the shoulder.

“The car’s outside.”

“What?”

“The car’s outside. Come and look. I can see it through the window.”

You jump out of bed to join her.  The car is there.  It is shining in the early-morning sun.  It is still not new but it is not yet old, not yet useless.

You change and rush downstairs.  There is no one at the desk so you ring the bell.  You wait. You’re impatient; you ring it again. The one-armed man appears.

“Our car’s outside.”

He nods. He’s pleased that you are pleased. “He dropped it off this morning.  He said he worked on it most of the night, but it’s fixed.” 

“I must go and thank him.  I must settle up.  Where’s his garage?”

The one-armed man shakes his head. “He won’t be there. He’s been called out again. He left the bill, asked you to settle up with me.”

You take the paper.  It is less than the cost of the service.  You can’t believe it. 

“He said to tell you he had to use old parts, he had to make a plan but it’ll get you to where you’re going.”

You look at the name on the invoice.  You smile and he smiles. You read the words out loud: “Gabriel Motors.”

“Believe it,” says the one-armed man.