Remembering Mark Beukes
Mark Beukes has been gone for over a year. I had not noted the anniversary of his death in my diary, but on the day, I just started remembering things about him. I still struggle to believe that he is gone.
Although I knew how unwell he had been, it still came as a complete shock. In fact, I thought a similar thing when Bowie died: ‘How?’ Some people just don’t seem to be limited in the same way as the rest of us.
I first met him at high school. We were in a play in our first year, and his effortlessly brilliant performance made him a school celebrity overnight. Our stern Afrikaaner headmaster even remarked to a full assembly that if young Mark Beukes ever needed an agent, he would be first in line. I was childishly jealous, and responded to his scene stealing improvisations by adding some innovations of my own. It was through these on-stage duels – in which I was effortlessly outclassed – that we became friends.
We were in many plays together over the years. He was a natural performer on stage, but when once he was required to audition by singing, he became shy. I had to beg him to try. I ended up coaching him through my standard audition song note by note. He got the part, but it still amuses me that for a man with supernaturally good taste in music the song I taught him was ‘Can’t Smile Without You’ by Barry Manilow.
In many ways, he has become a creature of myth and legend to my family – a kind of real-life Ferris Bueller. My children know him as just ‘Mark’ – the focal point of a thousand anecdotes of airless classrooms suddenly transformed into scenes of chaotic hilarity, through a flash of genius, mischief or absurdity by the mercurial ringmaster at the centre of it all.
The last time I ever saw him in the flesh was in 1987. I was leaving South Africa for good the following day.
I was staying in a hotel, and Mark had come to say goodbye. It was all a bit awkward. Young adult males tend not to find expressions of emotion easy, and we stood out in the street, trying to find the right words. At that point we were interrupted by a very drunk man who walked up to Mark and introduced himself:
“I am Bradley Ver Wye,” he slurred, “and I am the best goddam pool player in the world”.
Mark appraised the situation and took a second to respond. When he did, his voice was as serious as I had ever heard it.
“Really? The best pool player in the world? What a privilege to meet you!”
Here, he started excitedly pumping the man’s hand.
“Bradley”, Mark said, majestically, ”I would like to introduce you to my good friend Chris: Chris, this is Bradley, who is the finest pool player in the world.”
Bradley and I shook hands soberly, which was ironic, given Bradley’s state.
“So, Bradley”, continued Mark, “tell us, how did you come to be the world’s best pool player?”.
Mark rested his chin on his hand and leaned in, the model of an attentive listener. Bradley seemed to sense he was being given the kind of respect he had always felt he deserved but had never been granted until now.
“Well,” he said, ”I can beat anyone. Poor or rich. If a rich man plays me, I will say, ja, fine, I can beat you, but;“ – here a pause for emphasis – ”Fuck you and your wealth!”
Here Mark exploded with honking laughter.
“Did you hear that Chris? That’s brilliant! ‘Fuck you and your wealth!’ Ha ha!”
And so, I left them to it.
It took me many years to track him down – a few months after my only visit to New York, where it turned out I had been a short cab ride away from him.
Although we had not seen each other for over 20 years, I think we had even more in common than before. We had both left the country where we grew up, and both now knew the difference between an imagined place and a real one. And for us both, while our past was frozen in a far away place, in the present it had been utterly transformed.
And now he’s gone. He was my best friend at a time in my life when friendship meant everything. He was an example in how to approach life; as a game too serious not to be played in earnest, but a game for all of that. That life is a series of moments, and if you don’t try to extract meaning and humour from every one of them, you were missing the best part of it. This idea is not new, of course. Many wise heads have arrived at that conclusion after lifetimes of meditation and debate. But it was Mark’s blessing to somehow know it in his heart, and to live accordingly. And for those of us who were lucky enough to know him, it was our blessing to witness it.