Power Of The Sword Part 42

The American threw one of those straight hissing lefts, and not even seeing it, sensing it with animal instinct, Manfred reared back pulling in his chin and the blow brushed his face but stopped short.

Manfred was poised on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, with his weight back but ready to move forward, his right arm was c.o.c.ked, the fist clenched like a blacksmith's hammer, and the American was a hundredth part of a second slow on the recovery. Seven hard rounds had tired him and he dragged a fraction, and his right side was open. Manfred could not see the opening, it was too minute, too fleeting, but again that instinct triggered him and experience guided his arm; he knew by the set of the American's shoulders, the angle of his arm and the c.o.c.k of his head where the opening was.

it was too quick for conscious decision, and the punch was already launched before he could think but the decision was made instinctively and it was to end it in one.

Not his usual two-handed, swarming battering finish, but the single stroke, decisive and irretrievable, that would end it all.

It began in the great elastic muscles of his calves and thighs, accelerating like a stone in the swing of a slingshot through the twist of his pelvis and spine and shoulders, all of it channelled into his right arm like a wide roaring river trapped in a narrow canyon; it went through the American's guard and burst into the side of his dark head with a force that made Manfred's teeth clash together in his own skull.

It was everything he had, all his training and experience, all his strength, all his guts and his heart and every finely tuned muscle was behind that blow, and it landed solid and cleanly.

Manfred felt it go. He felt the bones of his right hand break, snapping and crackling like dry twigs, and the pain was a white electric thing that flared back up his arm and filled his head with flames. But in the pain was triumph and soaring joy for he knew it was over. He knew he had won.

The flames of agony cleared from his vision and he looked to see the American crumpled on the canvas at his feet, but the wild soaring of his heart stopped and turned to a plunging stone of despair. Cyrus Lomax was still on his feet. He was hurt and staggering, his eyes dull and sightless, his legs filled with cotton waste and his skull with molten lead, tottering on the very brink, but he was still on his feet.

Kill him! screamed the crowd. Kill him! Manfred could see how little it needed, just one more with the right hand, for the American was out on his feet, just one more. But there was no more, nothing left. The right hand was gone.

The American was reeling about drunkenly, bouncing off the ropes, knees sagging and then by some immense effort of will recovering again.

The left hand. Manfred summoned it all, everything that remained. I've got to take him with the left. And through his own agony he went after him again.

He threw the left hand, going for the head, but the American smothered it with an uncoordinated forward lunge, and he threw both arms around Manfred's shoulders and clinched him, clinging to him like a drowning man. Manfred tried to throw him off and the crowd noise was a berserk thunder, the referee shouting above it Break! Break! but the American held on just long enough.

When the referee got them apart, Cyrus Lomax's eyes were sighted and focused; and he backed away in front of Manfred's desperate efforts to land with the left hand, and the bell rang.

What is it, Manie? Uncle Tromp seized him and guided him to his corner. You had him beaten. What went wrong? My right, Manfred mumbled through the pain, and Uncle Tromp touched it, just above the wrist and Manfred almost screamed. The hand was ballooning, the swelling spreading up the arm even as they stared at it.

I'm throwing in the towel, Uncle Tromp whispered. You can't fight with that hand! Manfred snarled at him, No! His eyes were fierce and yellow as he looked across the ring to where they were working on the dazed American, cold compresses and sal volatile, slapping his cheeks, talking to him, talking him round.

The bell rang for the start of the eighth round and Manfred went out and saw with despair the new strength and coordination with which the American was moving. He was still afraid and uncertain, backing off, waiting for Manfred's attack, but getting stronger every minute, obviously puzzled at first by Manfred's failure to use the right hand again, and then realization dawning in his eyes.

You all gone, he growled in Manfred's ear in the next clinch. 'No right hand, white boy. I'm going to eat you up now! His punches started hurting, and Manfred began to back away. His left eye was closing up and he could taste the coppery salt of blood in his mouth.

The American shot out a hard straight left-hander, and instinctively Manfred blocked with his right, catching the blow on his glove; the pain was so intense that blackness shaded his vision and the earth tipped under him, and the next time he was afraid to block with the right and the American's punch got through and slammed into his injured eye. He could feel the swelling hanging on his face like a bloated blood-sucking tick, a fatpurple grape that closed the eye completely and the bell rang to end the eighth round.

Two more rounds, Uncle Tromp whispered to him, compressing the swollen eye with an ice-pack. Can you see it out, Manie? Manfred nodded and went out to the gong for the ninth and the American came eagerly to meet him, too eagerly, for he dropped his right hand for the big punch and Manfred beat him to it, slamming in a hard left-hander that jolted Lomax back on his heels.

If he had had the use of his right hand Manfred could have taken him yet again, following up in that raging cross storm of blows that no opponent could survive, but the right was maimed and useless, and Lomax ducked away, backing off, recovering and circling in again, working on Manfred's eye, trying to cut it open and with the last punch of the round he succeeded. He slashed the fat purple sac that closed the eye with a glancing left, catching it with the inside of the glove, ripping it open with the cross hatching of the laces, and it burst. A sheet of blood poured down Manfred,s face and splashed over his chest.

Before the referee could hold them up to examine the damage, the gong sounded and Manfred staggered back to his corner as Uncle Tromp rushed out to meet him.

I'm going to stop it,he whispered fiercely as he examined the terrible wound. You can't fight with that, you could lose the eye., 'If you stop it now, Manfred told him, I will never forgive you. His voice was low, but the fire in his yellow eyes warned Tromp Bierman that he meant every word. The old man grunted. He cleaned the wound, and applied a styptic pencil. The referee came to examine the eye, turning Manfred's face to the light.

Can you go on? he asked quietly.

For the Volk and the Ffthrer, Manfred answered him softly, and the referee nodded.

You are a brave man! he said and signalled for the fight to continue.

That last round was an eternity of agony, the American's blows sledge-hammered Manfred's body, laying bruises on top of deep seeping bruises, each of them sapping Manfred further, reducing his ability to protect himself from the blows that followed.

Each breath was fresh agony as it stretched the torn muscles and ligaments of his chest and burned the soft tissue of his lungs. The pain in his right hand flowed up his arm and mingled with the pain of each new blow, and darkness lapped the vision of his single remaining eye so that he could not see the punches coming. The agony roared like a rus.h.i.+ng wind in his eardrums, but still he stayed on his feet. Lomax pounded him, smas.h.i.+ng his face to raw meat, and still he stayed on his feet.

The crowd was outraged, their blood l.u.s.t turned to pity and then to horror. They were shouting for the referee to stop this atrocity, but still Manfred stayed on his feet, making pathetic fumbling efforts to punch back with his left hand, and the blows kept cras.h.i.+ng into his blind face and broken body.

At last, too late, much too late, the gong rang to end it and Manfred De La Rey was still on his feet. He stood in the centre of the ring, swaying from side to side, unable to see, unable to feel, unable to find his way back to his own corner, and Uncle Tromp ran out to him and embraced him tenderly. Uncle Tromp was weeping, tears running shamelessly into his beard as he led Manfred back.

My poor Manie, he whispered. I should never have let you. I should have stopped it!

On the opposite side of the ring Cyrus Lomax was surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers. They laughed and slapped his back, and Lomax did a weary little dance of triumph, waiting for the judges to confirm his victory, but shooting troubled glances across the ring at the man he had destroyed.

As soon as the announcement was made he would go to him, to express his admiration for such a show of raw courage.

Achtung! Achtung! The referee had the judges cards in one hand and the microphone in the other. His voice boomed over the loudspeakers. Ladies and gentlemen. The winner of the Olympic Gold Medal on points is, Manfred De La Rey of South Africa. There was a tense incredulous silence in the vast hall that lasted for three beats of Manfred's racing heart, and then a storm of protest, a roar of outrage and anger, of booing and foot-stamping. Cyrus Lomax was rus.h.i.+ng around the ring like a madman, shaking the ropes, shouting at the judges, dancing with dismay, and hundreds of spectators were trying to climb into the ring to stage an impromptu demonstration against the decision.

Colonel Boldt nodded at somebody near the back of the hall and the squads of brown-s.h.i.+rted storm troopers moved quic backkly down the aisles and surrounded the ring, driving the angry mob and clearing a corridor to the dressingrooms down which Manfred was hustled.

Over the loudspeaker the referee was attempting to justify the decision. Judge Krauser scored five rounds to De La Rey, one round drawn and four rounds to Lomax, but n.o.body was listening to him, and the uproar almost drowned out the full volume of the loudspeakers.

The woman must be five or six years older than you are,, Uncle Tromp said carefully, choosing his words. They were walking in the Tegel Gardens and autumn's first chill was in the air.

She is three years older than I am, Manfred replied. But that makes no difference, Uncle Tromp. All that matters is that I love her and she loves me. His right hand was still in plaster and he carried it in a sling.

Manie, you are not yet twenty-one years of age, you cannot marry without the permission of Your guardian. You are my guardian, Manfred pointed out, turning his head to watch him steadily with that disconcerting topazyellow gaze and Uncle Tromp dropped his eyes.

How will you support your wife? he asked.

The Reich's Department of culture has granted me a scholars.h.i.+p to finish my law degree here in Berlin. Heidi has a good job in the Ministry of Information and an apartment, and I will box professionally to earn enough to live on until I can begin my career as a lawyer. Then we will return to South Africa. You have planned it all, Uncle Tromp sighed, and Manfred nodded; his eyebrow was still knotted with crusty black scab, and he would be scarred for life. He touched the injury now as he asked, You will not deny me your permission, will you, Uncle Tromp? we will marry before you leave to go home, and we both want you to be the one to marry us. I am flattered. Uncle Tromp looked distraught. He knew this lad, how stubborn he was once he had set on a course.

To argue further would merely confirm his decision.

You are a father to me, Manfred said simply. And yet more than a father. Your blessing would be a gift without price. Manie! Manie! said Uncle Tromp. You are the son I never had, I want only what is best for you. What can I say to persuade you to wait a little - not to rush into this thing. There is nothing which will dissuade me. Manie, think of your Aunt Trudi, I know she would want me to be happy, Manfred cut in.

Yes, I know she would. But, Manie, think also of little Sarah, 'What of her? Manfred's eyes went fierce and cold and he thrust out his jaw, defiant with his own guilt.

Sarah loves you, Manie. She has always loved you, even I have been able to see that. Sarah is my sister, and I love her. I love her with a brother's love. I love Heidi with the love of a man, and she loves me as a woman loves. I think you are wrong, Manie. I have always thought that you and Sarah, Enough, Uncle Tromp. I don't want to hear any more. I will marry Heidi, I hope with your permission and blessing.

Will you make those your wedding gifts to us, please, Uncle Tromp? And the old man nodded heavily, sadly. I give you both my permission and my blessing, my son, and I will marry you with a joyous heart.

Heidi and Manfred were married on the bank of the Havel Lake in the garden of Colonel Sigmund Boldt's home in the Granewald. It was a golden afternoon in early September with the leaves turning yellow and red at the first touch of autumn. To be there both Uncle Tromp and Roelf Stander had stayed over when the Olympic teams scattered for home, and Roelf stood up with Manfred as his best man while Uncle Tromp conducted the simple ceremony.

Heidi was an orphan so Sigmund Boldt gave her away, and there were a dozen or so of Heidi's friends, most of them her superiors and colleagues in the Ministry of Propaganda and Information, but there were others, her cousins and more distant relatives in the black dress uniforms of the elite SS divisions, or the blue of the Luftwaffe or the field grey of the Wehrmacht, and pretty girls, some of them in the traditional peasant-style dirndls of which the n.a.z.i Party so strongly approved.

After the short and simple Calvinistic ceremony that Uncle Tromp conducted, there was an al fresco wedding banquet provided by Colonel Boldt, under the trees, with a four-piece band wearing Tyrolean hats and lederhosen. They played the popular Party-approved music of the day, alternating with traditional country airs, and the guests danced on the temporary wooden floor which had been laid over the lawn.

Manfred was so absorbed with the lovely new wife in his arms that he did not notice the sudden excitement amongst the other guests, or the way that Colonel Boldt hurried to greet the small party that was coming down from the house, until suddenly the band broke into the stirring marching song of the n.a.z.i Party, the Horst Wessel song, All the wedding guests were on their feet, standing rigidly to attention, and though he was puzzled, Manfred stopped dancing and stood to attention with Heidi at his side. As the small party of new arrivals stepped onto the temporary wooden dance floor, all the guests raised their arms in the n.a.z.i salute and cried together, Heil Hitler! Only then did Manfred realize what was happening, the incredible honour that he and Heidi were being accorded.

The man coming towards him wore a white jacket b.u.t.toned high at the throat with the simple Iron Cross for valour its only decoration. His face was pale, square and strong; his dark hair was brushed forward over his high forehead, and there was a small clipped moustche under the large well-shaped nose. it was not an extraordinary face, but the eyes were like no others Manfred had ever seen, they seared his soul with their penetrating intensity, they reached to his heart and made him a slave for ever.

His right hand was still encased in plaster as he held the n.a.z.i salute and Adolf Hitler smiled and nodded. I have heard that you are a friend of Germany, Herr De La Rey, he said.

I am of German blood, a true friend and your most ardent admirer.

I can find no words to describe the great but humble honour I feel in your presence. I congratulate you on your courageous victory over the American negro. Adolf Hitler held out his hand. And I congratulate you also on your marriage to one of the lovely daughters of the Reich. Manfred took the Fuhrrer's hand in his own undamaged left hand and he was trembling and filled with awe by the significance of the moment. 'I wish you great joy, Hitler continued, and may your marriage forge iron links between yourself and the German people. The Fahrer's hand was cool and dry, the strong yet elegant hand of an artist, and Manfred's emotions welled up to choke him. Always, my Fuhrer, the links between us will last for ever. Adolf Hitler nodded once more, shook hands with Heidi, smiled at her joyous tears, and then he was leaving as suddenly as he had arrived, with a word and a smile for a few of the most important guests.

I never dreamed -'whispered Heidi, clinging to Manfred's arm. 'My happiness is complete. That is greatness, Manfred said, watching him go. That is true greatness. It is hard to think he is mere mortal, and not a G.o.d!

Sarah Bester pedalled down the main street of the little village of Stellenbosch, weaving through the light traffic, smiling and waving at anybody she recognized on the sidewalks. Her school books were strapped on the carrier behind the saddle of her bicycle. The skirt of her gymshp billowed up almost as high as her knees, and she had to keep clutching at her school hat.

That morning her cla.s.s had been given the results of the previous term's work and she was bursting with the need to tell Aunt Trudi that she had pulled up from fifth to second place. The headmistress had noted on her school report, Well done, Sarah, keep up the good work. It was her last year, in October she would be seventeen and she would write her matriculation the next month.

Manie would be so proud of her. It was his inspiration and encouragement which had done so much to make her one of the top girls in the school. She started to think about him now, daydreaming as she pedalled along under the oaks. He had been away so long, but soon he would be home; then she would tell him and it would all be all right. She wouldn't have to worry and cry alone at night. Manie would be back - strong, kind, loving Manie would make it all right again.

She thought of being married to him, cooking his breakfast, was.h.i.+ng his s.h.i.+rts, darning his socks, walking to church at his side, calling him Meneer the way Aunt Trudi called Uncle Tromp, lying beside him every night, waking beside him every morning and seeing his beautiful blond head on the pillow beside her, and she knew there was nothing else in all the world she wanted.

Only Manie, she whispered. Always and only Manie. He is all I have ever had, all I have ever longed for. Ahead of her she saw the postman at the gate of the manse and she jumped down off the bicycle and called, Have you got anything for us, Mr Grobler? The postman grinned at her and took a buff-coloured envelope from his leather purse.

A telegram, he told her importantly. A telegram from overseas, but it's not for you, little one, it's for your aunt., I'll sign for it! Sarah scribbled in his receipt book, propped her bicycle on the gate of the manse and flew up the front steps.

Aunt Trudi! she screamed. A telegram! Where are you? She smelt cooking odours, and knew where to look.

It's a telegram! Sarah rushed into the kitchen. Aunt Trudi was standing over the long yellow-wood table with the rolling-pin in her hands, flour to her elbows and wisps of silverblond hair tickling her nose so that she blew at them as she straightened. She was glowing moistly from the heat of the kitchen range, and great pots of peach and fig jam bubbled over the flames.

Goodness me! What a to-do! You must learn to act like a lady, Sarie, you are not a child- A telegram! Look, a real telegram! It's the first we've ever had. Even Aunt Trudi was impressed. She reached for it and then paused.

My hands are covered with flour. Open it, Sarie. Sarah tore open the envelope. Shall I read it out? she demanded.

Yes. Yes, read it, who is it from? It's from Uncle Tromp, he signs it "Your dutiful husband Tromp Bierman". Silly old man! He has paid for four unnecessary words, Aunt Trudi grumbled. Read what he says. He says, "I have to inform you that Manfred was Sarah's voice tailed off into silence and her bright expectant expression crumbled as she stared at the sheet in her hands.

Go on, child, Aunt Trudi urged her. Read it out. Sarah began again, her voice small and whispery. "'I have to inform you that Manfred was today married to a German girl named Heidi Kramer. He plans to study at the University of Berlin and will not be returning home with me. I am sure you wish him happiness as I do. Your dutiful husband Tromp Bierman." Sarah lifted her eyes from the form and they stared at each other.

I cannot believe, Aunt Trudi breathed. Not our Manfred. He wouldn't, he couldn't desert us., Then she noticed Sarah's face. The child had gone grey as the ashes in the fireplace.

Oh, my little Sarie. Aunt Trudi's Plump features collapsed with compa.s.sion and shared agony and she reached for the girl, but Sarah let the telegram flutter from her fingers to the kitchen floor and whirled and raced from the kitchen.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed up her bicycle from the gate and stepped up into the saddle. She stood up on the pedals so as to drive harder, and her legs pumped to the beat of her heart. Her hat flew off her head and dangled down her back, suspended on the elastic around her neck. Her eyes were wide and dry, her face still grey with shock, as she raced out of the village, turning up past the old Lanzerac estate, heading instinctively for the mountains.

When the track became too steep and rough she dropped the bicycle and went on upwards on foot, through the pine forest until she reached the first crest. There she stumbled off the track and threw herself full length on the damp bed of pine needles, on the exact spot where she had given her love and her body and her soul to Manfred.

Once she had recovered her breath after the hard run up the Mountainside, she lay quietly, neither sobbing nor weeping, merely pressing her face into the curve of her own arm.

As the afternoon wore on, so the wind veered into the north west and the clouds gathered on the high peaks above where Sarah lay. At dusk it began to rain, and the darkness came on prematurely. The air turned icy, and the wind whimpered in the pines, shaking down droplets onto her prostrate body until her gymslip was soaked through. She never lifted her head, but lay and s.h.i.+vered like a lost puppy and her heart cried out in the darkness.

Manfred, Manfred, where did you go to? Why did I have to lose you? A little before morning broke, one of the search parties from the village, which had scoured the mountainsides all night, stumbled upon her and they carried her down the Mountainside.

It's pneumonia, Mevrou Bierman, the doctor told Aunt Trudi when she called him to the manse for the second time that next night. You are going to have to fight for her life she doesn't seem to want to fight herself. Aunt Trudi would not allow them to take Sarah to the new town hospital. She nursed the girl herself, tending her day and night in the small back bedroom, sponging the sweat and heat from her body while the fever mounted, sitting beside the bed and holding her hot hand through the crisis, not leaving her even when it had broken and Sarah lay pale and wasted with the flesh melted off her face so that her features were bony and gaunt and her lackl.u.s.tre eyes too large for the bruised cavities into which they had sunk.

On the sixth day, when Sarah was able to sit up and drink a little soup without Aunt Trudi's a.s.sistance, the doctor made his final call and behind the closed bedroom door gave Sarah a detailed examination. Afterwards he found Aunt Trudi in the kitchen and spoke to her quietly and seriously.

Once he had left the manse Aunt Trudi went back to the bedroom and sat beside the bed, in the same chair on which she had conducted her long vigil.

Sarah., She took the girl's thin hand. it was light and frail and cold. When did you last have your courses? she asked.

Sarah stared at her without replying for long seconds, and then for the first time she began to weep. Slow, almost viscous tears welled up from the depths of those haunted bruised eyes and her thin shoulders shook silently.

Oh, my little girl. Aunt Trudi reached for her and held her to the bulky pillow of her bosom. My poor little girl who did this to you? Sarah wept silently and Aunt Trudi stroked her hair. You must tell me, Suddenly the gentling hand froze on Sarah's head in midstroke, as understanding crashed in upon her.

Manie, it was Manie! It was not a question, but the confirmation was immediate as a painful sob came exploding up Out Of Sarah's tortured chest.

Oh Sarie, oh my poor little Sarie. Involuntarily Aunt Trudi turned her head towards a small framed photograph which stood on the table beside the sick girl's bed. It was a studio photograph of Manfred De La Rey in boxer's shorts and vest, crouched in the cla.s.sic purilists pose with the silver champions.h.i.+p belt around his waist.

The inscription read, To little Sarie. From your big brother, Manie. What a terrible thing! Aunt Trudi breathed. What will we do now? The following afternoon while Aunt Trudi was in the kitchen, larding a leg of venison which was a gift from one of the paris.h.i.+oners, Sarah came in on bare feet.

You should not be out of bed, Sarie, Aunt Trudi told her sternly, then was silent as Sarah did not even glance in her direction.

The thin white cotton nightdress hung loosely on her wasted frame, and she had to steady herself on the back of a kitchen chair for she was weak from her sick bed.

Then she gathered herself and crossed like a sleepwalker to the kitchen range. With the tongs she lifted the round black cast-iron cover off the fire box, and orange points of flame flickered through the opening. Only then did Aunt Trudi realize that Sarah had the photograph of Manfred in her hand. She had removed it from the frame and she held it up in front of her eyes and studied it for a few seconds.

Then dropped it into the opening of the firebox.

Rapidly the square of cardboard curled and blackened. The image upon it faded to ghostly grey and then was obscured by flames. With the points of the fire-tongs Sarah stabbed at the sc.r.a.p of soft ash that remained, crus.h.i.+ng and pounding it to powder. Even then she went on striking the irons into the flames with unnecessary force, until there was nothing left. Then she replaced the cast-iron cover over the firebox and dropped the tongs. She swayed on her feet and might have toppled forward onto the hot stove, but Aunt Trudi caught her and steered her to a kitchen chair.

Sarah sat staring across the kitchen at the stove for many minutes before she spoke.

I hate him! she said softly, Aunt Trudi bowed her head over the haunch of venison to hide her eyes.

We have to talk, Sarie, she said softly. We have to decide what to do. I know what to do, Sarah said and the tone chilled Aunt Trudi. it was not the voice of a bright sweet child, but that of a woman hardened and embittered and coldly angry with what life had offered her.

Eleven days later Roelf Stander returned to Stellenbosch, and six weeks later he and Sarah were married in the Dutch Reformed Church. Sarah's son was born on the 16th March 1937. It was a difficult birth, for the infant was big-boned and she was small-hipped and her body still not fully recovered from the pneumonia.

Roelf was allowed into the delivery room immediately after the birth. He stood over the cot staring down at the mottled swollen face of the newborn infant.

Do you hate him, Roelf? she asked from the bed. Sarah's hair was sodden with sweat and she was drawn and exhausted. Roelf was silent for a few moments while he considered the question. Then he shook his head.

the qu He is a part of you, he said. I could never hate anything that is you she held out her hand to him, and he came to stand beside the bed and took it. ou, Roelf.

You are a kind person. I will be a good wife to you I promise you that. I know exactly what you are going to say, Daddy. mathilda Janine sat opposite Blaine in his panelled ministerial office in the Parliament building.

You do, do you? Blaine asked. Then let's hear from you exactly what I'm going to Say. Firstly, Mathilda Janine held up her index finger, you are going to say that David Abrahams is a fine young man, a brilliant law student and a sportsman of international reputation who won one of the only two medals which this country was awarded at the Berlin Olympics. You are then about to say that he is gentle, considerate and kind, that he has a marvelous sense of humour and dances beautifully, that he is handsome in a funny sort of way and would make any girl a wonderful husband. Then you will say "but" and look grave!

I was going to say all that, was I? Blaine shook his head with wonder. All right. Now I say "but" and look grave.

Please continue for me, Matty!

But, you say gravely, he is Jewish. You will notice the inflexion, and now you look not only grave but significantly grave. 'This puts a certain amount of strain on my facial muscles, significantly grave. Very well, continue. My darling Daddy would not be so callow as to add, "Don't get me wrong, Matty, some of my best friends are Jews." You would never be as gauche as that, would you? 'Never! Blaine tried not to grin, even though he was still seriously worried by the proposition. He could never resist the impishness of his plain carrot-headed but beloved youngest daughter. I would never say that!

"'But," you would say, "mixed marriages are very difficult, Matty.