Trencherman (first chapter)
(Translator: Luke Stubbs)

1


The call catches me off guard: I’m on my knees in front of the sofa. It’s late. Outside the incessant rain has turned Melbourne cold and bitter.
    “Marlouw, listen carefully please, you have to go back to South Africa and get Koert out of that damned country. For me.” My sister on the phone. “Something’s gone wrong,” she says, “I know it. In my heart of hearts. For God’s sake, Marlow, he’s all I’ve got and he’s drifting further and further away. He’s lost, had it,” and she draws a deep breath, hard against her palate.
    I don’t answer Heleen immediately – I realise she’s hysterical. And in any case this is no request: it’s a command. One that will turn my life upside down.
    The significance of the position in which I had frozen would become clear later. But there I was on my knees with my cheek flat on the floor, my back concave and my bottom facing the roof, trying to fish a marble from under the sofa.
    “What are you up to? Is that you, Marlouw? It’s as if she’s caught me in this bizarre position and I’m blushing.
    “Why are you phoning so late, Heleen?” My voice sounds woolly. I’m upset, not myself. Me? Return to dig Koert out? And who knows where the hell he is any way? Would Koert bother to listen to me – it’s unlikely. That’s what I want to say, but you don’t second guess predestination. I already know that I have to go and there’s no point struggling against it.
    “Have you any idea how long it’s been since I last heard from Koert?” she babbles on breathlessly. She’s been drinking.
    “I’ve tried to get him on that number, I don’t know how many times: the number you have dialled, is not available. What’s become of him? What are you doing, Marlouw?” She asks again, anxious that I might stop listening.
    I get up slowly, careful not to misplace my foot. It’s become more tender and bluer in this weather, even though my apartment has underfloor heating. The marble, one from my childhood, remains abandoned under the sofa. I’m not sentimental about such things. Well, maybe just a little.
    “Why am I putting this onto you?” Heleen’s asking. She can’t stop: her anxiety is overwhelming.
    I sense the urgency myself; with every word Heleen speaks I become more on edge. And my routine has been disturbed as well. I usually warm a bit of milk at this time of night, wait until it’s boiling then pour it slowly over a teaspoon of eucalyptus honey.
    “Every single morning I rush to my computer to check my e-mails,” she continues. “Please, dear Lord, may Koert find it in his heart to write to his mother today. I don’t even go down to the kitchen to make coffee, my mail first. Jocelyn always calls from below: Shall I bring your coffee up, Heleen?  I don’t bother to answer. Is there any news from my one and only child? For God’s sake, can’t he even condescend – what’s the word – to contact me? It’s been how many months now?
    “In the afternoons around lunchtime when I used to make his sandwich for him, smoked salmon and lettuce . . .  he loved mayonnaise . . .  I actually start shaking and run upstairs to check my e-mails again. Nothing, Marlouw, I’m telling you: nothing. And then it starts getting dark and the rain won’t stop. Is there something in my inbox tonight? Not a thing. Again. Do you have any idea how it feels? Look, if he were here I’d have boxed his ears long ago. Oh, those ears of his, perfect little shells.”
    “Please, Heleen.” I’m not sentimental.
    “Listen, Marlouw . . .” she’s afraid I’ve given up listening. “You must go and find Koert for me. I’ll make sure there’s enough money on your credit card. He’s still on Ouplaas, he has to be there.”
    It’s been ages since I’ve heard her, anyone, say “Ouplaas.” Everything’s upsetting me now.
    “What on earth are you asking me, Heleen, I’ve made it clear, haven’t I – to myself, to everyone – that I’ll never set foot in South Africa again.”
    “What I haven’t done for that child!” she persists. “And he did so well in his German. Bright. But he’s always had a mind of his own. The things he got up to. You know, I realised from the beginning he was worse than wild – there was no way I could control him.
    “JP was strict on him.”
    “Rubbish. His father was never there to help. His father! Please, help me before I lose my mind. Listen, Marlouw, I’m convinced Koert is still on Ouplaas. Where else would he have found a roof over his head? Something has happened. I feel it. Why don’t I hear from him? He used to phone all the time, then it stopped. No more signal. Then he mailed every day. Like clockwork. But that also dried up. I’ve got a feeling Koert is sick, and he’s on Ouplaas and there’s nobody to look after him properly. You know, there’s a plague in that land – it’s totally out of control. The Lord doesn’t hear my prayers anymore, Marlouw. What’s become of my son?”
    “What about JP? Why don’t you send him to look for Koert?”
    “For God’s sake. Please. JP! Not available. As in never ever. Mister JP called yesterday on his cell phone. Can you believe it! He was on the top floor of the Petronas Towers. You know, Kuala Lumpur. Phoned to show off. Tell me what you’re doing there, JP, I asked him. Heleen, I wish you were here – he lied through his teeth – the whole city, the whole world is spread out below me, he said. Shame on him! You know, most of the time I feel sorry for him.
    “So what do you think JP was doing at the tippy-top of the Petronas Towers? Oh, he was the guest of their minister of education. He was recruiting students for the engineering faculty here in Melbourne. Mr Bigdeal with his bow tie and all. Feathering his own little nest. Heleen you simply do not understand. It’s our bread and butter, man. You know, when he starts calling me man I nearly have a fit. I’m his bloody wife and our child is going to the dogs.”
    “Maybe Koert’s all right, who knows,” I try again, though I’m not convinced myself of what I’m saying. And as far as JP’s concerned – it was only the other day he told me: Don’t let your foot bugger up your whole life, Marlouw. Come to the Daily Planet one night – a luxury brothel with everything. No, I can never see JP the way Heleen does.
    “To the dogs!” Heleen continues. “There’ll be nothing left of Koert. Man. Can you believe it, that’s how JP speaks to me in these situations. JP Spies is the only one who doesn’t know that the whole of Brighton gossips about us: his sofa and her bed. Why did I ever fall for those legs of his? It’s hopeless; JP doesn’t give a damn about his son. He talks about Koert’s sojourn.” She imitates JP’s voice: “Let the kid go if he wants to, Heleen. He’s getting nothing more from me. We’ll see who crawls back home one day bawling about the swine husks.”
    She slurps her drink. After all these years in Australia she’s clung to the old boere habit of brandy & Coke for a sundowner. She’s drunk and hard and sharp as ice, because – God knows – Heleen can be a bitch if she wants to. I suggest I come over; order a taxi. The warm milk will have to wait; I’m willing to disrupt my routine.
    “Marlouw, you don’t have to come out in this weather. Just promise me you’ll go and find Koert and bring him back. That’s all. Am I asking too much? Am I?”
    “And what about my life? What about my responsibilities? How long do you think it will take to track Koert down? Months and months, who knows? I do have a life, Heleen. You’re phoning me in the middle of the night.” I know right away that I’ve slipped up; this is exactly what she wants so that she can torment me.
    “Your life, Marlouw? God, don’t make me laugh. You with all your education and you end up in Australia selling pots.
    “You’re full of shit, Heleen.” A gust of wind throws sheets of rain against the wall to wall window. My whole apartment shudders. Let her carry on. She won’t wind me up this easily. I’m better off than she is. I’m an agent for Paderno stainless steel pots, and I’ve never been ashamed of it. Heleen can’t even afford them. They’re the most luxurious cookware on the market and my clients include some of Melbourne’s top restaurants. To be honest, there have been times when I’ve thought that chefs only buy my pots because they feel sorry for me. Because of the foot. But then I’ve told myself: don’t be silly, Marlouw.
    “Don’t mess with me and my job.”
    “Listen, Marlouw. I’ll see to your affairs while you’re away. Introduce me to your chefs and I promise you, your business won’t suffer. I’ll twist them round my little finger. You think I can’t? You’re not the only one with a head for business. If you’re not prepared to do it for me, do it for Koert. I know you care about him. Go and get him – dare to do something you’ve never done before.”
    “Go to bed, Heleen. You’ve had far too much to drink.”
    “And you? You know, I happened to see you one night wandering the streets with a bottle of wine under your arm. On the way to that chic apartment of yours. The loneliest man on earth.”
    “You’re going too far, Heleen.  You’re talking about things you know nothing about. Besides, why do you want Koert back so badly? Why? Have you given that any thought?”
    “What do you know? You’ve never had a child. Can I tell you something I’ve never dared say before, Marlouw? Something’s eating away at you. And do you know what it is? Do you? You’re bitter and twisted . . . because Pappie and Mammie never had your foot fixed.”
    She’s got me now. Always misunderstands me. Deliberately. Been doing it since we were kids. “I’m off to bed now. I don’t feel like your shit tonight. Do you know what time it is? It’s morning already. I’ve had enough.”
    I thought the two of us were far too alienated for her to upset me any more, yet she has. Last night I dreamt again that all I had was a cramp in my foot and when I woke – the waking was still part of the dream – my foot was fine and I could walk away like any normal person. And then I really woke up. It’s an old dream.
    For a long time I say nothing. I hear Heleen swallow and breathe. I see her in her jungle room with the zebra skin on the tiled floor and the kieries and shields and masks against the wall, and the pedicured feet up on Pappie’s stinkwood chair – she got it in the end, I really didn’t mind. Her toy pom in the hollow of her knees, her brandy & Coke in her one hand, Courtleigh in the cigarette holder in the other, perfect symmetry. And I imagine creeping up on her from behind and she may as well have been deaf because she’s got no idea what’s about to happen. I come from behind and strangle her then and there – she did go too far. No one talks to me like that.
    The silence over the phone lasts too long for her liking and Heleen becomes anxious. “Marlouw, please, don’t forsake me now. Forgive me, I beg you. Look I’m on my knees. Anything. For Pappie and Mammie’s sake then, please. Martin Jasper Louw,” she spells it out to emphasise the seriousness of her call.
    “Ask me anything,” she whispers, picks me up like you’d play with your baby brother until I imagine her delicious brandy breath against my cheek. “Do this one, last favour for me.”
    “You don’t know what you’re asking. Who’d be crazy enough to do it?”
    “I can’t go. How could I, Marlouw?” She’s choking on her eagerness to turn the situation around. “I miss you, you know. You never visit me. Don’t you know me anymore? Marlouw, listen. Just this once, even if I’m not clever enough for you.”
    She talks faster and faster: “Remember the time you and I were swimming in the dam and you suddenly began screaming till you turned blue, the tractor tyre had punctured and was sinking like a rock and you were treading water. And I paddled out to you on a tree stump and grabbed your arms and put them round the stump and saved your life. Don’t you remember that day?”
    “Okay, then, Heleen. I’ll think about it and let you know tomorrow.” I don’t wait for her answer; I know she’s hanging on at her end of the line. At this end, I’ve become motionless. Though my stomach churns at the way the assignment is taking possession of me. I had never wanted to return to a country where a white skin was seen as a badge of privilege.
    “Night, Heleen,” and I put the receiver down to get rid of her, and lift my japara from the hall stand and slip it on and let the door slip closed behind me on its quiet, oiled hinges like all the doors in my lovely white apartment. I walk out into the drowning city, the collar of the oil coat turned high against my neck.
    It’s pelting, Pappie would have said, although this kind of deluge isn’t something he ever experienced. I stick to the fence along the footpath all the way down Dandenong Road. Callistemon and lilli-pilli flick against my japara. The shrubs have filled out, weighed down by water. In this wet I become clumsy, though I don’t like to admit it. It’s as if the pavement moves under me as the water dams up with nowhere to go. Hobble-hobble. I’m afraid I’ll fall, knock myself out cold and there’s nobody to help me this time of morning.
    I climb the steps of the footbridge over Dandenong Road. I’m sweating in the japara; in this rain I won’t pause to take off my jersey. Below cars row on the six-lane highway and tyres spurt water. The small hour’s traffic jam of trucks and half-drunk taxis has begun.
    The rain drops sheer like curtains, as if the southern heavens are emptying into a trench, spewing out water in a last seething rage. In the gloom, the city emits no more than an unholy glimmer through the downpour. I draw the hood tight, even have to screen my eyes with my arm to keep the water out.
    I’ll let Heleen know what I’ve decided tomorrow. I don’t know what to think. It’s not really a mission one can decide on unequivocally. And here, on this pathetic bridge across this artery of a highway – is there anything here that can redeem me? This city has never embraced me, never held me to her bosom. Why not get the hell away from here? At arms’ length, twenty years now. That’s Melbourne. Heleen and JP and I were young and slim when we emigrated here. The brilliance of the move we said to one another. We all spoke English so well, all of us so passionate.
    Sweat runs into my eyes; water gets in after all. My thoughts become less ordered, more fluid as if in imitation of the surroundings. They flow, my grip on them weakens, my view of the highway ahead and behind dims so that the vehicles only register as whirligigs, each rowing on its waterway.
Suddenly the shock of a truck with livestock: cattle – sheep in fact. The smell of sodden wool rises up despite the rain; creatures of God, probably terrified out of their wits. I hear a feeble bleat, the remains of their primal language on a piece of open veld.
    Lord, let me never see the fatherland and Ouplaas again; let me detach myself from it for the rest of my short earthly existence. Lord God, help me! The photos of us on Ouplaas: me on Pappie’s lap with the starling eggs in my hand. It’s all been packed away between blotting paper in the dry-drawer of the nineteenth century Japanese cabinet that I bought specifically for this eternal storage. Why else pay so much for a few pieces of plank?
    Pappie’s coffin sinking into the cold earth – we were granted a winter’s day to bury our father so that we could weep our fill once and for all. I observed the day through my dark glasses, looked over the heads of the bystanders to where a green patch had been planted around the new graveyard: bedraggled cypress saplings. It take a lifetime for them to cast any shade across the graves. That’s when I decided: I want nothing more to do with that piece of barren earth.
    “Here, please.” I took the spade and began filling the grave up myself. Ours was a history that had passed for good. There was sobbing all around, and a mournful gloom. Our father was the last of generations who’d lived and multiplied there. Then it became even clearer: Ouplaas had long since ceased to be mine and Heleen’s. It had to be left to the three families who’d worked the farm for thirty, forty years already.
    What did Heleen and I want a bloody farm for? Let them take it over – November Hlongwane, headman of the sheep flocks, and his two children, Pilot and Esmie Phumzile, and Nombulelo Mildred, the old woman who’d wiped our bottoms, and her son Lehlono, and ouma Zuka and Frans and Sindiswa Zuka and their little boy, Headman, and the rest of their offspring. Let all of them have Ouplaas and make something of it.
    Heleen went bezerk the day I suggested it. There was a tea at Tannie Driekie’s place and the moment I mentioned it Heleen threw down her plate of milk tart and dragged me out by my arm. Her pathetic little plan became transparent immediately. Imagine – she wanted the family farm to be put on the market straight away so that she could take her cut, transfer it to her Australian account and redo the en-suite in their Brighton house in marble.
    “You’re so righteous, Marlouw. Little twit,” she’d said to me that day. By then she spoke mostly English. At first she despised me for wanting to give the farm away, then conceded.
    The Ouplaas title deed was transferred to the three families. That day Mildred – we didn’t call her Nombulelo, of course – dropped the physical reserve she had towards white people and threw her arms, sinewy like ox hide riempies around Heleen’s neck. Mildred cried, and eventually Heleen too.
     My heartbeat wavers. The air I’m breathing in is too damp. Here on the middle of a bridge over a hellish highway, I realise that I share the fear of the sheep in the truck. It’s welling up inside me: the horror of Heleen’s charge. Till a moment ago I’d only thought superficially about the mission; now the reality is bursting open before me, monstrous and malformed.
    I will exchange my embarrassingly safe urban existence for a country I’d decided to avoid for ever. The assignment will sweep me away completely. I had committed myself to something I was now becoming afraid of. And if you’re afraid of something ahead of time, and are aware of your fear, you’re able to conquer it. I will. And I will believe that I can do it. But my heart is faint, my mind shut to the likely outcome of the mission. And then there’s my disability. I struggle on across the bridge.
    What kind of person has Koert become, and what’s kept him away from his mother for two years? How can I possibly know? Now I have to go and dig him out there. His cripple uncle with two reading glasses in the case: one for reading and one as a back-up. And what remains to be read there? I know nothing about that land anymore. Koert will, in all probability, run me off Ouplaas and I’ll come crawling back like a dog.
    Despite their polish, my shoes are eventually unable to withstand the flood, and moisture seeps into my socks. Water streams down my sleeves from my hands shielding my face. I shudder at the night that descends upon me with the dead colour of lead.
    Nothing remains but for me to abandon myself to this. It has become my honour. I’ve already promised myself I’ll go, even though I haven’t told Heleen yet. By this time she’s lying on her bed worn to a frazzle with the toy pom to warm her breast.
    A truck slams its brakes below the footbridge, slides to a standstill and cars splutter anxiously past the colossal object. I glimpse a white knuckle clutching a steering wheel.
    I wrap the two flaps of my japara tightly around me. I’m drenched with sweat and seeping water and shiver uncontrollably. I want to turn my back on the bridge and the city once and for all, and on the terror that the mission has aroused in my life, but it is impossible. It’s become a fixed impossibility. All I can do is to try and run away, and so hobble leftwards across the bridge, all the while sliding my hand along the waist high railings to keep my balance on the walkway.

My beautiful death (first chapter)
(translator: Luke Stubbs)

TO GET THE HELL out of here and make a life of my own somewhere else. That’s what I decide in the Red Store, the corrugated-iron monstrosity on the hill above the dorp. It’s an old red, the colour of blood, painted once and left to fade.
I arrive at the loading area behind the Red Store and pull the bakkie up close against the buffers. A young farmer waits for his order to be loaded. He nods in my direction, picking his teeth with the corner of his receipt. I’ve never seen him before.
It’s past two already, and the midday break when everyone goes off to eat and have a little lie-down is over. The Red Store’s iron walls burn like hotplates. The roof crackles in the heat.
The store is laid out like a dorp: there’s a main road that runs straight into a mountain of lucerne bales. Side roads lead to a tower of feeding pellets, a stack of lime, a pile of mealies. Black men push loaded trolleys through a haze of lucerne vapour and a fog of fine flour.
I must place my order with the clerk in the office to the left, just off the entrance. It’s suffocating in here.
Afternoon, tannie . . . Ummm . . .
My goodness, Konstant, is that you? Just a moment, let me get out from behind here. I simply must get a proper look at you . . . Heavens above, it’s been a long time. She starts moving.
No, okay fine, tannie.
The rubber plant in her office is sickly, as if, like her, it’s also wheezing in the floury air. And the fan on her desk is worse than useless. Her upper lip is sweaty. She’s wearing pumps; no, they’re slippers. Old bunny-foot approaches. The office door slips opens a bit then clicks back shut again. Looks like bleached magnolias on her dress: faded green material with a low cut neckline. And a matching belt to give her waist some definition. Does she still want to be sexy? Even at this age? I suppose all women do – till the day they die. They really are something else. Ha! Caught her out: the belt loop on her left side is unravelling. Is that a Cyma on her milky wrist? She’s still lactating, even though the children left home centuries ago. Here she comes. She’s going for my lips. Determined to invade my space. There’s a whiff of the Red Store with a tinge of rose about her. Shame.
My goodness, Konstant; no, it can’t be. You don’t look a day older than the last time I saw you. Her moustache whisks across my cheek.
If she’s noticed me flinching, she doesn’t show it. She’s a real old flatterer. I shouldn’t be so obnoxious – the old bag’s only trying to be nice.
Now when was that, good heavens, man, what are you up to these days? I must say: you Wassermans, all of you, carry your age so well. Look at that mother of yours. Do you know, it was only the other day I was saying to Oom Giep when I saw your mommy going up for communion, I said to him: Giep, never in all my life would I have said that Mirjam has raised five children. Oh my, she always looks so stunning. And then your pappie, working so hard. I’m telling you, boetman, that Raster Wasserman is one of the old sort. Real go-getter, that father of yours. Really hot in here, isn’t it? Ah well, you get used to it after a while. But I must say: it’s quite something today.
Tannie Thingy, hell, what’s her name? Hasn’t seen me in years. Won’t ever forget my name. Obviously it’s easier in a small town. She means well. I can’t believe she’s still working here. Suppose she can’t find anything better. And she’s probably dead satisfied here.
Where’s the order? In my pocket. My khakis feel nice and rough. I make sure I wear the same as everybody else: bushveld hat, the lot. Blend in, fade away. Lie low and you won’t be bothered. Pa’s co-op number: 25311. In that Valbazen pocketbook. I wrote it all down – I’d remember bugger all if I didn’t. Boarding school, a year in the army, three years at varsity: you forget what it’s all about here.
Ureum tops the list. That’s piss to make the cattle eat more. Could humans also drink their own piss to improve the appetite? Drink piss, get fat.
Tannie Thingy doesn’t have to do much: just enter the order on her computer and wait for the printer to spit out a receipt in triplicate. Then she’ll slide it across the counter and under the window for me to sign for Pa’s account. And then I give the green form to one of the trolley men.
I wonder if any of them still remember me: kleinbaas Konnie, hey, but the kleinbaas, he’s getting big man now, come, let me lick the kleinbaas’s arse. What were their names again? I was never all that interested when I was small. They were no more than faces: the old ones wrinkled, the young ones still smooth and black. Nothing more than overgrown boys, the lot of them, Oupa Konstant used to say. Even though they remained nameless, they never looked the same to me. Not like the Chinese. Of course, they say we whites smell like corpses. The thing is: whiteys don’t really bother about darkies’ names. The trolley men should have their names pinned on their overalls, but most of them work topless. So where would the name tags go?
I must keep the white form for Pa and check that they load everything. Haven’t brought a pen to tick off the list. Who gets the pink form? Mustn’t forget to close the bakkie’s tailgate properly. God help me if the thing fucks up on the way home. Can’t even begin to imagine it: milk powder like snow on the dirt road all the way to the farm. The guy who’s loading should get a tip. I bet no one ever tips here. The trolley men may as well whistle in the dark for it. The problem is: sometimes five work on a single load. So who gets the tip? Talk about over-employment!
Ma moaned when she saw me going to town in this shirt. Oh, Konstant, please no. When will you lot ever learn? It makes me squirm just looking at the trolley men. Though an old top like this is handy for a sweaty forehead.
Oh, Tannie Thingy has stopped nattering at last. I blurted out: no, I’m fine, even before she asked how I am. Bloody idiot! Why’s she staring at me through the window like that?
So, Konstant, just say the word. What does your pappie want today? She shuffles back to her office and takes up her position at the computer. It’s a blessing for her: less paperwork to flutter around.
Ureum, vitamilk powder . . .
What do you know about me, old Milkywrists? You’re so washed out, I wouldn’t be surprised if you evaporated in this heat. And your ears are so bunged up that you can’t even hear me properly. Tannie should have heard me years ago, tannie. Those days in the Free State Youth Choir; my voice was like drinking chocolate, tannie. Hell, what balls I’m talking.
Look how busy she’s pretending to be at that computer of hers. Her back is turned on me, she’s waiting for the printout. By the time she looks round I’ll be gone. No more chit-chat – I’ve already reached the mealie-bags.
There’s not a single rat in sight today. And this place has monsters. That I remember. You can scare yourself silly. You’ll be going around a corner when suddenly you bump into one – right in front of you! Sometimes they sit bolt upright on those licking blocks. Delicious, salty licking blocks. Cattle really love them. It makes them guzzle everything in sight, only to get fat and be slaughtered – and then one Sunday after church, the tongue’s on the table, soft and pink next to a dollop of mustard.
Look out! Wherever you find a rat, the viper’s brood is sure to be, Oupa Konstant always teased us. What do the snakes eat, oupa? Albert wanted to know. Mice of course, Allie, dumbo! We often went to the Red Store with Oupa Konstant. Very often. Me on the left, Albert at his right hand. Or the other way round; makes no difference. Once we got inside he’d let us run free, up and down the aisles. The Red Store was heaven for a kid. Hey, Allie, you know what a dead man’s hand looks like? Come, I’ll show you: rub it over the cement bag, see, like this. The dust on the bag makes it grey. Here he comes Allie, mind the dead man’s hand, mind the dead mm . . . I’m telling oupa now, Konnie, right now. You’re not allowed to play like that. Hey, Allie, check out this hole in the powdered milk bag, it’s where a snake’s been munching away.
Here’re your papers, Konstant, Tannie Thingy calls from her office.
Where is the old bag’s voice coming from? I can hardly see her through the clouds of mites. The thick air muffles her voice. Don’t want to go anywhere near her again. I’ll grab the order form and get going. Where’s the man who takes the form from me? Where’s the . . . Oom Piet Broeksak? No, Oom Piet Pockets, how could I ever forget oom’s name? Oom’s lame hand is always tucked away in’s left pocket, the little albino hand that no one’s ever seen.
Here comes Oom Piet Broeksak. Year in and year out, shuffling along between bags of crushed mealies. Oom Piet, the foreman, hand in pocket, eyes downcast, on the lookout for the enemy: man, those rats wreak havoc with my stock. Hope the Red Store bosses give oom a gold watch for oom’s loyal service.
How’s it going, boetman?
No, also fine, Oom. And so on.
And: here’s oom’s green form, neatly into oom’s only hand. I’d give anything to see oom take that other hand out of oom’s pocket.
Youngboy, you old shyster, Oom Piet Broeksak commands with forced indulgence, come take the kleinbaas’s order here.
Youngboy approaches and holds out his hand; Oom Piet Broeksak passes the form with his right hand then places it in Youngboy’s.
Ugh! The place stinks of fish. Must be the fishmeal. To be transformed into disgusting chicken meat. Ma swears she’ll never touch that sort of chicken. Now, let’s inspect these mealies behind me here. That way I’ll save Oom Piet Broeksak the burden of having to make small talk with me. He’ll be amazed at how interested Konstant Wasserman has become in his stock today. Who you trying to fool, Konstant?
It’s nice to rub my bum lightly against the sacks of mealies, gently, bump-bump, ah! Luxurious bum. They’re sowing-mealies, these: NOT FOR HUMAN OR ANIMAL CONSUMPTION. Each kernel has been rinsed in poison. Yellow death to any blue crane that pecks around on the fields. When we were small the fields were sometimes blue with cranes; today the poor things are almost extinct. Pa always fired warning shots over their heads to scare them away. He had a soft spot for them. Actually, for all his animals. Still does. Old softy, old big heart . . . and what about his family?
Jeez, I wonder what it is with this dorp’s old women, forever wanting to kiss you. I guess it’s some diversion for the old girl here in the Red Store, a taste of my bachelor’s lips. It really is dreary here. And of course, she means well. Like the boertjie outside there, greeting me without really knowing me. The women always wanting to kiss you! Men obviously just shake hands, that’s all. If you’re still a boy you can sit on your pa’s lap. Then the day comes when that too passes. Just as well really: your bum gets too big anyway. Ah! But the rugby boys, the rugger men, they’re allowed to throw their arms around one another’s necks for the media shots: we’re mates, after all.
If Tannie Thingy starts interrogating me again . . . I swear, I’ll slap her. I swear. These people better leave me alone. I could hang around this pile of mealies – or go back to her office and talk another load of crap. Shouldn’t be too rude, either.
Oh yes! Tannie Trainkie, no, Trynie. That’s it. Tannie Trynie of Oom Giep van Straat. Strange how some names come back to you after you’ve been here a while, and others fade away. What was that army guy’s name again, the one next to me  . . . ? I can see him as clear as daylight. A pale mug, always talking about how he shags his girl. I never believed him. Arsehole. Trevor? Some feeble English name like that. I can still see him pulling on his army boots. He had a flabby white belly, never firmed up, not even after all those sit-ups.
Wait, let’s go closer, otherwise I’ll never get away. Let’s make Tannie Milktrain accountable for the Red Store’s service.
Youngboy, in his string vest, walks alongside of me to the office and stops a short distance from it. He rests his elbow comfortably on a bale of empty hessian sacks and waves the green receipt at the white woman behind the window.
The days of arse licking are over. Youngboy sets his sights right past me on Tannie Trynie behind the glass partition, he’s not interested in me at all.
Mies, he shouts, playing dumb, that ureum, he’s finished, one bag there only.
Is that how we taught him to talk?
How can that be? Tannie Trynie sighs. Why does the computer say we’re still in stock? Wait; let’s have another look. She abruptly stops what she’s doing.
In the safe haven of her office Tannie Trynie reaches for her glass of water, drips some sort of tonic into it and swallows greedily. Then she sinks again onto the piece of foam rubber on the chair at the computer and tick-ticks away, the epitome of efficiency. With as little effort as possible, she turns towards Youngboy. Only her left shoulder moves slightly backwards, and her head and neck even less, so that her left eye, surely out of focus, barely rests on Youngboy.
Twenty-four bags of ureum, she reads out: twenty-four, Youngboy. There should be twenty-four. Are you people seeing things in halves again?
Youngboy, still leaning on his elbow against the hessian bags, ignores her.
Well, she says, give the kleinbaas what there is. Then she turns around to me fully, so that only her right arm stays on the desk.
And I recognise the collusive look: oh, fellow citizen of the race, you have to agree that they are simply beyond redemption. They’re born idle, and they’ll die idle, every one of them.
Listen Konstant, man, I’m really sorry. You’ll just have to tell your pappie that we don’t have enough ureum in stock right now. I don’t understand it. She struggles up: bring that form here and I’ll change it for you.
Skin folds around her elbow as she rests it on the counter. Will mine also become loose like that one day? Tired-out old skin all puckered up around her funny bone. I swear she’s read my mind. One mustn’t underestimate her.
And tell me Konstant, have you come back to farm? Come to help your pappie out a bit? You know, honestly: he deserves a bit of a break.
Where’s she coming from now?
You know, that man has worked himself to the bone for you lot. Keeping you going at varsity and all. I’ve thought that about your father for a long time now. No, really, it’s your turn to give him a bit of a breather now. The Lord hear me. And she shoves the receipt across the counter, her eye fixing mine.
She doesn’t stop. She simply will not stop. Oh really, Tannie Trynie, what are you on about now? What the hell did you say there? You don’t know me. I can feel it. I can feel it coming. A blaze of fire burning my forehead, a violent heat overwhelming me.
Dear heavens, Konstant, you look like my turkey  . . .
I see my own earlobes glowing, my neck too. My beard stubble stands erect. Prickly pear thorns. I can’t see you any more, Trynie, you’re floating behind glass on vapours of flour. Can you hear my gasps, Trynie?
Bu, bu . . . you won’t do anything silly, will you . . . Konstant?
I will, Trynie, I will! See my hands pressing against your window? See your sagging cheeks tremble! No, your office door is not locked. A creature of habit, you always lock it. Not today, though. Thought you could trust me with your life in the hands of the Dear . . .
I can’t look at her any more. At that straggly, wispy hair. Look down, down: no need to look her in the eye. Down, still lower, the counter’s grain is worn down, smooth to the touch.
And what the hell has it got to do with you, T-T-Trynie Fucking-van-Straat, I finally manage to get it out. Wish I didn’t stutter. Gives me away every time. Where’s my receipt?
Good one! Green gob on her step. She can be grateful it wasn’t against her window. Should I go? I, I, truly: I must do it. Must get away from here. It’s high time. Now or never. Away from this part of the world, this country. For good. The time has come. I must decide. Just give me a another moment. Hanging around is the thief of time.
Have to get back to the loading area; my stuff is probably there already. I’ve got the receipt. My body is sopping – slippery customer. I grab the receipt and go.
Who’s this now? It’s Oom Dirk, Oom Dirk Plaasdam’s pulled into the loading area. Oom Dirk who’s always complaining about the state of his farm dam.
I can’t talk to oom today, sorry, oom, I know oom’s eyes are pure compassion. Known us since childhood.
Hello, Konstant, dear heavens, can’t I give you a hand there, Konnie, looks to me you’re in a state.
Probably, Oom, probably just a fever or something. Bye, Oom.
Shove off, Oom Dirk. My keys? Okay. No, I know the ureum is finished, I say to one of the guys loading. Okay, everything in, tailgate closed.
I must go, Oom Dirk.
Well, give my regards to old Raster – he’s my old mate, that pa of yours. And to your beautiful mother. And drive carefully.
Drive carefully my arse. I’m driving like the devil today. Sorry about the dust, oom, my screw’s loose, oom. I’ll give oom a ring tonight and apologise, oom’s not a bad oom, oom.
What’s got into him now? He shakes his fist at me in the rear-view mirror. Ag, you go to hell, Oom Dirk Droppings. Just because I’m younger you expect a yes-oom, no-oom business from me. That’s asking too much. Remember, it’s you old guys who taught your sons to become as angry as you are. And in any case, why did that bloody Trynie have to mess with me? I don’t care what I said: I don’t give a damn about any of it – not now, not ever. These people must learn to think before they speak. Trynie got on my nerves, and I came unhinged. What’s it got to do with her whether I come farming, whether I ever farm in my whole life, whether I come to help my pa and all that shit? What the fuck has it got to do with her? That’s what I want to know. Who gives her the right to interrogate me: your pappie’s worked hard for you lot . . . Jeez, she’s lucky I didn’t slap her.
Open the windows, I’m still smouldering. Where’re my cigarettes? I don’t give a damn. Today I’m using the ashtray in Pa’s bakkie. He can also go to . . . sorry, Oom Dirk, I’ve got nothing against you, but you must realise that all people are not always the same. I must get away from here. Really and truly. I don’t belong here. They’re not my people, these. Away? Five bags of ureum, four bags of feed, fucking hell! What am I still doing here? Your pappie has worked hard for you . . . Pappie, of all things. I ask you: whose pappie? She can go fuck herself, man. This is the last straw. Tonight. I’m going tonight. All my life I’ve wanted to get away from here. I’m telling them tonight that I’m off. I’ve made up my mind. Tomorrow I’ll catch the train, bag and baggage and all, and be gone for good. They won’t believe their ears.

Desire
(translator: Elsa Silke)

Bill Scheiffer’s language was the language of his hands. So she knew what he was saying when he slipped them up between her thighs that first time.
    One late afternoon shortly after the war of 1946, he sauntered into her bedroom. Well, he did knock first, but Madelein hadn’t been expecting him until much later. Not before the next day, to tell the truth, and then she’d pictured them meeting in the lounge of the hotel where she was boarding. Nowhere near her bedroom, her bed.
    The anticipation of seeing Bill again had left her light-headed, her skin glowing all over, moist in the folds.


When she commenced her studies at the Grahamstown Teachers’ Training College, Madelein Baadnis was already in possession of an advanced certificate from the Royal Schools of Music and a certificate in tap dancing.
    “A very interesting candidate,” the Royal Schools examiner had commented.
    She convinced herself that his “interesting” didn’t refer to her musical talents alone. She knew she was quick on her feet and quick to make up her mind: about herself as well as men.
    And yet, at twenty-four she was still a virgin; still “my lamb” to her mother on the phone. Madelein was restless, wondering why things were taking her so long.
    On Friday evenings Mr Aldridge and John Boshoff drove all the way from East London to Grahamstown to pick up Madelein Baadnis at her residence for the East London Artists’ Evenings. John drove, Mr Aldridge wore a white dust coat.
    Mr Aldridge turned round to talk to her in the back seat, in English only. It went perfectly with the rest of his little mannerisms.
    “My heart,” he called her and she could see the pink bon-bon on the tip of his tongue.
    On stretches where the road lay straight ahead, John handled the Bakelite steering-wheel with his right hand, his left arm on the back of the seat in front of her. His shirtsleeve was rolled up to just below the elbow and she realized she was staring at the hairs on his forearm.
    He looked around and caught her eyes on his bare arm. She didn’t look away.
    “Madelein, our listeners are going to be glued to their radios again tonight.” John Boshoff’s Afrikaans seemed to roll from his tongue smoothly, as if he were nuzzling her with his words.
The East London Artists’ Evenings was a direct broadcast. During Madelein Baadnis’s effortless rendition of “The Desert Song” from the Sigmund Romberg operetta her beautiful alto voice moved John almost to tears. The same with “Hör’ ich das Liedchen klingen” from Schumann’s Dichterliebe cycle.
    At the end of the evening the Aldridges invited a handful of guests to their house at Bunker’s Hill for drinks.
    The sitting room had a different accent from theirs on the farm Rietkuil. A floralness, a profusion of pastel and gold thread. And vases filled with chrysanthemums and oil paintings of English landscapes in gilt frames: cows with a herdboy under shady oaks, a dreamlike valley behind, dollops of creamy white cloud above them.
    John served the drinks. Sherry in crystal glasses, gin & tonic or bitter lemon cordial with water and ice. Always on a tray.
    Mrs Aldridge hovered in the background, a C to C in her cigarette holder. Sometimes Madelein heard her husky voice rambling on about something without a soul listening. She took pity on Mrs Aldridge then and sat down on the wide arm rest of her chair, picked up her powdered left paw and studied her rings one by one.
    And instantly Mrs Aldridge launched into one of her tirades. Pursing her lips, she lamented, as she put it, the “slovenliness of the natives”. Madelein dropped the powdered paw and gave such a loud laugh that mrs Aldridge glanced up sharply.
    Soon Madelein realized that the Aldridges and their English friends found her lack of sophistication “amusing”. She was both open-minded and unique. She mingled with them effortlessly, flirted with the men and her conversation was often deliciously inappropriate, just as she pleased.
    Furthermore she discovered that they knew she and John Boshoff were smooching outside on the porch.
    John knew how to kiss. He loosened her tongue, and with him she perfected what she’d learned from schoolboys. She would give herself to him if only he’d make a move, but John Boshoff was insipid. His hand on her waist was limp; there was something about him that held her back.
    Did he suspect this, or did he think she was just toying with his desire? For she could guess his intentions when they began kissing outside.


On such an evening at the Aldridges she met Bill Scheiffer.
    He walked over to where she was sitting on the arm rest of a chair, her sherry glass half-empty, introduced himself and offered to pour her another drink.
    “Actually I think I’ve had enough …” Her voice trailed off. Her hand went to her throat where she felt blood pulsing through a vein.
    Bill Scheiffer had already turned round to the side table and mirror where the liquor bottles and glasses were arranged. In his steel-blue air-force uniform he cut a dashing figure.
    He returned to Madelein without a tray, his hand wrapped round a balloon glass. He held it out to her: brandy and Oros with a cube of ice.
    She was no fool. If a girl ordered brandy, Oros and ice on a date, she wanted to let her boyfriend know she was hot.
    She loved the way Bill’s hand curved round the glass, which, she noticed, was lined up perfectly with the seam of his pressed trousers as he held it out to her. When she took the glass from him, for a fleeting moment she felt the heat of his hand against hers.
    Was he surprised that she didn’t object to the brandy? She really had no idea. She simply accepted the glass, her arm draped over the antimacassar on the chairback..
    Madelein had a certain way of sitting during those evenings in the Aldridges’ lounge. That first evening with Bill was the only time she’d ever become aware of it and felt self-conscious.
Soon afterwards the Second World War broke out. The second and last time they saw each other at the Aldridges, Bill was full of stories about his first solo flight in a Tiger Moth and his ensuing training in the Hurricanes. He had fifty operational flying hours in a Hurricane by then.
    “But as soon as I arrive in Cairo, they’ll switch me from the Hurricane to the Spitfire. I’m going to fly for SAAF I. I can’t wait, Madelein.”
    His energy, she remembered, seared her like a flame. Never before had she felt a man envelop her like that. Without having to ask, she knew he was younger, but she’d gone out with younger men before and the warmth that Bill radiated was special.
    “Come, I want to have a smoke,” he lured her into the Aldridge’s side garden. He could just as well have smoked inside, everybody did, but she didn’t mind at all. Right up against the hibiscus hedge he steered her, until she could make out the red calyxes of the hibiscus blooms with their stiff yellow pistils. Without stubbing out his cigarette he caught her around the waist, took hold of her and began to kiss her, so that she pulled him deeper into the shadows.
    Afterwards she remembered his hands on her thighs, her underwear and her buttocks, but most of all the heat of his body against hers.
    After graduating from the Grahamstown Teachers’ Training College, Madelein applied for a post at the Rosmead Primary School where her mother’s brother, Uncle Louwtjie, was the principal. Rosmead was a small settlement with a station that served Middelburg, Cape Province. Of more importance to her was the fact that Bill Scheiffer’s family farmed in the district with horses and merinos.
    Her father thought it a backwater where she’d never find a husband. “Rosmead isn’t worthy of your talents,” he insisted.
    Madelein’s route from the Rosmead Hotel, where she boarded, to the school led past the red-brick post office, then along a gravel path and finally took her up some steps to a bridge crossing the railway.
    She was tall for a woman, almost five feet eleven, and she climbed the steps with strong calves.
    She always stopped briefly in the middle of the bridge to look out over the railway line. She enjoyed that moment. To the left was the roof of the Rosmead station building, its eaves elegantly finished off with silver joists. The building was of chiselled sandstone, each stone framed with chalk-white plaster.
    Her eyes followed the tracks to where the line merged with the horizon. Sometimes a steam engine stood there, puffing, stoked and ready to depart. The train could easily whisk her off, she thought, far away. “When it comes to teaching posts, you can pick and choose, my lamb,” her father kept telling her. But she had no idea where she’d rather go.
    She grew up on their farm in the Colesberg district. There were times when a month would pass and she’d only have her father and mother, her lanky brother, Reks, and the workers in the house and yard to talk to.
    She’d seen a stallion mount and ride a mare, she’d seen the stallion’s eyes. She once got lost in the veld looking for porcupine quills and sat fearlessly under the naked sun, listening for the sounds of ants. And heard nothing; not even their silence could she hear.
    One afternoon after school she came upon a pregnant woman under a pepper tree beside the Rosmead Hotel. The woman was crushed by poverty; next to her lay something wrapped in a cloth. In the shade of the pepper tree the woman sat on her haunches, staring out over the veld beyond the hotel building. There was nothing, only the shrubby veld all the way to the distant horizon.
    Madelein went over and saw what the woman was looking at. She had no fear of that nothingness either.
    Why then would she leave Rosmead, and where would she go?
    In class they read “The Dog Tick” from The Natural World by S.H. Skaife, Longmans Press. So many of the children had dogs at home. They had to learn the difference between male and female ticks so that they could help care for their pets.
    “There are large blue ticks with soft bodies and small brown ticks with flat bodies. The big blue ones, nearly half an inch long, are females. Their bodies are swollen with a large number of eggs and they’re so fat they can hardly move.”
    Some of the little girls shuddered as she read aloud, but most of the boys were already playing at being men. They had a distinct, dusty smell when she stood close to them, their little muscles already taking shape, and she noticed the impertinence in their grey school trousers.
    The hostel boys that she watched playing soccer on the red earth in front of the hotel on weekends excited her. Their whooping and their wildness.
    And there was the man she’d seen entering the hotel bar. As he reached the door, he stripped off his jacket, furious with the oppressive heat. It was his passion that struck her, only that. Otherwise he didn’t interest her.
    Men moved her. Men were her hankering, her Sehnsucht. Softly she sang:
        “Die Augen schliess’ich wieder,
          Noch schlägt das Herz so warm.
          Wann grünt ihr Blätter am Fenster?
          Wann halt’ ich mein Liebchen im Arm?”

Eyes closed and jowls quivering, Miss Grünow used to sing that Schubert song to her.


Bill Scheiffer, she thought, illustrating the life cycle of the tick on the blackboard, I’ll never see him again.
    A short letter arrived from El Alamein, then a second. But he told her that he could say “bugger all” without being censored. In his letters he called her “my darling”.
    And then not another word for two, three years. She’d never hear from him again.
    

“Oh, what’s the use, Uncle Louwtjie,” Madelein sighed, adding something in an undertone.
    Uncle Louwtjie studied her, took a sip. She often came over to visit him; she didn’t keep to herself. Uncle Louwtjie sensed what was on her mind.
    “Well, my girl, you knew fighter pilots never return. You went and chose yourself a man from the highest-risk category.”
    “Pour me another drink, Uncle Louwtjie.”
    She felt like drinking that evening. She preferred brandy now, to recall Bill’s image keenly and then to forget him just as quickly.
    Uncle Louwtjie poured her another drink. At least he was here. And he took pity on Jakob and Martie Baadnis’s child.
    Madelein knew she had to accept her fate – after all, she’d seen Bill Scheiffer only twice in her life. But she couldn’t.
    Then again, why should she be so accepting? That evening at the Aldridges when she came back through the French doors with Bill she was glad that John Boshoff didn’t look up from where he sat tinkling on the piano. Anyway, John was tipsy and she’d already decided Bill was hers.
    Bill wanted her too. She realised it at the hibiscus hedge. He took her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. He wanted to look at her breasts, her body under her dress, her hips and calves.
    Even then, that first time, he was shameless. She yearned for him; she couldn’t resist the feeling; it was impossible.

BEGEHREN

Übersetzer: Judith van Rooyen

Kapitel 1

Die Sprache Bill Scheiffers war die Sprache seiner Hände. Deswegen hatte sie gewusst, dass er mit ihr sprach, als er seine Hände zum aller ersten Mal weit oben zwischen ihre Schenkel gleiten ließ.
An jenem Spätnachmittag, kurz nach dem Krieg von 1946, war er einfach so in ihr Schlafzimmer getreten. Immerhin hatte er erst geklopft, doch Madelein hatte ihn später erwartet. Eigentlich erst am darauf folgenden Tag, und auch eher im Foyer des Hotels, in dem sie wohnte. Fern ihres Schlafzimmers und ihres Bettes.
Die Erwartung, Bill wieder zu sehen, hatte sie taumeln lassen, ihre Haut überall glühend, ihre Tiefen durchnässt.

Als sie anfing am Grahamstown Teachers’ Training College zu studieren, hatte Madelein Baadnis bereits einen Fortgeschrittenen-Abschluss der Royal School of Music und einen Abschluss in Stepptanz. „Eine sehr interessante Kandidatin,“ war das Kommentar des Royal School-Prüfers gewesen.
Sie war sich sicher, dass er mit seinem „interessant“ nicht nur ihre Musikalität gemeint hatte, denn sie wusste, dass sie sowohl gewandt auf ihren Füßen war als auch darin, Menschen einzuschätzen: sich selbst und Männer.
Und dennoch war sie mit vierundzwanzig immer noch Jungfrau, wurde sie zu „meinem Engel“, wenn sie am Telefon mit ihrer Mutter sprach. Madelein war unruhig, fast erstaunt, dass sie für diese Dinge solange brauchte.
An Freitagabenden fuhren Mister Aldridge und John Boshoff extra von Oos-Londen nach Grahamstad, um Madelein Baadnis vor ihrem Wohnheim für die East Londen Artists’ Evenings abzuholen. John steuerte, Mister Aldridge trug einen weißen Mantel gegen den Staub.
Mister Aldridge drehte sich zu ihr nach hinten, um sich mit ihr zu unterhalten, nur auf Englisch. Das passte ausgezeichnet zu seinen sonstigen Allüren. „My heart“, sprach er sie an, und sie konnte ein kleines rosa Bonbon auf seiner Zungespitze liegen sehen.
John fuhr geradeaus, das Bakelit-Lenkrad in seiner rechten Hand, sein linker Arm vor ihr auf der Rücklehne des Sitzes. Johns Hemdsärmel war bis unter seinen Ellenbogen hochgekrempelt und sie erwischte sich dabei, dass sie die Haare auf seinem Unterarm betrachtete.
Als John sich umsah, bemerkte er ihren Blick auf seinem nackten Arm und sie schaute nicht weg.
„Madelein, du wirst unsere Zuhörer heute Abend wieder vor ihre Radios fesseln.“ John Boshoff sprach ein glattes, geschliffenes Afrikaans, als wolle er ihr mit seinen Worten schmeicheln. Die Artists’ Evenings wurden direkt über das Radio ausgestrahlt. Madelein Baadnis Altstimme trug den „Desert Song“ aus dem „Student Prince“ mit solcher Leichtigkeit und so ergreifend schön, dass John hätte weinen können. Auch „Hör’ ich das Liedchen klingen“ aus Schumanns Dichterliebe-Zyklus.
Im Anschluss an den Abend luden die Aldridges eine Handvoll Gäste zu einem Drink in ihr Haus in Bunker’s Hill ein.
Das Wohnzimmer hatte einen anderen Akzent als ihr Haus auf der Rietkuil Farm. Eine Geblümtheit, ein Überfluss von Pastell und Goldfaden. Eine Vase gefüllt mit Chrysanthemen und Ölgemälde englischer Landschaften in vergoldeten Rahmen: Kühe mit einem Hirtenjungen im Eichenschatten, ein verträumtes Tal dahinter, über ihnen Kugeln sahneweißer Wolken.
John servierte die Getränke. Sherry in Kristallgläschen, Gin und Tonic oder Bitter Lemon Cordial mit Wasser und Eis. Immer auf einem Tablettchen.
Missus Aldridge hielt sich im Hintergrund, eine C to C in ihrem Zigarettenhalter. Ab und zu hörte Madelein ihre heisere Stimme etwas erzählen, ohne, dass eine Menschenseele in ihrer Umgebung gewesen wäre. Schließlich erbarmte sie sich Missus Aldridge und setzte sich auf die breite Armlehne ihres Stuhles, hob ihr gepudertes linkes Pfötchen hoch und begutachtete ihre Ringe einen nach dem anderen.
Und sogleich nahm Missus Aldridge eine ihrer Tiraden wieder auf. Mit gerümpfter Nase über, wie sie es nannte, die „slovenliness of the natives“. Madelein ließ das gepuderte Pfötchen wieder fallen und lachte laut und hoch, so dass Missus Aldridge schnell aufschaute.
So bemerkte Madelein, dass die Aldridges und ihre englischen Freunde ihre Ungekünsteltheit „amusing“ fanden. Ihre Gesellschaft war gleichermaßen freisinnig und exklusiv. Sie mischte sich ohne Mühe unter sie, flirtete mit den Männern und gab sich geistreich, wenn es ihr gerade passte.
Außerdem kam sie dahinter, dass man davon wusste, wie sie und John Boshoff auf der Veranda standen und knutschten.
John konnte küssen. Er löste ihre Zunge, und bei ihm konnte sie verfeinern, was sie bei Schuljungen gelernt hatte. Sie hätte sich ihm hingegeben, beim geringsten Zeichen von ihm, aber John Boshoff war feige. Seine Hand auf ihrer Taille war schlaff, er hatte irgendetwas an sich, was sie zurückhielt.
Vermutete er es, oder dachte er einfach, sie spielte mit seinem Begehren? Denn sie konnte ihn fühlen, ganz rasch nachdem sie begonnen hatten, sich zu küssen.

An einem jener Abende bei den Aldridges begegnete sie Bill Scheiffer.
Er lief hinüber zu ihr, da wo sie auf der Armlehne eines Stuhles saß, ihr Sherryglas halb leer, stellte sich ihr vor und bot an, noch etwas für sie einschenken zu gehen.
„Ich hatte schon genug...“ Sie sprach nicht zu Ende. Sie legte die Hand auf ihren Hals und fühlte das Blut in einer Ader pochen.
Aber Bill Scheiffer hatte sich bereits nach dem Spiegel und dem Seitentisch, auf dem die Getränkeflaschen und Gläser arrangiert waren, umgedreht. Er trug eine stahlblaue Luftwaffenuniform, er war wer.
Er kam ohne Tablett zu Madelein zurückgelaufen, seine Hand hielt ein bauchiges Glas umschlossen. Er reichte es ihr: Weinbrand und Oros mit einem Eiswürfel.
Sie war keine Idiotin. Wenn ein Mädchen ausgeführt wurde und um Weinbrand, Oros und Eis bat, dann wollte sie ihrem Begleiter zu verstehen geben, dass sie heiß war.
Bills Hand um das runde Glas war schrecklich schön für sie, und er hielt es ihr direkt vor der Naht seiner ausgebeulten Hose hin.
Als sie das Glas annahm, fühlte sie flüchtig die Hitze seiner Hand an ihrer.
Ob er erstaunt war, dass sie sich nicht gegen den Weinbrand wehrte? Sie wusste es nicht genau. Sie nahm ihm das Glas ab, ihren anderen Arm auf dem Sofaschoner über der Rücklehne ausgestreckt.
Auch eine bestimmte Art zu sitzen hatte sie an diesen Abenden im Wohnzimmer der Aldridges. Und das einzige Mal, das sie sich deswegen genierte, war dieser erste Abend mit Bill.
Kurz danach brach der Zweite Weltkrieg aus. Beim zweiten und letzten Mal, das sie einander sahen, wieder bei den Aldridges, war Bill erfüllt von Geschichten über seinen ersten Soloflug in einer Tiger Moth, und von seiner darauf folgenden Schulung in den Hurricanes. Er hatte zu diesem Zeitpunkt schon fünfzig einsatzfähige Flugstunden in einer Hurricane.
„Aber wenn ich erst mal in Kairo bin, werden sie mich von der Hurricane auf die Spitfire umbesetzen. Ich werde für die SAAF I fliegen. Ich kann es nicht erwarten, Madelein.“
Seine Energie, so erinnerte sie sich, flammte von ihm zu ihr über. Noch nie zuvor hatte sie die Energie eines Mannes so zu ihr hin strömen gefühlt. Ohne erst zu fragen, wusste sie, dass er jünger war. Aber sie war schon oft mit jungen Männern zusammen gewesen, Bills Wärme war außergewöhnlich.
„Komm, ich will eine Zigarette anstecken,“ lockte er sie in den Seitengarten der Aldridges. Er hätte natürlich auch drinnen rauchen können, alle taten das, doch ihr war es recht. Bis an die Hibiskushecke führte er sie, so dass sie die roten Kelche der Hibiskusblüten mit ihren steifen, gelben Staubgefäßen ausmachen konnte. Ohne seine Zigarette auszudrücken umfing er mit festem Griff ihre Taille und küsste sie, weswegen sie ihn und sich noch tiefer in den Schatten hineinzog.
Hinterher erinnerte sie sich an seine Hände auf ihren Oberschenkeln, ihrer Unterwäsche, ihrem Hintern, aber vor allem an die Hitze seines Körpers an dem ihren.

Nachdem sie ihr Studium am Grahamstown Teachers’ College beendet hatte, bewarb Madelein sich um eine Stelle an der Rosmead-Grundschule, an welcher der Bruder ihrer Mutter, Onkel Louwtjie, Schuldirektor war. Rosmead war ein kleines Dörfchen mit einem Bahnhof, der Middelburg am Kap versorgte. Und das wichtigste von allem, Bill Scheiffers Familie betrieb in dem Distrikt eine Farm mit Pferden und Merinoschafen.
In den Augen ihres Vaters war es ein zurückgebliebenes Kaff, in dem kein Mann sie jemals finden würde. „Rosmead ist dein Talent nicht wert,“ wiederholte er.
Madeleins Pfad vom Rosmead-Hotel, in dem sie logierte, bis zur Schule wand sich um ein rotes Backstein-Postamt, wurde zu einem kleinen Erdweg und führte sie schließlich treppauf zu einer Bahnbrücke, die sie über die Gleise trug.
Sie war groß für eine Frau, beinah fünf Fuß elf, und sie erklomm die Treppe mit kräftigen Waden.
Auf der Mitte der Brücke blieb sie jedes Mal stehen, um für einen Augenblick lang über die Gleise hinweg zu blicken. Sie mochte diesen Augenblick. Links befand sich das Rosmead-Bahnhofsgebäude mit seinem überhängenden Dach, elegant abgerundet durch silberne Tragebalken. Das Gebäude war aus gemeißeltem Sandstein, jeder Stein war von kalkweißem Verputz umrahmt.
Ihre Augen folgten den Gleisen bis dorthin, wo die Linie am Horizont wegbrach. Manchmal stand eine Dampfmaschine da und schnaubte, eingeheizt und bereit abzufahren. Der Zug hätte sie ganz einfach fortbringen können, dachte sie, und auch weit fort. „Bei Lehrerstellen hast du freie Wahl, mein Engel,“ sagte ihr Vater ihr immer wieder. Aber sie wusste nicht, wohin sie hätte gehen wollen.
Sie war auf ihrer Farm im Kreis Colesberg groß geworden. Manchmal hatte sie Monate lang nur mit ihrem Vater und ihrer Mutter, ihrem Schlingel von einem Bruder, Reks, und den Arbeitern im Haus und auf dem Hof gesprochen.
Sie hatte bereits einen Hengst eine Stute decken sehen, die Augen des Hengstes hatte sie gesehen. Sie hatte schon in den Wiesen die Spur abgeworfener Stachelschweinstacheln verfolgt und sich verlaufen und war furchtlos unter der nackten Sonne gesessen und hatte gelauscht, in der Hoffnung das geschäftige Treiben der Ameisen hören zu können. Doch sie hatte es nicht gekonnt, noch nicht einmal ihre Stille hatte sie hören können.
Eines Mittags nach der Schule begegnete sie einer schwangeren Frau unter dem Pfefferbaum neben dem Rosmead-Hotel. Die Frau war von Armut ausgezehrt, sie hatte ihre Habseligkeiten in ein Tuch zusammengerollt bei sich. Die Frau hatte sich im Schatten des Pfefferbaumes hingehockt und blickte über das Feld jenseits des Hotelgebäudes hinweg. Sie sah nichts Bestimmtes an, blickte nur über das Gestrüpp hinweg, bis in die Ferne.
Madelein lief zu ihr hin, um zu sehen, was die Frau anschaute. Auch dieses Nichts fürchtete sie nicht.
Warum hätte sie also von Rosmead weggehen sollen, und wohin?
Im Unterricht nahm sie „Die Hundezecke“ durch, aus „Die Welt der Natur“ von S.H. Skaife, Longmans-Presse. So viele der Kinder wurden mit Hunden groß. Sie mussten lernen, zwischen männlichen und weiblichen Zecken zu unterscheiden, damit sie bei der Versorgung ihrer Tiere Hand anlegen konnten.
„Es gibt große Zecken mit weichen Körpern, und kleinere, flache Zecken, von brauner Farbe. Die großen blauen, fast einen halben Daumen lang, sind Zeckenweibchen. Ihre Körper sind durch die hohe Anzahl Eier im Innern aufgebläht und sie sind so fett, dass sie kaum vorwärts kommen können.“
Manche der Schulmädchen in der Klasse schauderten, während sie vorlas, aber die meisten der Jungs spielten bereits Männer. Sie rochen anders, verschwitzt, wenn sie in ihrer Nähe stehen blieb, ihre kleinen Muskeln waren bereits dabei, Form anzunehmen, und sie bemerkte die Dreistigkeit in ihren grauen Schulhosen.
Die Pensionsschuljungen, die sie an Wochenenden auf dem roten Feld vor dem Hotel Fußball spielen sah, erregten sie. Durch ihr Geschrei und ihre Unbezähmbarkeit.
Und da gab es diesen Mann, den sie in die Hotelbar hatte eintreten sehen. Als er gerade bei der Tür angekommen war, hatte er sich aus seiner Jacke geschält, erbost über die Hitze, die ihn niederdrückte. Es war seine Hitzigkeit gewesen, die sie bewegt hatte, nur das. Ansonsten hatte er sie nicht interessiert.
Männer berührten sie. Männer waren ihr Verlangen, ihre Sehnsucht. Sie summte Schubert:

„Die Augen schließ’ ich wieder,
Noch schlägt das Herz so warm.
Wann grünt ihr Blätter am Fenster?
Wann halt’ ich mein Liebchen im Arm?“

Mit verschlossenen Augen und vibrierender Kehle hatte Fräulein Grünow immer dieses Lied für sie gesungen.

Bill Scheiffer, dachte sie, während sie die fünf Skizzen auf die Tafel übertrug, um den Lebenslauf der Zecke zu illustrieren, werde ich niemals wieder sehen.
Einmal war da ein Briefchen aus El Alamein gekommen, dann ein zweites. Aber er konnte einen Dreck sagen, ohne zensiert zu werden, so gab er ihr zu verstehen. In seinen Briefchen hatte er sie „my love“ genannt.
Und dann nie wieder ein Wort. Zwei Jahre, drei. Sie würde nie wieder von ihm hören.

„Ach ja, Onkel Louwtjie,“ seufzte sie gegenüber ihrem Onkel und flüsterte noch etwas hinterher.
Onkel Louwtjie sah sie an, trank ein Schlückchen. Sie kam oft zu ihm herüber, um ihn zu besuchen, und sie hielt sich nicht bedeckt. Onkel Louwtjie verstand einfach, was sie zu flüstern hatte.
„Oh weh, mein Kind, du weißt doch, Kampfflieger kommen niemals zurück. Du hast dir einen Mann in der höchsten Risikoklasse ausgewählt.“
„Schenk mir noch etwas ein, Onkel Louwtjie.“
An diesem Abend wollte sie mehr trinken. Sie bevorzugte jetzt Weinbrand, um sich Bill deutlich in Erinnerung zu rufen, und ihn dann schnell zu vergessen.
Onkel Louwtjie stand auf, um ihr noch ein Gläschen einzugießen. Wenigstens war er da. Und er erbarmte sich des Kindes von Jakob und Martie Baadnis.
Sie musste sich begnügen, das wusste Madelein – sie hatte Bill Scheiffer schließlich nur zweimal in ihrem Leben gesehen – aber es glückte ihr nicht.
Und dann wieder: warum sollte sie sich begnügen? Als sie an diesem Abend bei den Aldridges zusammen mit Bill durch die French doors ins Wohnzimmer zurückgekommen war, war sie so froh gewesen, dass John Boshoff nicht vom Klavier aufgesehen hatte, an dem er gesessen war und geklimpert hatte. John war außerdem blau gewesen und sie hatte bereits entschieden, dass Bill ihr gehörte.
Bill wollte sie auch haben. Sie hatte es an der Hibiskushecke herausgefunden. Er hatte sie von sich weggedrückt, seine Hände um ihre Schultern gelegt und auf sie nieder gesehen. Er hatte ihre Brüste sehen wollen, ihren Körper abwärts in ihrem Kleid, ihre Hüften, ihre Schenkel.
Damals schon, bei diesem ersten Mal, war er schamlos gewesen. Und sie hatte sich nach ihm verzehrt, nicht bereit, sich in seiner Gegenwart zu verstecken. Das wäre ja doch unmöglich gewesen.

Tinktinkie  - The New Century of South African Short Stories. Introduced by Michael Chapman. Johannesburg: Ad Donker Publishers 2004.
(translator: Mariëtte Postma)

Rose at the crack of dawn on the Sabbath Day to prevent Ouma  from nagging him for going out to potter about with his pigs. Shorts, Adidas, same shirt from last night. His keys. He did not use the toilet. Ouma would be lying awake already. Lying there, closed eyes, thinking of the end awaiting her around the corner.

In the kitchen Patience and Kasi were busily at work. They were watching the mealie porridge and peeling apples to be stewed for the afternoon. The peels fell neatly into a small basin. Always keeping everything as neat as a pin. He greeted them and they greeted him back. Tinktinkie noticed a pudding bowl with prunes below a net and nicked one for himself. Took care that the screen door did not slam shut behind him.

The women in the kitchen liked the little man. He never got in their way. He just followed his own path. He was different. Once he grew up, he would get the farm back into shape, they were saying.

The morning was cold against his legs. He started to run. The dog didn’t understand why she had to stay behind in the yard the last few weeks when he went to the pigs. But Tinktinkie didn’t want him sniffing and yapping close to his two young sows, they were both almost in farrow. Besides, the Landrace pig was already carrying the stress gene.

He heard Oom Dries saying that. Oom  Dries allowed him to bring his two sows to his Chester White boar. Oom Dries said this cross-breeding would stand the heat better.

‘You can start fattening up a little sucking-pig for your Tante  Rebecca, ready for this Christmas.’ And then Oom Dries touched him softly behind his neck. He only reached Oom Dries’s belt as yet.

This was all Oom Dries wanted in return for the favour. Tinktinkie knew people cared for him a little and he already had his own farm going. He had five pigs altogether. He knew too what power this gave him. He could get what an ordinary farmer would have to dish out lots and lots of money for. Oom Dries imported the Chester White seed from America. Tinktinkie wondered if what he was doing could perhaps be sinful.

He kept all along the water furrow below the willows that were just starting to bud. It was not really quite summer yet. Over the bare patch between the house and the pig sties a little wind was scattering past. A tattered rag, broken brick, pebbles and glass splinters. Some wire. He never managed walking across the bareness; it made him feel too poor.

The water furrow was barely going. No longer overflowing, day and night, down to the lucerne fields, the way he could remember from the time he was very young. Ouma said they should all pray for the fountain to last, for when it dried up, they could just as well start packing their bags and leave Koppiesfontein. At night Ouma somtimes smelled a little sour.

The pigs heard him coming. Three in a paddock close to the lucerne fields, each of the sows in her own farrow-pen. Aaida and Lolla were their names. When Oom Dries drove up there yesterday, taking stock of the sows’ condition he said: ‘Upon my word, ‘Tinkie, you can count on farrows of twelve or more.’ His eyes started twinkling. ‘There are young farmers in the district who should actually come and learn from you.’

Oom Dries pressed against the wall of the pigsty, supported himself with his huge male hands. He was a heavy man, this Oom Dries. Ons could hear it from his breathing.

‘Have you heard about the pigs in Malaysia, ‘Tinkie?’ he asked while he was watching the sows.

‘No, Oom Dries.’

‘They had to kill off the whole country’s pig population. Encephalitis. Transmitted to humans by the culex mosquito. It must have been a terrible massacre. Well yes, ‘Tinkie, I should be going now. Fresh air, clean water and a balanced diet. But you know that already. Otherwise your pigs would not be looking the way they do.’

Tinktinkie scraped all the remaining bits from Aaida’s feeding-trough, scrubbed the sides clean and watered it down with a hose. Then he washed the water trough and filled it up. He came to his feet when he heard people passing by along the road. They came to visit Patience and Kasi on foot and on bicycles. Dressed up in their Sunday best. Should he shove off? He didn’t want to draw any attention to the pigs. He’d rather scram himself. The pig’s snout was all around him. They knew him very well.

The sky was a dirty blue. It wasn’t going to be hot today. ‘My little children,’ he said when he touched Aaida’s swollen teats. She started eating the mealies and bone meal greedily. They should never be unnecessarily fat when with young; it could cause problems when birthing.

The corners of his eyes were still foggily covered in sleep. Whe he walked away he took a last look at the pigsty behind him: ‘My little children, ‘ he said once more. He quickly went to the tap outside before he entered. Even though he knew it wasn’t quite possible to rinse off everything that was clinging to him after he has been with the pigs, that didn’t put him off.

His mother was standing inside in her dressing gown with a Stuyvesant, looking out onto the flower garden. Would she have seen him at the tap?

‘Morning, Mommy.’

“Morning,’ she replied.

He waited for her to go on talking, but she’d turned back to the window. He went to sit at the table and reached for the toast with his hand. The kitchen door swung open and shut behind Patience’s buttocks and she placed his bowl of mealie porridge in front of him. Her hand touched his on the plastic table cloth. He looked her in the eye and gave her a smile. A lump of butter, sugar, milk. The radio was playing morning hymns. The culex mosquito. There were always mosquitoes around the farrow-pens once summer had started. What kept mosquitoes at bay?

Ouma came in, wearing her outfit for church. A mauve dress with mauve lace at the seam and high up against her bosom. With her she had her hymn book, Bible, mauve gloves and handbag with the peppermints and stuff. She placed her precious little bundle on the sideboard. Came and kissed him on the forehead. Scent and the smell of bread dough.

‘Did you ask the Lord for his grace before you started to eat, Sonnie?’

‘Yes, Ouma,’ he lied. No need to pray on Sundays when you were going to church anyway.

‘Aren’t you sitting down to eat, Hendrien?’ she asked in his mother’s direction.

‘I’ll have something later, Mummy. I won’t be going to church with you today.’

‘You must let Kris be, Hendrien. He won’t get up out of his grave. It was the Lord’s will.’

‘It’s not that Mummy,’ she hit back. Tinktinkie sat there without touching the spoon of porridge at his mouth.

‘You won’t fool me, Hendrien. You are not leaving Kris alone there where he is now. You are being unfair to him. The Word says: leave the dead to the dead.’

‘Ma, you are not going to tell me what to do in my own house.’ Her hand fluttered. She wouldn’t say anything else, Tinktinkie knew that already.

‘I’m only trying to help.’ Ouma said softly and slowly buttered half a slice of toast.


*


Remarkable, was the word that came to the Revd Tertius when he thought about this morning’s sermon while sitting down at the table for breakfast.

Words given unto him by the Higher Hand. But there was also a touch of nerves that he couldn’t hide.

‘What’s wrong with your now, Tertius?’ asked his wife when she put the bacon and eggs, mushrooms fried in garlic and scones down in front of him. Bes read him like a book.

‘You must stick to the Biblical text, Tertius. That’s why the Lord has given you good brains. Don’t drag politics into your sermon.’

Bes was irritated. In the living room the children, dressed in their Sunday best, were fighting over the new Nintendo. She felt Tertius did not assert himself properly in this house.

Bes was a charming woman. She had grown up in Oranjezicht. ‘You are cut out for modelling,‘ she had always been told in the Cape. Because of her slender waist. Legs up to her chin. Then she fell in love with the student minister. Must have been his legs that turned her head those days. His total unawareness of his own body. Now she was stuck here in the bloody sticks. And Tertius, who never said a thing about politics, was now off on a dangerous tangent.

Once, when he was balancing on the windowsill to cut his toenails, he turned to her in bed: ‘They are going to kill off the last one of us. Nothing has changed. We’re back to the days of the border wars. And these days the church is absolutely useless. Even here, Bes, you have to admit to it, the members of the congregation are bolting one after the other. Antjie Krog was spot-on with her remark: Afrikaners have become totally irrelevant, politically and culturally.’

Head on her arm she lay there, looking at himn. Shifted her bosom, grimaced. The tyre hanging over his underpants. Black body-hair creeping from his buttocks up his back. Never used to be there before. And what happened to his faith? His lovely smile?

‘Small wonder they’re bolting if their minister carries on like this.’ She jumped from the bed and opened the shower taps. She no longer wanted to hear him around her.

The church was not too empty. The weather offered no excuses for not attending.

Bes bent down to her children just before they started filing into the minister’s pew: ‘Behave yourselves now, or you can forget about your ice-cream today.’

Tinktinkie and Ouma sat in their usual spot in the western wing. Ouma’s mauve glove rested lightly on his leg. He sucked a peppermint without anybody seeing or hearing him. If only the long prayer he had to stand for were over.

Since the carnage in the Kenilworth church a few years ago, they started locking the doors. Nobody even mentioned it anymore. Ouma always used to nudge him on the leg and wink when Oom Dries went out in the middle of the sermon for some fresh air under the privets. Now he was caged in. Behind them Tinktinkie could hear him having trouble breathing properly.

Matthew 8 verses 28 to 34 was the biblical passage that was read out from the old translation, from the pulpit. Where Jesus came upon the devil-possessed in Gergesa.

‘And suddenly they shouted and said: what do we have to do with you, Son of God?’ And then followed the passage of the big heard of swine grazing close by. Tinktinkie listened. He heard how the devils had begged the Lord if He could please allow them to possess the swinery when he drove them out. And then the whole swinery stormed off the cliff – into the sea – and drowned.

‘This is where the reading ends, brothers and sisters. Let us pray.’

Tinktinkie planted his legs. The heat was fortunately not too bad yet. During the long prayer in summer spots and curls started swimming behind his eyelids because of having to stand so long. He tried to see them: they looked like the sea-horses at East Londen’s aquarium.

‘And Lord, we entrust our children to you. those who are working, but especially those who are struggling to find work...’

His pigs. He trusted the Koppiesfontein people, but he didn’t really know about the  visitors who came to see Patience and Kasi. They could break his tiny little locks like nothing. That was what frightened him the most when he had to attend church: that one of his pigs would be missing when he came home. Please let them just spare Aaida, and Lolla’s lives, he prayed silently during the prayer of the Revd Tertius.

‘As Bible text, brothers and sisters, verse 29 was imprinted onto my heart: “and suddenly they shouted and said: ...” “Suddenly” is expressed here in the Greek word idoú. A strong word in the original text, a word demanding an exclamation mark. These people, these devil-possessed people, were therefor terribly frightened when they were confronted by Jesus.

‘The Greek here refers to legontes which means a great number, rather like a sea of people. We can surely conclude that although only two devil-possessed are mentioned in Matthew, and only one in Mark and Luke, there were a multitude of devils present in these human beings or being. Legontes!’  The Revd Tertius made his voice fly high. He reached the essence of his sermon. Beneath his jacket and waistcoat and shirt and vest he was wet through. He had anticipated this and used extra deodorant.

‘And this great crowd shouted against Jesus. It has been written that they had shouted so loudly that it sounded like a croaking. This devilish sound came from the crowd, so that we can assume that the underwordly croaking sound straight from hell echoed over the beautiful meadow right next to the sea.’

Then the Revd Tertius came to the Greek sentence which he had understood as having a special significance. He made a fist above the pulpit.’What do we have to do with you, Jesus, Son of God?’ And then, once more: ‘What do have to do with you, Jesus, Son of God?’

Tinktinkie started fidgeting. And Ouma pressed another peppermint into his sweaty little palm.

‘Brothers and sisters, we are here confronted with the powerful clash between the children of the devil and Jesus himself. Terrifying for the devils, this day, this moment when, despite their own devilish power, they face their own downfall.

‘There is today in southern Africa – and more specifically in this beautiful and afflicted country of ours – an equally powerful manifestation of the devil himself. Brothers and sisters, I am talking here about AIDS. It is a virus that is decimating thousands, no, thousands upon thousands.’

Bes blushed and touched her cheeks, hoping that nobody noticed her reddening. Tertius was totally losing it. She knew were he was heading with this. He was going to distort the biblical text with his interpretation. And these fools were going to swallow every word of it. Dammit, the day would come, and that day was just around the corner, when she was going to pack her bags. Back to Cape Town. Turn Ennio Morricone’s music up just as loud as she wanted to. Tertius should be subjected to the process of censure by the Theological Council or whatever that lot of fossils in Potchefstroom called themselves.

‘The Afrikaner of 23 july 1999 reports that, according to the latest survey of UNAIDS, 8,9% of Swaziland’s populaton have been contaminated with the HI-virus; 3,9% of Lesotho’s just over two million people have been infected; and 6,5% of our country’s population have been infected by the HI-virus. One hunderd and forty thousand casualties caused by this virus have been reported in South Africa.

‘Brothers and sisters, God does not sit still. We know today which population group here at the Southern Point of Africa is hit hardest by this virus. God does not slumber or sleep, brothers and sisters.’ The Revd Tertius’s voice broke as he strove for an even higher tone of voice.

‘This devilish virus shouted it out when it came into contact with the Almighty. “Go!” Jesus commanded the enormous number of devils. We know which part of Southern African society is affected most severely, brothers and sisters. The battle is not in vain, even though that is how it may seem. The end is near. Look out over the meadow and see who are spilling over the cliff into the sea. By the thousands.

‘“Go!” Jesus ordered the devils. And the devils took possession of the swinery, the Greek refers here to boskoméné, pigs that have been fattened to the point of revulsion. And by the thousands these devilish swines are storming into the depths of the sea.’

Tinktinkie sat up straight as a ramrod. Kicked with his feet against the floor. His heart inside his shirt was going crazy, crazy with these things. He jumped off the pew and raised his hand as if at school.

‘Heavens, child,’ hissed Ouma and pulled him down.

But Tinktinkie flared up again, threw his hand into the air and yelled before anyone could stop him: ‘But what about the little ones, Reverend, what about the little children?’

Gabriel
(translator: Carla Gericke)

On New Year’s Eve, Gabriel Smith is wandering through the blue gums clutching an empty glass when he hears his wife, Tiny, call to him through the open sliding door. He intends to go inside soon. Not for her or the guests’ sake, but to pour himself another drink. If Tiny could have her way, she’d turn him into a teetotaler. That’s her New Year’s resolution for him.
Goddammit, Gabriel thinks, 1999 will be my year of goodwill.
It’s incidental, he decides, that it was the Samaritan who helped the injured man on the road to Jericho. The parable really deals with the two pennies the Samaritan paid to the innkeeper on the injured man’s behalf. With the words: “Look after him, and, upon my return, I’ll pay any other expenses you may incur.”
After Gabriel spent a sunny afternoon with 20,000 others in the National Tennis Center to hear His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, speak, he perfected his definition of goodwill. “Regard your fellowman as someone like yourself,” the Dalai Lama said. A call to rational action and it’s the Samaritan who pays heed. A room at the inn costs money and that’s why the Samaritan thought beyond the man’s immediate need. Goodwill means grasping the needs of others, and the way in which you react to those needs.
When he explained all this to Tiny, she pretended to choke on her juice: “Oh, Smitty, please.”
Smitty. He doesn’t say anything. But really he should, since her M.A. in Philosophy from the University of Stellenbosch was a degree in skepticism. And look where that got her: making ham sandwiches in a deli.
The bush around the house crackles. Gabriel freezes. The mottled tones and herb-fragranced air of the Australian bush remain a mystery to him. Especially at night. He thrusts his hand down into his pants and scratches his balls.
Tonight, the living room is filled with people he never would have invited over. From his vantage point in the darkness, he can see two clearly, Johan Witzand and his wife Tammy, standing next to Tiny. They don’t know the couple well and that’s why Tiny’s hand on Johan Witzand’s shoulder seems odd. Gabriel can see the rings he bought sparkle on her fingers.
Even more remarkable is the way his wife’s hand dances on the stranger’s shoulder. Nothing chummy like you might see amongst the guys, but a hand that darts and rests, flits and curls.
“Gab, my man!” Johan Witzand calls out when he sees Gabriel enter.
Why so chipper? It’s anyone’s guess. Supposedly doesn’t even drink. Gabriel listens to the blaring music in the spacious room: drum-and-base-techno. Definitely not one of their CDs.
“Why zo zerious?” Johan asks in his Dutch-accented Afrikaans. Few personal questions piss Gabriel off as much as this one.
Tiny pounces on this: “That’s the way he always looks. You just don’t know him yet.” Her hand slides off Johan Witzand’s neck. Only now, to show there’s nothing to hide. The four of them stand there, looking at each other.
“You think General Pinochet should be extradited to Spain for his crimes?” Tammy throws out. “Look at those guys in your country who got off with a mere confession.”
Oh hell, Gabriel Smith thinks. Then grows dismayed at his uncharitable thought. Later in the evening, Tiny would explain that the woman is Jewish. That human-rights issues were all she liked to talk about.
“Oh, Tammy,” Tiny says now. “Please, not on New Year’s Eve. And besides, what do our opinions matter? Won’t change anything.”
“That’s exactly the mistake everyone makes,” Tammy gushes. Her hair is unruly and makes her small face appear even smaller.
As Gabriel holds out his glass for a refill, he tells them about the decision he made outside in the bush. It’s one of the few subjects he cares to speak about with any enthusiasm. Johan Witzand’s mouth slowly drops open and a gut-rot stench oozes out.
How can someone be alive and rotting at the same time, Gabriel wonders while he explains his newfound understanding of goodwill. It feels as though Johan Witzand’s dog breath is crushing his logic, as though his words are losing their usual power. How many things can you think of at once, he wonders. And then he notices Tammy’s eyes are glazing over.
Gabriel’s words slow down, turn into gibberish then cease altogether.
“Excuse me,” he says. He weaves through the crowd towards one of the bathrooms.
It’s simply too much to ask, he thinks while he pisses. He tries to convince himself that his loathing of Johan Witzand hasn’t derailed his New Year’s resolution. For heaven’s sake, he must tell the man to do something about his breath. Chlorophyll’s supposed to work. He should be a jungle-munching machine.
When he’s done, Gabriel uses one of the side doors and walks along the side porch to the front. The air is lukewarm. A few guests are gathered here, toking on one of the joints he’d rolled earlier and left on a silver tray by the bar. A rattan chair is free and he decides to sit down for a while. Couldn’t give a damn.
Ma and Pa, he thinks, will be on the east coast right now. And, somewhere in the beach house, will be a tin with a brandy-infused fruitcake sealed inside. Baked and prepared months ago, regularly laced to ensure it aged well.   
In his half of the bathroom, next to his shaving kit and shampoo, he keeps a photograph of his mother in a silver frame. She’s clasping a baby bottle in one hand, suckling a lamb. With the other, she cradles the lamb’s soft chin. She’s not looking at the lamb, but at the camera. At Gabriel. It’s her eyes that fill him with longing.
Someone appears next to his chair. Dammit, it’s Johan Witzand!
“I zuspected you might be dry,” Johan says, holding out a fresh bottle of beer.  
Gabriel grabs it, turning his nose away. Johan Witzand squats next to his chair, balancing one arm on the armrest next to Gabriel’s sleeve. Gabriel looks down at the Hollander’s head. The hair clipper was set on Number One. Light catches the scalp, the shape of his skull is discernible.
Hard and stubborn, a head like that. Then Gabriel cuts his thought short.
“You have a zplendid farm here,” Johan continues. He’s not drinking. He tells Gabriel how he and Tammy have started looking for property in the area and, in fact, just found a place. A two-bedroom wooden house. Needs a bit of work. Australia, he reckons, is one of the few places you can still find some land on the cheap. Why pass up a chance to escape the city? What with Tammy’s asthma and all. But, in the end, sadly, they’re short on the deposit, just a little. Such a shame.
Then Gabriel says: “I can help you.” He elaborates and invites Johan to follow him to a tiny shack hidden under an acacia belliana, wondering what the hell has gotten into him. A key materializes from his pocket; he unlocks the shed, lets them in, and slams the door shut behind him.
Inside, the air languishes under the strong stench of marijuana. In the dark, Gabriel glides past Johan towards one of the two planters. He hears him wheezing, open-mouthed. The man is not going to believe his eyes.
Gabriel opens the cupboard door. The harsh light of a 400-watt bulb blinds them. Three adult cannabis sativa plants. Particularly robust species with heavy, ripening heads. Unholy.
 Gabriel watches Johan. “Oh shit,” Johan mutters. Gabriel shrugs off his jacket and hangs it up. The funk alone can get you stoned.
“Superskunk,” Gabriel says. “Bought the seeds near Reguliersdwars Street when I was in Amsterdam. Sewed them into my pants’ seam. No chance those airport pooches were going to sniff it out. Know anything about dope? Top class, this stuff. Seedless heads. You trim and grow the cuttings. Cloning. I’ll show you how. We get eight to nine ounces per box. $350 per ounce on the street. We harvest every two months. I can build you two boxes and show you how it works. I’ll prepare four plants for you. Then you and Tammy will also be able to afford to live around here.”   
Johan Witzand is indeed overwhelmed. Gabriel can’t figure out whether it’s the depravity of his stash, his wanton disregard for the law, the thought of owning some land, or the unexpected generosity of the offer.
“Ja,” is all Johan says. “Yes, yes, yes.” He moves to embrace Gabriel, but Gabriel jerks his head away. He already bitterly regrets the offer. The man irritates him no end.
Tiny, also surprised at the divulgence of the shed and the accompanying offer, nonetheless praises Gabriel. As ex-pats, it’s only right they should help each other. She’s proud of Gabriel’s first act of goodwill in the New Year.  
No comment from Gabriel. He’s becoming more difficult this year. In his opinion, Tiny is clueless. She has it all wrong, confusing goodwill with something between generosity and helping-the-poor.  
Gabriel orders planks. Saws them. Buys two tube lights, two reflecting bat wings, all the other odds-and-ends. He wants it over.

Late one night—Tiny’s already in bed—Gabriel uses a sterile blade to cut slips off the mother plants, the ones not flowering. He kneels, and very carefully, at a sharp angle, the slips are cut, dipped into Clonex, lowered gently into special pots filled with a loose mixture of porous topsoil and placed under a blue heat lamp on a heat mat. When the work is done, his knees feel stiff. Kneeling, he looks out the window into the night. An owl is barely audible and he hears the wind rise.
Johan Witzand is calling him almost daily now. Just wants to make sure everything’s okey-dokey. Gabriel can’t risk telling Johan to be more discrete over the phone because then he’d be at the door within the hour. The man drives like the devil in his old, beige Mercedes.
Johan shows up anyway. Everything about him makes Gabriel cringe. His neck. His bony hands. Not to mention his breath. Gabriel avoids all physical contact.
And the wind continues to blow. In the city, Tammy Witzand endures it too. She listens from her bed, dreading the dust and pollen it brings. Her asthma. Lying next to Johan, she can’t sleep—doesn’t want to either. She thinks about the sudden changes in their lives. About the contract of sale they will soon sign.
When she gets to the dope, her mind drifts. Images from the Woman’s Weekly next to the bed take over: Monica Seles, a hazy web shot of a naked Leonardo Di Caprio. She purposely lets her mind wander.
Tammy sleeps then jolts awake. Johan has edged against her. She feels his rock hard chest, the bent legs that cause his kneecaps to poke painfully into her.
At that moment, she sees him clearly from behind, the thin erect neck, the cheekbones that protrude past his forehead. Racing around in their beige 280SE, in a dark suit, shoulders squared. Next to him, a black briefcase with five one-ounce bags of dope. Perfectly trimmed, weighed and packaged. She sees how he turns off the highway onto a street, slower now. He’s somewhere in the working class neighborhood of Footscray on the west side of Melbourne. Cramped semis made of boards and corrugated iron. His elbow rests on the open window, eyes narrowed, looking for the number where he’s supposed to deliver. Johan Witzand, drug dealer. My husband.
“Your knees,” she complains and shoves his sleep-dead body.
In the morning, she rises earlier than usual, washes, dresses, gets behind the wheel of the beige Mercedes and drives the hour-and-a-quarter to the Smiths. She parks under the eucalyptus trees and when she alights from the car, Gabriel is approaching. The barking dog has announced her arrival. Gabriel feels slightly horny. It’s early morning.
Tammy doesn’t let him get a word in. In a shrill voice, she explodes. He has led her husband down the wrong path. Over her dead body will she allow Johan Witzand to grow and sell drugs. Even if that means she’ll have to eat sardines until she pukes. She becomes short of breath. She’s going to cry.
“Come now, Tammy,” Gabriel protests.
“Tamara, please. You talked him into this. He would never have thought of something like this by himself. It’s over, Gabriel. Keep your boxes and stuff.” She gets back into the car, coughing.
“Bloody gentile,” she yells and drives off.
She leaves Gabriel fuming under the trees. Before his eyes: Johan Witzand. His boniness, his bad breath, his groveling offset by his paradoxical apathy. Gabriel’s lip curls: Go figure. Here he is, getting chewed out when he’s only trying to help. Are they mad? Bloody gentile. And oddly, it’s not Tammy he’s cursing, it’s Johan.
“He’ll have to pay. What about the planks and stuff I bought? You know, Tiny, there’s something underhand about that Johan Witzand. I sensed it from the start.”
“What happened to your year of goodwill?”
It’s late afternoon and he’s still riled. He wants to start in on her too but sips rainwater from the glass in his hand instead. “I’m trying, but what can you do with people like that?”
“You think this goodwill thing of yours is irrational?”
“On the contrary.”
“But contempt, hatred, is irrational.”
She tries to compel Gabriel towards self-reflection. To look his dark side in the eyes.
When Gabriel, intent on discussing matters with Johan, gets in his car, he’s still seething. His gaze isn’t focused on the dirt road in front of him. He’s in a daze and by the time he notices the car swinging in from the main road, it’s too late. The beige Mercedes. It’s him. Probably wants to talk too. Beat me to it. Wrenching the steering wheel, Gabriel tries to steady his car.
In the moment before he slams into the blue gum, he sees the eyes in the bony skull. Like a lamb’s.
Johan Witzand, he thinks for the very last time. Forgive me. Love you too, man.

Sympathy for Cerise
(translator: Elsa Silke)
   
   He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut about them.  If Cerise Cox ever read this, she’d probably only sneer: he’s become too big for his boots.  But not Mr Cox.
   It wasn’t  bitterness that made Robert talk about them all the time, even though he was  without his own transport nowadays.  When he resigned he had to give back his pick-up – part of his package.  He never blamed Cerise or Mr Cox.  In the end it had been his own decision.  And  he’d always been convinced that they had an opinion of him, even Mr Cox.
   Until the day of his interview Robert had never come across anyone like him.  Cox didn’t talk to him, rather barked rudely in his direction.   Long after he’d already begun to work for the man, he still came home angry every night.
   Until he realised, damn it, on no account should he allow Cox’s bullying to get him down.  Because one thing  he soon realised among people with money and power: they were never going to change, he’d have to.  He found out that the best thing for him was simply to turn away.  That drove Mr Cox mad.  And then Robert Mackie became someone he could respect.
   As for Cerise, Mrs Cox, please, that was a different matter.  She and Robert could burst into fits of laughter, especially once she’d swallowed her uppers.  
   Her answers were quick and sharp, he later came to think she planned ahead what she was going to say.  And she soon saw he wasn’t completely stupid, even though he was working class.  But she would never consider him her equal, this she’d made clear from the start.
   Cerise also made certain that she always had the last word about her garden, in fact, about everything.  ‘It’s my garden, Roberre.’  He remembered it so well.  She pronounced his name as she thought the French would.  She simply had to have the upper hand at all times, it was a passion with her.  Mostly Robert didn’t even try to respond, and he could, if he wanted to.  That was how he’d been raised.  Oh, actually he liked Cerise.
   There was the day the photograph on the front page of the big Melbourne paper, The Age,  caught his eye.  There was the prime minister of Victoria with his two sidekicks in front of the roulette table.  On the left Mr Roland Cox and to the right of the prime minister, Mr John Day-Lewis, sporting a bow-tie. All three of them with broad smiles:  Melbourne’s casino was now open.  And then this: these three fellows, all with tiny eyes close to the bridge of their noses.  In Ireland they’d say, that’s the face of a crook.
   The three with their tiny eyes at the roulette table.  The men who held the City of Melbourne in the palm of their hands. It made him turn ice-cold.
   Once, as he was pulling the Bentley out of the garage, Mr Cox told him:  ‘Robert, we’re going to change the appearance of this city.’  He thought of the brightly lit, purple city tower and the broad blue neon strip on the railway bridge, the one directly opposite the present casino complex.  He wasn’t certain whether Cox had played any part in these things.  But he knew him well enough by then to know that these landmarks formed part of his vision for the city.
   At the time it had become impossible not to be aware of  Mr Roland Cox’s vision for
Melbourne. Of course, there had always been the little fountain near the National Art Gallery, a gift from Cerise and himself in ’76 when they were the mayoral couple.  After that Mr Cox, and probably Cerise as well, definitely became more influential.  The projects representing his current vision were much grander than the pathetic little fountain on St Kilda Road.  There was the magnificent casino on the banks of the Yarra River.  And the annual Grand Prix with its worldwide TV coverage was also the result of his influence.
   Cox would most probably, as had been his wish, be remembered as the engineer of this city’s monuments.  And he deserved these words of praise, Robert didn’t mind admitting.
   But now he, Robert Mackie, would broadcast to the world all the bullshit about Mr and Mrs Cox.  That too has its place here.

Foxtrot of the Carnivores (first chapter)
(translator - Madeleine van Biljon)

1

Picnic under the Pepper Tree

During August of the Year of the Emergency I, Petrus Steenekamp, heard the scream for the first time. It happened while we were unpacking a picnic basket under this very pepper tree. The scream tore across the veld towards us. And immediately I realised its origin was on Renosterberg, some four, five hundred yards from our picnic spot. The scream has to be compared with the fleshy bulk of a heavy animal. Its head sharp, like an incisor. Like the shrill cry warning of a snake. And the middle part of the scream, its belly, chilled us into complete immobility.

My father, Hendrik Douw Steenkamp, was frozen into silence. The heel of his shoe, raised for knocking out his pipe, remained suspended in mid-air. White fear masked his face. The unscrewed flask of coffee remained tilted in my mother Iris's right hand. Great-god-almight-heavenly-father.

The scream was human. Definitely. Even though everyone denied it afterwards. Eventually even I started doubting it. Who had ever heard of a human voice bellowing like that? As if the guts were being ripped out of a body. My grandmother, Ouma Lalie, sat shivering on a whitewashed bench, her legs wrapped in an angora blanket. Under her body stocking goose pimples erupted like smallpox.

And the terror of the tail of the scream was that it never ended. It still resonates in my inner ear. Indeed, the echo of a bestial scream. A slice of animal agony following the cut of the butcher's knife.

The heavy limbed sleep of an early morning journey spared Mirtel and Little Hennie the horror. They were cocooned on the back seat of Hendrik Douw's black Pontiac Parisienne. Even so, after they were woken for hardboiled eggs and sandwiches, they started asking questions about a dog at the side of the road.

"Which dog, for goodness' sake? There is no dog here." Hendrik Douw wiped his face with his white handkerchief. He was trying to get his pipe to draw and he was very impatient. His earlier sombreness had changed into an inexplicable touchiness which would not leave him.

"The dog at the side of the road," Hennie repeated, "under the wheel of the car. The dog stuck to the wheel," he tried to explain.

"What on earth are you talking about. Go on, see for yourself if there's something stuck there. Here, Hennie, have a sandwich," said Iris.

Hennie eyed the wheels of his father's Pontiac but made no move to go any closer. When he wanted to take the apricot jam sandwich from Iris, she held it so close to her body that it could hardly be termed hold out.

"That's it," Hennie cried about the strangeness of his mother's action. "That's it," incabaple of saying anything more. Almost simultaneously Iris's hands, still sheathed in mauve gloves, shot to her mouth. She was shocked by her own response.

Little Hennie met his mother's eyes with an uncertain glance. Then he jerked his head towards the wheels of the Pontiac. "The dog that wouldn't die, Mammie. He's hiding in the tall grass next to the road," Hennie persisted and started bawling.

"I also heard the dog. It went on and on, it wouldn't stop howling. Look at me, I'm soaked in perspiration,'' said Mirtel showing her damp palms to everyone before wiping them on her yellow duffle coat. The entire event confirmed her disregard of her intuition: she should've stayed in the bosom of her bedroom permeated with the heavy smell of talcum powder.

And then there was the television incident of the night before. Not that it had upset us at the time, but when we'd heard the scream in its entirety under the pepper tree, an uneasiness followed. And then I connected the root of our uneasiness with the event of the previous evening.

The television reception at Wildeperdehoek tended to be erratic. Hendrik maintained that it was caused by frost which warped the antenna and the picture got distorted. Last night, when the State President appeared on the screen, his head was flattened, his shoulders as broad as a rugby prop's.

"Come on, Hennie, stop mucking about in the fireplace so that we can listen,'' said Iris putting aside her knitting, a woollen petticoat for Ouma Lalie. Little Hennie gave the glowing brushwood log a last great whack with the poker. As the President opened his mouth, a burst of sparks flew up the chimney.

"Watch this!'' he cried. And we all stared at his firework.
"... our COUNTRY ...'' said the President, his eyes on us, "IS IN THE GRIP OF VIOLENCE ...'' On our TV-set his lips resolutely refused to round the "o'' of OUR. This was the way it was: the lips of the State President flattened out froglike so that he managed to pronounce the "i'' in GRIP quite well although it took a few seconds longer than usual to do so. And his frog mouth turned the last word into VEEELEENCE.

"O Heveens,'' Mirtel giggled doing a twist step behind the half-circle of our chairs. A flush of irritation appearde on Iris and Hendriks' foreheads.

"What the hell is going on tonight?'' Hendrik leant forward to fiddle with the controls.

"AND THAT A STATE OF EMERGENCY WILL BE DECLARED THROUGHOUT THE COUNTRY FROM MIDNIGHT TONIGHT.''

"Shaddap, Mirtel, if you don't want to listen, you'll go and sit in your room in the cold. I can't hear a thing, not a single thing,'' said Hendrik, raising his voice.

"Look at his forehead!'' Hennie couldn't contain himself. And indeed, the orange, white and blue of the great flag behind the State President's head and shoulders flickered and cast a rainbow over the Head of State's forehead.

"What a mess,'' said Hendrik, got up quickly and switched off the TV. "Our country is in a bloody mess and you kids are cracking jokes. And don't think for one moment this is the end of the violence,'' he glared at Little Hennie, "and if you and Mirtel can't behave yourselves,'' persisting despite the fact that Mirtel had already left the room, "you'll stay out of here in future when the news is read. Our boys are being killed on the Border and now it's starting in the locations as well, are you listening to me, Hennie? No, dammit, it can't carry on like this. No wonder there's no discipline in our country.''

"But what about Mirtel, Pa?'' Hennie whined.

"Mirtel too,'' Hendrik concurred. "And now I'm going to bed. We must get up early tomorrow. And you, Petrus?'' he said to me, "why are you staring at me as though you're diassaproving of me? We must stand together now, my son. I know you write  all those things in your diaries and that I'd rather not know about.''

"I'm not looking like that at you at all, Pa, please! Why would I ...''

"Remember your background, Petrus,'' he interrupted me, "and you must go and phone Johannes. I'm worried about him there in Kempton Park. He must come back to the farm. Things are going to go wrong on the Rand. It's safer here on the farm.''

"We're living in terrible times,'' I heard my mother say to Mirtel before I pulled the eiderdown, stuffed by Iris and Nosisi just the previous winter, up over my head. During the night the south wind rose across the veld. If it kept on blowing there would be no frost.



Before sunrise I heard the side door opening and closing. It was Hendrik Douw, the collar of his coat turned up high. He strode in a southwesterly direction across the frost-covered veld to where Wildeperdehoek's boundary fence ended in a shallow basin in the mountain. Our farm lay to the right, to the left RooiDam where Ouma Lalie still lived even though Oupa Lampinon Prens had died years ago.

The foot of the mountain was thick in brushwood and an occasional white stinkwood clung to the rough stone. In summer the pink wildrose with its delicate perfume would flower here. Rarely touched by human feet, this was the place where, at daybreak, and if you were lucky enough, you would see the few that were left of the wild horses. And from this basin with its wild horses my father took the name of our farm: Wildeperdehoek.

At this time of the morning Hendrik walked fast and he was always in a hurry. His kudu leather boots clipped the cold earth underfoot and brushed and scraped the frost-hardened bossies. Now and again he stopped and lightly kicked one of the tiny bossies with the toe of his boot. Even in the dark he could identify the various kinds: Ankerkaroo. The rare Aarbossie. Ooislaai. Voëltjie-kan-nie-sit-nie. The bitter bossie in the brack areas. The veld had sufficient food. The sheep would have ample to survive the winter. He thought about the face of the State President the previous evening. He laughed and startled himself. The man was weighed down by the troubles of these times. He'd seen the blue half-moons under the President's eyes. Or had it been the blue stipe of the country's flag which had warped the image like that? He walked on at a brisk clip, striving to beat the cold. He always chose this quiet place of the wild horses to free the thoughts swamping his mind.

The morning star still sat high when he reached the basin. He could smell the horses: their sweat and their manure and their coats. They had spent the night in this shelter. Approaching cautiously he saw to his left the dark bodies pressing and rubbing against each other for a last touch of warmth before  galloping away in search of grazing. They had already seen him; they'd smelt the male in their shelter. He knew it. When he crouched down, a stallion's nostrils flared, he lifted his head and snuffed the sharp winter air. Hendrik saw no mares in foal. The horses were slow to breed. Either that or someone was stealing the young foals. They kept on circling. Their unshod hooves had trampled the earth here to powder. Dust whirled into the morning dusk. A brown mist blanketed the basin and surrounding brushwood.


Kneeling, Hendrik Douw moved his lips and prayed to God for this icy earth, his land, and these human beings, his people. He got up. From here, in the first light of day, he could see the shiny roof of the barn in the yard of Wildeperdehoek.

When he reached home everyone was awake, irritable with the cold of interrupted sleep, and ruged up for the journey to our Oom Jannie. Hendrik greeted Mirtel with a light hug only but she reciprocated by offering him her full young woman's lips. A stormy word last night, a kiss this morning. In this way, since their earliest youth, Hendrik had taken his children's small hands in his and dipped them in the variable temperatures of his hot-bloodedness. Only Johannes with the pitch black hair, his eldest, had always pulled his hand away.

"You smell of something nice, Pa,'' Mirtel remarked.

"It's curry-bush. I was at the wild horses' place.'' He could hear that outside I had the car's engine running. It took a long time to warm up properly.

"Why don't you ever take me with you to the wild horses, Pa? I only hear about them. Are they really there?'' and Mirtel put an arm around her father's waist.

Ouma Lalie looked up from where she was sitting, privately intoning her morning prayers. "It's really not worth it for an old woman to get up so early in the cold.'' She had spent the night with us so that we could leave at the crack of dawn. She wanted to speak to my Oom Jannie. She maintained that there was more than ostrich feathers in those boxes he exported to the Japanese. "What, Ma? What on earth do you think Jannie could possibly be packing?'' No, she kept her thoughts to herself but she had her suspicions and that's why she was going along today.

When we got in and drove away the car was pleasently warm inside. It smelt of Iris's perfume with a background of vinyl seats. Iris wore a chocolate brown suit of pure virgin wool and black Italian high-heeled shoes. Around her neck was a string of inherited pearls.

When I woke up during the journey, the sun was high in the heavens and low and orange over the fields of grass. A pleasant snore caused Ouma Lalie's mouth to sag. When I stirred next to her to look out, she immediately started nagging: "Heavens but these seats are hard. But don't think I'm complaining. I'm only to glad to go and see Jannie.''

The road ran between Koffiebus and Teebus, little round koppies like inverted teacups. As a youngster, Hendrik had apparently climbed the rock-face of Koffiebus but he didn't repeat the story this morning. With the dourness which we always found so upsetting, he had prepared us for the scream which we had to hear at the pepper tree.

The rock-faces of the two round koppies were dauntingly steep, whitened over the years by the droppings of vultures. It was only in recent times that the grey birds had started to die out. They scavenged in fields which had been sprayed with insecticides. A committee of farmers, Hendrik had added, but quickly so that he could bring an end to the subject, regularly put out sheep's offal at the foothills of Koffiebus and Teebus to encourage the poor birds. "But can you believe it, the blacks from the location here discovered what was happening and fetched the meat for themselves.''

"Well, I can think of only one reason why they fetched the meat,'' I said.

"Petrus, they all get good pay. You can't tell me they're starving. Look at most of their women, fat and overfed. But I'm stopping for a moment, I want to have a leak.'' He parked on the gravel shoulder of the tarred road and climbed through the fence.

"Mind your jacket,'' Iris warned, quickly closing her window and turning to me: "Petrus, why don't you and your father leave one another alone this early in the morning? No-one is in the mood for your endless nit-picking at one another at this time of day.''

"Something's wrong with Hendrik,'' Ouma Lalie remarked about her son-in-law's stern and stubborn manner.

Hendrik walked to a clump of prickly pears. The blacks called the plant tolofiya. Farmers planted rows of prickly pears as cattle feed during periods of drought. Hendrik pissed behind the broad leaves of a prickly pear plant and
walked back across the veld.

"Look what I've found,'' he called out. And when he was closer to the car: "This is an odd year. Ripe prickly pears in the middle of winter!'' He bent down at a flat piece of slate, cut off the head and stem of the prickly pear with his pocket knife then made a vertical slit down the little belly of the fruit, dug his fingers into the slit and took out the ripe pip-filled fruit.

"Tolofiya, anyone?'' He peered through the window at the cosy nest of people.

And suddenly I wanted to be outside with him. I wanted to share his fresh enthusiasm for the fruit. I got out leaving the door open on purpose and took the peeled prickly pear from my father. He sliced open the rounded stomach of another tolofiya and ate it, juice dripping from his chin.


I still see it clearly: Hendrik Douw's shoulders in his blue blazer against the bright blue horizon, his even white teeth biting into the green flesh of the prickly pear. The sweet juice dripping from this mouth.

Mirtel yelled herself awake: "Shut that bloody door!'' but turned over and went on sleeping. A trace of spittle clung to a strand of her hair.

At Midros Ouma Lalie woke, impatient. "We must stop to eat,'' she ordered, out of the blue. "When do we stop for a bite to eat, Hendrik?''

Iris looked up from her knitting. "But, Ma, we stopped only a short while ago. You could've eaten some of those prickly pears.''

"We can't stop here, Ma,'' Hendrik said appeasingly. "It's out of the question. We must push on way past Midros before we can even consider stopping.''

The President with his three-coloured forehead had signalled nothing new last night. We were already accustomed to keeping a sharp watch, bodies alert as a meerkat's  and eyes observant as a spy's, tiny ears pricked; prepared to duck smartly if the need arose, with only the muzzle of the gun's barrel visible at the foxhole.

Alongside the road which we had to travel, teenagers from Midros High School had for some time now been throwing stones at white people's cars. They hid in the grass at the side of the road and fired as soon as they saw something on wheels passing. And when their own untethered donkeys grazed the grass down in winter, they simply stood there, unprotected, still throwing stones. Until the police chased them away or arrested them if they could.

Ouma Lalie leant forward and put a firm hand on Hendrik's shoulder. "Do you think it's safe driving past here?''

"But Ma, what are you on about now? You're always the first to talk about faith. We'll accelerate and hope for the best. How else do you think we're going to get past here, Ma? Fly? In any case, these days the defence force guards this stretch,'' Hendrik said, and hoped for the latter.

There were the rumours of course, always the rumours.

"The other day Alida told me an awful story of a baby who was killed on the back seat of a car by a stone thrown through the window,'' and Ouma Lalie sank back on her hard seat. And remembered that she had forgotten to remind her chief worker, April, to dig in manure round her Peace roses. She wanted a profusion of roses this summer.

And then there was the story of Little Hennie. One Friday afternoon he reported the rumour he'd heard at school that seven white children would be killed for each black pupil shot by the army. Upset, Iris cut herself and Little Hennie a large slice of orange cake each. They went to sit at the kitchen table in front of the warm bellied stove.

"May we live through all of this,'' she said after the first bite. She'd grated in a smidgen too much zest.

"What dit you say, Ma?''

We parked under the branches of the pepper tree next to a cement table and four benches whitewashed by the Cape Roads Administration. Ouma Lalie squeezed Hendrik's shoulder again. "I'm so pleased you've stopped, Hendrik, my stomach's grumbling with hunger.''

"Look, there 's old Renosterberg,'' Hendrik pointed to the right through his window before anyone could get out. "When I was a young fellow my cousin and I climbed it to the top one Sunday.'' My father should have paid our ears an entrance fee for all his mountaineering tales. But we listened meekly. "That's a very old mountain. You can tell from its rock formation. There's a Bushman drawing of a yellow baboon and a white nanny-goat with her kid suckling. Can you see the rhino, Son?'' he spoke to me. "Look, you can see the thick nose in front and just a bit higher up the start of the horn.''

"Do you know, Hendrik, in my entire life I've never seen that rhino. And I don't know how many times I've driven past here,'' and Ouma Lalie struggled out of the car. She was stiff from the long drive and the sudden exertion caused her to give a soft, odourless fart.

This time I held the fence apart for Hendrik to climb through and he disappeared behind a thorn tree. I rubbed some of the pink peppercorns, last season's, between my hands. "Smell the wild pepper, Ma.''

When Hendrik climbed back, "dammit, it's bloody cold,'' the food had been unpacked onto the plastic tablecloth: hot mealiemeal porridge in a vacuum flask, two strips of springbok biltong (buck shot on Wildeperdehoek), a yard of dried sausage, six hard-boiled eggs, four stewed prunes to keep Ouma Lalie regular, a flask of coffee and a bottle of full-cream milk, a small jar of eucalyptus honey, sandwiches with Iris's own apricot jam, six oranges from the Lowveld, and a tin of buttermilk rusks.

As Iris unscrewed the coffee flask and raised it to pour, the scream rattled down Renosterberg, pierced the stretch of veld and forced its sharp sound into our ear-drums. "Dear God in Heaven what was that?'' I stuttered the thought to myself; it seemed impossible that such a howl could come from one throat alone, but because the winter morning had enveloped the veld around us in utter silence suddenly the bloody din chased up all our hellish fears. The chill of the wake of the scream penetrated our very marrow. Not a single word was uttered. We sat in complete silence.

The following evening when the fire in the living-room had died down to cold grey ash, I paged feverishly through my notebook looking for a single    annotation. I felt like a child telling tales out of school. I knew, I knew it! It was that camp on Renosterberg. It was true, it was true! I'd heard Oupa Dzozo speaking about it in the milking shed, even though I had little command of Xhosa. "To our shame,'' Iris would always remind us. "We grew up with them and they learned our language.'' And then she would add: "But they probably had no choice.''

That evening at five o'clock, milking time because the sun sank early and already bitterly cold at this time of the year, Oupa Dzozo's sons, Laang and Naaiy, herded the cows to the sheds. Oupa Dzozo was sitting under his cow and speaking to February under the Jersey next to him. I lingered in the doorway of the shed. The bleak sun threw my shadow over the shed's  manure channel. They knew I was there. Oupa Dzozo was speaking. Among his words I heard "Renosterberg'' and "detenchin''. That much I overheard. Here was my note about it.

Then there was a brief newspaper report which I cut out about camps for detainees. Where else would the government accommodate all its political prisoners? A tent camp in the St. Albans area was mentioned and a "detention camp'' at Renosterberg where about 300 youths were being detained. In this manner, from such a brief report, the speculation and the rumour grew.

When it was all over under the pepper tree, Iris poured the strong, black coffee and gave Hendrik a cup. She called the two in the car and said: "Here Ma, your prunes.'' And: "Sugar, Petrus?'' and that kind of thing. The hot, sweet coffee with the Jersey milk curdled in my empty stomach: it was feintly nauseating and yet nice at the same time.

"Goodness but I'm cold,'' Ouma Lalie said and mashed a soft stewed prune between her gums.

"At the farmers' association I heard that they've built a quarantine camp for sick horses up on old Renosterberg. It was probably a few of those poor, sick animals carrying on like that.'' But no one, not even Little Hennie, could look in Hendrik's direction. No-one wanted to see in his eyes his own disbelief at his remark. Everyone sat quietly on their own, dazed.

Her shocked reaction to the scream, the action of the sandwich which she couldn't hold out to her son, eventually upset Iris more than the scream itself. From that day a dull disquiet dragged down behind her like a leg dead of feeling. Events and rumours added to her worry. But she never let herself look at the trail behind for too long.

Here under the pepper tree, she couldn't bear the chewing and slurping without the usual conversation. "Oh,'' she burst out, "to me it sounded just like old Bianca, especially when she sings that song about the sun sinking in the West. And she croons and croons in that shrill voice of hers.''

Later, when we had finished eating, a man, a traveller on foot, came towards us where we were sitting under the pepper tree. "Morning, morning,'' he greeted us. We heard, and I think we all did, what the man, probably from Midros, did not say: Baas and Miesies. He had chosen his moment badly.

Suddenly Hendrik was watchful. He moved closer to the man and pushed Iris behind him with his right arm. She never again turned her back towards Renosterberg that morning. The face of the mountain directly at her back turned her spine to ice.

"What do you want?'' There was a tremor in Hendrik's voice.

"Probably something to eat,'' Iris began.

The man held his head high, remarkably, and he stared steadily at Hendrik.

"Wait a minute, Iris,'' Hendrik almost shouted. "What can I do for you? Is there something I can do for you?''

Then the man turned his back on us and walked away. He started whistling a tune but I didn't recognize it.

"We've got so many sandwiches left, go and give him something,'' Iris persisted.

"You stay right here, Petrus,'' Hendrik ordered as though expecting some or other movement from me. "Buggers. You can't trust them. They're a nation of cheaters. They'll wipe us all out in the end. No, you stay right here, Petrus. Put that food away, Iris. They can die before I feed them.'' Die before I feed them. Die before I feed them. Die before. Die before, die before, die before: until he reached my Oom Jannie's farm, Hendrik drove in silence, his unlit pipe in his mouth.

Dans aan het einde van de dag (first chapter)


(vertaald door Riet De Jong-Goossens)

1

Picknick onder de peperboom

In de maand augustus van het jaar van de noodtoestand hoorde ik, Petrus Steenekamp, de schreeuw voor het eerst.  Daar onder de peperboom, waar we de picknickmand met ons ontbijt aan het uitpakken waren. De schreeuw scheurde over het veld naar ons toe. De oorsprong, wist ik onmiddellijk, lag op de Renosterberg,*  vier- vijfhonderd meter van onze picknickplek vandaan. De schreeuw kon vergeleken worden met het zware vlezige lichaam van een dier. Zijn kop klonk scherp, als een snijtand, als een waarschuwingsgil tegen een slang. Het middelste deel van de schreeuw, de buik, deed ons ter plekke verstarren in onze bewegingen.
    Hendrik Douw Steenekamp, staat als bevroren, de hak van zijn schoen opgeheven, hij is net van plan zijn pijp erop uit te kloppen. Angst druipt ijzig wit van zijn gezicht. De opengedraaide thermoskan met koffie blijft half gekanteld in de rechterhand van mijn moeder, Iris, hangen. Hemel-nog-aan-toe.
    Het is de schreeuw van een mens. Hoewel iedereen dat later ontkent. En ook ik begin er uiteindelijk aan te twijfelen. Want wie heeft ooit een menselijke stem zo horen bulken? Alsof de maag uit het lichaam werd gescheurd. Mijn oma Lalie zit te rillen met een angorawollen sjaal om haar benen op het gewitte bankje. Onder haar bodystocking bolt het kippenvel op als pokpuisten.
    En de staart van de schreeuw, die is zo verschrikkelijk omdat er geen eind aan komt. Hij weergalmt nog steeds rauw in mijn oren. De nagalm van de schreeuw is inderdaad dierlijk. De vloed dierenangst volgend op de snee van het slagersmes.
    Door de verlammende slaap van een rit in de vroege ochtend worden Mirtel en Klein Hennie gespaard voor dit angstaanjagende geluid. Ze liggen op de achterbank van Hendrik Douws zwarte Pontiac Parisienne, toegedekt als rupsen in hun cocon. Maar toch, later, als ze worden gewekt voor hardgekookte eieren en boterhammen, beginnen ze vragen te stellen over een hond langs de weg.
    `Welke hond bedoel je toch? Er is hier nergens een hond te zien.’ Hendrik veegt zijn gezicht af met zijn witte zakdoek; hij probeert de brand in zijn pijp te steken en hij is ongeduldig. Zijn eerdere sombere stemming slaat nu om in een krachteloosheid die hij op dezelfde manier, onverklaarbaar, met zich zal meedragen.
    `Die hond onderweg,’zegt Hennie, `onder het wiel van de auto, de hond zit aan het wiel vast,’ probeert hij uit te leggen.
    `Waar heb je het toch over, ga zelf kijken of er iets onder de auto zit, hier, pak een boterham,’ zegt Iris. Hennie gluurt naar de wielen van zijn vaders Pontiac, maar hij durft er niet dichtbij te komen.Als hij zijn boterham met abrikozenjam van Iris aan wil nemen, houdt ze die zo vast dat je het onmogelijk aanreiken kunt noemen. `Het is…’ gilt Hennie, omdat zijn moeder zo ongewoon doen. `Het is…’ en meer krijgt hij er niet uit. Bijna tegelijkertijd slaat Iris haar hand voor haar mond, ze heeft nog steeds haar oudroze handschoenen aan, geschokt door haar eigen ongewone reactie.
    Klein Hennie kijkt zijn moeder onzeker aan, en draait dan zijn hoofd met een ruk naar de wielen van de Pontiac: `De hond die niet dood wilde, mama.  Hij kruipt weg in het gras van de berm,’ en hij begint zomaar te huilen.
    `Ik heb hem ook gehoord. Hij bleef maar janken. Kijk eens hoe nat ik ben van het zweet,’ en Mirtel laat iedereen haar vochtige handen zien voor zij ze afveegt aan haar gele duffelse jas. Het hele gebeuren bevestigt dat ze haar eigen waarschuwing niet in de wind had moeten slaan: ze had in de intimiteit van haar slaapkamer met de zware poederwalmen moeten blijven.

En dan dat televisie-incident van de avond tevoren. Niet dat we er zo vreselijk door van streek waren. Maar nadat we daar onder de peperboom de schreeuw hadden gehoord, was er onrust ontstaan. En toen ben ik de wrange wortel van die onrust gaan uitgraven bij de gebeurtenis van de vorige avond.
    De televisieontvangst op Wildeperdehoek is niet wat je noemt geweldig. Hendrik beweert dat het door de rijp komt die de antenne scheef trekt. En toen de president gisteravond op het scherm verscheen, had hij een afgeplat hoofd, en waren zijn schouders zo breed uit als van een rugbyspeler.
    `Stil eens, Hennie, hou op met dat gepook in het vuur, dan kunnen we even luisteren,’ zegt Iris en ze legt haar breiwerk, een wollen onderrok voor oma Lalie, weg. Klein Hennie geeft de gloeiende stompen van de bezemstruik nog een geweldige opdoffer met de pook. Toen de president zijn mond opendeed, spatte er een salvo vonken in de schoorsteen op.
    `Kijk daar!’ gilt hij. En wij staren gezamenlijk naar zijn vuurwerk.    
`…ONS LAND…’ zegt de president met zijn ogen op ons gericht, `BEVINDT ZICH IN DE WURGGREEP VAN HET GEWELD…’ Op ons toestel weigeren zijn twee lippen hardnekkig zich te tuiten op de `o’ van ONS. Het gaat zo: de lippen van de president blijven zo plat als die van een breedbekkikker zodat hij erin slaagt om de `ee’ van GREEP volmaakt uit te spreken, hoewel een seconde of twee langer gerekt dan normaal. En van zijn laatste woord maakt zijn afgeplatte mond GEWEELD.
    `O hemeltje,’ proest Mirtel en maakt een danspas achter de halve cirkel van onze stoelen. De ergernis staat op de het voorhoofd van Iris en Hendrik afgetekend.
    `Wat is er nou weer mis vanavond?’ Hendrik leunt voorover om aan de knoppen te morrelen.
    `Wacht, wacht,’ houdt Iris hem tegen.
    `EN DAT ER VANAF MIDDERNACHT DEZE NACHT DE NOODTOESTAND DOOR HET HELE LAND WORDT AFGEKONDIGD.’
    `Houd je mond, Mirtel, als je niet wilt luisteren, stuur ik je naar je kamer.’
    `Ik kan er niks van verstaan, verdorie, absoluut niks,’ zegt Hendrik met stemverheffing.
    `Moet je zijn voorhoofd zien!’ Hennie kan zich niet beheersen. En inderdaad, het oranje-blanje-blauw van de reusachtige vlag achter het hoofd en de schouders van de president werpen een regenboog op het voorhoofd van de regeringsleider.
    `Wat een zooi, zegt  Hendrik, staat snel op en zet de tv uit. `Ons land zit in de penarie en jullie, kinderen, maken er grapjes over. En je moet niet denken dat het geweld zal ophouden.’ Hij kijkt Klein Hennie aan. `En als jij en Mirtel je niet kunnen gedragen,’ en ondanks het feit dat Mirtel de kamer al uit is,  blijft hij foeteren: `dan blijven jullie voortaan hier maar weg als het nieuws op het scherm komt. Aan de grens worden onze mannen doodgeschoten en nu begint het gedonder ook al in de zwarte woonwijken, heb je me gehoord, Hennie? Nee, verdorie, zo kan het niet langer. Geen wonder dat er geen discipline meer is in ons land.’
    `En Mirtel dan, papa?’ pruilt Hennie.
    `Mirtel net zo goed als jij,’ bevestigt Hendrik. `En nu ga ik naar bed. Morgen moeten we vroeg op. En jij, Petrus?’ vraagt hij aan mij. `Waarom zit je me aan te kijken alsof je me iets te verwijten hebt? We moeten één lijn trekken, mijn jongen. Ik weet best dat je in je dagboeken en zo dingen schrijft die ik liever niet wil lezen.’
    `Ik kijk helemaal niet alsof ik je iets te verwijten heb, pa, alsjeblieft zeg! Waarom zou ik ook…’
    `Vergeet niet waar je vandaan komt, Petrus,’ valt hij me in de rede, `en je moet Johannes bellen. Ik maak me zorgen over hem, daar in Kempton Park. Hij moet terugkomen naar de boerderij. De dingen gaan fout daar op de Rand. Hier op de boerderij is het veiliger.’
    `We leven in een vreselijke tijd,’ hoor ik mijn moeder tegen Mirtel zeggen, voordat ik later het donzen dekbed, vorige winter gevuld door Iris en Nosisi, over mijn hoofd trek. ‘s Nachts stak de zuidenwind op. Als die bleef waaien, ging het niet vriezen.
    
Nog voor de zon opkomt, hoor ik de zijdeur open en dicht gaan. Dat is Hendrik Douw, de kraag van zijn jas hoog opgeslagen. Hij loopt over de berijpte velden in zuidwestelijke richting waar de grensafscheiding van Wildeperdehoek in een bergkom doodloopt. Rechts ligt ons bedrijf, links ligt de boerderij RooiDam waar oma Lalie nu nog woont, al is opa Lampinon Prêns al lang dood.
    Aan de voet van de berg groeit welig het bezembosje en hier en daar klemt een bitterzoetstruik zich vast aan de ruwe rotsen. In de zomer zal hier de roze wilde roos met zijn fijne bloemengeur bloeien. Hier komt zelden een levende ziel en onze boerderij is door mijn vader naar deze plek genoemd. Want als je geluk hebt, kun je tegen zonsopgang nog steeds de paar wilde paarden zien die nog zijn overgebleven. Op deze tijd van de ochtend loopt Hendrik flink door. Hij heeft altijd haast. Zijn laarzen van koedoeleer knerpen over de hard bevroren struikjes. Af en toe staat hij stil en schopt even met de punt van zijn laars tegen een struikje. Zelfs in het donker herkent hij de soorten. Ankerkaroo. Het zeldzame struikje.  Ooisla. Vogeltje-kan-niet-stilzitten. Het bitterzoetstruikje op plaatsen met brakke grond. Er is genoeg te eten op het veld. De schapen zullen de winter wel doorkomen. Hij denkt aan het gezicht van de president gisteravond. Hij lacht en schrikt van zichzelf. Die man gaat gebukt onder de last van deze tijd. Hij kon de blauwe wallen onder de ogen van de president zien. Of was het een blauwe streep van de vlag die het beeld zo verwrongen maakte? Hij loopt haastig door zodat de kou hem niet kan inhalen. Hij kiest altijd de wilde paardenhoek als hij het gepeupel van zijn gedachten wil ontlopen.
    De ochtendster staat nog steeds hoog als hij zijn doel bereikt. Hij kan de dieren ruiken. Hun zweet, hun mest en hun huid. De vorige avond zijn ze hier beschutting komen zoeken. Links voor hem ziet hij hoe hun donkere lijven tegen elkaar wrijven en schuren voor een laatste beetje warmte voor ze wegdraven om een plek te zoeken om te grazen. Ze hebben hem al gezien. Ze ruiken de mannengeur hier bij hun schuilplaats. Dat weet hij. Als hij op zijn hurken gaat zitten, spitst een hengst zijn neusgaten, heft zijn hoofd en snuift de scherpe winterlucht op. Hendrik ziet geen drachtige merrie. De paarden planten zich maar moeilijk voort. Of iemand steelt de jonge veulens. Ze blijven maar in een cirkel rondstampen. Hun onbeslagen hoeven hebben de aarde hier verpulverd. Stof dwarrelt op en werpt een deken over Hendrik en de bezembosjes. In de ochtendschemering lijkt het of er een bruine mestwolk over de bergkom hangt. Geknield beweegt Hendrik Douw zijn lippen en bidt tot God voor deze ijskoude aarde, zijn grond, en deze mensen, zijn mensen. Hij staat op. Van hier af ziet hij in het eerste ochtendlicht het glimmende dak van de schuur op het erf van Wildeperdehoek.
    Als hij thuis komt, is iedereen al op, prikkelbaar door de verstoorde slaap en gelaarsd en gespoord voor de reis naar onze oom Jannie. Hij drukt Mirtel even tegen zich aan om haar goedemorgen te wensen, maar ze schenkt hem haar volle meisjeslippen. Gisteravond storm, vanochtend een zoen. Zo heeft Hendrik de handjes van zijn kinderen in de zijne genomen om ze van jongs af met de verschillende temperaturen van zijn warmbloedige karakter te confronteren. Alleen Johannes met zijn gitzwarte haar, zijn oudste, heeft de welgevormde hand van zijn vader van zich afgeschud.
    `Je ruikt lekker, papa,’ zegt Mirtel.
    `Naar kerriebos. Ik ben in de wilde paardenhoek geweest.’ Hij hoort dat ik buiten de auto al heb gestart. De motor doet er lang over om goed warm te worden.
    `Waarom neem je me nooit eens mee naar de wilde paarden, papa?’ en Mirtel slaat haar armen om haar vaders middel.
    Oma Lalie kijkt op uit haar stoel waar ze bij haar ochtendgebeden had zitten mijmeren. `Het is toch wat, waarom moet zo’n oud mens als ik toch zo vroeg opstaan bij deze kou.’ Ze heeft vannacht bij ons geslapen zodat we voor dag en dauw konden vertrekken. Ze wil met mijn oom Jannie gaan praten. Ze beweert dat er nog wat anders dan struisvogelveren in die dozen liggen die hij naar Japan uitvoert. `Wat dan, ma? Wat in ’s hemelsnaam denk je dat Jannie nog meer inpakt?’ Nee, ze knijpt haar lippen stijf op elkaar, maar ze heeft zo haar vermoedens en daarom rijdt ze vandaag mee.
    Als we instappen om te vertrekken is het binnen in de auto al lekker warm. Het ruikt naar Iris’ parfum en naar de bekleding van de banken. Iris draagt een chocoladebruin pakje van zuivere wol en zwarte Italiaanse schoenen met hoge hakken. Om haar hals een parelsnoer, een erfstuk.
    Als ik onderweg wakkerschrik, staat de zon al hoog aan de hemel en schijnt diep en oranjekleurig over de weidevelden. Oma Lalies mond is opengevallen, ze zat naast me zo lekker te snurken, maar als ik een vin verroer, begint ze onmiddellijk te zaniken: ` Hemel, wat zitten deze banken toch hard. Ik klaag niet, hoor. Ik wil mee naar Jannie.’
    De weg voert tussen de Koffiebus en de Teebus door. Ronde bergjes die op omgekeerde theekopjes lijken. Als jongen moet Hendrik ooit de helling hebben beklommen, maar deze ochtend laat hij het bekende verhaal achterwege. Als hij zo stug is,  voelen we ons niet helemaal op ons gemak, hij was ons al aan het voorbereiden op de schreeuw die wij de peperboom te horen zouden krijgen.
    De toppen van de twee ronden bergen zijn onbeklimbaar steil en de hellingen gaan loodrecht naar beneden, ze zijn wit van de mest van de aasvogels die daar eeuwenlang geleefd hebben. Pas in onze tijd beginnen de vogels uit te sterven. Ze halen hun aas van velden die met gif zijn bespoten. Een commissie van de boeren, vertelt Hendrik toch, maar zo snel dat hij er vlug mee klaar is, had regelmatig slachtafval van schapen op de hellingen van de Koffiebus en de Teebus gegooid om de arme vogels aan te moedigen. `Maar wat raad je, de zwarten uit de buurt hier kwamen erachter en gingen toen het vlees voor henzelf halen.’
    `Tja, ik kan maar één reden bedenken waarom ze dat deden,’ zeg ik.
     `Onzin, Petrus, ze krijgen allemaal een goed loon. Je wilt mij toch niet wijsmaken dat ze honger lijden. Kijk maar eens naar het gros van de vrouwen, vet en volgevreten. Maar ik stop even, want ik wil plassen.’
    Hij parkeert op de stenige berm van de verharde weg en stapt over het ijzerdraad. `Pas op voor je jasje,’ waarschuwt Iris nog, draait haar raampje weer dicht en zegt tegen mij: `Petrus, waarom laten jij en je vader ’s morgens vroeg elkaar niet met rust? Niemand heeft op dat moment van de dag zin in jullie eeuwige gekibbel.’
    `Er is iets met Hendrik,’ zegt oma Lalie over de sombere stemming van haar schoonzoon.
    Hendrik loopt tot bij een plek met Turkse vijgen. Torrefia, noemen de zwarte mensen deze plant. Boeren planten rijen Turkse vijgen aan voor veevoer in droge perioden. Hendrik pist achter de brede bladeren van een Turkse vijg en komt door het veld teruggelopen.
    `Kijk eens wat ik gevonden heb,’ roept hij. En als hij dichter bij de auto is: `Dit jaar is anders dan anders. Rijpe Turkse vijgen in het midden van de winter!’ Hij bukt zich bij een plat stuk leisteen, snijdt met zijn zakmes kop en staart van de Turkse vijg, geeft een snee in de lengte over het buikje, zet zijn vingers bij de randen van de spleet en drukt er de rijpe pitvrucht uit.
    `Een liefhebber voor een torrefia?’ Hij gluurt door het raam naar het warme nest mensen.
    En opeens wil ik samen met hem daar buiten staan. Ik wil zijn intens enthousiasme over de vruchten delen. Ik stap uit, laat expres het portier openstaan en pak de geschilde vijg van mijn vader over. Hij snijdt het dikke buikje van nog een torrefia open en eet gretig zodat het sap in het rond spat.
    Mirtel gilt zichzelf wakker uit haar slaap. `Doe dat stomme portier dicht,’  draait zich om en slaapt verder. Een van haar lange bruine haren blijft aan een spuugsliert kleven..
    Ik zie hem nu nog steeds zo: de schouders van Hendrik Douw in zijn blauwe blazer tegen de helderblauwe horizon. Zijn witte regelmatige tanden happend in het groene vlees van de Turkse vijg. Het zoete sap dat uit zijn mond loopt.
    Bij Midros wordt oma Lalie wakker. `We moeten stoppen om te eten,’ beveelt ze ongeduldig. `Wanneer parkeren we ergens om een hapje te eten, Hendrik?’
    Iris kijkt op van haar breiwerk. `Maar ma, we hebben pas gestopt, toen had je van de Turkse vijgen kunnen eten.’
    `Hier kan het echt niet, ma,’ probeert Hendrik haar te paaien. `Daar valt niet over te praten. Pas een heel eind voorbij Midros kunnen we parkeren.
    De president met zijn driekleur-voorhoofd had gisteravond niets nieuws te vertellen. We waren er al aan gewend beducht te zijn op onraad in de buurt van kaarsrechte, stokstaart-waakzame lijfjes, van bespieders met priemende oogjes en gespitste oortjes. Gewend snel weg te duiken als het moest, met alleen de punt van de geweerloop uit het gat.
    Op deze weg die we wel moeten volgen gooien tieners van de middelbare school Midros al heel lang met stenen naar auto’s van blanken. Ze verschuilen zich vlak bij de weg in het gras en gaan van start zodra ze iets op wielen aan zien komen. En als hun eigen loslopende ezels ’s winters het gras opvreten, staan ze gewoon open en bloot langs de weg stenen te gooien. Tot de politie hen wegjaagt, of arresteert als dat mogelijk is.
    Oma Lalie leunt voorover en pakt Hendrik bij de schouders. `Denk je dat het veilig is hier?’
    `Wat krijgen we nou, ma? Jij bent altijd de eerste die het heeft over zou-dit of zou-dat. We rijden flink door en hopen het beste, of hoe denk je dat we anders deze streek door moeten? Vliegend? Bovendien wordt dit stuk weg tegenwoordig bewaakt door het leger,’ zegt Hendrik en hoopt dat het zo is.
    En dan de geruchten, altijd de geruchten: `Ik heb laatst van Alida dat verschrikkelijke verhaal gehoord van een baby’tje dat door de ruiten van een auto op de achterbank is doodgegooid,’ en oma Lalie laat zich terugzakken op de harde bank. Ik bedenk opeens dat ze vergeten heeft haar voorman, April, eraan te herinneren nu al mest in te spitten bij haar Peace-rozen. Ze wil een overdaad aan rozen komende zomer.
    En Klein Hennie die op een vrijdagmiddag thuiskwam  en zei dat hij op school heeft gehoord dat er zeven witte kinderen doodgestoken zullen worden voor iedere zwarte scholier die door het leger wordt doodgeschoten. Ontsteld door dit verhaal sneed Iris voor haarzelf en Klein Hennie toen maar een dik stuk sinaasappeltaart af. En ze gingen samen aan de keukentafel zitten voor de warme buik van het fornuis.
    `Voor ons zelfbehoud,’zei ze bij de eerste hap. Ze had er een flintertje te veel sinaasappelschil in geraspt.
    `Wat zeg je, mama?’
    
We stoppen onder de takken van de peperboom. Oma Lalie pakt Hendruk weer bij de schouder. `Ik ben zo blij dat je stopt, Hendrik, mijn maag knort van de honger.’
    Hier onder de peperboom heeft de dienst wegonderhoud uit de Kaap een tafeltje en vier bankjes van witgekalkt beton neergezet. `Kijk, daar ligt de oude Renosterberg.’ Voordat iemand uit kan stappen wijst Hendrik door het raampje aan zijn rechterhand. `Toen ik een opgeschoten jongen was, hebben mijn neven en ik hem op een zondag beklommen.’ Mijn vader doet een ware aanslag op onze oren met zijn klimverhalen. Maar we luisteren gedwee. `Die daar is een heel ouwe berg. Je kunt het zien aan de rotsformaties. Er is een bosjesmantekening van een gele baviaan een witte geit die haar kalfje laat drinken. Zie je de neushoorn erin? Mijn zoon?’ vraagt hij aan mij. `Kijk, daar vooraan zit zijn dikke neus en een beetje hoger begint zijn hoorn.’
    `Weet je, Hendrik, ik heb er mijn hele leven nog nooit een neushoorn in gezien. En ik weet niet hoe dikwijls ik hier al voorbijgekomen ben,’ en oma Lalie stapt moeizaam uit de auto. Ik wil het portier nog voor haar openhouden. Ze is stijf van het lange zitten. En van pure inspanning laat ze een zachte, reukloze wind.
    Deze keer houd ik de draad omhoog voor Hendrik om zodat hij eronderdoor kan stappen en hij verdwijnt achter een acacia. Ik wrijf een paar van de roze peperkorrels van het vorige seizoen tussen mijn handen. `Ruik de wilde peper eens, mama.’
    Als Hendrik weer onder de draad door is gestapt, `sjonge, wat is het koud’, staat het eten uitgestald op het plastic tafelkleed: warme maïspap in een goed afsluitende doos, twee repen springbokbiltong* (springbokken geschoten in de wilde paardenhoek), een stuk droge worst van zo’n dertig centimeter, zes hardgekookte eieren, vier gestoofde pruimedanten voor een soepele darmwerking voor oma Lalie, een thermoskan met koffie en een flesje volle melk, een potje eucalyptushoning, boterhammen met door Iris gemaakte abrikozenjam, zes sinaasappelen uit het Laeveld, vier rode appels en een blik karnemelkbeschuit.
    Op het moment dat Iris de thermos opendraait en optilt om in te schenken, komt de schreeuw aangerommeld recht vanaf de Renosterberg stormt over het stuk veld en ramt zijn geluid tegen onze trommelvliezen `Heregod wat is dit’ stotter ik tegen mezelf onmogelijk dat zoiets uit een mens zijn mond komt het is een collectieve kreet vooral omdat de winterochtend zo stil geluidloos om ons heen ligt jaagt die verdomde klank ons van angst de hel in en als de schreeuw dwars door merg en been is gegaan en aan de andere kant er weer uit is gekomen wordt er geen enkel woord gezegd. De stilte is volkomen.
    De volgende avond als het vuur in de zitkamer is uitgebrand en de grauwe as achterblijft blader ik in mijn slaapkamer koortsachtig in mijn notitieboek, op zoek naar een of andere aantekening. Ik weet het, ik heb het geweten! Ik voel me als een kind dat een verhaal komt vertellen. Het gaat om het kamp op de Renosterberg. Het is waar, waar! Ik heb opa Dzozo er in de melkstal over horen praten, hoewel ik niet veel van het Xhosa begrijp. `Tot onze schande,’ zegt Iris altijd, `we zijn samen opgegroeid en zij hebben onze taal geleerd.’ En dan voegt ze er nog aan toe: `Ze konden ook eigenlijk niet anders.’
    Op een avond om vijf uur, melktijd, want de zon gaat vroeg onder en het is koud in die tijd van het jaar, dreven de zonen van opa Dzozo, Laang en Naaij, de koeien naar de stallen. Opa Dzozo zat onder zijn koe te praten met Febrewarie die onder de jerseykoe naast hem zat. Ik stond te aarzelen in de opening van de staldeur. Een schraal zonnetje wierp zijn schaduw over de mestvoor. Ze wisten dat ik daar stond. Opa Dzozo zat te praten. Ik hoorde tussen zijn woorden door `Renosterberg’  en `detentjin’. Het woord dat hij gebruikte is `detentjin’. Dat heb ik goed gehoord. Hier staat mijn aantekening.
    En er was ook nog het krantenberichtje dat ik heb uitgeknipt over kampen voor arrestanten. Want waar moet de regering anders al de politieke gevangenen onderbrengen? Er wordt een tentenkamp in de omgeving van St. Albans genoemd, en een `detention camp’ bij de Renosterberg waar ongeveer driehonderd jongeren worden vastgehouden, schatten ze. Zo worden de geruchten aan elkaar gelast, men waagt een schatting en er verschijnt een berichtje, een zandkorreltje.
    Als alles voorbij is, daar onder de peperboom, schenkt Iris sterke zwarte koffie en geeft een kopje aan Hendrik. Ze roept de twee in de auto en zegt: `Hier ma, je pruimedanten.’ En: `Petrus, suiker voor jou?’ en dat soort dingen. Door de warme zoete koffie met de melk van de jerseykoe draait mijn lege maag raar en tegelijk aangenaam om.
    `Sjonge jonge, wat heb ik het toch koud,’zegt oma Lalie en drukt de zachtgekookte pruimedant tussen haar tandvlees tot moes.
    `Ik heb bij de boerenvereniging gehoord dat er een quarantainekamp voor zieke paarden zou zijn op de oude Renosterberg. Het zijn vast maar een of twee zieke dieren geweest die zo te keer gingen. Maar niemand van ons, zelfs Klein Hennie niet, neemt de moeite in Hendriks richting te kijken. Niemand wil het eigen ongeloof over zijn opmerking in zijn ogen lezen. Iedereen blijft stilletjes en als versuft in zichzelf gekeerd zitten.
    Haar schokreactie op de schreeuw, het feit dat zij haar eigen kind de boterham niet wilde aanreiken, dat zijn dingen die Iris eigenlijk meer van streek maken dan de schreeuw zelf. En na die dag blijft ze de ongerustheid met zich meeslepen als een lam been. Er worden voortdurend gebeurtenissen en geruchten aan vast gebreid. Maar ze staat zichzelf nooit toe al te lang naar het sleepspoor achter zich te kijken.
    Hier onder de peperboom kan ze het kauwen en slurp-slurpen zo zonder het gewone gepraat niet verdragen. `Ach,’  trekt ze opeens van leer,  `ik vind dat het net klonk als oude Bianca, vooral wanneer ze “Als de zon zakt in het westen” zingt, en ze dat westen met van die draaiende ogen en piepnoten eruit braakt.
    Later, als we klaar zijn met eten, komt er een man, te voet op weg, naar ons toe onder de peperboom. `Môge, môge,’ groet hij. Vooral die keer valt me op, en ik denk ons allemaal, dat de man, waarschijnlijk afkomstig uit Midros, níet zegt: baas en misses. Hij heeft het verkeerde moment gekozen.
    Hendrik is meteen op zijn qui-vive. Hij gaat dichter bij de man staan en duwt Iris met zijn rechterarm achteruit. Die ochtend had ze zich geen enkele keer van de Renosterberg afgewend. Het aangezicht van de berg zo direct op haar rug. Dat doet er ijskoude rillingen overheen lopen.
    `Wat wil je?’Hendriks stem trilt licht.
    `Zeker iets te eten,’begint Iris. De man houdt zijn hoofd rechtop, merkwaardig, en blijft Hendrik aankijken.
`Wacht even, Iris,’ schreeuwt Hendrik bijna. `Wat kan ik voor je doen? Is er misschien iets dat ik voor je kan doen?’
Dan keert de man ons de rug toe en loopt weg. Hij begint een deuntje te fluiten, maar ik herken het niet.
`We hebben zoveel boterhammen over, geef hem er toch een paar,’ probeert Iris nog.
    `Jij blijft hier, Petrus,’ beveelt Hendrik als hij op een of andere daad vooruitloopt. `Verdomme, je kunt ze niet vertrouwen. Ze bedonderen alles en iedereen. Ze zullen ons nog allemaal uitroeien.. Nee, je blijft hier, Petrus. Doe dat eten weg, Iris. Ik laat ze nog liever verrekken voor ik ze voer.’ Verrekken voor ik ze voer. Verrekken voor ik ze voer. Verrekken voor. Verrekvoorvoer, verrekvoorvoer, verrekvoorvoer: tot bij de boerderij van oom Jannie blijft Hendrik zwijgend achter het stuur zitten met zijn dooie pijp in zijn mond.
***

*renoster: neushoorn
*biltong: repen gedroogd vlees

Ma’s Thunderboy – in Forces’ Favourites, Johannesburg: Taurus, 1987.
(translator: the author)

I can only thank the people of Brakpan from the bottom of my heart. They haven't pushed me out like a piece of rubbish. This past Sunday, Boetiefanie was sentenced on Tuesday, I confessed at Rhema Church. Last year you know, we swopped churches. We used to be Dutch Reformed people. In front of hundreds - you should come and see the size of this church - I opened up my whole heart. Kept nothing back, told them e-ve-ry single thing my Boetiefanie did.

From then on brothers and sisters have been pouring into my house. I can tell you, day and night there'll be someone at my front door. Over there, that lovely milk tart there under the tea cloth, actually, that's a leftover from trousseau. Sister Bertie Wagenaar brought it early this morning. Miles out of her way, because she's actually from Alberton.

This is their way to stop the aching, here in my heart. Because the LordJesus hears me, I have cried myself dry about this thing. Excuse my language, but the bloody thunder got right into my Boetiefanie. Inside his head. The work of the devil. Make no mistake. Listen, Boetiefanie, he never, never showed any hatred for the blacks. I know my child. Take Margrit the black girl who works for us. She's been here in our yard in Dalview since Boetiefanie was tiny. His father yes, oh, he couldn't stand them. He used to tell Margrit, that's when he still lived here, he used to say: I'll kick you all the way to the back gate. That's because she used to be late with his early morning coffee in bed on Sundays. Because you know Saturdays was her day off. But if Kobus kept a black girl she had to do her work one hundred percent. That's the way he was. One morning he gave Margrit a back hand through the face.

That was the time I spoke up: for heaven's sake, we are not heathens. I wonder if he knows about Boetiefanie, he never reads the paper.

I think it's about time to wet our whistles - Kristientjie!

During the trial I kept her out. You know what school children are like. They'll tease her non-stop. But her teacher, Miss Britz, she's also here from Brakpan. Actually, before we changed to Rhema Church we were from the same Dutch Reformed congregation. Lovely person. She came to talk to me. Said such nice things. Said Kristientjie must come back to school. She'll look after her, like a piece of gold, and then she took my hands in hers.

No really, this thing, it eats me, eats me. All the time. Since I confessed the aching sometimes stops. But you know what it's like. Especially at night. Now with Kobus gone as well. Sometimes Kristientjie wakes me up. She's such a fine child, like an egg shell. Boetiefanie was, ag, I don't know, he was never one for violence. Shooting, yes. He was a top shot. Number one in the army. During his weekened passes I had to specially cut him pieces of soft flannel to clean his R1 rifle with. He was from the Infantry there from Kroonstad. Once Kristientjie and I visited him with some buttermilk rusks. That was just before Thunder Chariot . You know of course, the big operation the army had, there in North Western Cape. Always showed it on TV. More than eleven thousand soldiers. Can you imagine making food for all those boys. And then they still have to sleep as well. I was so proud that he could go and fight there. By the middle of September the whole thing was finished. Then they gave Boetiefanie a weekend pass and he hitch-hiked home with Marxie. That's the son of Dirk and Hettie, live close by, I can call Hettie for tea from my stoep.

Kristientjie, put it down on the little table over here. Milk?

One could say that they were born together, Marxie and Boetiefanie. Here in the street they had competitions on those skateboards. Skin off their toes. I was so glad Boetiefanie could come home again... nice hey, I always use half Rooibos tea, half Ceylon ... that the LordJesus had looked after him for us. Kiristientjie still sang to him that afternoon.

Kristientjien, why don't you sing that: 'ag man, it's so nice to beee in the armieee'. Look at her now, shy. 'From Tempe to Grootfontein ...' Listen to me, so false. Maybe she'll sing something for us later.

Sometimes I wish Kobus was still here. He's boilermaker-welder now, in Richard's Bay. That's when I heard from him last. But I never reply to his little postcards from Durban. I know what he gets up to there. My sister told me she was in their car there next to King's Beach waiting for the children to finish swimming and who should walk past? Kobus. With his arm tightly 'round the waist of one of those escourt girls. That's how he cheats me behind the back. Bettie, my sister, she's with Rhema Church too now. That's what keeps us going.

Krappie, come boy. Come to Ma. Come and sit on Ma's lap. He was never obstreperous, Boetiefanie. Never. Never touched a bottle until he went to the army. It's all those types there. They led him onto bad roads. And that Marxie, I don't trust him one bit. But I pray for him as well.

Well, that Sunday evening Kristientjie and I were already dressed for church. So I went to say goodbye to Boetiefanie. He said he'll drive his little Datsun back to the camp. That's easiest. And when I came into his room, I smelled the liquor. His whole room. But not a bottle in sight. They hide the bottles under the matresses. That Marxie was lying around as well. But I didn't say a word. Boetiefanie came home for such a short while. I didn't want to upset him. I just stood there quietly and prayed. Boetiefanie, he saw my sorrow. You see, it's not as if his feelings are in the deep freeze. So he said: don't worry, Ma, why don't you and Sis go to church now. If only he could open the door of his heart for the LordJesus. I shall never stop praying.

He said Marxie will be going along and he'll also give two other army boys a lift to Hoedspruit Army Camp. Do you know where Hoedspruit is, Ma? he asked me. I didn't have a clue. If only the LordJesus could have given me a sign that night. I could have looked for a map somewhere. Maybe Miss Britz knows where Hoedspruit is. Kristientjie's got her telephone number.

So when we came back from Rhema Church Boetiefanie's little Datsun was gone already. But later on in court he confessed that he and the other three left Brakpan only at eleven o'clock that night. I walked to his bedroom. It was a pigsty. I did not bring him up that way. His father yes, always very messy. Don't throw your pants around like that, I used to tell Kobus. Maybe it's better that he's gone. But some weekends he pops back for a visit. Just as I return from the pharmacy on Friday nights, as I walk up the street from the bus stop, I spot his blue van. I usually stick him into the spareroom. I don't hold it against Kobus. He's got his own life.

I didn't want Kristientjie to see Boetiefanie's room like that. But these days you can't hide a thing from children. And as young as you see her there, she belongs to the LordJesus. She found I don't know how many of those little flat brandy bottles under his bed. Oh, this is a terrible thing.

My Pa used to say: never let the hardships knock you down. Eighty years old, and his mind was still bright. He was one to tell you about hardships, until your eyes were full of tears. But the shoulders of the LordJesus are broad enough for our cross. Praise his name. Only sometimes I wish it could have been otherwise. But it can happen to all of us, Sister Bertie said. Only this morning she still read to me from the Vaderland about those boys from Nelspruit High School staying in the boarding house there. And how one night they clubbed two old black men until they dropped down and died on their school's rugby field. Believe me, that is the work of the devil.

When  Siter Bertie brought the milk tart she said many kind things and she also went on her knees for me. She promised to go with me to Colonel Verster, he's from the Department of Prisons, to ask permission so that someone could exorcise Boetiefanie's devil. So we plan to go next week.

Then I don't know at what unholy hour of that night the four of them left from here. No-one on the streets anymore. And not one of them knows the road to Hoedspruit Army Camp. So they stop next to this black man. Afterwards he witnessed in court as well. Where's the road to Hoedspruit? they asked him. I don't know that place, he said. Next thing that Marxie jumps out and hits the black man with the fist. Then he throws the black man's bicycle onto the road. That's how he told the story in court. The whole case lasted for three days. Oh, it was terrible. That Marxie, he's a real bully type you know, he kicks the bicycle right in front of the tyre and he shouts at Boetiefanie: go for it. And then? Then they still didn't know the way. Marxie said they drank all the time. Is that what the army does to our sons?

Does she want to get off, boy? Kristientjie, please open the door for Krappie, my girl.

Now the four of them are driving, driving, looking out for someone else to explain the road to them. It's dark outside. Not a soul in sight. Drunk all of them, even if I have to say so about my own Boetiefanie. That morning I still asked him to join us to Rhema Church. We go to both services, you know. Ma, there's never any time for me to sleep in, he replied. But when Kristientjie and I came back from the morning service, he was gone. And I specially let Margrit cook a roast for us that day. But after some time Boetiefanie did come back for the Sunday lunch. He's not an animal, you know. I always tell him: you've got such nice hands, why don't you play the piano. No, he wants to be an electrician. That will have to wait now. Once he made me a toaster. All by himself. You won't find anything better anywhere. You could say it was his own patent.

And then they saw this young black girl below a street lamp. I mean, why do the blacks walk around that time of the night? That's looking for problems. But I don't want to upset myself. That's the way the LordJesus planned it all. Here is her name, in this paper: Miss Ntlakwe Agnes Moepya. Seventeen years old. The judge said the whole thing was a gruesome act. That it had to be my own son - I'll never understand that. Boetiefanie always treated Margrit with such respect. That's why she stayed with us for such a long time.

Then they pulled up right next to this black gril to ask for directions. Her ma sat in the court room as well. Old woman already. The first day, then the second day ... I did not even want to look in her direction. Margrit knows the whole story too. I cried with her, here in the kitchen. The little boss, Margrit said, he's not bad child. Good girl, that one. Still the old type. She's also a Christian, belong to that ZCC of theirs. Don't ask me why she just left us one day. Any case, there was this black girl's ma, sitting there in court. I didn't know what to do, you see. So I prayed and prayed and the night before the last day when Judge Myburgh was going to pass the sentence, I phoned. I spoke to our pastor. He tells me: go, go and talk to the girl's ma.

And on the last day, right in front of the court, I walked up to the old woman. She wears a black dress, black doek, you know how they like to dress. She immediately knew who I was. There the two of us stood on the steps of the court building. I didn't know whether the sun was shining or whether it was dark. The LordJesus helps me. She's got one of those black stoles on. I could tell that it was hand crocheted. I don't know if it was her or I who first pulled the other one closer. But there the girl's ma stood and the next thing I put my arms around her shoulders and her arms were already 'round mine. We cried. Tears on my white face and tears running down her black cheeks. That was how Rhema Church and our pastor and the LordJesus helped me.

No, the black girl also did not know the way to Hoedspruit Army Camp. She must have been so scared. And it's Marxie who's first to jump out. To hit her in the face. It was Marxie who confessed in court: he said he did it because he liked it. The very same Marxie I once taught the four x table. Here in this house. I remember it like yesterday. But I don't want to judge. Judge Myburgh already said that he was guilty. Then Boetiefanie jumped out of the car as well and he picks up a stone and throws it at the girl. The other two army boys sit in the car. Still drinking. Then the girl falls down. Half of her body on the road, half on the pavement. Then Boetiefanie said he and Marxie got back into the car and let it run over her body. The front wheel of the Datsun went over her shoulder. The post-mortem showed it was brain damage. Just as well she didn't live. The LordJesus helps me. They were so drunk. Because then Boetiefanie turned his car around and came back for her. And he runs over her again.

Tell everything, the pastor said. Spit it out. It's poison, it has to come out.

Judge Myburgh said he did not want to break Boetiefanie. He did not want to let him sit in prison until his old age. So he gave him ten years. Fanie ... my little boy. I got so sick during those last two months with you. And then you never cried at night. Kobus said why don't we gave him his name. No, he had to get my Pa's name. Stefanus. Boetiefanie ... ten years. Then he's got enough time to rehabilitate himself, Judge Myburgh said. That's why I baked the Judge some cookies. Hertzog cookies, you know them, don't you? I dropped them off at the court yesterday.

Wait, let me pour you more tea. It's gone cold. I can go and show you where it happened ... oh, just leave it. It's all finished. All over. I'm so tired.

*

Originally published as Die donner in Boetiefanie se kop - Venter, E. Witblitz. Johannesburg: Taurus 1986