“I suppose not. I don’t know.” She realized all at once how absurd they must look, standing under the Métro tracks, holding hands. Passersby looked at them, sympathetic.
“You shouldn’t go this way, looking so hurt and serious,” he said. “You’re so nice. You mean so well. Odile loves you.”
Her heart leaped as if he, Felix, had said he loved her. But no, she corrected herself. Not Felix but some other man, some wonderful person who did not exist.
Odile loved her. Her hand in his, she remembered how he had kissed Odile’s palm, and she felt on her own palm the pressure of a kiss; but not from Felix. Perhaps, she thought, what she felt was the weight of his love for Odile, from which she was excluded, and to which Felix now politely and kindly wished to draw her, as if his and Odile’s ability to love was their only hospitality, their only way of paying debts. For a moment, standing under the noisy trains on the dark, dusty boulevard, she felt that she had at last opened the right door, turned down the right street, glimpsed the vision toward which she had struggled on winter evenings when, standing on the staircase, she had wanted to be enchanted with Paris and to be in love with Howard.
But that such a vision could come from Felix and Odile was impossible. For a moment she had been close to tears, like the Christmas evening when she found the mistletoe. But she remembered in time what Felix was—a hopeless parasite. And Odile was silly and immoral and old enough to know better. And they were not married and never would be, and they spent heaven only knew how many hours in that terrible room in a slummy quarter of Paris.
No, she thought. What she and Howard had was better. No one could point to them, or criticize them, or humiliate them by offering to help.
She withdrew her hand and said with cold shyness, “Thank you for the coffee, Felix.”
“Oh, that.” He watched her go up the steps to the Métro, and then he walked away.
· · ·
Upstairs, she passed a flower seller and stopped to buy a bunch of violets, even though they would be dead before she reached home. She wanted something pretty in her hand to take away the memory of the room and the Arabs and the dreary cafés and the messy affairs of Felix and Odile. She paid for the violets and noticed as she did so that the little scene—accepting the flowers, paying for them—had the gentle, nostalgic air of something past. Soon, she sensed, the comforting vision of Paris as she had once imagined it would overlap the reality. To have met and married Howard there would sound romantic and interesting, more and more so as time passed. She would forget the rain and her unshared confusion and loneliness, and remember instead the Paris of films, the street lamps with their tinsel icicles, the funny concert hall where the ceiling collapsed, and there would be, at last, a coherent picture, accurate but untrue. The memory of Felix and Odile and all their distasteful strangeness would slip away; for “love” she would think, once more, “Paris,” and, after a while, happily married, mercifully removed in time, she would remember it and describe it and finally believe it as it had never been at all.
April 11, 1953
Nadine Gordimer
Y WIFE AND I are not real farmers—not even Lerice, really. We bought our place, ten miles out of Johannesburg on one of the main roads, to change something in ourselves, I suppose; you seem to rattle about so much within a marriage like ours. You long to hear nothing but a deep satisfying silence when you sound a marriage. The farm hasn’t managed that for us, of course, but it has done other things, unexpected, illogical. Lerice, who I thought would retire there in Chekhovian sadness for a month or two, and then leave the place to the servants while she tried yet again to get a part she wanted and become the actress she would like to be, has sunk into the business of running the farm with all the serious intensity with which she once imbued the shadows in a playwright’s mind. I should have given it up long ago if it had not been for her. Her hands, once small and plain and well-kept—she was not the sort of actress who wears red paint and diamond rings—are hard as a dog’s pads.
I, of course, am there only in the evenings and on weekends. I am a partner in a luxury-travel agency, which is flourishing—needs to be, as I tell Lerice, in order to carry the farm. Still, though I know we can’t afford it, and though the sweetish smell of the fowls Lerice breeds sickens me, so that I avoid going past their runs, the farm is beautiful in a way I had almost forgotten—especially on a Sunday morning when I get up and go out into the paddock and see not the palm trees and fishpond and imitation-stone bird bath of the suburbs but white ducks on the dam, the lucerne field brilliant as window dresser’s grass, and the little, stocky, mean-eyed bull, lustful but bored, having his face tenderly licked by one of his ladies. Lerice comes out with her hair uncombed, in her hand a stick dripping with cattle dip. She will stand and look dreamily for a moment, the way she would pretend to look sometimes in those plays. “They’ll mate tomorrow,” she will say. “This is their second day. Look how she loves him, my little Napoleon.” So that when people come out to see us on Sunday afternoon, I am likely to hear myself saying as I pour out the drinks, “When I drive back home from the city every day, past those rows of suburban houses, I wonder how the devil we ever did stand it.… Would you care to look around?” And there I am, taking some pretty girl and her young husband stumbling down to our riverbank, the girl catching her stockings on the mealie-stooks and stepping over cow-turds humming with jewel-green flies while she says, “…the tensions of the damned city. And you’re near enough to get into town to a show, too! I think it’s wonderful. Why, you’ve got it both ways!”
And for a moment I accept the triumph as if I had managed it—the impossibility that I’ve been trying for all my life—just as if the truth was that you could get it “both ways,” instead of finding yourself with not even one way or the other but a third, one you had not provided for at all.
But even in our saner moments, when I find Lerice’s earthy enthusiasms just as irritating as I once found her histrionical ones, and she finds what she calls my “jealousy” of her capacity for enthusiasm as big a proof of my inadequacy for her as a mate as ever it was, we do believe that we have at least honestly escaped those tensions peculiar to the city about which our visitors speak. When Johannesburg people speak of “tension,” they don’t mean hurrying people in crowded streets, the struggle for money, or the general competitive character of city life. They mean the guns under the white men’s pillows and the burglar bars on the white men’s windows. They mean those strange moments on city pavements when a black man won’t stand aside for a white man.
· · ·
Out in the country, even ten miles out, life is better than that. In the country, there is a lingering remnant of the pretransitional stage; our relationship with the blacks is almost feudal. Wrong, I suppose, obsolete, but more comfortable all round. We have no burglar bars, no gun. Lerice’s farm boys have their wives and their piccanins living with them on the land. They brew their sour beer without the fear of police raids. In fact, we’ve always rather prided ourselves that the poor devils have nothing much to fear, being with us; Lerice even keeps an eye on their children, with all the competence of a woman who has never had a child of her own, and she certainly doctors them all—children and adults—like babies whenever they happen to be sick.
It was because of this that we were not particularly startled one night last winter when the boy Albert came knocking at our window long after we had gone to bed. I wasn’t in our bed but sleeping in the little dressing-room-cum-linen-room next door, because Lerice had annoyed me and I didn’t want to find myself softening toward her simply because of the sweet smell of the talcum powder on her flesh after her bath. She came and woke me up. “Albert says one of the boys is very sick,” she said. “I think you’d better go down and see. He wouldn’t get us up at this hour for nothing.”
“What time is it?”
“What does it matter?” Lerice is maddeningly logical.
I got up awkwardly as she watched me—How is it I
always feel a fool when I have deserted her bed? After all, I know from the way she never looks at me when she talks to me at breakfast the next day that she is hurt and humiliated at my not wanting her—and I went out, clumsy with sleep.
“Which of the boys is it?” I asked Albert as we followed the dance of my torch.
“He’s too sick. Very sick, Baas,” he said.
“But who? Franz?” I remembered Franz had had a bad cough for the past week.
Albert did not answer; he had given me the path, and was walking along beside me in the tall dead grass. When the light of the torch caught his face, I saw that he looked acutely embarrassed. “What’s this all about?” I said.
He lowered his head under the glance of the light. “It’s not me, Baas. I don’t know. Petrus he send me.”
Irritated, I hurried him along to the huts. And there, on Petrus’s iron bedstead, with its brick stilts, was a young man, dead. On his forehead there was still a light, cold sweat; his body was warm. The boys stood around as they do in the kitchen when it is discovered that someone has broken a dish—uncooperative, silent. Somebody’s wife hung about in the shadows, her hands wrung together under her apron.
I had not seen a dead man since the war. This was very different. I felt like the others—extraneous, useless. “What was the matter?” I asked.
The woman patted at her chest and shook her head to indicate the painful impossibility of breathing.
He must have died of pneumonia.
I turned to Petrus. “Who was this boy? What was he doing here?” The light of a candle on the floor showed that Petrus was weeping. He followed me out the door.
When we were outside, in the dark, I waited for him to speak. But he didn’t. “Now, come on, Petrus, you must tell me who this boy was. Was he a friend of yours?”
“He’s my brother, Baas. He come from Rhodesia to look for work.”
· · ·
The story startled Lerice and me a little. The young boy had walked down from Rhodesia to look for work in Johannesburg, had caught a chill from sleeping out along the way, and had lain ill in his brother Petrus’s hut since his arrival three days before. Our boys had been frightened to ask us for help for him because we had never been intended ever to know of his presence. Rhodesian natives are barred from entering the Union unless they have a permit; the young man was an illegal immigrant. No doubt our boys had managed the whole thing successfully several times before; a number of relatives must have walked the seven or eight hundred miles from poverty to the paradise of zoot suits, police raids, and black slum townships that is their Egoli, City of Gold—the Bantu name for Johannesburg. It was merely a matter of getting such a man to lie low on our farm until a job could be found with someone who would be glad to take the risk of prosecution for employing an illegal immigrant in exchange for the services of someone as yet untainted by the city.
Well, this was one who would never get up again.
“You would think they would have felt they could tell us,” said Lerice next morning. “Once the man was ill. You would have thought at least—” When she is getting intense over something, she has a way of standing in the middle of a room as people do when they are shortly to leave on a journey, looking searchingly about her at the most familiar objects as if she had never seen them before. I had noticed that in Petrus’s presence in the kitchen, earlier, she had had the air of being almost offended with him, almost hurt.
In any case, I really haven’t the time or inclination any more to go into everything in our life that I know Lerice, from those alarmed and pressing eyes of hers, would like us to go into. She is the kind of woman who doesn’t mind if she looks plain, or odd; I don’t suppose she would even care if she knew how strange she looks when her whole face is out of proportion with urgent uncertainty. I said, “Now I’m the one who’ll have to do all the dirty work, I suppose.”
She was still staring at me, trying me out with those eyes—wasting her time, if she only knew.
“I’ll have to notify the health authorities,” I said calmly. “They can’t just cart him off and bury him. After all, we don’t really know what he died of.”
She simply stood there, as if she had given up—simply ceased to see me at all.
I don’t know when I’ve been so irritated. “It might have been something contagious,” I said. “God knows?” There was no answer.
I am not enamored of holding conversations with myself. I went out to shout to one of the boys to open the garage and get the car ready for my morning drive to town.
· · ·
As I had expected, it turned out to be quite a business. I had to notify the police as well as the health authorities, and answer a lot of tedious questions: How was it I was ignorant of the boy’s presence? If I did not supervise my native quarters, how did I know that that sort of thing didn’t go on all the time? Et cetera, et cetera. And when I flared up and told them that so long as my natives did their work, I didn’t think it my right or concern to poke my nose into their private lives, I got from the coarse, dull-witted police sergeant one of those looks that come not from any thinking process going on in the brain but from that faculty common to all who are possessed by the master-race theory—a look of insanely inane certainty. He grinned at me with a mixture of scorn and delight at my stupidity.
Then I had to explain to Petrus why the health authorities had to take away the body for a post-mortem—and, in fact, what a post-mortem was. When I telephoned the health department some days later to find out the result, I was told that the cause of death was, as we had thought, pneumonia, and that the body had been suitably disposed of. I went out to where Petrus was mixing a mash for the fowls and told him that it was all right, there would be no trouble; his brother had died from that pain in his chest. Petrus put down the paraffin tin and said, “When can we go to fetch him, Baas?”
“To fetch him?”
“Will the Baas please ask them when we must come?”
I went back inside and called Lerice, all over the house. She came down the stairs from the spare bedrooms, and I said, “Now what am I going to do? When I told Petrus, he just asked calmly when they could go and fetch the body. They think they’re going to bury him themselves.”
“Well, go back and tell him,” said Lerice. “You must tell him. Why didn’t you tell him then?”
When I found Petrus again, he looked up politely. “Look, Petrus,” I said. “You can’t go to fetch your brother. They’ve done it already—they’ve buried him, you understand?”
“Where?” he said slowly, dully, as if he thought that perhaps he was getting this wrong.
“You see, he was a stranger. They knew he wasn’t from here, and they didn’t know he had some of his people here, so they thought they must bury him.” It was difficult to make a pauper’s grave sound like a privilege.
“Please, Baas, the Baas must ask them?” But he did not mean that he wanted to know the burial place. He simply ignored the incomprehensible machinery I told him had set to work on his dead brother; he wanted the brother back.
“But, Petrus,” I said, “how can I? Your brother is buried already. I can’t ask them now.”
“Oh, Baas!” he said. He stood with his bran-smeared hands uncurled at his sides, one corner of his mouth twitching.
“Good God, Petrus, they won’t listen to me! They can’t, anyway. I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. You understand?”
He just kept on looking at me, out of his knowledge that white men have everything, can do anything; if they don’t, it is because they won’t.
And then, at dinner, Lerice started. “You could at least phone,” she said.
“Christ, what d’you think I am? Am I supposed to bring the dead back to life?”
But I could not exaggerate my way out of this ridiculous responsibility that had been thrust on me. “Phone them up,” she went on. “And at least you’ll be able to tell him you’ve done it and they’ve explained that it’s impossible.”
She disappeared somewhere into the kitchen quarters after coffee. A little later she came back to tell me, “The old father’s coming down from Rhodesia to be at the funeral. He’s got a permit and he’s already on his way.”
Unfortunately, it was not impossible to get the body back. The authorities said that it was somewhat irregular, but that since the hygiene conditions had been fulfilled, they could not refuse permission for exhumation. I found out that, with the undertaker’s charges, it would cost twenty pounds. Ah, I thought, that settles it. On five pounds a month, Petrus won’t have twenty pounds—and just as well, since it couldn’t do the dead any good. Certainly I should not offer it to him myself. Twenty pounds—or anything else within reason, for that matter—I would have spent without grudging it on doctors or medicines that might have helped the boy when he was alive. Once he was dead, I had no intention of encouraging Petrus to throw away, on a gesture, more than he spent to clothe his whole family in a year.
When I told him, in the kitchen that night, he said, “Twenty pounds?”
I said, “Yes, that’s right, twenty pounds.”
For a moment, I had the feeling, from the look on his face, that he was calculating. But when he spoke again I thought I must have imagined it. “We must pay twenty pounds!” he said in the faraway voice in which a person speaks of something so unattainable that it does not bear thinking about.
“All right, Petrus,” I said in dismissal, and went back to the living room.
The next morning before I went to town, Petrus asked to see me. “Please, Baas,” he said, awkwardly handing me a bundle of notes. They’re so seldom on the giving rather than the receiving side, poor devils, that they don’t really know how to hand money to a white man. There it was, the twenty pounds, in ones and halves, some creased and folded until they were soft as dirty rags, others smooth and fairly new—Franz’s money, I suppose, and Albert’s, and Dora the cook’s, and Jacob the gardener’s, and God knows who else’s besides, from all the farms and small holdings round about. I took it in irritation more than in astonishment, really—irritation at the waste, the uselessness of this sacrifice by people so poor. Just like the poor everywhere, I thought, who stint themselves the decencies of life in order to insure themselves the decencies of death. So incomprehensible to people like Lerice and me, who regard life as something to be spent extravagantly and, if we think about death at all, regard it as the final bankruptcy.
The 50s Page 79