by Irma Joubert
“Pérsomi! Visitor for you!” a fresher yelled down the passage one evening.
“It must be that Reinier pal of yours,” said Lucia. “You must really introduce me to him. Tonight, if possible.”
Pérsomi hastily ran a comb through her hair. “And Japie?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Japie doesn’t dance. I’m going to be left all alone at res when everyone else goes to the year-end ball!” Lucia groaned.
“I’ll be here too,” said Pérsomi as she left.
It wasn’t Reinier waiting at the front door, however.
“Boelie?” He was standing in the dim light of the porch, casually leaning against a pillar.
“I’ve come to find out how you’re doing,” he said, stepping forward. “Let’s go out for a soda.”
Happiness welled up inside her. “I have to be back at seven thirty.”
“We’ll be quick,” he said and set off. She fell into step beside him. He walked with long, easy strides.
They didn’t talk, just walked quickly and quietly to the café.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said, “fine.”
At the café they sat down at a table set slightly apart from the others. “Two Sparletta Cream Sodas, please,” Boelie ordered.
When the waiter had left, Pérsomi gave a slow smile. “How do you know I don’t prefer Coke or Hubbly Bubbly?” she asked.
“Do you?” he asked, surprised.
“No, I’m just pulling your leg.”
“Oh,” he said. “I just wanted to find out how you are.”
“I’m fine, Boelie,” she said. “I like living in res. I have a weird roommate, but she’s okay, and I’m starting to enjoy my studies. I’ve found my feet now. Actually you already know all of that.”
“Good,” he said.
The waiter brought their sodas. They drank, sipping the green liquid through long, thin straws. Persomi thought something was bothering him.
“So, how does it feel being back?” she asked.
“Okay,” he said.
“You were gone a long time. Has the course changed much?”
“A little, yes,” he answered. “It’s just, well, there are two new lecturers.”
“But you’ll pass, won’t you?” she asked. “It’s all that matters in the end, isn’t it? That you get your degree?”
“Yes, you’re right. That’s something you need to remember too,” he said earnestly.
“No,” she said, “I must pass with distinction, or else I’ll lose my scholarships.”
“But you must enjoy student life as well. How often do you go out? Do you join in the fun?”
“I went to the intervarsity match against Wits,” she said.
“The freshmen have to go,” he said. “What else?”
“I’ve gone to bioscope with Reinier. And we serenade.”
“How often?”
“Did you bring me here to take me to task about my social life?” She smiled.
“It’s important for you to experience every aspect of student life. Have you been to a ball?”
“No,” she said.
“Do you have a dress?” he asked.
“Of course I have a dress,” she said, annoyed.
“I mean a ball gown.”
“Yes, Boelie, I have a ball gown.”
“And have you been invited to a ball?”
She felt her irritation growing. “I was invited, yes, and I didn’t feel like going.”
“Well, when someone invites you to the year-end ball, you’re going, understand? Have you finished your soda? We must go, or you’ll be late.”
He got up, paid at the counter, and walked out. She fell into step beside him, fuming.
“I’m serious, Pérsomi,” he said.
“Why?” Her inner irritation broke loose piece by piece and pushed up into her mouth. “Why should I go to a ball? Why are you sticking your nose into my business? You have nothing to do with me.”
He stopped and turned to her. “You’re angry,” he said, surprised.
“I’ll be the one to decide what I want to do,” she said.
“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” he nodded. “But I know you. If you have a choice, you’ll stay at res and study. Varsity is about so much more than academics.”
She maintained an obstinate silence. When they had almost reached her residence, he said, “If I don’t tell you to be more social, who will?”
She felt her irritation slowly evaporate. “I’ll think about it,” she reluctantly agreed. “Thanks for the soda, Boelie.”
She didn’t want to be a bluestocking, she thought just before she reached her room. She wanted to take part in student life, like a real person. And she had a gown, a beautiful red gown that fit her like a glove.
All she needed was a pair of shoes.
“Gosh, girl, you look lovely,” Lucia said as she pushed the last hairpin into Pérsomi’s hairdo. “You look . . . regal.”
Pérsomi turned to the full-length mirror on Lucia’s closet door. The satin gown hugged her tall, slim figure. Her bronzed shoulders were bare, and a glimpse of her shapely legs was visible through the long slit at the back. Her dark hair was done up in an elegant French roll. The dainty shoes that she had purchased with money from her new bank account felt strange on her feet. The sensation of feeling pretty took her by suprise.
“I still think you should put on a little lipstick and a necklace,” Lucia said.
“No, thanks.” Pérsomi headed for the door. “Enjoy the movie.”
Lucia groaned. “I’m desperate to find a new boyfriend,” she said just before Pérsomi closed the door.
The passage smelled of 4711 Cologne and Wellaflex hairspray. “You look lovely, Pérsomi,” one or two girls said as she walked by.
“Thanks, you too,” said Pérsomi and went down the stairs to the foyer to meet Petrus, a classmate. His bulky figure looked uncomfortable in the dark suit.
“My, Pérsomi, you look stunning,” he said in his deep voice. His thick neck seemed intent on escaping from the unfamiliar bow tie.
They walked to the venue in silence. Just before they reached it he said, “I don’t dance very well.”
“I can’t dance at all. I did warn you,” she said.
They shared a table with his friends from the men’s residence. Pérsomi didn’t know anyone. “Can I get you a drink?” asked Petrus.
“Coke, thanks,” said Pérsomi.
When he had left, the guy opposite her asked, “So, I hear you’re doing law with Petrus?”
“Yes.”
“He says you’re top of the class.”
“Well . . . sometimes,” she said uncomfortably.
“And I believe you’re a first-rate athlete?” the girl next to him said.
What else had Petrus said about her? “I . . . take part, yes.”
“I like sports, too,” the girl said, “but I play netball. Have you ever tried it?”
“No.”
“You should. You’re tall. Where are you from?”
Pérsomi felt her legs begin to itch. “The bushveld,” she said, wishing Petrus would return.
When the music began it was mercifully loud, drowning out all further attempts at conversation. “Let’s dance,” said Petrus and got to his feet.
It was a struggle.
When the first dance was over, Pérsomi saw that Reinier had entered—tall and handsome in his dark trousers and white tuxedo jacket. And on his arm was Irene, striking in a soft green gown. She looked confident all evening, in control. Reinier looked like a sheep who had been awarded first prize at the farmers’ market.
The evening did not improve.
“Let’s go for coffee,” said Boelie when she came out on the veranda. He set off at a brisk pace.
“Are you well?” she asked, falling into step at his side.
“Yes,” he said.
But he seemed distracted. The streetlights lit up the street, the cars
’ headlights threw long beams across the tarmac.
Halfway to the café, he said, “I hear you went to the ball.”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad.” Boelie didn’t look at her.
“I didn’t enjoy it.”
“I’m still proud of you for going,” he said.
Proud of her? Perhaps he understood more than she suspected. “Who told you I went?” she asked.
“Irene,” he said.
Of course, Irene.
They entered the same café and headed for the same table at the window. He pulled out her chair. “Coffee?” he asked when they were seated, “or would you prefer a soda?”
She smiled. “Sparletta Cream Soda, please,” she said.
He also gave a slight smile. “Then we’ll stick to it,” he said.
They talked about the farm and the approaching exams and Boelie’s plans for the following year, about De Wet’s job with Reinier’s father, Mr. De Vos, and about Boelie’s oupa, whose health was rapidly declining. He avoided talking about Klara.
Pérsomi waited.
“Christine le Roux is back,” he eventually said.
“Finally back from the war? Oom Freddie and Old Anne must be very happy.” Was this what Boelie had wanted to tell her?
“Yes, they’ve been very worried.”
Silence. He played with the straw in the glass. Outside, a tram rattled past.
“De Wet went to fetch her,” he said.
“From Egypt?”
“Italy. She was in Italy.”
“Oh.”
More silence. The only sound was the cars driving by.
“They’re kind of together now.”
“De Wet and Christine?” she asked, surprised. “That’s . . . interesting.”
She didn’t know where Boelie was heading with the conversation, but she got the feeling there was more. “Your families must be pleased.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Silence.
“Boelie, what do you really want to tell me?”
He looked up. His expression was very serious.
“Boelie?”
“Christine has a baby boy, Pérsomi.”
“A baby?” she said. “She married?”
How did De Wet fit into this?
“No.” He looked past her at the street where the sound of cars came from.
Suddenly she understood the consequences, the disgrace awaiting Christine’s homecoming. “Old Anne can’t be very impressed.”
Boelie shook his head. “There’s something else,” said Boelie.
She waited, her heart pounding.
“Pérsomi, the baby’s father is Gerbrand.”
His name shocked through her, picked at the scar. Disbelief shot through her like an angry flame. She got to her feet. “I don’t believe it,” she said.
“Sit down,” he said.
She stalked out of the café. Outside, cars were still driving down the street. A tram rattled past noisily.
She began to walk as fast as she could. In a few moments Boelie fell in beside her. “They’ve named him for your brother,” he said. “I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”
“It’s not true!” she said. She kept walking. “Gerbrand would have told me if he had planned to marry Christine. He said she was a nuisance.”
“Pérsomi, listen to me. I believe it’s true. Leave it until you get home and see the child. And don’t say anything about what Gerbrand wrote.”
She entered her res without saying good-bye. To Lucia she said, “I can’t believe how people spread lies about someone who isn’t even here to tell his side of the story.”
But late that night, when the rest of the world was asleep, she took the pile of letters from the bottom of her closet, untied the string, and began to read.
All through the December vacation she avoided the Big House. She avoided Oom Freddie’s farm. She didn’t even pay Auntie Sis a visit. And one Saturday when she saw De Wet heading for the bywoner cottage on the ridge, holding the hand of a redheaded little boy, she set off for the mountain. Boelie found her there late in the afternoon.
“You can go home now, they’ve left,” he said and sat down beside her on the rocky ledge.
“Hello, Boelie.”
“Yes, hello. Gosh, it’s hot, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “I wish it would rain,” she said.
The sun began to vanish behind her mountain. “What are your plans for next year, Boelie?”
“I got a job with the Department of Agriculture in Pretoria, as an engineer,” he said.
She smiled. “I’m glad you’re still going to be close,” she said.
He got up. “You must go back now, it’s getting dark.”
“I will,” she said but she didn’t get up.
When he had gone a few paces, he turned. “You won’t be able to avoid the child for the rest of your life, Pérsomi,” he said. “He’s just a little boy and you’re his only real aunt.”
She didn’t go back home before the moon was high in the night sky.
On Christmas Eve Hannapat and Piet arrived from Johannesburg. Lewies Pieterse was with them.
He brought two bottles of brandy, and clearly had more than a few glasses inside him.
“Out on parole last month,” he lisped. A whole year before the end of his sentence. “Good behavior. Monday I have to get back, to book in with the cops.”
“Pa found a job with the municipality,” Piet said, rather unsteady on his feet himself.
“Good behavior,” Lewies repeated. “Pérsomi, don’t you greet your pa?”
She left the house and returned only once she was certain Lewies Pieterse and Piet were asleep. “How are you?” she asked Hannapat softly.
“Fine,” Hannapat answered. “I’ve got a boyfriend. As soon as he gets a job, I’m going to quit my job and get married.”
“Hannapat, you’re so young!”
“Oh, shut up!” Hannapat said, annoyed. “So what? Ma was thirteen when Gerbrand was born.” She turned her back on Pérsomi and pulled the gray blanket over her head.
On Christmas morning Pérsomi’s ma was up earlier than usual. “Auntie Sis and Oom Attie are coming over,” she said, “and Fya and her children.”
“And her husband?” Pérsomi asked.
“No, he left her, the rubbish,” her ma muttered.
It’s going to be a very long day, Pérsomi thought.
When Lewies woke up, the three-legged pot was already perched over a fire in the blazing sun. “Freddie le Roux sent this cake, and the chicken,” her ma said nervously, “and Mrs. Fourie sent the potatoes.”
Shortly afterward Auntie Sis and Oom Attie arrived, with a down-at-heel Fya and four snot-nosed kids in their wake. Auntie Sis brought a loaf of bread she had baked, Oom Attie carried a pot with more food. And a bottle, firmly tucked under his arm. “Today we’ll eat enough for the whole year,” he said contentedly.
“Come, brother-in-law,” said Lewies hospitably, “Christmas comes but once a year.” He threw the cap of the brandy bottle over his shoulder.
The sun blazed down on the tin roof. Not a blade of grass stirred. The cicadas shrilled endlessly.
Pérsomi felt herself grow cold.
In the late afternoon Pérsomi saw De Wet and Christine approach through the citrus trees on the other side of the Pontenilo. The child was with them.
Auntie Sis and the rest had left, but Lewies Pieterse lay passed out in the kitchen doorway. Piet sat propped against the wall, clutching his head. Hannapat lay sideways on the car seat, fast asleep, and their ma slept slack-mouthed on the rumpled bed in the bedroom.
A wave of humiliation washed over Pérsomi. De Wet and Christine mustn’t come near the house now.
She walked down to the river. She was of two minds: she really didn’t want to see the child, but she was even less willing for these real people to see what was going on in her home. She waded through the shallow water to the rocky ledge on the
opposite bank and waited for them.
The child’s hair was copper-colored in the sunlight. He pulled away and began to run ahead. “Wa-tel! Wa-tel!” he cried.
Pérsomi stood frozen, watching.
De Wet let go of Christine’s hand and hurried after the little boy. “Don’t go into the water on your own, Gerbrand,” he said.
The child came running along, barefoot, on sturdy little legs. He looked so . . . wholesome. Like Mr. Nienaber’s children.
As the child reached her, De Wet picked him up. “This is your Aunt Pérsomi,” he told the boy. “Say hello to Pérsomi.”
“Wa-tel, wa-tel,” said the child, struggling to get down.
“He’s interested in nothing but the water now,” De Wet apologized.
“He’ll say hello after a while,” said Christine. “Happy Christmas, Pérsomi.”
“Yes, sorry, happy Christmas,” De Wet smiled. “Easy does it, Gerbrand!”
“Thanks, the same to you,” said Pérsomi. She tried to avoid looking at the child. “Everyone’s asleep, I’m the only one awake.”
“Gerbrand wanted to bring his ouma a gift,” said Christine, “but if she’s sleeping, maybe you’d better take it.”
“Thanks.” Pérsomi took the parcel. “I don’t know whether Ma has anything for him,” she said, embarrassed.
“I hope not,” De Wet said easily. “He got so many presents, he’ll need a year to play with them all.”
“Permi!” the little boy called.
“Listen, he’s trying to say Pérsomi!”
“Are you calling Pérsomi, big boy?” asked De Wet.
“Permi! Permi!” the child called out again.
She no longer had a choice. She turned to where the child was sitting flat on his behind in the water that ran over the stones. “Permi! Come play,” he called.
“I can’t believe he’s saying your name,” Christine said proudly.
Pérsomi looked down at the little boy, his eyes shining, his teeth sparkling white in the sunlight. “He’s beautiful,” she said.
“I . . . think so too,” Christine said.
The child grabbed the dark mud in his fists and plastered it onto his face. “Mind you don’t get mud in your eyes,” Pérsomi warned. “Wait, wait, don’t throw it like that.”
Before she realized it, she had joined him in the muddy pool, bewitched by his charm. The child wasn’t an incarnation of her brother. He was a little person in his own right.