Child of the River

by Irma Joubert

  “Gosh, he’s quite a handful,” she said after a while.

  “Yes, he is,” said Christine.

  “Tell us how you’re doing at varsity,” De Wet said. “Are you still top of your class?”

  She sat down on the rocky ledge. The sun threw long shadows around them. Her eyes were fixed on the child in the water. “It’s been an . . . adjustment,” she said.

  “Yes, I know, but it’s good, isn’t it?” De Wet asked.

  “Oh, yes, very good.”

  He cleared his throat. “Did you hear? Antonio plans to stay in South Africa.”

  She looked down at the child playing in the water and tried to ignore her bitterness toward the Italian. “Whatever for?”

  “He’s a nice fellow, Pérsomi.”

  “I haven’t seen Klara so happy in years,” said Christine.

  Klara! Pérsomi didn’t want to hear it.

  “Come, Permi, come!” little Gerbrand called, throwing a ball into the muddy pool.

  “We must put the past behind us and look forward,” De Wet said calmly.

  Pérsomi looked at Gerbrand. She saw his chubby little body, his strong legs, his coppery red hair. She saw him charging fearlessly into the water after the ball.

  This was her brother’s child. There was no doubt about it. “It hurts,” she said.

  “I know,” said De Wet in his rich voice. “But you know, Pérsomi, neither little Gerbrand nor Antonio had any direct part in your pain. I believe Antonio will make Klara very happy. And little Gerbrand is already the greatest source of pleasure to us all.”

  Pérsomi looked at Christine, whose blue eyes were brimming with tears.

  The boy slipped and his head disappeared under the muddy water. Pérsomi dashed forward and lifted him out. “Gosh, look at you swim!” she said.

  Gerbrand wiped his face with his hand and squirmed out of her grasp, back into the water. “Swim, swim,” he said.

  NINE

  JANUARY 1948

  IN THE VERY FIRST WEEK OF HER FOURTH YEAR AT TUKKIES Pérsomi had to choose her research assignment.

  “We’re to pick a law that is less than two years old,” Pérsomi explained to Reinier as they walked between classes, “then analyze its potential long-term consequences. Many of them are really interesting.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “That’s what’s called an oxymoron.”

  “What?”

  “The words law and interesting side by side in the same sentence. The language of law is so pretentious that I’m completely turned off.”

  “It’s just legal jargon,” she said. “Anyway, they’re still much more interesting than the bunch of old buildings you dragged me to last year.”

  “But you said you found them interesting!”

  “Well, not the last two hundred.”

  “We didn’t look at more than fifteen historic buildings in and around Pretoria!” he protested. “And it was my big research assignment of the year.”

  “That’s why I’m asking you now,” she replied. “I helped you survey and take photos. Now it’s your turn to help me choose an interesting law.”

  “Do you have one in mind?”

  “Kind of. In 1946 Parliament passed the Asiatic Land Tenure and Indian Representation Act. I think it wants to restrict the locations where Indians can live and trade. There’s also something about their right to vote.”

  “Indians can’t vote,” Renier said.

  “I know, but what else could Indian Representation mean? I have to study it, then I’d like to speak to Yusuf’s family and find out how it will affect them.”

  “Sounds like you don’t need my help to decide,” he said.

  “Why this act, Pérsomi?” the professor asked. “The Asians don’t play an important role in our society.”

  “In my town we know them all by name. Mr. Ismail and Mr. Ravat and the Moosas, all of them,” she said. “They are storekeepers. One of them, Mr. Ravat, owns the only hardware store in town. That’s besides the co-op, of course. But they don’t carry as much stock as he does. And he’s cheaper than the co-op and the General Dealer.”

  The professor frowned. “Well, as background, you’ll have to examine the government’s official Asian policy before you analyze the content of the act. You know they’re not considered part of the South African population, don’t you? They’re to be repatriated to their fatherland as soon as possible. I really think you should choose another act. Stay away from politics, look at education instead, or housing, health, social legislature—there’s such a wide choice.”

  “I’ll stick to this one, thank you, professor,” said Pérsomi.

  Early one Thursday evening at the end of February, before the dinner gong, there was a soft tap on her door. “Miss Pérsomi,” a timid fresher said, “there’s someone at the front door for you.”

  “Someone?”

  “Yes, miss. A man, miss.”

  “Thanks,” said Pérsomi and pulled a brush through her hair.

  Outside a soft drizzle was falling. The dense green trees looked gray behind the misty rain curtain.

  There was no one on the veranda. Pérsomi went out and looked down the street.

  She saw his car first, shiny with moisture. Then she saw him. He was waiting just outside the gate. There were fine raindrops in his dark hair and his wet shirt clung to his body.

  Her heart gave a leap. Boelie.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, got her heart under control. Then she walked to him.

  He turned toward her. His face was closed, dark.

  She knew at once. She put her hand on his arm. “Your oupa?” she asked.

  He nodded. “This afternoon, suddenly. My dad phoned.” “I’m really sorry,” she said.

  He nodded. They stood in the soft drizzle, but he seemed unaware of the damp.

  “Er . . . would you like to go for coffee?” she asked.

  He nodded again and began to walk to his car.

  They drove in silence. Persomi didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know if she should comfort him or just talk as if everything was normal.

  They didn’t go to the usual place. They drove past the shops and the blocks of flats and houses, through an unfamiliar part of the city. They didn’t speak. But when they drove down a street with Indian stores, Boelie said, “They’ll have to clean up this slum.”

  Pérsomi frowned. “What are you talking about? Who are they?”

  “The municipality, the government,” said Boelie. “Just look at it. The natives are taking over the city center.”

  “The natives are here anyway,” she said calmly. “They work here, that’s why they live here. And the whites need their labor. Without it our economy won’t survive.”

  “Don’t make a political argument out of every remark,” he said.

  Under different circumstances she would have accused him of starting it. Instead she simply asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Out of the city, where it’s quiet,” he said.

  She nodded. The streetlights began to come on. The streets were black and wet. The windows of the apartment buildings were shut.

  “He had improved, he was doing fine,” he said suddenly. “When my ouma came into his room, he was just gone.”

  Oom Fourie was dead. It was so final, she realized. “It’s a good way to go, Boelie, just like that, quietly.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  They drove past the last houses. Boelie switched on the headlights. The drizzle had stopped and the headlights threw shiny silver beams across the wet road.

  On a hill outside the city Boelie pulled off the road. The sun had gone down, and the clouds began to disperse. A few stars were visible. “Let’s walk up here,” said Boelie and headed off.

  She followed. They were accustomed to walking in the dark, had been since childhood. Their feet knew how to step carefully.

  It was quiet. But it wasn’t their mountain. Their mountain had a bigger silence, a deeper peace.

  �
�Look, there are a few stars,” said Boelie.

  She gazed up. “It’s beautiful, but not as beautiful as our stars on the farm,” she said. “Ours are much brighter. Still, the city lights are also beautiful from up here.”

  “The city has too many lights. They steal the glow of the stars.”

  “You should have been a poet.” She smiled.

  “I don’t know about that,” he said.

  They sat down on the wet rocks and looked out over the sparkling city.

  She was intensely aware of him beside her and missed the easy silence that used to enfold her when they sat close. She wished everything could be the way it used to be, before that winter morning in her first year, when he had taken her to the monument.

  “The funeral will probably be on Monday or Tuesday,” he said. “Would you like to come?”

  She shook her head. “I have a test on Monday. I’ll have to stay.”

  He gave a deep sigh. “You know, Pers, he and I were always at loggerheads, especially about politics.”

  She nodded.

  “And yet I feel so . . . I don’t know.” He kept silent.

  “Sad,” she said.

  “Yes, sad.”

  She nodded again. “I don’t believe disagreements break the ties of love. The members of your family have always had different opinions on politics, still there’s a strong tie between you.”

  “Yes,” he said, “you’re right, you understand. When I think of them now, I feel the things we disagreed on were so . . . temporary, so trivial.”

  “How you feel in your heart, your convictions, are never trivial,” she said.

  “I just wish I could . . .” He shook his head.

  She reached for him, then withdrew her hand.

  Suddenly he got up. “Let me take you back, or you’ll miss supper,” he said. “Come.”

  “Irene is angry with her oupa,” Reinier told her as they waited for the film to start at the biosphere.

  “Because he died so suddenly?” Pérsomi asked.

  “Must you always be so nasty about Irene?” he asked, annoyed. “It doesn’t suit you at all.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Why is she angry?”

  “Haven’t you heard about the will?”

  “No.”

  “Would you believe Boelie inherited the farm and everything on it? In other words, the farm where Irene’s father worked so hard all his life now belongs to his son.”

  After a moment she realized the implications of his words. “I don’t suppose Mr. Fourie is very happy.”

  “He’s furious, Irene says. He’ll get a little cash, but that’s all. Her ouma inherits some cash and various items. De Wet gets the old Daimler and a house they keep in town. He left Irene and Klara nothing. All the rest goes to Boelie. Gosh, Irene is upset with my dad too.”

  “Why is she upset with your dad?” asked Pérsomi.

  “She thinks he should have persuaded her oupa to draw up a different will, or at least have warned her father in advance.”

  “A lawyer can advise his client, but in the end he must do what the client wants,” Pérsomi said. “And your dad couldn’t have discussed the will with Mr. Fourie in advance, it would have been unethical.”

  “I know, but try explaining it to Irene. She can be rather . . . unreasonable,” he said.

  “You said it, not me.”

  He sighed. “Yes, Pérsomi,” he said. “Just promise me one thing. The day you fall in love, choose someone uncomplicated, who doesn’t find a crisis behind every bush.”

  She gave a slight laugh. “Someone like you?”

  He gave a crooked smile. “Why not?” he asked.

  “Maybe I should fall in love with you,” she said when she and Reinier sat eating sandwiches between classes a few days later.

  Reinier burst out laughing. “Pérsomi, you’re one of a kind! You’ve clearly never been in love. You don’t have a clue what you’re saying. Listen, Annabel gave me two tickets for a show by some theatrical company. It’s in the old city hall on Saturday night, I think. Afterward they’re taking the show on tour through the bushveld or the Lowveld, or somewhere. Want to come along?”

  “You’re not being very specific,” she said. “Perhaps you mean André Huguenet? What’s the name of the play?”

  “I don’t know, Shattered by His Idol or some such thing.”

  “Gosh,” she laughed, “it sounds dramatic enough. Yes, okay, let’s go take a look at those shattered idol worshippers.”

  On Saturday she stood in front of her closet for a long time. She didn’t have much to wear. Her clothing supply from Reinier’s sister had dried up in her second year, and she wasn’t sure what to wear to an event at the city hall anyway. She had never seen a play, only the school’s operetta. She took her three evening gowns out of her closet. Her favorite was the deep-red satin dress, but she had worn it on many occasions, including Klara’s wedding to Antonio and the ball she’d gone to with Reinier earlier in the year.

  She spread out the second dress. It was a glossy deep-blue taffeta gown with a sweetheart neckline. She felt pretty in it. She had worn it only twice, and never with Reinier. But she decided it was too extravagant.

  All that remained was the sophisticated black velvet dress with the plunging neckline and the long slit at the back. She had never had the courage to wear it, but she remembered Klara’s words: “You’d look ravishing in it.”

  Dress, it’s you and me tonight, she finally decided. Behave yourself and stay up, d’you hear?

  She put on her new strappy shoes and studied her image in the mirror.

  When she went down to the front door half an hour later, she knew she looked good. Reinier stood waiting for her, in a dark suit and bowtie.

  “Wow!” he said as they headed for his car. “Which fairy tale did you step out of?”

  “You choose: The Ugly Duckling, Cinderella—”

  “Not Cinderella, or old Bucket might leave us in the lurch tonight like that pumpkin carriage,” he protested. “What about Pérsomi, Princess of Tukkieland?”

  “There’s no such fairy tale,” she laughed.

  “Seriously, you look beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” she said. It was always good to be with Reinier—relaxed, easy. Fun.

  At the city hall there was a sea of cars. She felt a thrill of excitement. Tonight she was going to see a play with real people in it, well-known actors.

  Twenty-one years ago her father went to see a show, and left with her name.

  In that moment she realized she didn’t want to know her father’s identity. It would be better if she never knew. There were too many things she wanted to say about how he had treated her mother.

  The foyer of the old city hall was packed. Some of the women were in fur coats or fur cloaks, some had ornate opera glasses with which they could watch every movement on stage. The men wore dark suits and spoke in droning voices.

  She saw a beautiful woman standing on the first step leading to the balcony, her hand in a long black glove resting elegantly on the ornate railing. Pérsomi recognized the style of her dress from the fashion plates in the latest Brandwag. It was Dior’s New Look: the full, wide floral silk skirt reaching almost to her ankles, the snug top with the shoestring straps over her bronzed shoulders, the short black velvet jacket draped nonchalantly over one shoulder.

  It was Annabel.

  Boelie stood beneath her on the steps, broad-shouldered in his dark suit. He was looking at Annabel and the two of them were laughing.

  Pérsomi felt a sharp pang pierce her like a lightning bolt.

  “Why, there’s Annabel,” Reinier said cheerfully. “Let’s say hello, we’re probably sitting together.”

  Pérsomi felt her skin crawl with the urge to run. She drew a deep breath and stayed with Reinier. She saw Boelie’s eyes darken when he noticed her. Was her neckline too low? Was the gown too snug?

  Her gaze shifted and she saw Annabel’s disapproving look, as if she wanted to
say, Reinier, don’t tell me you’ve dragged her along! And that dress—please, it’s a war model, six or seven years behind the fashion!

  “Evening, you two,” Reinier said. “Nice and warm in here after the cold outside, isn’t it?”

  Pérsomi lifted her chin. “Good evening,” she said.

  “Yes, evening,” said Boelie, sounding formal.

  “Hello,” said Annabel. She didn’t look at Pérsomi. “Shall we go in?”

  On her way home for the April vacation, Pérsomi paid a visit to Yusuf.

  “Miss Pérsomi Pieterse!” Mr. Ismail said, surprised when she appeared on the stoop of his shop. “Have you come to buy everything in my store?”

  She laughed. “Just wait till I’ve finished my studies, Mr. Ismail, and I’m earning bags full of money. Actually I came to talk to Yusuf. Is he here for the vacation?”

  “He’s inside, please go in,” said Mr. Ismail, opening the door wide.

  The shop was still dark inside, still smelled of tobacco and maize flour and curry powder and new leather. And strange incense. The huge bags of maize flour and sugar still stood on the wooden floor, the piles of blankets still reached to the ceiling.

  “In all of Pretoria there’s no store that comes close to yours,” said Pérsomi as she entered.

  Yusuf was equally surprised to see her. They talked for a while, sharing stories about student life and their studies. Then she said, “I’m actually here to do some research.”

  “Research?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Yes. You see, we have to analyze a recent law for its possible long-term consequences. I’ve decided on the Asiatic Land Tenure and Indian Representation Act,” she said. “Do you know anything about it?”

  His expression changed. “Every Indian in the country knows about it.”

  “Good, because it’s what I want to speak to you about,” she said.

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” he said, almost aggressively.

  “I just want to know how you feel about it.”

  “Well, how do you think we feel?”