by Irma Joubert
“Come in, I’ve just made coffee,” she said on the spur of the moment. “The neighbor brought rusks.”
He gave a slight smile. “Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse,” he said. “I just want to fetch a box of oranges from the pickup.”
Pérsomi’s heart was beating uncontrollably as she poured two cups of coffee. She took four rusks out of the tin and put them on a plate.
Boelie put the oranges on the table. “Sit, drink your coffee,” Pérsomi invited him.
“Thanks.” He sat down facing her, put three spoons of sugar in his cup, and stirred and stirred.
“How are things on the farm?” she asked.
“Fine. We’ve had good rains this year.”
“And your dam?”
He looked up, smiling. “Almost full.”
“It must be a beautiful sight.”
They dipped their rusks in their coffee.
“Lovely rusks,” said Boelie.
“Not quite as good as your ouma’s,” said Pérsomi.
“Hmm. Ouma doesn’t bake anymore.” He sipped his coffee. “She seems to have lost her spirit, with Oupa gone.”
“Pity,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. He looked her in the eye. “How are you, Pérsomi?”
“Fine,” she said, “just fine.”
He stared into his cup, nodding slowly.
“You know, Boelie, we never talk anymore,” she said.
When he looked up, his eyes seemed wary. “I thought . . .” he began, but fell silent.
“What did you think?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He stirred his coffee again. “I miss talking to you too,” he said.
“Maybe it’s because there’s no mountain here,” she said, keeping the conversation light.
He gave a slight smile. He was still not looking at her. “We kept talking during all those years in Pretoria, without a mountain.”
“True,” she said. “You’ll have to show up for coffee now and again.”
He looked up. His eyes were inscrutable, pinning her down. “I will, thanks.”
But the conversation remained stilted, unfinished, and he left soon after.
“What can we do here except see a movie?” Reinier asked cheerfully when he came home for the July vacation.
She shrugged. “Wait for a party on one of the farms, go dancing in the hotel, make out under that tree on the riverbank. Reinier, there’s really nothing to do here except see a movie.”
“Dancing at the hotel sounds like a plan,” he said.
“Decent girls don’t go dancing at the hotel,” she said, “so I don’t know where you’re going to find a partner.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Pérsomi, can you forget about your reputation for just one night and go dancing with me at the hotel?”
“No.”
“Okay, maybe that sounded a little racy. One evening then, just until pumpkin hour?”
“No.”
“Fine.” He pretended to be deep in thought. “Would you like to make out under the tree on the riverbank?”
“Okay.”
He laughed. “Really?” He sounded incredulous.
She laughed as well. “No, Reinier, I definitely don’t want to make out with you. Why don’t you find another candidate?”
“Because I want to spend time with you. Maybe I could come for coffee at your house, and we could talk until the early hours?”
She shook her head slowly. “That won’t work. My ma nearly had a fit the other day when Boelie brought an old school friend for coffee. A guy named Braam.”
He nodded. “And my home has its own problems, so we can’t go there either.”
She’d heard the rumors about his mother’s heavy drinking. Though Reinier had never spoken of it, Ms. Steyn often did, when Mr. De Vos was out of earshot.
“Of course, I couldn’t visit you at home,” she said. “What if Mr. De Vos fetched a glass of milk in his nightshirt and nightcap while I was sitting in his kitchen?”
Reinier burst out laughing. “He doesn’t wear a nightgown and nightcap!”
“I said nightshirt!” Pérsomi protested. “Anyway, I prefer not to know what he sleeps in. I don’t want to know anything about him outside the office.”
“I suppose not,” said Reinier. “Shall we brave the hard town-hall chairs and the fidgety kids and the randy schoolboys and the problems with the prewar projector on Saturday night and go see a movie?”
“Sounds irresistible. I’ll meet you at the town hall at seven.”
“Reinier is thinking about opening an architect’s practice in town next year,” Pérsomi told her ma the following week.
Her ma gave her a puzzled look.
“Reinier, Mr. De Vos’s son? He was at school with me? He studied to be an architect. He’s going to draw plans for people who want to build houses, or offices and shops and things.”
Her ma raised her forefinger. “You must stay away from boyfriends, Pérsomi.”
“Oh, Ma, please! Reinier is just a friend, he’s never been a boyfriend.”
“Stay away from boyfriends,” her ma repeated.
“Yes, Ma,” said Pérsomi.
She wondered what her ma would say if she knew Braam had phoned to say he’d be passing through over the weekend and wanted to drop in. Because she had seen the look in Braam’s eyes the night Boelie introduced them.
“Louis Kamfer came to see me,” Mr. De Vos said one Monday morning in September. His gaze was fixed on De Wet as if only the two of them were present, though Pérsomi sat in the office as well.
De Wet gave a slight frown. “Is he the man who farms with chickens on a plot outside town?” he asked. “The one who’s married to the Indian woman?”
“That’s the one. He wants us to make sure his marriage is still legal.”
“Interesting,” De Wet said. “He’s worried about the new Prohibition of Mixed Marriages Act.”
“The act doesn’t impact preexisting mixed marriages,” said Mr. De Vos. “I think he just wants to make sure of possible future implications.”
Pérsomi said, “I read in the papers that the government might force different racial groups to live in separate areas.”
“Yes, we should take a look at that,” said De Wet. “I would imagine he’s also worried about the Immorality Act that is being amended.”
Mr. De Vos nodded.
“Amended how?” Pérsomi asked.
“In its new form it will outlaw extramarital intercourse between any European and non-European,” De Wet said.
“But they’re married already,” Pérsomi said. De Wet shrugged.
Mr. De Vos continued to address De Wet. “We can look into the matter, but it would take time and it won’t bring in much money.”
“I’m already swamped,” De Wet said, shaking his head. “I won’t have time for the research.”
Mr. De Vos glanced at Pérsomi, then turned his gaze back to De Wet. “I wonder if Pérsomi could do it?” he said.
“How about it, Pérsomi?” asked De Wet. “Is it something you’d like to do?”
“I would,” she said immediately.
“Okay,” said Mr. De Vos, “it’s settled then.”
In December 1949 Pérsomi unlocked the office door and sat down at the reception desk. The rest of the staff was gone to Monument Hill to celebrate the opening of the Voortrekker Monument.
The sun blazed down on the tarred street outside, the ceiling fan chopped hopelessly at the thick air, and the cicadas had taken up their shrill cry.
Just after nine there was a knock on the front door.
A boy stepped in apologetically, his rough bare feet turned slightly inward, his cloth hat clasped to his chest, his eyes timid.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
He raised his head slightly. “I’m looking for the lawyer,” he said. She got up from behind the desk. “I’m the lawyer,” she said. “Come inside.”
He stayed put. He was used to the back
door. She understood the hesitancy.
“Why do you want to see a lawyer?”
His eyes were a grayish green, his worn clothing clean. He couldn’t be much older than fourteen. “My ma told me to come and speak.”
“Okay,” she said, “let’s go to my office.”
She led the way. He followed at a distance. “Sit,” she said, pointing at a chair. “Start by telling me your name.”
“Kosie Barnard.”
“Age?”
“Pardon?”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“You can call me miss.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind. Tell me why you want to see a lawyer.”
“Mr. Gouws’s dog caught our chicken.”
“Is Mr. Gouws the farmer on whose farm you live?” she asked.
“It was the chicken my ma was going to slaughter at Christmas.”
“I see,” she nodded. She saw much more than words could ever say. She got the full picture. “And then?”
He lowered his head. She waited. He didn’t speak. “You’ll have to tell me, Kosie, or I can’t help you. What happened then?”
“I took another chicken.”
“One of Mr. Gouws’s chickens?”
Kosie nodded. “He has a lot of chickens,” he said, almost defiantly.
She understood every word. She knew every argument, every emotion.
“What did Mr. Gouws do then?”
“He went and told the court.”
She knew in advance how Mr. Gouws would argue. “What you did, Kosie,” she said, “is theft. You stole Mr. Gouws’s chicken, and for that you can go to jail.”
His eyes took on a dumb, almost vacant expression. “His dog ate our chicken, the chicken my ma was going to slaughter for Christmas.”
“Even so, it’s no reason to steal his chicken. I think you know that.”
His eyes remained dumb. He didn’t follow her argument.
“What do you want me to do, Kosie?”
“You must come with me to court. My ma says the government pays Your Honor to come to court with me.”
“No, the government won’t pay, it’s a service we render. Did you see Mr. Gouws’s dog catch the chicken?”
“I saw the feathers, everywhere. It was our chicken he—”
“Yes, I know. When must you be in court?”
“Now.”
“Now? Today?”
He nodded. “This morning.”
She saw the fear in the young man’s expression. The vacant look in his eyes had turned into a kind of despair.
“Please, Your Honor.”
She got up, took her robe from the hook, and locked the office door behind her.
In the street stood a brown donkey with a stumpy tail and four white legs. Kosie untied the donkey, stroked lovingly between his ears, and said, “Come, Alvier.”
They walked to the magistrate’s office. “Is this your donkey?” Pérsomi asked.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“What happened to his tail?”
“He rolled in the fire and it fell off, Your Honor,” said Kosie.
When they reached the magistrate’s office, he pointed timidly at Mr. Gouws, who was smoking under a tree.
“Wait here,” said Pérsomi.
Kosie tied his donkey to the hitching post in front of the building and sat down with his back against the wall, waiting.
She walked over to the tree. Mr. Gouws looked at her with a frown.
“Mr. Gouws?” she asked when she reached him.
His frown deepened. She saw him take in the robe over her arm, the briefcase in her hand.
“Yes?” He sounded defensive, or maybe just uncertain.
“Good morning, I’m Pérsomi Pieterse. Can we talk?”
“About the . . . court case?”
“Well, I’m hoping we can avoid going to court,” she said. “Do you know what time you have to go in?”
“They’ll call us around eleven,” he replied.
She pointed at a bench under the tree. “Shall we sit?”
“What do you want, Miss Pieterse?”
She sensed he was on the attack because he was unsure of himself. “Kosie says you’ve charged him with theft?”
“He stole my wife’s rooster.”
“He says your dog killed their chicken?”
“It was a genet, if you ask me,” said the farmer. “If I’ve told those people once to lock up their chickens at night, I’ve told them a hundred times!”
“I see,” she said cautiously.
“No, miss, I don’t think you do,” he said. “The government think they solved the poor-white problem with the war, turning hundreds of them into cannon fodder for the British Empire.” It still hurt her to hear it said. “But those who remained behind are even worse off. They’re actually good for nothing. And we farmers are stuck with them, because we believe it’s our Christian or patriotic duty to take care of our fellow Afrikaners. Then something like this happens, and your wife has a fit about her best rooster, and you feel like chasing the whole lot off the farm.”
She had wondered for years why Mr. Fourie had never chased off her family. But here she was, still living in one of the family homes.
“You’re convinced Kosie stole the rooster?” she asked.
“He admitted it, in the presence of witnesses.”
“And you’re convinced it wasn’t your dog that caught their chicken?”
“Two of my dogs sleep inside, the third one is tied up at night,” he replied.
“Mr. Gouws, even if you’re convinced he’s in the wrong, I’d still like to know—why are you taking him to court?”
“The boy must be taught a lesson,” said the farmer. “Thrashing him won’t do any good. His father has been beating him to within an inch of his life since he was a boy. The youngster is a good worker, but this way of his . . . It’s not the first time.”
“Do you want him to go to jail?” she asked directly.
“No.” The farmer frowned even more deeply. “Surely he won’t go to jail for stealing a chicken?”
“He might get a fine that he won’t be able to pay,” she explained. “But the most probable sentence for theft is jail time.”
The farmer shook his head. “Can’t the police just give him a beating?”
“You said yourself a beating won’t do any good,” she said.
“Heavens, miss, you just don’t know. These people have me at my wits’ end.”
“If we can think of something, a punishment that will satisfy you, something that would really affect him so that he realizes the consequences of his actions, would you be willing to withdraw the case?”
“Like what?”
“Like . . .” She had no idea. She needed the wisdom of Solomon.
Kosie was still sitting on the ground, his legs stretched in front of him, his back against the wall. A few meters away the donkey stood quietly, leaning against the railing, its head lowered.
“Like . . . having his donkey impounded for a while, say two weeks?” Pérsomi suggested. “We can explain to him that it’s his punishment, that the donkey will be impounded for longer the next time he does something wrong and will finally be taken away completely if he doesn’t listen.”
The farmer considered this. “It might work. What can we do to stop the case from going ahead?”
“Leave it to me,” she said and got to her feet.
That night she told her ma, “I handled my first case today, all on my own.”
“Oh,” said her ma.
The year 1950 passed swiftly. Reinier opened the town’s first architecture office across the street from De Vos and De Vos. A week later Mr. Ismail paid Mr. De Vos a visit, and the men spent a long time behind closed doors. The following week, Mr. Ismail hired Reinier to build him an extension onto their house for his wife and him
self. Pérsomi wondered how much Mr. De Vos had to do with it.
Christmas came without fail.
Jemima’s eyes were shining. “We’re going to spend Christmas week with Auntie Sis and Oom Attie,” she said when Pérsomi came home from work. “De Wet and Boelie are going to pitch their Nagmaal tents so there’s room for us,” her ma said.
Pérsomi agreed to stay for only one day.
The Pontenilo still followed its age-old course. The orange trees stood half-wilted in the late afternoon sun. The ridge was baked dry. Behind it all loomed her mountain, untouched, anchored in the dry shrubs, its gorges deep and dark, its cliffs reaching for the sky.
She avoided the old house, where Lewies now lived, and the new house, where Old Anne and Oom Freddie lived. She had no wish to see Oom Freddie. Auntie Sis and Oom Attie’s children and grandchildren were already at the bywoner cottage. Sometime in the small hours a car roared into the yard, carrying Piet. He and Lewies and Oom Attie and the other men, including Hannapat’s smarmy new boyfriend, drank until dawn. Just before noon on Christmas day the festivities resumed, albeit a bit halfheartedly, as if the heads were woozy.
But after the Christmas meal and an afternoon nap, Piet brought more to drink out of the trunk of his car.
Quietly Pérsomi rolled up her blanket and walked away. She reached her cave just before dark.
A deep peace enveloped her. She spread her blanket on a sandy patch on the uneven rock floor. Then she sat down just outside the mouth of the cave and watched as darkness descended on the veld, listened to the muted night sounds, saw the stars increase in number. The peaceful feeling deepened, filled her entire being.
After a while she lay back, the stars wide and bright overhead, the firmament stretching to infinity.
A soft sound close by woke her. She sat up anxiously.
Boelie was sitting just a step away. “Sorry, I tried not wake you.”
“How did you know I’d be here?” she asked.
“I knew.”
“What’s the time?”
“Around midnight,” he replied.
“How did you get here?” She was confused, disoriented. “Gosh, I can’t believe how I slept!”