by Irma Joubert
“Yes, Aunt Duifie,” said Pérsomi. “It’s lovely. Anyway, Oom Polla, I believe the National Party wants to get rid of those UP votes before the next election, so they introduced a bill that will place the Coloured people on a separate voters’ roll.” If Mr. De Vos and De Wet heard her now, they’d have a fit. Not to mention Boelie.
“Oh,” said Oom Polla, nodding gravely.
“Do you think we should have used bigger rollers, or maybe dixies for the side whiskers?” Aunt Duifie persisted.
“No, it looks fine, Aunt Duifie,” said Pérsomi. “The UP is challenging the validity of the act to determine whether the government acted unconstitutionally. That’s all, Oom Polla.”
“Exactly what I thought,” said Oom Polla.
“Don’t you think next time we should use a bit of color, Pérsomi?” asked Aunt Duifie.
“We’re going to be slaughtering this weekend,” De Wet said one Wednesday in June. “Boelie was wondering if you and your ma would lend a hand?”
Ma and me? Pérsomi hesitated.
“But if you have other plans . . .” De Wet had noticed her slight hesitation.
“No, no, we’ll come,” she said at once.
“I’ll pick you up Saturday morning early.”
Now De Wet, Boelie, and Pérsomi stood at the sausage table—alone. Aunt Lulu and Pérsomi’s ma were busy with the offal in the kitchen. Irene’s ouma had gone to lie down hours ago, and Mr. Fourie had set off for the fields after an unpleasant incident with Boelie.
“I wonder how many yards of sausage the three of us have churned out of this machine,” De Wet said at three that afternoon.
“If we don’t succeed at our careers we can become professional sausage fillers,” Pérsomi said.
“I’m already a professional toiletrician,” Boelie said.
“A what?”
“I don’t know what kind of toilet Oupa fitted in that bathroom in the Old House,” he muttered, “but I fixed that thing yesterday for the very last time. Next week I’m replacing it. Turn that handle, brother, there’s a mountain of meat to process.”
“No, your turn, my arm is about to fall off,” said De Wet, stepping back.
“I’ll turn if someone else will unravel the casings,” Pérsomi offered hopefully.
“No, thanks,” the two men chorused.
They worked in silence for a while—a comfortable silence between people used to working together. Then Boelie said, “I see the bill to remove the Coloureds from the combined voters’ roll was passed.”
Here we go again, thought Pérsomi.
“Yes,” said De Wet, “but I wonder whether the NP hasn’t overplayed its hand. The decision has been taken on appeal. What do you think, Pérsomi?” De Wet asked.
“I think we’re going to see a lot of opposition and protest action,” she said. “Apparently fifty thousand people took part in marches last week.”
“Their flame will soon be doused,” Boelie said.
When they finished and De Wet had left, Boelie smiled at her. “Come,” he said.
She felt her throat constrict again. “Where to?” she asked.
“Somewhere I can have you to myself for a while,” he said.
“Boelie?”
“Relax, Pérsomi,” he said and headed for the river. “Or wait, tell me what’s making you so nervous.”
“I’m afraid . . . You want to speak to my ma.” Her voice sounded thin in the chilly afternoon air.
“I promised it would be our secret until you’re ready, didn’t I?” He walked calmly beside her, his large presence comfortingly close—disturbingly close.
Their shoes left prints in the loose sand.
“That’s not what you’re afraid of, Pérsomi. You and I both know it.”
She made no reply.
At the river he stood looking at the water. “Look at the Egyptian geese,” he said, pointing. “You’d swear they don’t feel the cold.”
She began to relax. “Of course not! They’re wearing thick feather coats.” She held up her hand to screen the westerly sun. “What are those long-legged birds on the sandbank?”
“Plovers,” he said, sitting down on a dry tree trunk.
“And that’s a heron, isn’t it?” She pointed and sat down beside him.
“Yes, a gray heron, probably looking for a juicy frog.”
They sat watching the whirligig beetles swim in quick circles. A dragonfly hovered over the pool and the Egyptian geese waddled out onto the sand.
“Pérsomi?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you afraid I might touch you?”
Was she afraid? She turned her face to him, then slowly shook her head. “I like sitting close to you,” she said honestly.
He opened his arm. “Well, sit close to me then. It’s your place,” he said.
She snuggled under his arm and he held her against him. His body was warm.
The sun went down, the Egyptian geese flew away, the whirligig beetles and dragonfly disappeared, the plovers had gone in search of their nests. “I’m afraid you’ll kiss me,” she said, her voice choked.
He held her more tightly, stroked her hair. “I’ll wait,” he said. “Don’t be afraid, I’ll wait.”
In July 1951 Minister of Native Affairs Hendrik Verwoerd launched the Bantu Authorities Act, whereby a system of tribal authorities was established on local and district levels.
Yusuf was more than skeptical. When he came home for a visit from Joburg, he said, “This Verwoerd is bad news for everyone who’s not lily-white.”
“Boelie says he’s absolutely brilliant,” said Pérsomi, sipping tea Yusuf had made for her.
“He’s a brilliant orator, I’ll give him that,” said Yusuf. “When he proposes a new law, one that’s utterly racist and discriminatory, he makes it sound as if the natives should thank him for his perception and far-sightedness.”
“I do believe he has good intentions. He seems to want to develop the reserves. He even wants to move the industries there,” she echoed Boelie’s words.
“It sounds good on paper, Pérsomi. But developing the reserves will cost the taxpayers—his voters—a fortune. Do you honestly think the government can afford to lose votes at this stage?”
“I suppose not. But I think the idea of decentralizing the industries is good. It’s a global trend, isn’t it?”
“In this case it’s a smokescreen, Pérsomi,” Yusuf said earnestly. “You know, sometimes I wonder whether there’s a future for me in this country.”
The next time Boelie sang Verwoerd’s praises, sitting in her kitchen drinking coffee, Pérsomi said, “Yusuf Ismail doesn’t seem to share your enthusiasm for him.”
He frowned. “Pérsomi, stay away from those Indians. You shouldn’t be socializing with them,” he said.
“I have always been a customer at their store, Boelie,” she said calmly. “There’s no way it’s going to change now.”
“It’s unacceptable. Especially with that Yusuf Ismail. He’s a Communist, a true Wits troublemaker.”
“Yusuf Ismail is a dedicated Muslim. He’s an excellent student and is loyal to his family. He wonders what will happen to them under the new regime. That’s not being a Communist, Boelie.”
“Next time he’s so worried, tell him to use the money he earns in Joburg to buy them all tickets back to their fatherland.”
“South Africa is his father’s land and that of his grandfather and his father before him,” she snapped.
“Heavens, woman, we’ve had this conversation before!”
“And I’ve told you not to ‘heavens, woman’ me!”
Boelie softened and shook his head. “You’re beautiful when you’re angry.” He gave a deep sigh and reached for her hand. “I don’t want to fight with you,” he said.
She took his hand. “I don’t want to either, Boelie, not at all. But you can’t tell me what to do.”
“I’d appreciate it if you respect my feelings,” he said earnestly.
> “And you mine. Mr. Ismail is part of my life, has been for years. Yusuf has been my friend, since forever, and it’s going to stay that way.”
Somewhere their hands lost each other. “But they’re Indians, Mohammedans, Pérsomi!”
“Muslims,” she said. “And we are Christian Afrikaners. So what’s your point?”
“We don’t fraternize!”
She shook her head. “Here we go again.”
“I know.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “We’ll have to reach an agreement, you and I,” he said earnestly.
She thought for a moment. “We could agree to disagree,” she said.
“Maybe two independent parties could do that, but not two rational people in a . . . steady relationship.”
“You’re right,” she said. “But I can’t see either of us changing.”
THIRTEEN
PÉRSOMI LOOKED CRITICALLY AT HER OWN IMAGE IN THE mirror. Her simple red dress was snug around the waist, hugged her hips, and fell in soft folds to her ankles. The skin of her arms and slim neck glowed in the late afternoon light. She turned sideways and looked at the low back line. Tonight she would feel Boelie’s hand on her back as they danced at his friend’s wedding in Pretoria.
She bent down and put on her new high-heeled shoes. She had always been the tallest in her class. But Boelie was tall as well, and even in high heels she would still be the shorter partner.
She picked up her evening bag and went to the sitting room.
Boelie stood looking through the window, his back to the door. His dark suit fitted his broad shoulders like a glove. His bronzed skin contrasted sharply with the white shirt, his dark curls just touching the collar.
Boelie, waiting for her.
He turned. Their eyes met across the length of the room. She gave a hesitant smile.
For a moment he stood motionless, his eyes taking her in. “You look . . . ravishing.”
She felt every word.
Slowly he closed the distance between them. Then he put out his hand and stroked her hair. “You must never . . . cut your hair,” he said.
“I won’t,” she promised softly.
They drove to the church. He opened the car door for her. She entered at his side, saw heads turn. She sat next to him in the pew, her heart thumping.
At the first chords of the wedding march, everyone got to their feet and turned to look at the double doors at the back of the church.
Anticipation rose in Pérsomi.
The bride appeared in the doorway, her face veiled, a bouquet of pale yellow orchids in her hand. She walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, the hem of her lace gown trailing behind her over the red carpet. Slowly she made her way between the pews, down the aisle, to the front of the church, where the groom was waiting.
The blond man at the pulpit was waiting for his bride, his blue eyes fixed on her, his gaze intense.
Next to her she felt Boelie’s body close to her, touching her.
They sat. Sometime during the sermon her hand ended up snugly in Boelie’s big palm.
For the first time ever she listened to the marriage service and grasped its sacredness. You must really love your partner with all your heart to make such promises before God and His congregation, she realized.
Afterward, as they were waiting outside for the bridal couple to make their appearance, Pérsomi said, “I don’t think people should ever get divorced, Boelie.”
“I agree, Pers. You take a vow before God. No court can ever free you from it,” Boelie said.
The reception was at a nearby hotel. The room was festively decorated, the tablecloths starched and snowy, the flowers profuse. Pérsomi found it all very stylish, very tasteful. But then again, what did she know?
The guests sat at their allotted places, talked stiffly, sipped sherry, waited for the bridal couple.
“It’s all so elegant,” she said to Boelie.
“Too elegant,” he said. “Give me a good old farm wedding anytime, like Klara’s, or De Wet’s. The guests enjoy it so much more.”
Champagne corks popped, toasts were made. They laughed at familiar jokes, they serenaded the bride and groom. Servers brought wine to the tables.
A festive atmosphere reigned. They ate and ate. The empty wine bottles disappeared into the kitchen along with the dirty plates, and fresh bottles appeared.
The festivities intensified.
The bride and groom opened the dance floor. Pérsomi followed the couple with her eyes, watched them speak softly to each other, laugh. She felt Boelie’s arm on her back. She leaned into it. His hand gripped her shoulder gently.
Other couples joined the bride and groom. The dance floor filled up with people floating in each other’s arms.
Boelie got up and held out his hand. “Dance with me, my lovely,” he said.
She put her hand in his and he led her onto the dance floor. His hand folded over hers. She felt the music pulse through her, gave herself up to his closeness, relaxed, followed where he led. It didn’t matter that there were few waltzes.
They danced in silence, to one melody after another, round and round, in a world of harmony and captivating music, where two bodies moved as one.
Boelie said, “I love you very much, Pérsomi.”
She looked up at him. There was a smile on his lips. The expression in his eyes was gentle, almost vulnerable. Everything and everyone else faded away, until only the two of them remained.
Without a doubt she knew she loved this man. For this man, she would take those unbreakable vows.
She nodded slowly. I love you, Boelie, said her heart.
But the words did not pass her lips.
Monday night her ma said, “Boelie brought wood this morning, and lemons and tangerines.”
“Oh, good.” Pérsomi’s mind was occupied with a letter Mr. De Vos had given her earlier. He wanted her opinion.
“He went to their farm on the other side of Messina today, he and Oom Freddie.”
“Yes, he . . . De Wet told me,” she said, deep in thought.
“He wants to come and talk to me on Saturday morning. What about, I wonder?”
Pérsomi looked up. “I guess we’ll have to wait until Saturday.”
“But heavens, Pérsomi, he said you must also be here. I’m worried. Heavens, what if—”
“There’s nothing to worry about, Ma. Listen, I have a lot of work to finish before tomorrow. Will you call me when supper is ready?”
She took the letter up to her room.
Reinier popped his head into her office later that week.
“Pérsomi, even if I’m right and you do have a secret lover, tonight you’re going to celebrate with me!” he said.
“Depends what we’re celebrating,” she said cheerfully. The conversation with Mr. De Vos about the letter had gone exceptionally well. He had almost complimented her.
“For me to know and for you to find out!”
“Judging by your expression, you seem to have won a thousand pounds.”
“Something like that. I’ll tell you tonight,” he said. “See you at seven, okay?” He disappeared into the passage.
“Reinier, stop! I don’t know what or where!” she called after him.
He laughed. “I’m treating you to dinner at the hotel. I’m off to book us a table. A champagne dinner, because I have something to celebrate.”
“You’ve already said so. Did she agree at last?”
“I haven’t met her yet. Still looking. Have to go now!”
That night her ma was extra difficult.
“Ma, I’m going out for supper, that’s all,” Pérsomi said.
“In that smart dress? With a boyfriend?” her ma asked suspiciously.
“No, Ma, not with a boyfriend!” Reinier was definitely not a boyfriend in the sense that her ma used the word. “And even if it was with a boyfriend, I really can’t see why it would be so terribly wrong.”
“Pérsomi!” Her ma raised a warning finger. �
�You must stay away from men!”
“Oh, Ma, please! I’m going now, sleep well.”
Reinier was waiting for her at the corner, where he always picked her up.
In mutual recognition of their respective family skeletons they had never been in each other’s homes.
“Come on, out with it,” she said when she’d got into Bucket.
“No, I’ll tell you over a bottle of champagne,” he said. “But here’s a clue: Bucket’s days are numbered.”
She considered his words. “Reinier, did you get such a big contract that you can buy a proper car?” she asked. “I know you’re building Yusuf’s surgery—but surely it’s not such a huge project?”
“My lips are sealed. Only champagne can unseal them,” he said.
“Come on, tell me!”
He motioned that his lips were under lock and key.
“Oh, you’re spiteful!” she said.
He parked at the hotel and opened the door for her. She got out and they walked up the three steps to the veranda.
She thought of something and stopped in her tracks. “What are you going to do with Bucket?”
“Probably try to sell her—though I think I might have to pay someone to take her off my hands. Come, let’s go in.”
A waiter pulled out their chairs. When they were seated, she said, “If the price is right, I’ll buy her.”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Bucket, of course.”
He shook his head. “She’s really not reliable anymore. I can’t sell her to you.” He turned to the waiter. “An ice-cold bottle of champagne, please.”
“Well, I won’t be able to afford anything better,” she said when the waiter had left. “At least I know Bucket.”
He turned to her. “Pérsomi, you don’t even know how to drive.”
“You can teach me,” she said.
“Gosh, you turn everything into a debate,” he said.
“Well, just sell Bucket to me!”
“I won’t sell her to you, but you can have her. Wait, here’s the champagne. I’ll pour it myself, thanks. Have you decided what you want to order?”
She looked at the menu, then up at the waiter. “I’ll have everything on the menu,” she said. “It all sounds good: soup, fish, meat, vegetables. Yes, I’ll have it all, thank you.”