Child of the River

by Irma Joubert

  “Mr. Ismail, I don’t know—”

  “But most importantly, Mr. De Vos, we refuse to move our businesses out of town. Tell the council we’ll move, but we want to keep our stores and businesses in town.”

  “We can try to negotiate about the other things,” Mr. De Vos said, shaking his head, “though I fear we won’t have much success. But to keep the businesses in town? I don’t know about that.”

  “It’s the only way we can survive. You do understand that, don’t you, Mr. De Vos? Would your business survive four miles out of town if there was another lawyer in town—even though you might be cheaper?”

  “You don’t understand, Mr. Ismail,” Mr. De Vos began. He looked down at his papers. “The law—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” said Mr. Ismail. “Or don’t you want to help us?”

  Mr. De Vos looked up quickly. “Heavens, Ismail, of course I understand. But the law is the law, we can’t get past it.”

  “There’s always a loophole, Mr. De Vos.”

  “Even if we manage to find a loophole, you must understand my situation.” Mr. De Vos looked at each of the men. Calmly they stared back at him. “We are in one of the strongest National Party constituencies in the country. The people of this town and district have voted the lawmakers into parliament. I earn my bread and butter among these people.”

  “So do I, Mr. De Vos, so do I.”

  Slowly Mr. De Vos shook his head. “Find someone from the city to take the case,” he suggested wearily. “They’re cleverer.”

  “Mr. De Vos,” Mr. Ismail said seriously, “you’re a very clever man. You know our people, you’ve known us from childhood. You came to my store with your mother when you were still in diapers. Your father was the first lawyer in this town, and my father had the first store. This case isn’t just about book learning, it’s a matter of the heart.”

  The small boardroom fell silent. Only the fan churned the heavy air. Mr. Ismail waited quietly: humble, serious. His son looked worried and slightly despondent. His head was lowered. Yusuf Ismail sat with a closed face, his cold, almost hostile eyes fixed on Mr. De Vos. Not once had he looked in Pérsomi’s direction.

  Mr. De Vos shook his head. “I can’t, Ismail, my business won’t survive.”

  Mr. Ismail leaned forward slightly. He spoke softly, as if he were addressing Mr. De Vos alone. “Mr. De Vos, you and I both know I have come through for you in the past. I might even have saved your business.”

  Pérsomi turned her head quickly and looked at the big man beside her, knowing what Mr. Ismail referred to.

  But Mr. De Vos kept shaking his head. He turned to De Wet on his left. “De Wet?” he said, looking for support.

  “I really can’t. Mr. Ismail, I’m sorry. It’s official National Party policy. My brother, Boelie, is the chairman of the local NP branch. Until four years ago my father-in-law was a member of the Provincial Council. I can’t do it without causing a serious rift in my family.”

  Mr. Ismail took a deep breath. His pale-brown wrinkled hands were folded on the table, almost in an attitude of prayer. “Mr. De Vos, please,” he said.

  There was silence in the boardroom. Then Pérsomi said, “If I may, Mr. De Vos, Mr. Ismail . . . I’m willing to take the case.”

  SIXTEEN

  CHRISTMAS CAME AND WENT, AS ALWAYS. EVERYONE GATHERED in Auntie Sis’s upgraded house. “Good people, De Wet and Christine,” said Auntie Sis, “good kids.”

  Hannapat had married in haste. Her husband lay under his car, trying to find an oil leak. The baby was on Hannapat’s lap. Sissie had a boyfriend, a widower with four children. He seemed a good man and Sissie looked happier than ever before.

  Pérsomi celebrated the New Year with De Wet and Christine, and everyone wished each other a prosperous year—as always.

  Yet no two years are ever the same. In January 1957, the Putco bus company increased the fare from the Bantu township Alexandra to the Johannesburg city center by a penny. Fifteen thousand people walked the ten miles to the city, singing freedom songs like, “Asina mali”—we have no money, and “Asikwelwa”—we won’t ride. The news was full of the bus boycotts in Sophiatown and in the townships surrounding Pretoria.

  “I see they’re marching again,” De Wet said at teatime.

  “Oh, stop it, De Wet!” Pérsomi snapped. She turned her back on him and went to her office. But he followed, his teacup in his hand.

  “Can we talk?” he asked.

  She motioned at one of the chairs and sat down behind her desk. “About the bus boycott or the Faber case?”

  “About the Ismail case.”

  “Oh?” She moved her empty cup to the edge of her desk.

  “Why do you insist on taking it, Pérsomi?”

  “Why not?”

  “You have everything to lose and nothing to gain!”

  “Is that what you really think?” she asked.

  “Yes,” De Wet said earnestly. “You can’t win. The forced removals are backed by the Group Areas Act. You’re not going to change that.”

  “There are ways of getting around the law,” she said.

  “Did you become a lawyer to find ways around the law or to help maintain an orderly society that functions within the law?”

  “I became a lawyer to help people get justice,” she said. “I believe in this case the council is using the law for their own selfish goals, namely to clear up the so-called Indian slum. I believe they could—”

  “I’m sure you’ve thought of solutions, but you should also think of your future in this town. I’m afraid you’re going to brand yourself a revolutionary, a Communist.”

  “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t fight for what I believe is right, De Wet.”

  When she looked up, Mr. De Vos was standing in the doorway. For a moment she thought she saw a glimmer of pride in his eyes. Then he turned and went back to his own office.

  Pérsomi’s first meeting with the Ismails took place in Feburary.

  Just after three, Mr. Ismail and Abram stepped into the boardroom. Outside was the shrill sound of cicadas. Inside, the ice in the water jug melted within minutes.

  “Is Yusuf coming?” Pérsomi asked, taking a seat at the head of the table.

  “No,” said Mr. Ismail. He said nothing more, and she didn’t ask. Abram’s dark head, topped by a fez, was slightly lowered. He had a habit of peering at people almost timidly from under his dense eyebrows. His shoulders seemed to sag under an invisible burden. They sat facing each other.

  Pérsomi said, “I think we should start by asking the council to grant you permission to remain in your present homes, and for the services to be upgraded as soon as possible, before they begin spending money on the development at Modderkuil.”

  “It won’t work. They want us out,” Abram said despondently.

  “We’ll draw up a petition,” said Pérsomi. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll talk to the councillors face-to-face. I know not all the councillors support the removals.”

  “The land we live on,” Mr. Ismail said slowly, “was given to my father in 1884 by Paul Kruger himself, just after he became president. I still have the deed. My father supplied the president’s people with food and blankets during the war against the Sekukuni in 1879. The land was his compensation.”

  “That’s interesting information,” said Pérsomi. “I don’t know whether we should use it now or keep it for later. I’ll discuss it with Mr. De Vos.”

  “And if the Boers still want us gone after that?” asked Abram.

  “Then we’ll suggest that you move your homes but let your businesses remain in town.”

  Abram nodded gravely. “And better prices for our homes?”

  “We’ll try everything, yes,” answered Pérsomi. “Can I go ahead and draft the petition?”

  The two men nodded. “Yes,” said Mr. Ismail, “let’s start there, that’s good.”

  “And you’ll inform the other families?”

  “I will, yes. Thank you,
Miss Pérsomi, I feel better now.”

  She watched the two men walk down the street, back to their friendly, cluttered stores. Their white robes fluttered gently in the warm westerly wind; their long white trousers flapped just above their sandals. They were fighting for survival, she knew. Because their complexions were dark, their religion considered heathen, their traditions unfamiliar.

  Had she been foolish to take on this battle? Was she giving them false hope? What would happen if she lost the case, if the Indians were moved out of town lock, stock, and barrel, homes, stores, school, and all?

  “Why did you do it, Pérsomi?” Boelie asked for the second time in two months.

  “I won’t discuss it again, Boelie.”

  “You’ve never discussed it with me.”

  She looked at him, astounded. “What more do you want me to say? I’m sorry, I was mistaken, there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

  “Why couldn’t they have gone to someone in the city?”

  She frowned and shook her head. “Boelie, are we talking about the Ismails?”

  “Yes, what else?” His expression softened. “Did you think . . . I mean . . . ?”

  “Forget it,” she said.

  His dark eyes bored into her own. He frowned, then nodded and said, “Fine. I see you’re acting as their lawyer.”

  She was prepared; she had been for weeks. “See or hear?”

  “See. Gustav Jooste showed me the petition, the one you drafted that was signed by all the Indian heads of families.”

  “The petition was addressed to the town council,” she said. “Why did they show it to you, Boelie?”

  “I’m chairman of the National Party in the district. It’s in that capacity that I saw the petition. I’d hoped to avoid this confrontation,” he said quietly.

  She shook her head. “Then I suggest you resign as chairman of the National Party.”

  “Is it likely?” he said.

  “No, Boelie, you can’t help it, it’s part of who you are. I know that.”

  “I believe in the government. I believe in their policy, Pérsomi.”

  “I know.”

  “I wish I could talk to you about it.”

  “I know that policy inside and out, Boelie. I’ve scrutinized each new law. I’m informed. I’m not going into this blindly. I know you’re also fully informed. And both of us know it’s one thing we’ll never agree on.”

  He nodded slowly and got to his feet. “Then . . . I’ll say good-bye.”

  “Just like you, Boelie, I can’t help it either,” she said.

  He nodded. “I know, Pérsomi,” he said. “I know.”

  He had been in her office for no more than five minutes. When he left, loneliness closed in around her again.

  In mid-April a letter arrived. The council had decided that the Indian community would be relocated to Modderkuil as soon as possible. The council would honor its commitment to create the necessary amenities, to provide residential plots . . .

  Pérsomi stopped reading. Slowly she folded the letter. She didn’t know what she felt. Anger? Helplessness? Disappointment? Dismay?

  She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her temples.

  When she looked up, Reinier stood in the doorway. She felt an unexpected joy, a kind of relief. He always came at the right time. He was still her best friend.

  “I brought fish and chips,” he said, slapping the greasy parcel down on her desk.

  “Reinier, no!” she tried to stop him. “My desk!”

  “Sorry,” he said, wiping the greasy patch with the back of his hand and making it worse. “That’s no good, we’ll have to clean afterward.” When he unwrapped the parcel, the entire office smelled of hot French fries and vinegar. “Have some.”

  Smiling, she shook her head. “I really couldn’t eat fish and chips right now, but I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Bad news?” he mumbled past the fries in his mouth.

  “Sit,” she said, pointing at a chair. “The town council rejected our petition. They’re continuing with the development at Modderkuil.”

  He nodded and popped a piece of fish into his mouth. “You’ve been expecting it, Pérsomi,” he said.

  She shrugged. “I was hoping we could compromise. Now we’ll have to go on to Plan B.”

  “Hmm, will you speak to your clients?” he asked, looking around the office. “You don’t happen to have a napkin, do you?”

  She got up and handed him a dishcloth. He wiped his hands. “I’ll go and see them, yes. But tell me, did you enjoy the weekend with the math teacher?”

  “Mathilda? Goodness, no, I’m on the run,” he said. “Take a chip, won’t you? No use letting it go to waste.”

  “No thanks, really,” she protested, “too greasy. Why do you want to run? I thought you went to meet her parents.”

  “Long story,” he said. He took his time wrapping up the remaining fish and chips. Then he looked up. “Pérsomi?”

  “Yes?” Why did he sound so serious? Did something unpleasant happen at work?

  Silence.

  “You were saying?” she asked again.

  “I . . .” He made a lame gesture with his hands. “I think you know who your father is.”

  She felt herself grow cold. But she managed a nonchalant shrug. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said convincingly.

  “Because you know,” he said.

  “Reinier, let it go.”

  “I might have to confront him,” he trumped her.

  “Leave it,” she said firmly. “People will get hurt. Why don’t you tell me instead why you want to run from Marietha.”

  “Mathilda. You’re changing the subject.”

  “I won’t discuss it, Reinier, and that’s final.”

  In the bushveld there are no sudden cold spells. Almost imperceptibly the leaves turn coppery and red and gold. You know summer is over when the days get shorter, the trees and grass wither, and the mosquitoes vanish. The children start to wear shoes to school, the boys kick rugby balls, and the girls put on black jumpers and long black stockings.

  One Friday afternoon in May, Pérsomi sipped her tea and watched as Boelie’s pickup pulled up and he got out, lost in thought. She turned from the window and sat back down behind her desk. He greeted her offhandedly as he walked past her open door. He went straight through to Mr. De Vos’s office.

  Nearly an hour later there was a gentle knock on her door. After all the years she still felt warm inside whenever he was near. But only for a moment. Then she regained her composure.

  “May I come in, Pérsomi? There’s something I want to tell you,” he said.

  She smiled. “Of course, Boelie. Please sit. I’ve just finished my work for the week.”

  “It’s nice when one can say that,” he said. “A farmer’s work is never done.” He sat down awkwardly and placed his hat on the edge of her desk.

  “How can I help?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to say . . .” He gave her a long, hard look. “I want you to go on with your life, Pérsomi.”

  Surprised, she shook her head. “I thought that was what I was doing,” she said.

  “That didn’t come out right.” He pushed his fingers through his hair. “But you know what I mean.”

  She gave a slight frown. “I really don’t, Boelie.”

  He cleared his throat again. “What happened to Braam?”

  “He . . . we . . . oh, Boelie!” She made a helpless gesture with her hand. “It . . . wouldn’t have worked,” she said feebly.

  “What I mean, Pérsomi, is . . .” He hesitated a moment, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Don’t wait for me. No matter how serious the rift between Annabel and me, or how impossible my own situation has become, I’ll never get a divorce.”

  “I know that, Boelie. You’re a man of principle, steady as a rock. It’s one of the reasons why I love you.”

  He looked at her, his dark eyes gentle. “It’s the first t
ime you’ve ever said those words,” he said.

  She felt herself flush. “Is it? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it. It just . . . slipped out.”

  He averted his eyes. “You’ll never know what it means to me.”

  “I shouldn’t have . . .” She shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

  After a long silence he said, “Annabel was offered an excellent opportunity. It’s what I came to discuss with her father. And . . . with you, actually.”

  “Annabel?”

  “It’s a senior position at SAPA,” said Boelie.

  “In Joburg?”

  “In London.”

  “London! Surely she’s not considering it, Boelie!”

  He pushed his fingers through his hair again, nodded slowly. “Yes, she is.”

  “Boelie!” She couldn’t hide her dismay. “That’s im—” She bit back the words. “How do you feel about it, Boelie?”

  He took a deep breath. “At this point it might be best—for all of us.”

  “But . . . the children! They’re so young!”

  “I won’t be the first father to raise his kids alone for a while,” he said. “It’s not permanent. They’ve offered her a two-year contract. She needs to get away. I think her present lifestyle is smothering her.”

  Pérsomi kept shaking her head. Nelius had just turned four, Lientjie was only two. How could their mother leave them? “Do you really believe it’s best?” she asked.

  He nodded quietly. His elbows were on the desk between them. His big hands were folded, the fingers entwined, his chin rested on his thumbs.

  She looked away. She had no right to think of the children. It was none of her business. She had to remain objective.

  “Boelie, how can two people who loved each other enough to pledge their word before God grow apart so quickly?”

  “In our case,” he said slowly, lowering his hands onto the desk, “we would probably never have married if it hadn’t been . . .” He searched for the right words, then shrugged. “Well, if the situation hadn’t forced us. I always knew De Wet was her first choice, not me, just as she knew she wasn’t my first choice. It wasn’t a very good foundation to build on.”