by Irma Joubert
“But we folk here in this part of the bushveld have always looked after each other,” he said.
A few councillors nodded, a few studied the tablecloth, while others turned their deadpan gazes to the back wall.
Mr. Ismail mentioned the councillors’ children, whom he had seen grow up, by name. He ended with a plea that the council review their decision to relocate the Indians. “For humane reasons, because we are storekeepers. Just as a farmer can’t plough and sow in the desert, we won’t survive without customers on that barren plain,” he concluded.
That went well, Pérsomi thought as Mr. Ismail left the hall through a side door.
Yusuf Ismail entered, dressed in a stylish suit—unlike his grandfather, who had been in traditional Muslim attire. He treated the company to an academic, politically loaded tirade. As he spoke, his underlying anger was apparent, as was his scorn for the system that made his grandfather beg for what was rightfully his.
Pérsomi closed her eyes. Yusuf was destroying everything his grandfather had so carefully built up. By the time he came to a few workable suggestions, he had already cut his own throat.
The first Sunday after Annabel left for London, Boelie attended church. Pérsomi felt awkward and uncertain. He sat three rows in front of her. Quietly she studied the back of his head, which was bowed in prayer for a long time before he raised it to gaze at the pulpit.
A strange thing happened. She felt her loneliness lift. She felt a strange affinity. Not just with Boelie but with the entire congregation. A feeling of great peace washed over her, so that when Dominee Pieter took his place on the pulpit and delivered a message of hope and love, she could calmly listen to the sermon.
After the service, with Nelius and Lientjie by his side, Boelie said, “All the best for the new year, Pérsomi. I know this is an . . . important year for you.”
“Thanks, Boelie, the same to you,” she said, smiling. “I hope the rains fill your dam.”
He gave a slight smile and nodded. The little family headed for his pickup, parked under a thorn tree. She noticed for the first time that his hair was turning gray.
A few Sundays later, Lientjie was standing beside her, and Pérsomi spontaneously put out her hand. Instantly the bony fingers found hers. “Are you cold?” asked Pérsomi.
The child looked up at her with big brown eyes. “No,” she said.
The council upheld its decision to relocate the Indian community to Modderkuil.
One hot morning in March four of the Indian family heads were waiting for Pérsomi at the back door when she arrived at the office. “Come in,” she said, unlocking the door. “We’ll go through to the boardroom.”
Mr. Ismail came straight to the point. “The police came to our homes and our stores yesterday. They gave each of us a document to sign.”
“Did you sign?” she asked.
He nodded. “The police told us we must.”
“What did the document say?” she asked.
“That the relocation will take place in accordance with the law that has proclaimed our area a white neighborhood. We have to sell—everything. The government will pay us only what the appraiser decides.”
“Okay,” she said, “it means they want to fight.”
“Miss Pérsomi, what do we do now?”
“Those who want to can try to sell their homes and stores,” she said calmly, though she felt anger growing inside her. “The rest of you, including those who would like to sell but can’t find a buyer, carry on living peacefully in your homes and continue with your businesses.”
“And what next, Miss Pérsomi?” one of the older men asked.
“In the meantime we’ll keep trying to find a way. Just don’t give your properties away for a song. Remember, if you do move, wherever you go, you must have enough money to start over.”
After they were gone, she went down the hall and tapped on Mr. De Vos’s door.
He looked up. He had lost a lot of weight. His complexion was gray.
“Come in, Pérsomi,” he said, arranging the papers before him into a neat pile. “Can I help you?”
She recounted the latest developments. “I told them not to let their properties go too cheaply,” she concluded, “or they’ll have no money to start over somewhere else.”
“Good advice,” he said.
“What do you propose I should do next?” she asked.
“What do you think?”
“I think I should prepare an application to prevent the council from going ahead with the eviction, and get a court order that will allow the Indian families to continue living in town and carry on with their businesses until the matter is settled in court.”
“That’s right. What next?”
“I apply to the court to have the town council’s decision declared invalid.”
He nodded. “You must realize the council has the law on their side,” he said. “You said Mr. Ismail and the others are prepared to move?”
“As long as their new homes are subsidized, yes.”
“Then it might be time to apply for a special permit for the Indians to retain their businesses in town and continue plying their trade,” he suggested.
“Yes, you’re right, I’ll consider it,” she said. “When I’ve drafted the document, will you look at it for me?”
He nodded. “I will.”
At the door she turned. “Mr. De Vos, how are you?”
He regarded her impersonally for a moment. “Well,” he said, “quite well.”
The day before Boelie’s fortieth birthday, Pérsomi and Reinier arrived at Christine and De Wet’s home just after Klara, Antonio, and their children had arrived from Pretoria. It was a happy reunion, the grown-ups laughing and talking, the children ecstatic to see their cousins again.
When Boelie drove up none the wiser at one—Christine had phoned to ask that he bring the kids over to play—the sincere surprise on his face was rewarding for everyone. “I can’t believe you came all the way from Pretoria for my birthday,” he told Klara, shaking his head.
“Well, you are officially old tomorrow.” She laughed happily.
He looked around, still shaking his head. “Are you also part of this plot?” he asked Pérsomi.
“It was actually Christine’s idea,” she said as neutrally as possible. “You’re surprised, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “Very,” he said.
Just before three another car pulled up and, to the delight of everyone, Irene got out. “Irene!” Klara cried. “Christine, you didn’t say Irene was coming too!”
“I didn’t even know!” De Wet said, astounded. “Irene, how did you get here?”
“Took leave and drove,” she answered happily, “I’m staying for a week. Pérsomi, are you here too?” Pérsomi got a kiss as well. “And Reinier! Oh, lovely!” She linked her arm with his and looked around, laughing. “Only Christine knew I was coming. It was our secret surprise.”
“Well,” said De Wet, “let’s find something to drink. Then we men must start making the fires.”
Long before the other party guests began to arrive, Pérsomi, Christine, Klara, and Irene had everything ready. They had worked all afternoon, catching up with one another’s news. “Goodness, it’s been a long time since we girls were last together like this,” Christine exclaimed.
More like never, Pérsomi thought.
When the children crowded noisily around the kitchen table to eat. Lientjie wasn’t with them.
“She must be playing on her own again,” said Christine. “The others are too old for her.”
“I’ll find her,” Pérsomi offered.
She found the child on the floor of Lulani’s room, playing with a doll. The child’s thin legs were tucked underneath her, the straight dark hair was in need of a haircut, the little face was serious.
“Lientjie? Are you hungry?” she asked softly.
The dark eyes looked up into hers, and the head nodded.
Pérsomi held out her hand. “Come, th
ere’s supper in the kitchen,” she said.
The child got up and reached out, the small hand almost disappearing in hers. “Are you going to give me my supper?”
Pérsomi smiled down at her. “Yes, I will.”
It turned into a special evening. The guests sat around the fire long after the meat was done. The men brought out chairs and piled huge logs on the flames. The children played around the grown-ups, the little ones falling asleep in their moms’ laps, or between their feet. “I’ll fetch a few blankets, it’s getting chilly,” said Christine.
“Get your guitar, Antonio, let’s sing,” Irene suggested.
The Fouries could certainly sing. And with Antonio there, one melody after another rose up with the smoke into the cloudless, starry sky.
When Pérsomi looked down, Lientjie was standing close to her, holding her doll. Pérsomi held out her arm. Timidly the little girl approached. “Cold?” Pérsomi asked.
The child gave a slight nod.
Pérsomi lifted her onto her lap and wrapped her coat around the child. “Now you’ll be warm,” she whispered.
After a while the small figure relaxed. Her breathing became regular.
A strange sensation washed over Pérsomi, a great tenderness toward this child. She held Lientjie more tightly, and the little girl gave a soft sigh. Lost in thought, Pérsomi stroked the straight, wispy hair.
The week after the party Mr. De Vos suffered a serious setback.
“I have to go for more intensive treatment,” he said when he was discharged from the local hospital. It was dead quiet in the small boardroom. The staff sat motionless, listening. Mr. De Vos had lost even more weight, and his once ruddy complexion was gray. The hand wrapped around the water glass was bony and pale.
“I’ll be at the Pretoria General Hospital for at least a month, according to the specialist.” He took another careful sip of water. Ms. Steyn drew a handkerchief from her bosom.
“I have therefore decided to retire,” he continued with great effort. “From the first of May Pérsomi will take my place as full partner in the firm De Vos and De Vos.”
Ms. Steyn gave a soft gasp and covered her nose and mouth with the handkerchief.
No one else moved.
Then De Wet got up quietly. In his resonant voice he thanked Mr. De Vos for the years they had worked together. “I could never have found a better mentor,” he said sincerely. He turned to face the old man. “Oom Bartel, all of us will miss you, but I in particular am going to miss you terribly. We wish you a speedy recovery because, even though you’re officially retiring, we’ll still be calling on you for support and advice.”
Mr. De Vos nodded. “Thank you,” he said when De Wet sat down.
Pérsomi got up slowly.
“It’s an indescribable privilege to be made a partner in the firm of De Vos and De Vos,” she said cautiously. She turned to the old man at the head of the table. “Mr. De Vos, I’ll do my best to honor this excellent firm that you and your father established. I pray for your return to good health.”
Mr. De Vos looked at her and nodded. He understood.
Then De Wet helped him to his car and drove him home.
The court application to stop the Indian families from being evicted, which Pérsomi had asked him to look at, was left lying among the other documents on his table.
Pérsomi woke with a start and sat up in bed. Dawn was just breaking. Someone was hammering on the back door. “Miss Pérsomi! Miss Pérsomi!” The voice sounded like a frightened child’s.
Pérsomi threw her dressing gown over her shoulders and rushed to the door on bare feet. “I’m coming!” she shouted as she ran.
At the door was an Indian boy of about twelve, in his nightclothes. She thought he might be one of Mr. Ravat’s grandchildren. “The police!” he cried. “The police are going to come this morning and throw our things out of our homes! My grandpa says—”
“I’ll be right there!” she said. “Go back. I’ll get dressed and come straightaway.”
She got dressed as quickly as possible. “No, Ma, I don’t want coffee,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried to her car.
It was a cool autumn morning. The first trees were just shedding their leaves. The swallows were getting ready to fly north. But Pérsomi didn’t notice any of those things as she drove to the ill-fated neighborhood at the center of town.
When she got out, some of the older Indian men were in the street. “Miss Pérsomi, we had a phone call early this morning,” Mr. Ismail said anxiously. “The man didn’t say his name, just that the police were coming to throw us out.”
“Surely the time we were granted can’t be over,” Pérsomi said, pressing her hands to her face. “I’ll . . .” Suddenly she was unable to think clearly. What had she done, telling them to ignore the eviction notice?
De Wet approached. She didn’t know where he had come from, she only knew he was there.
She pointed helplessly at the row of Indian stores. “De Wet, the waiting period can’t possibly be over! I didn’t expect them to crack down so soon. They said they’d grant the people sufficient time to sell their properties. What shall I do?”
“Good morning, Pérsomi,” De Wet said calmly. “A reasonable period is a relative concept. But your information is correct, apparently the police are going to act today. I’m glad they’re not here yet. And you know exactly what to do.”
Pérsomi pressed her hands to her face. “I . . . must lodge an urgent application for an interim interdict against the town council, preventing them from evicting the families until a ruling has been made,” she said in a daze. As she wiped the loose strands of hair from her face, she felt her mind open up and her confidence return. “I must ask that any criminal proceedings instituted against the applicants be suspended, pending a settlement of the dispute.”
De Wet gave her an encouraging smile. “Go. First reassure your clients.”
Pérsomi hurried to where the men were anxiously waiting.
“I’m going to the magistrate’s court to get an interdict that will stop the police from acting,” she said calmly. “Go back to your homes and stores.”
They nodded earnestly. “Thank you, Miss Pérsomi,” they said.
When she rejoined De Wet, she asked, “How did you get here?” They began to walk to their cars. “I mean, how did you know?”
“It was Gerbrand,” said De Wet. “The father of one of his classmates said something, and the child taunted Gerbrand. He said something like: ‘The Indians are going to be thrown out tomorrow, then we’ll see what your aunt will do.’ Gerbrand only realized the meaning this morning and came to wake me up.”
“I’m very glad to see you. Thanks, De Wet.”
“Listen, Pérsomi, if you need my help, I’ll go with you to the magistrate’s court. If not, I’m going back to the farm to shave and get dressed.”
She noticed now that he was unshaven and was dressed in shorts and an open-necked shirt, obviously put on in haste. “I’ll manage, thanks. I . . . For a while I was shocked senseless, I’m sorry. Please go.”
“Sure?”
“Very sure.”
“Well good luck. I’ll see you later.”
Pérsomi glanced at her watch. She didn’t have time to go home and dress more appropriately. She had to do the paperwork. She got into her car and drove to the office, where she sat down behind a typewriter and typed the application as quickly as her two fingers allowed.
Pérsomi knew the magistrate well. She had been appearing before him for years. “This is an urgent application,” she said as he looked over her papers. “The police are planning to evict the Indians from their homes and stores today.”
He looked up from the documents. “Pérsomi, this has to do with the Group Areas Act. Because of the controversy surrounding the act and the sensitivity of this particular case, I’d rather handle the application in an open court.”
She sighed softly. “How soon can that happen?”
He tho
ught for a moment. “I’ll see you in half an hour.”
“Thanks,” said Pérsomi. She hurried out to fetch her gown.
On her way back, she felt the car list sideways, but there was no time to pay it any heed.
Minutes later Pérsomi walked into the same courtroom where, so many years before, she had decided to become a lawyer in order to see that justice was done.
She presented the motivation for requesting an interim interdict: the applicants were the heads of a number of Indian families. They had a prima facie right not to be relocated, she maintained. They had been given an unreasonably short period in which to sell their properties. Besides, who were they supposed to sell to? Word in town was that the council planned to demolish the buildings in favor of new business premises.
“Your Honor, if the police forcefully evict the Indian families,” she argued, “the applicants will suffer irreparable damages.”
She went on to say that the applicants had a very good chance of winning their action against the town council. They were building a strong case.
“And finally, Your Honor,” she concluded, “there is at this point no alternative remedy for the immediate problem, except that the court grant an interdict that will prohibit the police from forcefully evicting the applicants and their families from their homes and businesses today.”
She tossed her hair back and looked the magistrate in the eye.
He looked back at her pensively. “You have confidence in your case, Miss Pieterse?” he asked.
“Yes, Your Honor, I do, or I wouldn’t be standing here.”
He studied the document in front of him, then looked up. “I’ll grant the order, though I’m not doing so without reservation,” he said hesitantly. “When the matter appears before the court, it will be heard by a different magistrate. I plan to recuse myself, on the grounds that I know the parties too well.”
Pérsomi nodded, waiting.
She saw a movement from the corner of her eye. Boelie had gotten up at the back of the courtroom. He was pale and his face wore a strange, tight-lipped expression. She couldn’t fathom what he was doing there.