by Fred Khumalo
But the dawning of summer also meant a number of new adjustments. The long-deferred procedure on his left eye would now take place. The Parisian eye specialist who had examined him, based on a referral by Bernard, had advised against having the operation in winter, fearing complications. Also, Pitso couldn’t hide behind his bulky winter clothing any more. He had to think of other disguises suitable for the summer. The most important change was that Marie-Thérèse would be coming up to Paris to live with him.
Two months later he had recovered enough – both physically and psychologically – to look at himself in the mirror without recoiling. There had been a time when an encounter with his mirror image filled him with shame and self-loathing. His missing eye was a constant reminder of how he had run away from his friends, how he had betrayed them. It was also a reminder of how he had been wrong, right from the outset, to enlist in this war. Many of those he had met on the ship had sound reasons for enlisting. Some, like his friend Tlali, had done so out of financial necessity; the money being offered was simply irresistible. Tlali had a clear plan: serve in the war and save enough money to buy a head of cattle that he would put down as a bride price upon his return. Others, like Ngqavini, were fugitives from the law; men who’d enlisted to run away from their crimes back home. Yet others, like those educated Lovedale boys who spoke good English on the ship, had signed up out of sheer idealism. They’d hoped that, by throwing in their lot with the British Crown, they’d establish their credentials as proud subjects of the King, humble citizens of the Union who deserved the right to vote, and a rightful claim to the land that had been taken from them during successive wars of conquest. By contrast, Pitso’s initial motivation had been vague. He’d enlisted partly out of anger at his own father. There was a part of him that had hoped he would be killed in France so he could get away from it all. His father’s betrayal of his mother, her subsequent mental illness and death, his sordid, ill-fated affair with Madame Clinquemeur – all of these things had weighed him down, robbed him of proper perspective on life, and the ability to think logically.
But all of that was behind him. He might have come to France by default, but he now knew, with clarity, that he was here to stay. He would work hard to prove himself not only to Marie-Thérèse and her family, who’d granted him a new lease on life, but also to all those he’d interacted with in this country. He felt a sense of belonging he’d never experienced in his country of birth. He felt respected, valued. He felt like one who had been emotionally lame, but was now walking with charisma and sophistication in his gait. When he spoke people listened, really listened.
He felt free.
Every time he woke up next to Marie-Thérèse he felt blessed. He’d look at her sleeping form, her serene face, her even breathing, and a surge of mixed emotions would course through him. Yes, there were moments of self-doubt when he believed he did not deserve this beautiful human being sleeping next to him, moments of fear that he had nothing to offer her, that one day she would wake up and change her mind about him.
‘Stop being a coward,’ he said to himself one Sunday morning as he contemplated himself in the mirror. ‘Tell her what’s on your mind!’
After a particularly stirring service at Notre Dame, where he and Marie-Thérèse had become regulars, they went on their customary Sunday-afternoon walk along the Seine. There were other couples like them, walking hand in hand, pausing every now and then to laugh, to look into each other’s eyes, a man removing imaginary fluff from his partner’s frock, a woman adjusting her beau’s collar.
Thirty minutes into their walk, Jean-Jacques took a breath and gripped Marie-Thérèse’s hand so firmly she flinched.
‘Ouch! You’re going to cripple me!’
‘Sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ His mouth suddenly went dry. His lips quivered, but words failed him.
‘Darling, is there something the matter? Are you feeling dizzy?’
‘Yes,’ he croaked. ‘No, I’m not feeling dizzy. But let’s find a bench. Let’s sit down for a while.’
After sitting down on a nearby bench, Marie-Thérèse’s brow knotted in worry and she looked into his eyes. ‘Maybe we should go home so that you can lie down?’
‘Yes, good idea. But let me recover my breath before we proceed.’
‘All right, no hurry. Is it something you ate?’
He did not respond. He closed his one good eye tightly and bowed his head. When he finally recovered, he swallowed before he spoke. ‘I don’t know what you’ll make of what I’m about to say, but it has to be said …’
‘Say it, darling, there’s nothing to fear. It’s just the two of us.’
‘Yes, it’s about the two of us …’
‘Yes?’ She sat back and searched his face. There was a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke. ‘What is it?’
‘My darling, I have not a cent to my name. Even the clothes on my back are not my own. You bought them.’
‘But why are you speaking about this now? I know, with your skills, it won’t be difficult for you to find a job once this war is over. We have enough reserves to take care of your … medical condition. I couldn’t live with myself if I failed you during your hour of need.’
‘Please, hear me out.’
‘But you’re not yourself. Your eyes look glazed, as if you’ve just seen a ghost. You need to lie down.’
‘Jislaaik,’ he said in his mother tongue, ‘can’t a man state his case without being interrupted?’
This silenced her.
‘What I am saying to you, sweetheart, is I am coming to you on my knees. I am asking if you could please, please take pity on this beggar and make an honest man of him. Will you marry me?’
CHAPTER 41
It was with shock that Jean-Jacques learned from Sebastien that Amiens, the town in which he had spent time recuperating, had fallen under German bombardment on 8 August. Bernard had fled to Arques-la-Bataille, leaving the exquisite mansion deserted. Jean-Jacques gestured animatedly, pacing about the room.
‘This is ridiculous, Sebastien, absolutely ridiculous,’ he shouted. ‘Here I am, an able-bodied man, a soldier who crossed the seas to come here and fight. But now I am following the progress of this war through newspaper reports.’
Sebastien who, like his brother-in-law-to-be, was trembling with anger after reading about the devastation that had been wrought on the town of Amiens, picked up a bottle of wine and smashed it against the wall of his office.
His Scottish secretary Elspeth poked her head through the door. ‘Anything the matter, monsieur?’
‘Sorry, Elspeth. Tell everyone to go home. Take the rest of the week off. All of you.’
‘But it’s only Tuesday, sir.’
‘I know. Just go home. What’s the point of what we’re doing when the rest of the country is in flames? Go home. All of you.’
‘Oui, monsieur. Merci beaucoup.’
It later turned out that Sebastien’s despair had been premature. In fact, what had happened was that on 8 August, the first day of what would later be called the Battle of Amiens, Allied forces advanced over seven miles. This was one of the greatest advances of the war, marking the end of trench warfare, which had been the phenomenon on the Western Front for the past three years. The British Fourth Army took 13000 prisoners, while the French captured a further 3000. Germany lost around 30000 men. On the other hand, the Fourth Army – comprised of British, Australian and Canadian infantry – suffered 8800 casualties. These did not include tank and air losses or those of their French allies. More positive news about Allied victories was to come over the next few weeks.
Emboldened by these developments on the front lines, developments which seemed to indicate that the war was drawing to a close, Jean-Jacques and Marie-Thérèse proceeded with their wedding plans. Growing up, he’d dreamed of an elaborate wedding ceremony that would be attended by hundreds of well-wishers, including relatives and neighbours, as was the norm in the Bloemfontein of his childhood. He’d
dreamed of a ceremony where a number of beasts would be slaughtered and where there would be singing and dancing. Sadly, he had no relatives here in France and, apart from the people he’d met through Marie-Thérèse’s family, he did not have many friends either. He was sad that his mother, uncle and cousins would not be there to witness this momentous occasion. What would his mother’s neighbours in her village say when they heard that ‘their son’ had got married without their blessings? But of course that was a crazy thought. They’d never hear of him ever again. The old Pitso was now dead.
As it happened, the ceremony, which took place on 10 December 1918 – almost a month after Germany had surrendered – was attended by Marie-Thérèse’s close family, and some of the people from Sebastien’s office. The food was good, the music splendid, but it still lacked the carefree spirit that he associated with weddings in Bloemfontein.
Nevertheless, he was thrilled. Marie-Thérèse was now his wife. They planned to start a family together. Every night before he fell asleep, he prayed: I’ll do my mother proud, wherever she is. I will honour and respect my wife. Together we shall have a brood of happy, contented children. No one taught me how to be a father, but with God’s guidance and grace, I’ll do my best.
Three months later, Marie-Thérèse broke the news that struck Jean-Jacques like a bolt of lightning. She was pregnant. The tears of joy that rushed to his eyes soon turned to tears of worry: he was still unemployed. While he still helped at Sebastien’s law firm, he did not regard it as a permanent appointment. How was he going to take care of his family? He knew that Marie-Thérèse did not necessarily want for money, but he felt that it was his responsibility as a man to take care of his family.
He rushed to a timber shop, where he bought cheap castaway pieces of wood and planks.
The shop owner was curious. ‘Whatever it is that you think you can make with this junk?’
‘A cot, sir, I want to build a cot for my son.’
‘I’m not much of a carpenter myself – I just sell timber – but I do tinker a little and I too have a baby on the way. I’d be curious to watch you put a crib together. May I come to your workshop?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do not have one, sir. I don’t even have tools.’
The man looked surprised. ‘How were you hoping to make a crib if you don’t have tools?’
‘I was hoping you’d direct me to a place where I could rent them.’
The shop owner looked at him long and hard. ‘I have a suggestion for you. I have some tools here on site, but I can’t let you take them home. If you like, you can work from here until you finish the crib.’
The arrangement suited them both: the shop owner, who duly introduced himself as Agostino, would learn by observation how to build a crib, and Jean-Jacques would work on the project away from his wife’s prying eyes.
A week later, the two men loaded the cot onto a truck and transported it to Jean-Jacques’ home. Marie-Thérèse was overjoyed when she saw it.
‘Your husband is a true craftsman,’ said Agostino. ‘Look at this piece of work. It looks like it is store bought!’
Three days later, Jean-Jacques brought home a bucket of white paint and a smaller tin of cherry-coloured paint. He painted the crib completely white. When it had dried, he set about decorating it with elaborate sketches of cherubic angels bearing garlands of cherry blossoms.
‘You’re a magician!’ Marie-Thérèse exclaimed. She couldn’t stop admiring the elaborate drawings. ‘It’s exquisite.’
‘Only the best for my loved ones. I draw my inspiration from your love.’
When Jean-Jacques’s son was born on 3 November 1919, Marie-Thérèse named him Victor, after one of her maternal uncles. His father loved the name, and added a second one: Motsomi, the hunter.
By the time Victor Motsomi Henri was six months, his father had been supplied with a new artificial eye, which looked more like the real thing. It felt more comfortable and never fell out of its socket, embarrassing him.
With a new mouth to feed, Jean-Jacques was feeling even more pressure to find himself a job.
‘Anything, Sebastien, absolutely anything,’ he pleaded with his brother-in-law one day.
‘You are under no obligation to find work, J-J,’ Sebastien said. ‘You’re still recuperating, man. Take your time. Marie-Thérèse can cope.’
‘I am not a charity case, Sebastien. I want to work. Just give me an opportunity. I won’t disappoint.’
It came to pass that Sebastien pulled some strings and Jean-Jacques found employment at the restaurant the Tour d’Argent in June 1920. He started out as a general assistant in the kitchen – chopping vegetables, cleaning, running errands and doing whatever it was that was required of him.
He worked hard and was always eager to learn. An easy-going person by nature, he endeared himself to the head chef, with whom he soon became friends.
His son was growing fast. Marie-Thérèse was happy that, although both father and son had explosive tempers, they were very close. Over the years, what brought them even closer was their love of art and music.
But then war broke out once again, and life as the family knew it was disrupted.
CHAPTER 42
Paris, 1946
‘It’s a miracle this house is still standing!’ Marie-Thérèse was beaming, having disembarked from a car that had driven her and Victor from Dieppe, where they had sought refuge during the long war years.
Jubilant, that’s how Jean-Jacques felt as he embraced his wife so tightly that he could feel her heart beating against his stomach. Then he felt her body break into rattling sobs.
‘You’re back home, now, you are safe,’ he whispered. Her tears seeped through his thin shirt, bathing his chest. She did nothing to stop the flow. He repeated soothingly, ‘You’re safe, sweetheart, home at last.’
When she had unburdened herself, she stepped back, a shy smile on her face. He wiped her tear-stained face with his white handkerchief. She took the handkerchief and blew her nose. Then she looked into his eyes, with relief, with love, with indulgence. He, in turn, took her in greedily. Her skin was healthy and luxuriant, her complexion clear, if slightly pale, thanks to staying indoors while the war had raged on. There was a new heaviness around her jowls.
Victor, who’d been standing a few feet away, shyly looking at his parents, now moved forward. ‘Enough of that now,’ he said. ‘I too want to say hello to my father.’
‘Careful, now, young man,’ his mother teased.
‘My hero!’ Jean-Jacques cried, giving Victor a hug. Jean-Jacques then stepped back, looked into his son’s face and kissed him on the forehead. The young man blushed, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Am I not too old for that, father?’
‘How you’ve grown up!’ Jean-Jacques said, playfully punching the young man’s arm.
‘So glad to see you again, father,’ Victor said in his quiet voice, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. He was indeed a man now. When the war had started, Victor was in the third year of his law degree in Nice.
After intense debate, it had been decided that Marie-Thérèse and Victor would see the war out at the coast. Sebastien would go and fight, while Jean-Jacques would remain in Paris. Marie-Thérèse had pleaded with her husband to come with them to Dieppe, but Jean-Jacques had prevailed. It helped his sanity that the Tour d’Argent stayed open even during the war. He had something to do, to calm his nerves, to keep him focused.
Now, after several long years, his loved ones were back for good. He knew he would have to work hard to re-establish his relationship with his son, but his plans to spend more time with Victor were thwarted when Victor was accepted to the University of Massachusetts Amherst on a full scholarship. While disappointed that his son would be leaving again so soon, Jean-Jacques was proud that his son was going to the United States of America, a country everyone was talking about.
The Americans had gained in popularity during the war. With the war now over, some of them had stay
ed on in Europe. They could be seen at night spots in the Saint-Germain district, one of which was a place called l’Échelle de Jacob, where Sebastien decided to take his brother-in-law and sister in April 1950.
As they entered the dark bar, a beautifully harsh sound seemed to tear into Jean-Jacques’ flesh. This was the unmistakable sound of a saxophone, but he had never heard it played this way. He hadn’t realised that such sounds could be coaxed out of this humble horn.
When they were seated, Sebastien could see his brother-in-law was taken with the music. ‘I don’t know what you make of it, but this is a new sound they call jazz. It’s new to us here, but I believe it’s been around for a while in the USA.’
‘Shhh,’ Jean-Jacques said, now listening to the piano gurgling out a torrent of notes. What a sound. He would soon learn much more about this music called jazz – a sound from the southern states of America. What a chapter in human civilisation, he thought. He sat back, closed his eyes, and allowed the sound to envelop him, drifting back to the sounds of his childhood. Music holds memories, rekindles memories, creates memories … Jean-Jacques wondered how a song from his youth, ‘The Song of the Sun’, would look dressed in the clothes of this new sound. It was a thought that preoccupied his mind for some time.
One Sunday afternoon in June, he went on his customary walk along the Seine. He used these walks not only for exercise but to have time by himself. To think, to dream. Sometimes he walked briskly, pausing every now and then to feed the birds. Other times he would walk until he found a nice quiet spot, where he would sit down, take out his sketchpad and pencil or piece of charcoal, and proceed to sketch a quick scene, or a face he’d encountered somewhere in the city during the day. That afternoon he’d decided to bring his new concertina. Once he had found a nice quiet copse, away from prying eyes, he sat down on the ground and started playing. He was trying to imitate the new jazz sound he’d been hearing at the club. He knew the concertina was not the perfect instrument for these sounds but, what the hell, he wasn’t performing for a paying audience. He was just experimenting.