by Damon Galgut
‘I think we’ll find a way,’ I said.
For the first couple of hours he tried to get Godfrey to speak. It was almost an obsessive point of principle with him, as if he were trying to prove something. The questions kept coming aggressively: ‘How do you like living here? What’s the future of the country? What if SWAPO doesn’t get in?’ Godfrey gave terse little replies, a word or two at the most. It was as much a principle with him not to answer. Through all of this my mother and I kept silent, while I stared at the wart on that neck.
Eventually Dirk Blaauw seemed to give up. He turned his attention to my mother and the two of them kept up a flow of light chatter, making jokes and laughing. A web of white words passed between them.
Now he was shaking his head at the memory of Godfrey. ‘I’m not a racist,’ he said. ‘In my book, black and white are the same. But some people are kaffirs. And that was a kaffir back there.’
My mother didn’t answer, but I saw her hands tighten on the wheel.
We drove south out of Windhoek, down the centre of the country. All around us, South West Africa was turning into Namibia. The air was shimmering and bright, as if a gigantic energy had been unleashed somewhere. The people we passed at the side of the road were full of jubilant animation, even in the heat. There was dancing and singing. A stooped old woman, sitting on a rock, waved a small flag on a stick. A thin, very tall young man was shouting and pushing his fist into the air. Three little schoolgirls, dressed in identical black and white uniforms, ran along next to the car, shrieking and yelling in a silly abandon, whirling their satchels around their heads.
Towards nightfall we stopped for a meal at a roadside hotel. We sat at a low wooden table in the shade. To the sad German woman who was taking our order, my mother said:
‘I’ll have a steak.’
When the woman was gone I turned to my mother. ‘I thought you were vegetarian.’
‘I need the protein,’ she said. ‘I have a craving for protein.’
‘You’re doing the right thing,’ Dirk Blaauw said. ‘We weren’t meant to eat vegetables. Man is a hunter by instinct. A killer. The world is a jungle. Nè, Patrick?’ He punched my shoulder and laughed. ‘I have animals on my farm,’ he went on. ‘Cows, sheep, goats. And pigs. I have pigs. You must come up and visit my farm.’
‘We’d love to,’ my mother said. ‘Patrick?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Instead of driving through tonight,’ he said, ‘why don’t you stay over? What’s the hurry? Have a good sleep, I’ll give you breakfast in the morning... Stay over with me tonight.’
‘All right,’ said my mother. ‘Thank you. All right.’ To me she added: ‘That all right, Patrick?’
‘Yup,’ I said.
Later, while we were eating, he got up and went to the bathroom. She leaned toward me. ‘His eyes are amazing,’ she said. ‘So blue. I’m falling in love with his eyes.’ She giggled.
‘I think,’ I said slowly, ‘I think I might move out of home.’
‘What?’
‘It might be a good idea for me to live on my own. To get a flat by myself.’
She looked at me, then she looked away. ‘You can’t do a thing on your own.’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘Well,’ she said with strangulated gaiety. ‘If you think you’d like that. We’ll talk about it another time.’
When Dirk Blaauw came back, my mother smiled at him. Her steak was underdone and she had a thin line of blood on her teeth.
‘Shall we go?’ she said brightly.
We came to the border at sunset. As we filled out the forms and had the passports stamped, one of the soldiers set his dog on the car. It was an Alsatian, with pale yellow eyes. It snarled savagely at us through the glass.
The soldier laughed at our fright. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Moenie worry nie.’
On the far side of the river we drove back into South Africa. We had crossed a line on a map and were in a different land altogether. Hills of grey stone loomed around us, the sky was thorny with stars.
Dirk Blaauw made a fist with one hand and struck it hard against his ribs. ‘I love this country,’ he said. His hoarse voice was fierce.
‘Me too,’ cried my mother. ‘I also love it. Me too.’
They looked at each other and smiled.
‘You’re not tired of driving?’ he said.
‘No, not yet. Just keep talking to me and I’ll stay awake.’
‘I’m going to,’ he said. ‘I’m going to keep talking. Do you mind if I smoke my pipe?’
‘As long as I can have a cigarette.’
He took it out of her bag for her. He slid it into her mouth. Then he pushed in the lighter in the dashboard. While they waited for it to heat up, he said to her: ‘I think you’re going to like my farm.’
‘I have a feeling I will too.’
The lighter popped out. He held it for her, while she inclined her head. The cigarette flared and for a second their two profiles were silhouetted in this tiny red explosion. Then they both looked ahead. The car was dark again. In front of us, empty and cold, the road travelled on towards home.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Geraldine and Richard Aron, Gavin Lief, Kelvan and Alison Schewitz, and to my agent Tony Peake for assistance rendered during the writing of the book.
Also by Damon Galgut
The Quarry
When a man of the cloth gives up his body, soul and identity to another, who is watching?
On a lonely stretch of road a chance encounter leads to murder. The victim is a religious minister on his way to a new post in a nearby town and the killer decides to steal the dead man's identity in order to conceal the crime. But one of his first duties as the new minister is to bury a body that has just been discovered in suspicious circumstances. As the corpse is laid to rest the manhunt begins…
‘There are thrilling images here, powerful themes and almost scarily precise writing... Galgut is at the leading edge of what is turning out to be a brilliant documentation of South Africa’s post-apartheid transition.’ Patrick Ness, Daily Telegraph
‘An uncompromising journey into the heart of South Africa’s darkness, written in prose that is at once stark and striking... An impressive work.’ Michael Arditti, Literary Review
An extremely atmospheric book in a hazy, raw and entirely realistic sense... A compelling read about guilt and evasion of truth.’ Tom Hiney, Spectator
Atlantic Books
Paperback Fiction
ISBN 1 84354 295 1
Also by Damon Galgut
The Good Doctor
Shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize,
the Commonwealth Writers Prize and the
International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award
Laurence Waters arrives at his rural hospital posting full of optimism. Frank, the disgruntled deputy, is forced to share his room with the new arrival but is determined to stay out of Laurence’s ambitious schemes. When the dilapidated hospital is looted, the two men find themselves uneasy allies in a world where the past is demanding restitution from the present.
‘A lovely, lethal, disturbing novel.’ Christopher Hope, Guardian
‘Beautifully written, evoking mood and tension in precise and exhilarating storytelling.’ Joan Bakewell, Observer Books of the Year
‘Compulsive reading.’ Clare Morrall, Guardian Books of the Year
‘The Good Doctor will be seen as one of the great literary triumphs of South Africa’s transition… by a novelist of great and growing power.’ Rian Malan, author of My Traitor’s Heart
Atlantic Books
Paperback Fiction
ISBN 1 84354 202 1
Also by Damon Galgut
Small Circle of Beings
The family – that small circle of beings where love should flourish – can also be an arid and alienating territory where hatred and violence may ignite.
Small Circle of Beings is set in a house far out of town, at the end of a d
ust road that rises up into the mountains. The desperate bondage of family life is revealed to a mother as she sits at her son’s bedside where he lies sick, perhaps dying. Galgut’s understated prose unpicks the emotional paradoxes of domesticity with a surprising, surreal twist. In a world where some of the most intimate relationships are those between strangers, Small Circle of Beings describes how children must learn to pull away from their parents if they are to find their own way.
‘Damon Galgut is a writer of immense clarity and control. His prose feels as if it’s been fired through a crucible, burning away all the comfortable excess until only a hard concentrated purity remains… scarily precise writing.’ Daily Telegraph
‘Astonishingly mature, subtle and understated…
a remarkable collection.’ Sunday Express
Atlantic Books
Paperback Fiction
ISBN 1 84354 461 X