Then the rope did touch the surface of the water and almost immediately went slack. He and one of the others pulled it out of the water and examined the end. The break was clean, as if cut by a knife.
‘A branch must have caught it,’ the burly man said.
Uncle Stefan turned to the rest of us. ‘We’ve got to get it back faster. If it touches the water, it’s gone.’
‘Why?’ It was the young technician who had run with it.
‘Just the weight of the water,’ Uncle Stefan said. This time the burly man said nothing.
I looked at the river. The immeasurable force of the water coming down from the hills formed waves and troughs, almost a static picture of a rough sea. The colour was a rich brown as the top soil of the cane lands was washed towards the Indian Ocean. The river seemed to have a purposefulness that the sea did not. I could not vouch for the strength of the rope, but I did not think that any human would have lasted more than seconds in it.
At the firing of the first rocket, Abraham had also tried to run with the rope. Now Uncle Stefan called him closer. ‘Abraham, you hold the box steady,’ he said. ‘See that you don’t let it slide into the water.’ Uncle Stefan fired the second rocket. The young technician, supported by one of his colleagues and me, ran with the end of the rope. We did better the second time, pulling back much more of the slack. The rope only just touched the water, and again it went slack immediately. By now the burly man in the overall was silent.
‘Kêrels,’ Uncle Stefan said. ‘I’ve only got one more. We need a strategy.’
The strategy we came up with was a sort of relay. Scrambling up the bank, we had been slipping and losing ground. Now we formed a chain of nine or ten men, including me, with gaps of about four strides between each one. Each of us would have to moved fast and hand over the end of the rope to the next man.
Again Uncle Stefan’s shot was on target. The rope described a beautiful arch, high over the river, curling down beyond the framework on the other bank. ‘Run, kêrels, run,’ Uncle Stefan was yelling again.
We ran and passed the rope like a practised relay team. And the rope stayed out of the water. Everyone cheered, Abraham and I louder then anyone.
We watched while the riggers tied a thin steel wire to the plastic rope and pulled that across, careful to keep it clear of the water. Once that was secured, they pulled a steel cable over and were busy sending over a heavier steel cable when we left to go home. ‘That was nice, Pa,’ Abraham said on the way back. ‘I liked that.’
‘Me too,’ I said.
‘You know what, kêrels?’ Uncle Stefan said. ‘I liked it too. It was fun.’
This time I was awake all the way home. Every river had become a storming deluge, every little stream an impassable torrent and every dry watercourse a bustling creek. At two points along the road, water was flowing over the tarmac. Each time Uncle Stefan slowed, but drove through without stopping. Once the water lapped briefly at the underside of the car, the exhaust note deepening when it dropped below the surface of the water.
Unlike the short, violent storms we usually had on the Zululand coast, the storms went on and on for weeks that year.
That was also the year my father turned fifty. On another rainy night, we set out in two cars, my father’s and Uncle Stefan’s, to celebrate his birthday. Mama had chosen a restaurant up in Queensburgh that he particularly liked. The owner was an Afrikaner whose speciality was boerekos. The five of our family and the three of Uncle Stefan’s filled a big table. The evening was an extravagance such as my father rarely allowed. But Mama had said, ‘Your fiftieth birthday is a big occasion. We’re all going out for dinner and we are ordering champagne and dessert and everything.’ There were times that he knew better than to argue with Mama.
So that is what we did, creeping down the centre of almost-deserted roads through rain that beat so heavily on the windscreen that the wipers, at full speed, struggled to keep the glass clear. Once we even came to a complete halt and my father switched on the hazard lights.
The place was warm, the food was wonderful – not just in the opinion of Abraham and me – and they had baked a big cake with lettering that read ‘Happy Fiftieth, Bernardus’. The only shadow across the face of our happiness was Abraham’s health. He had deteriorated unexpectedly in the previous few days and could hardly walk. He tried leaning on me as we went up the stairs into the restaurant, but had to sit down on the bottom step. Eventually we got him onto my back and I carried him in. ‘I’m just tired,’ he told me when no one else could hear. ‘I’ll be good again tomorrow.’ I saw Uncle Stefan looking at us, an expression on his face that I was not able to read. Even looking back, it puzzles me. It was not anxiety or fear. Perhaps it was closer to resignation than any other emotion. At the time, I saw none of that. In my experience people got sick, but they always got better. It was the way things always worked out.
The weather being the way it was, there was only one other couple in the restaurant. When Uncle Stefan got up to propose a toast, they stopped eating and listened. Somehow he managed to look and sound jovial. While speaking, he looked only at my father, not even glancing at Abraham or me. ‘Fifty is an excellent age for a man,’ he said. ‘Fifty is an excellent age for a man, because he has enough of the energy of his youth. He still has the strength of a lion, but he also has the wisdom to use it well.’
‘Hear, hear,’ the man at the other table said. He also looked about fifty. My father too looked pleased. ‘At fifty, a man is at the top of his game in his career,’ Uncle Stefan continued, smiling at the response his speech was receiving. ‘He knows what to do to make a success of things and he has both the strength and the intelligence to do it. He has reached the time of life when giving orders comes naturally, and because it comes naturally, people stop and listen and obey. Fifty is an excellent age for a man, because a man still has what it takes to attract younger women, but his wife thinks he is past it, leaving him an open playing field.’
‘Sies,’ Auntie Virginia said. ‘You’re drunk, Stefan. Imagine talking such nonsense in front of the children.’ The man at the other table was laughing.
‘But,’ he added, turning to Auntie Virginia, ‘at fifty a man also has the wisdom to turn away from temptation, wisdom that he may have lacked when he was younger.’ Auntie Virginia smiled and shook her head. I am not sure that she was convinced. ‘At fifty, a man no longer has to put on a pretence the way he did when he was young. He knows himself now and he no longer has anything to prove. Fifty is an excellent age for a man because he has come of age in every way. He is in charge of his destiny. There are many reasons why fifty is an excellent age for a man.’
Everyone in the restaurant applauded Uncle Stefan’s speech, even Auntie Virginia and Mama. The couple at the other table clapped, as did the waiters. Even the chef had emerged from the kitchen to listen to Uncle Stefan. After he had finished, he passed a second champagne bottle to the other table and then to the staff, so that everyone could join in the toast. ‘To my brother,’ he said, ‘who has turned fifty today. To a man who is in the prime of his life and is going to stay in that prime for many more years, a good man, a serious man, a man who loves his family and his country, a man who knows how to have fun.’ I was not too sure about the last part of that description of my father, but we all drank the toast enthusiastically. After that we all sang ‘Lank sal hy lewe’, and while we were still wishing him a long life, the waiters started ‘Why was he born so beautiful?’ in English and we joined in with that too, ending with a rousing ‘Why was he born at all?’
My father and Mama left the restaurant hand in hand, something I did not see that often. Uncle Stefan was smiling benevolently at them, as if he were the sole cause of the moment’s warmth. And perhaps he was.
On the way to the restaurant, my father had driven in front with Uncle Stefan following. Now they did it the other way around, but this time I asked if I could travel with Abraham. My father, in the best mood I had ever seen, waved a relaxed h
and. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Away with you.’
The rain had eased a little and was coming from behind, so driving took less concentration. This time the wipers handled the rain well. We followed the same route home that we had taken on the way there. Going through hilly country, near Yellowwood Park Nature Reserve, the road turned to the right and fell sharply into a dip. A low bridge crossed a stream that was so narrow it was usually invisible under the ferns that overhung it from either bank.
After the experience when Uncle Stefan shot the rope across the river, I was fascinated by flooding and the level of rivers. On the way to the restaurant, I had noticed that the water was visible this time, flowing just below the bridge. But nothing could have prepared us for the state of the stream as we came round the bend and dropped into the dip.
Uncle Stefan’s car hit the water as if we were crashing into a solid wall. In a moment there was water everywhere. It came surging up over the bonnet and the windscreen, the wipers struggling against the sheer volume of it. It was also coming up from the floor. Uncle Stefan’s car was an old one and perhaps the seals around the pedals were worn away. Outside, the water was level with the bottom of the window on my side. Inside, it was halfway up my calves.
We had come to a halt in the centre of the bridge, the stream rising like a wave against the upstream side of the car where Abraham was sitting. The car jerked and we were moving sideways, shuddering as the tyres scraped the surface in the direction they were not designed for.
On the downstream side, the edge of the bridge had turned into a waterfall, the torrent pouring over the concrete edge into a shallow depression that was hidden in the darkness. The car shuddered towards the edge again, but stopped a second time. ‘We got to get out,’ Uncle Stefan was shouting. ‘If we go over the bridge, we’re all finished.’ I caught a glimpse of Abraham’s wild eyes in a beam of light, probably from a nearby house.
I tried to open the door on my side, but the weight of the water was too great. ‘The window, turn down the window,’ Uncle Stefan was yelling. ‘Let the water come in.’
I opened the window on the downstream side and the water poured in. As the car filled, I pulled myself through the open window. I could feel Abraham behind me. In the chaos of sight and sound, I had seen a movement on the bank we had just left. ‘Pa,’ I yelled.
I was out face first, but still holding onto the frame of the car’s window. A surge of water dragged me below the surface, then suddenly lifted me and I could breathe again. Abraham had his head out of the window. I reached for him and tried to pull him through. He had taken hold of the window frame with both hands, struggling to get through with what remained of his strength. He came out suddenly, the water banging him against the frame on both sides. I turned and backed into him. I felt his arms wrapped around my neck. He was trying to anchor his legs around my waist. For a moment we were sheltered by the car. Uncle Stefan and Auntie Virginia seemed to have found their way out on the other side. I could see my father struggling towards us through the water.
The car again shuddered under the pressure of the water as it moved closer to the edge of the bridge. Staying in its shelter seemed crazy. If it went over the edge, we would go with it. ‘Hold on.’ Above the noise, I was shouting to Abraham. I could hear the shrillness of desperation in my voice. ‘Abraham, hold on.’ On the other side of the car Uncle Stefan and Auntie Virginia were struggling against the current. I saw Uncle Stefan turn to look in our direction.
As I broke clear of the car’s protective shelter I felt Abraham’s legs slip from my waist. His arms were still around my neck, pressing too tightly. I reached back and got a grip on his belt. My father was not far away now, fighting the current. He was reaching out a hand towards me, but still too far away to take hold of me. He entered a patch of light and his face looked as frightened as I felt. Then something seemed to give way beneath him and he was drawn under. ‘Pa,’ I called.
We were up to our chests. Could a part of the road have collapsed? Something rose up out of the dark water and I felt a blow against the side of my head. I went down on one knee. I tried to rise, but went down a second time, the water sweeping over me. I still had hold of Abraham’s belt.
Then it had slipped through my fingers and the pressure of his arms on my throat had gone. I got back on my feet and broke the surface in time to see the branch of a tree sweep Abraham towards the edge. A moment later he had passed into the darkness beyond the bridge.
My father had reappeared and had hold of my arm. When could he have reached me? He was helping me back to shore and I was coughing water out of my lungs. ‘Abraham,’ I gasped at my father. ‘Abraham.’
We staggered up the slope of the road in knee-deep water. ‘Where is he?’ my father shouted.
‘The river caught Abraham,’ I shouted at my father, pointing downstream. Uncle Stefan had been on the upstream side of the car. Now I could not see him either. Then I heard him above the noise of the water. ‘Bernard, help here … Abraham—’ His voice disappeared into the noise of the torrent.
‘Stay here with your mother,’ he ordered me. ‘I’m going to search for him.’ I had never before heard such panic in his voice.
I could see my mother and sisters in the shallow water as my father rushed towards the edge of the bank. I saw his feet slip and he went down a mud slope on the seat of his pants. This time, obeying him was not possible. Abraham was there. He’s not strong, something inside of me was saying. He’s not strong and I let him go.
I ran after my father, sliding down the bank in the same place where he had disappeared. The surface was slippery with the smoothness of hard, wet clay. He was somewhere ahead of me, but out of sight. I lost my footing and landed back in the stream, feet first this time, but in a quiet bend, shielded from the main current. I found my feet on a sandy surface where the water was no more than waist deep. The figure of a man was running down the opposite bank and I thought I heard Uncle Stefan calling for his son.
Then Abraham was there, in the current. In the faint light from one of the properties adjoining the river, I saw his back lift out of the water and a hand break the surface. At least I thought that was what I saw. I ran out into the stream until it was too deep and too powerful, then I swam towards the place where I had seen him. But the force of the current swept me downstream. I felt myself tumbled over and over, driven below the surface. My face scraped against the abrasive surface of a sandbank. My head came up, but my right knee hit a rock. Then I was up against a grassy bank and scrambling, breathless, to safety.
I had been washed across the stream and was now on the same bank as Uncle Stefan. My knee was hurting. I ran downstream, trying to pick out any sign of Abraham. The bank was higher now and the water in darkness. If Abraham had been directly below me, I would probably not have seen him. Twice I fell, once over the edge of the bank, but the grass was dense and I grabbed enough to pull myself back.
A few times I saw Uncle Stefan ahead of me, running as if he knew where Abraham was. I came to a place where the stream was partially dammed, probably by logs that had been washed down. I could hear the water rushing through them on the downstream side, but the noise level had fallen and I thought I heard my father calling to me and Uncle Stefan. There was no direct light from the surrounding houses. The faint reflection of the city lights against the low-lying clouds was the only light.
The bank disappeared beneath me and I was back in the water and having to swim again. This time the water along the bank was full of branches and small bushes that had come down with the flood water. I tried to break through them to get back to the bank, all the while kicking to keep my head above water. Then, suddenly, I was being pulled out. Uncle Stefan had hold of my shirt collar. ‘Abraham—’ He sounded breathless, but not just in the way caused by running. ‘Abraham? Did you see him?’
‘I thought I saw him upstream, but I couldn’t get to him.’
‘Upstream?’ The breathless quality had not left his voice.
‘Yes, but the current was bringing him down.’
‘He can’t get past this,’ Uncle Stefan said. ‘The logs will stop him. Chrissie, you stay here. Watch out for him. I’m going back to search further up.’
After a while I heard movement in the scrub on the other bank and my father’s voice calling to me. ‘I’m here,’ I shouted back.
‘Did you find Abraham?’
‘No. Uncle Stefan’s gone back upstream to look for him.’
‘Dear Jesus,’ my father said. ‘Dear Jesus, I must go and help Stefan.’
‘He said I must stay here,’ I called.
‘Jump up and down. Don’t get cold. Stay warm.’ He paused. ‘No. Go back to the car. You’re wet. You’ll die if you stay here.’
I waited at the place where the water had dammed for perhaps an hour before I started back upstream. During that time the level dropped at least a foot as the water siphoned through the dam of logs. I found Uncle Stefan and my father, who had crossed to our side somehow, searching along the bank. There was another man with them and they had torches now. I wanted to stop and help, but my father sent me on to the car. By the time I reached the bridge, the water level had already dropped to perhaps half its earlier depth. Our car was still on the bridge, but standing at a different angle to when I had last seen it. I wanted to try to wade across to Mama and the girls, but Mama waved me away. A lady from a house nearby took me inside, gave me a towel to dry myself, something hot to drink and some of her son’s clothes. ‘What the hell happened?’ her husband kept asking. Auntie Virginia was also in the house, sitting silently by herself, her face drained of any colour, her entire body shaking.
With the first faint grey of dawn, I found Uncle Stefan kneeling next to Abraham’s body on the bank near the place where the water had dammed. My father and a few other men were also there, gathered in a little knot, as if to support Uncle Stefan. My father told me later that they had just found Abraham when I got there. His body had been trapped beneath a branch that was snagged between the bank and a rock. They had only seen him because his shirt had come undone and a piece was floating on the surface.
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