An Instant in the Wind

by Andre Brink

  She sits with downcast eyes. (Forgive me that I have to play this game again—for your own sake, to get you safely home.) What really surprises her is the ease with which she has learned to lie; a question of experience.

  “And you say it happened just over the mountains?”

  “That was where the Bushmen attacked the trek, yes,” she confirms.

  “And then lost your husband too. Poor child, you’re so young still.”

  Elisabeth does not look up. The old woman sighs, parting her heavy legs to sit more comfortably. A few flies are buzzing round her head but she makes no effort to chase them away.

  “Yes,” says her husband. “We’re all exposed to the mercy of God. And He does chastise one severely. But we can’t complain, it's only that the cattle are dying in a heap. Poisonous irid, that's what it is. After the rains, you see.”

  “We lost our last horse like that.”

  “Yes, you can’t stay out of the Lord's way if He's looking for you. I still think it's because of all the Company's sins that we’re punished so hard. The farther one can get away from the Cape the better. Look at us. My wife and myself and our seven sons came to settle here—and today we’re all alone. The children gone over the mountains, farther and farther away. No stopping them. You may just as well expect an ant to sit on its arse.”

  “Actually I only wanted to ask you…”

  “Yes, that's what you said. Want us to help you to reach the Cape. Yes.” He takes another sip, sighing. “Only it's such a bad time of the year. I don’t really know.” He gets up and goes to the door, looking out towards his fields and the mountains on the far side of the valley, a hazy lilac in the late sun. “It's the fruit season now and the grapes are just beginning. The laborers are on their feet from before dawn to after sunset. I tell you, it's a full day's work keeping an eye on them.”

  “Perhaps you know of someone else…”

  “No, no, don’t misunderstand me. We’ll help you. Poor child, to be a widow at your age. Only it's hard to spare someone right now.”

  “I’ll pay for it,” she offers, restrained.

  “Good God, no, don’t think of it. How can I ask for money for a favor?” He returns to his chair. “What have you got to pay with anyway?” he asks with barely concealed curiosity.

  From the floor beside her chair she picks up the gun Adam stole when they left on the horse that night.

  “Mm,” he says reflectively, taking it from her to inspect it carefully, peering into the barrel, testing the flint, caressing the butt. “Mm. Not a bad gun at all. I don’t suppose you’ve got anything besides this?”

  Without a word she takes up her dirty bundle and undoes the thong. The two people watch eagerly as she unfolds the filthy skin, then sit back with obvious disappointment.

  “Nothing else?” the old man asks.

  She gets up, standing before him, thin in her crumpled dress, her hair plaited on her shoulders, her head raised.

  “All I have left is myself,” she says.

  “No, no, that's all right,” he answers hastily, avoiding his wife's accusing eye. “I told you we didn’t want anything. One should help one's neighbor, shouldn’t one? And I suppose we would have sent a wagon to the Cape in any case, in a week or two. I have some feathers and eggs and ivory and stuff my eldest son brought over the mountains some time ago. So we’ll just send the wagon a bit sooner. It's no trouble at all. Thank you for the gun anyway.”

  There was something unreal about traveling on the wagon, perhaps the strangest lap of their whole journey. All those months they had trekked on foot, through the forest and over the mountains and across the burning plains; even at times when their motion had seemed mechanical it was still up to them to keep going, to decide when to stop or when to change direction, when to go faster or more slowly. Now they were sitting on a wagon subjected to the rhythm of the slow oxen plodding along, with no control over their progress any more. They were carried through the days as if towards a fate to which they had resigned themselves in advance. Elisabeth in her dress, newly washed and starched and ironed by a slave girl on the farm, Adam in a linen shirt and knee-length trousers that had grown too small for the old man. The clothes had an effect of estrangement on them. They felt ashamed to look at one another, as if they had just discovered that they were naked.

  On the driver's seat sat an old slave, Januarie, trailing the long hippo hide whip across his knees, his eyes partly obscured by the brim of his hat. The oxen seemed to know the route by heart—through a narrow gorge to the lush valley of the Land of Waveren; then changing their course to due north, following a broad wagon trail all along a winding river which brought them to the dark and amber billowing hills of the Swartland; and from there back to the south, aiming for the huge granite domes of the Pearl Mountain. Once there, all that remained would be a few days across the barren stretch of the Cape Flats to where the blue of Table Mountain would slowly be defined more persuasively against the blue of the sky.

  Unreal. Because at night she had to sleep on the wagon while Adam joined the old driver under its belly. Even in the daytime their meetings had to be contrived in such a way as to appear coincidental. They dared not let the old man become suspicious. Would it really matter? By the time he was back on the farm to tell his story they would be safe, his freedom confirmed. Yet something restrained them. Fear of what Januarie might disclose on the Cape market; but also reticence, a need to maintain intact what had so long been theirs alone. For her there was something in it of a bride's withdrawal before the wedding. It was so close now, and so unavoidable: she wished to safeguard, in those last few vulnerable days, the dream of virginity. It would so soon be over. And for him, perhaps: On this last journey to which I’ve resigned myself, unable to prevent it, the old driver's presence has rendered you untouchable again; I must maintain that illusion, I must even, momentarily, believe in it myself. Soon I shall hold you in my arms again and recognize you. For the moment there is a curious necessity to guard this distance between you and me. It is unsettling; yet strangely comforting.

  Unreal. As if now they were moving forward but the earth was slowly sliding backwards under them, returning to the past, resisting the future which was brushing their faces like wind, although the air was windless. This, he thought, was like the springbuck flooding past them on the plains, drawn towards their fate with large and unseeing eyes.

  Unreal: back. Here the hills, covered with dark rhinoceros bushes, were unfolding around them, but by tomorrow they would already belong to the past.

  “Do you often come this way?” Adam asked the old driver.

  He first finished chewing his quid, spitting the tobacco juice over the rump of the rear ox, before he replied: “From time to time. Three or four times a year.”

  “Do you like it in the interior?”

  “Yes. I got a good Baas. We grew up together, him and me. That's why he always send me back to the Cape, so I can see my wife. She was sold before we left. And she getting old now, so it's good to visit her. One never know when will be the last time.”

  “If you’d been free…?”

  Januarie uttered a small whinnying laugh. “What shall I do being free? The Baas he look after me. I won’t know what to do with myself if I was free.”

  “Were you born in the Cape?” He couldn’t explain why he kept on questioning the man. Perhaps it was only to pass the interminable hours of the day while she lay in the back, dozing.

  “Not born, no,” replied Januarie. “I came with my mother from Madagascar. But I can’t remember nothing. I was too small then. Better that way.” With another chuckle. They went on in silence for some time. Then he asked: “You glad to get back home, hey?”

  “Home?” asked Adam, surprised.

  The Cape.

  “Oh yes, of course.” He stared ahead, repeating slowly, “Yes. Home.”

  “You been away a long time now?”

  “A very long time. I’ve almost forgotten what the Cape looks like.�
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  “He always look the same, mos. All these years I been seeing him. New houses, streets, churches and things. New gallows the other day. But he stay the same.”

  “Have you ever been to the Island?”

  “Robben Island? Never. Don’t want to neither.”

  The moving sound of the water dripping from the oars in the dark.

  “You was in trouble?” the old man suddenly asked, prodding.

  “No,” said Adam quickly. “I just… went there sometimes to load fruit or water.”

  Januarie looked at him with wise old eyes, chuckling. “Why you try to hide what happened, hey?” Stuffing another quid into his mouth. “Heh heh, I was a real bastard in my time, too, don’t worry. All the beatings I got. But one get easier when you get old. Your blood lie down. It's no use.”

  “My blood will never lie down,” he said grimly.

  “You still young. You’ll see.”

  “You’re allowed to come all this way on your own,” Adam said suddenly. “Haven’t you ever tried to run away?”

  “Run away?” The watery eyes looked startled. “Where I go to? I belong to my Baas.”

  Adam said nothing.

  “Tell me,” Januarie demanded. “You: will you now run away from your Madam?”

  For a long time he didn’t reply. Then, tersely. “Of course not.”

  “You see?” said the old man smugly, chuckling.

  The wagon went on, swaying unevenly along the ridges of the trail they were following.

  “You go take the lead for a while,” ordered Januarie. “These oxes walking today as if they got a sopie. And I want to get the Pearl Mountain before dark.”

  Self-conscious in his new clothes, he went to the front to lead the team. The days were falling away now, he thought. Would his mother still be on the farm? Was she still alive? And the Baas—and Lewies? Would they still remember him in the Cape? But they never forgot. And if Lewies was dead they would demand his blood from him. He’d paid for it with her life, she’d said. Please trust me, Adam. I want you to be happy. It is so near now.

  “You’re so quiet,” he said, almost awkwardly, when, later, he went round the wagon to sit with her. The front flap was closed; the driver couldn’t see them.

  “I’m not feeling very well,” she said evasively.

  “Are you ill?”

  She shook her head; she seemed pale. “No. I suppose it's just the movement of the wagon. It's so slow. And it never stops.”

  “The driver said he wanted to reach Pearl tonight.”

  “Then it can’t be so far any more, can it?”

  “Only the Cape Flats. By tomorrow we’ll see the Mountain. And in three days—perhaps four, with this load…”

  She nodded, her eyes cast down, her legs swinging over the edge of the wagon. Under the wheels small clouds of dust were turned up and remained hanging in the air behind them.

  “Are you unhappy?” he asked.

  “No. Of course not.”

  He kept watching her, waiting for her to slowly raise her head and look at him. “I can see you’re not really happy.”

  She said nothing.

  “Elisabeth.”

  She shook her head. Her eyes were burning. Does happiness exist then? Or is it only something you yearn for? No! I have tasted it and plumbed it, it does exist, I know it intimately. Paradise exists. Even though one may only see it in fleeting moments, even though it is always threatened.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, pressing her head against him. “It's just so strange to live apart from you these days. Once we’re there… I am happy. Really, I am.”

  “No, my girl,” her father had said. “Your thoughts aren’t with this game at all.” For a moment his hand had hovered over the chessboard before he put it down to sweep all the pawns from it. “What's the matter then?” he asked.

  “Just the excitement of a bride-to-be,” she evaded him, trying to smile.

  “You don’t look excited at all. This past week your mother has had to lie down ten times a day. But you…”

  “I wanted to be with you this one last time” she confessed. That's why I said we must play chess. You’re so busy otherwise.”

  “From tomorrow you’ll have a husband to keep you occupied.”

  “Yes.”

  “And a good man he is too. I’m satisfied. But I’ll miss you, of course.”

  “We won’t be away for ever.”

  “But when you come back…” He smiled sadly. “You know what the Bible says about ‘one flesh.’”

  “Is it true?” she asked impulsively. “Was it like that for you? Is it really worth so much that one wants to sacrifice everything else in the world for it?”

  “You mustn’t think of it as a sacrifice,” he protested. “After all, one chooses it freely.”

  “How free is one to choose?” she asked, impetuous.

  “It was you who simply confronted us with the fact that you were going to marry Larsson,” he reminded her.

  “That's not what I meant,” she said irritably. “I want to know whether it's possible, whether it works? To be one flesh. To have nothing left of oneself.”

  “My darling girl…” He hesitated.

  “What happens when one opens one's eyes one day to discover that it has all been a mistake? That one has never been together at all? That all the time one has been living next to each other like two wagon trails running parallel and disappearing on the horizon… ?”

  “It's common for brides to have doubts on the eve of their wedding,” he tried to reassure her. “Your mother was just like you.”

  “Why can’t you be honest with me?” she demanded.

  “But I’m telling you”

  “One does something with open eyes. You’re absolutely certain your eyes are open. But it's like dreaming that you are awake. In the end you do wake up to find it's all been a dream…” She reflected. “One does it because one believes in it, because it seems right. Even if it means going against the rest of the world. You think you’re creating a new world for yourself. For him and yourself together, one flesh. And then, one day… What happens if one opens one's eyes to find one is still alone? And all they can say to one is: You see? We warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. Now you must bear the consequences….”

  “Now you’re exaggerating, Elisabeth,” he said, almost annoyed. “I’ll get you something from the doctor.”

  “What did you do the day you woke up?” she asked with deliberate cruelty.

  He glanced at her, and lowered his head. “How did you know?” he asked almost inaudibly.

  “Don’t you think anyone can see it?”

  He shook his head. “We wanted to be happy. We tried. I swear. Her family was against it, they said I didn’t belong to their class. She was accustomed to a better sort of life. I was only a man from the Cape, my father had rebelled against his Governor. We decided we’d show them. We would not allow them to interfere with our happiness.”

  “But why did you fail then? If you were really so serious about it?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed. He was looking much older. “Must something specific happen? It just comes about. One day one simply discovers that the world is no longer what it has seemed to be.”

  She looked down at the empty chessboard.

  On an impulse he got up and came round the table to her, taking her shoulders in his hands. “Elisabeth, please. I don’t want you to have these doubts. You dare not fail too. Ever since you were a little girl I could see you had a real spirit in you. My mother's Huguenot blood. My father's rebelliousness. Don’t let them get you down. I believe in you, do you hear me?” His hands were trembling on her shoulders. “It's enough that I’ve made a mess of my life. You must succeed. Something beautiful, something worth while. Not just for your own sake but for mine as well.”

  Pressing one of her hands on his, she stared in front of her. “But is this the way to do it? To get married. To become one flesh. What will be left of my
self?”

  He shook his head, giving a small wry laugh. “You’ve always wanted to have things your way. You’re so stubborn.”

  “Because it's my life!” she said. “I can’t allow anyone else to dictate to me. I’m not just a woman, I’m a person. I want to mean something. I don’t want to die one day knowing everything has been in vain.”

  “Are you really so terribly unhappy, my darling?”

  She looked down at the board again.

  “Perhaps we should rather have finished the game,” she said, sighing. “Talking doesn’t get one any farther, does it?” She got up and looked him in the eyes. “Please don’t pay any attention to me. I’m just a silly girl getting married tomorrow. I am happy. Really, I am.”

  The wagon rode on. They sat in silence. After a while Adam put out his hand and laid it in her lap. She covered it with hers. Creaking and swaying, the wagon went on its way.

  This I shall fight for, she thought. To keep it intact. It is ours. Until today it has belonged to us only: in a few days’ time it will be exposed to the world. But I shall fight for it. To be one flesh. Why else have we come this long way? It cannot all have been in vain. We shall survive; together. All this time we’ve been nothing but man and woman, two people alone in the wilderness. From now on the Cape will try its best to make us white and black. She closed her eyes tightly. This man sitting next to me, whom I love; this stranger I know so well.

  No: we must no longer question it or wonder whether anything may have turned out differently. It is unworthy, and irrelevant. What has happened, has happened because you are you and I am I. If we’d been different we would have acted differently. We ourselves have determined what has happened and what will happen from now on. The land has made it possible. Therefore we have no right to regret anything.

  The innocence of a girl in a mulberry tree.

  “If it's all right for Madam we outspan here tonight. Then we can go to the market early in the morning,” says old Januarie, hat in hand.

  He has been driving the oxen in long shifts to cross the Cape Flats in three days: now, the sun setting behind the mountains, they are just outside the town. In the distance one can see the somber stonework of the castle. Glimpses of white houses among orchards. Beyond, the purple-green kloofs and cliffs of Devil's Mountain, Table Mountain, Lion Mountain. Down below, the wide sweep of the bay. During the past few days the Mountain has been rising almost imperceptibly on the horizon, more and more blue and formidable in its self-sufficient silence. Now they are here.