Magistrate Coetzee spoke quietly. 'Sometimes, if you lucky, you see a small buck, a little duiker or an old warthog couple who come down to drink. But usually they wait till dark, then you hear them grunting, just like ordinary pigs. Maybe I should get some pigs? They tell me pigs are easy to look after.' His voice trailed off.
'What will you farm, Magistrate Coetzee?' Tandia asked. There was no sign of any farming around her and they seemed almost entirely surrounded by natural bush.
'You know in every Afrikaner there is a farmer waiting to come out, we are a people of the land, just like the Bantu. But for me it is more an idea in the head, a race memory, a coming back to my roots. It is the land that matters. I don't think I want to farm, to grow things.' He indicated the bush around him. 'At my age it seems pointless to compete with God. I think I'll just sit on my stoep and drink brandy, grow a beard - a proper voortrekker beard - and grow old properly. He chuckled and placed his empty glass beside the decanter. 'Thank you, my dear, for your nice letter about the tractor.'
'Peekay and I were both terribly upset when we read about it in the papers.'
Magistrate Coetzee chuckled. 'Ag, Tandy it's probably a good thing, if I had the tractor standing out there in the shed I'd feel I had to use it. My old bum is more used to sitting on the bench than on a tractor seat trying to grow something I don't need and only have to worry about.' He turned slightly in his wicker chair and pointed to the small brass plate which shone brightly on the door. 'It wasn't the tractor and the plough, though God knows it was a generous gesture from poor people, but that, the inscription they put on the side of the tractor, that has made my whole life worthwhile.'
Tandia rose and examined the small plate screwed to the door. The indentations from the hammer blows it had received could be dearly seen, though they didn't interfere with the inscription etched into the plate.
Tandia turned suddenly, her heart beating fiercely. She was standing directly behind Magistrate Coetzee as she spoke. 'Sir, I know you could have almost any lawyer in South Africa to represent you when you challenge the government's banning order, but I would be tremendously honoured if you would let me act for you.' It was the reason she'd come to see the old man, but now she found she was trembling. Old Coetzee, for she suddenly thought of him like this, was a great magistrate, but underneath he was still an Afrikaner. How would he feel about a black girl defending him in court?
Standing behind the old man, she couldn't see his expression and he was quiet for a long time. Tandia didn't dare move. At last Old Coetzee spoke. 'Tandy, I am touched beyond words. You have given me hope, hope that one day our beloved country will come out of its madness and all the tribes can live together in peace. But until that time we have only the instrument of the law/ he paused, 'which I know is becoming a very blunt instrument, but it is all we've got, it is the last bit of sanity left.' He half turned his head. 'Come here, child, come where I can see you.'
Tandia moved to stand in front of the wicker chair where he sat. 'You are a very good lawyer and I am enormously proud of you. While I don't honestly think Pretoria will allow me to appeal, I accept your offer. I would be proud to be represented by you.'
Tandia gave a squeal of delight and without thinking she stooped and kissed Old Coetzee on the cheek. The old man grinned. 'Magtig, you are pretty!' He leaned forward and, lifting his glass, proffered it to Tandia. 'Here, pour me a brandy just like old times at Bluey Jay.'
Tandia poured Old Coetzee another snort, holding it up to the setting sun.
'They were good times, Tandy.' He took the brandy from her. 'You know that old Mauser, the old Boer rifle Sarah would give me when I came to Bluey Jay?'
Tandia nodded, not sure how much to admit she knew. 'Well, Mama Tequila sent it to me when I retired, together with a case of my favourite brandy and a nice little poem from Sarah.'
Tandia was trying hard to contain her laughter. She had a fair idea what the poem might be like. Then Old Coetzee started to chuckle and she began to laugh with him, two people laughing naturally and easily, no self-consciousness between them, two old friends sharing the the past. 'If we lose the case I'll take that old gun up to Pretoria and shoot Minister Vorster's balls off, hey Tandy?'
After a while Old Coetzee grew silent. She sensed that they'd stirred too many thoughts between them and he wanted to be on his own to settle them down again. 'It's getting dark and we must leave at dawn,' Tandia said. 'I have a petty sessions case scheduled for two o'clock tomorrow. May I take a walk around?'
'Tandia, you do too much, leave the little cases for someone else.'
Tandia laughed. 'I can't this time. It's Johnny Tambourine's aunt, she's been cheated over the cost of her dead husband's headstone.'
The old man made as though to rise from his seat, but Tandia stayed him with her hand. 'No, please stay where you are, Magistrate, I just want to nosey-park around the yard. I've been sitting in the car for four hours.'
Magistrate Coetzee's farm wasn't really a farm, just a little house with a nice stoep and a low roof with the ground beaten hard around it. A few small trees were planted in scooped-out hollows so they could be hand watered until they grew strong enough to make it on their own. A large round corrugated water tank with a pipe that pumped water up. from the river stood at the far side of the house and further back was an open-sided garage and shed with a corrugated-iron roof. A green International pick-up stood parked under it with a white hen standing on its bonnet. To the left were the servants' "quarters, two corrugated-iron rooms with wooden doors and a window cut out of the iron, hinged at the top so it could be pulled out and propped open with a branch which rested against the corrugated-iron wall below each window. It was late spring. Tandia had spent her childhood in a shed not dissimilar and she knew that on a hot night it would be like an oven.
Further along the yard was a fowl run, stakes cut from the bush and driven into the ground and then covered with chicken wire to a height of about six feet, with the wire bending and extended over the top as well to keep the chickens safe from hawks. Inside was the cabin and the front mudguards of an old rusted lorry, its doors still intact, the window and windshield glass long since removed. Tandia imagined it must serve as shelter for the hens. The gate to the run stood open, and Tandia observed how the hens were returning voluntarily, each pausing momentarily at the open gate, one leg raised, head slightly cocked as though listening for an instruction to proceed, then a quick, bold step into the safety of the chicken run. Finally the old rooster arrived, his head darting around as though checking his harem to see if anyone was missing.
A fat black hen with a flash of henna-coloured feathers about her breast came hurrying up, clucking ten to the dozen with eight tiny mottled yellow-and-black chicks cheep-cheeping and frantically moving about her. She hurried into the coop and moved under one of the rusted mudguards, spreading her wings wide. In a few moments the chicks gathered around her legs and her wings swept downwards so they disappeared into her undercarriage. With a soft 'Schwaark' she settled down for the night, grateful to get the weight off her legs.
Tandia was about to return to the house when she noticed an overgrown and disused farm road to the right of the yard which appeared to lead to the top of a small rise. Old Coetzee's house was built two-thirds up this slope rising from the river and now Tandia wondered what might be concealed behind the top of the slope; though in the far background she could see a ridge of koppies, the middle ground was lost to her. There was still sufficient light for her to see and she walked the thirty or so yards to the top of the rise where, to her surprise, she discovered that the road continued for another hundred yards or so into a dip in the landscape which then led up to the green ridge of rock, aloe and the brighter, lighter green of early summer thorn bush.
At the end of the road stood a large old farmhouse fronted with two gables in the Cape Dutch tradition. The walls stood intact though its roof was missing; the crossb
eams were mostly still in place, though the corrugated-iron sheets had been stripped from them, perhaps to be used in Old Coetzee's far smaller and less appealing new house.
The house was built on a high solid rock foundation probably quarried from the ridge which rose up behind it, so that its front stoep was fifteen or so feet from the ground with wide steps leading up to it. It had never been a grand house, but it had the look of a home which had bred two or three generations of solid burghers in its time, a house built to last as long as it was needed. Its thick whitewashed walls seemed to defy its hapless state, like an ageing bull elephant fallen on hard times but with his pride still intact. Silhouetted against the setting sun it looked as though it was merely waiting to get a new roof and a few new window panes and wasn't really standing idle and useless in the landscape. It seemed a used, happy house accustomed to the smell of baking and the cries of children and the aroma of pipe tobacco, a house in which to be born and in which to spend old age. To the left of the house stood the remains of an orchard; a dozen orange trees, two large mango trees, an avocado tree, and a single tall leafless stump of an old paw paw, its top dried out, like a twist of brown paper.
Almost nothing remained of the front garden except for two coffee bushes, a tall moonflower tree growing under one of the gables and a huge old frangipani covered in white and yellow blossom, which as Tandia drew closer perfumed the evening air around her. Closer yet she could see that the coffee bushes, with their small, dark, shiny leaves, were covered in brilliant red coffee beans. The bushland had taken over the remainder of what must once have been a garden, but this didn't make the' approach to the house seem in the least untidy or even uninhabited. Rather it looked as though someone had, very sensibly,' allowed the bush to create a natural landscape about the lovely old home.
At Bluey Jay when, in the early mornings with everyone asleep, she sat in the safety and quietness of the branches of the old fig tree beside her upstairs window, Tandia imagined a house like this, safe and quiet and beautiful, confident in its surroundings, a place where she could -belong to herself completely.
It was growing too dark to continue up the steps and she turned back, though her heart was beating with excitement. She must own this house and restore it. She knew it was impossible; she was an African and forbidden to own property - she couldn't even live in it for more than seventy-two hours at a time, and even then she needed a permit to visit the area. But it didn't matter. Peekay could own it if Magistrate Coetzee would sell, just the house and the few trees around it and access to it through his property in perpetuity.
Tandia realized with a shock that for the first time since she had been raped at Patel's grave, the fear and the hate wasn't with her. It had taken an old house with its roof open to the sky to give her hope. Hope? She shivered suddenly; someone had just walked over her grave. Hope was the most frightening feeling she'd ever experienced. It meant she had to try and stay alive when the odds were stacked against her. It meant she and Gideon and Peekay had to win.
Tandia realized that she'd never thought about victory based on hope, rather on inflicting a defeat predicated on revenge. Peekay's dreams of harmonious integration were too altruistic for her; Gideon's were too ambitious for himself; and Hymie's were too practical and mercantile. When the day came, and if she was still alive, she wanted to be on the volunteer list of judges who would pronounce the sentences which would break the spirit of Geldenhuis and his arrogant tribe of murderers forever.
How could there be forgiveness in her heart? How do you forgive the barrel of a gun up your anus? How do you forgive a boot planted on your neck? How do you forgive being handcuffed hand and foot and then entered like a dog? Jesus a virgin! The-black-bitch-is-a-fucking-virgin! How do you forgive the dum-dum bullet that blew Juicey Fruit Mambo's brains out? How do you forgive Sharpeville? How do you forgive the twenty-seven of your clients, or the witnesses who came forward for them, who died in the custody of Geldenhuis and his Special Branch or left after a few hours, free to go without being charged, but in ambulances, gibbering idiots with permanent brain damage? How do you forgive Tom Majombi, the human punch bag, abducted from hospital to lie in the most terrible pain in a dark cell for three weeks while an abscess ate at his brain until it killed him in an explosion of pus? How do you forgive a white tribe who educates the black one only to be his servant? Not only to clean but to lick his boots as well? How do you forgive the prison the black people are born into and remain in all the days of their lives?
Now she wondered what had happened to her. How could it be that no human, despite the great kindness she had been shown by many, had been able to reach her, yet her personal road to Damascus could well prove to be a clump of old bricks and stones and roofless rafters standing in a patch of African wilderness against a setting sun? They spoke of her deep need to belong to somewhere and something which she'd never before dared to admit to herself. From the time she was raped she'd seen herself as black, the opposite to white. Inferior, the. opposite to superior. Shackled, the opposite to being free. Her blackness was an actual and emotional classification which substituted as an identity. Her personality was secondary to her status. But in truth she was a middle child, neither one thing or another, the bastard orphan of the old Africa and the legitimate child of the South Africa yet to come. She couldn't be classified as a new house, but was instead an old one changed to accommodate the new family of South Africa. She was this old house mended and with a new roof. Tandia smiled inwardly, enjoying the metaphor.
Then she snorted to herself in disgust. She must be going crazy! She was beginning to sound as stupid as Peekay! It was much better to hold onto the hard, cold reality of revenge than attempt to grasp a tenuous and amorphous hope. That old house had been built by vicious racists whO'd murdered and plundered for the land it stood on. In the Africa of her future revenge, it must not be allowed to stand. Old Coetzee was still on the stoep when she returned. It was almost dark and the old woman had hung a storm lantern on a hook on the rafter directly above the small wicker table on which stood the brandy decanter. 'Sit, Tandy.' Old Coetzee had straightened in his chair as she approached. The old man's voice was slurred and he was well on his way to being drunk, though he made no attempt to apologize for this. Tandy had, after all, seen him like this at Bluey Jay often enough before.
Tandia sat quietly in the chair next to him. 'Excrement!' Old Coetzee said suddenly, holding his glass high up in the air in front of him. 'I have spent my life in excrement!' Then he brought the brandy to his lips and drained the glass. His eyes were closed and he held the empty glass in both hands resting on his stomach, appearing to be asleep.
The woman appeared. 'Excuse missus, the dinner, it is ready.'
Tandia nodded her head towards Old Coetzee and the black woman shook her head. 'He will not eat tonight.' Her voice was without emotion, a statement of fact.
Tandia followed her through the small, almost dark, house to the kitchen. It smelt of the two kerosene lanterns which bathed the room in a soft yellow light. The woman brought her a plate of cold lamb, tomatoes, and cold roast potatoes, also placing a jar of mustard pickles on the table in front of her. 'You want coffee?' the woman asked.
Tandia shook her head. 'No thank you, but could you call the young man who came with me please?'
The woman sighed heavily. She removed her apron, folding it carefully over a chair beside the wood stove in the corner, and shuffled out, the screen door leading to the back yard banging sharply after her.
Tandia was struck by the loneliness of the house, its complete absence of human spirit. She was an expert in the business of loneliness and she realized that, quite apart from the banning order which confined Old Coetzee to this house, he'd cut himself off anyway. This silent, almost morose woman he'd chosen to look after him was a part of his isolation; it was as though he'd come to this lonely little farm to do some sort of penance.
Johanna returned with Johnny
Tambourine and then entered the interior of the house. Shortly afterwards they heard a series of coughs and snuffles as she guided Old Coetzee to his bedroom, from the sound of her progress probably half carrying him most of the way. A few minutes later she returned to the kitchen where she picked up a white enamel dish covered and tied at the top with a cheese cloth. 'Goodnight, missus,' she said and nodded to Johnny Tambourine.
After she'd departed Johnny said; 'Tandia, let's get the hell out of here hey? We can go now, after you have eaten.'
'Don't think I'm not tempted, Johnny Tambourine, the old man's gestonkered. But he'll be up at dawn. I have to get instructions from him, we're challenging his banning order.'
'I don't like it, man, it's spooky in that room and hot!'
'Ja, I saw earlier; you'll have to push that big corrugated iron window open. It will be nice and cool then.'
'Are you crazy, man? You know what is this place? You standing in the world headquarters of the black mamba! Snakes, man, they can come right into your bed!'
'I'm sorry, Johnny, we can't go tonight, but we'll leave early, try to get to Barberton by seven o'clock. We'll be home before afternoon. I think I'll go to bed now.'
Tandia laughed at the irony; the environment in which Johnny Tambourine lived his everyday life was one of the most dangerous in the world and here he was, terrified at the prospect of spending a night in the country.
Johnny took both the lanterns in the kitchen down and Tandia followed him into the interior of the house. He handed her one of the lanterns and Tandia whispered goodnight, though judging from the snores coming from the closed door opposite, Old Coetzee was dead to the world. She was saddened at the thought that putting Old Coetzee to bed was probably the last thing his servant girl did before going home at night, like putting the cat out.
Tandia Page 82