by Lewis Desoto
The night, which has fallen silent at her scream, slowly comes to life again—the crickets resume their chirping, the frogs croak down by the river. A glimmer of firelight shows from the kraal.
Tembi waits, her eyes fixed on the splash of light coming from the open doorway, and the night goes on about its business, unconcerned; the crickets chirp and the stars move on their slow passage through the heavens. And when there is no movement from the kitchen, she thinks, Perhaps there has been no murder, and nobody is hiding in the house. Then another thought occurs to her, a thought almost as terrible as murder—maybe Märit in her grief has taken her own life.
Gathering her courage, Tembi leaves her hiding place and slowly climbs the back steps, and peers in through the door at the body on the floor. Fear and nausea rise in her mouth, sour on her tongue, and she bites her lips against it as she crouches down to touch the body gingerly with the tip of one extended finger. And then Märit groans.
“Aah!” Tembi falls back on her haunches in alarm, jerking her hand away.
A groan escapes from Märit’s red-smeared mouth.
“Märit! Märit, are you hurt?”
“Tembi,” she murmurs, and her breath is strong with the reek of liquor. Märit moans softly and turns on her side and opens her eyes.
“Tembi. You are the only one left,” she says with a strange bitterness in her voice. She shuts her eyes again.
Tembi strokes Märit’s face. “What has happened to you, Märit? What happened?” She strokes Märit’s face and her fingers come away coated with a dark, sticky fluid. “You are bleeding, Märit.” Then Tembi’s eyes fall upon the half-empty can of beans on the floor, and she touches her finger to her lips, tasting the sticky bean sauce.
“Märit, you are not hurt?”
Märit retches and coughs. “I’m sorry, Tembi.” Her voice is slurred, tired.
“You are not hurt, but I think you are drunk.”
Märit mumbles something indistinguishable.
“You mustn’t lie here, Märit. You are on the floor. It’s not good. Come, you must get up.”
Slipping one arm beneath Märit’s shoulders Tembi raises her from the floor, with the other hand pulling the dress down over her thighs.
She struggles to get Märit to sit up, then urges her to stand. “Come, you can lie down in bed. Come now.” Märit’s hair is matted and smells of stale tobacco smoke.
They stumble along the corridor and into the coolness of the bedroom, where Tembi lets Märit subside onto the bed. She switches on the bedside lamp, and Märit groans, shielding her eyes against the glare.
“I feel sick, Tembi.”
“Yes. I know.” Although Tembi has never been drunk in her life she has seen drunkenness, sometimes when the men drink too much of the home-brewed beer, and how after the laughter and the loud voices and the falling down they become slack in their bodies, and speak in this same slurred weary tone, and wake up with the sickness on them.
She fetches a basin from the kitchen and fills it with warm water in the bathroom, and gathers a washcloth, then sits next to Märit on the bed, gently wiping away the smears of sauce, cleaning Märit’s face.
Märit sighs, sighs like a child as the cool cloth moves over her face. She puts up her hand and lets it rest on Tembi’s, pressing it against her forehead, and her eyes open with a sudden expression of clarity in them.
“You must forgive me, Tembi,” she says clearly. “I didn’t mean it.”
Tembi nods. “Yes.”
“Say it. You mustn’t hate me. Tell me.”
“I don’t hate you. I forgive you, Märit.”
Märit smiles, and then the veil falls over her eyes again and she closes them and seems to fall into sleep. Tembi rinses the cloth and smoothes it over Märit’s face.
Then, as if ministering to an invalid, she unclasps the catch on Märit’s dress and removes it and then her underwear. She unfastens Märit’s brassiere and tosses it onto the chair. She rinses the cloth in the basin of warm water and wipes away the smears on Märit’s thighs, cleaning her, cleaning her the way one would minister to a child.
And when she is finished she rises and takes up the basin and stands a moment looking down at the naked woman in the lamplight. The sight is strange to her; she has never seen a white woman naked. The pale skin, the smallish breasts, the pubic bush that is the same chestnut color as Märit’s hair. Despite the differences in the color of the skin, and the color of the hair, and in the different curves of the body, Tembi sees only a woman. Only a woman, she thinks. Like me.
She pulls the sheet over Märit and then empties the wash basin in the bathtub.
“Sleep,” she whispers. She feels so tired herself. She will go back to the kraal, and she will tell them only that the Missus is asleep, and that there is nothing to be said about the future and about what will become of the farm. She is tired now and wants to sleep herself.
As Tembi bends to turn off the lamp, Märit opens her eyes and says, “Don’t leave me alone. Lie down next to me. I’m afraid.”
Pity and tenderness are in Tembi’s heart. She turns off the lamp and stretches out on the sheet, and Märit curls herself against Tembi’s back, molding herself against Tembi’s back in the way that a child clings to her mother, and she murmurs with the plaintive voice of a child, “You are the only one left, Tembi.”
26
A BELL RINGS, strident, insistent, and Tembi jerks upright, startled out of sleep by the persistent ringing. For a moment she does not know where she is, this unfamiliar light in this unfamiliar room—and this stranger lying curled up next to her. The bell continues to ring. The telephone, she realizes—such a strange sound to hear in the morning, for never has she woken to this sound; there are no telephones in the kraal.
Slipping from the bed she hurries along the passage to where the black telephone sits on a small table. She has never spoken before on a telephone, although there have been times when she was in the house, when she was in the kitchen with her mother, and the phone rang, and Grace would go to answer the summons.
She stares at the phone—how sinister it seems, with a life of its own. Tembi tries to cover the telephone with both hands, to still its noise, but the urgent, repetitive bell insists. She lifts the receiver, and the noise ceases immediately.
A small voice is speaking. Tembi presses the receiver against her ear.
“Märit?” the voice says. “Märit, is that you? It’s Connie van Staden. Hello?”
“Hello,” Tembi answers softly.
“Who is that? Märit?”
“This is Tembi.”
“Who are you? Are you the meid?”
“Yes.”
“Let me speak to the Missus.”
“The Missus is sleeping. She is very tired.”
“Oh. Is everything all right there? Is your Missus all right?”
“Yes, she is all right.”
“Well, don’t wake her. Tell the Missus that I called. Connie van Staden. Can you remember to do that?”
“Yes, I can remember.”
“Don’t forget. Make sure you tell the Missus that Connie telephoned.”
“Yes.”
With a click the voice disappears abruptly. Tembi listens a moment longer, and it seems to her that she hears a sound like the wind, a whisper of voices in the wires that run on poles alongside the roads, voices whispering to each other.
Märit sleeps still, undisturbed by the noise of the phone, curled into herself with the sheet pulled over her head.
In the kitchen Tembi cleans out the cold ashes from the stove and sets new kindling and fresh coal. She puts away the leftover dishes of food that were brought by the neighboring women. She fills the kettle for tea, and sprinkles a handful of maize meal into a pot of water for porridge. This is her job. It is her job to cook and clean in the house. While the water boils she puts away the gin and cordial bottles and empties the overflowing ashtrays and opens the windows to let out the stale cigarette smoke.
/> When she brings the breakfast tray into the bedroom, Märit is still asleep, her head turned away from the beam of sunlight coming through the window. Her tangled hair frames a face that is pale, thin, a deep frown creasing her brow. Tembi sets the tray next to the bed and draws the curtain across the window, softening the light. She decides not to wake Märit. Better to sleep. Whatever pain is in Märit’s dreams will be less than waking to know her husband is dead and that her life is now something other than what it was before.
ON THE FARM, work has resumed. Joshua has set the usual routines in motion, for the life of a farm cannot stop too long for grief. The cows must be milked, the weeds in the vegetable beds must be kept down, the cattle must be herded to pasture by the small boys, the watering of the crops must continue. The sun does not cease to move across the sky because of a death. Death is something that happens, a small pause in the turning of the wheel.
Joshua contrives to keep the house in sight throughout the morning; he finds tasks that will allow him to continually have a view of the doors. And when he sees Tembi appear from the kitchen door he hails her, gesturing with his arm for her to come to him.
“Did you speak to the Missus? What does she say?”
“She is sleeping still.”
He looks up at the sun, already high above the land, and shakes his head disapprovingly. “She must talk to us. Now this farm is in her hands. Everybody is waiting to know what she thinks.” He turns away and stands with his hands on his hips, surveying the farm. An idea is forming in his mind. He knows that Märit cannot run the farm—he can do it himself, even better than Baas Ben did. Does he not do it now? But for this he needs Märit to be the one who stands at the head of the farm, who negotiates in those matters where he has no authority.
“You must stay with her,” he tells Tembi. “You must look after her, and when she wakes you can tell her that everything on the farm is good. You can tell her that Joshua is making sure of everything. And then you must come and tell me, so that I can speak to her.”
Tembi nods.
“Go back to the house. It’s better that you speak to her when she wakes. Tell her that the farm is good and she can stay here now and that I will run the farm for her. Go now.”
Märit still sleeps, but the deep frown is not on her face any longer, there is a calmness there now, still pale, still drawn, but whatever dream had furrowed her brow is gone and she rests.
Tembi does not wake her, but takes the breakfast tray away and closes the bedroom door gently and goes through to the living room. She switches on the radio, and although the dial lights up there is only static on the whole wavelength. She takes down one of the books from the shelf, any book at random, and settles herself onto the comfortable couch with the breakfast tray.
The hours pass. Every now and then Tembi gets up and looks in on Märit. Märit sleeps—deep in the sleep that protects her. Tembi does not prepare any lunch for Märit, but eats instead by herself in the kitchen—bread and jam and cheese. She makes more tea and returns to the living room, to the comfortable chair and the books.
The sound of a car outside the house brings Tembi out of the places in the books. From the window she sees that it is the small white car that belongs to the Missus from the next farm, the same woman who telephoned earlier. Tembi has seen Connie van Staden before, visiting, sometimes with her husband, and she saw her as one of the last to leave when all the people came to the house after the burial of Baas Ben.
When Tembi sees her step from the car, a sudden impulse strikes her and she acts without thinking, without wondering why she does what she does next, or even what the consequences might be.
A few quick steps take her to the front door, where she turns the key in the lock, then she rushes to the bedroom and closes the door there, then runs down the corridor to the kitchen, and from the outside locks the door, pocketing the key.
On silent feet she creeps around the side of the house and pauses behind the hydrangea bushes, where she can be unobserved but still see the woman.
Connie van Staden has brought something in a basket, which she takes from the back seat of the car. She hooks the basket over her forearm and glances up at the house. And Tembi studies her, seeing a sturdy, capable woman who looks at the world with confidence, who can manage the world, who knows what is necessary.
Connie mounts the steps of the veranda and knocks on the door.
Tembi steps from the side of the house and stands at the foot of the stairs, and as Connie raises her hand to knock again, Tembi clears her throat to make herself known. Connie spins, startled.
“Who are you? I didn’t see you standing there.”
“I am Tembi, Missus.”
“Are you the one I spoke to on the phone? Are you the meid?”
“Yes, Missus.”
Connie nods, dismissing Tembi from her attention. Shifting the weight of the basket on her arm she taps at the door again, then tries the handle, frowning when she finds the door is locked.
“Where is Mevrou Laurens?” she says to Tembi. “Isn’t your Missus home?”
Tembi shakes her head. “She is not here.”
“No? Do you know where she has gone?”
Tembi makes a vague gesture. “She has gone to walk on the farm.”
“For a walk?” Connie says, looking beyond Tembi, a tone of disbelief in her voice. Then Connie moves along the veranda and peers in through the window.
And if Märit should appear now, Tembi wonders, if she should appear and open the door and Connie should say, Your meid told me you were not here—then what will happen? Tembi does not know why she has lied, why she has locked the door and pretended that Märit is not in the house. Is it to protect the grieving woman, to let her sleep away her grief? Or is it to keep Märit to herself, to keep her away from her neighbors? Tembi does not want the world to come into the house, neither the town nor the kraal. She wants the house to contain only Märit and herself.
Connie descends the steps. “Which way did Mevrou Laurens go?”
“I do not know, Missus. That way.” Her gesture encompasses all possible directions.
Connie now sets her basket on the ground and fixes Tembi with an intent look. She seems to contemplate whether all is as it should be—the habitual mistrust of mistress and servant—then her face changes, she relents, and says, “Is the Missus all right?”
“Yes.”
“You know what has happened. The Baas is dead. But is she all right? Is she very upset?”
“Yes, she is sad.”
“But is she very upset? Does she weep? Does she eat? Is she herself? She hasn’t gone off to do something silly, has she?” Connie gazes in the direction of the koppie.
Tembi says, “No, she is sad, but she is herself.”
“Well, that’s good, then. That’s as it should be. Are you looking after her? You must, because this is a difficult time for your Missus. Very difficult.”
“I am looking after her.”
“Good. And the farmworkers, they are not using this as an excuse to be lazy, are they?” She is suddenly stern. “If there is any laziness or shirking, then my Koos will be round to set matters right. If anybody tries to take advantage, there will be trouble for them. Do you understand that?”
Tembi nods.
“Yes, well.” Connie looks down, noticing the basket at her feet. “I’ve brought some things. A casserole, some peach brandy. You can warm up the casserole for her dinner.” She lifts the basket. “We’ll take this through to the kitchen now.”
Tembi shakes her head. “I have no key to the house. It is locked.” She reaches for the basket. “I will give this to the Missus when she comes back.”
Connie hesitates a moment, then lets the basket go. “Don’t you take anything from it. And be sure to tell the Missus that I was here. And tell her to telephone me. Mevrou van Staden. Connie. Can you remember that?”
“I can remember. I will tell her.”
Connie gets back into her car, and Temb
i sits on the veranda steps with the basket next to her as the car drives off. She waves when Connie looks back. She sits there until the car is out of sight, and the dust plumes rise from beyond the trees, moving away with the passage of the car. She sits there until the dust settles again and the air is clear in the distance and the sound of the car has faded away. Then she takes the basket, walks around to the back door, and goes into the house.
The casserole that Connie has brought is a stew of potato and carrots and chunks of beef. There are thick scones wrapped in a cloth, still warm to the touch, a small jar of apricot jam, and the peach brandy, homemade, in a bottle without a label.
Tembi stokes up the fire in the stove and transfers the stew to a pot. She butters the scones and spreads them with jam, then makes tea and pours a measure of brandy into the cup.
Märit is awake when Tembi brings in the tray. She is sitting up in bed, wearing a nightgown and a black knitted shawl draped across her shoulders. Her long hair is a disarray of tangles.
“I thought I smelled food. Have you been cooking? Did you make this for me?” Märit looks up at Tembi, her eyes sunken and ringed with black.
“The other Missus was here. Connie. She brought you this food.”
“Connie van Staden? I didn’t hear her. What did you tell her?”
“That you were sleeping. She will come back.”
Märit falls silent, slowly lifting spoonfuls of the stew to her mouth. Then she looks up and says, “But you must eat too. Where is yours? Bring a plate in, Tembi, and eat with me.”
They sit together in silence, Tembi perched on the edge of the bed. When Märit is finished she puts the plate aside and drinks her tea, then sighs and closes her eyes and lies back against the pillows.
After a while, without opening her eyes, Märit says, “What am I going to do, Tembi? I don’t know how to live now. The farm, the workers, you, everything. What am I supposed to do?” Her voice quavers. “I don’t know anything about running this farm.”