A Blade of Grass

by Lewis Desoto

  “You can learn it. The people here, they know what to do—just like before, they can carry on with their duties.”

  Märit touches her shorn hair and looks down at her bare feet. “Maybe I should change my clothes. They won’t understand this…the way I look now.”

  Tembi smiles. “They don’t know who you are now. Maybe that can be good for you.”

  “Maybe.” Märit takes a deep breath.

  They are waiting for her, gathered in the shade under the corrugated sorting shed roof—the buzz of conversation, children scampering around, calling to each other, the smell of tobacco, of earth, of sweat, of labor.

  It is a child who first sees Märit, and points, shouting out what sounds like a cry of alarm before running back to his mother. A hush falls over the assembled workers. The conversation dies as the faces turn towards Märit. She steps onto the cement floor, into the silence.

  Who are they? What are their names? How little she knows of them, these who labor on this farm, who bring the bread to her table.

  On the faces she sees astonishment, curiosity, apprehension, tiredness—and some faces present to her only an impassive blankness. She does not know what they think. But they all wait now as she stands before them, for she has commanded that they leave their work and come away from the fields, from the kraal. And she holds their future in her hands.

  She looks across at Joshua, the only one standing, and he frowns at the assembled workers as if to ensure their continued silence.

  She is afraid that the words won’t come, that her throat will seize up and freeze the words. She takes a breath, trying to calm herself and appear determined. “I am going to run this farm now,” she says.

  The murmurs, the sighs, the small exhalations of astonishment, a few heads shaking in disbelief. But mostly there is curiosity.

  “You…all know what has happened—that Baas Ben was killed. You know how it happened…” Her voice falters for a second.

  Her words brings a responsive moan from the gathering, and she waits for silence before continuing. “I will run the farm now. Things will go on as before.” Will they believe her? Will they respect her? Is it true what her neighbors said—that the men will not give their loyalty to a woman?

  “If you think that I can’t do it, then you are wrong. If you think that because I am a woman I can’t do it, then you are wrong. You will give me the same respect that you gave to Baas Ben. And if you cannot, then you must leave this farm. If you think that you can take advantage of me because I am a woman alone and without a husband now, then you must leave this farm. If you cannot help me to run this farm, then you must leave. I say these things to you now, at the beginning, to give you a choice. Because if you cannot accept me, or work for me, you must leave.”

  She pauses, waiting for a reaction, running her eyes across the faces that look straight back at her.

  “Because I do not know so much about the running of a farm, you must help me. We must help each other. Otherwise, all of us will lose.”

  There are nodding heads, murmurs of agreement. She notices glances directed at Joshua, who stands with his arms folded across his chest.

  “Joshua is the bossboy still, and it is to him that you must go with your questions and your problems about farming matters. I will rely on you, Joshua.”

  He nods his head, as if there is no question about this matter. The expressions on the faces tell her that they are not against her, but nothing more.

  “This is good land, this is a good farm, and I know that we can make a good life here, for us all.”

  There is more confidence in her voice than in her heart, for she still doubts the future, and her own abilities, but like the hopeful faces that look up to her, Märit wants to believe that her words are true. It is all she has—hope.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Märit rises early—she has set her alarm clock to ring just after first light—for on this first day she wants to be on the land when the workers begin their tasks, and to show them that her commitment is the same as theirs.

  She wears her sarong and ties a kerchief around her head, a bright yellow doek that Tembi gave to her. In front of the mirror she practices putting on a self-confident and assertive expression. If she cannot convince herself, at least she can give the appearance of assurance. Tembi joins her in the kitchen a little later, when the coffee is brewed and the toast is made. They carry their cups and plates out to the veranda.

  “I want Joshua to walk with me around the farm this morning,” Märit says. “I want to start learning about everything that is done here during a normal day—all the different tasks. I’m going to ask Joshua to show me around. Will you come?”

  Tembi nods, sipping her coffee, then sets the cup down on the railing. “I don’t like Joshua.”

  “Why not, Tembi?”

  “I don’t know…He doesn’t like me.”

  “He’s not very friendly, I know, but Ben thought he was a good worker.”

  “Maybe we don’t need him anymore.”

  “I think we do. Neither of us knows enough to run the farm. Joshua does. We need him.”

  They begin in the dairy, where the cows are milked and the butter is churned and the cheese is cured. The young girls work here, and they greet Märit and Tembi—“Goeie more, Missus. Sawubona, Tembi!”—and they giggle a bit at the way Märit looks in her sarong and her short hair and her bare feet. Joshua glares at the girls until they fall silent.

  Märit asks their names, and tries to commit the faces and the names to memory.

  The small boys, the piccanins, herd the cattle out to the distant pastures where the grazing is good, and Märit stands to one side as the boys come down the track from the cattle kraal where the animals are penned at night, and the boys whistle at the cattle, flicking willow switches at the brown flanks of the beasts, urging them forward. Märit marvels at the docility of the cattle, for they are the big Afrikander breed, with long horns, and the boys are small.

  Joshua counts the cattle as they pass, dabbing his finger in the air as he reels off the numbers to himself, and he shouts at the boys not to dawdle as they turn to gape at Märit and Tembi.

  The women of the farm are at work in the fields of maize and sorghum, moving through the rows with long-handled hoes, digging up the moisture-stealing weeds that seem to arise overnight. Women who are like her. Except she can never be one of them, because of the color of her skin, because of the laws of this country.

  In the sorghum fields Joshua allows himself a smile. “Ubhiye,” he says, raising his hand in a drinking motion. “For beer.” This Märit knows—how the grain is fermented to make the sour, milky beer that is considered as much a food as a libation.

  Joshua continues the tour, a little swelled with pride, his tone condescending when he talks to the other workers. He points out the irrigation ditches that are fed from the windmill, and the vegetable garden, and the chicken coop, and the fruit orchards.

  Much of this is already familiar to Märit, but nevertheless she is overwhelmed. There is so much to know about growing seasons, when to harvest, when to fertilize, when to repair, when to buy and when to sell. How little she has known of all this, of the people and the land.

  The sun is almost at its zenith by the time Märit thanks Joshua and returns with Tembi to the house.

  On the way Tembi says, “He didn’t look at me once. He likes to think I am not here.”

  “We need him,” Märit mutters, her thoughts on the immensity of her ignorance. How will she manage? She could sell up easily. The farm would bring in a good price. There would be enough cash for her to settle again in the city.

  But what about Tembi? Märit knows that in the city they could not sit together for their meals, they could not walk down the street together as equals—and if she appeared dressed like this on a street in Johannesburg she would be laughed at, ridiculed, even spat upon. She shakes her head. Leaving is not an option.

  She will stay here—this much she owes to Ben, and t
o Tembi. This much she owes to herself.

  31

  THE SOUND OF A CAR on the gravel driveway brings Märit to the veranda door. She recognizes the little white Opel that belongs to Connie van Staden. Instinctively Märit steps back, into the shadows of the doorway.

  “Tembi!” she calls. But there is no answer.

  Two women get out of the car, Connie from the driver’s side, and from the other side, Eloise Pretorius, from Bokvlei, the farm that lies to the west of the van Staden place. Märit hardly knows Eloise Pretorius, having spoken to her only a few times in town—but of course she was at the funeral, and spoke kind words to Märit, and offered any help that was needed.

  To Märit’s surprise, a man gets out of the rear seat. She glimpses a dark suit, white shirt, tie, and for an instant she thinks it is Gideon Schoon, the one who was here before, the policeman from the Security Branch, but then she recognizes the angular form of the pastor—or, to give him his official title, Predikant Venter of the Nederduitse Gereformeerde Kerk.

  In the days since Ben’s death the Predikant has appeared often, usually with Connie, here suggesting a path of conduct through the intricacies of the funeral, there offering a quiet word of comfort and advice. He is a big man, broad-shouldered; a pipe smoker, with that sweetish masculine smell of tobacco on his clothes. A kindly, calm man, but there is another side to him that Märit has seen revealed on those few occasions when she attended the church and heard Predikant Venter preach his Sunday sermon. From the pulpit he is a fierce moralist, strict in his directions to the congregation, clever at finding biblical quotations to emphasize his exhortations. Yet face-to-face he is charming, given to smiling often, with laugh lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. Away from the church he favors the khaki clothes and slouch hat of the local men. He could be mistaken for a farmer, except for his hands, which are without the rough and calloused surface that results from working the land.

  Today, though, he is dressed in his dark suit and he carries a Bible, and the two women are dressed formally as well, and Märit knows that this is an official visit.

  If she could, Märit would step back and shut the door and let their visit be in vain, but it is too late, for even though she stands in the shadows, the Predikant has seen her, and his eyebrows come up in surprise.

  Märit steps forward onto the veranda, into the sunlight.

  Both Connie and Eloise Pretorius stop in their tracks.

  “Märit?” Connie says. “But it is! Heere God! My God, what has happened to you?”

  Märit walks down the steps and smiles, and the women frown, as if more than her appearance is peculiar.

  “What is the matter, Märit?” Connie says, approaching with outstretched hands, solicitous, concerned.

  “There is nothing the matter. Good morning, Predikant.” She nods. “Mrs. Pretorius.”

  Connie is shaking her head, almost wringing her hands. “But your hair, my child. And what are you wearing? Who has done this to you?”

  “Nothing, nobody. I am myself.”

  She gives them her strange smile again. Eloise Pretorius looks over at the Predikant and her mouth flattens into a sharp line.

  “I don’t understand, Märit,” Connie says.

  “Please come in,” Märit says, gesturing for them to go ahead of her. Eloise Pretorius reaches into the car and brings out a plate covered with a cloth. Another casserole? Märit wonders.

  In the living room there is a moment of awkwardness—the two women still shocked by Märit’s transformation, the Predikant rubbing the leather binding of his Bible with his thumb, uneasy.

  “Please, sit down,” Märit tells them. Connie and the Predikant do so, Eloise Pretorius remains standing with the covered plate in her hand.

  “I’ve brought you something—koeksusters,” Eloise says, and she can’t prevent her tone from suggesting that she now regrets this gesture.

  Märit takes the plate and lifts a corner of the cloth, seeing the twists of fried dough, sticky with sugar. She touches one with her finger; they are still warm.

  “Freshly made,” Eloise says, as if answering a challenge.

  “Thank you, Eloise. I’ll make some coffee.”

  The two women follow Märit into the kitchen. Connie speaks, freely now that she is out of the presence of the Predikant.

  “Märit, I don’t understand why you have done this to yourself. I know that this is a difficult time, with you losing Ben, but I’m worried about you.” Her eyes are kind; she wants to help, despite her misgivings. She wants Märit to open up to her, the way any other woman would do after such a tragic occurrence. Even if they are not quite friends, they are neighbors, and neighbors must help each other in difficult times.

  “Don’t worry, Connie. I haven’t gone mad with grief or anything like that. I decided to cut my hair, that’s all.”

  Eloise speaks up. “But why do you want to dress like a kaffir? Do you think you will be able to go into town looking like this, to show yourself? Heere God, but everyone will laugh at you.”

  Märit turns to face her slowly, taking in Eloise’s own appearance: the lipstick, the carefully coiffed and sprayed hair, the string of pearls too large to be real. The way Märit used to look herself. But Eloise looks doll-like, unreal, and very much out of place.

  “You should try a change yourself, Eloise. It’s far more comfortable this way. Just think, no more weekly visits to the hairdresser, no more tight, uncomfortable shoes, no worrying if your dress matches your handbag.”

  “There are certain standards any civilized Christian woman should maintain,” Eloise retorts. “You’ll soon find that out if you persist in going around dressed up like a kitchen meid.”

  “All right, all right,” Connie says, “let’s not argue about it. We are here to help. Märit, why don’t you go in and talk to the pastor, it’s rude to just leave him sitting alone there. Eloise and I will make the coffee.”

  Märit knows they have planned this visit, or perhaps it was the Predikant who asked the two women to accompany him, but whatever the plan, she knows they have come to advise her, to tell her how to live, to instruct her in the ways of their world, to bring her back into the fold.

  She looks at the two women—capable, strong, hardworking. Despite their flowered dresses and their lipstick they can still roll up their sleeves and get their hands dirty if need be. Even Eloise, for all her pretensions to beauty.

  She knows they see her as neither strong nor capable. To them, she is something of a hothouse flower, out of place here on the veldt. Behind her back they will shake their heads and they will gossip about her with the other women in the district. She is not strong enough, they will say, she cannot run a farm, she is too highly strung, they will say. And now she is dressing like a kaffir.

  As if divining Märit’s thoughts, Connie says, “What will you do now, Märit?”

  “About what?”

  “About the future. The farm. Have you given any thought to your position now?”

  “I will manage,” she answers.

  “Yes, of course, but my Koos can come over, just to check on you, until you decide what to do.”

  “I don’t need checking on.”

  “Märit, my child, you don’t know how hard it can be. I know Ben is not long gone, and I mean no disrespect, but without a man around you cannot run this place.”

  “You could sell,” Eloise Pretorius says. “This farm would bring a good price. I know there are one or two people who have their eye on the land. I mean, you probably will sell, hey? Connie is right, it’s too big a farm for you to manage.”

  “This is not the time to talk of selling,” Connie interjects sternly. But the thought is there—Eloise has voiced the obvious, what everybody must be thinking now that more than a month has passed since Ben’s death. They all expect Märit to give up the farm.

  Märit shakes her head. “The farmhands will continue with the work, just as before. It’s not going to be different.”

  “W
hat about your bossboy?” Eloise asks. “Can you trust him? What is his name…Joshua, isn’t it?”

  “You know him?”

  “He used to work for us. My husband had to let him go.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “He’s the cheeky kind. Always answering back when you tell him to do something. One of those who thinks he is better than he is.”

  Märit shrugs, and Eloise goes on. “You have to be careful with the likes of him. Especially now. They will try to take advantage of you, and find any excuse not to work. And another thing—don’t think the men will take orders from a woman, especially if there is not a man in the house. Especially that Joshua. They think it’s beneath them to listen to a woman, even a white woman. And even if you are mistress of this farm, they will not take you seriously. They’ll try to rob you blind,” she adds with a certain satisfaction. “Just you wait and see. Isn’t that so, Connie?”

  Connie shakes her head unhappily. “It will be difficult for you, Märit. How will you manage?”

  “Don’t pity me. I will manage.”

  Predikant Venter is waiting for her, seated comfortably, the Bible resting on his knees, an easy smile on his face as he half rises when Märit enters.

  “Please, sit,” she says. “The coffee will be ready in a moment.” She takes a chair opposite him and reaches for her cigarettes. “You can smoke if you like. Would you like a cigarette?”

  “Thank you, no, I prefer my pipe. If you don’t mind, Mevrou.”

  “Of course not.”

  The Predikant takes a moment to prepare his pipe. Märit watches as he tamps tobacco from a leather pouch into the bowl with his thumb and forefinger. The same way that Ben used to do. When the pipe is lit he exhales sweet, aromatic smoke and looks up.

  “I suppose Connie asked you to come and talk to me,” Märit says.

  The Predikant examines his pipe, taking time to answer. “Connie means well, Mevrou Laurens.” He looks across at her again, his eyes seeming to know her. “May I call you Märit? I think we know each other well enough now.”