by Lewis Desoto
“Maybe we should go back,” Märit says. Their own house is unguarded, defenseless. Anything could happen.
“Come,” Tembi says, taking Märit’s hand, for she sees a sudden despair in Märit’s face. “Come, we can get something to drink in town. Aren’t you thirsty?”
Märit allows herself to be led away from the sight of the burned house, but the image lingers in her mind, and she thinks of her own house and fears for its isolation and fragility.
As the road leads into the town the municipal sign appears. KLIPSPRING Pop. 1200. A familiar sign—but there has been a recent addition. Across the bottom someone has written in thick painted letters, Slegs vir Blankes.
Märit knows what these words mean, she has grown up with them, seeing the same phrase on public park benches, on buses, over the entrance to shops. A sign that is common throughout the country. Slegs vir Blankes—For Whites Only.
Märit moves on quickly, not wanting Tembi to see the sign. “I’m so thirsty,” she says, as they enter the silent streets lined with jacaranda trees that shade the neat, whitewashed houses, each behind its painted wrought-iron fence enclosing a tidy garden—roses, aloes, protea, pots of red geraniums standing on polished steps, sometimes a peach or apricot tree shading the flowers.
As they walk Märit notices Tembi glancing from side to side apprehensively.
“What’s wrong?” Märit asks.
“It’s so quiet. I don’t see anybody.”
“They’re all probably sleeping off the effects of lunch.”
Tembi shakes her head but makes no further comment.
In the garden of one of the houses that they pass, no different from all the others, Märit notices a tap just next to the fence. “I must have some water,” she says, lifting the gate latch. She opens the faucet, bends to splash the cool liquid on her face, then fills her mouth with refreshing water.
“Märit.” A low warning comes from Tembi.
A woman is standing behind the screen door, watching them.
“Goeiemiddag,” Märit calls, wiping her chin with one hand and raising the other in a wave of greeting. “I was thirsty.”
The screen door swings open, the woman’s lips move. Behind her, Märit sees the dog.
Edging through the door in a stealthy prowl is a big tawny colored animal with the stiff hair along the ridge of its back standing up in a taut brush. The dog doesn’t bark, but the lips of its muzzle are pulled back to show teeth, and its eyes are intent on Märit as it slinks down the steps.
“Märit!” Tembi screams as the dog charges.
Märit leaps back, just managing to slam the iron gate behind her. The dog throws itself against the fence, snarling with fury.
“Vang haar, vang haar!” the woman at the door shouts. “Get her!”
Tembi screams again and pulls Märit back, and they race down the street. Behind them the furious snarls of the dog echo with the rattling of the fence as it throws itself repeatedly against the wire.
Only when they have reached a turn in the road do Tembi and Märit pause to catch their breath.
“There is something wrong in this town,” Tembi pants.
“All I wanted was a drink of water.” Märit holds her heaving chest.
“And where are the people?” Tembi adds. “Usually there are black people walking on the road, or looking after the gardens, or working in these houses to do the cooking and the washing. But today, nothing, no people. I don’t understand.”
Märit recollects the ominous addition to the sign on the outskirts of town, “Come on, we’ll see if there is anybody in the shops.”
The street leads into Kerkstraat, named after the church that stands at its head—the church where Ben is buried. On the nearer end of the street the shops begin. But there are no people on the streets.
The first shop, set apart a little from the rest, is Patel’s Haberdashery, which is owned by an Indian family. There are two entrances: the main one that fronts onto Kerkstraat and is used by the townspeople, and around the side a smaller door that leads to a counter where Mrs. Patel serves the black customers. This section of the shop is screened by a hanging bamboo blind. Mr. Patel presides over the front counter.
“I want to buy some cloth in Patel’s,” Märit says. “Something for a new sarong.” She wants to buy Tembi a present as well.
She automatically makes for the front door, but Tembi hesitates. “I don’t want to go in.”
“Don’t you want to choose something?”
Tembi shakes her head, glancing up and down the empty street.
“I won’t be long,” Märit tells her. “Wait here for me.”
There are three people in the shop—two women at the counter fingering a bolt of cloth, while Mr. Patel, the rotund proprietor, stands before them with a pair of scissors in his hand. He looks up, a ready smile on his face, for he is always welcoming to the women of the town. But the smile dies as he takes in Märit’s appearance—the dusty feet, the housemaid’s kerchief on her head. The conversation stops as the other women turn to stare at Märit. They mutter low words to each other and look her up and down, then move a little farther away as she approaches.
Mr. Patel turns back to them, speaking loudly with a kind of forced enthusiasm. “This is pure linen, Mevrous, sent to me specially from Johannesburg. And the price is exactly what you would pay there. I don’t add on anything for shipping and handling. What do you think, Mevrou Botha? Nice, no?” While he speaks his eyes make little darts in Märit’s direction. The women have turned their backs towards Märit. She waits, running her eyes across the bolts of cloth stacked on shelves that reach to the ceiling.
The shop door opens, the little bell on the handle tinkling, and another customer enters.
Mr. Patel directs his attention to the new arrival. “Goeiemiddag, Mevrou Pretorius! Hoe gaan dit met jou? How are you?”
Märit nods a greeting to Eloise Pretorius. “Good afternoon.” But Eloise looks away, crinkling her nose slightly as if some smell has offended her, and moves to stand at the far end of the counter with the other two women. Mr. Patel shuffles after her. “And how may I help you today, Mevrou?”
Märit steps forward. “Excuse me, Mr. Patel, but I think I was next.”
Everyone turns to look at Märit. A sheen of sweat is glistening on the shopkeeper’s round face. He withdraws a large white handkerchief from his pocket and mops at his forehead, frowning hard at Märit while simultaneously flashing a nervous smile at the three women. He scuttles down the counter and hisses at Märit. “There is nothing here for you. You must go.”
“Are you refusing to serve me?”
Mr. Patel lifts the hinged part of the counter and walks around to stand next to Märit, glancing at the women with a little apologetic shake of his shoulders as he wrings his handkerchief in his damp hands.
“Nobody wants trouble, Mevrou,” he whispers. “My other customers…Please.”
“If you can serve them, you can serve me too. There is nothing wrong with the color of my money.”
“Please, I have standards to keep up. This is a respectable place.” His voice drops to a barely audible whisper. “Come back, after closing. I have to think of my other customers. Please, Mevrou, after closing.” He takes her by the elbow, urging her towards the door.
Reluctantly Märit allows him to edge her to the door, for she is shocked, dazed, and before she knows it Patel has swung open the door and, while not quite pushing her away, has managed to hustle her out of his shop.
She stands on the sidewalk, in the hot light, conscious of the dust on her legs and the smell of her own sweat. The outline of the church shimmers in the heat. The light bouncing off the cement pavement is bright and hard and it pains her eyes, and she shuts them as a wave of dizziness washes over her.
“Mevrou Laurens?”
Märit opens her eyes on the stern visage of Eloise Pretorius.
“Yes?” she answers, squinting.
“Let me give you some advice, Mev
rou. You have everybody’s sympathy after your tragedy, but there are some of us who might see your presence here as an insult. Bringing your meid into town as well—in the face of the new regulations. And dressing like a kaffir yourself. Some of us might see that as intentionally provocative. Especially after what’s happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Klipspring has been reclassified as a whites-only town, as you should know. You are lucky that both of you haven’t been arrested.”
“What? Why?”
“The Potgieter farm—you know what happened there? You must have seen it when you came into town.”
“They had a fire. I saw the house.”
Eloise shakes her head. “No, Mevrou Laurens, they didn’t have a fire. The farm was burned, intentionally, as well as the crops. And the cattle that weren’t driven across the border were killed. Their throats were cut.”
“The Potgieters? What happened to them?”
“They were here in town, at a church meeting. Lucky for them.”
“But who would do such a thing?”
“Who do you think? The same people that put the bomb in the road that killed your husband. The same people who want to drive us off our land.” Eloise jerks her head across the street. “Them. That’s who.”
Shading her eyes against the glare Märit takes a step back and turns to look at Tembi, who is standing in the shade of a tree.
“You think she doesn’t know about it?” Eloise says. “They all stick together. You’d be wise not to trust any one of them, Mevrou. You’d be wise to keep an eye on your own farm.”
“Tembi is not like that. I would trust her before any of you.”
Eloise Pretorius narrows her eyes. “Do you know the term kaffir-boetie, Mevrou?”
Märit translates the words into English, not in their literal meaning, but in the sense that she has heard the term used. “Nigger-lover.”
“That’s right. I’ll give you another piece of advice, Mevrou Laurens—you don’t want to be a kaffir-boetie in this district right now.” With these words Eloise turns her back on Märit and steps back into the shop.
Through the plate-glass window Märit sees the women nodding their heads at Eloise Pretorius, and Mr. Patel dabbing his white handkerchief across his forehead. And when the women look out at Märit, and she sees their faces, she sees the contempt in their eyes.
She wants to shout out something, some reply, but the words trip in her mouth and she can only glare through the window. Then she hurries across the street towards Tembi.
“I cannot remain in this town one moment longer,” she exclaims through tight lips.
“Yes, I don’t like it here,” Tembi says. “I don’t want to stay here.”
“We’ll go home now.”
Märit only looks back once, to the church spire, solid and unmoving above the roofs. She did not visit Ben’s grave. But it is too late now, too late for that.
34
THE TWO WOMEN walk the long road back in silence, each withdrawn into the exile of her separate thoughts.
They walk back past the burned farm, and down the long, straight road across the veldt. They walk through a landscape where no birds sing and the ground is not soft and the shadows are not cool. The thorns are sharp, the stones are hot, the rivers are dry.
When at last they reach the farm, weary, dusty, thirsty, Tembi strides off in the direction of the kraal without saying anything, and Märit is too fatigued to even notice.
Tembi, sick at heart, goes to the only refuge she knows—the garden behind the koppie. In all the change and trouble, this is the only constant. But weariness and disappointment are upon her, and like Märit, she is stripped of illusion. She too feels shame, for the words painted on the sign outside Klipspring were clear to her; she too knows the meaning of the phrase. On the streets of the town it seemed as if hatred oozed from the very sidewalks and walls.
Tembi walks to the patch of earth she has nurtured. Where is the fruit? Nothing will come of her efforts. And even if something grows here, what is the purpose? She is close to despair.
And there, in the secret place amongst the tender green leaves, she sees the pale new flowers, one on each plant, pale yellow petals unfolded to the light. Her heart rises from its despair as she crouches down and presses her face close to the new flowers, inhaling their delicate vegetable perfume.
Her heart rises from despair, because the living earth still lives. In the dry, hard places the earth lives still, in secret, and does not mourn. And the fruit will come now.
IN THE HOUSE Märit turns on the cold tap in the bathtub and adds a sprinkling of Epsom salts to the water. Kicking off her sandals she slips her aching feet into the bath. The soles of her feet are patterned with a mosaic of small cuts and abrasions, and she sits on the side of the tub with her feet under the stream of water.
As the water discolors from the dust on her feet she begins to weep silently. Tears of exhaustion, of frustration and disappointment trickle down her cheeks. And shame.
When she thinks of how she was hustled out of Patel’s, and of the venom in Eloise Pretorius’s lecture outside the shop, Märit feels only shame. Her desire for a life on the farm, for a good and useful life, is nothing but an illusion—the dreams of a naïve child. Her neighbors in the district care nothing for her, they have only contempt. And those who live in the kraal, who work the land, are strangers—a nation of strangers who fear her, who envy her, and who perhaps too have only contempt for her.
Märit dries her sore feet and retreats to her bed. She pulls the quilt over her body and up to her eyes. Her world has shrunk, and only here, wrapped in the quilt, is the last refuge, the last illusion. She lies like this for a long time, in a daze of exhaustion that gradually, through physical inaction, becomes a kind of weary equilibrium, even a calmness.
Life must be faced, she knows this, but the fading light and the pools of shadow that gradually fill the room are a refuge and a safety. She is unwilling to stir, reluctant to face the world again.
All she wants is sleep, to retreat into unconsciousness, but her repose, while inanimate, is restless, and a different kind of unease begins to assert itself—something specific to the room—so that at last she cannot ignore the unease. She sits up, her eyes moving across the familiar furnishings.
There is something in the air, some smell that is different from the scents that usually inhabit the room. Nothing is changed outwardly, as far as she can see, her eyes trailing across the dresser, the mirror, the clothes draped over the chair. Yet there is a dislocation, as if every object has been shifted slightly from its usual position, as if the room has gone out of focus and them come back into clarity with a slight misalignment.
Rising from the bed Märit paces across the room, her hands lightly touching her belongings. She stands at the dresser, looking down at the cosmetic bottles and jars, and once again she is struck by the inexplicable perception that everything is misaligned. She opens the drawers, one by one, and imagines someone else doing the same thing, opening the drawers and placing their hands on her apparel, her nightgowns, her underwear.
As she bends to the last drawer, a clump of dried mud on the floor catches her eye, and she lifts it carefully into her palm. The mud is hard and gray, a little crumbly around the edges, and imprinted deeply in the center is the ridged zigzag pattern from the sole of a boot.
Someone has been in the room during her absence. Could it have been the police? she wonders. Has she become an enemy to be investigated secretly? Has that man from the Security Branch come back, and crept through the house, writing things down in a notebook, making a report on her?
Märit drops the clump of mud into the wastebasket next to the dresser. And now she is aware again of the faint foreign odor in the room—something familiar yet strange at the same time, the origin of which sits just at the edge of her awareness, hidden, like an intruder.
Troubled, Märit lies down once more, but only for a few minutes befor
e she hears a sound from the direction of the kitchen. Thinking that Tembi has returned to the house, and eager to be taken out of her weary solitude, she rises and makes her way down the passage.
Joshua is in the kitchen.
“What are you doing here?”
He turns, slipping something into his pocket—she thinks it is a package of cigarettes and her eyes move to the carton on the shelf.
Märit looks down at his feet, not bare like so many of the other farmworkers, but shod in a sturdy pair of boots, with a rim of dried mud around the edges of the sole.
“Why are you in the house? Have you been into my bedroom while I was away?”
Joshua does not answer. There is a new expression on his face, as if he is weighing some course of action and calculating the consequences.
“Get out,” Märit says. “You are not allowed in this house.” The look on his face makes her suddenly afraid.
Joshua moves past her, not to the kitchen door but farther into the house. As he passes she recognizes the odor that lingered in her bedroom—the smell of motor oil and old sweat, the smell of him.
“Where do you think you are going?” Märit calls. “I told you to get out.” Märit hurries into the living room where Joshua has paused, surveying the room with an air of exaggerated interest.
Joshua turns to face her. “You think you can keep me out of this house?” His voice is hoarse, his eyes bloodshot, and Märit wonders if he is under the influence of some drug. “You think you can tell me what to do?” He shakes his finger at her. “Soon it’s you who won’t be allowed to live here. I know more about this farm than you do. I know everything about this farm. You don’t know anything. This should be my farm now.”
He reaches into his pocket and brings out a package of cigarettes, slowly unwrapping the cellophane before he extracts a cigarette and lights it. He inhales and blows smoke into the room.