by Lewis Desoto
“We cannot understand everything that happens,” Tembi says. “The locusts came because there was a hunger in the swarm, and they came to our farm because it was here. It could have been any farm, at any time. How could the locusts know we were here, and that we are struggling to live?”
“Oh, Tembi, I wish I had your wisdom. You are right. God has put goodness in us. He has put it in you.”
Tembi smiles shyly and takes Märit’s hand. “Come. Not everything has been destroyed.”
Tembi walks away in the direction of the windmill and climbs up a few of the metal rungs. “Märit, the orchard! Come and look. Everything is still there.”
Märit runs to join Tembi on the rungs of the ladder, both of them climbing as high as they can.
The fruit orchard is untouched, the rows of trees still with their leaves and the peaches and apricots hanging on the branches. But around the house there is only bare soil.
“As if we were singled out,” Märit observes.
“No. It was just chance, and maybe because we had maize and flowers and green things that the locusts saw in their hunger. What happened was not against us.”
“I suppose you are right.”
Tembi nudges Märit’s shoulder with her foot. “Of course I am right. Now go down, we have to clean the house.”
The women spend the rest of the morning sweeping up the bodies of locusts from the rooms, many of them still alive and fluttering. Märit is filled with revulsion as she wields the broom and carries the bin of wriggling insects out to the fire pit.
Tembi mops the floors with soap and water and washes down the walls where insects have been crushed. Märit drags the burned cushions and rug out to the refuse heap. Later, wood has to be chopped and brought in from the shed.
In the afternoon the drizzle ceases and sun breaks through the cloud. Birds have descended on the fields, feeding on the remaining locusts.
As Märit sweeps the veranda, a distant movement catches her eye, something on the periphery of the farm. She peers in that direction for a moment but sees nothing and continues with her sweeping. An antelope probably, she thinks, but that quick glimpse has imprinted a human shape on her eye. Could it be Michael? she wonders. Does he still wander the land, somewhere on the edges? Or is it someone else? She and Tembi have been so completely alone on the farm that she has forgotten about neighbors, about the town. What is happening in the rest of the country? As she works through the afternoon she looks up often, and does not see that movement again. She convinces herself that what she saw was an antelope.
When the sun descends in the sky, when the shadows begin to lengthen, Tembi calls Märit in. As she goes up the steps of the veranda Märit turns one last time to look back to the borders of the farm, and sees something move in the stillness, something darting furtively out of sight. But so quick that once again after a moment of peering intently towards the trees she is not sure. She enters the house, where Tembi has lit the lamp in the kitchen and the fire burns warm in the stove.
Before retiring for the night Märit sits on the veranda for a while. The lamps have been extinguished, the stars flicker in the sky, the frogs croak down by the river, nearby the crickets chirrup with the same rhythm they take up every night.
We have come through, Märit thinks. The vegetables will grow again, there is still fruit in the trees, and in the storeroom there is still maize meal. We will survive.
She rises, breathes deeply of the night air, and stretches her arms above her head as a yawn overcomes her. And there in the darkness of the veldt a light flickers. Just once. A single point of light in the darkness of the night, like the flicker of a star, then gone.
She stands a long time staring into the darkness. She can’t tell how near or how far that flicker of light appeared; whether it was the flare of a match or a flashlight, a vehicle or a lamp.
Is someone out there, watching the farm, watching them?
When she goes back into the house Märit makes sure that the front and back doors are bolted tight, and that the window catches are fastened in all the rooms. And that night her rest is troubled and her sleep is light, because she listens, and she thinks about the figure out there, the point of light in the darkness, and she knows that she and Tembi are not alone.
IN THE MORNING, Tembi appears in the bedroom doorway. “Märit, there is no water.”
Märit sits up, groggy, tired from an unsettled night. “No water? What do you mean?”
“There is no water from the taps.”
Märit rises from the bed. “What is it now?” she says. “What else can go wrong?”
“There is no water from the kitchen taps, nothing from the yard tap either. I don’t know why.”
In the bathroom Märit turns on the sink taps, then those in the tub. A few spurts of water gush from the faucet and then cease with a shuddering of the pipes. “It must be the windmill, the pump or something. We’ll have to take a look.” She rubs her face wearily. “Is there any coffee?”
Tembi shakes her head. “Without water I can’t make coffee.”
“All right, I’ll get dressed.”
The vanes of the windmill are turning as usual in the light breeze, each revolving blade of metal catching the morning light with a brief reflected flash.
“It turns but there is no water,” Tembi says.
Märit stands with her hands on her hips looking up at the windmill. “It seems to be working all right up there. It must be the pump. Did you check the tap in the kraal?”
“Not yet,” Tembi says.
“Well, let’s look at the pump first,” Märit says, moving towards the small shed at the base of the windmill where the pump is housed.
After a moment of studying the pipes and valves and rods, she shakes her head. “I’ve no idea how any of this works. Do you?”
“I don’t know anything about machines.”
“Go and see if the tap in the kraal is working. I’ll try and figure this out.”
None of the metal parts that make up the pump mechanism are moving except for the long rod that extends upwards to the vanes. Märit traces its passage into the pump, trying to understand which wheel turns which cog. She finds the pipe that carries the water up from the ground and leads out of the pump house. But in between this pipe and the windmill is a bit of intricate machinery housed inside a bolted cover.
When Tembi returns with the information that the kraal tap is not functioning either, Märit taps the pump housing and says, “The problem is in here, I think. Maybe we can open it.”
Märit tries the nuts and discovers that they turn easily, with just a touch of her fingers, as if someone has recently unfastened them. When she gets the cover off she sees immediately that a thin copper rod between two cogwheels has snapped in two.
“That’s the problem. The solution is another matter. I don’t know where we will find a replacement part, or how we will fit it together. Unless we go to Klipspring.”
Tembi shakes her head. “We don’t need the pump. We can fetch water from the river. We can wash in the river and bring our drinking water back in buckets.”
Märit stands up and dusts her hands clean. She takes a last look at the pump mechanism before replacing the housing cover. Somewhere on the farm she will find a piece of metal, and somehow find a way to fit it in place of the broken rod. Yes, she can bathe in the river, and they can bring drinking water up to the house, but without the pump there is no way to irrigate, and there will be no way to grow vegetables again.
With two buckets each, they make their way down to the river and return more slowly to the house with heavier loads. The water is poured into basins and kettles.
“Shall we make coffee now or fetch another load?” Märit asks.
“You make the coffee, I’ll fetch more water.”
“No, we’ll do one more together.”
This time when they return, the buckets are emptied into the bathtub.
“I think we have enough for now,” Märit says.<
br />
“Yes, we can get some more later.”
When they have eaten their breakfast and drunk their coffee the two women make a third trip to the river. Halfway to the house Märit sets down her buckets and flexes her shoulders. “I’m aching already.”
“We will have to get used to this.”
“I know.” But she resolves to try to fix the pump later. She will not let this latest setback defeat her.
42
MÄRIT IS IN THE KITCHEN preparing a cup of tea when she sees Tembi walking past the window with a red plastic pail in her hand.
Märit opens the window and calls out, “I’m making tea. Do you want some?”
“Later.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the river.” She raises the red pail.
“Don’t we have enough water for now?”
“Just one more,” Tembi says. Just one for her garden.
Märit carries her cup through to the living room and eases her aching body into an armchair. The carrying of the buckets together with her lack of sleep in the night has left her very weary. She shuts her eyes, dozing, her cup of tea forgotten, weariness overcoming her.
A shape appears in the doorway, a silhouette dark against the outside glare, waking Märit.
“Tembi?”
The figure steps into the room. A man.
The sudden fright brings her out of the chair. “Who are you?” she exclaims in a sharp, alarmed voice. “What do you want?”
He steps farther into the room and she shrinks back from him.
“What do you want?” Märit cries, squinting against the light to see his face.
“Ek soek werk, Missus.” It is the phrase that every wanderer uses when accosted by a landowner, by an official. It is what every black person in an unaccustomed place says when questioned by a white person in this country—I’m looking for work.
“Work? There is no work here.”
He takes another step into the room; Märit retreats, but still blocks his way. He is visible to her now—a young man, slim, with ropy muscles in his arms, dressed in a checked shirt, quite new, and a pair of khaki trousers.
He studies the room, trying to see into the rest of the house over Märit’s shoulder. His eyes have an alert, inquisitive look.
Märit is frightened of him, but her fear makes her bold.
“Don’t you know to knock when you come to a house?”
“No, I knocked, Missus. Maybe you didn’t hear me.” He smiles at her, white teeth bright against his smooth, dark face.
She knows without doubt that he is the one she saw yesterday, the quick darting movement out there on the veldt. He has been watching the house, and now he has come.
“Well, you should knock louder. What do you want?”
“Like I said, Missus, I’m looking for work, here on this farm.”
“There is no work here. I told you. We don’t need anyone.” She takes a step towards him, her tone resolute, trying to force him to step back, because she is afraid of him, of his insolent smile, and her fear makes her determined. But he does not step back. He looks around the room again with his earnest curiosity, and he smiles at her again, confident, almost mocking, so that she is aware that her boldness and her authority mean nothing to him. He knows she is alone.
“I’m noticing, Missus, that there is nobody working on the fields in this farm. Nothing is growing. I see that the locusts have been here. There is nobody cleaning up around the place. I can do these things. I can help you do these things.”
“We don’t need help. The Baas does what needs to be done.”
“Only I’m not seeing the Baas. I don’t see him.”
“He is in town, with the field boys. They will be back soon. He will tell you that we don’t need any help.”
“I don’t see anybody for a long time, Missus. There is no smoke from the kraal; I don’t see the men in the fields. No cattle. Where are they? I ask myself. No, I don’t see them. I’m thinking you are alone on this farm. You are needing my help.”
How many days has he been watching the farm? she wonders.
He steps farther into the room, no longer on the threshold, crossing a line, and she can’t prevent herself recoiling from him. She smells him now, the smell of countryside, of wood smoke, of sweat, of the dust of travel. And she cannot help but shrink away from him.
He smiles again, confident. “You are alone.”
She darts her eyes towards the office. The shotgun is there, above the cupboard. How many steps will it take to reach the gun? But is it loaded? She can’t remember if she replaced the cartridges after she fired at Joshua.
The stranger follows her glance, attentive, curious.
Her heart is racing and she tries to keep her voice from shaking. “You must leave at once. Don’t you know that you’ll have trouble if they find you here?”
“Trouble?”
“The police. The soldiers. They are here all the time looking for people.”
A slight frown of doubt flickers across his face. “I’m not seeing any soldiers. For a long time. I think they have gone also.”
“No, they were here just the other day. They took the workers away. They shot a man.”
He considers this news, regarding her with a suspicion that pinches his face, and he suddenly looks very young to Märit, a boy only.
But then he shakes his head impatiently, and his voice changes, and there is an edge of menace in his voice.
“This is a big farm, maybe you have something for me?”
Not a question, but a demand. And the threat beneath it, the implication that he can take what he wants.
Is it money that he wants? She restrains the impulse to look towards the office again, where the last of the money is hidden. Should she give him some money and send him on his way? But what is to stop him taking it all, taking everything? Where is Tembi? Should she call for Tembi?
“There is nothing here. You can see that. It’s a poor farm.”
“I am hungry. You can give me something to eat, Missus.”
In normal times she would say, Yes, go round to the kitchen and I will tell the cook to give you something. But those times are over. He knows it as well as she does.
“Anything,” the stranger says. “A sip of tea. I am thirsty, I have walked a long way.”
“Where do you come from?”
A jerk of his chin over his shoulder. “That way.”
Anywhere, everywhere.
“All right,” she relents. “All right, I’ll find something for you to eat. But then you have to go, you can’t stay. The police are always here, looking for people. They could come at any time.”
He looks past Märit at a sound from the corridor behind her. She spins around. Oh God, she thinks, there is more than one of them! Images flash through her mind—of the worst that can happen to a woman trapped alone in a house by desperate strangers.
The figure in the corridor materializes as Tembi. Märit’s knees almost buckle with relief. “Tembi!”
Tembi looks from Märit, alarmed at her almost pitiful cry, and to the young stranger, who now smiles at her and raises an open palm.
“Sawubona, sister. I greet you.”
He speaks rapidly to her, leaning forward, but his language is unfamiliar to Tembi; it is a language from the north, which she does not understand. She replies in her own language, asking him where he has come from, and what his name is. But he shakes his head. He does not understand her.
“He speaks English,” Märit says.
“Yes, we can speak English,” he says. “I am Khoza.” He extends his hand to Tembi.
When he turns to Märit, she pointedly puts her hands in her pockets.
Tembi frowns at her. “And this is Märit.”
He holds out his hand, waiting, smiling faintly, until Märit has no choice but to shake it.
“Where are you coming from, Khoza?” Tembi asks.
“I have walked from Swartkloof, from across the bo
rder.”
“Such a long way! And where do you go?”
“Anywhere. Away from the war.” He seems just a boy now, no threat or menace in him—just another wanderer.
“I was just going to give him some food,” Märit interrupts. “To take with him. Before the soldiers come back.”
“What soldiers?” Tembi asks. “The soldiers have been again?”
“They could come back at any time.”
“I haven’t seen any soldiers for a long time now, Missus,” Khoza says. “You don’t have to worry. There are no soldiers in this district.”
“They could come back at any time,” she repeats. “We will make you up some food for your journey.”
“But he can’t go back out there if the soldiers are around,” Tembi objects. “Did you see soldiers today, Märit?”
Märit pushes past them towards the kitchen. “Come and get your food,” she calls to the young man. Tembi hurries after her.
In the kitchen Tembi moves the kettle over the burner and throws a couple of pieces of coal into the stove, then stokes up the fire.
Märit brings rusks and jam from the pantry. “I don’t want him in the house longer than is necessary.”
“I can do it,” Tembi says, grabbing the plates from her.
Märit shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She sits down at the table.
Khoza leans in the doorway. “You have a cigarette for me, Missus Märit?”
His voice has a slight insolence. He is aware that a rift has opened between the two women, and he is aware that he is the cause.
Märit slides the cigarette package across the table. He takes one and bows slightly to her.
“Can you give me a match, Missus?”
Tembi turns and looks at them, sensing the tension. “You don’t have to say ‘Missus’ all the time.”
Märit slides matches across the table. Khoza lights his cigarette and blows out a stream of smoke. “Thank you, Märit.”
Tembi sets out a plate with rusks and a sliced apple. “Please sit, Khoza. I’m sorry, we don’t have much.”
When he sits, Märit moves to stand at the counter.
Tembi sits across from him as he eats hungrily. He devours the rusks in a couple of bites and she sets out more for him. And when he has eaten the apple, she fetches another one from the bowl and slices it onto his plate.