Half of One Thing

by Zirk van den Berg

  ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t get the bastards who burnt your farm.’ He stood with his head bowed, pressed against the sloping canvas behind him.

  ‘I’m just glad you’re not hurt. It would’ve been terrible to lose you as well.’

  Her intimacy and the reminder of his own mortality made him uncomfortable and he changed the topic. ‘Where can I find the other one?’

  ‘He wouldn’t be far.’

  They talked a bit and then Jacob left, looking for the Dutchman. He spotted the man in the distance and had to check his intuitive response to the enemy uniform. He had to remind himself that this was someone who had done a heroic deed to save a Boer fighter, even if that fighter was only a Jew. If gratitude or respect was not easily mustered, the least he could do was give Gideon Doncker the benefit of the doubt. And sitting there with his feet in the water looked pleasant. Jacob hadn’t done anything like that for years.

  Gideon had taken off his boots to cool his feet in the creek. They looked so white in the water, like scraped piglets. He moved his toes to prove they were alive. For reasons he could not fathom, he remembered something from before the war, a picnic with parasols at Victoria Park and the middle Reid sister giving him the eye. Prudence was her name, or was it Grace? One of those virtues. Something about her had made him think she would not succeed at making a good marriage. Maybe she’d already promised herself to some wastrel. Not that he cared any more. That life felt as far removed as Mr Dickens’ stories. His youth was like a book, once read and loved, now damp, so the pages were stuck together, not to be opened again.

  A shadow told him someone was near. When he saw who it was, Gideon scampered to his feet.

  ‘Don’t bother getting up.’

  Gideon resumed his position, but his mind was no longer nearly as languid as his body. He had hardly spoken to Commandant Eksteen since that first interview when he had to establish his credentials. He was less prepared now. Eksteen may not have known they were enemies, but they definitely weren’t friends. He didn’t think Eksteen had any. Look at him, standing there between earth and sky, his limbs at angles, understudy to the ferryman of the Styx.

  ‘I saw Matzdorff.’

  ‘Is he awake yet?’

  Eksteen shook his head. ‘Do you think he’ll make it?’

  ‘I sure hope so.’

  ‘If he does, he’ll have you to thank for his life.’

  ‘He’s got a good nurse.’

  Eksteen clasped the bottom half of his face, pretending to stroke his beard, talking into his hand. ‘If you had left him, he would’ve been dead or captured.’

  ‘One doesn’t know which is worse.’

  The tall man stared at the ground.

  Gideon found it funny, the way these people thought. How could anyone not see the humour in his statement? But apparently the commandant didn’t.

  ‘Are you two friends?’

  Careful now, thought Gideon. Matzdorff wasn’t in the Boers’ inner circle. ‘He talks to me sometimes. I don’t know him well though.’

  ‘Did he ever say anything that made you doubt his loyalty to our cause?’

  Gideon moved his feet in the water, slowly paddling up and down. Talk of loyalty and betrayal made him nervous, for reasons he hoped wouldn’t be obvious to anyone but himself. Eksteen’s demeanour suggested that he suspected something, but fortunately the suspicion seemed to be directed at Matzdorff. Gideon did not want to finger the wounded man, but could not pass up the opportunity to divert attention from himself. He had to be careful though. ‘I can’t say he did. He did complain a bit, but … I didn’t take it seriously. Have you heard anything?’

  ‘It looked like the Khakis were ready for us. They had men hidden and ready to counter-attack. I just wonder how they knew.’

  There could be a hundred explanations, thought Gideon. One of the soldiers may have looked over his shoulder and seen signs of the Boers approaching. Treason need not enter into it. Clearly the Boer commander saw it differently. ‘I think Matzdorff was with us all the time, though I can’t say I remember anything specific.’

  ‘He had been out that morning though. Remember, he came back with Miss Calitz? Do you know where he went?’

  ‘He said he was going out to shoot something for the pot, guinea fowl I think it was.’

  ‘Did he have anything like that with him when he came back?’

  ‘No … But how could he warn the Khakis of our attack before we had even decided to launch it?’

  ‘I thought about it, and it is possible. They were going to burn the farm. All he had to do is to find Miss Calitz and bring her to me. Many of the men are from this area and they’re well aware that the two of us knew each other before the war and I’d be obliged to avenge the attack. It could’ve been a carefully laid trap.’

  Gideon was impressed by Eksteen’s plotting prowess if not convinced by the tale. Imagine the intrigue this man and Major Bryce would be able to concoct. ‘Have you asked Miss Calitz how her meeting with Matzdorff came about?’

  ‘She said she’d been riding and looked up and there he was.’ Eksteen squatted, looked Gideon right in the eye. ‘Maybe you could stay here a while, listen to what he says, especially while he’s still a bit delirious …’

  So now he was being asked to spy on a suspected traitor, risking the chance that his real mission would fail if De Wet contacted Eksteen in the coming days. ‘I’d like to get back to the commando.’

  ‘It’s more important you stay here. Besides, you could still do with some nursing.’

  That much was true. Gideon wasn’t looking forward to getting back in the saddle, much less holding a rifle to his sore shoulder and firing. It was that or having Esther dab his wounds with a wad soaked in spirits … He convinced himself that staying would help him win Eksteen’s trust, especially if he could report something the commandant wanted to hear. Perhaps it could all contribute to making his real mission a success. So he’d be a spy pretending to spy for the other side, and while wearing the wrong uniform too. ‘If that’s what I have to do.’

  ‘If there’s a traitor in our midst, we must find him.’ Eksteen pulled a grass stem from its sheath and put it between his teeth, biting it to release tiny squirts of juice.

  ‘What will you do if you find one?’

  ‘There’s only one thing one can do.’ Eksteen spat out the plug of grass and got up. ‘Mrs Calitz asked me to have lunch with the family.’

  Gideon watched him go, lifting and placing his feet like a long-toed waterbird. It occurred to him that Eksteen had it even worse than himself. Both of them had to act as if they fitted where they didn’t, but at least he belonged somewhere on earth. Eksteen was not at home in this world. The man seemed to strain at its physical trappings, was awkward dealing with gravity even, and certainly didn’t take to the creatures living around him. Gideon took his feet out of the water and made wet footprints on the rocks. The spoor of the elusive human.

  After lunch, Esther sent for Stompie to bring Jacob’s horse. While they were waiting, she and Jacob wandered down to the willow where the grandfather clock was now wrapped in oilcloth. Jacob didn’t comment on the presence of the coffin-like object in this place. The unexpected had become commonplace in recent years. Through lack of sleep, Esther’s own perceptions had become strange. It felt as if she only noticed one thing at a time, rather than the fullness of reality. The sound of wind rushing through dry grass filled her head, making it hard to think, harder still to observe social conventions. She had lost her home, two nights’ sleep, and her heart was in peril. Jacob, upright and as out of place as the clock beside him, was still the same, her confidant and dearest friend. There were times before, under different trees, when they had stood very much like this, talking of nature and their dreams.

  ‘If it weren’t for this war, what do you think would’ve happened to us?’

  Jacob looked strangely surprised. ‘What sort of a question is that? Whatever doesn’t happen is just imagination. We can supp
ose all we want, but it doesn’t make it real.’

  Esther looked hurt.

  Jacob saw this as yet another piece of evidence that everything was against him. He wished he could close his eyes and the world would become a different place, but he knew his eyes would have to open again and the image he’d see would be the image he saw now: this spirited, vulnerable woman, her face framed by hair, her head against the backdrop of droopy leaves, her blue-print dress with the lace trimmings, her upper body moulded in her clothes, the tapered folds enveloping her from the waist down, the square-toed black shoes, the improbable clock next to her and the whole world out of whack. His impotence angered him. There had to be something he could do, some way he could express his will, force things back to how they should be.

  ‘It won’t always be like this,’ he said. ‘The British will get tired of this country; they’ll go away. It’s just a matter of time.’

  ‘I’m living now. What am I supposed to do in the meantime?’

  ‘I don’t know, Esther. Whatever you have to. We’ll each do what we have to. One day, we’ll look back.’

  ‘I hope it will be without regrets.’

  ‘Of course.’ Jacob did not believe this, not for a second. Things were irretrievably wrong and he wasn’t even sure it only had to do with the war. There’s a cosmic mess and trying to create order in your little corner of it requires hard decisions. You’ll always long for the world you don’t have.

  Behind the curtain of foliage, a horse snorted. Jacob parted the leaves, stepped out and took the reins. ‘Is she walking well now?’

  ‘Yes, baas. It was just the shoe that got loose. We fixed it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Esther watched him get on the horse. ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘We’ll need to bring a change of clothes for the Dutchman in a week or two. He can’t go out like that – if the Khakis find him he’ll be shot for spying. I could come or maybe I’ll send Klein Steyn. It all depends.’

  ‘Look after yourself.’

  As he rode off, Esther thought about how the two of them always managed to get beyond small talk. Jacob was the only person she could say serious things to, or had been till that morning. The Dutchman also seemed to have a capacity for openness. With Gideon, though, she sensed that he was direct because he could be anything, while Jacob couldn’t be anything else.

  29 October–11 November 1901

  That night, the African veldt shimmered under half a heaven’s worth of starlight, heavy with the serenity of sand and grass, trees, rocks and slow-moving ruminants, the sudden terror of lion strike, the waiting with bated breath, the fragile peace. When everything around had gone dark with a darkness that clogs the throat and the Milky Way shone like sugar, down in the valley a white tent glowed faintly with the light of a single candle. Inside, Esther and Gideon sat on his bedroll, the woman hugging her knees and staring at the signs of life from the wounded Jew.

  It was way past midnight. Esther had had some sleep late in the afternoon, but was struggling not to drift off. Gideon had told her she could go to bed; he could watch over Matzdorff. She said he should sleep; she’d take care of the wounded man. Neither of them took the offered rest. Truth be told, there was something deeply satisfying about being there together in the presence of a life-or-death struggle. Their own lives gained significance by proximity to the suffering Jew, a significance that was enhanced by having a partner in charity. The presence of a third person took away the tension of their togetherness; at the same time his unconscious state abolished the requirements of decorum. Gideon and Esther felt comfortable around each other. Whispered observations took on the air of confidences.

  ‘He’s calmer now.’

  ‘We should sponge him down again.’

  When something had to be done, they worked shoulder to shoulder. When there was only waiting, they waited in harmony. Gideon thought of saying something, of remarking on her grace, beauty or kindness, but it would only mar the moment. She felt scarily vulnerable. If he said anything, she would fall against him and surrender to sleep or fantasy, both of which, though deeply seductive, paled against the reality of the moment.

  Esther had known Jacob Eksteen all her life. Their relationship was forged through years of orderly progression – furtively getting to know each other as children, sharing confidences with growing boldness, building trust and understanding. This man, this foreigner, came to her in a time of rare intensity. He had not earned her trust; he assumed it would be given in a way that made it impossible to withhold. Suddenly she had two men in her heart – one aloof and admirable, the other comforting. Cast in romantic terms, theirs was the difference between a knight of the realm and a horseman from the steppe. She’d marry Jacob, because it was the life she expected for herself. With Gideon she could indulge in something less lofty, companionship that made no demands. She could be with him without insistent echoes of the past or the silent, hollow chambers of the future. Everything was in the present and it was good that way.

  Matzdorff mumbled and they both sat forward. ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘No idea.’

  The ailing man fell silent again, and so did they. It occurred to Gideon that falling in love is not done with words. It’s the mutual recognition of promise, followed by a dance of I-will-if-you-will. Words can be the music to this dance, but they are not its steps.

  ‘You’re bleeding again.’ A red spot had appeared on the Gideon’s khaki tunic. He tugged at the cloth to look at the crusty bandage underneath. She nudged his hand away. ‘Let me have a look.’

  He took off the tunic and lay back while she undid the dressing and cleaned the broken bruise anew. Some of the wood splinters from the shattered rifle stock had gone in quite deep. Esther hoped she had managed to get them all out. The wound looked clean. Gideon lent a hand when he could. He marvelled at the fact that this woman was supposedly an enemy, but by what definition and whose decree? The term meant less to him with each passing day. The enemy was whoever you saw over gun sights, otherwise it was simply someone who supported the other team, selected by their place of birth. This woman bore him no ill will and did not threaten his survival, home or way of life. His heart was in danger, yes, but that he risked willingly. When she had finished cleaning the wound, she pressed gently on the white cloth. ‘That should do.’ Her hand remained in position and his covered hers. She was compelled to look into his face and he into hers. Candlelight reflected in their eyes. The flame had stretched, burning steady.

  The healing that was taking place in Matzdorff’s body was a natural process. Neither Gideon nor Ester understood the medical cycle of cause and effect involved, but somehow believed that their care – drip-feeding him soup and water, cleaning the wound, countering the fever with sponge baths – had something to do with it, that this man’s survival was at least partly their doing.

  Towards morning, they both fell asleep, Gideon lying on his side and Esther lying with her back against him. His arm followed the line of hers, his fingers curled around her wrist.

  Just before dawn, they were woken up by Matzdorff’s voice. ‘Where am I? What happened?’

  ‘Shh, lie back …’ Esther nudged him with the palm of her hand. ‘You’ve been shot, but you’ll be okay. We’re looking after you.’

  When Matzdorff drifted off into unconsciousness again, Esther and Gideon looked at each other, finding confirmation that sharing the bed was acceptable under the circumstances.

  Over the next week or two, while Matzdorff made a steady recovery, their little chats about this or that rang with significance, like the twittering of birds on the first day of spring.

  Gideon’s beard grew pointy at the chin, giving him the look of European royalty. He gave Esther a hand with turning the Lost Lamb into a more permanent homestead. He helped to build a corral for the small livestock. They built a drinking trough and set up a hand pump to fill it with water from the spring. The Calitz family shelter was augmented with a stone w
all on one side.

  It was while he was working on the wall that Esther’s grandmother pointed at him and said, ‘That one is dragging the wrong ghost around.’ She kept watching him, nodding to herself.

  In a whisper, Esther explained to him that her grandmother saw ghosts everywhere. ‘She says we each have one that follows us like a dog, and then there are those that walk around by themselves. Apparently you can have ghosts without people, but not people without ghosts.’

  Gideon wasn’t sure this was any more comforting than what he had heard in the first place. Why would he have the wrong ghost anyhow?

  It wasn’t just ghosts following them around. The first time Esther and he had walked together, all the children in the kloof thronged after them. It took three days for the kids to lose interest in the games of the two grownups. For the other adults, the fascination persisted, though their curiosity was more discreet.

  One day, Gideon led Esther to a spot at the furthest end of the Lost Lamb, where the walls of the gorge were only an arm’s width apart. ‘Up this way.’ He indicated for Esther to go ahead. Here, the two of them would be free from prying eyes, though no doubt there was plenty of guessing and gossiping.

  The sound of the wind in the grass reminded Gideon of a distant sea. He remembered a family holiday at the Usshers’ place above Piha beach, how he watched the waves. First, a shiny line in the sea reflecting the sun, then a definite wave, gathering height, crashing in white foam and running up the black sand till only a wet gleam remained. Waves had been pounding that beach and others forever. If you were in the water, you felt its power for a few seconds, no longer. One of them knocked Gideon’s brother off his feet long enough that he got sucked to where he could no longer stand, and then further out. Though Edward was two years older than him, Gideon set off to pull his brother to safety. A wave knocked him back, and when he surfaced again he could no longer see his brother. He splashed about and called, screamed till his throat felt raw, swam this way and that. By then, the beach was far away. He didn’t care. He didn’t mind dying. It was the first time he could remember having the feeling that had become his constant companion in all the years since. Sometimes he wondered how much of the way he was, the constant testing of himself, had to do with this failure to save his brother that day. Was it Edward’s voice in his head, egging him on? He couldn’t remember if he had done any of his self-imposed quests before his brother drowned. A stranger came, a moustachioed man in a striped bathing suit, and dragged him back to the beach. He did not thank the man. He never felt like thanking him, until now. If he had died that day, he would never have known this woman.