by Nancy Pirri
“Stop adding wood to the fire.” Susanna slapped his hand away. “The pot’s got to cook slowly, or the meat will be tough.”
The morning wasn’t yet old when Mr. Harris arrived on horseback.
“Riding into town as if he owns it,” Gertjie said. She was watching the commotion from the sideline, now that her pig had been driven into the claws of lions, and under the trampling feet of elephants.
She couldn’t help that she was bitter. The spot where Susanna’s fire was supposed to be was cold, because Susanna had stolen hers, Gertjie’s.
Dominee met Mr. Harris in the clearing, and the men took away his horse to take care of it.
“A wagon with my photographer and his equipment is following,” Mr. Harris said with a slight British accent.
“In the meantime, let me show you around,” Dominee offered.
From stress, Dominee’s eyes were more squinty than usual, and Mr. Harris, not having the advantage of the townspeople’s accustomedness, couldn’t decide if he should focus on the left, or the right eye. Finally, he settled for a spot between Dominee’s eyes, and was happy for the diversion of being introduced to the taxpayers of the Grayton community.
Young women went around with refreshments all day long, serving ginger beer and bitter hops from barrels, while the youngest of the married men manned the barbecue fire to provide a steady flow of salted ribs, boerewors and grilled corn on the cob.
Gertjie watched Susanna like a hawk, but the woman did not even take a break from her pot to answer nature’s call in the bushes. When the sweet Hanepoot and port came around, Gertjie made sure Susanna had a cup, but she refused the wine. Just when Gertjie thought it was useless, Dominee came with Mr. Harris, and it was Susanna’s turn to be introduced.
“I have heard a great deal about your game potjie,” Mr. Harris said. “Indeed, I cannot wait to taste it. I think I’ll try yours first. But you must give me the secret ingredient.” He winked. “I won’t be fooled if you leave anything out.”
“Mr. Harris,” Susanna batted her eyelashes, “you flatter me.”
“Mr. Harris,” Dominee cleared his throat, “to make the competition fair you’re not supposed to know who prepared what.”
“But I already know, my good man. Not to worry. I shall be fair.” He lifted a gold watch dangling on a chain attached to his waistcoat. “A few more hours to go. I am impatient.”
Susanna kept her herbs in a bowl under a cloth on a flat rock next to the fire. It was part of her secret. She weighed and prepared it at home, away from curious eyes. She lifted the heavy marmite lid with a metal bar, peered inside, and stirred once with a laurel branch, the leaves still intact. She dipped a wooden spoon in, blew it cold, and tasted. Satisfied, she took the herb bowl and quickly added her concoction to the stew, before anyone could get a glimpse at her secret. She sealed the lid carefully so no vapors escaped that would render the stew dry. Then she sat down on the flat rock and watched the fire. It was important that it wasn’t too hot, or too cold. She was so engrossed in her task, that she didn’t notice Gertjie dust her hands, get up, and quietly leave.
When the wagon, driven by a short, dusty photographer arrived, the townspeople flocked to it to inspect the first camera they ever laid eyes upon. With much organization and shuffling, they were arranged in a sunny spot, the Sonderend River at their back, staring at the photographer who moved them left, right, closer, back, on their knees, standing again, just so, until he gave a satisfied nod and his head disappeared under a black cloth. They stood immobile, their faces serious, waiting for the moment to be captured in eternity, although afterward everyone who bought the edition of the Cape Herald in which the photograph appeared said that the serious, respectable faces did not reflect the mood of the event, or what truly happened that day.
In the late afternoon, when an accordion and guitar struck the first notes, the cooks with less complicated dishes made a clearing for the dancing. Those who could afford to leave their fires unattended slipped to the circle for a drink of wine or a roosterkoek hot from the coals.
Hendrik approached his mother with one dripping with butter and apricot jam. “Ma, eat something before you fall over.”
“Thank you, boetie.” She took the flat bread and bit into it. Susanna closed her eyes as the rich flavor of melted butter, roasted yeast bread and sweet jam with just the right amount of sour tang melted on her tongue. She chewed greedily, remembering that she hadn’t enjoyed any of the meat or porridge going around yet.
A crumbly, dry porridge called krummelpap was cooked from maize flour, and served with a sauce of sweet peppers, onions and tomatoes. Susanna’s mouth watered at the thought, but she wanted to save her appetite for the pot and the milktart, a delicious, creamy, tart with a milk and cinnamon filling.
Another hour later, Susanna reckoned it was time to lift the lid again. The secret of a good pot was in the cumin seeds and the pinch of port, but also in stirring and interfering as little as possible.
“Lift this, Hendrik,” she said, motioning to the heavy lid.
Hendrik dropped the lid on the rock, and dipped the wooden spoon in for a quick taste. He burned his tongue and almost swallowed when his mother slapped him on the head.
“Keep your fingers out of my pot. It’s bad luck.”
Hendrik spat the stew over the dry earth. He spat and spat and wiped at his mouth. He scrubbed his lips dry on his sleeve and ran for the beer barrel, scooping out and swallowing a full mug in one go.
Susanna stared after her son, a terrible feeling making her feel nauseous. Hendrik had never been one for playing tricks. This was no joke. She tasted the broth and it followed the same path as Hendrik’s.
Hendrik came walking back, wiping his tongue on his handkerchief. “Ma, your pot is as bitter as a cow’s gallbladder.”
“The fire’s too hot,” Susanna said. “It must be burning. Quickly. Put it here on the ground.”
Hendrik grabbed a rag and lifted the pot from the fire.
“Boetie, run and bring me some potatoes. It’ll pull out the burn.”
“Where must I get potatoes, Ma?”
“Hendrik, did I raise you to be stupid? Go ask around. There’s a lot of bredies cooking. Someone must have potatoes. I’ll go get some milk.”
Susanna made her way to their wagon. There was only one salvation now. Sweet milk and potatoes for the bitter. She couldn’t believe it. This had never happened to her in all of her life. Why now? she asked, over and over. Where was Dirk when she needed him?
When she got to their wagon, the pincher with their milk was empty. She had to run to Jakoba’s spot, where smoke filled with the fragrance of sausage curdled the air, to ask for a lick of milk.
“No, sorry,” Jakoba said. “Mine went sour. Try the Botha’s.”
At the Botha’s stand, Susanna, now sweating profusely, managed to borrow a cup of milk. Trying not to spill too much of it, she walked on stiff legs back to her fire. The sight that greeted her made her stop dead. The precious milk dropped, and soaked into the earth. Mr. Harris stood over her pot, a bowl and a spoon in the hand, making a funny face.
“Mr. Harris!” Susanna waved. “No. No. It’s not ready.”
He pulled up his nose. “Goodness, what a strange taste.”
Susanna entered a place of shock in which her mind rose above her body and stared down at the scene playing out. She had no choice but to stand frozen, imprisoned by turmoil, while Mr. Harris took another bite.
“I can’t quite place it.” He chewed. “Interesting mix.” He took another bite. “If it wasn’t for the bitter.” He chewed fast, like a hamster, his teeth making a funny noise. “I have a good tongue, you know.” Another morsel moved past his lips. “Mmmm.” He moved his jaw from side to side. “Fennel. No! Wait. Wait. Wait for it. Aniseed!”
At last the spell that held Susanna immobile broke, and left her spirit broken too, because she sunk down slowly until she sat on the ground, staring at Mr. Harris. Her prize money drained aw
ay in front of her eyes, eaten by bad luck like the soil that had greedily gulped up the milk.
“No. No.” He shook his head and scrunched up his face. “Would have been good if it wasn’t for the... What is that taste?”
“Close your mouth, Susanna,” Dirk said. “The flies are getting in.” When she didn’t move, he bent down to peer in her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”
Dirk had not lived a day with Susanna that she had had nothing to say.
“Hendrik! Come quick! Ma’s had a stroke.” Dirk knelt in the dirt, waving his hand in front of Susanna’s face. She didn’t flinch.
A calamity of running and shoving and feet and shouting followed, the one falling over the other to catch a glimpse of the sensation.
Jakoba regarded the spectacle with her fists in her sides. “That’s what you get for stressing over a cooking contest. A blood clot in the brain.”
“Why isn’t she blinking?” Santjie said.
“Face is paralyzed,” whispered Miena. “Look, the one side of her mouth is drooping.”
When Hendrik came running up, dropping four sweet potatoes to the ground, Dirk draped Susanna’s arm around his shoulder. “Take the other side, Hendrik. She’s too heavy for me to carry alone.”
Suddenly, life returned to Susanna. She pulled her arm back and punched Dirk on the jaw. Hendrik got a backhand on the head. “Sweet potatoes? What the hell I am supposed to do with patats? Didn’t I tell you potatoes?”
Dominee, who had run up and stopped short of the trio, couldn’t let the indecent behavior go un-reprimanded. “Now, now, Susanna. Tsk-tsk. Language. Language.”
“To hell with it, Dominee.”
Dominee recoiled. “Susanna!”
“Vrou, what is the matter?” Dirk’s bushy brows met. “You sound like you’ve got the devil on your tongue.”
Susanna opened her mouth to give him more of her tongue, but a scream pierced the air and turned all attention away from Susanna, to the picnic scene behind them.
“Good gracious!” Jakoba said.
“One thousand holy cows.”
“What the...?”
The prodigal pig, starving now that he was free and left to fend for himself, his taming having deprived him of the inborn skill of the wild, had been lured to the village by the smell of the food, and finding the first available meal to his disposal, had buried his head in Susanna’s game pot. An awful quiet dawned on the camp, during which only the slurping sounds of the feasting pig was audible.
With a cry of war, Susanna lunged forward, but the pig was not to be moved. He ate and ate, filling his empty tummy, even if the men prodded, shoved, and pushed. Everyone knew a hungry pig with a mouth full of teeth was a dangerous thing, so the pushing was done with much hesitation from behind.
“Get a rope!” somebody yelled.
Gertjie appeared on the scene as if from nowhere, clasping her hands over her heart. “My pig!”
One of the young men had found a rope, and with a lot of struggling, they managed to slip it over the pig’s head, who by then was licking the bottom of the pot clean. He lifted his head, smacked his lips, and oinked once before trotting to the river. For all their pulling, they could not stop the pig without strangling it, and eventually had to let go.
“You’re going to pay for this!” Susanna said, blocking Gertjie’s way as she tried to move to the river where the men now took hold of the rope again.
Gertjie stepped around her. “It’s not my fault. Blame the thieves. If they hadn’t tried to steal him in the first place, he’d be roast by now.”
At that, Susanna was quiet, a strange phenomenon, Dominee noticed. But he didn’t think more of it as everyone helped the next few minutes to chase the pig into an enclosure they used for the lambs a short distance up the river.
Only when the dust settled down, did someone chase a tot of mampoer down Susanna’s throat. Since the bottle was open, the mampoer did the round, the men sipping and sharing their theory as to how the thieves had gotten away with the pig, but were chased by elephants as they made their way up the canyon. Half of them had to have been trampled, while at least another five men made it to the mountain where they were intercepted by a herd of hunting lionesses. Bokkie Basson, Gertjie’s nephew, swore he had seen pieces of torn, bloody clothes hanging from the thorn trees.
The shadows grew longer, the fire higher, and the bottle emptier as the men unloaded their stories of the reckless thieves, and God’s justice. It was only then that someone, his tummy rumbling and his tongue slurring, noticed Mr. Harris’s absence.
“Shouldn’t ze voting schtart sjoon? Where’schs ze editjor?”
The crowd broke into a panic.
“If a pig made it into town, so can a lion,” someone offered.
“Or a cheetah. Big Dantjie shot one on his farm just a week ago.”
“Call a search, before dark!”
“It’s not murder if it’s a wild animal.”
“What if he went for a leak and fell into the river? Drowned?”
“You know there are crocodiles downstream.”
“But if it’s negligence, we can be charged. Sampie knows of a case in the court in Cape Town. Traveler died on the farmer’s land, and he was convicted because he didn’t warn the traveler his ostriches were breeding. Kicked him to death.”
“And you’re still talking?” Dominee, who had come upon the group, said. “Go look for the man. We split. A few of us in each direction.”
However, the men didn’t have to look for long. A figure came trampling down the bank of the river, the sound of his cackling reaching them even if he was still far.
“Oh, dear,” a woman said, “that’s Mr. Harris’s trousers and waistcoat, I’m sure.”
He laughed so much he had to stop to fold double. Then he managed to control himself somewhat, and made it another few steps before collapsing again.
The people of Grayton stood mesmerized.
“What’s happened to him?” Dirk said.
A funny kind of snort sounded from upstream.
“Wait,” someone said, “listen.”
There it was again. A noise like a cross between a giggle and snoring, like Marthinus who snorted when he laughed.
“It’s the pig,” Hendrik said in wonder.
Before anyone could say another word, they heard a loud crash, and saw the pig charging through the open, right for the river.
“He broke the blêrrie fence.”
The pig ran and stopped, rolled in the dust, snorted and ranted, his lips pulled back over his teeth, ran and stopped, rolled in the dust, snorted, sniffed, and stopped. With his pig eyes locked on Mr. Harris, he gave a high-pitched squeal, and took off.
“He’s going to kill Mr. Harris!”
“Get a shotgun!”
“Mr. Harris! Watch out for the pig!”
The pig tackled Mr. Harris from behind, knocking his feet from under him. Mr. Harris went face down with a thump.
“I can’t find the bullets!”
“Somebody, do something!”
The pig snorted and...
“Is he...?”
“NO.”
“Impossible.”
“Oh, dear. Is that his...?”
“The pig’s got the hots for Mr. Harris!”
“Shut up, you useless men. Go help the man.”
“Wait, this is really funny.”
“I think the pig’s a she.”
By that time, Dominee had gotten to the scene, just in time to see Mr. Harris crawling out from under the pig’s licks and shoves, getting to his knees, and breaking into a run.
“Not that way Mr. Harris!”
They heard a loud splash as Mr. Harris fell into the river.
“Oops. Can he swim?”
Dominee spoke angrily. “You should be ashamed of yourselves. This man is here to give us free advertising. DO something!”
The men, their bellies well preserved with mampoer, moved halfheartedly, but Mr. Harris had gotte
n to his knees, gulping, and a second later, the lovesick pig took the plunge and went after her target.
“Give us your hand, Mr. Harris!”
Right then Mr. Harris trusted no one, not even himself, and least of all the beastly men of Grayton. He scrambled to the edge and clambered out, dripping and shaking. At least the shock of the icy water seemed to have been the cold shower the pig needed, because she didn’t follow. Just then, Pollie came down the river path with the children dressed up as angels, singing Silent Night. The words were all broken and tangled, so no one could really make out what they were singing, except for the tune. The white sheets stood out in the dusk, their candles swaying gently as the angelic voices singing in Babylonian tongues reached the picnic spot that had been turned upside-down.
With a shout and a curse Mr. Harris bolted, kicking over pots and cans as he ran across the clearing, aiming for the church where his horse was tied up.
“Mr. Harris, it’s only the children!”
But Mr. Harris was deaf to all but his own chilling scream. He ran as fast as his legs allowed, away from the devil who came to him as a pig and the dead dressed up as angels. When the townspeople followed, they found his horse where they had left it, but there was no sign of Mr. Harris. They looked for a good few hours in the dark, and it was only around midnight that they found him where he had fallen into Gertjie’s grave. The hole was deep, and a man couldn’t climb out on his own.
The pig had swam through the river and made her way up the mountain, laughing all the way. There was nothing left to do but to eat the food prepared for the feast, or face the sin of wastage. It was a gloomy, late supper that night, with not much being said. Of the few words that passed were Gertjie’s and Susanna’s.
“For what it’s worth, your game pot has always been the best.”
“Your spit isn’t so bad itself.”
When Hendrik carved and Pollie served the turkey, everyone except for Susanna had a bite.
Dominee said, “Pollie, can I have seconds?”
If Susanna had enough fight left in her she would have glared at him, but she could only stare at the direction in which the pig had run. From the church hall where Mr. Harris sheltered, they could hear his hysterical laugh.