“Vengeance is the headiest mead in creation.” So say the guardians of the Laws. The look on his father’s face compensated Ntsina for many hardships he had endured. He stepped into the room. Sukude shrank from him. So it was Ntsina’s ghost who had slain Fezile! Sukude’s was the courage of brute strength, strongest in the presence of weakness. It deserted him completely now. He began to wail. “I have not sexed her! I have not sexed her!”
Ntsina strode towards him, and Sukude flinched. Ntsina touched Bela’s head. “Arise, my wife.” She stood. “By the powers of the Goddess Ma, I grant you sanctity and protection. The first man to harm you will find himself summoned to a hideous fate in the Underworld.”
He turned to his father. His face was fearsome.
“I am sorry!” cried Sukude. “Forgive me, my son. Fruit of my loins.”
“It is not I whose forgiveness you should seek.”
Ntsina pointed at Bela. It was a rare thing indeed for a man to apologise to a woman in Gwadana; rarer still for the apology to be offered on his knees.
Ntsina presided over a most satisfying scene.
“I beg your forgiveness.” Sukude muttered it at first, but at a kick from Ntsina he found his voice. Ntsina kicked him again, and again, and each time Sukude’s pleas reached a new pitch of sincerity. Bela’s eyes danced. If a dark spirit had possessed her once, Ntsina now banished it for good. She felt a surging up of her old self—but she had changed, too. She was no longer a pliant maiden. She was a woman, a wife. And she spat on Sukude’s head with joy.
“This is the first of your punishments,” said Ntsina. “The second is this: you shall cook and sweep and clean. If you shirk any task I will revisit you. If I do, I will bring creatures from the dark places.”
It was bright daylight outside. He knew he could not stay. He kissed his wife lingeringly, opened the door and bounded down the hillside.
—
PIET BAROL DID HIS BEST to take no action on those rare occasions when he lost his temper. To Stacey all he said was: “I think you had better rest until you are calmer.”
She stormed off to their hut and he left her there. He consulted Luvo, who predicted that Ntsina would return once he had calmed down; but darkness came and Ntsina did not return, and all through the night Piet worried for him.
What if Stacey had driven him into the path of a wild creature?
When Ntsina did not appear the next morning, his worry intensified. He was about to take Grace and Blessing on a search party when the object of their anxiety stepped out of the line of trees. He was whistling. He did not mention his absence, or apologise for it. “It is time to make some money,” was all he said.
Ntsina went into the shed. The Indians were there, who were used to being his masters. He did not greet them. He was done with their patronizing ways. What need had he, Ntsina Zini, great-grandson of the Great Founder, for the trick of making a piece of wood look like an elephant tusk? Let other men do that—he would hunt, and make love, and torment evil-doers. He had begun to see possibilities in his new role at Gwadana. He ignored Ierephaan’s protests as he reached over him to measure the width of a table. When he was done, he went to Piet and said: “It will take three trips in our wagon to get the furniture that is now finished to Butterworth. What happens next?”
“It must go to Johannesburg.”
Stacey overheard this. Her heart leapt. “I’ll go with it. Make sure everything’s placed to its best advantage. I can find us new clients.”
A day before, Piet would have entreated her to stay. Now he said: “That’s an excellent idea, my darling,” and his voice was tight with grievance.
“I’ll take Arthur with me. He can go to school.”
The look on Piet’s face made the watching men retreat, aware that a lightning storm was brewing between these two Strange Ones.
“You’ll do no such thing.”
“I will indeed.”
“What good will six weeks at school do him?”
“There are excellent boarding schools. We could leave him there while you finish this…business.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I must insist. He needs to learn how to be a gentleman.”
“He’s six years old.”
She tried to smile. But she was too angry to skirt a confrontation. “He’s my son. I will decide what’s best for him.”
It was a misstep. Piet looked at her. He was truly shocked. “You mean to say you would take him away from me?”
“For his own good.”
“Are you quite sure?” His voice was dangerously calm.
“Quite sure.”
He leaned close to her, and when he spoke his voice was so cold she was caught off guard. Rage would have spurred her, but this new voice made her afraid. “I am his father,” said Piet. “You will never take him from me.” And then, aware that this card could not be trumped: “Do not think you can treat me like a black man. I have the law on my side.”
—
PIET SPENT THAT NIGHT on the floor of their cabin, while Stacey took the bed. The next morning he woke early and gave Luvo and Ntsina fifteen pounds each. He told them it was an advance on the sums owed them, but in fact it was a wordless apology for his wife’s behaviour. They accepted it with as much nonchalance as they could muster; but as soon as Piet had gone they gave way to the excitement young men feel when given disposable cash.
It was a greater sum than either had had occasion to handle before.
Arthur clung to Stacey as she said goodbye, but bravely refused to cry. His restraint made his mother ache. She covered his face in kisses and promised to return as soon as she could. Then she got onto the box of the wagon, ignoring Piet’s hand outstretched to help her.
The vehicle was heavily laden with tables and chairs. Having errands to run in Butterworth, Ntsina and Luvo came too. They lay in the back, avoiding the solid silence between the Barols.
Piet was aware of powerfully conflicting emotions. He loved Stacey. He did not doubt that. But the events of the previous day smarted worse than any disagreement they had had before. Her vileness to Ntsina, without whom they would have no fortune, was deeply objectionable. Her willingness to deprive him of Arthur stifled his urge to miss her.
They stood together in the lobby of the Travellers’ Rest. Stacey rang the bell. She waited until Piet had gone to unload the cart before asking whether anything had come for her. The receptionist, in a panic about Stacey’s trunks, handed her a telegram. She opened it. PRAYING FOR HIS RETURN STOP PLEASE ACCEPT SMALL GIFT STOP LOUISA STOP And with it was a banker’s order for three hundred pounds.
“What’s that?” asked Piet, coming in.
“A telegram from Percy. It’s a good job I’m going. He’s very indignant you’re so late.”
He took her up to the room they had made such frenzied love in three months before. Today, neither of them wished to, and this made him sad. “I’m sorry you’ve had such inconveniences,” he said.
“Thank you for being sorry.”
They looked at one another. The telegram in her pocket had lifted Stacey’s spirits. She gave her husband the secret half smile that was their indication of a truce. He returned it, and tenderness twisted through their anger.
“We’ll be back in the city soon enough.” Piet kissed her forehead. “And we’ll never be poor again. Don’t be too cross.”
She put her hands around his waist and drew him to her. “I have one favour to ask.”
“Anything.”
“Control your perfectionism. Don’t spend too long on that bed. It is already finer than anything Johannesburg has ever seen. What matters now is pace. We need to speed up production.”
“Yes.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
But as he bounded down the steps of the Travellers’ Rest, Piet Barol had no intention of keeping his word.
11
Luvo had just sent his money to his parents, and was glowing with the virtue o
f not having spent any of it on himself. Ntsina was coming out of the general store, with a large parcel.
“What on earth’s that?” asked Piet.
“Nails for Ierephaan and Mohammed.” Ntsina loaded it carefully and sat on the box beside Piet. Luvo lay in the back and closed his eyes. Piet jerked the reins. The wagon trundled up the hill towards Idutywa. At length Piet gathered all the isiXhosa of which he was master and said: “I’m sorry, my friend.”
“For what?”
“For the way my wife you to.”
His word order made Ntsina grin, despite himself. It was always amusing to see a Strange One grapple with challenges he could not rise to.
“You promised there would be no women,” he said.
It had never occurred to Piet that this prohibition would extend to his own wife. He saw, quite abruptly, as if an artfully placed mirror had altered his perspective, that from Ntsina’s point of view things had not perhaps seemed very fair. Piet had the great gift of being able to apologise when he was wrong. He did so now, without attempting to justify himself.
Ntsina had not expected penitence. It threw him. He had prepared many angry statements on this subject, but Piet’s apology, and the money he had just dispensed, made them all dissolve. For a moment his mood swayed on the precipice of resentment, deprived of the release of further conflict. But the raptures of the night before still lingered.
“I forgive you,” he said. “But if you’re not careful, the men will invite their own beauties to the camp. Like her, for instance.” He nodded at the woman who had come to her gate with water buckets for their horses. Piet had never looked at her before. With the exception of the men who worked for him, whom long familiarity had rendered specific, he did not trouble much to distinguish one Bantu from another, and avoided looking too lingeringly at their women—because he knew his own nature well and did not court temptation. Now he did look and saw a stout, large-breasted woman, with huge undulating buttocks. She looked up at this moment and her glance intercepted his. She smiled the smile of a woman used to the attention of men. There was nothing ingratiating or servile in it, quite the reverse.
“Well they’d better not,” he said.
—
THE PARCEL NTSINA ZINI had bought in the general store did not contain nails. It contained a wind-up radio—the last of its kind in the province, the man had told him.
The knowledge of his possession lit a pleasant fuse of anticipation in Ntsina. He had already squared his conscience about the breaking of his vow to the Strange One, and Piet’s apology, though appreciated, did not give him pause. The Strange One had not forsaken his family, and neither would he. What mattered was not that he should remain in the forest, but that no one from the village should enter it.
As they drove into the trees, all three men, for different reasons, felt their moods improve. “Helpful been you, so,” said Piet, in isiXhosa. “Grateful I am. Very.”
“He is not such a bad man,” thought Ntsina to himself. Aloud he said: “You can cook dinner tonight, for a change.”
Piet did cook dinner. He had bought two bottles of brandy in town and they had something of a feast. The presence of a lady is an inhibiting weight on a group of men, and in Stacey’s absence the brandy reignited a spirit of camaraderie. Arthur sat up late with them and begged for some but was denied it. He sat between his father and Ntsina, and though he missed his mama, he did not cry over her absence. Secretly he hoped there would be no more capital cities until she returned.
The gun lay on the table and Piet shot two hares with it, who had wandered too close. “To our work!” he cried, raising his glass. “It will make us immortal!”
—
AS SHE LOWERED HERSELF into the Travellers’ Rest’s deep bath, Stacey Barol thought of Arthur. She worried for him in the forest, and yet…She knew in her deepest soul that Piet could be relied upon to care for him. There was time enough, she supposed, to teach him drawing-room manners.
Her husband’s apology had touched her. With an effort of will she focused on the life they would have soon enough—in a proper house, with well-trained servants and ceiling fans and crisp sheets. She washed her hair. Even this horrid room was an improvement on the forest glade she had left behind, and ahead were the delights of a proper hotel. It made her feel secure to have money of her own. That it should have come from a beauty of Piet’s past made its possession all the more delicious. Louisa’s gift had greatly reduced the pain of learning that a fire had destroyed the possessions she had left behind. A shopping trip would now be in order, and few things soothed Stacey’s soul like new clothes.
She had wired the Shabrills, but promised herself she would refuse their offer of hospitality. She had lived long enough among strangers. In Johannesburg she would do as she pleased.
It took her three days to get the furniture to East London, and a further two for the train to reach the Rand. She went at once to the Carlton Hotel, where Monsieur Etellin received her with the perfect admixture of warmth and deference that is the mark of the first-rate hotelier. She booked a large suite in the name of the Vicomtesse Pierre de Barol. To be reunited with her title! It was a great pleasure. So was the fact that she might shop with a clear conscience.
She had come to Johannesburg with a mission she intended to execute, and it required panache and haute couture. She had the concierge call ahead for her, and three of the most expensive dress shops in the city opened their private salons, usually reserved for the wives and mistresses of the mining magnates. The European War had stopped the shipment of clothes from Paris, but Johannesburg was a melting pot of nationalities, and many French seamstresses had installed themselves long before the outbreak of hostilities.
One advantage of life in the forest was that Stacey had never been thinner, and it did her self-esteem no end of good to compare herself with the fat matrons of Johannesburg. She sent postcards to Arthur every morning and bought, off the rack, three day gowns, two tea gowns, four evening dresses, six pairs of gloves (to cover the insect bites on her arms), three hats and two complete sets of silk lingerie. From Madame Chataignier, the couturier of the day, she ordered a further three ball gowns and two day dresses. Some ladies in the city still favoured corsets, but Stacey had no need of such uncomfortable aids to the silhouette. Even the fashions seemed calculated to please her. The dresses clung beautifully. She who had been compelled to put up with the assaults of insects and the unpleasantness of sweaty muslin could now move in sheaths of rustling silk.
After a week of shopping and massage, she had recovered herself sufficiently to embark on her assault of the Shabrills, and the pocketbooks of their friends.
—
THE MONTHS OF March, April and May 1915 would be remembered by Ntsina Zini for the rest of his days, and with good reason. For the first time in his life he had real money, and the prospect of more. He set himself to study Luvo’s work in bookkeeping, rather than the laborious efforts of the pompous Indians, and found that it was quite easy to add up the sums Luvo entered on his ledger.
Luvo kept scrupulous accounts, and Ntsina’s new dedication was very agreeable to him. Ntsina spent his days hunting with Arthur, which meant that their lessons took place at night, lit by the romantic glow of a lantern. They sat close to each other, and sometimes Luvo took Ntsina’s hand under his, and guided him in the drawing of the numbers. These evenings, for Luvo, were filled with a wordless, exquisite pleasure.
On one of them, as he contemplated his future possession of three hundred pounds, Ntsina said: “Do you think the Strange One would ever cheat us?”
Luvo thought this over. “I don’t think he would. She’s the one I worry about.”
Ntsina frowned. He was not a violent man, but he had a vivid memory of Stacey Barol and decided to make sure he knew where the gun was—in case he should be compelled to assert his rights. The decision helped still his unease. So did Piet’s friendliness.
And so did sex, wonderful sex.
Ntsina
had intended at first…He did not know quite what he had intended. Certainly he had not intended to deceive Bela. But he found that the rapture she experienced in the arms of a spirit was so sweet for them both he had no wish to alter it. With the exception of the lady with the rash behind her knees, he had never sampled the joys of the love mat. To do so now, with a woman who loved him, whom he loved in return, supported by the knowledge that every day was leading them closer to a dream few Bantu could realize—a house, with electric light and comfortable beds; clothes for her; schooling for their children—made Ntsina disinclined to tell the harsh, glaring truth.
What need had they for it? When he had his money, he would return in the flesh, incarnated by the spell his grandmother had run such risks to cast for him. Two moons passed, and still he had the radio in its box in the hide where formerly the Zinis had worshipped their ancestors. Nosakhe was not an innocent like Bela. She was a true sangoma, a seer of deep things. He did not trust himself to lie to her convincingly, and the thought of being found out…
He preferred not to think of it, and did not think of it. Instead, he and Bela tasted raptures with each other—first twice a week, then three times, the minutes ticking by so slowly in the intervals between their couplings that by the time they met they could hardly breathe. They met ten trees from the village, just beyond sight of the homesteads of Gwadana. From here he led her to the forest’s secret places. They bathed in the pool behind the waterfall of the purple rocks and cooked in the cave that none but Nosakhe knew, a cave adorned with paintings of the First People, chasing game. He showed Bela where the trees with the widest branches and the best views were, and together they climbed them. Two months after the Blessing fruited, another offered itself, and this time he did not show it to Arthur. He took Bela to the glade of this second Blessing and fed her the delicious sweet fruits. She showed Ntsina how to touch her just so, and he did, reverently, for long hours as the sun turned the sky from blue to gold.
Who Killed Piet Barol? Page 28