When Time Fails

by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

  ‘Do you know what a kibbutz is?’

  The journalist nodded. ‘Of course. I’m Jewish and I went to Israel on a school trip way back when. We stayed on a few kibbutzim.’

  ‘Well, Steynspruit is a kibbutz. I believe it provides a solution to the land issue in our country. Come. Let me show you.’

  The journalist looked intrigued. She followed Thys out of the French doors and Annamari heard Thys starting to explain how the whole Kibbutz Steynspruit idea had come about as they walked away in the direction of the kibbutz office.

  She wondered if Petrus would be there. The old man still tried to put in a few hours on most days. But Busi, the new kibbutz manager should impress her. Actually Busi wasn’t that new. She had taken over from Petrus when he retired years ago and she was doing a great job. She was voted back into the position every year at the kibbutz annual general meeting. There had been a couple of attempts to unseat her – some of the male kibbutz members were unhappy at having a woman at the helm. But with her degree in accounting – made possible thanks to the Kibbutz Steynspruit Scholarship Fund which had been set up to pay for the tertiary education of the top Kibbutz Steynspruit School matriculants – coupled with her cool head and her passionate attachment to Steynspruit, she was the ideal person for the job.

  Annamari leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes. She hoped the kibbutz tour and story would divert the journalist. What on earth had possessed Thys to show her the school magazine? The similarity became even more apparent when one saw the photograph of Alan in the Driespruitfontein Hoërskool magazine and the photograph of Arno in the family portrait. She prayed the journalist wouldn’t ask Thys about it.

  ***

  The article about Steynspruit Kibbutz was published in the Weekend Express a few weeks later. Tracy – the journalist – had phoned to tell them when it would appear and to thank them for all their assistance.

  ‘My editor was really excited about it. And when I told him that Judge Bontle Maseko and De Wet van Zyl were both products of Kibbutz Steynspruit, well... that was it. He’s going to give me a good spread. So thanks again,’ she said, and promised to send them a clipping as soon as she could because the Weekend Express wasn’t sold in Driespruitfontein – or even in Bethlehem.

  It was a lovely article. Tracy had taken a wonderful photograph of Petrus in the kibbutz office with the caption: Mr Petrus Maseko (73), first Kibbutz Steynspruit manager and grandfather of Ms Justice Bontle Maseko who grew up on the Kibbutz. Mr Maseko still keeps an eye on the daily workings of the farm. She had photographed the kibbutz members’ houses and the Kibbutz Steynspruit school which – she wrote – continued to produce excellent results under the guidance of principal Thys van Zyl.

  ‘I’m really glad she made quite an issue of how bad and disruptive the land claim has been for the kibbutz,’ Thys said. ‘I was hoping she would get the message. It’s crazy that this whole thing is still going on after all these years.’

  Dominee van Zyl snorted. ‘And pigs will fly if you think this little article is going to make the slightest bit of difference. They want the farm and they’re going to get it. This whole kibbutz thing has been a complete waste of time, a fiasco from day one. But would you listen to me? Of course not. You knew better.’ And the old man bent his head over his plate and continued mutilating his slice of the leg of lamb that Annamari had prepared for their Sunday lunch.

  ‘No!’ Annamari mouthed at her husband who was preparing to argue with his father. She shook her head. ‘No,’ she mouthed again. There was no point. They had been having the same argument for years. Dominee van Zyl was even more virulently opposed to the kibbutz than the Viljoens, and he wasn’t shy to share his views. Indeed, he had become even more outspoken and obnoxious with every passing year. Annamari dreaded the increasingly infrequent visits from the dominee and Thys’ mother. She managed to limit their duty visits to Thys’ parents in Kroonstad to Easter.

  As usual, this visit had started in strained good humour which wore thinner and thinner as the weekend progressed. The tension reached breaking point after Thys refused to take his parents to church in Driespruitfontein and the dominee refused to join the kibbutz members at their little service, especially now that she and Thys never went anymore. Thys said the new pastor made him feel uncomfortable.

  Anyway, Thys had to drive Steyn to Bethlehem so that he could put in more flying hours, even if it was ‘the Sabbath’. So the dominee and Thys’ mother prayed together in their room, emerging later in a swath of indignant self-righteousness.

  Annamari prayed that the tension would hold steady at least until lunch was finished. Then, hopefully, the dominee would go off for his nap, and with any luck, would decide he wanted supper in his room. Then tomorrow, the hired car would come and whisk them away to wherever they were going this time – the South Coast probably – for a few weeks before going back to Kroonstad where Thys’ mother still clung to her position as Chairlady of the Women’s Committee, despite the fact that the dominee had retired years ago. Annamari wondered what her mother-in-law would have done had the current dominee’s wife shown the slightest interest in the Women’s Committee.

  ‘She told me she had a real job and had no time for the Women’s Committee,’ Ma van Zyl had sniffed. ‘As if running the Women’s Committee isn’t a real job that requires a delicate but strong, firm hand.’ Annamari had nodded sympathetically.

  ‘So Steyn,’ the dominee boomed, after shovelling his lamb to the side of his plate and setting down his knife and fork with a clatter, ‘what are you going to do now that you have finished matric – and your parents have given away your birthright.’

  ‘They haven’t given it away, Oupa... eina,’ Steyn began, but Annamari’s kick under the table stopped him from embarking on the same fruitless argument Thys had continued with his parents for more than twenty years. ‘I’m going to be a pilot. An airline pilot one day even if I’ll never be a fighter pilot.’

  ‘I thought you’d have grown out of that silly little boy fantasy dream by now,’ Dominee van Zyl growled. ‘Flying aeroplanes is no life for a good Christian boy – never gives you the opportunity to settle down, raise a family. Dangerous too. Look at that Air France plane that crashed into the Atlantic last year...’

  ‘Actually, Oupa, it was in 2009. But they only found the black boxes last year. And apparently that showed that the crash was the result of a series of unfortunate incidents and mistakes,’ Steyn said.

  ‘That’s what they say,’ the dominee said darkly. ‘Don’t believe a word of it. Those big aeroplanes are dangerous. Flying is dangerous, and I strongly suggest that you give up the idea...’

  Annamari got up from the table and hurried to the kitchen before she burst out laughing – although she really didn’t find the conversation very funny; telling Steyn not to fly was like telling him not to breathe. But she was worried about it too. Oh, not so much about the flying part of things – although she too would be happier if her baby son opted for something on solid ground. No, she was worried about what Steyn would do now that his rejection by the South African Air Force was official. He had sent off his application months before the closing date, and they had heard nothing for ages. And then the letter had come – the standard letter of regret and rejection. His failed application to the South African Airways Cadet Pilot Development Programme hadn’t come as much of a surprise either. Die Volksblad had published an article which stated that white males were not being accepted onto the programme – only a few white females. Most of the places were for ‘African’ – black – males and females; coloureds and Indians were also being accepted. But Steyn had insisted that he should at least try. When the rejection letter arrived, Steyn had simply shrugged.

  ‘It’s okay, Ma,’ he’d said. ‘I had hoped that maybe... but that’s the way it is and like Pa says, we just have to make another plan.’

  She prayed whatever that plan was, it wouldn’t mean that she would lose another of her sons to affirmative action. B
ut she knew, deep down, that that prayer would also go unanswered too.

  ***

  Annamari carried the steaming hot malva pudding and custard into the dining room just as the dominee switched his attention to the thankfully absent Arno and the fact that he still wasn’t married. This was another perennial bone of contention between Thys and his father. Annamari sighed. She wondered, briefly, what the dominee would have said if Arno and Beauty...

  ‘Pa, when Arno finds the right girl, he will get married. And if he chooses not to marry, that will be fine too. It is his life and he must do what makes him happy. We cannot dictate how he must live his life,’ Thys said.

  ‘I don’t understand it. He’s not getting any younger, you know. And the Jewboy company pays him well if the fancy cars he drives are anything to go by. Although, come to think of it – does he still have a job now that the Jewboy is dead? He’s not queer, is he?’

  Annamari didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry as Thys threw his hands in the air and walked out the room. But she had to admit she was worried too. About Arno’s job. But more about his happiness. She wondered if he would ever find a nice girl, a suitable girl; one who could give him the uncomplicated, deep love he deserved.

  Chapter 42

  Eighteen months later. 2014

  Thys liberally shook salt over his fried eggs, bacon and tomato, and Annamari bit her tongue. He always got irritable and snappy if she reminded him that the doctor had told him to cut down on salt. He said it made him feel old to have to worry about his blood pressure. And he wasn’t old, for heaven’s sake. He was only fifty-five. So was she. That sounded so old. Where had time gone? This year was already nearly over. The freezing winter mornings had given way to a pleasant crispness, and she and Thys could once again breakfast on the stoep and breathe in the clean, pure Steynspruit air. The first rains hadn’t come yet, but they would, and then ploughing would begin and before they knew it, it would be Christmas and the start of another year. She blinked. Every time she thought about the start of the ploughing season she wanted to cry because it reminded her that Petrus wouldn’t be there to oversee it all.

  But the start of the new season also held the promise that perhaps the land claim would finally be settled. However, she wasn’t holding her breath. The legal process was still limping at funeral pace but Mr Venter said it was reaching its conclusion. Every appeal, every twist and turn that could been taken, had been taken. This was it. The last – the very, very last – hurdle. Whatever decision came down from the Constitutional Court would be cast in stone. Petrus wouldn’t be around to learn the result of that either – and perhaps that was a good thing. Maybe.

  ‘Have you heard from Arno yet?’ Thys asked, startling her out of her reverie. ‘Isn’t he getting back soon from – where did he go this time?’

  She shrugged. It was difficult to keep track of all her sons’ gallivanting around the world. It seemed like it was just yesterday that De Wet had returned to New Zealand from the England tour but he was already off to India for another tournament; Steyn – now that he had his commercial pilot’s licence – was somewhere in Botswana – or was it Kenya this month? He loved his job, flying rich tourists in and out of remote game lodges while be built up flying hours, he said, so that he could qualify for his Airline Transport Pilot Licence and then apply to one of the larger airlines somewhere in the world – not South African Airways obviously – for a job.

  And then there was Arno – he was her biggest worry. He seemed so unsettled and unhappy, especially now that Silver Properties had been taken over by a foreign consortium.

  ‘The Silverman children didn’t want to keep the company, and who can blame them?’ Arno had explained. ‘I’ll be okay. I’ve already been offered a position in the new organisation; but I’m not sure whether I’ll take it.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you? What will you do? You are far too young to retire,’ Thys had joked, but he had looked at Annamari and frowned, clearly as concerned as she felt.

  ‘I’m going to take a couple of months to decide. I’ve barely had a decent holiday in years – not since I started working for Silver Properties. I need time to think. To figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. I think I’m going to travel for a bit, see something of the world.’

  ‘But you’ve travelled all over the place. You’ve been everywhere,’ Annamari said.

  ‘Ja, but basically all I’ve seen are airports, hotels and meeting rooms. I want to see how other people live. Do the touristy things I’ve never had a chance to do. Just go and, I don’t know, just be. Look around. Consider my options. Have a belated gap year sort of thing. A very belated gap year!’

  They all laughed but Annamari’s stomach clenched. All those years, while he had worked for Alan Silverman, she had worried she would lose her son. Now that Alan Silverman was dead, she was terrified that she could lose him anyway. She wished he had a wife, children – something that would give him stability, something to live for. He was so alone. It hadn’t been particularly hard for him in the first few months after Alan’s death. In fact, Arno had seemed surprisingly happy. He was terribly busy working with the Silverman children to keep the company going and to plan for its future. But now even that was gone. No wonder he was miserable. She hoped this trip would help him find himself. It was terribly worrying that she didn’t know where he was. Oh, she knew he was somewhere in Europe but she didn’t know where. He was just going to follow his nose, he’d said before leaving South Africa. Since then, he had phoned a few times, but he had been very vague about his itinerary. It was very frustrating and disquieting.

  She hadn’t even been able to reach him to tell him that Petrus had died. Simply passed away quietly in his sleep. So he hadn’t come to the funeral.

  The funeral. For the first time in her life, Annamari had felt odd, uncomfortable, almost an intruder among her own people. When Beauty arrived, looking every inch the successful, smart, young Judge in an elegant suit and high heels, her long black hair coiled into a neat knot at the nape of her neck, and her blue eyes even bluer behind square, black-framed glasses, Annamari’s heart had swelled with pride. She had hurried over to her, put her arms around her.

  ‘Beauty, I’m so sorry about your uncle,’ she whispered.

  ‘MaAnni,’ Beauty said, shrugging herself out of Annamari’s comforting embrace. ‘I see Arno isn’t here. Did you tell him not to come? Even to my grandfather’s funeral?’

  ‘No, of course not. We don’t know where...’ But before she could explain, Beauty turned away and was soon deep in conversation with Busi and several other young kibbutz members. “The next generation of Kibbutz Steynspruiters”, Thys always called them.

  Beauty didn’t invite them to the special memorial service she arranged for Petrus in the kibbutz community hall the next day. Well, strictly speaking, they hadn’t really needed an invitation... it was just that no one told her and Thys about it. So while the kibbutz members all got together to celebrate Petrus’ life, she and Thys had watched a repeat of Masterchef on BBC Entertainment.

  ***

  Annamari’s cell phone buzzed on the table next to her. She snatched it up.

  ‘Arno, hello. Where are you?’

  ‘At home, Ma. Got back last night. Late.’

  ‘Are you okay? Did you have a good trip? Where were you? Are you home for good?’

  Arno laughed. ‘So many questions. Listen Ma...’ he hesitated and Annamari felt the familiar dread rise in her chest. ‘Um... Ma. You and Pa aren’t planning on going anywhere for the next few days are you?’

  ‘When do we ever go anywhere? Why?’

  ‘I have something important to tell you. I’m going to drive down to Steynspruit tomorrow if that’s okay. Should get there around three-ish, four.’

  ‘Of course. But why can’t you tell us now? You sound so serious. Are you sure you’re alright?’

  ‘I’m fine. Really. But I’d rather tell you – in person. Don’t worry. You’ll be happy. I think.�
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  Chapter 43

  2014

  Annamari wept, muffling her sobs in the pillow. She could hear Thys and Arno murmuring quietly outside the door. She wanted them to think she was asleep. She couldn’t face them. She couldn’t face anyone. Dr Fourie had given her an injection which was supposed to make her sleep but she was still wide awake, adrenaline and panic counteracting whatever had been in the syringe. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply and rhythmically as the door squeaked open. She heard Thys whisper: ‘She’s asleep.’ She heard Thys cross the room and close the curtains. She heard him make his way back to door, heard it squeak closed. She allowed herself to weep again.

  Her thoughts chased themselves around and around in her mind. It was the shock, the absolute horror as recognition had dawned that had caused her to faint. She had never, ever fainted in her life. She gingerly fingered the lump on her head, on the side, towards the back. She must have hit something as she fell. She didn’t remember. She vaguely remembered Arno lifting her, carrying her into the house, into her bedroom. And then Dr Fourie had arrived and he’d looked in her eyes and taken her blood pressure and given her an injection. He’d told her she might have a slight concussion and to take it easy for a couple of days. She heard him telling Arno she would be fine. He was wrong. She would never, ever be “fine” again. She had a bit of a headache but it was nothing, nothing compared to the pain sitting somewhere in her stomach, her chest.

  ‘What on earth could have made her faint like that?’ Arno had asked.

  ‘Perhaps she stood up too quickly and her blood pressure dropped?’ Dr Fourie said.

  ‘I don’t think so. She was standing at the top of the stairs waiting for us; and then she went white, and sort of groaned and fell.’

  Dr Fourie said he couldn’t be sure but if she got any worse, he’d run some more tests tomorrow in his rooms and if necessary, send her through to a specialist in Bethlehem.