Paris. 10.7.64. Flying over France, soon into Spain and over Madrid. Hello André, where are you roaming? I had your little letter today (maybe too late, I’m ready to depart). I’m flying at 23 000 ft. Will have to tell Bartho and the rest that I have a lot of money over and when I’ve learnt French I’m coming back to Paris. Because come back I will. I never thought I’d have to go back to South Africa like this, without excitement, unsure. If Jack is cold and angry, it will just be another cross to bear. “We are dying Egypt, dying, / And not expecting pardon.” The light in my glass is pretty, the sun shining through the aeroplane window through the clouds is pretty, my two hands around the glass are pretty, with the nails that I had done in Barcelona. Toledo, even though we become more lonely and more tired every day …
Toledo, Spain. I hope you never see a brown donkey André and especially not a good bullfight. This is what you must write at the top of your bullfight: “You have got to be good … if you are not good, your love is a mess and your courage a slaughter.” [F.] Scott Fitzgerald.
LISBON. 8:45. Deeply moved by view of the harbour; little boats, man with red drums giving the all clear for the landing. Enchanting Lisbon. “Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty’s self and beauty’s giver” … dusk on the dying hills, watchtower with two red lights in the distance, something about this city looks so homely … god, why are poor people always so decent – sunset a red scarf around the decorated city – why didn’t we come here? Or everything just looks that way from afar, does the world perhaps always look beautiful to God? The air stands there so quiet and red like a matador, above an unbelievable orange, green, blue, purple, and then the black wing of the plane.
11 July. After sleepless night with at least other wakeful passengers we landed at 6:30 at Luanda. In a while I must go and do my face, “to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet”. God, it’s going to be a mess. Everyone disappointed, just the prickly Annette [Barnard] who gossiped about me to Breyten, will be crowing at the news. She’s stupid. I’m going for a swim this afternoon even if it’s snowing in the sea. Below me is a piece of ground God smoothed out very well. It’s ghastly. Probably the Sahara. Lord, let the daisies blossom there!
Thus ends the celebrated trip around the world.
So there, child-mine, not that I think my diary notes are exactly interesting, but oh well! at least it’s a little contact. I saw Windroos. Ugly cover. Horrible photo of me, and that biography! How does one manage to swallow it all in one go without mercifully choking? I’ve written a poem about Cape Town, and am sending it. But it’s for Contrast if they want it. “Reis om die Wêreld” [“Journey Around the World”] is for Sestiger. If you want it. I’ll write again later. I am tired now and feel dramatic. Me! Miserable human!
Love,
Cocoon.
Sunday. I now have a better address:
C/O BAYSIDE HOTEL
SEACLIFFE ROAD
BANTRY BAY
and a beautiful room, Simone sleeps here with me. It’s wonderful to have her with me again; tomorrow I’m going to look for work and a school for her (it’s school holidays now). André, André, tonight while I was unpacking that nice photo of you where you’re looking down was gone! You’ll probably be interested in my reception here, well, so icy that I went to sleep at Lena’s last night and I didn’t even overnight in Uys’s room. Jack “no longer believes in (me),” etc. Now. Saw Tippie this evening, do you still remember? God, “where are the snows of yesteryear?” And I could see the old flat from my bedroom window. Paris seems very far but vivid. And you there in warm Spain probably know by now that I am 6 000 mad miles away, and it does indeed matter. What did we do?
Your Cocoon.
Bayside Hotel
Seacliffe Rd
Bantry Bay
Wednesday, 15 July 1964
My dearest André,
I never realised how terribly far and unreachable Spain is until yesterday when I first became aware that I am in Cape Town; and a changed Cape Town, because I see everything now with new eyes and with a terrifying calmness. Jack’s intransigence surprises me more and more, and I think that the night when you lay “dreaming in my arms close by the Seine” was the death blow for that relationship. Still, it leaves one a little dismayed – this ephemeralness. And with you, boy? At hand, your Tristia:
Ons was so aan die gaan gewend
dat ons gemeen het: gáán is goed.
Maar elke gáng word: sterf-orent.
Die end is bitter. En dis end.
Still, still, what a joy to have Simone here. I got her into the school close by this morning: Kings Rd Primary. And went to buy her a school uniform. Brown and green. She starts tomorrow. And now I must apply for work as a translator, get enough money again, and try again. Let Paris make everything bright and strip away what was “show and ornament”. I think about you constantly.
Love, your
Cocoon.
PS: I have your two white underpants here. IJ.
Bayside Hotel, Seacliffe Road
Bantry Bay, Cape Town
Wednesday, 15 July 1964
My dearest André,
Today I looked at the map of Spain and saw that you may not get my letters in Barcelona, I didn’t realise Granada was down from Madrid. Therefore, a letter to the address you passed on: I don’t know now on which wanderings you’ll receive what. In your letter to Paris you ask how I live, how I am. On the one hand, I no longer AM. “Mommy is no longer a person just a …” Just an a. Use that if you can: it sounds like Orgie! I’ve been to the Alliance Française, I’ll learn quickly, man. Just a pity there are only two classes a week, Mondays and Wednesdays. When I arrived there and thought of Granada and roses and pomegranates and you, I wrote a few lines on the bus, but my mood faded when they stopped at the police station to drop off a coloured man for 5c, god! I’m sorry, but I can’t take it any more, not now, not AFTER. I phoned Koos, who was surprised of course, but didn’t phone back. I went to look up Freda Linde, fetched your photo from Juta’s, and saw Louis Hiemstra who asked me to call him by his first name, god, he and I laughed so about the French class! (He’s also taking it.) I dropped Simone off at school and fetched her (mommy-mommy) and bathed her and bundled her into bed (just the little blonde head sticking out) and Jack remains silent like Jack. “True innocence can never be corrupted by cruelty,” says F. Scott Fitzgerald, have probably written that to you already, and I’m not hinting directly at you! I fear I’m beginning to lose my innocence; in this respect. How are you, my little garçon? I still love you, in my way. That’s all that matters. Heavens, how bright the memories are! Now I must rather stop. Good night, dear prince,
Your Cocoon.
Bayside Hotel
Seacliffe Road
Bantry Bay
28 August until 10 September 1964
Dearest and dearest André,
Moe als ik mij en oud
als ik mij voor mijn tijd voel worden,
is mijn gebeente koud
van ingevroren haat tegen de horde
die ’k nu al in geen weken heb beledigd,
omdat ik niet meer kan,
omdat ik niet meer wil,
omdat ik niet meer weet,
of ik niet beter stil
wat er nog is aan ziel
laat weiden in de rust,
in wat mij hier nog lust
aan wat er rest aan geur
en licht en klank en kleur
en stilte.
Immediately after your letter of almost a week ago I wanted to write; beautiful child, you know how hard it is. To be honest, your first letter from Grahamstown made me so angry that an (amateur) painter here made a portrait of me entitled “Virgin with Thorns” (!). That you are able to feel “whole” – I should probably have been happy, but I’m human (still). I didn’t know what you really felt – whether you didn’t rather want to forget – obliterate – the whole Ingrid Jonker. André, I have lost so much self-confidence. There have
been so many defeats. And yet, sometimes “only now after your death, do you come closer / Now I see you and possess you”. Perhaps then we can sometimes still write to one another pro amico. But it makes one so despondent. Why in the name of God were we created so similar?
News here: you’ve probably seen the Sunday Slimes yourself where I at least say something about Orgie. Who is your new mysterious publisher and may I please see the page proofs? It’s important.
On 10 September I’ll be moving to a beautiful little flat in Beach Road, Sea Point [Three Anchor Bay]. I’ve bought a few pieces of second-hand furniture and a three-quarter bed – just for the illusion. I want to make it nice and live nicely. One of these days I’ll be 30 – and probably find a certain rest and stillness. Also for Simone. Don’t know when I’ll see Paris again, but I surely will, one day.
Yes, Jack is friendly, but distant. You probably know as well as I do what that means. If you are interested, yes, I am chaste and Barcelona was, as far as I can tell, the end of my existence as a sexual being.
I probably shouldn’t leave you so long in that wonderful silence, but I know so little. And write, god, write all the time, the holy name of God. I would love to see you, but then, and then, and then …?
spel wat ál verder na buite toe
kringe laat uitdy; weg,
weg van die klein, skuilende
verontregte, verontwaardigde,
ding: wat in die looggat
afkyk: homself gaan bewapen.
And so, I don’t see at all how wonderfully the Lord leads – as you said in your first letter from Grahamstown. And look, I don’t want to write you a depressed thing. But to say “don’t be worried” would be one of those false, classic lies. I am worried myself – as you can probably conclude!
News: I’d really like to hear about your Negentig Dae – was quite involved with “something similar” – by the way, one never speaks of “negentig dae” – it’s always Ninety Days. Finished and klaar.
“Mamma” [“Mommy”]: of course you can use it for Sestiger. A small one – written in a rush – is going to Contrast: “Wiegelied vir die Beminde” [“Lullaby for the Beloved”].
Tula tula
your little body rolled
your little lamb sleeps
deep in his wool
tula tula
You say little about the “quiet distance”. I probably have no right to know but I do sometimes wonder: about you.
Yes, I’m swimming already. White costume and rings and god! Mostly go to friends for the weekend. Not working at Hiemstra any more. The dictionary is finished. Hardly dare to think of Paris. The enchantment and the defeat, and also the “mixed feelings” – too much. Actually see very few friends. Sorry, love, this is a rather small sad old attempt. But I no longer live gladly. And must I really post this now? Where and when will the summer’s day come about which you speak so positively. Good night, dear prince.
Your Cocoon.
Thursday, 3 September 1964
My dearest André,
I wrote you another letter about a week ago that disappeared mysteriously from the peeling desk in the whitewashed hotel room. It was standing next to the portrait of you with the hand, and perhaps it conveyed some of the hesitant late-night thoughts written down when I couldn’t sleep. There was a stamp on it and it’s possible that one of the servants posted it and so my “news” is perhaps now superfluous.
It is September weather. “Where are the snows of yesteryear?” … in the Cape the mountains are in any case white and an icy wind is blowing from the north. I work in an office the size of two Castellas with a red carpet, trays of tea and little excursions to Rondevlei and Seekoegat where we (that’s the Cape Divisional Council) build towers and generally try to clear up some of the ridiculous troubles with the neighbours. The dictionary has been supplemented and completed and is being printed and neatly published.
It’s now lunch time and I have to go to an appointment – don’t know when I’ll be able to finish this letter – really don’t know where to begin. Europe is slowly returning and I have a terrible nostalgia for Paris or one of your mysterious Spanish islands. Everything is just cape again and small, afrikaans. The little circle of friends has shrunk and I live in absolute nunishness. It follows of course that Jack is aloof and that I am perhaps still defeated and “I no longer live gladly”. Of course you may use “Mamma” for Sestiger. Contrast has three. “Reis om die Wêreld” and the cut-off cock lies in my desk. But I must leave now. I hope I’ll have a chance later …
Further news. I am leaving the hateful hotel on 10 September for a little flat, 204 Bonne Esperance, Beach Road, Sea Point. Bit too smart for my taste, but the bloody immigrants make it impossible for one to find a home. Go to exhibitions nice art of rocks and marrow bones and sometimes visit Freda Linde. You. Your first letter from Grahamstown made me angry. The “whole” feels like those emotionally damaging slaughter houses of Barcelona. Will we ever get it bright again, child? Who is your mysterious publisher of Orgie? Please remember I MUST see page proofs. God, I should have been able to speak to you. What does a quiet distance mean and how are things really between the two of you and with your soul? Do you still sometimes think of me? Let it be beautiful then, because here there is mostly criticism and spite. And tell me more about the summer’s day.
Love,
Your Cocoon.
2:00. André, there’s nothing to do here now and maybe my hurried ending wasn’t entirely fair. After the European defeat there was naturally a lot of criticism and now I avoid people as far as possible. Unfortunately, in a little hotel like that, there are also various groups of gossipers fiercely opposed to the young woman with her face buried in the newspaper. But soon I will also make myself a study like you have where I can hide away. And only a few people are permitted there and only by appointment. An artist MUST do that at some stage or other in order to think and to find a tiny bit of human peace or rest where so little of it exists. What are you up to in Grahamstown, you probably don’t have many [lectures] left. The tension and intimidation in Cape Town is also running high and the p. [police] even treated me rather roughly on one occasion too. It probably sounds mysterious but there wasn’t much to it. At the hotel of course it set “the battalions of lies and the organizations of hate” in motion and St James was called to add the charge that a strange man (Jack) had stolen my child. But smile … You probably saw my little piece about Orgie in, among others, the Sunday Slimes with the pop-eyed photo that also appears on Windroos. W.E.G. treated you horribly in Die Burger about “Paris by Night” and I came off best from all the stupid old criticisms. Did you see? What do you see? What are you reading? What are you doing? And especially what are you thinking? I am of course interested in Negentig Dae – it’s Ninety Days. Like the English use apartheid. Just take note of it. What did you do in Johannesburg and especially, how is Bartho? Do they all know that things caved in for us? It’s so humiliating. For you too. For all four of us. My letters sound so hard to me. But that isn’t really the case. “Ik heb in het gras mijn wapens gelegd / en mijn wapens gaan geuren als gras.” Or: Green green I love you green …
Cape Town is flowering and the sea is making a noise in Bantry Bay. All nice things, mysterious. In the lost letter I sent you a copy of my translation of e e cummings’s poem “somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond”.
iewers het ek nooit gereis nie daardie groene verte
verby alle herinnering jou oë dra hul stilte
in jou geringste gebaar is daar iets wat my omsluit
of wat ek nie durf aanraak nie iets te ná
jou oë van landskappe sal my maklik blootlê
al het ek my hart gesluit soos twee hande
jy ontvou my keer op keer soos die lente
bedrewe en heimlik haar eerste roos
en as jy my sou verlaat geslote dan
sou my voorhoof sluit mooi en onmiddellik
soos die hart van ’n blom sou droom
niks wat ons in hierdie wêreld kan versin
ewenaar die krag van jou broosheid die tekstuur
van jou oë tref my die groen van sy velde
en bevestig die ewige en die viraltyd met elke sug
ek weet nie wat dit is wat jou laat vou
en óntvou nie ek verstaan net êrens op my reise
die stem van jou oë is dieper as alle rose
nee nie eens die reën nie het sulke klein hande
[somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
Flame in the Snow Page 40