Flame in the Snow

by Francis Galloway

  The “Christmas season” is very quiet – was on the beach alone with Tanya yesterday and ate at Jan and Marjorie’s yesterday evening. Today just walked around in the sun and tried to translate Orgie’s poetry – an impossible job – send all your translations to me, maybe I can make a few suggestions. Oh yes, you left your Katastrofes [Breyten Breytenbach] here – I’ll send it on – I got one from Jan for Christmas.

  In heaven’s name forget about the tension of that last night. It’s not at all important – especially if one weighs it against everything! We must remember to spend the last nights quiet and alone – that’s all, really.

  Ag, darling – it’s so awful that you’re not here now – but in fact you are – I know. But let us not hurt or complain!

  What “fantastical things” do you dream at night? Tell me? You must sleep well, and not get too tired. Ask them for an extension for the translation of Orgie; it’s impossible for you to finish everything by the end of the year.

  André, Tanya is terribly naughty and she needs a garden. Maybe I should send her to the farm for a while – she chews up everything and wants constant attention and screams at night when she can’t sleep with me. It’s a bit of a defeat to send her to the farm, but it’s so damn hard! We’ll just have to make a little human child, my darling. I was quite upset again when the little death began.

  I’ll keep vigil and pray and hold fast until January. Because in March I’ll have to go; a little scared of our beautiful Paris; but it has to be. But I still have to arrange to borrow money.

  Uys and Barnie Toerien have gone to Witsand and apparently he and Bonnie are FINISHED. Our few words are low tide compared to their tide – EVERY DAY. It was so depressing – especially since I was so happy with you.

  What do you mean you’re putting “shock-absorbers” between you and LIFE? You’re always so “aware”.

  It’s right that you have to go to Pretoria. In god’s name, save Sestiger. They can’t take everything that we built up, it’s immoral. I will scream very loudly.

  I’ll write more tomorrow. Meanwhile, you’re here in any case; you’ve just gone out for a walk in that bright sun and blue sky outside.

  My darling.

  Sunday, 27 December 1964

  Nothing; except for the conversation with you. Made changes to Orgie; there comes my father, etc; soon, the MADMAN WILL RETURN.

  Burnt sore; full of love; lonely in the absent blue.

  Sleep sweetly, dear prince.

  Your Cocoon.

  PS: Use poem as you want to remember it just SQUIRRELS instead of rabbits; also; still the title: “Plant vir My ’n Boom André”.

  Your Cocoon.

  Sunday, 27 December 1964

  My André,

  What are you making what are you thinking what are you doing do you see me do you hear me, you are not lonelier than a leaf in a tree, than a bird in the wind, or a declared treasure. I’m spending a quiet weekend with friends in Bellville, of all places. They have four cats and a dog Tanya can play with. Darling, I’ve decided. I’m going to Johannesburg. At the end of January I’ll give notice at work and I’ll write to Bartho today to ask if he can create a post for me at APB. I know, it’s my climate this, but after the unexpected anxiety of Wednesday I want to get away. Do you agree that it is best? I have quite a few good friends in Jhb. I’ll probably share a flat with Bonnie – and in that way not be so very lonely. I don’t want to become a burden to you – I want to remain your “light”.

  Listen, I still don’t know when I’ll be going to Paris because I got a hell of a shock at the bank on Tuesday. I am so sorry about everything, liefsteling, I was so happy with you and around you – Freda said the Standpunte meeting is at the end of January. She doesn’t yet know about Orgie – but she doesn’t think the proofs will be ready this month.

  Did I tell you that I saw Nico and Mel and the baby? They came and had a meal with me one evening. Nico still speaks with a bit of a slur, that’s all. Otherwise they all look completely healthy and happy. André Brink, if you again bring up that last night’s tiny bit of tension I’ll have to call you to account when I see you again. Please believe me, I don’t regard it as in any way important. I didn’t go to Marjorie’s party on Friday after all. Apparently she’s livid. But for God’s sake, I’ve at least got a little bit of loyalty towards Jack. They didn’t want to invite him because they’d asked me. The audacity! Barnie then said I was wrong and so I hurled my glass and it broke and then he did too – and now I’ve had enough, although it is all rather comical.

  The weekend was very calm, puppies playing in the background, reading the Sunday paper, missing you. Phone again soon, darling? Or tell me when I can phone. As Bartho says: a day without you is a footslog through the Sahara.

  And how are things otherwise? I often try to think myself into the situation there, but it’s simply inconceivable. Are you still sleeping in your study? Do you sleep with me? Do you walk in the bush? Does the Southeaster blow there too?

  Love to everything of you; stay with me, and no, darling, you will never have empty hands. Your hands are always full of dreams and sometimes vague reality.

  I love you; look after yourself well; and forgive me the anxiety I caused you.

  Your Cocoon.

  Sunday night, 3 January 1965

  My dearest,

  I take a long time writing just one letter to you, don’t I, and it is wonderfully quiet!

  Thank you for your New Year telegram. I understand the silence, because I am quiet too – after the replenishment.

  Tanya is running around and growling and barking; was at Jan and Marjorie’s again this evening and drank some punch with Erik Laubscher, but you don’t have to worry, I drink very little, and that’s my New Year’s resolution.

  Was at quite a decadent party last night – but I was a well-behaved spectator. But when the Nats attacked me about “Jare” [“Years”] and “Die Kind” – and it was an advocate! – I totally out-argued him!

  I miss you, my darling, I want to hold you so tenderly and God! never let you go! I am happy, I swim in the sun, and hear your familiar footsteps around me. (Look after youself well, André, I call you by the name you are mine.)

  All hail, all love, all trust – confirmed,

  Yours always,

  Cocoon.

  Thursday, 7 January 1965

  UNFORTUNATELY NO BUTTERFLY ONLY ANGST ALL MY LOVE = COCOON

  204 Bonne Esperance

  Beach Road

  Three Anchor Bay

  Friday, 8 January 1965

  My dearest André,

  Thank you for your letter of “frustrations”, which at last arrived. Sorry to hear about the boil – where did you get it and have you seen a doctor? No, I still have Tanya, who is sometimes very cute but she demands attention and makes me tired sometimes. Well, sorry, liefsteling, about the call. I so often wished you would call and then …

  And at that moment you phoned again. Many thanks, my own, that changes so much. I’ve just told you what happened. I don’t want you to take it too seriously. It was an anxiety attack, which is not unusual; a coma, which can happen easily to imaginative people when they want to avoid something and they withdraw from reality. And it is not just a “fear” of Jack, but also a “fear” of loneliness. In the nursing home they just let me rest – and now I will get better again. And keep hoping that circumstances will one day change so that I can live like an ordinary person and be somewhere, with you. Belong.

  I was so worried about you and your worry the whole time. I just hope now that Standpunte and Orgie happen, so that you can come back again this month. Till then I will wait nicely and not be afraid of the great gloom (night). Or of Jack, or of the gossip. Will probably go to the party tonight, just to show them!

  God, but these Cape Town people are busybodies. Marjorie would have known nothing about the incident if that stupid lot at work hadn’t phoned her. But enough of that! I’ll get over it soon. “Vitality shows … in th
e ability to start over …” says Fitzgerald, and on Monday I’m going back to work.

  I’m sorry to hear about all the frustrations there. We’ll have to make a plan. We need one another. See how easily you’d be able to dictate your Spain book to me! And hundreds of other things. I didn’t realise I was so defenceless. I just want to say to you, my love, that I only went to the nursing home because there is no one here who can look after me when I am unwell. One also doesn’t want to be a bladdy burden to your friends.

  Otherwise well and no news. I haven’t written another poem again, you’ll first have to come and sleep wrathfully and well before I am inspired enough. Or should I write a nice one like “Vergange Winter” [“Bygone Winter”]:

  Jou hande het geruik

  Na angeliere en die dood

  Vergange winter.

  Oh and Jan says his short story was accepted by Standpunte and so it can’t go to Sestiger.

  Are you sorry that no butterfly arrived? I was sorry, to put it mildly. It would make such a hell of a difference, and it would be beautiful like your tooth. Write soon, you hear, immediately. And I’m glad to hear your unromantic illness is over. You must take multi-life-pills. It’s because of a vitamin shortage, though I don’t know how you manage that.

  Darling, André, don’t draw “conclusions” about my anxiety, you hear? I love you more than ever. But that you know, of course?

  Your own,

  Cocoon.

  204 Bonne Esperance

  Beach Road

  Three Anchor Bay

  Wednesday, 20 January 1965

  My dearest André,

  Many thanks for your letter today, which sounds so jolly and for the one beautiful colour slide of IJ. (What other uterine miscarriage slipped in with it?) In any case, I am somewhat comforted by the one of me arching back on our green blankets. Could you have it developed as a photo – I don’t know who to ask here to do it – and you surely wouldn’t want Desmond to see it? Anne Fischer is also a friend of mine and [Desmond] Bowes Taylor I do indeed know, and the redhead photographer at Clifton (who has a mother complex.) “Push anything past me in a wheel-chair …!” I can’t remember his name now.

  Sorry I gave away my bank information – now what? Work, and borrow from somewhere. Laurens [van der Post] will probably lend me R700; he’d already offered it a while ago. You will understand that I was VERY upset about this: “then your poverty arrives like an armed man”. But especially about the aborted trip – mostly a result of my own stupidity.

  I’m still using the French paper you bought me in Paris – one really tiny sheet to write to Jack – so you can see for yourself the shocks I’ve been exposed to; to hell with the Divisional Council’s kak work that I didn’t want in any case – Bonnie wrote to say that she has her eyes on a six-storey – (sorry! a six-room house) in which she and I and two other students might stay. Haven’t heard from Bartho again, except that the post is highly probable and that the letter will follow.

  And you, darling, and you? I am so sorry that the photos I took of you are black. Still, you could at least let me see them …! I have such a need to SEE. God, when you come again – soon-soon, end January to beginning February – I am just going to LOOK and LOOK.

  Otherwise, everything good; Tanya healthy, Simone too; Anne is keeping a watchful eye; life is loyal to me – and my blood is surging through my veins …

  I was at Maynardville last night to see Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. (Oh God, student humour!) Was a little disappointed with the production. But Maynardville is lovely!

  Congratulations on all the completed work. But you must also rest. PLEASE my darling, come and lie here against my heart, my lamb. Thank you for the lovely [Frederico Garciá] Lorca translation. Your Spanish is good, hey? You can go ahead and write the horse story; I don’t know how, really. I began at full throttle, but it’s difficult material.

  I see you have the same trouble. I could DIE from all the guests. I am NEVER alone any more, and yet so terribly alone! They gobble you up.

  I love you. I miss you. I need you. Do you know, my dearest boy, that you are well on your way to becoming indispensable?

  Come to our healing waters, come to me, come to Cape Town, which will always be mine, and to me, who will always be yours,

  Cocoon.

  Grahamstown

  Wednesday, 10 February 1965

  Dearest only Con,

  A long silence, again! But I fell so heavily back into work when I got back – dealing with overdue stuff, and then immediately launching into exam duties. Meanwhile, I’m reworking Elders and trying to get into the “spirit” of Die Meisie [The Girl]. Now, just as I’ve more or less readied myself for work, Christie and company are coming to visit, luckily only until tomorrow. As a result, I probably won’t be able to start writing again until Friday. But it’s not a real frustration, because, love, my love, I’m living so fully and beautifully nowadays. The week with you was such a restful, positive invigoration, and it ended so ecstatically, so full of enchantment, that I’ll have to come back soon.

  Meanwhile I’ve had another huge fight with Chris Barnard. He wrote to me again about his latest creations – including one that takes place during a “night of heathen feasting”. Man, I’ve been fed-up with his thievery for a long time now. So I made him a little list: girl in the window across the way that he steals in Pa Maak vir My ’n Vlieër [translated as Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow], with my trunk in there, too; Sumerian mythology in Dwaal [Wandering] – and now this, too. I made a friendly request that he find himself another pasture. Piece of shit! If he never writes back, then good. And if he does write back, I’ll give him hell. (Gentle Neelsie?!)

  John [Malherbe] phoned last night to say Molly Reinhardt will be devoting an entire column to Orgie; Stanley Uys will write a review; and Maish [Levin] will see to a “story”.

  Of course, the latter phoned me once again about the De Beer conference, but I shook him off. I have a lot to say about this stupid, sanctimonious bunch. But if I am invited to the conference, I can say what I want to there; and if I don’t get invited, it’d be impertinent to talk to the press. It was in any case notable that, according to his report, the conference was actually sparked by Stephen [Etienne Leroux]’s work and mine – and yet we’re the only two who haven’t yet made any comment! Some of the others’ comments weren’t too bad. Yours were very neat, and funny. Jack’s also good. Adam’s were good in parts. Jan’s comments were ridiculous.

  But these are all side issues. The main thing is the heart that is still here. And this time it’s beating so steadily and happily that life has gained new meaning. “May it continue many days, Lord, may it continue many days.” Reading for today.

  Bye-bye for now; a deep bye-bye, with a little sleep in the crook of my arm, and a heart that talks to mine, full of bliss, during all the long hours that the body sleeps.

  Always yours, always love,

  André.

  Friday, 12 February 1965

  FORGIVE SILENCE CONFUSED AMAZED LIKELY BUTTERFLY LOVE = COCOON

  Thursday, 18 February 1965

  I LOVED THEM THOSE LITTLE TOWNS THAT NOW TUMBLE FROM THE MICROPHONE DEIRDRE ANDREA NICOLETTE = COCOON

  Thursday, 18 February 1965

  TELEGRAM SENT I LOVED THEM THOSE LITTLE TOWNS THAT NOW TUMBLE FROM A MICROPHONE DEIRDRE ANDREA NICOLETTE STOP THERE IS NOTHING ANDRE = COCOON

  Tuesday, 2 March 1965

  REST ASSURED LIEFSTELING DIFFICULT CIRCUMSTANCES NOW CLEAR AGAIN STOP DID YOU RECEIVE LETTER STOP ANSWER LOVE AND TRUST = YOUR COCOON

  204 Bonne Esperance

  Three Anchor Bay

  Wednesday, 3 March 1965

  My liefsteling,

  I heard your voice and your laugh for no reason the most beautiful fruit of the earth – and received your letter of “complaint” – and don’t think I ever abandoned you. You must have received the previous letter by now – or who is having a giggle about my pudding now?

 
; Funnily enough, Laurens didn’t get my letter either; I’m expecting him back in SA by the end of this month; and hope to go along on the Kalahari expedition. Wrote again yesterday, but lack ⅓ [?] to send the letter! RIDICULOUS. This lot will never know what that is.

  You little hell, it was so wonderful to speak to you after all the stormy weather. As I said; it was a terrible blow for me – the child – paralysing. And as I said: I seriously considered getting married; and to heal this deep wound once and for all. But your face – everywhere. And: “men moet zo zonder gestalte zijn / om lief te kunnen hebben.” And that I am, my darling, my own salvation though without form. And I love you. In between everything else here: parties, work, living, socialising, Simone and all her little friends who constantly need seeing to; and the Grey Pit I’d once crept out of. The worry about you, my certain “faithlessness” – but what is one to do in such a confused and difficult world?

  On Friday I’m going to the Sunday Slimes again – they’re going to phone you; and then we can talk again.

  Functions, functions, parties, openings – [?], god, but he is sometimes sentimental – Jan and Marjorie have gone away for a while; to Waenhuiskrans; on Saturday Jack went and bought me, after a long silence, a R40 dress; what could this mean? Ag darling, so much news and so many questions. But one of these beautiful days of clear light you will be here, and then for once it will probably be necessary not to ask questions. I am sorry that I left you in silence for so long and that my one letter also had to get lost and that you had to weather all the criticism on your own. Alone? At least there is still Estelle who can LAUGH about my panties. “Op hierdie verspotte plein is jy nie alleniger nie / As ’n blaar in ’n boom as ’n voël in die wind / Of ’n bevryde skat.”