The Crooked Path

by Irma Joubert

  She stepped back and studied herself from head to toe. She would never look like Annabel, or Klara or Christine, but in her heart was a newfound realization: she was pretty too.

  Lettie turned away from the mirror and went to the kitchen in search of her mother.

  On Monday they closed the doors of the practice at one—everyone was going to the funeral. Lettie went to the service with her parents. The Fourie family had not yet arrived, and only a few people were standing around. It was hot. “You go on in. I’ll wait for Klara,” Lettie told her parents.

  When she came around the corner, Marco was waiting in the shade. A strange apprehension stirred inside her, and she slowed down. He stood looking up at the steeple, at the bell that was steadily tolling. In his dark suit his tall figure appeared sturdier, his shoulders broader. His hair glinted in the dappled shade, and his face looked aristocratic and strong.

  She had never seen him like that.

  Then he noticed her and his eyes took her in. She saw the momentary surprise on his face—or perhaps she was imagining it. “Lettie,” he said, smiling easily. “You look different!”

  “I’m wearing a black dress instead of a white coat,” she said flippantly. “Hello, Marco.”

  “You’ve cut your hair,” he said. “It suits you.”

  There was an unfamiliar reaction in her body. “Let’s go inside, it’ll be cooler,” she said.

  She didn’t hear much of the service. She was too aware of the man by her side.

  Afterward everyone drove out to the farm for the graveside ceremony and refreshments. She went with her parents, and Marco rode with Antonio and Klara. Night was falling when Lettie went home. Lettie guessed one of the Fouries would give Marco a ride.

  “The Romanelli boy looks a lot better than when I last saw him,” her mom said later, when they were drinking fruit juice under the mango tree.

  “Marco?” Lettie replied. “Yes, he’s been gaining weight steadily. It’s hard to believe one person can find it so hard to gain weight, while others merely glance at a slice of cake and, well . . .”

  “His color is a lot better too,” said her father. “But he’s still painfully thin. And that cough is disturbing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Lettie said neutrally. The conversation moved on to other things.

  I mustn’t fall in love with this man, she thought as she lay in bed that night. It would be completely unprofessional. Doctors must keep their distance. Besides, it would be just another hopeless crush. Marco was attractive, charming, talented . . .

  With a shock she realized it might already be too late.

  Luckily she knew by now how to control her stupid, immature heart. She would not allow her dreams to run rampant again and land her in a dark hole.

  When Marco arrived for his weekly appointment the next Friday, Lettie had the situation under control. She went through the usual motions. “From now on you may come and see me every second week,” she said as she returned her stethoscope to her coat pocket.

  “With winter ahead?” he said. “No, we’d better stick to the weekly routine.”

  “You’re the one who made the suggestion awhile ago,” she said.

  “Well, that was awhile ago,” he said. “So, what have you been getting up to that I don’t know about?”

  “My dad is teaching me to drive,” she said. Too late she remembered her decision not to engage in conversation with him again. It had just happened, spontaneously, easily.

  And, after all, a doctor had to talk to her patients.

  “I want to learn as well,” Marco said eagerly. “It’s always been my dream, ever since I was a boy, to have my own car. Antonio has an old Fiat he wants to sell. I can pay him in installments. But for that I need a driver’s license.”

  Lettie nearly suggested that the two of them could learn to drive together. Just in time she remembered the professional distance. “Well, we’ll see who gets the license first,” she said lightly. “See you next Friday.”

  Suddenly Lettie’s weeks were running from Friday to Friday. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  “The town has gone mad,” Marco said one Friday afternoon in March as he stepped into the surgery.

  She smiled. “Hello, Marco,” she said. “How are you? It’s the impending election, somewhere at the end of May, I think. It’s what all the posters on the lampposts are about.”

  “And the noise! They drive through the streets in cars, shouting through loudspeakers.” He sat down on the chair facing her. “Hello, Lettie, I’m well, thanks. I’m healthy and I’ve been cleaning my plate. What are they shouting through the loudspeakers?”

  “They’re advertising tonight’s political meeting,” Lettie said, trying to focus on the patient, not the man. “The Natte and Sappe will be taking each other on in the town hall. Step onto the scales.”

  “It’s all everyone at school talks about: the election,” Marco said, taking off his shoes. “Give me some background.”

  “You’re asking the wrong person.” Lettie laughed. “I know next to nothing about politics.”

  “I’m glad. I have no interest in politics either,” he said and stepped onto the scales.

  “Hmm.” Lettie nodded, studying the numbers.

  “Satisfied?” he asked from above.

  “Yes, good, just carry on like this. Let’s listen to your chest.”

  “Who are the Sappe and the Natte?” he asked, stripping off his shirt and lying down on the bed.

  “The Sappe are members of the United Party under General Smuts, the prime minister. They’re pro-British, I think. I’m not sure. Marco, lie still!”

  “The stethoscope is cold,” he complained.

  “Don’t be a sissy,” she said, pretending to be strict.

  He pulled a face and asked, “And the Natte?”

  “They belong to the National Party led by Dr. Malan, and they want a republic. And don’t ask me anything more, I don’t know. You may put your shirt back on.”

  “Well, just tell me what most people around here will be voting,” he said, sitting up.

  “National,” she replied, “but there are a number of die-hard Sappe, and that’s where all the fighting comes from.”

  “Are you going to the meeting?” he asked.

  “Not on your life.”

  He gave a slight smile and nodded. “Okay, then I’ll see you next Friday,” he said.

  He left.

  Suddenly the surgery was empty.

  Irene Fourie would be coming of age during the April vacation, and her parents and brother De Wet were planning a big birthday party on the farm. Klara, Antonio, and Boelie would be coming from Pretoria. And Annabel, who no longer hid her hard pursuit of Boelie, was specially coming for the weekend from somewhere in the Western Transvaal, where she was a journalist. “You can catch a ride to the party with Reinier and me,” Annabel said to Lettie on the phone.

  The morning of the party Lettie went to Ellen’s salon. In the afternoon she took a cold shower so as not to get her hair steamed up and lay on her bed with cucumber slices on her eyelids. She wasn’t quite sure why, but it seemed to be the thing to do. She put on a new dress and shoes and added a touch of color to her lips. “I see I’m going to have to keep the shotgun within reach. The young men are going to be queuing up,” her dad teased when she joined her parents in the front room.

  Less than ten minutes later—in reasonably good time for a change—Annabel appeared in the doorway, dressed in a tight-fitting emerald-green creation. She wore stiletto heels, and sparkling earrings dangled from her ears.

  “Gosh, Annabel, you look lovely,” Lettie said sincerely.

  “Thanks.” Annabel looked her up and down. “This rich, earthy shade looks much better on you than those somber colors you usually wear. And you’ve really lost weight,” she said, sounding pleased.

  It was the closest Annabel had ever come to giving her a compliment.

  They had just passed the church when Annabel s
lammed on the brakes. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time,” she said and turned the car around.

  “What’s up?” Reinier asked from the back.

  “I’m going home. We won’t be long,” Annabel said. “Wait in the car.”

  “We’re going to be late again,” he groaned. “Irene said—”

  “Irene can wait,” said Annabel. “What we have to do is much more important.”

  “We?” Lettie asked skeptically.

  “You and I,” said Annabel. “Come, here we are, let’s go to my bedroom.”

  Lettie followed Annabel through the quiet house. “Sit,” said Annabel. “Hold the reading lamp like this. No, take off your glasses first.”

  “Annabel, what are you going to do?” Lettie asked anxiously.

  “Shape your eyebrows,” said Annabel. “These bushy brows have got to go. Since you’ve evidently decided to do something about your appearance, this is my contribution.” She got busy with a pair of tweezers.

  “Ouch!” Lettie cried, jerking her head away. “You’re hurting me!”

  “Sit still,” Annabel said strictly. “One has to suffer for the sake of beauty.”

  Lettie gritted her teeth. “Are you plucking out everything?” she asked after a while. “I don’t want to look like a plucked chicken!”

  “No, I’m just shaping them.” Annabel took a step back to judge her handiwork. “There, one eye is finished. See how you like it.”

  Lettie put her glasses back on and looked in the mirror. “It . . . makes a big difference,” she said, amazed. “But my eyelid is red.”

  “Nothing makeup can’t fix,” said Annabel and set to work on the second eyebrow. “Now you just have to get new glasses, with a thinner frame. These black ones are really horrible.”

  When they reached the car almost half an hour later, Lettie knew the pain had been worth it. Strange she’d never thought of shaping her eyebrows herself.

  “What have you girls been doing all this time?” Reinier asked, annoyed.

  “Working on Lettie’s appearance,” Annabel replied.

  “Oh.” Reinier sounded surprised. “She looked fine to me.”

  Irene’s twenty-first birthday party was like another wedding reception. The sea of cars outside the barn showed that most people had already arrived. “See? We’re late,” Reinier said as he climbed out of the car, hurrying ahead.

  “Brothers are a pain,” said Annabel.

  Klara and Christine came to meet them—Klara in a brightly patterned skirt and white satin blouse. Christine was wearing a baby-blue frock with a full skirt and matching shoes. “Hello, you two!” Klara called out cheerily. “Wow, you look smashing!”

  It became a merry reunion until the two mommies had to go and care for their little ones. “Come, let’s see where Boelie and De Wet are,” Annabel suggested.

  Boelie was talking to Antonio and a few other men, but when he saw Annabel, he immediately came toward them. “Come join us,” he said.

  Everyone exchanged pleasantries, saying how good it was to meet again. “You look lovely, Lettie,” Antonio remarked.

  “Thanks,” said Lettie.

  Marco was nowhere to be seen. She thought he had been invited as well.

  “Can I fetch you a drink?” De Wet asked Lettie and Annabel when he joined them. “Or why don’t you come along and see for yourself what there is?”

  They went with him to the barn. Inside, the tables were laden with cold leg of lamb, chicken pie, onion salad, curried bean salad, freshly baked farm loaves, and homemade butter. There was a variety of pastries: milk tarts, jam tartlets, koesisters.

  There was still no sign of Marco.

  “How can you watch what you eat when you’re faced with all this?” Lettie asked Klara, who had rejoined them.

  “Oh, just make the right choice,” Klara said easily. “Take a lean slice of lamb, some curried beans, that tomato that was actually meant for garnish. And leave the bread and butter.”

  “Oh, it’s hard,” Lettie groaned.

  “But worth it, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely. Where’s Cornelius?”

  “Asleep. My gran is looking after him. She doesn’t feel up to joining the party.”

  “I can understand that. Is Marco here?” Lettie asked as casually as possible.

  “Yes, he’s around somewhere,” Klara said vaguely. “Probably outside, at his car. Boelie drove Antonio’s Fiat here for Marco. He’ll be driving back to Pretoria with us. Marco is so pleased, he’s probably still admiring the car.” She gave Lettie a conspiratorial nod. “If we’re very good with our diet, we deserve something sweet, don’t you think?”

  Awhile later the band began to play and Lettie sat down on a hay bale. She was used to watching the dancers. She’d perfected the art of being a wallflower.

  At the end of the first dance, Antonio asked her for the next one. “I’m not a very good dancer,” she warned him.

  “That makes two of us,” he said, taking her firmly by the hand.

  But Antonio danced like a dream. “You wicked liar, you’re an excellent dancer,” she said.

  “So are you.” He smiled.

  “Oh, and you’re a first-class flatterer as well as a liar,” said Lettie.

  Antonio laughed and twirled her round. “Thanks,” he said at the end of the dance, “we’ll do it again later.”

  When they walked back to where Klara and Christine were sitting, De Wet stepped forward. “The next one is mine,” he said. “Since you’re my wife’s doctor, you’ll have to stand in for your chubby little friend!”

  Back on the dance floor, she noticed Marco on the other side of the room. He was standing near the doorway, talking to one of the young teachers at his school. Lettie looked away.

  The band began to play a medley of country tunes. The concertina pulled and pushed, the banjo picked up speed. De Wet sang along in full voice. They whirled around the floor. At the end of the number, Lettie threw her hands in the air. “De Wet, you’ve danced me off my feet,” she said, laughing.

  “Time for a drink,” he said, laughing as well. “Let’s join my lovely wife.”

  When Lettie looked in the direction of the barn door, Marco was no longer there.

  She danced with other men as well: Oom Freddie, reeking of tobacco; Oom Bartel, who held her a touch too tightly; Boelie, who had momentarily escaped from Annabel.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Marco talking to one of the band members and inspecting his piano accordion. Awhile later she saw him dance with Klara and chat with Christine. But the evening was going by and she had not spoken to him yet. It was better this way, of course. She must focus on enjoying herself and forget about him.

  She looked around at the partygoers. Reinier had danced with no one but Irene. So that’s how it was.

  She had dressed with such care, and she thought she looked rather pretty tonight. But he hadn’t even seemed to . . .

  She admonished herself.

  The band struck up a new tune. Marco’s deep voice suddenly spoke beside her.

  “You’ve been so busy all night, I haven’t been able to dance with you at all.”

  Her heart leaped as shock ran through her veins. She looked up.

  He was standing in front of her, bowing slightly, holding out his hand.

  “It’s a doctor’s duty to dance with her patient,” he said, smiling down at her.

  “Where did you hear that?” she asked, outwardly calm. “Isn’t it the doctor’s duty to keep a professional distance?”

  Why had she said such a dumb thing?

  But Marco merely laughed. “Well, we’ll just have to pretend that you’re not a doctor tonight. Come,” he said easily, taking her hand.

  Her heart began to beat wildly.

  He swung her into the crook of his arm and began to move easily, in tune with the music.

  She was aware of his hand on her back, her hand on his upper arm, her other hand folded in his.r />
  He must be able to feel my heart racing, she thought, mortified.

  They danced in silence at first. Then he began to hum along with the familiar tune. She listened, enchanted by his rich voice, lost in a haze of happiness.

  When the dance was over, she returned to her seat between Klara and Christine.

  He came back to ask her to dance one more time. This time she was prepared. She even managed to joke with him during the dance. When Klara suggested that the men fetch more comfortable chairs—“These hay bales are getting pricklier by the minute”—Marco placed her chair next to his own.

  Lettie saw Boelie dance with the bywoner girl, Pérsomi—no longer a girl but a lovely young woman. She was sister to Gerbrand Pieterse, who had died in Egypt before the end of the war, leaving Christine and their ginger-haired son behind. Lettie realized she must stop thinking of Pérsomi as a bywoner. She had done well in school and would soon be a qualified attorney working in the De Vos law firm alongside De Wet.

  “What are you thinking?” Marco asked beside her.

  “I’m . . . just watching the dancers,” she replied.

  Then she noticed Annabel’s expression across the dance floor. Annabel’s mouth was a grim line, her eyes slightly screwed up, her hands clenched into fists.

  At the end of the number, Annabel strode across the dance floor, clearly furious. “I’m leaving,” she said. “Now. Come.” She tossed back her long hair with a movement of her head.

  Lettie bent down to retrieve her evening bag from under the chair.

  Marco laid a hand on her arm. “Stay,” he said.

  She looked up. His face was close to hers, his eyes serious, as always, but also tender.

  Lettie drew a deep breath. Her heart was beating uncontrollably in her throat. “I came with Annabel and Reinier,” she said. “They want to go.”

  “I’ll take you home,” he said. His expression was very serious, almost intense.

  Lettie licked her dry lips. “Okay,” she said softly.

  He held out his hand, withdrew it again. “Thank you,” he said, equally softly.