by Irma Joubert
She reached out and touched his arm. “Is everything all right, Jakób?”
He smiled at her reassuringly. “Everything is fine.”
“Are you looking forward to the evening?”
“Yes, I am. Though I’m still not sure I know how to dance.”
“Is that why you’re so quiet? Don’t worry, I don’t dance very well either. We can just sit and talk if you want to.”
He kept his eyes on the road and said nothing.
“Jakób?”
“It’s going to be a lovely evening, Grietjie. And we’re going to dance, I promise.”
The hall was decorated with greenery and hundreds of candles that cast a soft glow. The background music was barely audible over the hum of voices. She led the way to the table where Karin and a few of their friends were already seated and introduced Jakób. She noticed the inquiring looks.
“Karin is my roommate, Jakób. You’ll be sitting next to her.”
The conversation was rather awkward at first. Jakób wasn’t completely fluent in Afrikaans, and he was the only one who didn’t know any of the others. It was a mistake to invite him, Grietjie thought anxiously. But things improved when Heinrich, an engineering student in his final year, leaned over to talk to Jakób about his work.
After the appetizer had been served, the chairman of the student council and the rag queen opened the dance floor with their respective partners. The rest of the table got up to join the dancers, while Jakób and Heinrich continued their conversation.
When the band struck up with the second tune, Karin said, “For Pete’s sake, are you two men going to spend all night talking?”
Heinrich gave an embarrassed laugh and got up. “Shall we dance?” he asked with an exaggerated bow and held out his hand to Karin. She laughed and got up.
Grietjie watched them as they stepped onto the dance floor. She wasn’t sure what to do next.
She felt Jakób’s light touch on her cheek. “Will you dance with me?” he asked in his deep voice.
She got up slowly and lifted her chin, suddenly struggling to keep her composure. The touch of Jakób’s hand on her bare back felt utterly strange. On the floor Jakób tucked her into the crook of his elbow. His other hand gripped hers.
Everything felt unreal. She had known this hand for years and years. She had grown up with her hand in his, but tonight it was an unfamiliar hand. She knew exactly what Jakób smelled like, what he felt like, but tonight everything was different. She could never stop chattering when she was with him, but tonight she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She knew that the circle of his arms offered shelter, but tonight it made her inexplicably nervous. She felt the rhythm of the music flow through her body. She knew she was a good dancer, but tonight she was falling over her feet.
Jakób’s strong arms held her more tightly. He bent his head and said in her ear, “Relax, Gretchen.”
His voice was familiar, wonderfully familiar, safe. She felt his tall body move against hers, sensed that he knew what he was doing. She began to relax, easily following where he led. I’ve never been this close to a man, she thought, though I’ve danced with scores of men before.
The same strange excitement she had felt earlier was growing steadily inside her. She took a deep breath but felt as if she wasn’t getting enough air.
Her heart was pounding.
Jakób held her close.
She swallowed. Her mouth was dry.
She nestled under his arm. He drew her even closer.
They danced around the floor effortlessly, around and around, floating somewhere in space, in a bubble that could burst at any moment.
At the end of the fourth dance he stepped back. “You’re a very good dancer, Gretz. Who taught you?”
She was afraid to look up into his eyes. What if he could see what she had been thinking?
Heading back to their table, she answered, “When you grow up on a farm, you learn to dance in the barn at a young age—at weddings or New Year’s parties or birthdays. My brother and my dad taught me. We call it sakkie-sakkie.”
Her hands were trembling. She didn’t know what to talk about next. What if . . .
Fortunately it was time for the main course to be served.
“You’re from Poland, aren’t you?” asked Stefan, who was sitting opposite Jakób. He was doing a master’s degree in history. “Were you in the war?”
“Yes, but not at the front,” Jakób answered. “I was part of the Home Army, the Polish resistance.”
“The Home Army!” Francois exclaimed, moving closer. “My dad told us how they used to drop weapons and supplies for the Home Army at night.”
“Was your father a member of the South African Air Force?” Jakób asked, surprised.
The men gave Jakób their full attention. They were all too young to have been part of that war or the Afrikaners’ own resistance movement.
“I’m going to powder my nose,” Karin announced and the other girls tagged along.
“Heavens, Grietjie, he’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen!” one of their friends exclaimed. “Where did you find him?”
“He’s just Jakób,” she protested.
But she didn’t know whether she believed herself anymore.
When he stopped the car back at her residence, the glow of the streetlight lit up her hands, but her head was in shadow. She leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. He felt her hair against his cheek. He drew a deep breath, inhaling the fine scent of her perfume.
Gretchen! His heart lurched.
He turned sideways in the seat and took her face into his hands. “You were the most beautiful girl in the entire hall tonight,” he said softly.
He bent down and gently kissed her soft lips, just a moment.
With an enormous effort he raised his head and opened the door. “Come, Grietjie,” he said.
She watched through the window as he walked back to the Volksie, took the keys from his pocket, bent to unlock the door, and got in.
But he didn’t pull away. In the dim light he lowered his head onto the steering wheel. He sat like that for a long time before he switched on the car and drove away.
She watched until she could no longer see the red taillights of the Volksie.
The next morning the chauffeur came for her early, before church. She hugged Grandpa John for a long time when he came out to greet her.
They had tea in his study. They walked in the garden and had a glass of sherry before lunch. They sat at the long table, just the two of them, and ate Aunt Nellie’s delicious meal using the polished silver cutlery. After lunch Grandpa John lay down for a while. Grietjie found a book in the study, put on some soft music, and curled up in the leather chair.
At four Grandpa John came down. She sat beside him on the sofa. “You loved Ouma Susan, didn’t you?”
Grandpa nodded. “I loved her more than you can ever imagine.”
“What does it feel like to be in love, Grandpa?”
He smiled at her. “You’re testing an old man’s memory!”
“It’s a good thing you’re so smart.” She smiled back.
“Well, I don’t know about being smart, but I do know what it’s like to love.” He thought for a while. “Falling in love is like an explosion inside you. You temporarily lose contact with the world. You’re floating somewhere in space. You’re larger than life itself and smaller than a grain of sand.”
In that case I’m in love, Grietjie thought. Hopelessly in love.
She was silent for a while. “But what i
s the difference between being in love and truly loving someone? How do you know you really love someone, Grandpa?”
He got up slowly, took a cigar from the top drawer, cut off the end, and sat down next to Grietjie again. “When the dust settles after the explosion, you look at the pieces that remain. Then you have to decide whether your lives have become so entangled that you can no longer live without each other.” He struck a match and lit his cigar. The flame burned high, smoke billowed. “Grietjie, love is not about excitement and physical desire and attraction. Those things are important, of course. But true love is the core that remains after the infatuation has burned out.”
She listened carefully to his words, considered the ideas, visualized the images—the explosion inside her, the fire that is a crucible, the flames that burn away every impurity until a pure, mutual love shines through.
“Grandpa John?”
“Yes, Grietjie?”
“I’m in love with Jakób.”
Her grandpa looked neither upset nor surprised. He nodded slowly and puffed at his cigar.
“Not only in love,” she said, “I think I love him.”
“I saw it coming,” Grandpa John said calmly.
She breathed in the soothing aroma of Grandpa John’s cigar. “Do you think he’s too old for me?” she asked. Her life depended on Grandpa John’s reply.
“I was more than eleven years older than Susan,” Grandpa John answered. “I don’t deny that sparks flew at times, but it was a marriage made in heaven.” He paused, then said, “Your father won’t be impressed.”
She snuggled under his arm. “But do you think the relationship could work?” she asked after a while.
“That’s something only you can decide,” said Grandpa John. “But I should think it’s worth a try.”
“Jakób doesn’t know how I feel,” she said. “I think he still sees me as the little girl he was responsible for, Grandpa. Or maybe just a silly student. He doesn’t realize I’m a woman.”
“I don’t think Jakób is that blind,” Grandpa John said and drew at his cigar.
“I’m scared to tell him. What if it doesn’t work out? I don’t want to lose his friendship—ever.”
Grandpa John looked at her intently. Then he said, “You know, Grietjie, life is like a silver coin. You can spend it any way you wish, but you can only spend it once.”
On Sunday evening she missed Jakób so badly that her heart ached.
When a first-year came to fetch her to take a telephone call, the longing almost tore her chest apart. She charged down the stairs two at a time, took a deep breath, and said, “Grietjie speaking.”
Her parents were on the line. She told them about the ball and her gown and what she had done with her hair. She didn’t tell them she had gone to the dance with Jakób, because she remembered Grandpa John’s words: Your father won’t be impressed. Besides, they didn’t ask. Then she told them about her visit to Grandpa John. Her mother talked about the wedding preparations for Kobus and Salomé, and her father said they’d had good rains, the vines were looking good, and did she have enough money?
On Monday she struggled to focus in class. Jakób weighed heavily on her mind.
By Tuesday the longing filled her entire body. It hurt like a physical pain.
On Wednesday morning she knew he would phone. He always phoned on Wednesdays—at least, he usually did.
He didn’t phone that Wednesday.
She woke in the middle of the night. Moonlight fell through the window. Shine your light on Jakób, moon, and tell him there’s a girl who’s in love with him. Later she got up, went to the bathroom, and drank some cold water. She looked at her watch. It was past midnight. She had to get some sleep for a test the next day.
Quietly she returned to her room, took her purse, and went to the phone booth.
She withdrew a shiny new silver coin. If she put it into that slot now, it would be gone forever.
Dear Lord, she prayed, this is my only tickey.
Resolutely she picked up the receiver.
Jakób sat up in bed and looked at his watch. Almost one in the morning! Who could be phoning at this hour?
He switched on the light in the living room. He hoped it wasn’t a problem at the new plant. Surely it wasn’t possible? He had tested the system thoroughly.
Her voice on the telephone was like a blow to his stomach.
“Grietjie?”
She gave an embarrassed laugh. “I just want to talk, Jakób.”
“Have you been dreaming?” he asked worriedly.
“No. I studied until late. Then I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
He sat down on the chair next to the phone and closed his eyes. Every moment of the past week he had been longing to hear her voice, her cheerful laughter. Every night he had missed her presence, her hands, her silky soft hair, her blue eyes.
“Fine,” he said, “what do you want to talk about?”
“Nothing, I just missed you, so I phoned.”
He sank deeper into the chair and stretched his legs in front of him. A warm feeling settled at the pit of his stomach. “I’m too old for this kind of thing,” he said.
“What kind of thing?” He heard the playful tone in her voice.
“Too old for chitchat in the middle of the night.”
“Did you miss me this week?” she asked. Her tone was light, almost teasing.
The warmth inside him solidified. Careful, Jakób Kowalski! he told himself. “Why aren’t you asleep?”
She laughed. “You’re not answering my question. I’ve already told you, I’m not asleep because I miss you.”
“Get back into bed and go to sleep, Grietjie.”
“Fine, but promise me something.”
“What?” he asked cautiously.
“Dream of me?”
“Grietjie!” he warned.
He heard her laughter at the other end of the line before she replaced the receiver.
He managed to refrain from phoning her all weekend. He managed to sit at the table in his apartment on Saturday and finish his reports. He had supper in the city and didn’t drive to Hatfield. He went to mass alone on Sunday. He made his own lunch and read a trade journal while he was eating. But when she phoned just before six, he couldn’t resist her request.
“Yes, Grietjie, I’ll fetch you,” he said, running his fingers through his hair.
She watched as he strode to the front door, his sleeves rolled up, exposing his suntanned forearms. He was wearing shorts, and she watched the muscles in his thighs move as he walked.
Excitement bubbled up inside her. I’m hopelessly in love with this man on his way to the door.
But I also know the core, she thought, the core that remains after the flames have died down. I have known that core since my childhood. He is a central part of my existence.
The streets were quiet this Sunday evening.
In his Volksie she looked at the hands resting on the steering wheel: strong hands, broad fingers, square nails, fine black hairs on the back of the fingers. It’s strange, she thought, I’ve never looked at Jakób’s hands like this.
At his apartment she made coffee and carried it to the living room. He was standing with his back to her, searching among his records. He took one out of its sleeve and put it on the turntable. Carefully he lowered the needle and turned to face her.
“Here’s your coffee,” she said.
“Thanks, Grietjie.” He sat down in one of the chairs.
She was on the sofa. “This
is beautiful music,” she said.
“Yes, it is.”
They listened in silence.
“The coffee was very good, thank you,” he said when he had emptied his cup. He put the cup on the table.
“Yes, it was.”
Silence. What was there to talk about? The week’s classes? The election of the new student council? He wouldn’t be interested.
She felt tension mounting inside her. “How was your week?” she asked after a while.
“Busy, but good, thanks.” He was quiet for a moment. “And yours?”
“Also good, thanks. Also busy.”
She didn’t understand this new awkwardness between them. She couldn’t stand the strangeness that had crept in.
“We haven’t spoken about the weather yet, Jakób.”
He sighed. “Yes, Grietjie.” He got up. “Maybe I should just take you back to res.”
Her disappointment stuck in her throat. She felt almost humiliated. She shrugged in an offhand way.
“I think so too. You’re so cranky not even the queen of England could talk to you.”
He gazed at her for a moment, then turned and opened the door for her.
They drove back in silence. Her heart was weeping. What had happened?
At her residence he opened her car door. Side by side they walked to the entrance like strangers. Then he slowed down.
She sensed his hesitation, stopped, and turned to him. “Jakób, you’re different, you’re cold. Talk to me! We always talk.”
“You’re imagining it, Grietjie.”
In the semidarkness she looked at him. “Don’t sidestep the issue, Jakób. I know just as well as you do what this is about.”
His black eyes looked into her own. Then he gave a deep sigh and turned his gaze to the front door. “I promised to look after you. More than once.”
Did he still see her as a child? Even after the ball? Her misery changed into irrational fury. “I’m sick and tired of that old story!” she cried. “There’s more than one way of looking after someone. You’re not my father, Jakób. I’ve got a father, a big, strong, clever father, who has been looking after me for years—since the time you left me at the orphanage.”