by Irma Joubert
She saw his eyes. She knew she had gone too far.
“Then how do I fit into your perfect little picture?” His face was pale, his voice very soft and low.
She placed her hands on her warm cheeks. “Jakób, I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes, shook her head. “I didn’t mean it that way. You just make me so angry!”
“I’m asking, where do I fit in?” he asked coldly.
She felt her anger override her guilt. “I don’t know how we fit together, Jakób! That’s what I wanted to ask you! But you’re always such a pain, so correct, so afraid to do anything that . . .”
She saw a muscle jump in his jaw, saw the intense emotion in his dark eyes. Her heart beat faster; she drew a sharp breath. The next moment his arms closed around her and his mouth came down hard on her own. Her blood rushed fiercely through her veins and into her bruised lips. Alarmed, she pulled away.
“Heavens, Grietjie, just go inside,” he said in a choked voice.
She fled into the building. She saw nothing, understood nothing. She stuck her fingers in her ears and heard nothing.
She smothered her sobs in her pillow.
After a while she went to the bathroom to take a shower. Cold water poured over her face, her body, down her legs to the drain. The cold water washed away her tears, washed away the worst of her fright.
But the water didn’t wash away the knowledge that it had been a man who had taken her into his arms and held her, the way a man holds a woman. Blood rushed to her cheeks.
Neither did it wash away the words: You left me at the orphanage. How could she? She, who knew better? She was aware of the hard knot in her stomach.
The feelings remained: confusion, an unfamiliar vulnerability, an excitement she had never experienced before.
She gazed at herself in the mirror, carefully touched her lips. She looked exactly the same. She felt completely different.
Back in her room she brushed her hair, switched on the immersion element in the enamel jug. Karin would soon be back.
Deep into the night it began to rain softly. She missed Jakób. She ached with longing for him.
She was not a crybaby, yet she cried all through the night.
Monday morning she got up with a thick head. Her body ached. Her heart was a heavy stone. She rinsed her face in cold water. She didn’t go down to breakfast but drank a cup of black coffee, put on her raincoat, and walked to class in the soft drizzle.
He was waiting just outside the gate. She didn’t see him before she was nearly next to him. There were fine raindrops in his thick black hair and on his face. His wet shirt clung to his skin.
Her heart pounded.
“Grietjie?”
He hadn’t slept a wink, she knew, because he looked the way she felt.
She looked up into his black eyes. “I’m sorry, Jakób, I truly am. I never meant to—”
“Don’t say anything, Gretchen,” he said softly.
She looked at him, alarmed.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me. It will never happen again.”
“And I’m sorry about what I said,” she replied.
“It’s settled, then. I’m off to work. You’re on your way to class.”
“Okay, Jakób.”
Her eyes followed the blue Volksie as he drove away. When it had turned the corner, she walked on.
His words lay like a rock inside her: It will never happen again.
Monday night she didn’t sleep at all.
“Roomie, are you sick?” Karin asked worriedly on Tuesday morning. “You look very pale.”
“I must be coming down with something,” Grietjie said.
“Why don’t you stay in bed? It’s cold and wet outside.”
“I’ll lie down after class this afternoon.”
That afternoon she fell into a deep sleep. When she woke just before five, she sat up, confused. It was late afternoon, she realized, not morning. And my heart aches, she thought, and my spirit is in turmoil.
On their way to the dining room, Karin asked, “Isn’t that Jakób’s car?”
The blue Volksie was parked at the gate.
She stopped, drew a breath. The stone inside her crumbled to dust. Excitement took over, and infinite joy. Jakób!
She left Karin without a word and walked toward his car. Her heart, her stomach, and her breath all gathered in her throat.
She opened the door and got in. “Hello, Jakób.”
His eyes were tired, but he smiled. “Don’t you want to get your supper first?”
“No, I want to talk to you.”
“I’ll wait, Grietjie.”
She shook her head and closed the door.
He sat quietly beside her. His hands lay on the wheel. He was very close to her. It felt strange.
She couldn’t endure the strain a moment longer. She looked at him: dark hair, dark eyes and eyebrows, straight nose, strong jaw, a mouth that . . .
She mustn’t look at his mouth.
This is Jakób, not a stranger.
“Jakób, what happened?” she asked earnestly. “We’ve never argued before.”
“It’s my fault,” he said.
She waited quietly. The rain was a gray veil hiding the two of them inside the car.
He opened his arm. She nestled into her customary place against his broad chest, seeking comfort against the sadness and the confusion she was feeling. His other hand cradled her head.
They sat like that for a long time while peace spread over her and she soaked up the warmth of his body. When he spoke, his voice was gentle. Her ear was over his heart, and his words went through her ear and straight to her own heart.
“You baffle me, Grietjie,” he said. “You’re always on my mind.”
Joy washed over her, warmed her cold body. She knew exactly how he felt. Slowly she sat up and met his gaze. “You’re always in my heart,” she said.
She saw the expression in his eyes before he looked away.
“Jakób, what has happened to us? It feels as if there’s an explosion inside me every time you come near me, even if you just phone. Every time I’m called to the phone, I feel a surge of joy or hope or who-knows-what inside me, because it might be you on the line.”
“I suppose we have to talk,” he said.
“Yes, Jakób, we have to talk.”
He switched on the Volksie. They drove to Sunnyside in silence. He stopped in front of his apartment.
Inside she waited a moment, then said, “I’ve told you how I feel, Jakób.”
He pushed his fingers through his hair and avoided her eyes. “It’s part of growing up,” he said. “It’s a natural reaction, it will pass.”
She couldn’t believe it! “Natural reaction, my foot!” she said firmly. “I know how I feel!”
“Heavens, Grietjie, you’re a—”
“Don’t tell me I’m a child, Jakób!”
“You’re at least fourteen years my junior,” he said.
“Thirteen and a half,” she said. “I may not have your years of experience at this kind of thing, but I’ve come a long way in life.”
He sat down at one end of the sofa. She sat at the other end, facing him. “We can feel any way we like and argue until we’re blue in the face, the fact remains—I’m too old for you.”
“Maybe it’s not your fault; maybe I’m the one who’s too young for you. But I’ll get older, I promise.”
“Grietjie, I’m serious. Heavens, you don’t make it easy for a man!”
“No, Jakób, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. At a certain point age becomes irrelevant.”
He looked at her for a long time, then shook his head.
She leaned across, reached out, and placed her palm against his cheek.
He groaned and turned away. “Don’t, Grietjie.”
“Why not, Jakób? You’ve always held me, you held me last month when I was ill. What has changed?”
“You know very well what has changed.” His voice was raw.
She leaned back. Everything had changed, she knew it. It was what she had feared most. But at the same time she realized that things couldn’t have stayed the same. And she knew that he knew it too.
“Jakób,” she pleaded.
“Oh, Grietjie.”
He opened his arm and drew her to him. She laid her head on his chest, heard the rhythmic beating of his heart, felt him stroke her hair with his free hand. Her heart was full, her throat was so tight that she could hardly speak. “I love being here with you, Jakób. I feel safe,” she said after a while.
He sighed. “It’s hard for me,” he said and got up.
She shifted her weight and tucked her legs underneath her. “Why? What’s so hard about loving me?”
He gazed through the window, his hands deep in his pockets.
“Jakób?”
He turned. “Heavens, Grietjie, it’s not just a matter of loving you. You’re a fire inside me, threatening to consume me entirely.”
Her heart exploded with happiness.
He sat back down on the sofa, leaned forward, and lowered his head into his hands. “What have I allowed to happen, Grietjie?”
“You’ve lit a fire in me, too, but I’m not afraid,” she said. “You asked me last Sunday night where you fit into my picture. I know now: You’re Jakób, the man I love. You’re the core that remains after all else has burned away.”
“Don’t. Please!”
“Do you love me, Jakób?”
He looked up, his black eyes very serious. “Yes, Grietjie, I love you.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Jakób! Be happy! Be glad!”
But he kept shaking his head. “It’s not that simple, Gretchen. It could never work.”
“But it’s worth a try,” she pleaded.
“And if it doesn’t work?” he asked with a grave expression. He took her hands into his own. “You’re a part of me, I can’t ever lose you again.” He was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “No, the risk is too great.”
She took a long time to answer. “We’ll always be part of each other, you and me. You remained a part of me during the nine years I’ve spent here. If a relationship between us doesn’t work out, that part won’t change. It’s irreversible.”
He let go of her hands, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.
She knew him so well. She climbed into his lap and put her arms around his neck. “Jakób?”
He wrapped her in his arms, held her against him, hugged her so tightly that it almost hurt. She wished he could hold her even closer. His hand slid over her arm, moved over the curve of her hip.
Then he bent his head. She closed her eyes. She heard him breathe, felt his lips on her own. Her lips parted slightly. Desire welled up from deep inside her. His arms tightened around her as he drew her against his strong body. Her pulse was racing, his lips were searching her neck, scorching her skin. Her breath caught in her throat. She was frightened by the intensity of her own desire.
“Jakób?” she whispered.
He let go of her at once. “Heavens, Grietjie!” he said.
She smiled at him, wrapped her arms more tightly around his neck, pulled his head toward hers. He groaned softly. His lips caressed her face, her jaw. He kissed her eyes, cupped his hands around her face. His mouth rested on hers—softly, searchingly at first, then harder, more hungrily. Deep in her a joy was growing that she had never felt before.
“Grietjie?” he asked softly.
She read her own emotion in his eyes—the God-given desire between a man and a woman.
Late that night, curled up in her bed, her happiness wrapped around her like a comfort blanky, a tiny black bug gnawed at her mind: Your father won’t be impressed . . .
Exams were starting in two weeks. Grietjie was studying hard. Her schedule was a nightmare.
“It’s because you have so many majors,” said Karin. “I said right from the start you should have your head examined.”
Jakób phoned every day. On Friday evening she begged, “Come over tomorrow, please?”
“You have to study, Grietjie.”
“I take a break sometimes! Come and fetch me and I’ll study at your apartment.”
“The minute you walk into this apartment there won’t be much studying going on!” he predicted.
She laughed happily. “And if I promise to study?”
“I have to pack. The movers are coming next week,” he said.
“I’ll help you pack,” she suggested.
“Out of the question. You have to study.” He was unyielding.
She told Karin, “Jakób takes life too seriously. I’ll have to work on that.”
Karin laughed. “It’s your own fault for choosing an old man.”
“He’s not old! He’s perfect!” Grietjie protested.
On Saturday afternoon he turned up after all. He stood in the foyer, looking almost guilty. “I missed you too much,” he said.
“Don’t tell me the Pole is melting,” she teased. “I’ll bring my books, Jakób, and you’ll see for yourself—I can be with you and study!”
They had coffee and ham sandwiches he had made. He paged though her German poems while she studied French literary history. He stretched out on the sofa and read some of her English short stories while she wrestled with Hamlet.
At eleven she pushed her books aside. “My head is like cotton wool,” she said, stretching.
He put down the book he was reading and looked up. “Well, come and sit here so that I can show you what this Pole is made of.”
In two strides she was on the sofa. “This Pole appears to be burning up,” she joked, curling up beside him.
“This fiery Pole,” he said, “has only half an hour before he has to return the most beautiful princess on the planet to the Dragon’s den.”
She spent all of Sunday studying at his apartment, achieving more than in the entire chaotic previous week. They talked during her study breaks, because there wasn’t much time to say what needed to be said. She was starting her exams, and he was moving to Johannesburg. They had the serious conversations of two people who knew that an uphill road lay ahead.
“Tell me about Mischka,” she said on Monday evening when she had moved her books aside and they were taking a coffee break.
“Sit with me on the sofa,” he said, putting down the magazine he’d been reading. He couldn’t stop looking at her, and he struggled to keep his hands to himself.
She sat down beside him, tucking her legs underneath her. “Tell me, Jakób,” she said. There was a vulnerable look in her eyes.
“Mischka is a doctor who worked in the same hospital as Haneczka,” he said, stroking her hair. “She’s gone back to her native country, Hungary.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Yes, Grietjie, she’s very pretty. She’s tall and dark and very elegant.”
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��Did you love her a lot?”
He knew Grietjie wouldn’t stop before she knew exactly where she stood.
“I loved her enough to want to marry her,” he answered honestly. “But I never forgot you. I thought of you sometimes, even when I was with her.” He gave a slight laugh. “In my mind you were still the ten-year-old with the broad smile and the bow in her hair. Do you remember that newspaper cutting you sent me just before you left Germany?”
She sat up excitedly. “Did you get it, Jakób?” she asked.
“I kept it all the years, but when I fled, I had to leave it behind.”
“It doesn’t matter, because now you’ve got me.”
“Yes, Grietjie, now I’ve got you.” Mother of God, he prayed, be merciful to us, because the road ahead is dark. He never wanted to put her in a position where she had to choose between him and her adoptive parents. But the conversation he had had with Bernard one late night at the kitchen table flashed inside him like a red light.
“I still have the little wooden cross you gave me just before you left,” she said. “I held it in my hand at night, when the dreams scared me. All through my school years.” She looked up at him. “But now I’ve got you.”
She curled up contentedly beside him.
They sat like that for a long time. He didn’t want to spoil the atmosphere, but he knew he had to speak. “There’s something I have to tell you,” he said evenly.
“Mm?” She snuggled under his arm.
He sighed. “This is hard,” he said.
“Mm?”
“Grietjie, are you listening?”
“I’m listening, Jakób, I’m sitting close to you because next week you’ll be gone. But you can speak, I’m listening.”
“The train . . . the one the resistance blew up, the one . . .” How was he going to tell her?
“The one with Oma and Mutti?”