by Irma Joubert
The German visitors were late. The editor paced up and down, gave a few last-minute instructions, kept an eye on the door.
When the visitors arrived, the manager of the German Club stepped forward and welcomed them in eloquent German. The editor delivered the speech Grietjie had helped him prepare. Everyone got acquainted with everyone else.
Their party of nine was shown into a private dining room—Pierre wouldn’t be joining them, as he had already taken his photos and completed his assignment.
Grietjie followed the men, who were engaged in animated conversation. Her services didn’t appear to be required after all.
In passing, she glanced into one of the other rooms. She recognized Uncle Peter and stopped to take a second look. Jakób was in an armchair, facing the door. He was leaning forward, engaged in conversation, a serious expression on his face.
She drew a deep breath.
He was here, yards away from her. His pitch-black hair gleamed in the lamplight. He waved his big hands as he spoke, and her ears picked up the soft tone that belonged to his voice.
“Will you be coming inside, Miss?” asked the waiter who was holding the door of the adjacent room for her.
She took a last look. If only he would look up . . . If she could just give him a smile . . .
But he didn’t look up.
She followed the waiter. Her hands were trembling, her heart was pounding, hot blood was pumping through her body, yet she felt ice-cold.
The waiter closed the door behind her.
“I saw Jakób today,” she said at supper that night.
Grandpa John frowned. “Jakób? I thought they were in Pretoria today.”
“They were, he and Uncle Peter and three other men. In the German Club. I was there too.”
“Why was that?” Grandpa John was still frowning.
“My editor had a meeting with some people from the Frankfürter Allgemeine Zeitung—the German newspaper. I was asked to interpret. I saw Jakób in one of the lounges, but he didn’t see me.”
“And now?” asked Grandpa John.
“Now my heart aches, Grandpa. If my parents phone tonight, I won’t be able to speak to Daddy. It hurts too much. I miss Jakób terribly, Grandpa.”
“But you didn’t go to him?” he asked.
“I would have, Grandpa, if he had looked up and seen me. But he was deep in conversation.”
“It’s better that way,” said Grandpa John.
She leaned across the table and took his hand. “Grandpa, please tell me about Jakób,” she pleaded. “Just tonight, Grandpa, I won’t ask again. But I’m desperate to know how he is, what he’s doing, whether he’s happy. You see him every week. Please, Grandpa?”
Her grandfather shook his head. “I really shouldn’t,” he said.
“Just this once, for me? Please, Grandpa John?” she insisted.
He gave a slight smile. “Just this once,” he conceded. “Bring the coffee to my study—it will be warmer by the fire.”
He told her how well Jakób had settled in at the company, how he had come with innovative ideas, how he was the mastermind behind the new coal mine project and the collaboration with the German company and Iscor.
“He’s very clever, isn’t he, Grandpa?” she asked.
“He is, Grietjie. Not only in his field, but also as a businessman. And he has the necessary experience. He has specific, specialized expertise that’s still new to us here in South Africa. We’re very lucky to have him in our company.” He paused. “We’re going to offer him a full partnership as soon as the new project is off the ground,” he added.
“And when you see him . . . does he ever ask about me, Grandpa?”
Her grandfather gave her a long look, then sighed. “Yes, Grietjie. He asks about you. Every single week.”
Winter came. In the mornings the windows were steamed up. A thick blanket of fog hung over the city, and the grass was covered with a stiff, white ice blanket. The streets were full of people snugly wrapped in boots and coats. The cars drove with their headlights on in the mornings, their exhaust fumes trailing behind them in dirty white clouds.
This year, the cold winter nights were more than just a dark abyss. At the bottom lay a longing that held her in its grip, a loneliness that kept her in chains. She stood at her bedroom window and looked out over Johannesburg. Lights were moving in the distance, people were moving.
Somewhere among them was Jakób. The night sky was overcast. It looked as if the moon would never break through again.
One Sunday night at the beginning of August she heard the sound of Grandpa’s favorite music coming from the study: Galli-Curci’s Il dolce suono, Caruso’s La donna è mobile. She went downstairs and slowly pushed open the door. Grandpa John sat deep in his soft leather chair, his legs stretched in front of him, his eyes closed, a slight smile on his lips. His whiskey glass was on the table next to him, and the sweet smell of a Cuban cigar hung in the air. Softly she closed the door behind her and sat down in the other leather chair.
The music and the nostalgic atmosphere of a cold Sunday night at the fireside enveloped her.
“Beautiful?” asked Grandpa John when the last notes had faded.
She nodded. “Sehr schön,” she said.
She got up and picked another record from the shelf. She stooped and carefully lowered the needle onto the vinyl disc before she sat down again.
A male voice began to sing “Das Zauberlied.”
“Das ist Deutsch,” Grietjie said with a smile.
Grandpa John smiled and nodded. “Josef Schmidt,” he said. “You have a good memory. Sit here with me?” He opened his arm and Grietjie nestled into the familiar space. He held her against him. Together they listened to the German music.
“Do you still miss Ouma Susan?” she asked when the music ended.
He nodded. “At times it’s very bad.”
“I miss Jakób all the time, Grandpa,” she said.
“I know you miss him,” he said. “I know you’ve tried going out with friends. I can see it doesn’t help.”
“Grandpa, I don’t know how we’re going to get past my dad,” she said softly.
He pressed her head to his shoulder. She felt him sigh. “Wait for September,” he said. “Time will tell.”
But Grandpa John didn’t sound very positive.
Grandpa John had planned a birthday party at the elegant Rand Club for her coming of age. Her parents and Kobus and Salomé were coming to Johannesburg on Saturday morning. A group of friends and relatives had been invited: Uncle Peter and Diana, Britney and Sarah and their husbands, Karin and Heinrich, Francois and Hester. At the last minute she had invited Hermann Grové as well. He was a good friend and at least she’d have someone to dance with. But she knew in advance that the pain would be worse that evening—she was desperately missing Jakób.
Sometime after her birthday she would see him again. And sometime after her birthday they would have to talk to her father again.
On Friday night she and Grandpa John sat beside the fireplace in his study, reading. At half past seven Grandpa John got to his feet. “I’m going to bed. Tomorrow promises to be a long day,” he said, rubbing his cold hands together. “I hope Nellie has remembered to put a hot-water bottle in my bed.”
“She always does, Grandpa. I think I’m going to read in my bed as well.”
But he shook his head. “Stay for a while,” he said. “You always enjoy the fire, don’t you?”
“I do, Grandpa, and it is very early.” She laughed. “You’re going to bed with the birds tonight,” she teased h
im.
She heard him go through to the kitchen. She tucked her legs underneath her, curled up in the soft leather chair, and sat staring at the flames for a while. Even the fire seemed to be feeling the cold. On the farm they used leadwood, and the fire burned all through the night. The wood you buy in the city is like paper, Kobus always said. It doesn’t make proper coals.
“Gretchen?”
He spoke very softly so that she wouldn’t be alarmed.
At the sound of his voice she turned her head.
He was standing at the door of the study. He filled the entire doorway. He was wearing a white shirt and a chunky dark-blue sweater. His broad shoulders were square in the doorframe. His suntanned face looked dark against the white shirt collar. His curly black hair was slightly tousled and fell over his forehead.
She gazed at the man she loved.
He smiled at her across the room and made a slight movement with his hands.
In two strides she was in his arms.
His arms closed around her. She pressed her head against his chest, she smelled him, heard his heart pounding, felt him against her.
“Jakób,” she said.
He ran his hand over her hair, her neck, her back, and the curve of her hips while his other arm held her close.
“I know it’s two days before your birthday, but I couldn’t wait any longer.”
They moved to sit on the soft leather couch.
She stroked and stroked his hand, his broad fingers with the square nails and the fine black hairs. “How did you get in?” she asked dreamily.
“Grandpa John left the front door open for me.”
He kept touching her, stroking her hair, her neck, pressing her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers one by one.
“Good heavens, Grietjie, I missed you,” he said over and over.
She turned to him, traced the familiar lines of his face with her finger, leaned over, and gently kissed his eyes.
“I love you too, Jakób Kowalski,” she said. “I want to stay with you forever.”
When he left late that night, she had no desire to sleep. The fire was dead. She lit a candle on the mantelpiece, put the record she and Grandpa John had listened to earlier back on the turntable, and curled up in the soft leather chair.
She heard Grandpa John come down the stairs. She realized he hadn’t been asleep. She hoped the following day would not be too much for him.
He pushed open the door, entered without speaking, and poured them each a glass of brandy. Then he turned to his desk and opened the wooden box with the Cuban cigars. He took the cigar cutter from the top drawer of his desk and carefully snipped off the end of the cigar. Pensively he tapped the cigar against his left thumbnail.
“Grandpa, if I have to choose between my parents and the man I love, there’s only one option. I’d choose the same way you and Ouma Susan did.”
He nodded slowly. “I see.” He struck a match and lit his cigar. Like so many times before, the rich aroma filled the room. “It’s a sad path to choose, Grietjie.”
“I know,” she said, “but there’s no other way.”
“No,” he said, puffing at his cigar, “there’s no other way.”
Her parents, Kobus, and Salomé arrived just before lunch. She was happy to see them all. Her mother embraced her and touched her hair, laughing happily because they were all together again. Her father hugged her to his chest. “My little city girl,” he teased.
She laughed. “It’s too cold, or I would have been barefoot,” she said.
They had coffee and talked about the farm and her job at the paper and Grandpa John’s company.
They acted as if there were no Jakób waiting in the wings. But she knew they also knew. The meeting was unavoidable.
On Saturday night they formally celebrated her coming of age with toasts and champagne, a delicious meal, and heaps of fun.
On Sunday, the morning of her actual birthday, her mother brought her coffee in bed. Her father and Grandpa John joined them, and after a while so did Kobus and a sleepy Salomé. Even Aunt Nellie popped in. Grietjie opened her gifts: gold earrings from her parents—“so delicate, so lovely!”—Etienne Leroux’s latest novel from Kobus and Salomé—“daring, aren’t you?”—a crocheted doily from Aunt Nellie—“did you really make it specially for me?”
“My gift is outside,” said Grandpa John.
“Can I take a look?” Grietjie asked excitedly.
“Wait, let’s get dressed first, then we’ll all go out together,” said her mother.
She put on her lovely new birthday outfit. She wished Jakób could be there.
And yet, maybe not, because she didn’t want her bubble of happiness to burst.
They waited for Grandpa John to get dressed. He came walking through the entrance hall and past the study. He opened the front door and stepped back.
Parked in the driveway was a brand-new DKW. Someone had tied a red ribbon around it, with an enormous bow on the roof.
Grietjie stared, astounded. She turned to him. “Grandpa John?”
He smiled and held out the keys.
She looked at the people around her. Their smiles reflected their joy; their eyes radiated their love for her. They were her family. They had welcomed her when she’d been homeless, abandoned, completely alone, and to this day they cherished her as their own little girl.
She could never turn her back on them. Not even . . .
She took the car keys from Grandpa John and unlocked the door of her very first car. One by one she took them for a spin around the block.
After Aunt Nellie’s enormous lunch—even better than the previous night’s sumptuous feast, they all agreed—everyone lay down for an afternoon nap.
Grietjie’s heart was full and heavy. Her thoughts were a thick, sandy footpath that was holding her down and sucking her in so that she could hardly move. She couldn’t renounce Jakób.
The house was quiet. Everyone was asleep.
Eventually she got up and rinsed her face. For a long time she stood looking at the city lying so peacefully beneath her. Somewhere in the city was Jakób.
When at last she went downstairs, her mother was sitting on the veranda in the weak early-spring sunshine. A book lay open in her lap but she wasn’t reading. “Shall I make coffee?” Grietjie asked. “Or is Daddy still asleep?”
Her mother looked up, her eyes strangely veiled. “Daddy is in the study, Grietjie. He and Grandpa John are talking.”
Grietjie drew a slow breath. “Mommy? Since after lunch?”
Her mother nodded.
“It’s . . . almost five.”
“Six minutes to five,” her mother said without looking at her watch. “Make the coffee, Grietjie.”
On Monday morning she got into her brand-new car and drove to work with a heavy heart. No one had said a word about the conversation in the study.
On her desk lay a bunch of flowers from her colleagues. Grietjie clapped her hands. “It’s lovely!” she cried, surprised. “How did you know it was my birthday?”
At ten a bouquet of red roses was delivered at the office. Twenty-one red roses. “I love you, Gretchen,” the card read.
But he didn’t phone.
At five she drove home. He mustn’t come tonight, she thought. Not yet. I simply can’t!
When she drove through the big gate, his car was in the driveway. Not the old blue Volksie, but his new fiery-red Alfa Spider convertible.
She sat in her car for a long time, too afraid to go inside.
After a while he came out, opened the door of her new car, and sat down in the passenger’s seat. He seemed to fill the entire car. “Happy birthday, my darling,” he said and kissed her tenderly.
“Jakób?” She could hardly get the words out. “When did you come?”
“Earlier,” he said vaguely, brushing the curls out of her face. “Do you like your car?”
“My dad?” Her voice stuck in her dry throat.
“He’s waiting to speak to us, Grietjie.”
“But have you spoken to him?”
“Yes, we’ve spoken. We had a long conversation.”
“What did he say, Jakób?” she pleaded.
“He wants to speak to the two of us.”
“Jakób, I . . .”
Gently he touched her cheek and opened the door. “Come, Gretchen, your father is waiting.”
The house was quiet, holding its breath.
Her parents were in the dining room. They were seated at the table, the fresh coffee and Aunt Nellie’s scones untouched.
She felt Jakób’s hand on her back, a reminder he was there.
He pulled out a chair for her and she sat down, facing her father. Jakób sat down next to her. She took a deep breath. She couldn’t think anymore, so she spoke from her heart.
“Daddy, Mommy, you took me in when I was an orphaned waif. You said I was perfect and lovely, you loved me like your own daughter, you gave me a home and security and a wonderful education and my own identity. You’re the best parents any child could ask for. I love you dearly. I’m so grateful that God brought me to your home here at the southern tip of Africa.”
Under the table her hand reached for Jakób’s. He took it, as always, and held it tightly, as always.
“But I love Jakób. This past year has made me even more certain of it. I could never give him up.”
She looked at her mother. Her mother nodded slowly, her expression tender. She understands, Grietjie thought.