by Andre Brink
To grow attached to anyone means running the risk of forfeiting that part of oneself entrusted to the other. Never again. No one would possess me again. Yielding would mean giving up my only chance of survival among them. I had to live with them; I knew I would have to marry one of them. But I would never belong to them. That I owed to myself and to that of my father which lived on in me: to belong only to myself, separate and intact. Memory; rain. To be washed away entirely, oblivion: and so to be reunited with memory lost.
Nicolaas came close. His gentleness and patience were dangerous, threatening me with the generosity of his small gifts. It would have been so easy to succumb. But he couldn’t understand the panic inside me: For Heaven’s sake, don’t give me things. Don’t hold me. Don’t stifle me. He was so obtuse in his meekness, his persistence. I did not mean to be perverse—enticing him only to reject him later—but I lacked the strength to repulse him altogether. I needed that gentleness too. If only he could have offered it without demanding my life in return. In a way I almost preferred Barend’s bullying, his overt viciousness: pinning an arm behind me to see if I would wince; tearing my dress to force me to tears (in vain). His favorite act of petty torture was pulling my hair. It was the one form of pain I found difficult to bear: more than pain: it touched what meagre pride I dared allow myself. And the only way to thwart him was to hack it off. Fingering the stubble in the dark I cried; but I knew the act had repulsed him and had confirmed my own integrity. In comparison with him, Nicolaas was too limp, an obedient dog at my heels, wagging his tail, eager to please. And still I might have married him, I saw no other way. In a place like this, what hope for a girl like me? A// right, on my fifteenth birthday. It seemed a long way off.
I couldn’t believe my ears when Barend spoke. It would have been so easy to contradict him, to reduce him to shame. I waited for Nicolaas to intervene. The immediate shock subsided: I was amazingly detached, looking on at a scene the reality of which I couldn’t believe. Even a sense of wry pride, who knows, at being fought over. But there was no fight at all. Nicolaas half-rose from his chair, then fell back lamely, crushed by that man’s single command and by Barend’s audacity.
It was the worst insult he’d ever inflicted on me: to lack the courage even to try. Simply to let me go like that, pitying himself. And there was in Barend’s presumption, his boldness in brutally taking possession of my life like that—even though it would never really be his, but how could he know?—an excitement so fierce that it burnt in my womb, kindling a desire I’d sometimes felt in watching animals copulate, watching that stiff erect red thing plunging into the depths of cow or mare or placid sow, frenziedly pumping away, arrogance asserted, life assured. I stared at him, stared at that man his father, at his dispirited mother, at Nicolaas crumpled in humiliation, and in pride and anger I felt my womb burning, felt the wetness forming in me, so that I had to bow my head to hide the fever on my cheeks, to gulp away the lump in my throat. The fight ahead, I knew, would be the surest way to make me survive.
I had felt it once before, dare I admit it?, just as suddenly, as impossible to justify or explain. On my way to Houd-den-Bek, one of the many times, I’d passed Galant in the veld, who was tending the sheep (I knew there was no danger: he was the only one who would neither stop me nor betray my secret afterwards): we’d spoken for a while, he’d shared a crust of bread with me, and then I went on. Hurrying to be home before dark, relishing in advance the rare night on my own (my small fire burning, jackals and hyenas howling, the silent mountain louring against the stars; the mound where Dad, according to them, lay buried), I never noticed the puffadder, until, as I nearly stepped on it, it sank its fangs into my leg. I kicked at it and screamed for help. By the time Galant reached me I’d already crushed the flat triangular head but the bloated beautiful body was still wriggling in the dust. Oh my God, I’m going to die, I’m going to die. He pushed me down and tore open the ruffled pantalette to get to the neat double incision on my thigh. Bright blood. And then he was sucking—sucking and spitting, sucking away voraciously, spitting, sucking madly. He seemed like a young animal gorging itself (the leathery feel of a cow’s bare teat; the thick-veined udder): and, even knowing for sure that I would die, oh certainly, I felt that burning of the womb, dissolving as in rain, but warm rain, not coming down but welling up inside; as if it was my breast he was at, which had recently begun to form, the merest swelling, aching nipples both tender and tough to the inquisitive touch.
He pressed a blackish stone to the small angry wound, applied herbs he had in his knapsack, prepared by Ma-Rose I should imagine; I barely noticed. There was just that disarming, sudden emptiness after he’d stopped sucking. I’d never before felt shy of him, but now had to avoid his straight contented stare. Was he too thinking of a distant late afternoon when, coming from the mountain in a thunderstorm—how I’d wished to stay up there and never come down again, but he’d tugged at me and picked me up and carried me home—Ma-Rose had stripped our clothes from us and bundled us into a kaross to dry and warm us up? I don’t know for how long we were there in that warm kaross in the dark, only the dung-fire burning, its acrid smoke causing one’s eyes to water and one’s nose to burn. Perhaps it wasn’t even for very long, but it felt like many nights merging one into another, and we merged in the coarse kaross, huddled together. Because it was so dark and safe I risked to caress him: it wasn’t him, it wasn’t me, only two small bodies anonymously touching with no threat or responsibility implied. The two of us, both orphans—the only ones on the farm who didn’t belong at all; the only ones perhaps who really cared. A tentative touch, a shifting of weight, a head adjusting itself on a shoulder, a hand straying. He didn’t react. I knew he wouldn’t dare, so I pretended to fall asleep, and in my sleep I think he dared.
An innocence now lost. But the touch, oh God, remains. Is it utterly inevitable then to go on without, always, losing something on the way, relinquishing possibilities, forfeiting hope? And only the memory of a touch remains: even that is precarious and may be taken from one. Rain: beating down, beating down, wearing away all grit and rock, washing remorselessly clean. Naked anatomy. Roots clawing at eroded earth. The roughness of stone grazing the guileless palm. The harshness of reed, a thin rough blade of leaf. A petal brushing the cheek. A hand, the intricate course of veins, knuckles, sensitive fingertips probing, exploring, venturing, bruised.
The shape and rough folds of an empty jacket hanging on a hook. Dried mud, once slithering through toes. Saliva from a mouth. Another secret wetness. A young animal tugging at a teat. Acrid smoke.
The sharp sweet smell of buchu: the smell of solitude.
The jackals will be howling again tonight.
Barend
There was always a distance between them and me. I was several years older of course, but that was not the reason. When I was very small the whole farm was mine to roam on and explore. And wherever Pa went I was carried along on his broad back. There was no one else to claim his attention. At night I slept between them in the big bed. Nothing was as comforting and secure as that deep mattress stuffed with down and their bodies on either side of me, like large soft loaves protecting me. But when Nicolaas was born it changed. I was jubilant when Pa told me I had a brother; but the helpless and hideous little creature in Ma’s arms was a disappointment, if not a downright betrayal. Still, I tried to be friends, carrying to his cradle whatever I thought might interest or amuse him: lizards, frogs, grasshoppers, a tortoise. But that set him howling and Ma would come rushing in to box my ears and bundle me out. What could I do but resent the little miscreant? A few times when no one was around I tried to smother his yells with a pillow, but invariably somebody would come to the rescue. For most of the day he and Galant would lie side by side on a kaross beside the house, and often I saw Ma-Rose suckling them, one to each breast. Always the two of them together and I apart. A deep bitterness settled heavily in me.
As they grew up they never gave me any
peace, tagging along wherever I went, whining for attention, crowding the solitude that had become my refuge, nagging me with their constant and unreasonable demands. I tried to scare them off by leading them on footpaths thick with thorns or along mountain trails where they would fall and graze themselves (once an arm was broken); I would push them into the dam, or dare them to climb trees I knew were dangerous for them. They remained undaunted. At times, I must admit, it was not unenjoyable—swimming, riding the young bullocks, chasing baboons, hunting hares or porcupines or buck; and it was useful when they could lend a hand with the work. But when I wanted to be alone they were impossible. More than once I felt like strangling them.
Because I was the oldest I was held responsible for whatever went wrong, and Pa could be hasty with sjambok or strap. Otherwise, again because I was older, I had to join the men in the heavy work while the two of them were either fooling around or given undemanding little tasks. Slaving away with the farmhands, sowing, ploughing, hoeing or building, I couldn’t bear to hear them splashing and squealing in the distance. Impossible to escape from Pa’s blunt admonishment: “Come on, Barend. One day you’ll be taking over from me and you’ve got lots to learn.”
There never was time for me to be free like them. The work was never-ending. If I were to be master one day I had to prove my worth. And I did: I wouldn’t allow either freeman or slave to outdo me, whether with spade or plough or sickle or axe. And Pa’s obvious satisfaction came as balsam to me. Especially when I could please him as a hunter; it was the one thing I could do almost without effort; handling a gun was natural to me. But even that could not completely stifle the urge I sometimes felt to break out and simply enjoy myself or muck about. Just once in a while. But it was denied me. “Come on, Barend. You’re my first-born. You must set an example on the farm.”
I remained wary of Nicolaas. He could be difficult to handle, moody and secretive, often eager to ingratiate himself, but always ready, the moment one’s back was turned, to turn against one or split to Pa or Ma. With Galant, at least, one knew where one stood. He would never split. But he always was a cheeky little shit. Even in those days I felt Pa was treating him much too leniently, more amused it seemed than annoyed by Galant’s mischief. Admittedly, he was impressed by Galant’s alertness, his adroitness at almost anything he applied himself to: but at the same time he was getting out of hand. A slave should be kept on a short leash right from the beginning, otherwise there’s trouble. I especially disapproved of his thickness with Nicolaas. That was taking things too far. Playmates, all right; but one should keep one’s distance and they wouldn’t. I tried to keep it in check, believing that in the long run it would be to Galant’s own benefit, but I was thwarted all the time and Pa turned a deaf ear and a blind eye. So I had to resign myself to it; one couldn’t risk provoking Pa too much.
Why dwell on these days at all? What use to dig into a dry anthill? Looking back now I have the impression of being wholly absent from our childhood. They were there: not I. In later years, on family visits on Sundays, Nicolaas would often say: Do you remember this?—Do you remember that? But it was theirs, not mine. Why flaunt such memories anyway? Perhaps for them there was pleasure in it. But I: I was never allowed to be a child; there was never time for that. And it is too late for regrets now. Life has always kept something from me, but why kick against the pricks? It’s long past. One learns to seal up one’s heart and carry on.
Only Hester was, in a sense, different. She didn’t bother me in the same way as Nicolaas or Galant. Yet from the beginning I found her difficult to understand. She was like a small animal, a lovely furry creature one wanted to cuddle or protect, but which snarled and bit when one came too close. In the first spring after she’d come to live with us I brought her a castaway lamb from the veld. “What do you expect me to do with it?” she asked disdainfully. Her reaction unsettled me. She pretended to ignore the lamb; but I soon discovered that when she thought she was alone she would delightedly frisk and play with it or cuddle it against her. Once I stood behind the baking oven watching her for a long time. There was no one else in the yard, so there was no reason for her to be ashamed or shy. But when at last I came out and called her, she jumped up and angrily pushed the lamb away from her. “What are you spying on me for?” she hissed at me. “I saw you playing with it,” I said as soothingly as I could: “So you do like it after all?” She stamped her foot: “No, I don’t. I can’t stand it.” “But I saw you cuddling it,” I said. “You even kissed it.” “That’s a lie!” she shouted, attacking me with her angry little fists. “Why, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I said. “Everybody likes little lambs.” “I don’t want the damn thing!” she cried.
I decided to test her. “All right,” I said. “Then I suppose you won’t mind if we slaughter it?” I hadn’t for a moment meant to do it. I only wanted her to admit that she liked the lamb I’d given her. But I’d never seen anyone so stubborn.
“Slaughter it if you will,” she said. Her face was as white as death, but that was what she said.
“Won’t you understand reason?” I was almost pleading.
“There’s nothing to understand. Kill it if you want to. I don’t care.”
I took out my pocket-knife, hoping that would intimidate her. But she stood her ground, her whole body rigid.
“You won’t really,” she said defiantly.
“You like the lamb, don’t you?”
“I don’t. You’re just trying to scare me.”
I honestly expected her to change her mind at the last moment. By that time I was already kneeling beside the lamb, holding it down on the ground, forcing back its thin white neck, the knife in my hand. “Well?” I said, “say you’re sorry. Say you want me to let it go.”
She was trembling as she stood there, but obstinately refused to say a word. I felt close to tears. But there was nothing else I could do without losing face; she would forever remember me as a coward. I had no choice but to kill the lamb.
Ma was furious when she found out. But I told her it was Hester who’d asked me to slaughter it.
“Hester?” she asked. “Is that true?”
“If he says so.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“Why should I care about a lamb?” she cried, then suddenly turned round and fled. I found her in the quince hedge afterwards, sobbing; but she didn’t see me and I made a detour to avoid her. There was something in her I would never come to grips with, something that both scared and challenged me.
Since then I would often find her alone somewhere and try to speak to her, but her only reaction would be to pull faces at me or put out her tongue, or even to spit at me. And if I grabbed her and wrenched her arm up behind her back, or pulled her hair, she would remain absolutely rigid and quiet, staring at me with those large black eyes as if to dare me, to see how far I would be prepared to go, just like that afternoon with the lamb. “Say Please!” I would demand. Or: “Say Baas!” But not once could she be forced into submission. Tears would spring into her eyes, her whole narrow face would be contorted with pain, but those lips .would remain pressed very tightly together. She might utter a moan, but she would never cry or plead. And in the end, invariably, it was I who had to let go and turn away. And honest to God, I never wanted to hurt her. She was a small, wild, vicious, beautiful little animal I wanted to possess. But her teeth were as sharp as the spikes of a thornbush.
Didn’t she understand? I never meant to bully her. I loved her. She is the only person I’ve ever loved or wanted. When I wanted something from Nicolaas or Galant I would ask for it and take it, with or without force, to show them who was baas. But with her it was altogether different. I didn’t want something from her: I wanted her. And when Nicolaas told me, that night, that she was going to marry him, it felt like life itself being taken away from me. There was only one desperate remedy. I couldn’t talk to her: she would simply laugh at me. The only po
ssibility was to tell Pa the matter was settled, and to take it from there. I knew only too well I was putting everything at stake. A single word from Hester would destroy all and leave me shamefully exposed. And then I swear I would have hanged myself.
She looked up when I spoke. I shall never forget the expression in her eyes across the table. She didn’t say a word. Nicolaas wouldn’t dare to; I knew I had nothing to fear from him. (He wasn’t even much upset. His only concern I think was to get a wife. Any woman would do. What other explanation could there possibly be for his marriage, less than a year later, to Cecilia du Plessis from Buffelsfontein, a girl so severely plain that no one would have looked at her twice, however considerable might have been her other qualities?) But I was waiting for her to protest. And when nothing happened it was the most devastating and exhilarating feeling I’d ever had.
Afterwards, I asked her: “Hester, do you mean you’ll really marry me?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
