by Andre Brink
I bundle the serviettes back into their musty hollow, replacing mine on top; tomorrow I’ll use it.
For a long time, trying to sort out my feelings, I remain sitting in front of the sideboard, before I finally close the heavy door again, change my grip on the handle of the torch, and return to the passage and the gracious curve of the staircase. A few steps up I suddenly stop dead. There is a sound somewhere. Bird or beast? It is undoubtedly human. A moan. Ouma must be in pain. Only, when I reach the first landing, I realise it is not coming from her room but from the opposite side, the damaged wing.
Now I feel fear.
The telephone, the radio, the guns are in her room. But instead of doing the obvious and reasonable thing I find myself, as so often in my life, turning perversely towards the danger, if danger it is. Soundlessly, on my bare feet, I move across the landing. The torch casts a narrow beam into the darkness ahead. Something moves. A man emerges from an open door. He looks at me. He has a knife in his hand. There is dried blood on his face. It is like that man who came for Father, long ago. A ghost? But he seems all too real.
I must deal with this. I am a big girl now.
TWO
The House of Usher
1
THIS, ALWAYS, IN Ouma Kristina’s stories: the impossible escapes. The classical scene of the heroine – Ouma had little interest in heroes – finding herself at the edge of the precipice, the foaming river with crocodiles below, the enemy closing in from behind. ‘And then, Ouma? And then –?’ ‘I don’t know. Let’s see if we can think of something by tomorrow night.’ My own eager solutions would invariably involve the deus ex machina in its multifarious possibilities: a helicopter, the discovery of a subterranean passage under a flat rock, a crocodile that turns out to be a submarine, a powerful friend in disguise among the host of enemies. When Ouma was in a mischievous mood she would resolve it by saying, ‘And then an elephant came and blew the story away.’ But usually she disdainfully refused external intervention. That was part of the game. ‘No help from outside, lovey. She’s got to do it on her own.’ In the end, exasperated, I would give up. ‘Now what then, Ouma?’ And triumphantly, but calmly, without the flicker of an eyelid, Ouma Kristina would proffer some variation on the immemorial formula: ‘With one mighty bound she leaped free.’ Leaving me, in spite of indignation and disappointment, with a strange sense of reassurance after all.
This time I find myself saying, ‘Stay where you are. Don’t move. Don’t you dare use that thing.’ And instantly, as if it were a magic incantation, help arrives. In the form of an owl. Two owls. They appear, whooping, from the cavern of the stairwell and sweep down on the unfortunate man who, terrified, and desperately trying to hide his face from their flailing wings and clawing talons, drops the knife and crouches down. I pick up the knife. As if that is what they have been waiting for, the great birds hurl themselves into the dark again. Perhaps they have never been there at all. The man still cowers in front of me, moaning in fear or pain or both. One shoulder is drooping, the arm held close to his body, and as I now have time to study him more closely I can see that there is a lot of blood on his shirt.
‘It’s all right,’ I say, shaking my head at the unreality of the scene, the weirdness of my own behaviour. (How can I be so calm? I’ve never been the cool and collected type.) ‘They’re gone now.’
He goes on whimpering, his usable arm over his head.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
‘I’m sorry, Madam, I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was people here. I just wanted a place to stay.’
‘What has happened to you?’
‘I’m sorry, Madam. I’ll go now.’
‘You can’t go away in this state. Tell me what happened?’
‘They shot me, Madam.’
‘Who shot you? Where?’
‘At Mr Joubert’s farm, Madam. Sunday night. We went there to drop off a friend of ours who works on the farm with me, Madam. Then a lot of farmers chased us in their bakkies and made a roadblock, and we drove off into the veld, and they shot at us, and they hit me up here in the arm, but we got away. I’m sorry, but the pain is very bad now, Madam.’
Casper’s fun and games. The man may be lying, but I am, perhaps perversely, inclined to believe his story. He is elderly and pathetic, undoubtedly harmless, and I feel foolish for having been so frightened in the first place.
‘What happened to the others?’
He makes a gesture that may mean anything.
‘Is Madam going to phone the police now?’
‘Of course not.’ I hand him the knife. ‘Put away this thing before someone gets hurt. Let’s see what we can do.’
Trui, I think, in a surge of relief. She’ll know what to do. Yet even as I go down the passage towards the room where she and Jeremiah have bedded down, I feel a guilty turn in my stomach. Am I already falling into the South African trap of assuming that simply because Trui is there, she is automatically available to be called upon? I try to persuade myself that I’m appealing to her as a woman, as a mother figure, as a wise and practical person, not as a servant; but when I tiptoe into the room and look down on the two bodies under the grey blanket, set out like bread-dough to rise overnight, the feeling of guilt quickens to a stab. The meekness, the docility of the long-suffering serf. But the word serf does not say what I mean. The Afrikaans lyfeiene goes to the heart of it: an ‘owned-body’. Always there, to be used, to be disposed of at will.
‘Miss Kristien?’ Trui sits up, rubbing her eyes. She has awakened on her own. Ready to be of service. No need to blame myself.
Together – I still in my clothes, Trui with Anna’s dressing gown over the white petticoat in which she has been sleeping – we examine the stranger’s arm in the bathroom. Trui is suspicious about the whole business, I can see; but I try to avoid a discussion by concentrating on the wound. It looks ugly, angry, inflamed; we have to cut away the shirt. He flinches when we wash the arm in lukewarm water, but meekly submits to our nursing as we apply disinfectant filched from the vast supply upstairs, and pat it dry.
‘What do you think, Trui?’ I ask her as we start wrapping the arm in Betadine bandages also retrieved from Ouma’s room. I round off the ministrations with a morphine injection, following closely the instructions given me by the doctor. At the very least this is good practice.
‘Looks worse than it is, Miss Kristien. It’s just the flesh. I think the bone is all right. What happened then?’
‘An accident,’ I say hurriedly. No need to explain further. She may be less credulous than I. News of the shooting is all over the district, and I cannot be sure which version she has heard. If she gets it into her head that this man is a terrorist we may be in for more trouble than I can face right now.
‘Like how?’ Trui persists.
‘They were hunting. He got in the way.’
‘You know him?’
‘I know about him. Anna told me.’
She hesitates, clearly unconvinced, but doubtful about countering me.
‘Please, Trui,’ I change my tactic. ‘I need you. We have two patients now and I can’t do it on my own.’
‘Where we going to keep him?’ she asks. She is still resentful but her resistance has caved in.
‘In the basement. No one will think of looking for him there.’
‘Why must they not find him?’ she asks pointedly.
I have a sudden inspiration. ‘Casper doesn’t like him. You know how difficult he can be. If we women don’t stand together –’
The shadow of an understanding smile on her wizened face. ‘I’ll go and make him a bed down there.’
‘No, I’ll see to him. You sit with Ouma for a while.’
‘May one ask what his name is?’ she says as we go out.
‘Jacob,’ the man answers meekly. ‘Jacob Bonthuys.’
‘You behave yourself, Jacob Bonthuys,’ says Trui. ‘It’s decent people that live here.’
2
CASPER ARRIVES AT
first light. I am in the chair next to Ouma’s bed. I have turned down the intrusive CB radio and, after a loud and aggravating check-up call at some ungodly hour, unplugged the telephone; and in the silence, broken only by the old woman’s uneven breathing, I must have drifted off. I am awakened, first, by the furious cackling of the geese unleashing a flood of memories: our excursions among their aggressive flappings and rushings with outstretched wings and beaks, to plunder nests; cavortings in the pond; convoys of yellow goslings bobbing on the dark green water; the squelchiness of goose shit between one’s toes, its unique colour, which with childish ingenuity we used to call ‘shreen’. The cackling is followed by an eruption of other bird sounds. And seconds later I hear the approaching drone of the Land Cruiser, coming as usual to an absurdly demonstrative screeching halt on the gravel in front of the house.
Even before I am fully awake I am already on my feet and thrusting my arms into a gown, running downstairs, conscious only of the need to keep Casper from discovering our lodger. Down in the basement I find a bewildered Jacob Bonthuys pressed against a wall.
‘Who’s out there?’ he asks.
‘Visitors,’ I tell him. ‘Just stay here. Don’t make a sound. They’ll go away again.’
‘They come for me.’
‘No, Mr Bonthuys. Nobody knows about you. Nobody will find out if you keep quiet. Okay?’
Upstairs, in a passage, I can hear Casper’s loud voice calling. ‘Kristien! Kristien, are you all right? Where the hell are you?’
Swiftly, silently, I run up the basement stairs again and close the door behind me, remembering briefly my early encounter with him in this place. Then, following the sound of his voice, I return upstairs. Outside Ouma Kristina’s door I say behind him, ‘Casper! What is all this fuss about?’
He swings round. He has a rifle in his hands. There is uncomplicated fear in his eyes.
‘Jesus, Kristien. You shouldn’t creep up behind me like that. I could have –’
‘Has anything happened?’
‘No. But we were dead worried about you. Why didn’t you call us?’
‘There was no reason to.’
‘But I told you – every hour – and we’ve been calling you since five, but you never answered.’
‘I unplugged the telephone after you woke us up at two or three or whatever time it was. And I’ve turned down the radio. It was making too much noise. Ouma needs her sleep.’ And I pointedly add, ‘So do I.’
‘But dammit, don’t you realise –’
‘No. You are the one who doesn’t realise that I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. There are guards at the gate. And if anything goes wrong, which I doubt, I can call for help. Unless you start behaving like a grownup I’ll tell the guards to keep you out.’
‘Now come on,’ he cajoles, in a predictable change of approach. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me some coffee?’
‘You can make some in the kitchen. I’m getting dressed first.’
‘You look good as you are, Kristien.’
‘I’ll look even better once I’ve washed my face.’
His eyes wander over my body like two tourists checking landmarks, pleased at finding everything exactly where the guide-book said. ‘Shall I wait for you downstairs then?’ He winks.
‘You may have to wait a long time. I have a lot to do.’
‘Kristien.’ Now he’s stung again, and deadly serious, and I suppose dangerous, ‘Why are you so vicious with me? What have you got against me?’
‘You really don’t know?’
‘You’re blaming me because Anna – well, because she isn’t what she used to be. Is that it?’
‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that, Casper,’ I say. ‘Of course I’m sad about Anna, but she’s not my responsibility. She’s the one who’s got to sort it out, not me.’
His face is very close to mine now; I can feel his breath. It is stale. ‘You sure you’re not jealous?’
‘Jealous?’ I ask, amazed. ‘What on earth of?’
‘From the first day,’ he says, ‘you couldn’t stand it that Anna was the woman I married.’
‘Thanks for telling me.’
‘Now, Kristien –’
‘What I have against you has nothing to do with sex, Casper. In fact, I’m sure you’re a lousy lover.’
‘Is that what Anna told you?’ he asks aggressively.
‘There was no need for her to tell me. She’s too loyal, anyway. But that’s not even the point, Casper, What gets me is your pathetic need to prove yourself.’
‘Look, my girlie, I can show you a thing or two –’
‘You already have, Casper. Have you forgotten? But I’m afraid I’ve seen better than that since then.’
‘Cow!’
How unoriginal, I think; and I suppose he can read it on my face, judging from the way he turns round and stomps down the stairs. I wait on the landing until I hear his footsteps crunching on the gravel outside, and the car door slamming, the engine revving. Then I go back into Ouma Kristina’s room, but she is still, thank God, asleep – although it takes an anxious minute to establish that she is indeed breathing.
From my room next door I collect my clothes and go to the bathroom. The cold water of the shower makes me gasp, but I throw my head back and abandon myself to the spray, washing the brief pungent memory of Casper right out of me. I work up a lather and rinse myself energetically. And slowly I draw reassurance from this abandon, a sense of rediscovery, of being restored to myself, as if my body is shaped and moulded anew by the stream that washes over me, whole, intact and vigorous and alive. In water I acknowledge myself. This is me.
3
OUMA KRISTINA IS awake, and in pain, when I return to her. Trui is trying to comfort her. Working from the notes I made of the doctor’s instructions yesterday, I change the drip, and between the two of us we do our best to ease the pain; she is very brave, hardly utters a sound, but it is clear that she is in agony. Even overnight the frail body seems to have wasted away further, seared by suffering. Though her eyes are open and she watches us she seems very far away, beyond our reach. I’m beginning to reproach myself for obeying her and bringing her home. I’ve never been able to endure the pain of others; running away from wounded birds or animals, a cousin’s severed toenail, Anna’s cupped hands filled with blood after a fall on broken glass, the man with the bleeding face who came to see Father; I passed out once when we found an ostrich with its neck caught in a fence, contorted, its beautiful large eyes panic-stricken, dying.
But fortunately the day-nurse, an active gawky praying mantis all knees and elbows, arrives on time, at eight, and after changing the bandages – which is almost more than I can watch – her syringe brings ease and drowsiness.
Before she drifts away Ouma beckons me weakly. I bring my ear close to her sunken mouth. ‘Today we must start working,’ she whispers resolutely.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I say, merely to soothe her, for her mind must surely be wandering as she slides across the threshold of sleep.
‘I’m serious,’ she says, with a surprising mustering of energy.
‘What work, Ouma?’
‘I have a lot to tell you. You must write it all down before I go. You have a notebook?’
‘No, Ouma, but –’
‘Then go get one. Soon. This afternoon we’ll …’ Her voice trails off.
‘There will be enough time later.’
‘No. It’s running out. And it’s my testament.’
‘But Anna told me you already have a testament.’
‘This is another kind. And it’s important.’
‘Will you be all right if I go now?’
‘Yes. Just leave the window open for the birds.’
She relaxes into sleep; her mouth falls open. The face I know so well becomes a stranger’s face. It is horrible. It is also fascinating, and I find it hard to turn away.
‘She’ll be okay, Miss,’ says the nurse. She scuttles in ungainly insect
fashion this way and that before settling at last, to my immense relief, into the armchair beside the bed and takes a garish magazine from her large bag.
In the kitchen I find Trui at breakfast – mugs of coffee, thick slices of bread and apricot jam – with Jeremiah and their son Jonnie. The father scrambles rheumatically to his feet. The son just glowers at me, but has his hands on the edge of the table, ready, it seems, to scamper off, or perhaps to rise and shout abuse.
‘Please sit down,’ I tell Jeremiah.
He remains standing awkwardly.
I put on the kettle and cut a single slice of bread; we brought some basic provisions yesterday. When the water boils I make a cup of instant coffee and pull out a chair next to Trui. ‘Mind if I join you?’
She laughs nervously; the men stare at me, Jeremiah bewildered, Jonnie with suspicion and resentment.
‘Please sit down,’ I say once again.
But he just grins blankly and mumbles something about having finished anyway, and then Trui gathers both his plate and hers and gets up too and goes to the sink.
Embarrassed, I try to invent conversation, which just makes matters worse. ‘Are you looking forward to the elections, Jeremiah?’
‘I don’t know, Missus.’
Jonnie snorts. He doesn’t look up.
‘I’m sure life will be different after next week,’ I persist awkwardly. ‘There will be a new government.’
‘We’ll still be taking orders, Missus.’
‘But it will be a different kind of government.’
He shakes his head, clearly unconvinced. ‘We’ll just see, Missus.’
‘Please –’ But what’s the use?
Jonnie goes on stuffing bread into his mouth and gulping down coffee, head down, scowling.
‘Jonnie,’ I say, pronouncing his name the proper, English, way, which may or may not be a mistake, ‘have you finished school?’
He merely grunts, but Trui answers on his behalf, ‘He finished, Miss Kristien, two years ago already, and he got good marks too, but now there’s no jobs.’
