Imaginings of Sand

by Andre Brink

The dénouement was quite unexpected. At the beginning of my MA year I was visited in the residence lounge by two stereotypes in sports jackets and Terylene trousers; and after some heavy-handed banter they came to the point. I was invited to keep tabs on certain fellow students and report regularly to the two nice gentlemen. It was all so crude that I could scarcely believe it. Rightly or wrongly, I saw Father’s hand in it. I’m afraid I laughed outright at their proposal. They dropped the bonhomie. ‘Think it over first,’ said the older of the two. ‘We don’t want an answer today. It’s entirely up to you.’ The briefest of pauses, before he added, ‘Of course others may be affected by your decision. Man called Jason Smith? Now I’m sure you wouldn’t like to cause your parents the disgrace of an immorality trial.’

  I refused to accord them the satisfaction of seeing me shaken.

  The visit had been like a tremor, a detonation, under water, that caused all kinds of long-discarded debris, and dead fish, to drift up to the surface. My first urge was to drive to Jason’s small square house in Belhar and warn him; but of course it would be foolish to expose him to any further risk. And it was as much for his sake as for mine that I took the decision – it did not even have to be taken, by that time it seemed ready-made within me – to leave the country.

  3

  I GET UP and take my breakfast things and Anna’s cup to the sink. The sun falling through the window draws a sharp line across the quarry-tiled floor. Ouma Kristina’s clock. She’s never worn a watch in her life; there used to be any number of clocks in the house, but although she would occasionally wind them up she never bothered to correct the hands, with the result that they – all fifteen or twenty or more of them – showed, and chimed, different hours. The only reliable timepiece was the sun sliding across the kitchen floor; and she could tell, within a margin of ten minutes or so, the exact hour by just glancing at the joint it had reached (allowing, of course, for the time of the year, which made it quite a complicated calculation). On the rare overcast days she was stranded, but that was neither here nor there; mere mathematics has never concerned her much.

  ‘Would you like to go to town?’ Anna asks.

  ‘Do you have time?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s Saturday. I thought it would make a good excuse to get away from the children for a morning.’

  ‘Good,’ I say approvingly.

  But before we can proceed there is a hectic invasion of the yard outside, accompanied by a cacophony of bird sounds. We reach the kitchen door in time to see a yellow police van pulling up, followed by five or six other cars in a swirl of red dust. The open windows all bristle with guns so that the procession resembles a cohort of outsized mobile porcupines. As soon as the escorting vehicles come to a standstill the doors swing open and amid a racket of shouting male voices at least twenty armed men in blue fatigues come tumbling out to form an irregular circle around the van. From the front of the van two policemen in uniform emerge, run round to the back, pistols drawn, unlock and unlatch the doors and jump back in anticipation, like the trainers of dangerous predators in some circus act.

  There is a chorus of orders shouted at full blast – ‘Move it! Move it! Move it!’ – while some of the escort drum on the sides of the van with the butts of their rifles or the reinforced toes of their huge boots. Expecting at least a pride of lions or tigers, if not an elephant, to come charging from the open door, I approach a few curious steps. Becoming aware of a female presence the display of male power rises to a near-hysterical pitch. Then, from the back of the van, four dishevelled figures dribble to the ground. Around them the dust begins to settle. A hush falls upon the military assembly. In the background the prostestations of the birds subside.

  One of the two uniformed men, presumably the commanding officer, judging from his corsage of pips, clicks his heels together and makes a movement with his right hand (still clutching the pistol) as if to announce, ‘Voilà!’

  Their quarry, their insignificant bodies huddled together in fear, turn out to be a bunch of teenagers, the youngest looking barely twelve, a boy with bony knees and elbows. The handcuffs holding his too-big hands together appear exaggerated on those thin wrists. He has peed in his short khaki pants; his face is covered in tears and snot, streaked with dust, and from time to time his rib-cage is convulsed with a sob. All around the kids the men still stand, their guns pointing inward.

  It takes a while for me to tease some sense out of the scene. They are all, clearly, awaiting my reaction, like boys anticipating parental approval of some quite extraordinary feat.

  ‘What the fuck is going on here?’ I manage to ask at last.

  The officer, taken aback, opens his mouth; but all he can do in the end is just to point. Behind me, Anna is uttering a barely audible, warning sound, but I pay no attention.

  ‘Well?’ I ask. ‘Corporal, or General, or whatever you are – what in God’s name is all this?’

  ‘Miss,’ he says, ‘we’ve caught them.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  He stares at me as if I’m soft in the head. ‘It’s them,’ he says. ‘They’re the ones who set fire to this place, man.’

  It is my turn to stare.

  ‘But I thought – people said – they were supposed to be disaffected MK soldiers or something?’

  ‘Let me tell you, they’re never too young to join, Miss,’ he says. ‘I mean, at the end of the day it’s the young ones what’s the worst.’ Without warning, even without turning his head, he lashes out with his left hand to give the nearest prisoner, the stick-like boy, a cuff to the side of the head that sends him sprawling, with a shrill cry like a girl.

  ‘Get up!’ orders the officer and I see him positioning himself for a kick at goal. (One of my first boyfriends at Stellenbosch played flyhalf.)

  ‘Stop that!’ I shout, using all the lung capacity I’ve inherited from my operatic mother.

  He gapes at me in disbelief. Even the boy has stopped moaning in mid-sniff.

  ‘But these are they!’ reiterates the officer, gesturing helplessly. ‘Don’t you understand?’

  ‘They’re just a bunch of kids.’

  There is a muted rumbling among the assembled men.

  ‘But I told you –!’ A tone of triumph creeps into the officer’s voice. ‘They already confessed.’ He turns to the tallest boy and bellows at him, ‘Hey, Georgie boy?’

  The youngster mumbles something incoherent. His mouth, I discover, is swollen so badly that he has difficulty speaking.

  ‘You hear?’ asks the officer. ‘They sang like canaries, I tell you.’

  ‘But why would they have set fire to this place?’

  ‘For the hell of it. Because they felt like it. Because they had nothing else to do.’ He looks at me, exultant. Then turns towards his men. ‘Okay, boys, take them round to the front.’ And looking over his shoulder he says laconically, as if I’m a child to whom everything has to be explained, ‘We just brought them round for a final check.’ And in a louder voice again, to his cohorts, ‘Move it!’

  I turn to Anna. ‘You coming?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head, supporting herself against the door frame. Behind her I see Trui’s bright red doek appearing, and further back, in shadow, Jonnie.

  The officer appears surprised, even discomfited, when I fall in beside him. We go round the house to the devastated stoep on which the gutted window frames still stare like gouged-out eyes.

  ‘It’s really not necessary, Miss,’ he says officiously.

  ‘What has happened is bad enough,’ I tell him curtly. ‘I want to make sure that nothing untoward goes on.’

  ‘The old lady was nearly killed,’ he says, a touch of annoyance now creeping into his voice.

  ‘She’s my grandmother,’ I say.

  ‘Well.’ He smiles conspiratorially. ‘Then you’ll understand.’

  ‘I don’t understand how these boys come to look the way they do.’

  ‘When it’s life or death one can’t always wear gloves, Miss. I’m sorry.
It’s not that we like it or anything. But we’ve got a job to do.’ Adding pointedly, ‘So you can sleep safe in your bed at night.’

  ‘I’ll sleep a lot better if I know they’re safe.’

  ‘Look,’ he says suddenly, ‘what’s your case? Are you now blaming us for catching a band of terrorists?’

  ‘A band of terrorists?’ I feel a very rigid smile on my lips as I motion with my head towards the four boys surrounded by the squad.

  ‘You obviously don’t know these types. Let me tell you –’

  ‘No,’ I stop him short. ‘Let me tell you: I’m going to arrange for a check on these kids. And if anything more happens to them – you understand me? – if anything more happens to them, you’re going to end up where they are now.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ There is a hint of real amusement in his eyes. (Perhaps, it occurs to me, he is really a very nice man. Probably an excellent father. All fun and games.) ‘You are going to arrange –?’

  I feel my throat contract. But I say, ‘Yes. Because a week from now there’s going to be a new government in this country. You won’t be calling the shots any more. And I happen to have contacts.’

  His blue eyes narrow as he gazes at me, hoping, I’m sure, he can call my bluff.

  ‘I’m in the ANC,’ I say in a straight voice. ‘I’ll be speaking to their representatives within the next few days.’

  Now he seems totally at a loss. ‘But aren’t you an Afrikaner?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand.’

  ‘There’s a lot of understanding you’ll have to do in the next week,’ I tell him. ‘And you’d better start right away.’

  It is fascinating to see his features change. So far, he has been at times condescending, or annoyed, or irritated, having to deal with a woman’s inability to understand; but we were, he must have thought, on the same side. The look on his face changes from puzzlement, to suspicion, confusion. Now it becomes simple and precise, in a hatred as intense as a laser, almost exhilarating to watch, the kind of pure and focused emotion that can free a man to commit the worst excess.

  ‘They burnt this house,’ he says softly.

  I walk into the circle of men. My legs are unsteady, but if there’s one thing I can do it is to keep up a front; we learn that from childhood.

  ‘Listen to me,’ I address the four boys. ‘If anyone here’ – I make a slow sweeping gesture – ‘anyone, no matter who, if anyone hurts you, I’ll be around to check up.’ I look past the men at the officer. ‘And there will be hell to pay.’

  The laser beams back at me.

  I try to round it off with an exit, stage centre, worthy of my mother; but discover too late that, of course, the charred front door has been boarded up. No way out in this direction. So I pretend that this has been my intention all along, and I turn back to face them, from my elevated position on the stoep, crossing my arms on my chest to control their trembling; and, legs astride, Wonder Woman, I stand there in silence until the squad turns away and trundles round the side of the ruined house. Moments later there is a battery of car doors slamming, followed by engines revving and, as they say, roaring into action. Soon the cortège comes driving past again, following the contour of the front lawn, past the rose garden and the trees, and off along the farm road to the ostentatious palace gates. The dust takes a long time to settle.

  4

  ANNA AND I follow the same road, half an hour later.

  ‘They were trying to do their job,’ she said over the cup of tea we felt obliged to drink after the commotion had subsided.

  ‘Their job isn’t beating the shit out of kids.’

  ‘Their job is to catch the people who killed Ouma.’

  ‘She’s not dead.’

  ‘Not yet. But they killed her. Whether they’re twelve years old, or twenty, or fifty.’

  ‘Who are you trying to convince?’

  ‘You don’t know these people, Kristien. They may be kids in terms of years. But they grew up in the streets. They’re the generation that shouted First liberation, then education. Violence is their only language. They don’t understand any other. Just look at this place, look at what they’ve done.’ She took another sip. ‘You’ve been away for too long. I’ve told you before: you don’t have the faintest idea of what’s going on here. It’s no use trying to be a goody-goody-gumdrops bleeding-heart liberal. This is for real, Sis.’

  ‘I’m for real too,’ I said, feeling sick.

  She smiled, commiserating, condescending; and put down her cup. ‘Well, shall we go?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I thought we were going to town?’

  ‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I have to get my bag and some stuff I need for the bank. Will you wait for me in the car? I won’t be a minute.’

  I wasn’t. I had to go and wash my face in cold water. I dropped in on Ouma, but she was still asleep. Beside the bed sat the gawky nurse like a many-limbed insect, preying on her magazine. I gathered my things, fobbing off Trui who was clearly preparing for a discussion. (‘We’ll talk later, I promise, okay?’) From the kitchen window I made sure that Anna was in her bakkie under the pepper tree. In the distance I could make out Jonnie, still hovering. I turned back into the darker recesses of the tumbling palace and hurried down the stairs to the basement.

  Jacob Bonthuys was still sitting where I’d last seen him, yesterday, staring at me in a daze, unsurprised, resigned. He looked older than before. I stood with my back against the door.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Who was here?’

  ‘The police.’

  He stood up, backing away.

  ‘They were not looking for you, Mr Bonthuys. They said they’d caught the people who bombed the house. That means you’re safe now.’

  He looked at me warily. ‘Miss isn’t just saying so?’

  ‘No. I’m sure. You can stay here for as long as you wish.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss,’ he said. ‘The Lord will bless Miss.’

  ‘Leave the Lord out of it,’ I said in a huff, then checked myself. ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘No, Miss. Trui already brought me breakfast, early, early.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like something to read?’

  He looked down, embarrassed. It suddenly occurred to me that he might not be able to read. If so, it was too late to backtrack now. For a moment I reproached myself. When would I learn to think before I plunged in? But then he said, ‘If Miss could bring me something by Langenhoven? There’s a book called Loeloeraai.’

  I mumbled a response. What on earth could interest him in the writing of a staunch old Afrikaner patriot? Ask no questions, I decided; and left.

  ‘Where were you so long?’ asked Anna when I finally moved in beside her; she sounded more resigned than annoyed.

  ‘Just did a check on Ouma.’ I was still trying to organise my thoughts. ‘Incidentally, is there a bookshop in town?’

  ‘There’s CNA.’

  ‘Would they have Langenhoven?’

  She glanced at me and shrugged. We drove through the gates; Anna waved at the guard on duty, I stared straight ahead.

  We are driving along the farm road. There is no wind, and some dust churned up by the police cortège still hovers in the air, prickling the mucous membranes.

  I remember the last time I visited the farm before I went abroad. I tell Anna about it. I couldn’t leave without talking to Ouma first.

  She just smiled. ‘Did you come to ask me, or to tell me?’

  ‘I think – to tell you.’

  ‘Then you must do it.’

  ‘But suppose it turns out badly?’

  ‘Anything can turn out badly. It’s the plunge that’s important.’ Ouma had a way of infusing clichés with conviction, every word weighted with her own experience.

  On the last afternoon I walked along this road, for hours, blindly. Ouma’s territory. Mine, by adoption, appropriation. At some stage I reached a fe
nce. I hesitated, but not for long; then climbed through – a small bright blue patch from my dress got caught on a barb and remained behind to signal the transgression – and stalked on. There was something unexpectedly profound about the experience: reaching the limit of the farm, the edge of the familiar, of the permissible – the neighbour was reputed to be an irascible old bastard who shot on sight – and to discover it was not the end of the world, The limit of one space was simply the beginning of another; it was possible to go beyond. I knew then, yes, that I should go. I would leave the margin and move into another territory. Its name was history. The sweet presumptions of youth, if no longer of innocence.

  5

  FOR THE FIRST few months in London I was on a high. I was driven by the compulsion to ‘make it work’, to ‘show them’, to get involved – as I had so recklessly presumed – in history, above all to prove to myself that I could succeed. I was eager to burn as many bridges as possible. While they existed turning back, the past itself, remained an option; and that I did not want. I first landed in Earls Court, but the vibe was bad: too many South Africans, the wrong kind. Following some recommendations and introductions I’d brought with me, I drifted down to Stockwell, then picked up, or was picked up by, a compatriot in exile, a louche attorney who later turned out to be no more than a second-hand confidence trickster, and moved to North London. I’d had no compunction, before I left, about selling the small car Father had given me for my twenty-first and which I’d accepted with bad grace; so I had some money to see me through the first months. But I needed to find a job, both for the money and the independence; and because hanging around and doing nothing would kill me.

  Through some of my UDF contacts I met ANC exiles, and people from Anti-apartheid and Amnesty International. That meant odd, and mostly illegal, jobs here and there, making posters, organising gatherings, writing pieces for various small papers, even acting as editing assistant for a couple of low-budget Third World documentaries. But there was little security in these ventures and in spite of a measure of protection offered by Anti-apartheid, and some sympathy from the GLC, one knew all the time that the Thatcher government, in cahoots as it was with the regime in South Africa, did not take a kind view of aliens in my situation. I had to place my presence on a more secure base. To start with, I needed better – more acceptable – qualifications for a career. And once I became more reassured about the very basic and physical aspects of survival I registered for an education diploma. Not exactly an inspiring or enriching experience, but I attended lectures with commendable dedication.