Imaginings of Sand

by Andre Brink

  ‘Yes, Anna.’ A wiry arm reaches past my shoulder. There is an uneasy pause before she accepts his hand. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

  ‘My sister, Kristien,’ she says in a flat voice. ‘Just arrived from London.’

  ‘I can see that.’ He turns two keen blue eyes to me. His dark hair, cropped short, is turning grizzly. He offers me a hard hand. ‘You need sun. You look like something that’s been living under a wheelbarrow.’ A nod, a bright grin. ‘Abel Joubert.’

  For a moment I search my memory, then find the name, superimposed on Casper’s disapproving face. ‘It’s on your farm that the shooting took place.’

  ‘Ja.’ He pulls out a chair. ‘Mind if I sit down for a moment?’

  I can see Anna urgently trying to mouth something at me, but he is already seated, sideways, at the narrow end of the table.

  ‘Would you like to order something?’ I ask.

  ‘No thanks. I’m supposed to meet my wife. She should be here any minute.’ He looks quizzically at me with those frank blue eyes. ‘Come for the elections?’

  ‘No. My grandmother –’

  ‘Of course.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m so sorry. We were all shocked. What an awful thing to have happened. How is she?’

  ‘I didn’t think you would care,’ says Anna crisply without looking up from her scone.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Because she’s white,’

  He looks at her in genuine surprise. ‘Why should that make a difference?’

  ‘Because you always blame us for everything, don’t you? So when something like this happens you say that’s what we deserve, we’ve been asking for it. While no one with a black skin can do anything wrong.’

  ‘Now wait a minute.’ He smiles, but I notice a tightness round his jaws. ‘I don’t think it’s quite so simple. What we need is to start seeing more than just black and white.’

  ‘This is South Africa,’ she reminds him.

  ‘All the more reason for breaking the stereotypes. The country is no longer what it used to be.’

  ‘A change for the worse.’

  ‘No, I don’t agree. We’ve been going through a very bad patch, I know. So much violence. Everybody has been jittery. But don’t let that fool you. The moment the elections are behind us –’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to go.’ She pushes back her chair very suddenly and gets up, casting me a meaningful look. ‘You coming?’

  But I won’t be manipulated like this. ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ I say, pointing at my tea. ‘You go and finish what you have to do. I’ll be here.’

  ‘Well, suit yourself.’ She strides out, head high.

  ‘I’m frightfully sorry,’ says Abel, half-rising. ‘If you want to go –’

  ‘I want to finish my tea.’ I fill up the cup. ‘Don’t mind Anna. She’s on edge.’ I try my best to be fair. ‘Not entirely without reason.’

  ‘It can’t be easy to be married to Casper.’

  I shrug, non-committal, family loyalty briefly balanced against frankness. Then, true to form, I barge in, what the hell. ‘It’s people like him who’re threatening to derail the whole process.’

  ‘Don’t overestimate them.’

  ‘What do you mean? Haven’t you seen them swaggering about with their guns and holsters and walkie-talkies?’

  ‘I know. I’ve had my own problems with them.’

  ‘Of course.’ I feel a fool. ‘That shoot-out … It wouldn’t have taken much for them to have killed you too. And after next week, if they really get trigger-happy?’

  ‘Sound and fury.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself.’

  ‘I’m an Afrikaner too, remember. I can understand the despair they’re feeling, faced as they are with something they’ve never thought possible, not in their worst nightmares. But once they discover it’s not the end of the world and they can go on living, living and partly living, they’ll settle down and become good solid citizens again.’

  ‘You’re very sure of yourself.’

  ‘I’m just trying to read what’s happening. Why do you think people like Casper are in such a frenzy? It’s fear. They’re scared of losing what they’ve got. And what is that? Not just their possessions, their comforts, their privileges. Deep down it’s this place. It’s Africa. There’s nowhere else they can go to. This is where they most urgently want to be. And as soon as they discover that the only way that can happen is to accept majority rule they’ll be ready to shake hands. Especially if they realise that what they regard as “the other side”, the blacks, have exactly the same feelings about the same country. We all love it. So let’s start sharing instead of fighting.’

  ‘You’re an optimist. That may be dangerous in the present circumstances.’

  ‘I’d rather be an optimist in the wrong than a pessimist in the right.’

  ‘Where do you get that from?’

  ‘I’ve done my bit of travelling. Even thought at one stage I should settle in Canada.’ His smile reveals very white teeth against his tanned skin, stubbly with new beard. ‘But this is home-grown. For better or for worse.’

  ‘What were you doing in Canada?’

  ‘Travelling. Studying. Even got myself a job in Toronto. Then found out the obvious: that one never gets away. Same problems there. And I decided in that case I’d rather deal with them here. Also, I couldn’t stand the climate. We need the sun.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You too. Or am I presuming too much?’

  ‘You are. I’ve just come to – to see Ouma through this. Then I’m going back.’

  The good life?’

  ‘No!’ I am surprised by my own vehemence. ‘But –’ I push back my cup. ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  I decide to change the subject. ‘That shoot-out on your farm. Those people had nothing to do with the attack on my grandmother’s place.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘How could you be sure?’

  ‘I’ve known most of them for years.’

  ‘Jacob Bonthuys?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He was wounded.’

  ‘How do you know about him?’

  For a moment I feel trapped, but I keep my pose. ‘People talk.’

  ‘We’re all very concerned about him,’ he says. ‘After that night he just disappeared.’

  I weigh the evidence; but I cannot tell him the truth, not yet. It would betray a trust.

  ‘The police have made some arrests,’ I say, playing with my teaspoon.

  ‘I know. It was on the news.’

  ‘They brought them to the farm this morning.’ I look him in the eyes. ‘Four youngsters. Probably in their teens. The youngest cannot be more than twelve or so.’

  He looks at me in silence.

  ‘They were beaten up.’

  A muscle flickers in his left jaw.

  ‘We’ve got to do something about it,’ I insist.

  ‘There’s a good lawyer in town.’ He reflects. ‘He’s black. Sam Ndzuta. He’s also the local ANC chairman. Some people have tried to boycott him because of that, but he’s tough. Running battle with everybody in authority. But he’s good.’

  ‘I told them I’m in the ANC and I’d make sure someone would keep an eye. So now I’ve got to do something.’

  ‘Are you in the ANC?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ I offer him an apologetic smile. ‘I was. For years. In London. Then I – sort of lapsed. Like Christians do.’

  ‘You’re not a Christian?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes, I am. But right now that’s beside the point. You were talking about the ANC. They’re sending a delegation here on Monday.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘I know Mongane Yaya who’s leading the group. I’ve been involved in some negotiations with him over the last year or so. Land matters, resettlement programmes, things like that. If you wa
nt to I can arrange for you to see the delegation.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘In the meantime, that lawyer.’ He looks at his Seiko. ‘I could take you there if you want. He works on Saturdays. It’s just round the corner.’

  ‘You were waiting for your wife.’

  ‘I’ll tell the people at the counter.’

  Ten minutes later a sharp-faced white secretary waves us past a crowd of waiting people, all black, in a sparsely furnished waiting room into Sam Ndzuta’s office. I feel briefly offended by the blatant privilege accorded our whiteness; but it is soon evident that the priority treatment is based on friendship, not colour. Sam Ndzuta is a large avuncular man; his spectacular tie has been loosened around his bull-neck. There is much embracing and backslapping between him and Abel before he turns a benign if somewhat bloodshot eye in my direction; the African double handshake I offer him appears to amuse him hugely, which briefly gets my female hackles up. But there is so much irrepressible humour in the man that he is soon forgiven.

  ‘So what’s the trouble this time?’ he asks, waving us towards two rather worn easy chairs.

  I explain briefly. My account of the encounter with the police, which does not sound particularly amusing to me, causes him to double forward in mirth, practically wiping his face on his variously stained green blotter.

  ‘What are the chances of intimidating the police?’ I ask.

  ‘Normally zero.’ He is racked by another fit of laughter. ‘But right now they’re jittery. And the one thing they’re as scared as hell of is Monday’s visit. So I think you did exactly the right thing.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Only, don’t get too carried away, hey? Those kids did try to blow up the house. They’re capable of committing murder. It’s a desperate generation. But don’t worry, I’ll keep the pressure on.’ He leans forward. ‘So how come you have ANC connections?’

  I give him a very brief survey of my time in London.

  ‘Who did you work with?’

  ‘Is this an interrogation?’

  He finds this excessively funny and it takes a while before he answers, ‘No, my dear. I just thought we might have some friends in common.’

  ‘You also spent time there?’

  ‘On and off. Mostly clandestinely, for the UDF.’ He flashes his smile at me. ‘Did you know Johnny Mphahlele?’ This is only the beginning. Did you know – did you know – have you met – do you remember –? There is no one, it seems, he does not know one way or another.

  And then – prompted by what perversity? – I lean forward and ask, trying to keep my cool, ‘And Sandile Hlati?’

  ‘My God, Sandile! Saw him in Joh’burg last week.’

  ‘Last week?’ I repeat idiotically.

  ‘Sure. Had to go up for a case.’

  ‘Is he – well?’

  ‘He’s very well. Working like a madman. You know he’s been a big shot in the transitional council. Anyone else would have been exhausted, but he seems to thrive on deadlines. I love the man.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Has he caught something? Below the rollicking exterior I am becoming aware of a shrewdness which nothing escapes. ‘You knew him well?’ he asks.

  It takes a moment to compose myself and meet his eye. ‘I worked with him. Before he went to Washington.’

  ‘Of course. We must all get together.’

  ‘What’ – there is a dryness in my throat which I have to clear before I can continue – ‘what do you mean?’

  ‘I’m hoping he may come down with the delegation on Monday.’

  I look at him in consternation.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing.’ I shake my head but dare not face his disconcerting gaze. ‘Nothing at all. It would – it would be good to see him again.’

  ‘I may be phoning him tonight, in fact. Shall I tell him you’re here?’

  ‘No!’ I exclaim. Then recover, though it takes some effort. ‘Please don’t say a word.’ Realising that this might sound too intriguing I hastily add, ‘I’d prefer it to be a surprise. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ He gets up, a huge beaming presence behind the scuffed desk. ‘Well! We’ll be in touch then.’

  On the way back to the café Abel Joubert says, ‘This Sandile Hlati sounds like a special person.’

  I glance at him, but his face is neutral. ‘He is,’ I say demurely. ‘Or was. I haven’t seen him for the last five years.’

  Then how is it possible, I wonder, to feel so dizzy? It has all been over for a very long time. There is Michael. There is – well, everything. And being here, now, makes a difference. My life here has no link with that alternative existence over there. It is not only better that the twain should never meet, but unthinkable that they might.

  7

  ON THE WAY back, Anna is silent at first – a deep, crushing, offended silence, such as only she can muster, gathering it round her like an impenetrable kaross – but after a few minutes she asks, without turning her head, ‘I suppose you blame me for walking out on Abel?’

  This in itself is new; before, she would have withdrawn into a sulk that could last for days.

  I look at her through the large bunch of flowers I have bought in town. ‘Would you like to be blamed?’ I ask mischievously.

  ‘Of course not.’ In spite of herself, she laughs, a yellowish laugh. ‘But you didn’t approve, did you?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, we had such a good conversation that I didn’t think of blame or approval at all. I never expected to find a man like Abel in a place like this.’

  ‘Who do you expect in a place like this?’ A brief but heavy pause. ‘People like me and Casper?’

  I refuse to take the bait. ‘He doesn’t live in fear. He’s an optimist. At the same time he isn’t unrealistic. He has no chips on either shoulder.’

  ‘He’s just sucking up to the new rulers.’

  ‘Is that what you think? Or is it what Casper says?’

  ‘You really regard me as a very low form of life, don’t you?’ She says it lightly, but there is a catch in her voice.

  ‘Only when you’re playing the doormat,’ I retort. ‘Is that why you walked out? Was it really because you couldn’t handle what Abel said? Or because you were scared in advance of what Casper would say if he found out you consorted with the enemy?’

  ‘You don’t know what he is capable of.’

  ‘At the risk of sounding like an Agony Aunt: he may actually learn to respect you if he discovers you have opinions of your own.’

  ‘One falls into a habit.’

  ‘You’ve already shown that you can make your own decisions.’

  ‘Like what?’

  I smile. ‘When you came to visit me this morning. I bet he didn’t approve.’

  ‘You are my sister after all.’

  ‘Do you regret it?’

  She slows down to take the turn-off to Sinai. ‘You know, I don’t think we’ve ever spoken as frankly as we have today.’ After changing gears she briefly puts a hand on my knee. ‘You’ve trusted me with a lot. I never thought you would.’

  ‘What a secretive household we’ve always been.’ I cannot repress a sigh. ‘Father and Mother too. I’ve never known a more ill-suited couple. ‘She with her music. He with his volk-and-fatherland stuff – he should have lived in the Boer War or the Great Trek when there were enemies to kill and lands to conquer. When it all turned inward he just couldn’t cope any more.’

  ‘Do you know about his political aspirations?’

  ‘What were they?’

  ‘After he retired he actually stood for parliament in the last elections.’

  ‘And lost?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘A guess. Wishful thinking perhaps.’

  ‘He didn’t just lose. It was a landslide, in what used to be regarded as a safe seat. He blamed it on everybody except himself, of course. It put paid to all his ambitions, and less than two months after the election he had a coronary. But the re
ally ticklish thing about it all was that Mother voted against him.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘She did. Never told him, you can bet on that. But after his death she told me. Her only chagrin was that he’d lost by so much. She’d cherished the hope of seeing him defeated by a single vote: hers. So her only act of revolt came to nothing after all. Poor man. Poor woman.’

  ‘I’m sure we can do better.’

  We are escorted, over the last few hundred metres, from the gothic gate, by a cloud of birds. In the yard I shield the flowers against the shock of Anna’s abrupt stop.

  She keeps the engine idling. ‘I’d better go now. There are hungry hordes at home to prepare for.’

  ‘They can forage for themselves, for once.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘What you really mean is: What if Casper comes home for lunch?’

  She doesn’t answer.

  ‘If I remember correctly there are about eight hundred servants at his beck and call. Why must you also be there?’

  ‘But what will he do?’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful to find out? A whole new world may open in front of him.’

  She turns off the engine.

  8

  OUMA IS BEGINNING to surface when I come into the bedroom, but her mind is still befuddled. I leave her to the care of the nurse while Anna and I make a salad for lunch. Afterwards she helps me to arrange a small vase of flowers for Ouma’s room. The rest, a huge armload, we carry to the graveyard where we divide them up among the graves. I save the last few for the unmarked rectangle outside the walls. Anna looks at me quizzically, but makes no comment. Neither do I. For the moment this is between me and them. Years ago I turned down Ouma’s invitation to join her here in her nightly conversations with the dead. Now I am obliged to meet them only in the imagined selves of her stories. They can no longer be avoided. This is some kind of contrition, perhaps.

  As a result, who knows, we find Ouma awake upon our return. She knows without being told that we have been to the graves.