Imaginings of Sand

by Andre Brink

  ‘Is mine ready?’ she asks tranquilly.

  ‘Now Ouma –’ Anna admonishes, but I shake my head at her. Flustered, she stops.

  ‘I want you to bring the coffin down from the attic,’ says Ouma. ‘It’s not the sort of thing one should keep for the last moment. There’s a long sleep ahead and I want to be sure I’ll be comfortable.’ She grasps my hand. ‘Or was it also destroyed in the fire?’

  ‘Most of the attic escaped,’ I assure her. ‘There is still one coffin up there. I had a look.’

  ‘There used to be enough for the whole family. But so many people have died.’

  ‘You’ll be all right, I promise.’

  ‘I want more than a promise, Kristien. I want to try it out for myself. Will you do that?’

  Anna is looking on in revulsion. But what can I do? I nod and press her hand. ‘We’ll see to it, Ouma.’

  ‘I have to go,’ says Anna. Now she’s in a hurry. Perhaps she has begun to regret her decision to stay for lunch. But I give her a special hug when we say goodbye. She is, unexpectedly, tearful.

  I remain standing in the yard until long after she has gone. Then turn back to return to Ouma.

  But only a few minutes after I have relieved the nurse there is another interruption. The dominee, Trui announces, has come to visit.

  ‘This is not the time, Trui,’ I tell her, sternly; but he is already entering the room unbidden.

  ‘It is always time for the work of the Lord,’ he says cheerfully, having evidently overheard us.

  He appears fortyish, pink and plump, with small, soft, damp hands, his hairline receding quite drastically along his globular head (a gibbous moon is the image that comes to mind); a few long thin strands of pale hair have been draped across the pate, in a style Ouma used to call ‘seaweed on the rocks’. He is beaming goodwill and salvation. Under one elbow, close to his plump body, he clutches, like a life-jacket, a Bible.

  ‘You must be Katrien,’ he says, smiling as if he has received the tidings straight from God.

  ‘Kristien,’ I tell him.

  ‘Same thing,’ he says. ‘Welcome, welcome. What a lovely thing to do, coming all this way.’

  ‘From distant heathen lands,’ I say, wincing as I accept the limp, moist hand.

  ‘And how’s our girl today?’ he beams at Ouma.

  ‘Dying,’ she replies calmly.

  ‘Now, now, Granny,’ he remonstrates with a beatific smile which fades very slowly under her ferocious stare.

  ‘Dominee,’ I say firmly, ‘I really don’t think –’

  But having put on the full armour of God, he brushes me aside. The pink expanse of his head shines dully in the light that falls from the window.

  ‘I have come to give you some courage for the road ahead,’ he says, taking the nurse’s chair beside the bed.

  ‘I’m doing all right,’ Ouma says. He clearly doesn’t catch the warning in her voice.

  ‘Dominee, please!’ I try to intervene as tactfully as possible.

  ‘Now don’t you interfere with the work of God, my girl,’ he admonishes in a surprisingly stern voice.

  ‘What do you know about God?’ Ouma asks unexpectedly.

  ‘But Granny –’

  ‘If I were you I’d stay out of this,’ she says, staring serenely at the ceiling. ‘God can be a very cantankerous old woman.’

  The argument, in the circumstances, might well have turned unpleasant. I’m not sure how the twist comes about: my impression is that Ouma utters a high, shrill, wheezing sound, which may or may not be a mere sign of discomfort. The next moment the birds are there. Not all of them, only a few, but clearly well chosen for the occasion: buzzards at the top and bottom of the bed, a line of cranes at the sides, and a single pure white egret that turns overhead and deposits a splotch of shit on the holy man’s exposed pate before it dives out again.

  The delicate pink of his face changes to cerise, then deep crimson. Patting the top of his head with a large damp handkerchief, which only serves to spread the blob evenly across the globe, the dominee gives up and retreats into the passage.

  ‘Kristien, will you please see the silly man out?’ asks Ouma innocently, making sure he can hear.

  ‘I’ll try again some other time,’ he mumbles as we reach the ground floor.

  ‘It might be a good idea to telephone first,’ I say. ‘Ouma is not always in a fit state to see visitors.’

  He looks annoyed. ‘Look, I’m sorry to say this,’ he blurts out, ‘but however terrible a thing it may be that’s happened to her, we must see the hand of God in it.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Dominee.’

  ‘God doesn’t sleep.’ His voice climbs a few notes. ‘I’m afraid your grandmother has defied Him in many ways over the years. I had hoped, I had prayed, that there would be a sign of repentance as the end draws nigh. But what has happened here today –’ He lowers his voice again. ‘It is a fearful thing to fall in the hands of the living God, Katrien.’

  Outside, undoubtedly reassured by the light of day (although he continues to cast apprehensive glances at the sky), he makes an attempt at damage control, even though I still detect an undertone of reproach. ‘From what I’ve heard, here and there, you must have a very interesting life abroad.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard.’

  ‘Oh, news travels, you know.’ He beams. ‘We’re so glad to see you back. You know, God cherishes the one lost sheep much more than the ninety-nine that stay in the fold.’

  ‘I’m not sure I was lost, Dominee. Neither am I exactly back in the fold.’

  He doesn’t hear, or pretends not to. ‘And at a time like this,’ he says. ‘At last we can all breathe freely. After all the terrible years of apartheid, the indignities, the injustice –’

  ‘You actually fought against apartheid?’

  ‘Well.’ Various gradations of colour once again move across the smooth surface of his face, like a boiled sweet that changes hue, layer upon layer, after every suck. ‘I’ve always been in the forefront to condemn the wrongs of the world, you know.’

  ‘Were blacks allowed in your church?’

  ‘Good heavens! I don’t think you realise what times we’ve been living through –’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve set an example for many, Dominee,’ I say.

  Now he seems in a hurry to leave. And a flock of birds escort him overhead, presumably to monitor his progress and wish him Godspeed. I hope they will not spare his bonnet.

  9

  ON MY WAY back I am so deeply lost in thought that I only notice Trui when it is already too late to avoid her. She has taken up position opposite the kitchen door, cutting me off squarely. ‘I want to know what’s going on in this place, Miss Kristien,’ she says, drying a plate.

  ‘Why don’t you leave the dishes to me?’ I ask. ‘You need some rest.’

  ‘I’ll rest when I have to rest,’ she says. ‘The dishes are almost done anyway. I want to know about this morning. People are coming and going all the time but nobody tells me nothing. First there was the man down there in the cellar, then the pollies, now the dominee.’

  ‘The dominee came to see Ouma.’

  ‘But I heard you arguing and one doesn’t argue with a man of God.’

  ‘He was nagging Ouma, he has no respect for old age, so she told him where to get off.’

  ‘That old Missus is going straight to hell.’ She puts the plate on the dresser and starts stacking away the dishes; I give her a hand. ‘And that man down there?’

  ‘It’s all been cleared up, Trui. The children who came with the police this morning were the ones who set fire to the place.’

  She stares at me in disbelief. ‘Is that genuine, Miss Kristien?’

  ‘It’s genuine, Trui.’

  ‘So it was because of those snot-nosed kids the pollies gave us such a hard time?’

  ‘I spoke to them. They won’t dare to do it again. With nobody, and that includes the kids.’

  ‘
That was a terrible thing they did, Miss Kristien.’

  ‘We don’t know what made the kids do it, Trui.’

  ‘This whole country is up to maggots.’

  ‘The important thing is that from now on you – all of us – can sleep more easily at night. The man in the basement is innocent. I told you from the beginning, didn’t I?’

  ‘He’s not a bad one,’ she admits with some reluctance, then shakes her head. ‘But where is it all going to end? Next week we’re getting a black government, then we’ll all be killed in our beds.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, Trui. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘The blacks have never cared one bit about us coloureds, Miss Kristien. First the whites gave us hell, now it’s the blacks. For us in-between people nothing will ever change.’

  ‘I promise you, Trui –’ For a moment I consider giving her a more cautious reply; then I rush in headlong. ‘There’s good and bad on both sides. And I came to know many of the good ones when I was overseas, I almost got married to one of them, you know.’

  ‘Good Lord, Miss Kristien, what are you telling me?’

  ‘I may be seeing him again. He’s coming here on Monday.’ I take her hand in both of mine. ‘You’re the only one I can tell this to.’

  ‘Why would that be?’ she asks with healthy suspicion.

  ‘You’ve always understood.’

  ‘Shame.’ She sighs. ‘One shouldn’t speak bad about the dead, but your mother never cared much about you, did she?’ Just in case I think she is giving way, she adds more sternly, ‘But you were always looking for trouble too, ever since you were this big.’ She gestures with her hand close to the floor. ‘Naughty little bugger you were, no matter how often they gave you the strap.’ A chuckle. ‘But then one couldn’t help loving you.’

  This unexpected motherliness, taking me back so many years, makes me feel sorry for myself; for a moment I press her against me.

  But she breaks loose very soon. ‘Now what’s this nonsense?’

  ‘You should have been my mother.’

  ‘Miss Kristien is just being contrary again.’

  ‘I’m serious, Trui.’ Why shouldn’t I say it? ‘Ouma was telling me stories last night, about the old days: about her mother and grandmother, long ago.’

  ‘The old Missus is always telling stories, you can’t believe them all.’

  ‘Do you know about your ancestors and mine?’

  ‘What is there to know? I don’t have time for nonsense.’

  ‘I’m talking about Ouma and your mother.’

  She goes down on her haunches in front of the dresser and starts rearranging the crockery at a furious pace, her back to me.

  ‘So you know?’ I say.

  ‘I know nothing about nothing. Leave the dead alone.’

  ‘But we are still alive, Trui.’

  ‘Miss Kristien must stop this now. I have my people, you have yours. That’s the way it’s always been in this country.’

  ‘But now things are changing.’

  ‘Nothing changes for me.’ She gets up suddenly and turns to face me. ‘You understand, Miss Kristien? The Lord made us the way we are, and that’s that.’

  ‘The Lord made us near family. My great-grandfather and your grandfather both grazed on the other side of the fence.’

  ‘It’s not for me to say, Miss Kristien. It’s too far back.’

  ‘That’s how I used to think, Trui. But last night Ouma made me see things differently.’

  ‘And suppose it’s true?’ she asks, helpless, but resentful too. ‘What’s the use? What can we do about it?’

  ‘We can learn to live like family.’

  ‘Who knows for sure that was what happened?’ she persists. ‘We’ve always got along just fine the way we were.’

  ‘With your family living in the little box of a house back there and Ouma’s family in this palace? You call that getting along fine?’

  ‘One doesn’t interfere with the will of God.’

  I’m on the point of snapping, Fuck the will of God. But for her sake I say, ‘No, Trui. Some things may be his will. But others are up to us to put right.’

  She starts taking off her apron. With great precision she folds it up and puts it away in a bottom drawer.

  ‘We’re Christian people, Miss Kristien. We do what the Bible says. It’s not for us to complain.’ In a flush of anger she slams the drawer shut. ‘There’s only one thing the Lord will hear me complain about and that’s a black government.’

  ‘It’s precisely because we’re getting a new government that we can start burying yesterday’s wrongs, Trui.’ I take her by the arm. ‘Please help me!’

  She disengages herself, but gently. ‘I need more time, Miss Kristien. This is too much for one day.’ She goes to the back door. There she turns round. ‘There’s one thing you must promise me,’ she says. ‘Don’t talk to Jonnie about this. He’ll go right over the top.’

  ‘It will remain between you and me,’ I promise. ‘But on one condition. You must never ever call me “Miss” again.’

  ‘I’ll do what I think best,’ she says, but she cannot suppress a smile.

  ‘Think about it, Trui. We’ll talk again.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she says. ‘Kristien.’

  10

  OUMA KRISTINA HAS again drifted off by the time I return to her room, sleeping with an expression of satisfaction on the wasteland of her sunken face. I warn the nurse not to overdo the sedatives: Ouma will want to be awake tonight. Then, with a mixture of curiosity and guilt, I collect the fat tome of Langenhoven, volume one of the Collected Works, from the kitchen table where I left it when we came in for lunch, and take it down to the cellar. I couldn’t find Loeloeraai in the bookshop (‘Lulu who?’ the assistant had asked. ‘No, sorry, Miss, but we do have a nice book on leopards’) so we had to make a stop at the library where, fortunately, Anna is a member.

  Jacob Bonthuys is lying on the rickety iron bed when I enter, sitting up very quickly, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,’ I apologise.

  ‘It’s all right, Miss.’

  ‘I found Loeloeraai in the library for you.’

  His reddish eyes light up. ‘Ai, Miss.’ Almost reverently he takes the book from me, open it, pages through it. It looks rather dusty; it must have been sitting on its shelf untouched by human hand for years. But he seems to be greeting an old friend.

  ‘Mr Bonthuys.’ I’m not sure how to go about satisfying my curiosity. ‘How did you get interested in Langenhoven? He’s such an old fogey.’ Nobody reads him any more.

  ‘Ai, Miss,’ he says again. ‘The two of us come a long way.’ He caresses the spine of the book; it is a gesture almost too intimate for prying eyes. ‘I was just a young boytjie when I discovered this man. ‘The teacher read us one of his stories in class. About those two ugly cannibals, Miss knows, Brolloks and Bittergal. But after a few periods she had to stop because the principal said we had to learn for the exams, he didn’t like us wasting time on stuff that wasn’t in the syllabus. A very hard man he was, we were all scared of him, the teacher too. I asked her to lend me the book, but she said if the principal found out he would give her hell. And besides, the book was already back in the library. It was too bad, Miss. I just had to find out what was happening in the rest of the story. You see, we only got to the place where the beautiful girl that was living with the monster tried to save the lives of the two little children he wanted to catch. He got suspicious about it and then he trapped her with the children. And just there the teacher stopped reading. So Miss can understand, I had to get the book. But it wasn’t easy.’

  ‘Couldn’t you get it from the library?’

  ‘I was scared of just going there and asking for it. Our people weren’t allowed there, it was mos just for whites. Besides, we only got to town once a week, on Saturdays, when Abel Joubert’s father took us in on the lorry for shopping. So for three, four weeks I just walked round an
d round the building, not daring to go in. But that story was killing me. I was having nightmares about old Brolloks and that girl. I knew I wouldn’t have peace in my mind again before I knew what happened. In the end, one Saturday, I took my heart in my hand and I went inside and asked for the book. But the madam at the desk didn’t even look up, she just chased me out. Yissus, Miss, she was a kind of Brolloks herself, with glasses on her nose and her hair in a bun, so tight it looked like the cud of a cow. Three times I came back, and three times she threw me out. The last time she said she was now going to call the police.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘Then I asked the Madam on the farm where my ma worked. That’s now Abel Joubert’s mother. I knew she went to the library on Fridays when she fetched the children from school. And she was a good woman, she really was. Just like Abel Joubert today. He got it all from her. From his father too, I must say, but mostly from her. Also his love of books, if Miss asks me.’ Now that he has begun, there is an uncontrollable flood of words washing over me; and no way out. So much dammed-up urgency to talk that I have no choice but to resign myself to it.

  ‘And so she brought you Brolloks en Bittergal?’

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ he says, smiling broadly, revealing the gap where his upper front teeth are missing. ‘And at last I could finish the story of Brolloks and the girl and the children, And then the story of old Bittergal. But you see, there were other stories in the book also, about the Christmas children and them, and I read the lot of them. I almost didn’t sleep that whole week. My ma said if it didn’t stop she’d strip the skin from my backside.’

  ‘But you carried on?’

  ‘How could I stop, Miss? The next week I asked the Madam to bring me another book by this Langenhoven. This time it was ghost stories, the most terrible things you ever heard of. I mean, you look at the world and you have no idea of what is hiding behind it all. I was almost too scared to go on, but I couldn’t stop either. And by that time I was hooked. After that the Madam brought me all the other books, one by one, I think there were fourteen altogether. Some of them I couldn’t understand head or tail of. They were just too damn difficult, no matter how hard I tried. I even copied whole pages of it out in an exercise book I bought with some money I got from selling a few of old Mr Joubert’s ostrich eggs. That was a sinful thing to do, but the reading was more important. But on some of those books I had to give up. And there were others that was boring. I suppose I was just stupid, but I couldn’t help it. So I went back to the stories. And the one I got to like best of all, in the end, was this Loeloeraai. Does Miss know it?’