“Hmm.” She set the tea aside and curled into a nap. Suddenly, with certainty, Gat knew that he loved this woman. Must he give her up? No! He could not relinquish her. He revisited the questions that had disturbed his sleep. Daylight filled the world with possibilities.
Petra woke. Gat assured her he would take her to Joeys or to the far corners of the earth. Her choice.
“What about America?” she asked. He grunted. “Someday,” she said, “I want to walk where Abraham Lincoln and George Washington walked.”
“America’s a strange combination of Puritanism and commercialism,” Gat said. “Like a tree graft gone bad. It’s too expensive.”
“Millions of immigrants have gone there and flourished. Look at Garvey!”
Gat only grunted.
“Maybe Joeys is the likeliest possibility,” Petra concluded. Gat could get an apartment and she would start university in a dormitory. That would make her parents happy. After a couple of weeks, she would move into Gat’s apartment. She held her left hand in the air above them, looking at the fake and shiny wedding ring she wore. “We’ll tell people I’m your younger sister.”
Gat guffawed. “But I still look at you as if I’m going to eat you up.”
“Australia then.”
Gat reached up, removed the ring from her third finger, did some hocus-pocus over it with his other hand, and returned it to her finger. “With this ring I promise you Australia.” They lay side by side, his commitment there between them. Gat said, “I agree to take care of you for a year.”
More questions came. Would they find pals out there? They’d need help to arrive safely. To get established. Could they make it through a year together?
“After a year,” he said, “you should have some idea of what you want from your life. Whether or not that includes me.”
She asked, “Will we tell people that we’re married?”
“They’ll accept us more readily if they think we are.”
A question hung unspoken in the air: Then why not get married?
WHILE STANDING in the shower, cool water washing over him, Gat realized that before he left Africa, he must cleanse himself inside as well. He must seek absolution for his offense against Africans, against Lumumba. Dressing while Petra watched him from the bed, he told her that he needed to run an errand. It might require an hour. When he returned they’d have breakfast in the garden.
With directions from the hotel receptionist Gat easily found Lobatse’s Catholic compound. It was a dusty place with a school, priests’ quarters, and refectory. Thorn trees and bougainvillea grew in the courtyard beside a church with its faintly Italianate façade. Gat wondered if he had come to the right place. The façade disconnected the church from the Tswana. It suggested yearnings beyond humble Lobatse. Moreover, although Catholicism offered absolution from the entire gamut of humanity’s sins, its priests and bishops, so Gat felt, were part of the hierarchy of church actors who had conspired to finish off Lumumba. They had used him to do it. How, then, could the church absolve him of that offense? It couldn’t. But he knew of no other channel to redemption. At least the priest to whom he confessed must be African.
Leaving the Ford, Gat thought of his parents. His British mother was a Catholic; his father an anticlerical Fleming, a Socialist. Whenever his father discovered that his mother had dragged Gat and his sister to confession, the house shook with shouting. His father would curse at the top of his voice. His mother would take refuge behind her locked bedroom door. At the top of his voice, raised so his wife could hear, Gat’s father would instruct his children not to believe that some pantywaist priest, who’d married the church because he had no inclination toward women, could presume to absolve guilt. Gat’s father insisted that the children take responsibility themselves for whatever they did. As a result, whenever Gat’s mother bundled the children off to confession, she made them swear not to tell their father.
Now, moving into the compound, he felt strangely as if his father reached out to take hold of his arm. His father’s voice seemed to say, “What you’re looking for, you can’t get here. Don’t go in.” Gat stopped abruptly, turned from the church, and walked away.
AS GAT left the rondavel, Petra sprang from the bed, dashed to the window, and peeked around the edge of the curtain to watch him walk away from her, his body erect, the shoulders rolling slightly. What, she wondered, was his errand? Would he buy her a present? She did not want presents from him. She wanted him to stay with her. As he moved across the hotel’s dining terrace, she wondered when it was that he would walk away from her forever.
That thought made her cold. She pulled the light blanket from the bed and wrapped it about her. She was so hungry that her stomach growled for food. She poured herself another cup of tea and swallowed it down, feeling its heat warm her body. She set the cake tent aside and devoured the pound cake that remained on the plate. It was sweet to the nostrils but dry in the eating. She drank the last of the tea.
She ran herself a bath, filling the tub with hot water until it went cold. When she lay in the tub, the water mostly covering her body, she let her thoughts drift. She wondered: Did she love him? Or was she merely infatuated? Gat seemed to believe somehow that she had really saved his life. Would that feeling burn fast and bright and then be ashes?
If they really went to Australia, she wondered, would she bear Gat’s child? Petra looked at her belly barely covered by water. She imagined a baby growing inside it.
Drying off, she knew that she did not want to bear a child out of wedlock. So they should marry. Ideas about marriage, instilled by her training, assumed that couples stayed together throughout their lives. If she married someone like Kobus, of course, she would assume that. Because they would be marrying their way of life. But with Gat? In a year they might hate one another. Petra knew she would feel lost if they parted. Would she feel lost if they stayed together? She wished she could talk to her mother. But her parents’ knowing about this might ruin everything.
AT THAT moment her mother was sitting alone in the rear seat of a black, unmarked police car watching her husband in the seat before her grind his teeth. His driver was taking them to the airport for a plane to Johannesburg. Grinding his teeth was a habit Piet Rousseau indulged when he was deep in thought. Margaret knew that he was thinking of what he would say to Petra when he found her and to that seducer and scoundrel Gautier. She leaned forward. She patted her husband’s shoulder and lightly touched the back of his jaw. He glanced at her sheepishly. “Relax,” she advised with a smile. “Grinding your teeth only increases our dental bills.”
LEAVING THE Catholic compound, Gat thought of Petra. He must get a present. But what could Lobatse offer? Looking up, he realized that he had driven beyond the edge of town. He was moving slowly through open country. He noticed three mopane trees up ahead. Without conscious thought he pulled off the road. He left the car and went to the trees. He looked beyond them at the flat plain receding endlessly before him to what might be a barely distinguishable line of mountains. He glanced up at the enormous blue dome of the sky and, suddenly self-conscious, glanced about to see if anyone were watching him. He moved behind the car where he could not be seen from the road. He fell to his knees.
Feeling foolish, he sat on his ankles. Then he rose again to his knees, closed his eyes, bowed his head. He raised his head, opened his eyes. Spreading wide his arms, hands outstretched, he spoke softly to the vastness before him. “Oh, Africa!” he whispered. “Forgive my sins.” He looked out at the immense plain before him, at the trees, the sky, the land. He knew that he must shout. “Great Africa!” he called, crying out to the land that stretched before him. “Forgive my sins to your people, to Maurice Mpolo, Joseph Okito, and especially to Patrice Lumumba.” He hesitated, then continued. “I acknowledge these transgressions. I want to be cleansed.”
He began to weep, feeling complete obliviousness to anything except the sky-roofed confessional, the trees, the land.
Then he seemed to
stand apart from himself, as if he were outside his body, looking at a white man absurdly weeping on his knees at the edge of the great Kalahari. You ridiculous penitent! he thought to himself. Then once again he was inside his body, feeling the hard ground on his knees, the strong heat of the sun, and the coolness where a stir of air was evaporating the tear trails on his face. Once again he said aloud, “Africa, please forgive me!”
Off to his left a bird began to cry, “Hoop-hoop-hoop!” He looked over to see a small creature with cinnamon plumage and black-and-white striped wings singing as if it were the voice of Africa, giving answer to his plea. Gat laughed, watching the hoopoe finish his singing and begin to walk about probing for food. New tears poured from him. He laughed at them, at the busy bird, at the absurdity of his asking the indifferent enormity of Africa for forgiveness and the even greater absurdity of Africa’s granting it through the monotonous call of a cinnamon bird.
As he rose and turned toward the car, he saw two Tswana boys watching him. They seemed to have arisen out of dust swirls and peered at him with astonishment. He waved to them and seated himself on the fender of the car. He seared into his consciousness the look of this place where he had asked for forgiveness: the three mopane trees, the two Tswana boys, the hoopoe, and the immensity of the veld and the sky.
He suddenly realized that he had no idea how much time had passed as he knelt beside the trees. Feeling refreshed, he drove to the general store, G. P. Patel, Proprietor. Usually for a woman, he chose flowers, a gift that was beautiful, but also transitory, suggesting no thought of permanence. He selected an ostrich eggshell necklace, fashioned by a local craftswoman.
Driving to the hotel, he realized suddenly how truly marvelous a day it was, how healthy and magnificent he felt, how fantastic it was to be alive. When he caught sight of Petra, his heart exploded with joy. She was standing worriedly beneath a canopy of bougainvillea, obviously concerned about him. A warmth surged through him. For weeks he had felt himself lost, befuddled, betrayed, uncertain of what was ahead. He had charmed her because he knew about charm and needed a companion. Now he realized he loved her. Her concern at his absence expanded the joy he was feeling. He hid the gift behind his back and called to her, “Hello, Beauty! Don’t worry! I haven’t run off with your car.”
“Where have you been?” she challenged. “And I’m hungry!” she complained with a smile. “Can we eat something?”
Gat said, “I have been off buying a present for the woman I love!”
Petra looked up sharply at him.
“I do love you.”
Because they had never spoken seriously of love, these words popping out of his mouth surprised Gat. They also surprised Petra. But given the wondrousness of the day and the expansiveness possessing him, Gat felt he loved the entire world.
“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” Petra cautioned.
“I do mean it!” Gat handed her the present. “It’s the best I could find in this quaint place you’ve brought me to.”
“I’ve brought you, have I?” She opened the folded paper in which the present lay. “I love it!” she exclaimed, then laughed. “What is it?”
“A necklace. Ostrich eggshell. Let’s put it on.”
Gat fastened the object around her neck. Petra used the window glass as a mirror to admire it. “I do love it. You’re very sweet.” Gat put his head next to hers. They assessed and admired themselves. “My mother would say we’re a handsome couple,” she said. “ ‘Handsome couple’ is high praise from her.” She asked, “Have you been out shopping for my present all this time?”
“All this time,” Gat lied. “I am a meticulous buyer of presents!” As he pulled her away from the window toward the dining terrace, her stomach growled. “There must be a lion in there,” he shouted. “How about some breakfast?”
A waiter brought them a Bechuanaland version of the English fry-up: eggs fried so hard their yokes looked like golden doughnuts, overcooked links of sausage, slices of fresh pineapple substituting for the baked tomato halves, and a rack of cold toast. Gat smiled at the sight of the repast, not out of criticism, but of affection. “At least they have the toast right,” he said.
He told Petra about England and how during his time there he had breakfasted every morning on fare very like this. He was just her age then, learning the language of Shakespeare and Milton. She poured him tea, hardly listening as he talked, and ate hungrily. He wondered what he would have done if he’d met her then. She stole two links of sausage from his plate and giggled when he did not seem to notice. The silver sound of her snickering drew his attention back to her and he delighted in seeing her so carefree.
She wiped her mouth with her paper serviette and leaned against his arm. “Doesn’t sex make you hungry?” she asked. “I’ve felt ravenous since daybreak.”
“Me too. But for you.”
“I’m craving food.”
“I’m craving you.”
“Why aren’t you eating?”
“This is how I keep my weight down.”
She speared another sausage link from his plate. “I like the shape of these. But they’re awfully small.” She bit the tip off the sausage.
“You’re a very naughty girl,” he said. “Should I spank you?” He took hold of her wrist. “Instead I’m going to ask you—.” He paused, fell to his knee. “Would you like to get married?”
She set her fork with its half-eaten sausage onto her plate. “Don’t say that unless you’re serious.”
“If we’re going to Australia, it makes a lot of sense.”
“That’s romantic,” she commented. “Do you love me?”
“Yes,” he said. She pursed her mouth, peeved. “Shall I tell you why?”
“Please.”
“I admire your independence. Your spirit of adventure. Your willingness to try things. Your curiosity about the world. I like talking to you. Watching you. Of course, it helps that you are beautiful.”
“Thank you. But I’m not beautiful.”
“Oh, yes! Not a wrinkle on you anywhere! I’ve made a careful inspection.” She gave him a tolerant smirk. “I love it that you’re responsive in bed. That you’re eager for me. That you’re a quick learner.” Her face reddened. “Don’t blush! That’s important. I love it that you’re not frightened when we consider Australia.” He took her hand and whispered, “I love it that you saved my life.”
She said, “I love it that you saved mine.” She glanced at him, knowing that he had never taken his eyes off her. She sipped some tea and fiddled with the cup. “When most people get married, they expect to stay together forever and have children. Do you want children?”
“Maybe. If I can support them. Do you?”
“How do I know?” She looked up nervously. “A week ago I was going to varsity. One thing I was sure of then: I wanted never to get married.” Then, after a pause. “How long would we stay married?”
“Forever.” She seemed to flinch. “Or as long as you want. You’re the one who’ll walk out.” As soon as he spoke the words, he realized this was not a gallant thing to say. He wished he had not said it.
“I won’t walk out,” she told him. “Do you want to know if I love you?”
“Why not?”
She confessed, “I don’t know how to say it.” Those words made her feel like a child—and she was not a child! Still, she could not look at him. “I guess I must—” The words “love you” would not leave her throat. She blurted on, “Because I feel warm and comfortable with you. Sometimes tingly. Sometimes I get hot flashes.” She glanced up at him. “Sometimes I’m afraid with you because of the things you say you’ve done. But I feel safe with you. All we’ve done together has seemed right. I wasn’t even embarrassed the second time we were together to have you take off my clothes.” She reddened. “With you it seemed perfectly logical to run away from my parents and the man who assumed he’d marry me.”
He smiled at her. “So do we get married?”
She nodded.<
br />
“Today?”
She managed to blurt out, “I love you, Gat,” and blushed such a crimson color that he laughed at her. She stuck out her tongue.
THEY RETURNED to their room and dressed in their finest clothes. Arriving at the office of the magistrate, they made an odd-looking couple for a small town on the edge of a great desert. Passersby stopped to watch them. Petra stepped from the car in a tea hat, white gloves, high heels, and a light frock. Gat wore his blue suit, a white shirt, tie, and highly polished Oxfords that were immediately coated with dust. As they moved toward the office, a sudden breeze welcomed them. It charmingly lifted Petra’s skirt and almost sent her tea hat sailing. One of her hands flew to her head to anchor the hat while the other pushed her skirt over her knees. Gat moved beside her, with a steadying hand on her elbow.
The magistrate, a middle-aged Englishman, smiled involuntarily when they appeared in his office. On hearing that they wished him to marry them, he studied the couple for a moment. “Are you of age?” he asked. They presented documents and he glanced at them. “You do this of your own free will?” he queried. They assured him that they did.
He instructed an African assistant to fetch two whites from the gawkers outside the building—it did not occur to him that Africans could witness the marriage of whites—and when these entered the office in boots, bush hats, and work-spotted khakis, he performed the ceremony. Gat and Petra exchanged the fake—now genuine—wedding rings that they had worn to fool hotel receptionists and they kissed, sealing the union. The magistrate requested a kiss, which Petra placed on his ruddy cheek. Gat and Petra shook hands with the magistrate and with the witnesses. They all signed the documents that the African assistant had prepared. As the gawkers applauded, one of the witnesses took a photo of the pair with Petra’s camera and they went to the car as husband and wife.
They returned to their hotel room, shed their finery, and made love—a little uncertainly for now they were not simply enjoying themselves but beginning a marriage. Somehow, being married, they felt safer in acknowledging their love for one another and somehow being married made the declarations seem likelier to be sincere. They slept, woke, talked about departing for Australia that very day. They believed Petra could enter that country without a visa because she held a passport from a country still—for the moment—a member of the British Commonwealth. They hoped Gat could enter as her husband.
Love in the Time of Apartheid Page 22
