In the early afternoon her parents had sandwiches brought to the suite. They called her to join them for lunch. She determined that she would confront her father, ask him the questions she had asked herself. But when she emerged from her room and he embraced her, full of paternal compassion for her distress, she knew she did not possess the audacity to accuse him again of lying to her.
As they ate lunch, her father announced that he had made reservations for them on the five o’clock flight to Cape Town. He told her quietly, gently, that he knew she had been waiting for a call. But no call had come. Might it not now be time to place the whole incident in the past and resolve not to look back? Petra glanced at her mother. When she said nothing to support her husband, Petra simply shook her head. She would not leave the hotel, she said. She knew that if Gat were really free he would contact her. She watched her father clench his teeth. He urged her to face the truth: she had spent a week with a scoundrel—and a married one into the bargain! He’d taken advantage of her inexperience and naïveté. He hated to say it, Rousseau declared, but it was an old story. There were plenty of names for men who acted as Gat had: bounder, rascal, cad, louse, heel, rogue. The police dealt almost daily with women who’d been bilked by them. His best advice was to close the books on the regrettable business, return to Cape Town, and move on. Those who loved her would forgive her mistake. “Those who can’t forgive it,” he said, “well, to hell with them!”
“I will not go back to Cape Town,” Petra answered quietly.
“You know, Piet,” Margaret interjected, “that going back home is no way to close the accounts on this business. Her friends will gossip. Ours will shake their heads and whisper, ‘Oh, shame! How too bad!’ ”
“I’ll start at Wits,” Petra declared. “That was the plan. Tell people I’ve gone to varsity if you’re worried about what to say.”
“We’re worried about you, Pet,” her father replied.
“Well, don’t be! I am not a fallen woman! Or a ninny! And my husband is not any of those names you called him.”
Exasperated at last, Rousseau instructed, “Come home today, Petra. I can’t argue with you. Do as I say. I’ve got duty tomorrow.”
But Petra would not leave. And Margaret would not leave her alone in Johannesburg. She proposed that she and Petra move into cheaper quarters and that she stay in Johannesburg until Pet got settled in a dormitory and started her classes at Wits. Accustomed to deciding what happened in the family, Rousseau insisted for two hours that his women do as he suggested. But in the end he took the eight o’clock flight to Cape Town alone.
Margaret found a small apartment near the Wits campus that could be rented by the week. The women moved into it. Petra started classes at the university. She avoided social activities and applied herself to studying with more diligence than she had ever shown at Herschel. Except when the phone rang or when she rushed to get the mail, her manner remained subdued. Margaret had trouble drawing her into conversation. She refused to talk about Gat from whom she had heard not a single word. Occasionally her mother found her at her desk, staring into space, her cheeks wet with tears. “Please talk to me,” Margaret would say. Petra would bite her lips and shake her head.
GAT’S DAYS took on an ordered routine: visits to the doctor, slow, cold walks on crutches around Parsons Green followed by resting times on his bed. There he stared at the chipping paint on the ceiling and got warm again. And always the mullings about what next. A neighborhood pub stood at the edge of the green. If he wanted conversation, which he rarely did, habitués of the pub provided it. During his meals there, he kept looking at women, hoping one of them would turn out to be Petra. He did not see the papers that reported that Patrice Lumumba had been discovered in flight from Katanga. Villagers, it was reported, had killed him and two companions with machetes and secretly buried their bodies.
On his second day in London, Gat tried to telephone Petra in Cape Town. He assumed her father had taken her there. Rousseau’s number was not listed. He tried other Rousseaus, but no one offered help in contacting Petra. He could not write to her in Cape Town because he had never known the address of her parents’ home. He wrote to her at Wits, at Stellenbosch University, at the University of Cape Town, sending some letters to Miss Petra Rousseau and others to Mrs. Petra Gautier. But the mail was slow. He heard nothing.
The longer he remained in London, the more it seemed a dream that he had ever been with a young woman in South Africa, that they had fallen in love and married. His world shrank to the size of the room, the route to and from the doctor, his circuits on crutches around Parsons Green.
AT THE end of her first week of classes, Petra had a visitor from Cape Town: Kobus Terreblanche. He took her to dinner at an elegant restaurant, intimate with soft lights and music from a piano and violin, beguiling aromas and delicious entrees tastefully presented by tactful waiters. Kobus ordered Cape wine and insisted they share a chateaubriand. He chatted about Stellenbosch and Cape Town and told her that he missed her. Petra ate little. She refused to share the wine and frequently stared off across the dining room as if waiting for someone to enter. Kobus found her more attractive than ever, but as difficult to talk to as her mother said she was. After dessert, as he drank coffee, he took her hand, fearing she might withdraw it. When she did not, he moved his chair close beside her. “I love you,” he told her. “You know that. You must know I hoped you’d marry me.”
She nodded, staring at the white expanse of tablecloth.
“That hasn’t changed. Not for me. You know more about the world now than you did the last time I saw you. But so what?” Petra did not reply. Kobus watched her. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. “More beautiful than ever.” Kobus took her hand in both of his, raised and kissed it. “So I’m not the most exciting chap you’ll ever know. So what? I can make you happy.” After a moment he added, “Happy again.”
Petra watched his hands play with her fingers.
“What do you want?” he asked.
She replied, “What do you want?” She thought: What a dumb conversation!
“I want to see you happy,” he told her. “Making you happy would give me—” He stopped in midsentence. “We have the same background, Pet. The same religion. Same values. Same approach to life. Basically we want the same things.”
“Do we?”
“I can give you those things. I’m going to be a success. Especially if I have your help. We’ll have children. We’ll live the life of the people of our background. We’ll make a contribution to society.”
“What contribution?”
“You can decide that.” He watched her earnestly. “We’ve known each other too long for me to sweep you off your feet. You know me so well you may think me a little boring. But five years into a marriage that’s the way it’ll be with anyone. I know I can make you happy.”
“I’m already married,” she said.
“Your father can make those records in Lobatse disappear,” he assured her. “That’s no problem.”
“I think my first job is to get through varsity.”
“I don’t want to wait four years to marry you. Let’s do it this year.”
“You are very nice to come here, Kobus,” Petra said. She realized she must not allow this old friend to spin ever more elaborate dreams for himself that she would only dash. She withdrew her hand and touched his face, then folded her hands in her lap. “But I think marriage has to be between equals.”
“Of course,” he agreed. “We’d make equal, though different, contributions to our life together.”
“What I mean is—” She paused, not wanting to hurt him. “I couldn’t be married to a man who thought he’d rescued me from— A terrible mistake.” Petra continued, “I don’t think I made a mistake.”
“But he’s a married man! He came after you to seduce you.”
“I love him.” Petra laid a hand on his hands and gazed at him. “If I have to get over that, it’ll take me awhile.”
K
obus pursed his mouth. “I can wait if I have to.” He hastily added, “Look, I’m not as uninteresting as you think. I’ve had romances that have gone further—”
She put her hand lightly on his lips. “Don’t tell me.” She smiled at him. “I guess you better take me home. I have studying to do.”
When he left her at the door of the apartment, he leaned down to kiss her. She shook her head and smiled. “Are you intending to kiss a married woman? Shame!” She smiled, turned quickly, and went inside.
AT THE end of a month Gat was still on crutches. By then he had decided that the only bridge to a future he wanted was Petra. He called for a taxi and went to a jewelry store. He bought a pair of proper wedding rings, simple gold bands. He returned to southern Africa. Not wanting to risk being denied entry at Jan Smuts airport, where Rousseau might have immigration officials watching for him, he traveled to Salisbury, Southern Rhodesia, by air and south from there by train. In Joburg he got a room in the hotel where he’d originally stayed and took a cab to the University of the Witswatersrand. He told the clerk in the registrar’s office that he was a cousin of a student and he gave her his most winning smile. Seeing that he was on crutches, the woman felt sorry for him. He told her the cousin’s name. There were several Rousseaus enrolled. But no Petra. He suggested they try Gautier. The cousin had recently married. He did not know if she had changed her name. The clerk found a Gautier. Petra. Gat’s heart leaped inside him. She had chosen to use her married name! The clerk said it was against varsity rules for her to give Gat Petra Gautier’s address, but she told him her schedule. One of her classes was in session right now. The next one was the following morning.
Gat hobbled to the room where Petra’s class was being conducted. He waited outside it. When the class period ended, students streamed out the doors. Gat scanned the young men and women. Petra was not among them. He moved to the door of the classroom. Across it, leaving by a door on the opposite side of the room, he spotted her blonde hair, cut as it always had been. He called her name, but she did not hear. She disappeared. He started to hobble after her, shouting her name, but fear paralyzed him, the fear that she would run from him.
He returned to the hotel. He called for new telephone listings in the name of either Gautier or Rousseau. There were several Rousseaus, no Gautiers. He called the Rousseaus. Only one answered, a woman speaking Afrikaans. Gat replied in Flemish. The woman answered angrily in a torrent of Afrikaans. He switched to English. She hung up. He tried walking without crutches back and forth across the room. The doctor had advised him not to rush the healing; it might take several more weeks. If he did not use the crutches, pain shot through his feet, sizzled up his shins, and rang in his head. He kept falling down. It got harder and harder to pick himself up. But because he equated his failure to walk with a possible failure to win back Petra, he kept trying to complete a passage across the room.
He managed it once. Then he collapsed into the room’s only chair. He watched out the window. He listened to the radio. He tried to nap. On crutches he went out to a double feature. He entered when the first film was halfway over; he left before the second one finished. He walked back to the hotel to tire himself and in the hope that somehow on the streets he would run into his wife. He kept seeing women who reminded him of her: the set of one’s shoulders, the way another placed her feet in walking. But none of the women was Petra. He ate alone at a restaurant near the hotel. He retired early and did not sleep well.
THE NEXT morning he was outside the only door to Petra’s classroom half an hour before the class was scheduled to start. He presented a curious, impaired, yet virile figure on crutches, alertly scanning students, nodding to some of them. Petra did not appear. Perhaps she was not much of a student. Perhaps she had other things on her mind. Once the class began, Gat sank down onto a bench. What now? There must be some way to find out where she lived. He would try again at the registrar’s office.
As he pulled himself onto his crutches, he saw two students hurrying toward the class, a young man and a girl, both carrying books. The girl was Petra. Gat wondered who the young man was, why they were together. The couple did not look at him until the young man had swung open the classroom door. Petra glanced at Gat. Seeing him, she stumbled, stopped, dropped her books. She turned to the young man and said, “Go on. I’ll be right there.” The young man glanced at Gat, then back at Petra, and disappeared. Petra stooped to pick up her books. She gathered them, paused to collect herself. Gat watched her, trying to stand erect. She stood, the books on a loose-leaf binder pressed against her chest. They gazed at one another for a long moment, neither knowing what to say.
“I walked into a door,” Gat finally said.
Petra shook her head. “That’s how you get a black eye.” She watched him.
“I fell off a cliff,” Gat said. “You look thinner. Are you eating properly?”
“I’ve been crying a lot.”
“Me too.” Gat watched her, wanting very much to touch her. But she stood out of reach, seeming uncertain, not wearing the ring he had placed on her finger in Lobatse. Despite the crutches, he held himself erect, fearful that she would see how damaged he was. Finally he asked, “Can we talk sometime?”
She nodded.
“When you don’t have class.”
“I don’t even know what this class is.”
He watched her, hoping she would not flee. “History of the Ancient World.”
“You’re well informed.” She released a hand from the books and brushed tears from her eyes. “Are you all right? You look a mess.”
“You should have seen me a month ago.” He said, “It’s lovely to see you.”
“There’s a milk bar just off campus. We could go there.”
They started off. Petra still held the books self-protectively against her body, not yet ready for Gat to touch her. He maneuvered slowly, not wanting to appear damaged, fearful he might fall down because the joy he felt inside made him want to leap. As they walked, Petra said nothing. She watched the path before them to be certain that there was nothing on which Gat might trip. He watched the pathway as well, but kept glancing at her, made joyful by the smell of her, the sweetness of her voice, the smear of her tears on her cheek, the look of uncertainty she was trying to control.
They entered the milk bar and made their way to a table. “Where have you been?” she asked once she had put down her books and they were settled.
“London. Getting repaired from falling off that cliff.” She watched him, examining him carefully. He arranged the crutches while she scrutinized him. They looked at each other. “I hate you seeing me this way,” Gat told her. But he assured her tenderly, “I love seeing you!”
Tears swam again in Petra’s eyes. She turned away and brushed them from her eyes. “I hate it that they hurt you.” Again she brushed tears away. “I want so much to touch you.”
“Go ahead. I won’t break.” He put his arms about her. She sat stiffly and did not return his embrace. He released her.
“I guess I should get us something,” she said. “What would you like?”
He reached for his wallet. “Coffee, please. Black. Get us a pastry we can share.” He gave her the wallet and watched her walk to the counter, delighting in the blondness of her hair, the curve of her chin. As she stood there, she seemed fragile. When she returned, she gave him his wallet, but did not look at him. He wondered what had happened that she was so reluctant to touch him. Once they began to eat, he asked her about it.
“I wasn’t sure you would remember my name,” she said.
“Gautier. Last time I checked, you were my wife.” Petra set down her coffee. Tears ran down her cheeks. Gat wiped them with his handkerchief. “You’re not wearing your wedding ring,” Gat remarked.
“If I wear it, other students think I’m strange.”
She stirred her coffee, looking away from him. To change the subject he asked, “How do you like school? I see you’ve made some friends.”
�
��I went to primary school with that chap,” she said quickly. “We’re both feeling lost here and sometimes we—”
“You should have friends,” Gat interrupted. “That’s good.”
She rose and walked away from the table. Gat wondered if she were leaving him. But her books remained. The counterman gave her a sugar dispenser and she returned with it. “This coffee tastes bitter.” She poured sugar into it.
Gat reached over to take her hand. She offered him the sugar dispenser. He smiled at this ploy, shook his head, and continued to hold her hand. She regarded him. “Recuperating in that hotel room in London, thinking about you all day—” She looked surprised and he told her urgently, “Yes, I was thinking about you. You. My wife! I kept trying to see how this made any sense from your point of view.”
“That’s what I was wondering about you. Why would a man of the world want me? A girl who hasn’t been anywhere, knows nothing, and can’t even cook his eggs in the morning.”
“I wrote you a letter here at Wits,” Gat said. “Didn’t you get it?”
Petra shook her head. “I didn’t think soldiers wrote letters.”
“I wrote you at three different universities. I tried to phone you in Cape Town. No listing. I never did know the address.” After a moment he asked, “What did your father tell you that makes you think you shouldn’t touch me?”
Petra said nothing for a long moment, drinking her coffee and staring across the milk bar. Finally she said, “My father showed me the photo he took from you of your wife and child.” She turned to watch his reaction. Gat frowned, perplexed. “She looks like a nice person and the baby’s adorable.”
“Petra,” Gat said, “you’re my wife. The only woman I’ve ever married.”
“He said you told him I was just an adventure. Marrying me was a joke. He said you’d probably gone back to Belgium to be with your family.”
Love in the Time of Apartheid Page 26
