by Irma Joubert
Boelie and De Wet seemed not to hear. They drove past a row of buildings, each with a veranda. Boelie stopped the car. “Here you are. I’ll pick you up in a while,” he said, and waited for them to get out. “Don’t be long, we have to be in court at nine.”
Pérsomi followed her ma and Sissie inside. After a while her eyes got used to the dark.
The store smelled of tobacco and maize flour and other things she didn’t recognize. There was a high, wide counter, and the shelves behind it were filled with tins and bottles. Large bags of maize flour and sugar stood on the floor. A man with a black beard and a strange hat was scooping sugar from one of the bags and pouring it into a brown paper cone.
To the left of the door was the haberdashery department. She saw fabric and lace and cotton, as well as blankets, coats, dresses, hats, and shoes. Pérsomi stood transfixed. She had never seen such pretty dresses. She wanted to keep looking, but her ma and Sissie were already heading for the shoes.
“Ma, look!” said Sissie.
“Can I help?” a dark-skinned young boy asked politely.
“I’m looking for Mr. Ismail,” said her ma.
“He’s still at home. I’ll send someone to call him,” said the boy. He gestured to a younger boy, who disappeared through the back door.
Sissie and her ma lingered beside a showcase full of shiny things. “Ma, look at the necklaces!” said Sissie.
Pérsomi wandered off to where the shoe boxes were stacked almost to the ceiling. The boy followed her.
“We live behind the store,” he said. “My grandpa will be here shortly. What have you come to buy?”
“Shoes,” said Pérsomi.
“Okay,” said the boy. “What size?”
“I . . . don’t know,” said Pérsomi.
The boy looked at her, taking in her bare feet and the faded green dress that was too short and too wide. He nodded.
She said, “My brother is in the army. He sends us money.”
The boy looked up, surprised. “My brother is in the army too,” he said. “He’s in Kenya. They’re on their way to Abyssinia.”
“So is my brother! He wrote a letter to tell us. I didn’t know coolies fight in the war.”
“Don’t call us coolies, it’s insulting,” the boy said earnestly.
“Oh, I thought you were coolies,” said Pérsomi. “You look like coolies.”
“Call us Indians,” said the boy. “We’re Indians, we’re originally from India.”
“Okay,” said Pérsomi, “I’ll remember.”
“Are you looking for school shoes? Or what?” the boy asked. “Your feet are long and narrow, I think you’ll take a number five.”
“I’m looking for . . . ordinary shoes,” Pérsomi said uncertainly.
“Wait, I’ll take them down, then you can look. My brother is a stretcher bearer in the medical corps,” the boy said.
“Gerbrand is in the Royal Natal Carbineers. Gosh, those are pretty shoes!”
The next moment an old man spoke behind her. “I’ll take it from here, Yusuf,” he said. “No, no, those aren’t the right ones. You can choose from these.” He took three pairs of shoes from a shelf and held them up to Pérsomi.
“Oh,” she said.
“Here, try these.”
She pushed her foot into the shoe. It was pretty but it felt strange and hard. “Did you bring socks?” the old man asked.
“No,” said Pérsomi.
“Well, you should wear socks, or you’ll get blisters,” said the man.
“Okay,” said Pérsomi.
The man took the shoes and wrapped them in a piece of newspaper. “There you are,” he said.
“Can we buy these two necklaces as well?” her ma asked.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pieterse, the money isn’t enough.” He shook his head regretfully and clicked with his tongue. But then he smiled broadly and said, “But for you, Mrs. Pieterse, for you, it’s a present today.” He put the two necklaces in her ma’s hand.
When Boelie stopped in front of the store, they were waiting: Pérsomi with her hard new shoes on her bare feet, her ma and Sissie each with a shiny new necklace around their necks.
“Mr. Ismail is a good man, that’s for sure,” her ma said.
“Watch out, Aunt Jemima,” said Boelie from the front seat. “He’s a sly old fox.”
The magistrate’s court was a big gray building with thick pillars at the front. Two flags hung limply from scruffy flagpoles: the Union Jack and the Union flag.
Pérsomi felt her stomach contract. The nice new shoes felt strange on her feet.
Aunt Marie was waiting on the steps. “All set?” she asked.
“Heavens above, Mrs. Retief, I’m all in,” her ma said. “My nerves are shot.”
Sissie burst into tears.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” said Aunt Marie. “Sissie, stop crying now, or you won’t be able to speak.”
Sissie gave a long, hard sniff.
“How about you, Pérsomi?” asked Aunt Marie.
Pérsomi looked up, straight into Boelie’s dark eyes. He gave her an almost imperceptible nod. Then she looked at Aunt Marie. “I’m ready, thank you,” she said.
“We’re going in. We’ll meet you here afterward,” said Boelie.
Pérsomi, her ma, and Sissie were not allowed to go inside, because they were witnesses. They had to wait on a bench in the passage.
They sat down. People walked by, some quickly, some slowly. They stared straight ahead.
They waited on the bench in the passage outside the courtroom for a very long time. They didn’t speak, just waited.
Someone brought them coffee and bread. Then they waited some more.
Pérsomi’s nice new shoes began to pinch her feet.
Sissie was called in first. When the policeman came to fetch her, she looked petrified, but at least she wasn’t crying.
Her ma crumpled and wrung her gray handkerchief.
After a while they came to fetch her ma as well, but Sissie didn’t come back.
It was a long passage with a lot of doors and lights high up on the ceiling. The bench got harder the longer she waited.
Her feet felt warm in the shoes. They were sweating.
At last they came for her. She followed the policeman. Her feet hurt so badly she could barely walk.
She put her hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth, as Aunt Marie and De Wet had instructed her. Then she was told to sit on a small platform just below the magistrate.
She looked at the prosecutor, like Aunt Marie had told her to. He was a young man with green eyes, almost like De Wet’s.
“Pérsomi,” said the prosecutor in a friendly voice, “we’re here to find out what happened in your home at night. You know what this is about, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Pérsomi, “it’s about Sissie having a baby.”
At a long table behind the prosecutor sat a man with a thin nose, the defense attorney. Lewies sat beside him, but she avoided his eyes.
“Can you describe to us what your home looks like?” the prosecutor asked.
“There are two rooms. My parents sleep in one room, we sleep in the other,” she said.
She took a peek at the courtroom. It didn’t scare her. Behind the man with the thin nose was a railing, and behind it were rows of people who had come to listen. She didn’t look directly at them, but she saw them.
“So you and Sissie sleep in the same room?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
She spotted Aunt Marie among the people. Aunt Marie smiled and nodded.
“Pérsomi, did your father sometimes come into your room? When your mother was asleep?”
Pérsomi drew a slow breath. On one side of the courtroom, near the aisle, sat De Wet and Boelie. De Wet was writing on a piece of paper. Boelie nodded when she looked at him.
“Yes, some nights, and always when he drank brandy.”
“What happened then?”
Pérsomi licked
her dry lips. Wolf stories wouldn’t help her now. “He lay down on Sissie’s mattress, with Sissie.”
The prosecutor spoke softly now. “And then, Pérsomi? I know this is hard, but you must tell me everything.”
“Then . . . Sissie cried.”
“Why did Sissie cry?”
“I think . . . he hurt her. He . . .” She hesitated a moment, then she said very softly, “He made out with her.”
The prosecutor nodded and smiled, and she felt better. “Pérsomi, did Sissie have a special friend? A boyfriend?” he asked.
“No,” Pérsomi answered.
“Maybe she had one you didn’t know about?”
“No,” Pérsomi answered firmly. “No one ever came to visit us, except Oom Attie and his family, and Sissie never went anywhere. Except to Oom Attie’s house.”
“And who is Oom Attie?”
“My uncle. My ma’s sister’s husband,” Pérsomi explained.
“Thank you,” said the prosecutor and smiled again. He turned to the magistrate. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
Pérsomi looked up at where Aunt Marie was sitting. She nodded. Everything had gone well. Pérsomi looked to Boelie but he was reading what De Wet was writing.
The man with the thin nose got up and gave her a friendly smile. “Your name is Pérsomi, is that right? May I call you Pérsomi?”
“Yes,” Pérsomi said cautiously. He was the man who was going to ask her trick questions, Aunt Marie had said.
“How old are you, Pérsomi?”
“Thirteen.”
“And you and your sister sleep in the same room?”
“Yes,” Pérsomi answered, “we all sleep in the same room, except my parents.”
“Your mother sleeps in the room next to yours?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” The man with the thin nose looked down at his papers, then he looked up again. “You said the accused, your father, came to Sissie at night?”
“Yes.”
“Could you see, or just hear?”
“I heard,” Pérsomi said cautiously. “It was dark. You can’t see in the dark.”
Pérsomi heard a rustle from the gallery as if people were whispering.
“Yes, quite right,” the man said. “And did you hear what was happening in the bed next to yours? Did you hear your sister cry?”
Pérsomi’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what I said, yes. Only, we sleep on mattresses, not in beds.”
“Very well. And you said it happened often during the past”—he looked at his notes—“the past year and a half? At least two or three times a month?”
Pérsomi felt tension gnaw at her. Inside the hard shoes her feet were tingling. She had a feeling that the thin-nosed man was setting a trap for her. But she knew how to look out for snares on a goat trail. So she looked at the magistrate and said clearly, “That’s what I said, Your Honor. That’s what happened.”
The magistrate wore thick glasses with black frames. He nodded solemnly.
“I see,” said the defense attorney. He tapped on his notes with his pencil. “Then how is it that your mother testified she never heard anything?”
Pérsomi hesitated a moment. She knew what her ma and Sissie had discussed when Aunt Marie wasn’t present. But she couldn’t get her ma into trouble, so she said: “My ma was sleeping in the other room.”
“But there’s only a thin curtain between the two rooms? Surely one can hear what is happening in the room next door?”
How could he know this? He’d never been in their home. “My ma didn’t even wake up when Gertjie was coughing,” she said. “And sometimes he coughed all night.”
“Do you mean to tell me all these things happened without your mother ever waking up?” She could see the man with his clever ways didn’t believe her at all.
She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. At that moment she didn’t care—she wouldn’t allow him to make out that she was stupid. “That’s what I said, yes,” she said loudly and clearly. “That’s what happened,” she said, turning to face the magistrate. “And it’s the truth, Your Honor.”
“I hear what you’re saying,” the man with the black-rimmed glasses assured her. His eyes were serious.
The man with the thin nose walked back to his table and looked at his papers for a long time. Pérsomi felt in her legs the impulse to run. If only she could get her feet out of the shoes.
But then he looked up. He stared at her for a long time. She stared back at him.
He removed his thin spectacles. Now he looked a lot friendlier. “Pérsomi, Lewies Pieterse isn’t your biological father, is he?” he asked quietly.
Pérsomi was startled. She looked past him at Boelie. She could see by the surprise in Boelie’s eyes that he hadn’t known.
Aunt Marie’s hand had flown to her mouth. She hadn’t known either.
No one had told Pérsomi she was going to be asked that question. And she had made a cross-my-heart promise to Gerbrand.
“I asked whether Lewies Pieterse is your biological father, Pérsomi.”
She could just say yes, it would be easy. But she didn’t want to say yes, because she didn’t want Lewies Pieterse as her pa.
And the oath on the Bible was probably stronger than the cross-my-heart promise.
She raised her head and said, “Lewies Pieterse isn’t my father.”
She heard a ripple go through the courtroom. “Silence in court!” the magistrate said sternly.
Thin Nose looked satisfied and nodded. She kept looking straight at him.
“And . . . do the two of you have a good relationship?” he asked. “Do you get on well with him?”
“No,” said Pérsomi, “I don’t.”
“Why not?”
Pérsomi took a deep breath. “Because he wastes our money when we have it.” She turned to the magistrate again. “My brother Gerbrand is in the army, he sends us money every month. But if Lewies Pieterse gets hold of the envelope first, he buys brandy, Your Honor, and gets drunk and then we don’t have money for food, Your Honor.”
“I see,” said the magistrate.
“What else does he do that you don’t like?” asked Thin Nose.
“He beats us, with his hands or the strap, my ma as well.” She turned to the magistrate again. “And he doesn’t help us in the fields when we have to plant mealies or pumpkins, even though he’s strong enough to push the plow into the soil, Your Honor.”
The magistrate nodded.
“I understand,” said the attorney, looking down his nose. “I also understand that you do well at school. Your teacher tells me that you’ve been awarded a grant to go to high school next year?”
“Yes,” said Pérsomi. What did that have to do with anything?
“But Lewies Pieterse has arranged for you to go and work in Johannesburg. I understand your brother Piet has already got you a job?”
“At a laundry, yes,” Pérsomi said uneasily.
“So,” said Thin Nose, fumbling with his papers, “it would suit you if your stepfather were found guilty? If he were removed from your lives for a few years? Isn’t that right, Pérsomi?”
She realized where the bloody crook’s questions had been leading. She jumped to her feet at the same time the prosecutor did.
“Objection, Your Honor. The defense—”
“I can speak for myself,” she announced. “I have a head that’s not just for keeping my ears apart. I can see what he’s doing.” She turned to Thin Nose and looked at him. “Yes, it would be good if Lewies Pieterse was found guilty, not because I want him out of the house”—she turned to the magistrate—“but because he is guilty, and that’s all there’s to it, Your Honor.”
“I see,” said the magistrate.
“I have one more thing to say, Your Honor.”
“All right,” said the magistrate, “but first you must sit down and remain seated.”
“Okay, Your Honor,” said Pérsomi and sank back onto her seat. Her feet were b
urning in the hard shoes.
She faced the magistrate and spoke directly to him. He was the one who had to know the truth. “My ma and Sissie decided beforehand that they would say Sissie has a boyfriend, because they’re afraid Mr. Fourie will chase us away if Lewies goes to jail, and then we won’t have a home. But ask who that boyfriend is? They’ll say he’s a married man, they can’t tell you his name. But there’s no such person, Your Honor. And also, says my ma, if we say anything against Lewies Pieterse”—for the first time she looked at the man in the dock—“he’ll kill us the day he gets out.” She drew a deep breath and turned her gaze back to the magistrate. “And, Your Honor, I’m not a liar like that man with the thin nose makes me out to be. Everything I’ve said is the truth.”
Boelie was waiting for her in the hall. “Can she come with me?” he asked the policewoman who escorted Pérsomi out.
“Yes, she’s finished,” the woman said.
“I’ll fetch the others later,” said Boelie. “Please tell them to wait here. Come, Pérsomi.”
She followed him to the car. The shoes hurt her feet. He opened the passenger door. She got in and sat close to the window.
When they were driving down the main street, Boelie said, “You did the right thing to tell the truth, Pérsomi.”
She nodded but didn’t say anything.
In front of Johnny’s Café he parked and got out. “Come,” he said over his shoulder as he walked into the café.
Pérsomi followed uncertainly. He walked to the rear and sat down at a table. “Sit,” he said and pointed at the chair facing him. “What kind of soda would you like? Coca-Cola? Hubbly Bubbly? Sparletta?”
She shrugged. She had no idea what he was talking about.
The room smelled of food. Her stomach contracted. Anger still filled her entire body.
She wished she could free her feet from the shoes. Her toes were crammed together.
“Two Sparletta Cream Sodas, please,” Boelie said to the woman standing next to them. “And two pies with gravy and chips.”
Pérsomi sat up straight and looked around. At the entrance was a two-tiered glass display cabinet. Each tier consisted of about eight glass cubicles containing a variety of sweets, hundreds of thousands of sweets, it seemed.
A fat man with a red face was leaning against the counter. Behind him was a shelf stacked with bread and cigarettes, and on the opposite side a stand with newspapers and magazines.
