by Irma Joubert
“And I think you look like a prude,” Annabel countered.
An icy anger froze the flames inside Pérsomi. “Everyone is entitled to an opinion,” she said. “Now you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got work to do.” She turned and closed her office door behind her.
At teatime she avoided the typists’ shiny eyes and eager tongues.
“I wish she’d go back to England,” one of the typists said a few weeks later.
“Or to Russia. Then she might never come back,” said the other.
Only Ms. Steyn couldn’t stop talking about Mr. De Vos’s lovely daughter. “She’s like a beautiful, gleaming black racehorse,” Ms. Steyn sighed, “but not broken in.” She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, they were dreamy. “There’s only one man who can rein her in, and that’s Boelie Fourie. The sooner he puts a ring on her finger, the better.”
For the pain Pérsomi knew no remedy. Weeks later it was still a malignant tumor, threatening to devour her life from the inside.
Two or three times she saw the Fourie pickup drive down the street. She turned her head the other way. She didn’t want to know whether it was Mr. Fourie or Boelie behind the wheel. She didn’t want to see either of them.
She buried herself in her work. She immersed herself in factual conversations: legal aspects and political intrigues and topical events. During the day it worked.
Usually.
At night she read. And if that didn’t help, she switched on the wireless.
It was all over the news: while the Afrikaners celebrated the Van Riebeeck Festival, the nonwhites were launching an organized campaign. The Defiance Campaign, they called it.
On Saturday, April 5, Van Riebeeck’s landing at the Cape in the Drommedaris, of which a forty-foot replica had been specially built, was reenacted on the seafront in Table Bay.
“Heavens, Pérsomi, did they build the ship?” her ma asked, astounded by the photo in the paper.
The Black, Coloured, and Indian people spoke of protest action against unfair laws and apartheid in the post offices and railways. They organized mass meetings, marches, and demonstrations. They deliberately ignored pass laws and curfews. They openly used the white section of the post offices and railway stations. Thousands were arrested.
“I’m very worried about the situation,” said Oom Polla.
“Oom Polla has had it I’m telling you he’s had it,” sighed Aunt Duifie.
On Sunday, April 6, dedication services were held countrywide, at which Van Riebeeck’s prayer was read in Old Dutch and in Afrikaans.
At the Witwatersrand, rebellious masses resisted the forced removals of Sophiatown residents to Soweto. Black women burned their passes.
In Cape Town, wreaths were laid at the statues of Jan and Maria van Riebeeck. Brass bands performed in the stadium. A mass choir sang “Wilhelmus van Nassouwe.”
At the Cape Town station, dozens of nonwhites got out of a carriage clearly marked Whites Only. They were arrested on the spot.
“Heavens, Pérsomi!” her ma said anxiously.
“It’s far away, Ma, don’t worry,” said Pérsomi.
No need to worry, we’re very far away. The war won’t affect us, Meester had said a long time ago.
In Johannesburg’s Alexandra township, thousands took part in a bus boycott. “A good thing they’re fit from walking to work all these years,” De Wet said drily as he folded the newspaper.
“The nonwhite resistance movements have exhausted the option of peaceful petitions,” wrote The Star.
“The Nationalists have reached the end of their tether with the troublemakers,” wrote Die Transvaler.
“Violence will be met with violence,” said Minister of Justice, Charles Swart.
And Albert Luthuli said, “The year 1952 is a turning point in our history.”
“In my history as well,” Pérsomi said bitterly.
A few weeks later, the Indian leader Dadoo was branded a Communist. He was relieved of his position in the Joint Planning Council. “Is he a Communist, Yusuf?” Pérsomi asked when she ran into Yusuf at his father’s store.
“How should I know, Pérsomi?” he replied. “Communism is against the law, but I don’t know what his personal convictions are. I just know he’s a brilliant man.”
Some nights she grew angry: at Mr. Fourie, who had known and yet watched them struggle day after day; at Boelie, who had crossed the line—and who seemed so effortlessly to have left the line behind him and moved on.
In winter the nights were so much longer. And the days so much grayer.
One day De Wet said, “You know, Pérsomi, Christine and I thought at one stage that something was developing between you and Boelie.”
“We’re just good friends, De Wet.”
“Still?” he asked skeptically.
She shook her head slowly. “No, I suppose not. We had a serious difference of opinion.”
“So serious that both of you have clearly lost weight?”
She shrugged. “Serious,” she said.
“I still think there was more than friendship between you,” he kept prodding.
“No, there was nothing more. Boelie has always been like an older brother to me, especially after Gerbrand left. Like you were . . . still are.”
He smiled indulgently and nodded. “You’re right. You know, you’re like a sister to me.”
The case she represented was complicated, full of tangled legal concepts. It was a case of Fide Curiosum, where a grandson was faced with a hundred-year embargo placed on the farm he inherited from his grandfather thirty years earlier. There were complicated family feuds and complex promises and misunderstandings and emotions—and the land could not be sold. It was the family’s only asset, and the line of petitioners kept growing longer.
She was tired as she walked back to the office from the courthouse. Though it was early September, it was hot and dry.
When she pushed open the office door, Ms. Steyn wasn’t in her usual spot at reception. Pérsomi went through to the small kitchen to fetch a glass of cold water.
In the passage a wave of excitement struck her.
“Have you heard, Pérsomi? There’s going to be a wedding!” one of the typists bubbled.
The second typist interrupted her. “Ms. Steyn says it’ll be the wedding of the century, like this town has never seen,” she said.
“Ms. Steyn says money will be no object,” the first typist took over again, “Mr. De Vos will want nothing but the best for his only daughter.”
“Is . . . Annabel getting married?” Pérsomi asked. Her mouth was suddenly bone-dry.
“Yes, to Boelie Fourie. It’s just . . . perfect!” sighed the typist, her earlier indignation wiped out by the prospect of a fairytale wedding.
“They’re the perfect couple,” sighed the second typist. “She’s so beautiful and so mod. And he’s so rich, and so handsome!” Her eyes were dreamy. Gone were all the vengeful thoughts about the boss’s daughter and her royal demeanor.
Pérsomi turned and walked out.
Her fingers found the key in her handbag. Her hands trembled as she inserted it in the ignition. Bucket coughed, then headed down the street of its own accord, turned onto the main road, continued in the direction of the railway line.
Boelie, who had pleaded with her to think again only six months before? He was . . . getting married?
She crossed the railway line, unsure where she was going.
She didn’t think she’d ever be okay again. Because on this warm spring afternoon she could not turn to Boelie with the scorching pain inside her.
She could no longer go to her mountain either. Her mountain was on Boelie’s farm. Her mountain was no longer her mountain.
The sun was shining. The veld lay motionless in the hazy heat. The only sound was the screeching of cicadas.
She pulled to the side of the road. Her throat was tight. Tears welled up and spilled out of her eyes. The veld began to swim.
There was no
anger left, no self-contempt, maybe not even any pain.
Only an indescribable loneliness.
For the first time in her life she cried in broad daylight.
The De Vos and De Vos law offices became Annabel’s wedding headquarters. Her mother did nothing. Her father paid for everything. Arrangements were made at breakneck speed.
Pérsomi ate and slept and bathed and read the papers and listened to the news on the wireless. She worked from early morning late into the night. She worked all through her lunch hour. The lump in her stomach remained rock hard.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been working every lunch hour?” Reinier asked one lunchtime, sticking his head around her door.
The wedding gown was ordered from France, specially designed for the bride’s big day. “It must cost a fortune,” one of the typists sighed.
Pérsomi kept working, her head down.
The two typists spent an entire day addressing the invitations. The lettering was gold. “You can smell the money,” Ms. Steyn said with satisfaction. They sealed the envelopes and put a stamp on each. “Yuck, my tongue is sticking to my teeth,” one said.
Court work often took Pérsomi out of the office. A mercy. Her preparation was faultless, her logic impeccable, her evidence unshakable. But not even the intensity of the arguments could distract her. And nothing could make the rock inside her crumble.
Loads of flowers were ordered. The butcher had to sterilize his fridges to keep the flowers fresh. “The bushveld must be the hottest, dustiest place in the world,” said Annabel. She would know. She had traveled the world.
One afternoon Pérsomi ran into Boelie in the passage. “Hello, Pérsomi,” he said stiffly.
“Good afternoon, Boelie.” After the initial shock it was anger that surfaced.
For a moment their eyes met, then he said, “Is De Wet here?” “I’m sure he’s in his office,” she answered. She turned and walked into her own office, closing the door behind her.
For a long time she sat without moving, trembling at first. Then she just sat, stunned.
The pain had broken through, more searing than ever.
“You can’t stay away from the wedding,” Reinier told her. He looked very serious. “You have to go.”
“I don’t feel like it,” she protested. “I don’t like weddings and funerals.”
Despite the earnest expression in his eyes, he smiled. “You can’t mention weddings and funerals in the same breath. Besides, not feeling like it is no excuse. The daughter and brother of your two colleagues, De Wet and my dad, are getting married. Come with me. We’ll cheer each other up.”
“Reinier, you don’t understand,” she said, dispirited.
“I do,” he said softly. “I know you were a little in love with Boelie, and it’s not easy to go to his wedding. But he and Annabel were always meant for each other.”
She nodded. What was the use of arguing?
“I’m in the same boat,” he said. “Irene . . .” He shrugged. “She’s bringing her English boyfriend to the wedding.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still carrying a torch for Irene?” she asked, surprised.
He gave an embarrassed smile. “You see, I really do understand. And I’d love you to go with me, because Annabel is my sister. There’s no way I can avoid this. We’ll have a good time. What do you say?”
She went to Mr. Ismail’s store to buy a dress and shoes. Feeling reckless, she spent almost half her salary on her outfit.
The church was filled with flowers. The pulpit was dwarfed by pyramids of bouquets. Every pew along the aisle sported a bunch of flowers. More flowers cascaded from the balconies.
She and Reinier sat down in the third pew from the front, in the section reserved for the bride’s family.
Boelie was already there, seated in the first pew. He sat motionless, staring at the pulpit cloth straight ahead. God With Us, said the words, embroidered in gold thread.
Across the aisle, in the section reserved for the groom’s relatives, sat Irene and her English boyfriend, along with De Wet and Christine and Klara and Antonio. None of their children were present. The invitation had expressly said no children.
The church was bursting at the seams. Everyone who was anyone in the town and district had been invited.
Just before the bells began to peal, Mr. Fourie and Aunt Lulu entered with Reinier’s mother and took their seats.
Pérsomi steeled herself.
The organ began to play. Everyone stood. Everyone turned to the aisle.
Pérsomi watched with unseeing eyes.
She saw the bride: radiant, breathtakingly beautiful.
She saw the bride’s father: strangely emotional.
She avoided looking at the groom.
They took their vows before God and the congregation—Till death us do part.
The hotel was decked out in festive array. The town had never seen the likes of it. “Even the caterers are from Joburg,” someone whispered. “Just look at the starters!”
“I hear there are more than five hundred guests,” a second guest added. “It must have cost a fortune.”
Somewhere, someday, Boelie had said, “Give me a good old farm wedding anytime . . .”
They shared a table with Reinier’s uncle and his family from Johannesburg. The conversation failed to flow. At the next table sat the Fouries: De Wet and Christine, Irene and her boyfriend, Klara and Antonio, as well as Dr. Lettie Louw and Antonio’s brother, Marco. They were having fun even before the proposal of the toasts.
Pérsomi wanted to kick off her shoes and run. Instead she smiled at everyone. She made conversation with one of Reinier’s cousins.
“What do you think of him?” Reinier asked after the starter.
She took a critical look at Irene’s boyfriend—tall, dark, athletically built, clearly super fit. “A washed-out Tommy,” she said.
His laughter was spontaneous. “You’ll stick to me through thick and thin, won’t you?”
They toasted the health of the bridegroom’s parents. “Drink up, there’s more where this came from,” Reinier said.
They toasted the bride’s parents. The bride’s mother clearly had nothing but grape juice in her glass.
“Drink,” said Reinier and motioned to the waiter to open a second bottle of champagne.
De Wet proposed a toast to the bride and groom. He gave a brilliant speech. The guests laughed heartily and at the right moments they wiped away a tear. Christine sat looking at him with a soft smile on her lips, her eyes radiant with admiration.
Pérsomi felt the champagne warm her from the inside. She felt her face relax, a reckless abandon take hold of her.
Antonio and his brother serenaded the bridal couple, their rich tenor voices filling the hotel with heavenly notes.
“Goodness, those two Italians can sing!” said Reinier. “Wait, I’ll order something stronger, or we won’t make it through the night.”
It was the groom’s turn to make a speech. Pérsomi and Reinier joined in the fun. The groom was no longer Boelie—he was a rooster dressed like a penguin.
The bridal couple cut the towering wedding cake with great aplomb. Pérsomi clung to Reinier’s arm.
She was vaguely aware of the bride and groom opening the dance floor. Reinier held her in his arms, and they twirled round and round, stopping only to down another glass.
“So this is the wedding of the century,” Pérsomi said cynically.
“Just goes to show, doesn’t it?” Reinier laughed and raised his glass. “To us!”
“Watch out, you’re spilling liquor all over my new dress,” she protested, clumsily dabbing at the wet spot.
She clung to him. Or perhaps he clung to her. For hours, it seemed. How long did a wedding last?
Suddenly, out of nowhere, Boelie stood in front of them, in front of her. She saw his mouth speak, saw his lips move. She heard his voice, harsh with fury. “Good heavens, Reinier, stop making a scene! Just take her home! Take her home at
once. See that she gets to bed. And you get to bed too!”
The words burned into her befuddled brain. Boelie’s glowing black eyes burned into her memory.
When she woke, her head was threatening to explode. She held it with both hands and sat up slowly.
Her shoes lay next to the bed, where she had kicked them off. She was still wearing her silk stockings and her new dress.
She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, carefully pushed back her hair.
Slowly the previous night’s events came back, began to take shape.
What had she done?
Early Monday morning she walked to the office, hoping the exercise might calm her. She left early, wanting to be first to arrive. She would have to face the people who had witnessed the humiliation of her excess. Mr. De Vos. De Wet. Eventually Boelie. Everyone who remembered that she was still just Pérsomi, the bywoner child from the house on the ridge.
She put her handbag and briefcase in her office. When she turned, Mr. De Vos was in the doorway. She put her hand over her startled heart.
“Can we talk?” he asked, then led the way to his office.
She followed, numb with shock. He would fire her for sure.
He closed his door. “Sit,” he said, indicating the chair in front of his desk.
Wordlessly she obeyed. She hadn’t been prepared for this, but she should probably have expected it.
He crossed to the window and looked out over the small courtyard.
“Sir, I’m truly sorry,” she stammered. “If you want, I’ll go away, somewhere else, find a job elsewhere.”
He turned slowly. He shook his head. “You don’t have to go away.” His voice sounded strange. His eyes looked strange, too, she noticed. He had taken off his thick glasses. His dark eyes blinked in the light. There were dark circles under his eyes.
She sat quietly, waiting.
“I suppose I could say a lot of things about Saturday night, Pérsomi, but I’m not going to. We all have a night like that sometime.” He was pacing up and down, occasionally stopping to look through the window.
