Child of the River

by Irma Joubert

  When she stepped out of the courtroom, there was no sign of him. But there was no time to give it any more thought. She hurried to her car, unlocked it, put her briefcase and gown on the back seat, and reached for the door on the driver’s side.

  She froze. The front tire was completely flat. The car was leaning to the side. She looked around helplessly. The street was deserted.

  Pérsomi bent down, removed her high-heeled shoes and began to sprint, the court order in her hand.

  It’s liberating, she realized as she raced to the town center, the wind in her loose hair, the pavement under her bare feet. She ran until the tension left her body.

  When she turned the last corner before the Indian neighborhood, she stopped and stared in dismay at the scene that greeted her.

  There seemed to be an army of police vehicles and men in blue. Clearly reinforcements had been called in from neighboring towns. Bulky men were throwing items out of houses, without any regard for their possible value.

  The entire Indian community was in the street, trying to salvage their possessions, running to and fro, pleading. Some of the older women stood looking on in dismay as their belongings were tossed into the street.

  Pérsomi broke into a run again, heading for the commanding officer. “Stop! Stop at once!” she said at the top of her voice. “You’re breaking their things, stop! I have a court order prohibiting this action.” She waved the document in the air.

  Two policemen grabbed her from behind and held her arms. “Let me go at once!” she said, trying to free herself.

  But they held on.

  More and more cars stopped, more and more townspeople came to see the commotion. They stood at the fringes. One man approached to take photos with his Brownie.

  The commanding officer took the document but didn’t look at it. “My men are just doing their job, Miss Pieterse, and we won’t stand for any obstruction.”

  “For Pete’s sake, just read the document in your hand!” she said, beside herself with anger. “And let go of my arms, you’re hurting me!”

  Still they held on.

  When she looked up, Boelie was beside her, his face white.

  “Let go of Miss Pieterse,” he said stiffly. “She’s the legal representative of the Indian community. She has a court order to temporarily halt the eviction process.”

  The commanding officer gave Boelie a surprised look.

  “Are you taking the Asians’ side now?” the officer asked, astounded.

  “I’m merely suggesting you read the document in your hand,” said Boelie. He was still pale. He turned to the two young constables. “And you two, let go of the lady’s arms this minute.”

  They let her go and stepped back.

  The officer studied the document, then reluctantly called a halt to the eviction.

  Somewhat deflated, the uniformed men got into the waiting vehicles and returned to their stations.

  The Indians gathered up their possessions and carried them back inside.

  The townspeople turned and slowly walked away.

  “Come, I’ll take you home,” said Boelie. “Where are your shoes?”

  He changed her tire, then drove the car back to her home and knocked on her door. She had calmed down.

  “Thank you, Boelie,” she said, for both his intervention and the repair. “Would you like some coffee?”

  He closed the door and sat down in her kitchen, facing her. She prepared for him to take another shot at convincing her to give up the case.

  “I know who your father is,” Boelie said. His dark eyes burned into hers.

  “Boelie,” she began to protest.

  “I can’t believe I never saw the family likeness between you and Annabel, the two women I know best in the entire world.”

  She held up both hands. “Boelie,” she said.

  “In court this morning, watching you in action, the way you move your head and hands, it struck me like a bucket of icy water.”

  “It really doesn’t matter anymore,” she pleaded. “It’s water under the bridge.”

  “It matters to me, Pérsomi,” he said slowly. “I have lain awake so many nights, wondering how I could have fallen for her. Now I understand. And I understand so much more than that.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “ACTUALLY, WE’RE MEANT FOR EACH OTHER, WE’VE ALWAYS been,” Reinier said one chilly winter’s morning. “I really wish you’d get to know her properly, Pérsomi.”

  “I’ve known her all my life,” said Pérsomi. “I know you’re making a mistake.”

  “You know the image she holds up to the world,” Reinier said earnestly. “There are things in her past that have forced her to build walls around herself.”

  “Oh, please, Reinier!” Pérsomi snapped. “Irene is a youngest child who grew up as a spoiled brat in a wealthy home. How hard could it have been?”

  “Irene was the pesky little sister who spent her days, without success, trying to equal the achievements of her brothers and sister,” he said calmly, “and the other little girl who lived on the same farm.”

  Pérsomi gave him a hostile look. “The bywoner child,” she said.

  He looked squarely back at her. “The illegitimate child of a man who refused to accept his responsibilities,” he said.

  “Don’t.”

  “Well, then don’t give me that bywoner nonsense.”

  She closed her eyes and pushed her fingers through her hair. “Reinier, what are we doing?”

  “Arguing like two stupid teenagers,” he said.

  “Let’s stop.”

  “Fine,” he said. “I’m going to Pietermaritzburg for a week. Irene and I must talk about things that can’t be discussed on the phone. But I want you to know, Pérsomi, that I’m very serious about Irene. You know when the other person is right for you—for marriage, I mean.”

  “Are you really that serious, Reinier? Marriage serious?”

  “Yes, Pérsomi, I am.”

  Early one morning Pérsomi arrived at the office to find a delegation of Indian leaders waiting for her under the bare jacaranda trees behind the building. “Is something wrong?” she asked anxiously as she got out of her car.

  “No, Miss Pérsomi, everything is good,” said Mr. Ismail.

  “Would you like to come inside?” she asked, heading for the back door.

  “No, Miss Pérsomi, we can talk here,” Mr. Ismail answered. “Miss Pérsomi, we’ve decided to move. Mr. Japie de Villiers showed us the plans for the new town. The houses are nicer and the school will also be better.”

  She frowned. “Are you sure it’s what you want to do?” she asked. “Or did Japie de Villiers talk you into it?”

  “The mayor explained everything to us,” said Mr. Ravat. “The houses will be bigger, with enough space for gardens. And the compensation isn’t bad.”

  Pérsomi thought of the crowded circumstances they lived in at present, the patched-up houses squeezed in between the stores, the narrow streets and alleyways. There were no gardens where the children could play. “Fine,” she said hesitantly. “Won’t you come inside?”

  “No, thank you, Miss Pérsomi,” said Mr. Ismail. “But Miss Pérsomi, we’re going to keep our businesses in town.”

  “I see.” She thought for a moment. “Did you discuss that with Mr. De Villiers?”

  They all shook their heads. “No,” Mr. Ismail spoke up again, “we’re telling you now.”

  “If you decide to move your places of residence but not your businesses, you’re still contravening the law. Sooner or later you’re going to clash with the police,” she said. “Did you give the matter careful thought?”

  “We did, Miss Pérsomi, and we can’t move our businesses,” said Mr. Ismail.

  “Okay,” Pérsomi nodded. After a moment’s pause, she said, “In that case our next step is to apply for a special permit to allow you to operate your businesses from their present premises. Section 14 of the Group Areas Act makes provision for the issuing of special permits.
I’ll make sure of all the legal aspects. Give me a week, then we’ll talk again.”

  “Thank you, Miss Pérsomi,” the bearded men chorused. They walked down the street on their way back to their stores, striking in their long white robes, each head neatly crowned with a fez.

  When she entered the office, Ms. Steyn was already there. “Why do those Indians have to gather in our parking area?” she complained. “It isn’t good for the image of De Vos and De Vos.”

  “We ought to look in on Oom Bartel,” said De Wet one teatime early in August. “He’s not doing well. I think he could do with our support.”

  Pérsomi frowned. She had been so busy preparing for the hearing that she’d given hardly a thought to anything else. “Is he in the hospital?” she asked.

  “No, he’s at home, but he’s mostly in bed.”

  He was trying to tell her that she should go and see Mr. De Vos. That much was clear to Pérsomi. Of course, De Wet didn’t really understand. She had never been in Reinier’s home before. How could she simply show up and say, “Good morning, Mr. De Vos, how are you this morning?”

  She put it off for another day or two. But on Friday morning she took her briefcase and drove to the big house in Voortrekker Street.

  A black woman in a neat uniform opened the heavy front door. “Mr. De Vos is on the sun porch,” she said and led the way across the shiny floors and thick carpets, through the house where Reinier and Annabel had grown up.

  The covered porch was warm. Mr. De Vos lay back against a sofa, with pillows behind his back and a blanket over his legs. His face looked gaunt.

  The porch smelled of medicine and black tea.

  “Will you bring us a tray of tea?” Mr. De Vos asked the woman. She nodded and left.

  Pérsomi sat down awkwardly on a chair facing him. “How are you?”

  “Not bad, under the circumstances. I’m mostly free from pain.”

  Silence.

  “How are things at the office?” he asked.

  “Fine. Very busy, but that’s good.” What else could she say? “Rudolf Naudé starts next Monday. The young lawyer we appointed.”

  “Yes. That’s good,” he said.

  Silence.

  The woman brought in the tea. Pérsomi got up. “Shall I pour?” she asked.

  “Help yourself, I’ve just had some.” Mr. De Vos motioned with his hands. They were nothing but skin and bone.

  Pérsomi sipped her tea.

  “How are you faring with your preparation for the Ismail case?”

  “I think it’s going well.” She put her empty cup back on the tray. “There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you, if you feel up to it.”

  “I’d like to hear your arguments.”

  He listened with his eyes shut as she read him parts of her argument. Sometimes he interrupted to suggest a different word or phrase. Sometimes he asked a question.

  After a while the uniformed woman entered again. “Time for your medication,” she said apologetically.

  Pérsomi realized she’d been there for more than an hour. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have tired you out. It was most inconsiderate,” she said.

  He shook his head. “No, it’s good you came,” he said. But he looked exhausted.

  She drove home not knowing what she felt. Resentment, maybe, and sadness. She supposed deep down she had been hoping for him to apologize, to give her a reason to put her anger behind her.

  But to see him like that?

  It was a lazy Sunday afternoon in spring. Somewhere in the house the wireless was playing soft, sad music.

  They were lying in two deck chairs on Christine and De Wet’s porch, their legs in the sun. Gerbrand had taken Nelius along to the veld, Lientjie was playing with the two little girls in their bedroom, and De Wet and Christine were enjoying their Sunday afternoon nap.

  The old Le Roux farmyard had fallen into a languid sleep. Only the wireless played ceaseless music, in lonely minor tones.

  “Boelie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you asleep?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Then why are you saying ‘hmm’?”

  He gave a slight smile and lazily opened his eyes. “Yes?” he asked.

  “Boelie, are you lonely sometimes?”

  He turned his head and studied her. Then he said, “No, Pérsomi, not really. Alone, yes, but not lonely. I know . . . I know you’re there.”

  Her hand reached for his. He lay watching her, the expression in his dark eyes gentle. Almost imperceptibly he shook his head.

  She smiled and nodded. They both understood.

  Alone, yes. Not lonely.

  “Reinier and Irene are getting married this afternoon,” Pérsomi told her ma on Thursday.

  “Irene . . . Fourie?” her ma asked, confused. “And Reinier . . .” “Mr. De Vos’s son, Reinier, is going to marry Mr. Fourie’s daughter Irene.”

  “Heavens, Pérsomi, I know who Irene is, I’m not stupid,” her ma said irritably.

  “I just thought I’d tell you,” said Pérsomi.

  “But it’s Thursday afternoon. Why would they get married on a Thursday afternoon?”

  “Mr. De Vos is very ill, Ma, I’ve told you. He’s in the hospital. They were planning to get married in two months’ time but he might not have made it to the wedding.”

  “Is he so ill?” her ma asked, distressed.

  “Yes, Ma, I told you.”

  Pérsomi recalled the day under the wild fig tree, surrounded by the smell of overripe fruit and the chirping of the bushveld parrots. “Yes, Ma, he’s very ill,” she said more gently. “The wedding will take place in the hospital, at his bedside.”

  “Heavens, Pérsomi, I didn’t realize it was that serious.”

  Pérsomi wasn’t keen to go and had tried her best to get out of it. She had objected to Reinier. “The only people present will be your parents and your brothers and sisters!”

  “That’s exactly why you belong there,” he had said seriously. “Pérsomi, I know everything. My dad told me and . . . yes, I’m glad I know. You are . . . someone to be proud of.”

  Tears came to her eyes.

  He smiled. “I want you there. We’ve come a long way, Pérsomi.”

  So she dressed carefully to celebrate the wedding at the hospital with the two families.

  Outside the hospital she saw Mr. Fourie and Aunt Lulu for the first time in years. They looked well—healthy, happy. “Pérsomi!” Aunt Lulu said happily, drawing her close. “Goodness, you’re lovelier than ever!”

  Pérsomi laughed, embarrassed. “It’s good to see you,” she said.

  “De Wet tells us how well you’re doing. We’re incredibly proud of you,” Aunt Lulu said heartily. “And Christine says you’re a wonderful friend.”

  “Yes, De Wet and Christine are very kind to me.”

  “Oh, look, here’s Klara,” Aunt Lulu said and huried away to meet her daughter.

  Pérsomi fetched the hastily made bouquets from her car and set off for the ward. A few nurses came to help with the flowers. Earlier they had moved Mr. De Vos to a bigger ward, strategically positioned the bed, and brought in extra chairs for the guests.

  Mr. De Vos was propped up against the pillows, dressed and shaven. Beside his bed stood the oxygen tanks, the tube in his arm confining him to his bed. His glasses looked too big for his face and his complexion was gray, but he was cheerful. “I see they put you to work as well, Pérsomi,” he said.

  She placed flowers on the windowsill and the table. When he saw her looking around, searching for another suitable spot, he said, “Why don’t you put them on the nightstand beside my bed? We can put the medicine away for now.”

  Dominee Pieter entered, carrying a wooden lectern and his books. “Hello, Pérsomi, how nice to see you again. Shall I put my things over here?” he asked as if she were in charge.

  Aunt Lulu came in, with De Wet and Christine and Klara and Antonio. “Where shall we sit, Pérsomi?” they asked.

/>   Then Reinier entered with his mother, a thin, bewildered figure in a navy-blue dress. He put her chair next to the bed and greeted everyone. He was the only one with a flower in his buttonhole.

  Just before the bride entered, Boelie came in with Annabel on his arm. She floated in, elegant and beautiful and exquisitely groomed. She greeted everyone effusively. “To think my little brother and Boelie’s little sister are getting married! Isn’t it wonderful?” She hung on Boelie’s arm, snuggled up to him and stroked his neck.

  She didn’t fool anyone.

  Mr. Fourie came in with Irene on his arm, radiant as only a bride can be. Reinier looked happier than Pérsomi had ever seen him. Maybe, just maybe, he would find happiness.

  The application for the special permit was denied. The Indian traders had to vacate their places of business as well as their homes. Two weeks later, when Pérsomi saw Mr. Ismail and Mr. Moosa waiting in the parking area behind the office, their shoulders slumped, their faces anxious, she guessed they had been sued to appear in court.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ismail, Mr. Moosa.” She took her briefcase and handbag from her car.

  “Good morning, Miss Pérsomi,” they chorused.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  “No, right here is fine, Miss Pérsomi,” Mr. Ismail said. “We’ve just come to tell you, the police brought this.” He held out a document.

  “Is it a summons for you to appear in court?” she asked, unfolding the document.

  “Yes, Miss Pérsomi, we have to sign, all of us,” said Mr. Moosa.

  “We have to be in court two weeks from Tuesday,” Mr. Ismail added.

  Pérsomi folded the document again. “Who has been summoned?” she asked.

  “The two of us, and Isaac Ravat and my grandson Yusuf,” Mr. Ismail answered.

  “Fine, we’ll go to court,” said Pérsomi, heading for the back door. “I’ve finished my preparation for the hearing, but I want to discuss my arguments with you to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  “Right, Miss Pérsomi.”

  She unlocked the back door. “Are you sure you won’t come in?” she asked.

  “No, we’re fine, Miss Pérsomi, we must get to our stores,” Mr. Ismail assured her.