by Andre Brink
At regular intervals all through the night she got up to feed the squabs and to make sure that they were warm. In spite of all her care one was dead when they woke up at daybreak.
Just after sunrise she sent Adam out to find some worms. These she squashed in her hand, forcing the pulpy mess into the gaping beak with her fingers.
“This one is going to get through,” she said.
That night she slept more peacefully. But when they got up the next morning the last little dove had also died.
“We can use them for soup,” he suggested. “There's not much meat on them, but at least it's something.”
“No!” she said, so violently that he looked up in surprise. “How can you think of it? I fed them myself.”
“What else can we do with them?” he asked, shrugging.
“I don’t know. Bury them. Anything.”
She sighed and stopped, as if there was no point in going on; then picked up the two minute, scraggly bodies and went outside. He made no effort to follow her, but stuffed his pipe, waiting for the smoke to calm and comfort him. Outside the sky was clear, but it was bitterly cold.
When, several hours later, she still hadn’t returned, he reluctantly went out to look for her.
And now the skeleton lies bare and very white among the rocks of the pool, a long curve of small crescents of bone, each rib shaped perfectly, heraldic on the stone: nothing vague or obscure about it, everything precise and delicate and uncompromising, no longer subject to change, danger, desire or fear, but defined with serene finality, inescapable, and very beautiful.
He finds her beside the pool, away from the beach, with her back turned to the sea: looking up towards the cliffs, where, high up, the land begins.
“Did you bury them?” he asks.
“Yes. Come and sit with me. I’ve missed you.”
“Why didn’t you come back?”
“I was hoping you’d come to me.”
“It's cold out here.”
“Yes. But it's so stuffy in the cave. It's very clean here. It's open.”
“You sound as if you felt cornered.”
And all at once, with those words, they reach the moment where they’ve known for so long they had to arrive.
“Yes, it was cornering me,” she admits. “I can’t breathe any more. It's no use pretending it's different. It will only suffocate us both.”
“What's the matter then?” He knows so well, of course, but she is the one who must say it.
“One can’t go on pretending.”
“You think that's what we’ve been doing?”
He sits beside her, waiting, as if for redemption.
“They’re dead,” she says unexpectedly. “However much I tried to look after them and be good to them.” Shaking her head briefly. “The world was pretty cruel to them.”
“What's a couple of doves?” he asks, trying to prod her.
And she reacts. “What are we?” she asks with shocking directness, looking at him. “We don’t belong here any more than they did. When the weather was fine, we didn’t notice it. We were blind. I know I was.”
“I thought you were happy here?”
“Perhaps it was because I was blind.” She looks down, her hair falling over her face. She pushes it away. “I thought you were happy. And all the time we were afraid to admit the truth. We wanted to be kind to each other. Not knowing it was the surest way of destroying ourselves.”
“And now?” he asks quietly, deliberately.
She laughs, sadly, yet with strange joy. “So our little paradise was not eternal after all, was it? Just a stop-over.”
“Do you want to go away?”
“It's not a matter of wanting it or not,” she says. “I only know we must. If we’re honest. Nothing else is possible. We’ve been trying to put it off, but…”
“We haven’t got much to pack. We can leave today.”
“Yes.”
“Where shall we go?” he asks.
“There's only one destination for us, isn’t there?”
He nods without a word.
“We’ve got to complete the circle,” she says, taking his hands. “Whatever happens.”
EVERY TIME, IN GOING ON, there is something of the first venture: a question of faith. Still wet and shaking from the sea which had spewed him out, then tried to swallow him back, he stole through unpaved streets past dark houses and gardens with barking dogs, up towards the familiar mountain, so long gazed at from afar. After a full day's climbing and walking he descended on the far side of the mountain, arriving above the farmyard in the late afternoon. Before dark he had to be inside that large white thatched house, otherwise the big doors would be locked and the heavy wooden shutters of the windows barred.
In the vineyard a swarm of brown women and children were chasing birds; men came down the rows, carrying heavy baskets, singing at the approach of sopie time. There was a clattering of milk-pails in the stables. Through the open kitchen door he could see women moving about inside; the chimney was smoking heavily. Beyond the vegetable garden slave girls were gathering eggs and feeding the chickens and the ducks. In the sty the pigs were squealing for the meal of acorns and curds and leftovers.
This was how he had visualized it for months: all activity concentrated at the back of the house, the front deserted. It was still risky, but he had no choice.
He crept along the whitewashed stone wall enclosing the yard, crouching at the front gate, looking round for the last time. Then he got up, his heart thudding against his ribs, his throat taut. Pushing open the gate he went towards the front stoop, finding it difficult to control his legs, conscious of his semi-nakedness. A single challenging voice—“Hey, what are you doing there?”—and all would be lost.
As he came up the broad steps leading to the stoop, the big watchdog at the front door suddenly stood up, baring his teeth in a deep throaty growl.
He stopped dead. For a moment they looked at each other.
Then, with quavering voice, he called out softly: “All right, Bull. All right, Bull, Bull! Come on, Bull!”
The large mastiff came closer, teeth still bared, sniffing at his fingers and his legs as he went on talking, a cold sweat on his forehead.
The dog began to wag his tail, grinning open-mouthed.
“Good boy, Bull.” Adam caressed the huge head. He was trembling with haste to go on, but it was even more important to win the confidence of the dog again, as in the past when they had roamed the farm together.
The front door gave way as he turned the knob. Suppose there was someone waiting in the passage? He pushed the door open and slipped inside. The house was dark and quiet, smelling of beeswax and linseed oil. He knew it so well. The parlor door was to the right. If one of the daughters should be there now, reading or paging through sheet-music…
At the far end of the passage a door was opened. Without hesitating any longer he darted into the lounge, panicky, breathing through his mouth. It was deserted. The dark curves of Dutch furniture, a red lacquered Oriental escritoire, the heavy Cape armoire with ornate brass fittings, porcelain and silver behind glass, mats and zebra skins and a lion skin with stuffed head on the broad yellow-wood floorboards. He hurried to the narrow space behind a settee where he could lie down on the hard cool floor.
From far away sounds came filtering through to him. Dogs barking excitedly—it would be the farmer coming home. Yes: the sound of hooves. Pails. Calves. A child crying outside. The muted sounds from the house itself. Gradually it grew quiet. Shutters were fastened against the lurking dangers of the night, doors were locked. Then the voices of evening prayers, chairs scraping over the floor, a somber hymn.
Now he felt calm. He was here; he was waiting. It was very dark, so that he had to rely exclusively on his ears. After a long time he ventured it back to the inside door. It creaked as he opened it, and he tensed up in fright. From one of the bedrooms yellowish lamplight still fell into the long passage. Then that, too, was extinguished. Heavy a
nd warm the smell of oil lingered in the passage; a bed creaked, voices continued to whisper for a while, a man coughed. A sigh, then silence.
He waited until he was absolutely certain before tiptoeing to the window to open the shutters. The metal bars squeaked. Once again he froze, but the house remained silent. The moonlight coming in from outside defined the outlines of the furniture.
Down the interminable passage he crept to the kitchen. In the hearth the coals were still warm, giving off a reddish glow. Closing the inside door behind him, he took a candle from the large scrubbed table, lit it at the hearth, and then proceeded to move about quickly and without hesitation. Clothes from the laundry. Too large for him, he’d lost much weight on the island; but it would do. Food. Here were the keys which had once been in his charge. Had he remembered correctly? Yes, indeed, the lock of the chest gave way. A blunderbuss; a bag of ammunition. He unlocked the back door and put everything beside it, tied in an easy bundle.
At last he removed a fire-iron from the hearth, blew out the candle and returned to the inner door. After listening for a moment, he went into the passage, leaving the door open behind him. He was very calm now. This was what he’d been waiting for all the time. His palm grew sticky round the handle of the heavy iron.
This was where, earlier, he had seen the light and heard the creaking of the bed. Inch by inch he moved across the floor. It was stuffy inside, everything was tightly shut. The Cape people were too scared to leave a window open at night.
A dull shine of brass indicated the bed. On which side was he sleeping, on which side she?
He had to come right up against the bed and lean far over to listen to their breathing. In doing so he bumped against a bedside table; glass tinkled, followed by a sudden snorting sound from the bed. Clutching the iron very tightly, he waited.
As soon as the breathing resumed evenly he moved round the bed to the other side. The pillow was a faint pale patch in the dark. Here was the head. Here you lie sleeping. Baas. You who tried to force me to flog my own mother. Baas. You who had me exposed to the irons and the nine tongues of the lash. You who had me banished to the island. Baas. Now I’ve come back. Try to stop me. Baas!
The iron was raised above his head, poised to strike. A single blow would be enough, cracking open the skull, spilling the brains on the pillow. And another for the woman, should she wake up. To thank you for the salt, Madam.
Today it's my turn. This is what you’ve brought me up for, isn’t it? Bred for the land—then banished from it. But I was washed ashore again, like a piece of driftwood; I’ve come back. Now try to stop me, Baas!
But after a long time he lowered his hand again, and turned round, and went out; perspiration on his face; exhausted.
The dogs came running towards him, barking, as he opened the back door, carrying the gun and the bundle. But in a low voice he called Bull to him, and the others milled round them, wagging their tails, whining softly. They accompanied him to the stable. Inside the horse snorted, pawing the ground; pulling up his head when Adam grabbed the halter. Gently he spoke to the great animal, offering him sugar he had brought from the kitchen. Then fumbled in the dark for the reins, pushing the bit into the horse's mouth, tying it up, leading him out.
“What's going on here?” the man asked as he came outside.
He swung round. It was Lewies, his boyhood friend.
“Let me go!”
“My God, Adam! How did you get here?”
“Let me go, I tell you!”
Lewies tugged at his arm. He felt the sleeve being torn off.
“You bastard!”
“Get out of my way!”
“Adam, I’ll…”
Grabbing the barrel of the gun in both hands, he aimed for the head; Lewies sank to his knees, moaned faintly, and toppled over. Without waiting any longer, Adam jumped on the horse, holding on to his bundle, galloping out of the yard and into the night. Before daybreak he had to be very far away. In spite of the uncertainty gnawing inside him.
“Do you think I killed him?” he asks her.
“How must I know?”
“They must have spoken about it at the Cape. Didn’t you hear anything?”
“Perhaps it happened when I was away in Amsterdam.” She shuffles closer to the fire; outside the winter wind is tugging at the skins sealing off their smoky interior. They haven’t got very far. After a couple of weeks in the forest they reached this low chain of mountains; and here the cold has cornered them. Along the higher slopes it was snowing, driving them into this deep, low cave where, in order to survive, they are forced to hibernate: waiting, as in some ark, for the world to become hospitable again.
“But can’t you remember at all?” he insists.
“Even if I were in the Cape,” she says, “that sort of thing happened so often, it was so common—slaves assaulting or murdering their masters. All those vagabonds, and drunks, and adventurers, and fugitives around. We had to lock and bar everything at night. Mother suffered from constant attacks of nerves. I remember how I often reopened my windows after they’d gone to bed. Just too bad if something happened, I thought. I couldn’t bear the stuffiness. But many nights I got so scared I had no choice but to close the shutters again. You see, being white at the Cape means to live in constant fear. There are so many enemies, and at night they roam about freely.”
“Didn’t your father feel safe? Some of his children were bastards.”
“All the more reason to fear them, perhaps,” she says quietly.
“In the end it was his own daughter who rebelled against him!”
“No,” she says. “I don’t think it really was against him. Perhaps it was simply against what they tried to make out of me. It may have been different if I had brothers. If my mother hadn’t always blamed me for not being a boy. I can remember how often I thought: to be a boy is everything. To be a girl like me is the worst that can happen to one. Don’t do this, don’t do that. Be careful, your dress will get dirty. Watch out for your hair. Don’t let the sun burn your face. Do you think a man will look twice at a girl who does such things? After all, that was the final aim: to be attractive to a man. No matter what you want, your whole life is determined by someone else.”
He smiles with quiet irony. After a while he asks, “But surely you had power too. You could manipulate men.”
“Oh yes!” she retorts angrily. “I could turn them round my little finger if I lowered my eyes demurely, or blushed at the right instant, or gently swayed my hips, or if I dared to be so reckless as to show my ankle.” Through the opening in the kaross draped loosely over her shoulder he notices the whiteness of her winter body, breasts, a hint of ribs, her navel, the small tight wad of curls below. “As long as I was prepared to flirt gracefully, I could get anything out of anybody. Despising them for it, but that was not the point.” She looks into his eyes. “I could get anything provided I did not presume to think for myself. For that lay beyond a woman's scope, you see. That was something vaguely disreputable, rather irritating, offending their male omnipotence. Can you understand what happens inside one when you grow up to discover you will never be allowed to be anything in your own right? Don’t you think it is enough to drive one mad?”
“Yet you married Larsson.”
“Because I thought he would be different. And because he offered me a chance to escape. I thought a man like him, such a famous scientist and explorer, would transcend the petty prejudices of the Cape…” She sits tugging anxiously at a frayed corner of her kaross. “All he ever thought of me was that I was too ‘demanding’.”
“We and our futile little revolts!” he says wryly.
“But why was yours futile? Why didn’t you kill your Master that night?”
“I’ve thought about it so constantly, all these years.”
“Were you scared because he was still your Master?”
“If he’d woken up, or if he’d tried to stop me as Lewies did, I would have killed him straight away. The day he ordered me
to flog my mother I didn’t hesitate to attack him.” He looks past the fire, to the flapping skins at the mouth of the cave and the darkness beyond. “No, I was not scared at all. On the contrary. For the first time in my life I was free to decide for myself. It was up to me to kill him or let him live on. In the past I’d always had to obey others. No matter how much I resented it, I had to obey. But that night, all of a sudden, I was free to choose. And I don’t know why—but I simply didn’t find it necessary to kill him. For two years I’d been planning every little detail of it, cherishing it, sustaining myself with it. Then, when the moment came, it just wasn’t necessary to do it any more. That's all. I was free to choose—and I chose. There was no need any more to prove anything, not even to myself.”
“Then how can you say your revolt was futile?” she demands.
“If it had really been successful, I wouldn’t have found it necessary to go back now.”
“Adam,” she says. And then, more gently, “Aob. Are you quite sure it's not merely for my sake you’re going back?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I want you to answer me,” she insists. “I must know.”
“All these years I’ve been yearning to go back,” he says.
“But you never actually did.”
“Perhaps I wouldn’t have gone this time either.” He looks at her. “But you made it impossible for me not to go.”
“So it is for my sake, after all?”
“I’m not going back only because you can buy my freedom, if that's what you’re thinking. But because, without you, I never can be free.”
That first night, she thinks, watching him roast some dried meat and boiling dassiebos for tea: that first night she sat looking at him like this. It was so dark, she couldn’t even make out whether he was looking towards the wagon, or away; and she wanted to call him and talk to him, but she was frightened; his presence both protected and threatened her. And now? Is she more protected or less threatened now that she loves him?
