An Instant in the Wind

by Andre Brink

  She grabbed his wounded arm: “How can we get rid of the vultures?” she asked. “We must do something!”

  “The people are already dead,” he answered.

  “Were they dead when they were left here?”

  “Not all of them, I suppose.”

  “But, Adam…”

  “Why should it upset you? I told you about it long ago.”

  “You said it was the old ones.”

  “It's the same with children if they grow too weak.”

  She wanted to run down the side of the ditch to scare off the birds, but he held her back.

  “There are too many of them,” he warned her. “They’ll tear you to bits.”

  “But what about the children, Adam?”

  “They’re dead too.” He tugged at her hand. “Come away now.”

  The memorial mound of the Hunter God stood opposite the ditch, with calabashes and skin-bags propped up among the stones. Curds, she saw as they came nearer; and honey. Sacrificial offerings, swarming with ants.

  She looked aghast. “But those people were left so close to the mound,” she protested. “Why didn’t they eat this food to stay alive?”

  “It's Heitsi-Eibib's food.”

  She leaned against the pile of stones. A thin line of ants made a detour round her hands but gradually they became more audacious, shortening the distance, until they came crawling right over her on their way to the spilled honey. She shook her head.

  “I can understand about the old ones,” she said. “But not the children. They were so small, they knew nothing yet, they understood nothing, they had nothing.”

  He made no answer.

  “We’ve been together for so long now,” she said suddenly. “Why hasn’t something happened in me yet? Do you think I’m barren?”

  “You should have asked the old women for herbs when we spent the night with them.”

  “I don’t want children from herbs. I want them from you.”

  “But they may have been able to help you.”

  “It remains empty inside me,” she said. “Perhaps it's the sun, shriveling up everything.” Lowering herself down the side of the mound, she squatted in the shade below it, leaning her head and back against the stones.

  “What would have become of us if you had a child on the way?” he asked calmly.

  “It's true,” she admitted, after a while. “But once we’re back in the Cape…”

  “What will happen to our children there?” he asked.

  “Nothing!” she replied vehemently.

  “You once told me about your friend,” he reminded her.

  “That was different. The father of her child was a slave. And when we get back, I’ll…”

  “You’re taking so much upon yourself” he said, moved.

  She crossed her arms on her chest. “If only I could be sure about having a child. Children. But I’m so afraid.” She shook her head, swaying her body slightly from side to side. “It's barren inside me. All barren.”

  “There is more than enough time for it.”

  “We’ve made love so many times…” Naked, she looked up at him. “Why should you want a child from me? I’m so ugly. I’ve grown so disgusting.”

  “I love you.”

  “The other day you said: “Look at yourself… !”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  “But it's true. Look at me. Look closely. I’m hideous. I’m burnt all over, my skin is covered with wrinkles like old dry leather, I’m filthy, I’m stinking.”

  “What about me then? Am I any different?” He took her thin arms in his large thin hands. She looked at the ugly festering wound on his arm, swollen and inflamed in spite of the Hottentots’ herbs.

  “We’ve come all the way here,” he said. “We’re still together. We can get through. Surely you know that by now.”

  “How can one ever be sure?” she asked wearily.

  “Only five more days to the farm. That's what they told us.”

  “A farm. People.” There was no joy in her eyes, only fear. “I can’t show myself to them like this.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t. I’ll have to…” Almost panicking, she opened her bundle and took out the dirty green dress she had brought with her all the way.

  “No,” he said.

  “But you don’t understand. I must.”

  She put it on. It hung down baggily, shapeless. Her bony hands and burnt, distorted face appeared grotesque against it; her hair was caked with grime. Below, her feet protruded, wrapped in the dirty skins.

  “What do I look like?” she asked in sudden recklessness, like a young girl going to a ball.

  He wanted to close his eyes or turn away; he wanted to cry. But all he could do was to whisper hoarsely: “You’re beautiful.”

  She looked at him with a smile. Her eyes became pleading. Slowly her excitement sank away. With a brown claw she tugged at the ribbons of her bodice. “I know I look horrible,” she whispered. “Why don’t you say so?”

  “Come,” he said in a hurry. “We must push on, it's getting late. I’m sure you don’t want to stay here tonight.”

  “No.” There was horror in her voice. “Let's go then.”

  He picked up his bundle but put it down again. Looked at her; averted his eyes. Then pulled one of the bags of honey towards him and began to scrape off the ants. Without a word she watched him. He removed the second bag from the grave, followed by the rest of the offerings.

  “Aren’t you afraid he’ll haunt you if you rob his grave?” she suddenly mocked, choking.

  “It's only my mother's stories.”

  “Every time we pass a mantis, you make a wide detour,” she reminded him.

  “It's your imagination.”

  “I’ve noticed it every time.”

  He took up his bundle and the bags of food. “Come on,” he said sullenly.

  They walked on, the sun glaring in their eyes. Neither of them looked back towards the vultures or the pile of stones. There was always a final mercy to transcend, a final No to pass.

  She tried to get used to walking with the dress flapping round her thin legs; her hands felt rough and clumsy against the smooth material.

  Five more days, she thought. Five days from here there would be a farm and people.

  Arrival and sojourn on the farm. One can imagine how, for days, they’d been scanning the horizon with burning eyes in search of a sign. How the veld continued to stretch out in all directions. How, early that morning, white clouds started gathering behind the first hint of mountains in the distance. How, seeing it, they no longer thought of rest or feared the sun. And then, at last, presumably a flock of goats and sheep grazing among the low dry shrubs, the shepherd lying in the shade of a ditch, hat pulled over his eyes, fast asleep; scorched fields; kraals of stone and branches; and the long, low farmhouse in the distance, with the chimney on one narrow end, a single door, two small square holes for windows. A row of scraggy trees lining the farmyard. Chickens.

  Dogs barked. On the shady side of the house a man got up from his riempie chair, pushing back his broadbrimmed hat from his forehead where years of shade had drawn a white circle. Unperturbed, he watched them as they approached.

  Elisabeth stopped a few yards from the man, Adam hesitating in the background. Still the farmer made no move, his hat on his head, pipe clenched between his teeth. Under his chair stood his half-filled teacup, saucerless. A couple of his shirtbuttons were missing, the dark hair of his chest protruding through the gap. He had a thin bony nose, his eyes were a very pale blue and rather close together, his mouth a moist slit in his beard. He might be any age from thirty to fifty.

  “Good afternoon,” she finally said uncertainly, clutching the ribbon on her bodice.

  “Yes, afternoon” he answered, studying her. “Where do you come from?”

  “My wagon broke down in the interior,” she said, with a hint of the old aloofness in her voice. Miserable as she was she held her
head high. “The Bushmen stole our oxen. The Hottentots deserted us. So I had to come back on foot.”

  “No one can cross the Karoo on foot,” he said.

  “That was all I could do.” Wiping perspiration from her forehead she pushed back the dirty wisps of hair.

  The farmer didn’t move.

  “A few days ago we found a Hottentot trek. They told us about your farm.”

  “Yes, the bastards. Wanted to overnight here, can you imagine it? Trampling everything one's got left, drinking up one's water. I told them…”

  “So we thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind to…” She stopped as she noticed that he was looking past her towards Adam, his eyes narrowing.

  “He's-he's my…”

  “Yes,” said the man curtly. “He can go round to the kitchen.”

  “But I…” She raised her arm in protest, but the farmer misunderstood the gesture and took her hand. It was almost comic.

  “De Klerk,” he said.

  “I am Elisabeth Larsson.”

  “Yes,” he said, with no sign of unbending.

  She looked round. Adam was already on his way to the back of the house.

  “Mr. de Klerk, I…”

  “It's all right,” he said. “You can stay here until we make a plan.” Turning round, he shouted: “Lettie!”

  A woman in a faded blue dress appeared on the doorstep, barefoot, without any petticoats or hoops, her hair drawn back severely behind her ears, her face weatherbeaten in spite of the bonnet she was obviously wearing all the time. Her age was as impossible to guess as his. But she was pregnant, with a bulge of eight months or more, so she couldn’t be too old yet.

  “This woman comes all the way through the Karoo,” he announced. “Name of Larsson. This is my wife. Can you help her with something?”

  “Yes. Please come inside.”

  On the threshold Elisabeth turned back. “The man Adam—here at the back.”

  “The servants will see to him,” the farmer said briefly, returning to his chair where he began to refill his cold pipe.

  She wanted to explain, but thought: If he finds out, he may send us away just like this. It will really be better for both of us if I…

  “Come,” said the woman. “It's hot in the sun.”

  One entered directly into the bedroom with its large brass bedstead, a row of guns against the wall, a few yellow-wood chests, a zebra skin on the dung floor. It was cooler here under the thatched roof with its beams exposed, but stuffy, suffocating.

  “You come from far?” asked the woman.

  “Yes.” She briefly told her story again, suppressing most of it, not knowing how the farmer's wife would react.

  “You got nothing with you?”

  She shook her head, sinking down on the edge of the bed. It was covered with a kaross of jackal skins.

  “No, this is all I have.”

  “I can give you a dress.”

  “Thank you. May I have some water?”

  “Of course.” Shouting shrilly through the open inner door: “Leah! Bring water.”

  Uncomfortable, they waited until an elderly, thickset slave woman entered with an earthenware jug and a cup without a handle.

  Elisabeth hesitated briefly, then took the cup and filled it, and brought it to her mouth with trembling hands, emptying it in one gulp. She drank two more cups before she said: “Thank you. Would it be possible—to have a bath?”

  “I’ll ask my husband.”

  Leaning her head against the post of the bed, Elisabeth waited for the woman to return. When she came in from outside she shouted in the same piercing voice as before: “Leah! Bring the tub of washing water.” Without waiting for an answer she went to one of the boxes in the far corner where she kneeled down and fumbled for a while before taking out a brown silk dress, crumpled but obviously brand new. “You think this will fit you?”

  “But it's much too beautiful,” Elisabeth protested. “Isn’t there something older?”

  “What can I do with a dress like this—here?” asked the woman, getting up with a moan. “I was keeping it for the christening. But now we’ve already buried four children under the koppie.”

  “You’re having another soon. Why don’t you wait?”

  “No.” The pregnant woman shook her head. “It's more than a week now the child has stopped kicking.” She gestured towards the outside door. “I’m too scared to tell him, but I know.”

  “Perhaps it will still be all right.”

  The woman shook her head again: without grudge or sorrow, almost obtusely.

  “I also lost a child in the interior,” Elisabeth said impulsively. “I don’t even know where he's buried.”

  “This is no place for white people,” said the woman dully. “It's just Hottentots and Bushmen and things what can live here. But my husband will never listen.” Almost scared she glanced outside.

  The slave woman came in, staggering under the weight of a wooden nib half filled with water. There was a dirty towel draped over her shoulder and a piece of fat-soap thrust into her apron pocket.

  “Well,” said the pregnant woman, “you can have your bath now. I must go to the kitchen. One can’t trust these creatures out of your sight. Come on, Leah.”

  The water had been used before, she noticed after they had left. It was turbid, with a dirty rim around the side. But she didn’t mind. It was water.

  She undid her dress. For a moment she stood, self-conscious, wondering whether she should first close the outside door. But that would make it too dark inside. Pulling her arms from the sleeves, she peeled off the dress, wriggling her hips to let it slide to the floor, a shapeless rag on her feet. She kicked herself free and stepped into the tub. It was wide and shallow, one could sit down with ease. Cool and smooth the dirty water enclosed her. She shut her eyes. For a while she sat quite motionless, her elbows resting on her knees, her head on her arms. Water. Water. God.

  At last she started soaping and washing herself. Her face, her hair, her body, over and over, until there was very little of the soap left and a thick brown lather covered the water.

  As she got up to reach for the towel she noticed a round mirror propped up on a box against the bed. It had cracked diagonally, but was still useful. With a strange, apprehensive sense of excitement she crossed the floor on her bare wet feet and bent over to look at herself. The wrinkles cutting deep into her dry brown skin. Dark blue eyes sunken into the sockets. The short thin nose. The mouth too large, the lips crusted and cracked. The cheekbones more prominent than she could remember. Deep hollows above her collarbones, pointed elbows, her hands unwieldy at the end of her bony arms. The breasts shrunken, mere loose folds in the skin, with large scabby nipples; her belly a deep hollow between the jutting hipbones. Below, protruding shockingly, her matted pubic hair and the thin beak of her sex. Kneecaps. Narrow feet. If that is me: who, dear God, am I?

  Almost with horror, but also with infinite compassion for herself, she turned away to fetch the towel. A movement at the door brought her to an abrupt stop, petrified. When she finally looked up—thin droplets running from her hair and down her shoulders and her spine, like a shudder—she saw the man standing in the doorway, the farmer, De Klerk, still wearing his hat, his pipe in his mouth.

  He stood staring at her without moving, even when he noticed that she’d seen him: a pale fanatic stare in his narrow eyes, his jaw white from biting on his pipe.

  For several seconds she stood looking at him in silence, her mouth opened in an unuttered sound. Then, because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, she crouched forward, raising her hands to cover her breasts.

  Immediately he turned round and disappeared against the yellow light of the dying day.

  Taking the towel, she started drying herself. She felt nauseous and old, worn-out.

  But when at last she went through to the other room, wearing the new silk dress, her hair brushed, she didn’t say anything. Only her nostrils flared slightly as she glanced at him sit
ting at the table with his wife. Outside the sun went down. A young slave girl was lighting the lanterns. Beside the hearth the servants were crouching in a dark mass on the floor— seven or eight grownups and some children; and Adam. For a fleeting instant she looked him in the eyes, and felt like crying. Then she sat down.

  The thickset slave woman came in with the tub from the bedroom and carried it outside where she emptied it in a trough—Elisabeth sat watching her through the open kitchen door—before returning to fill it with fresh water from a larger barrel beside the hearth; then she brought it to the table and knelt in front of the farmer to wash his feet, shuffling on her knees towards the pregnant woman afterwards.

  “Let us eat.”

  There was a dish of stew in the middle of the bare scrubbed table. The man dipped a chunk of bread into the dish and began to eat. His wife followed his example. Then Elisabeth. No one spoke, not even when, after they’d emptied the dish, the slave woman, moving soundlessly on her bare feet, came to clear the table and serve them with cups of bush-tea and a jug of milk.

  “Let us read,” said the farmer at last. A slave child fetched a huge brown Bible from a box and put it on the table in front of the man. For a long time he sat paging through it, searching, until he found the place where, presumably, he’d stopped the previous night.

  In the corner of the hearth a brooding hen clucked. A house-lamb was rustling in its bed of straw, then settled down.

  With fierce concentration he began to read, nudging the words with a horny forefinger like a dung-beetle on its halting way:

  “What profit hath a man of all his labor which he taketh under the sun?”

  “One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.”

  “The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose.”

  “The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.”

  He stopped for a moment, looking up. Before his gaze Elisabeth lowered her eyes. With a touch of confusion he returned to the Bible, trying to locate the place he’d lost, his lips parted, drops of saliva glistening in the corners. At last he went on, pronouncing each syllable separately: