David's Story

by Zoe Wicomb

  •

  It was at this point that Rachael Susanna’s body resisted. Her joints stiffened and refused. The tendons that held things together grew weary, lost their elasticity, and seized up with the glue of despondency, which had leaked into that body since the teens of the century.

  Her decline had started with Andrew’s first letter to General Louis Botha congratulating that one on becoming South Africa’s first prime minister. Since her voice, too, was fading, she could no longer suppress through a hymn those words that came flooding back:

  I have done with politics and trust the government entirely to see us justly treated. How necessary it is for our welfare, for the advancement of coloured people, that you should be called to office now. I have given up the quest for restitution. A homeland for the Griquas is all I ask and am sure that we can rely on your benevolence. I have done, he dictated, pacing up and down with his hands behind his back, I have done—do you hear me, Dorie—done with the Griqualand question. Does any man think, after the deception of the kaffirs, we will ever be disposed to trust or even work together with them no matter on what question?

  That was when her wrist first twitched with pain, refusing to move across the page, and before her very eyes a gnarled arthritic knob pushed its way up through the not yet wrinkled skin.

  But Andrew, she said, all that Sigcau business was a long time ago, and how would we know under what threats the poor man turned informer?

  Dorie, you had better think of your duty, woman, was his perspicacious reply.

  The thought of duty would have come more readily were it not for the womanly wrist that went limp with pain, rebelling also against him calling her woman in that way, for had she not through all his schemes and agitations been a good woman, a loyal wife?

  Later that year, at the big meeting in Pretoria, her very ears were to whistle in disbelief. After days of distress, of no eating and much praying, of storming about in bad temper, Andrew was rescued by his God—although she felt sure that it was the devil himself come in disguise, and had he confided in her, that is just what she would have said. Oh yes, never mind about woman’s ignorance or foolish heart. She would have said, Andrew, you have now lost all your marbles; how else could you mistake Satan’s sour words for those of God?

  But no, he made an announcement to the whole wide world, and his solution to the great coloured question—problem, he called it—made her ears suck inward with a whistle of disbelief, so that at the time the words conveniently whizzed past. Now, sitting all day in the large chair that Andrew had himself made for her, those words, surely confused, came to mock her with a horrible clarity:

  Coloured, he sneered, coloured! Let us for a moment do without the name given to us by others. Let us think instead of the Eur-Africans, those through whose veins the blood of European settlers visibly flows, and find our own solutions. Let us leave the Union to the Europeans as a white man’s country; they, too, must learn to stand on their own feet and do without our labour, make their own arrangements with the kaffirs. Since they cannot look upon their shame, since they must discriminate against their own flesh, we whose very faces are branded with their shame will remove ourselves from their sight. Here good people, is the solution for God’s stepchildren: absolute separation. From white and from black. We shall have our own territory, land in which we as a people can live and develop separately. Let us work together as one nation in our own homeland, where, through work and work and more hard work, we can uplift ourselves. With the help of God we will till the ancestral lands of Adam Kok and build a prosperous nation, a separate Griqua nation.

  Yes, God’s stepchildren. He thought it a fine phrase, and when Mrs. Millin launched her novel of that title only a year after the Rain Sisters set out on their first mission, Andrew was thrilled. He saw no reason to read it; he assumed her story would be an endorsement of his ideas—why else would she borrow his phrase?—and so gave it his fulsome praise.

  As for Rachael, not a bar of music came to her rescue, not a line of Juig aarden juig could she summon this time to drown the perfidy. Oh, what chance had she had of persuading him of the evil of his plan when the people drowned his voice in applause. A people bludgeoned into stupidity, who could not see that he was rebelling against God himself.

  Too long, he raved, have we been wandering in the desert; we will have our own homeland of sweet grass and precious stones, a virgin soil untouched by Europeans, a soil that cries out for cultivation. For it is in agriculture that our future lies.

  Then Rachael had kept silent. Which is not to be mistaken for keeping her peace. She thought bitterly of woman’s labour, of the joy of birth that could never be shameful—never a problem, yet there was Andrew, spreading the infection of shame. And if European blood was to flow visibly through the veins of the chosen people, distinguishing them from others, she feared for her own. Had there, in those days, been nylon stockings to stretch over frizzy heads, she may well have done so, for who was to know where lines would be drawn? In this world without song, anything could happen; it was no longer the world of her long-dead uncle, Captain Adam Kok, who spoke a different language—the language of African freedom—as they galloped over the hills to the sound of rushing wind and water.

  Even if she then chose not to think of Andrew’s strange ideas, to try and carry on as before, her body resisted. She could no longer be his secretary; her wrists seized up in the very presence of a pen, and the smell of ink made her sneeze uncontrollably, scattering the great man’s reformed thoughts hither and thither, so that he would rather do without her services.

  We shall have to trust to the Boers, he said. I grew up with the Boers in the Free State where they treated us like burghers, sat in the same school benches with Boer children, and will always speak of them with honour and respect.

  But the many letters written to President Botha remained unanswered, as that great politician was too busy thinking up good, workable schemes for relieving real black people of the burden of land, so that only after three years in office did he pass the Natives’ Land Act. Then, sitting through a Sunday sermon that failed to lift her spirits, Rachael could not believe her ears as the ignorant Elder Cloete chose to list in his praise prayer the Land Act as one of the Chief’s predictions. Oh, she thought wearily, enough is enough, and rose from Andrew’s side without thinking, shuffled right out of the church, and settled herself in her chair on the stoep to stare out at the blue of Maskam mountain.

  Andrew said not a word, which she took to be a sign of contrition. But in the early hours of the morning he shook her sagging shoulder and in an anxious voice whispered, Dorie, Dorie, is it not so? Was the Land Act not a miracle; was it not my predicted punishment for Sigcau’s treachery?

  Miracle? she spluttered into her pillow. She struggled to manoeuvre the bounteous behind in which she stored her sadness, so that in those days of silence it had grown quite unmanageable, and, finally sitting upright, still dazed with sleep, said in clear outrage: Miracle, my arse! It’s a disgrace, a sin, a bloody disaster; it’s the end of all predictions, the very death of us all.

  Then there followed profanities and obscenities which cannot be given here. Ugly, unimaginable words that made him press his hands against his ears and stare at her in mute disbelief. Rachael Susanna, her abuse lapsing into gibberish, sank back under the rough sheets and imagined the words safely tucked in her dreams, so that the next morning, as he rose to plump up her cushion and settle her in the chair, there was no need to mention that outburst.

  And so it came about that she fell apart, and was held together through the last months only by sitting all day long, in the chair that Andrew had made for her, contemplating Maskam’s varying shades of blue.

  KOKSTAD 1991

  David comes down to breakfast with hair vigorously brushed after a night without sleep, spruce in his mattress-pressed trousers. The shaven-headed waiter in the far corner of the room is busily organising breakfast. David waits at his table until the man is free to
attend to him, to invite him to collect the food of his choice at the central bar as he had done the previous day. Listening intently—for there is something about the man that he can’t put his finger on—David allows him to go through the procedure, the entire gamut of food, as if he has not heard it all before. The man has lost his taste for buffoonery; he explains soberly and patiently how one should order bacon, eggs, and sausages from the cook before taking one’s orange juice and cereal, so that the breakfast runs smoothly. He is sure that David, being a busy man, has no time to wait, and he turns to the cook to say in his language that their guest must not be kept waiting.

  Nkosi kakhulu, David thanks him.

  Sir knows our language? the man crows.

  A little, David smiles. You know how one comes to know a smattering.

  The man is delighted. Yes, in the New South Africa we need to communicate with each other. And then, as if remembering his role, he turns on an American Deep South voice, Yessiree, we sure do.

  Ebrahim comes in while he pours his coffee, comes over to see whether his guest is okay, has he slept well. Well, yes, nothing like clean country air to rest the mind and the body.

  Listen man, he says, come down to the bar for happy hour this evening at six. This is quite the spot on a Saturday night, everyone gathers here and we can all do with fresh intellectual conversation. You can tell us how the New South Africa is shaping up there in the Cape.

  Thank you, yes, perhaps, but I don’t know about happy hour—not my kind of thing.

  Come on, old chap, and Ebrahim slaps him genially on the backside. You’re a coloured teacher, man, and who can keep a coloured teacher from an extra drink, hey?

  He laughs uproariously as he walks off.

  Through the plateglass David sees Thomas pacing up and down, stamping his feet in the cold, gesticulating, presumably at the Bezuidenhout woman, who is out of vision. That one will give him short shrift. And indeed, it is not long before she totters over to the door to shoo him away.

  This is Mandela’s country, a free country, I can wait where I like. I’m mos waiting for my friend, Thomas shouts back.

  She gives David a glossy red smile as well as a wave, which he returns. Surrounded by people, friends, he smiles to himself; no chance of being lonely in Kokstad.

  Which is exactly what Thomas says before he notices the camera that David carries.

  Now that’s what I call a classy camera, he exclaims.

  Not at all, David replies; it’s just a regular—

  But Thomas interrupts him, Look man, I need to talk some serious business with you. Tell you what, we’ll walk out on the Matatiele Road. See, I need a camera and it so happens that I’ve got just the thing you need.

  David smiles, shaking his head.

  Say, ou pal, haven’t seen you for a while, crocodile. Keeping yourself scarce, hey?

  No, no, David laughs. As I said, I’m quite busy. Got a lot of work to do.

  But not enough to keep you from djolling at night hey? A married man mos don’t always get the chance, so make hay while the sun shines, that’s my motto. Look man, you must get around a bit in the daytime also; speak to the right people. These larnie coloureds you been seeing from Twist Valley don’t know nothing—how can they if they think their shit don’t stink? They tell you a pack of lies tied up with a pink bow and then you go back all mister man with the wrong info.

  He holds David’s gaze, pausing for the words to sink in. Trouble with you smart guys is you don’t see it’s your smartness what blinds you to your own needs. Now I can feel your heart is heavy, heavy, my friend; I feel it here—beating his own chest—and what a blessing that the very man to help you is right here, at your service, just when you’re getting gatvol of the whole business.

  David is firm; he has no time to listen to Thomas’s story. He puts a hand on Thomas’s shoulder and explains that he really has a full day ahead, a number of appointments to keep, but that they could speak later, in the evening perhaps, at the hotel. So, moving backwards at a half-trot, he says, laughing, See you later, alligator.

  The woman at the desk must have given up on her stranger. She does not bother to freshen her lipstick even though she has seen him coming some minutes before, leisurely crossing the square, stopping to buy a newspaper, and this time with a reassuring camera over his shoulder. There is no friendly banter as he enters; only when he stands at the desk does she look up, smile mechanically, hand over the keys, and turn away immediately, swivelling her chair sideways to attend to a document that cannot wait.

  Typical, she thinks. He who has always been in a hurry to get away will not leave when there is no encouraging smile.

  He picks up a brochure from the counter and, clearing his throat once, twice, says, The Ingeli Forest, hey, must be quite a place, some tourist attraction?

  Don’t know, she says, without looking up from her columns of figures, Haven’t been.

  Her left hand fumbles in her bag for a phial of perfume while the right taps at the keyboard. For a moment David is stumped; he has not expected such severe demands on his conversational skills, but at the risk of upsetting her, he stays, leaning intimately against the counter. He resorts to reading aloud from the brochure, about the comfortable hotel, the welcoming crackle of log fires, winding pathways through the pine forests of Ingeli, invigorating walks, solitude, fresh air. Best things in life are free, he adds, then feels the heat of embarrassment rise to his cheeks, but is nevertheless grateful for the cliché. He had not even thought of its suggestiveness.

  Concentrating on her work, she makes no reply. He follows the movements of her eyes from the columns of figures on the page to the computer screen. Her painted nails peck independently at the keyboard.

  I thought you’d like the countryside. Fresh air and an invigorating walk, he persists, would do you good after a day in this place. Good for the complexion, he laughs.

  Uh huh, she grunts, her head moving steadily back and forth.

  He says boldly, gallantly, taking a leaf from Thomas’s book, taking the risk, We could drive over now, when you knock off; it’s a disgrace not to know your own local attractions. Pine smells good in the evening, so how about a twilight walk in the forest, and should you be scared of wolves, here is David Dirkse at your service, ma’am.

  It is not the perky, dismissive reply he half expects, or rather hopes for. The fingers of her left hand work deftly at a phial, flicking the plastic top off and taking a dab of its sharp scent to her left earlobe, while she says in a soft, embarrassed voice of excessive regret, keeping her eyes on the ledger, her right hand busy on the keyboard, Sorry, I can’t; I’m really very sorry.

  Her arsenal of perfume hits the back of his throat, so that he swallows and feels antennae vibrate in the pit of his stomach.

  That’s alright, not to worry, another time perhaps, David manages to say.

  He must not leave in an indecent rush, but the perfume and dyspepsia mingle dangerously, so that he calls, See you then, and turns to go.

  She swivels round in her chair. See you. But instead of looking up at him, she strikes at the till, converting her figures into the real thing, he supposes, and he leaves to the jingle of coins and the smell of her perfume lurching about in his stomach.

  David has no need of the key. He knows that with certainty as he goes up the stairs. Nevertheless, he stops to listen at his door before turning the handle. Thomas Stewart is in his room, sprawled comfortably in an armchair. He leaps to his feet with a welcoming smile and says, Just in time for tea.

  David’s eyes whip about the room. At his bedside, Buckland, still open at page fifty-eight, has been moved somewhat to the right. The kettle is indeed about to boil. There is only one chair, so David sits on the bed, but while Thomas makes the tea, he moves the chair to face him directly. They blow at the hot tea and sip loudly, companionably.

  Just what the doctor ordered, says David. To tell you the truth, I was feeling rather queasy coming up those stairs, something to do with the
receptionist’s poisonous perfume, if you ask me.

  That’s now for you a wakker woman, hey, a sharp woman, drives a mean bargain. That one, yes-like, even her perfume has the kick of a horse. But it seems like it’s made you nice and relaxed, ni-ice and re-la-axed, he says soothingly, and that’s what we want so we can talk business—

  Any messages for me? David interrupts, casting a glance about the room.

  No, his guest replies, nothing for you, you’ve lost your touch, mister, the goosies got you sussed. And he crows with laughter. No, seriously, he says, you’re in trouble, man. With all your women. With the world. Let me see now, and picking up David’s empty teacup, he studies the uniform trace of tannin left by the no-brand tea bag. He shakes his head gravely.

  Things don’t look so good for you, ou pal. In fact, it’s the end of, shall we say, life as you’ve known it. Cause why, you been taking on too much, got yourself tangled in politics and now you all wrapped up in barbed wire. He turns the cup round. Here, there, everywhere, no escape, everything’s turned against you. So that’s where I come in to offer you a new interest, a new line of action, one in which your invaluable skills and experience in the politics business are appreciated and can be put to sensible use.

  David paces up and down. The better to hear you, he explains. You’re spot on, absolutely right, he says, I am in a bit of a fix and I’m ready to consider any reasonable offer.

  Thomas produces a rectangular leather case, not unlike a little cutlery box, which he balances on his knee for a while. He makes as if to open it, then changes his mind, putting it aside.

  If you’ll excuse me a moment, he says formally, and turns his back on David, who notes the movement of left hand slipping into the breast pocket, clumsily lifting out something that is too light to cause concern.

  When he swings round deftly, on his heel, he smiles broadly to display a set of fine white teeth.

  Credibility, he explains, that’s what teeth give you, but I’ve not had these long; I’m not so comfortable with them. That’s why the credibility is still a bit shaky.