by Lewis Desoto
“Set them in the shed to dry. And then we can grind the ears to make meal, and then we will have mealie porridge. A lot of work!”
Tembi puts her hand on Märit’s shoulder. Then Märit shakes off her thoughts, and smiles, and resolves to be courageous too, like Tembi. “I’m daydreaming. Is it time to go back to work?”
The women work through the morning. The work is hard and tedious, and it makes the hands ache, the skin rub and crack. The maize cobs are pulled from the tall plants and piled in small heaps down the center of the rows. There is no talking, because talking is an effort. Sweat collects and chafes where cloth meets skin. The breeze rasps like a hoarse whisper through the dry leaves of the maize and it whispers the song of the earth—that all must labor, that all must struggle.
The women take turns loading the cobs into the wheelbarrow and wheeling the harvest to a shed, where the pile on the floor grows ever larger.
“Maybe we have enough now,” Märit says after returning from one of these trips to the shed.
Tembi studies the remaining rows of maize and shakes her head. “I told you it would be a lot of work. And we still have to peel them—otherwise, they will rot.”
“But will we ever need this much?”
“We must harvest everything.”
Märit sighs and bends again to her work.
The harvest takes two days of steady, repetitive labor that leaves both women aching in their bodies. Then there is the shucking of the dry outer husks, which is even harder on the hands, so that at night Märit complains about her chafed skin.
Tembi fetches a bottle of lotion from the bathroom. “Sit here,” she commands, pointing to a chair. By the dim glow of candlelight she kneels before Märit, taking her hands in her own and gently massaging the lotion into Märit’s skin.
When Tembi looks up she sees the glisten of tears in Märit’s eyes. “Why are you sad?”
“No, I’m happy, Tembi. I’m happy, because you are such a good person, and you are here.”
“And I am happy if you are happy.”
“This farm should be yours, Tembi. You should be the one sitting in this chair, not me.”
“It is our farm, together. And your hands are stronger every day. You are stronger. Not so much the weak woman who first came to this farm.”
“Was I weak? Yes, I suppose I was. I’m stronger now. From all this struggle.”
Tembi shrugs. “That is the way of the world. Struggle.”
Märit sits up and clasps Tembi’s hands. “Let’s take tomorrow off! No work for a day.”
“But we must pick the fruit. The birds will eat it if we don’t.”
“How much can they eat in one day? We need a day off. We’ll have a picnic and go swimming in the river! Can we?”
Tembi laughs. “Why ask me? You can do what you like. If you want to swim, we will swim.”
IN SOME PLACES the river is green, the color of bottle-glass. In other places it is coffee-colored, like Tembi’s skin. Sometimes it is clear enough to see the pebbles and sand beneath the surface, and sometimes it is an opaque mirror, reflecting the sky and the trees.
Where Märit and Tembi have come, upstream from the house, the river flows amongst low flat rocks that lead out from the bank, and in between the rocks are pools of varying depth. Here the river makes a bend in its course, and on the opposite bank the rocks rise steeply, forming a wall of stone that is spotted with bushes and low trees that rise to screen the sky. The place is sheltered, calm, concealed.
Tembi is perched on the edge of a rock, dropping bits of leaf into the eddies, where they swirl in a circular motion before shooting off downstream. Märit reclines nearby with her face turned up to the hot sun, dabbing her toes in the water.
Tembi watches a blade of grass arrow into the current. She imagines herself tiny, small enough to sit on it, as if it were a boat. She imagines the boat traveling down canyons, through villages and towns, even through the cities, coming at last into a lagoon that spills out to the ocean. She imagines a yellow beach and crashing waves and ships offshore.
“I wonder where this river goes,” Tembi says.
“Down to the sea,” Märit murmurs. “Like all the rivers.”
This single blade of grass, a strand plucked idly in passing, will float down this single river, and join a larger river where other streams flow into it. There, Tembi imagines, they will become one river, and plunge into the sea, all becoming one.
“I want to visit the sea one day. It’s my dream.”
“Yes,” Märit answers. “I loved it there. I think I had my happiest moments by the sea.”
“Tell me about it. Tell me what it was like.”
Märit sits up and props her chin on her knees. “Ben and I went there, just after we married, for our honeymoon.”
“To Durban?”
“Near Durban. The place was called Mussel Sands. We stayed in a small hotel. We always had our breakfast in bed—it was brought up on a tray—then we would go out and walk along the beach for hours. I loved the sound of the waves, and the smell in the air, the fresh, salty smell.”
“Did you swim?”
“All the time. I wasn’t a very good swimmer at first; the waves frightened me a bit—they could get quite big at times. But I felt safe with Ben. I would hang onto his back as he waded into the breakers, and he showed me how to duck under the big ones and how to ride over the tops of the swell before it broke. I loved it when a wave took me and carried me up as if I had no weight at all. It was like flying. Just for that minute when I was on the crest of the breaker, speeding towards the beach, it felt like flying, weightless and free.”
She stares down at her toes, flat on the rock, remembering.
Tembi says, “I want to go to the ocean one day. I want to fly in the waves. But I cannot swim.”
“No? Well, then, I will teach you.” She springs to her feet. “Come on.”
“But I have no bathing suit.”
“We’ll swim naked.”
“Yes?”
Märit looks around. “Who could possibly see us?” She unfastens her sarong and lets it drop at her feet. Then she slips off her underwear and wades into the nearest pool. She splashes water up at Tembi. “Come on!”
After a quick glance around, Tembi follows suit and scampers into the pool, quickly dropping down so that the water rises to her shoulders.
“Over here,” Märit tells her, moving into the deeper stream. “Give me your hands.”
Tembi grasps Märit’s fingers.
“The first thing is to kick, like a frog, just keep kicking, that’s it.” Märit moves them both a little closer to the center of the river, feeling the current now. “Keep your head up. Now you have to use your arms.”
“Don’t let me go!”
“I’ve got your waist. Now, use your arms as if you were parting the long grass, and kick at the same time.” She releases her hold on Tembi’s waist and lets her move away. “You’re swimming!”
Tembi’s head dips below the water and she surfaces spluttering, casting an anxious eye around for Märit. “Keep your chin up,” Märit calls.
With a determined expression Tembi strokes into the current purposefully. She feels the strength of the water under her, and she matches it with her own strength, pushing against it upstream.
For a moment the struggle is equal, then the current spins Tembi around so that she is facing downstream. She is weightless, she is a feather. But the river is strong. It pulls her with a will of its own, and there is nothing below her feet as the impersonal power grabs her body. Her head drops below the surface and her eyes see the green depths.
“Märit!” she cries.
“I’m here, I’m here.” Märit’s hands catch her, stronger than the river, taking her to safety.
When she has caught her breath, spread-eagled on the rocks, Tembi says, “I wasn’t frightened.”
Märit stretches out next to her. “No. You’re brave.”
“I was a little
bit frightened. Next time I will beat the river.”
They lie naked, letting the sun dry their bodies. Tembi rolls over onto her stomach and rests her head on her folded arms so that she can look at Märit. “Tell me some more about when you were married. What is it like to live with a man, to sleep with him next to you every night, to wake next to him in the morning?”
“You feel safe. I never slept so well as I did next to Ben. His chest was broad and strong and warm, and when he held me I slept like a little girl.”
“Is that what it is like to be married, you feel like a girl?”
Märit laughs. “No, there is more to it than that.”
Tembi moves her arm so that her eyes are hidden. “Tell me about the other part. Tell me about the other things.”
“Often you feel like a girl, but then there are the times that a man makes you feel like a woman. In a special way.”
“You mean loving—when he is loving you in bed?” Tembi’s voice is shy, her face hidden.
“A man’s body is like your own in so many ways, but where he is different his body is something wonderful. And the difference gives you pleasure. Such sweet pleasure to touch him.”
She falls silent.
“And he loved you?”
“I suppose he did. Although I don’t think he knew anything more about love than I did. Perhaps we might have grown to love each other in a better way if he had lived.”
Tembi asks no more. Finally, she says, “I want to be married someday too. I want to swim in the ocean. I want to have a man. I want to know these things too.”
“You will, Tembi. You will. It will be sweet for you. And it will also be bitter sometimes.”
Tembi shifts position onto her back and closes her eyes, lapsing into silence.
Märit leans on one elbow and lets her eyes move over Tembi’s body with frank curiosity. She has never seen Tembi naked, or any black woman. How much a part of the rocks and the sun Tembi seems, her breasts and stomach as smooth and rounded as the stone, the pubic patch of tight curls only a tone or two darker than the surrounding skin.
Märit touches her own hair, which is growing out unevenly, and looks down at her light-colored body, so pale, so naked, the triangle between her thighs so visible and obvious. I look better clothed, she thinks, and Tembi is better naked.
“Tembi?”
“Mmm?”
“Do you think we will be able to continue living here? How much longer can we go on?”
Tembi opens her eyes, unclouded with doubt. “We can live here forever if we want to.”
“I don’t know if I am strong enough. I don’t mean in my body, but in my heart.”
“You have to be strong, Märit. For my sake. I need you also.”
Märit leans over and clasps Tembi’s hand. “Do you? Do you really? You don’t know how much it means to me to hear you say that. I have nothing to hold me to this life otherwise.”
Tembi raises herself and leans to splash water onto her feet and then wipes her face. Where her wet hand has rested on the hot rock, the perfect shape of a palm and fingers is delineated on the stone. Märit watches as the imprint begins to evaporate and fade, then quickly places her own hand over the outline. She feels the mixture of coolness and warmth emanating from the rock, as if from a body.
Tembi looks down at Märit’s hand where it covers the palm print on the stone. “Without you, I too would be lost in this place.”
40
DURING THE NIGHT the weather changes and an unseasonable, sluggish heat descends upon the farmhouse, pushing away the usually cool breeze and replacing it with a torpid, airless atmosphere. Tembi wakes in the darkness with her nightdress twisted and bunched into a painful knot under her back. She kicks off the blanket and sits up on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily.
Why is it so hot? The nights are never this hot, not even in the thick days of late summer. With the edge of her nightdress she wipes away the thin film of perspiration from her face. Even the normally cool flagstones are warm under the soles of her feet as she rises and walks out to the corridor, feeling her way against the thick farmhouse walls.
At Märit’s half-ajar door Tembi pauses and listens to the soft sounds of breathing, then goes on to unlock the front door and step out to the veranda.
Out here the air is just as stifling. A hot wind moves across her face, blowing out of the night from the east somewhere. Above her head not a glimmer of starlight breaks the thick darkness, as if the sky too is heavy with this blanket of dead air. Not a sound disturbs the night, and the hot wind moves in silence.
The wind blows steadily with a constant flow, the air pushing forward in relentless streams, and in this flow there is a faint odor of decay, of something rotten out there in the night, a corruption that the wind brings on its unceasing current.
Is it the chickens? Tembi wonders. Does the odor of their slaughter still linger about the farm, almost three weeks after Michael disappeared? Or is there a death somewhere else in the night? She moves around on the veranda, seeking escape from the sour wind, but there is none, and eventually she sinks down into one of the chairs.
Where are her people this night? Where is Michael? She fears for him, alone out there. He needed so little from life, he demanded so little from the world, he stepped so lightly on the earth. Yet even the little he asked for was taken from him. She remembers the deadness that replaced the light in his eyes, and she fears for him. Because it is the dead hour of the night now, because she is alone and it is the hour when the human soul feels its solitude most, Tembi succumbs to her fears. Her own breath seems insignificant in the face of this nameless wind. Her own desires and hopes seem small. The night crushes her.
She has always accepted the world as it is—the veldt, the sky, the birds and animals—always there, part of some eternal wholeness that is constant. When tragedy and death and the presence of evil have come into her life she has borne them. She has always had faith and hope, and she has believed in something called God, some goodness at the heart of life. But can God take away her mother, and her father, and Märit’s husband—all without reason? Can God cut down the lives of the strangers who came to the farm? Can God send an innocent and harmless man like Michael to wander speechless into a troubled land?
In this black and infinite night, with its smell of corruption and decay, when her own weak heart beats feebly in the void, Tembi fears that there is no God, and that this wind blows from a place where God is absent—from a place where there is no hope.
A soft footfall sounds from the doorway, and Tembi turns her head to see the pale presence of Märit.
“Can’t you sleep either?” Märit asks.
“It’s too hot,” Tembi answers, hearing her own voice as if it comes from far away.
When Märit collapses into the other chair, Tembi reaches out and takes her hand, reaching for hope, and for faith, for life. “Your skin is cool, my sister.”
“Is it? I don’t feel cool in the least.”
“Do you smell this wind?”
“Yes, it’s strange, isn’t it. And it smells bad. What do you think it is? Where does it come from?”
“From a bad place, where there is nothing.”
Märit starts to remove her hand, but Tembi grasps it, pressing it against her forehead. “Leave your hand here. It’s nice and cool.”
“Are you feeling ill? You sound so strange.”
“It’s nothing. I’m hot.”
After a moment Märit says, “What do you mean, ‘from a place where there is nothing’?” She leans forward trying to see Tembi’s face.
“Do you ever wonder what is happening out there? How is it that nobody has come to the farm in all these months except for Michael? Not the neighbors, not anyone from Klipspring, not even the police have come back. In all these days only one person has come to this farm—a man who cannot speak. There is something wrong out there. The whole world feels empty. Perhaps the world has passed us by, forgotten us.”
&
nbsp; “I hope so,” Märit says fervently. “I don’t want other people to come here again. We don’t need anybody else. We don’t need anything from the world. It just brings suffering. I just want us to be alone here, on our farm.” She removes her hand from Tembi’s forehead and reaches into the pocket of her night coat for her cigarettes. There are fewer each day and she rations them now.
She lights the cigarette, and holds the match up for a moment, trying to see Tembi’s face. Tembi turns her head away. The scent of tobacco obscures the smell of decay in the night.
Märit extinguishes the match. “Do you think I’m being selfish to want these things? I know that there are others living terrible lives. It’s easy for us here, really. We have food and drink and shelter. There are many others who must be without that. But is it selfish to just want some peace? Haven’t we suffered enough?”
“I don’t know,” Tembi says in a strange and faraway tone that frightens Märit because she has never heard this tone in her voice before. “I don’t have answers to these questions.”
Märit smokes in silence. The taste of the smoke in her mouth is hot and stale, and when she exhales, the wind takes the smoke into the night.
Tembi rises and says in a numbed voice, “I think I will try to sleep again. You must too.”
Märit stubs out her cigarette on the railing. “We still have the fruit to pick tomorrow.” She follows Tembi into the house, pausing to bolt the front door. At Tembi’s bedroom door she says, “If it is still hot like this tomorrow we can swim again.”
From the darkness Tembi says, “Yes, we can swim if you like,” and her voice is flat and listless.
Silence returns. The heat remains. The wind blows, hot and relentless, and always with the undercurrent of decay.
THE SKY is a bleached gray color when Märit steps out to the veranda in the morning. A long yellow smudge lies across the horizon. The air is thick and heavy, a weight upon the land.
When Tembi appears a moment later, Märit says, “Did you sleep?”
“A bit.” Her face has an unhealthy pallor that shows her exhaustion. “It’s so hot.”
