by Lewis Desoto
Then Tembi lays down her shovel, and goes to the man, and says to him, “Are you thirsty? I will fetch some water.”
He turns to her, and his eyes focus and become aware of her, and he nods.
“I will fetch you some water,” Tembi says, touching his arm. As she steps away, it seems to Märit that Tembi’s hand trails across Khoza’s back—a brief touch, almost casual. But a touch. She does not look at Märit as she walks past.
Märit struggles to her feet and wields her hoe energetically, hacking at the weeds with fury, the blade of the hoe ringing on the cement of the irrigation ditch. Cicadas buzz in the long, dry grass—a piercing, grating sound, like metal grinding on metal. The noise fills her head, the serrated legs of the insects rubbing against each other like the teeth of a saw, teeth meshing on metallic teeth. The sun strikes the blade of the hoe as she wields it against the earth. Light hammers on steel, a steady hammering that pulses with the beat of the blood in her head. Around her the landscape shimmers and bends and tilts. The figure of the man at the center of it. The heat of his skin, the stickiness of the perspiration, her fingertip touching the sweat. And somewhere the scent of mimosa.
Märit turns her head up to the white sky and sees its emptiness descending upon her. She succumbs to it, sinking to her knees, bowing her head to the ground. Then the world tilts and the white sky strikes her flat, so that she falls, and tastes the bitterness that is in her mouth.
Märit smells mimosa. There is a pool of blue water, and the mimosa blossoms surrounding it, and from the blue depths of the water the man’s face surfaces.
“Märit, Märit!” he calls to her from the cool, blue water, with his laughing eyes.
She lifts her head to go to him, but the haze envelops her and she falls back into the dry heat.
He lifts his hands and cups the water for her. “Drink.”
The liquid touches her lips and spills over, and his fingers brush away the spill and touch her lips, and his palm is cool against her lips.
“Please,” Märit says, appealing to him as the haze descends upon her.
Khoza and Tembi carry Märit into the house and lay her down in her bedroom. Tembi draws the curtains shut to block out the daylight, throwing the room into shadow. She fetches a bowl of cool water and a cloth, and sits next to Märit, bathing her face gently with the cool water.
“Bring me a glass of water,” she whispers to Khoza.
He cradles Märit’s head, lifting it slightly, and she sips the water, then moans and falls back. Tembi smoothes the damp cloth across Märit’s fevered brow.
“Is she sick?” Khoza asks quietly.
“Too much sun,” Tembi murmurs. “She must rest indoors, away from the sun.”
In the white-hot light, in the long, dry grass, the cicadas shrill, like metal beating on metal, and somewhere, the smell of mimosa lingers.
MÄRIT WAKES and glances at the bedside clock. Nine o’clock. Experiencing a moment of confusion at the hour, she draws aside the curtains and sees the sun in the east, not overhead where it had been. She remembers fainting. But how long has she slept? She is dazed, but curiously alert to her surroundings, and very hungry. In the kitchen she finds fruit, rusks, cold mealie-pap, and she eats ravenously. There is tea in the pot.
Khoza is on the veranda, lounging in the rocker with his feet up on the railing, when Märit comes out with her cup. She feels a tremor move across her skin at the sight of him, a strange pang of apprehension and anticipation.
“Where is Tembi?” she asks.
He makes a lazy gesture with his arm. Märit sits down in the farthest chair.
“You are better?” he asks after a moment. “You slept a long time.”
“Yes.”
“Too much sun.” He chuckles. “Your skin is the wrong color for the African sun. Maybe you should wear a hat.”
She looks away from him and sips her tea.
“You like that tea, Märit? I made it for you.”
“It’s fine.”
“But I didn’t make any breakfast for you.”
“I’m perfectly capable of making my own.”
“Yes.” He sits in silence for a while, turning his head every so often to look at her. She does not look back. Then he says, “Soon there will be no more food. Just mealie-pap and what you have in tins.”
“In that case I will go to Klipspring and find some more.”
“No, you won’t find anything there.”
“Why not?”
He turns the corners of his mouth down. “The people who lived there, they took all their food with them when they left. Everything. From the shops, from the houses.”
“You were there? Why did they leave? What’s happened?”
“Too close to the war. So everybody is leaving.”
The news frightens her, even though she has suspected something all along from the total absence of a single visitor all these months. An image comes to her mind of the church in Klipspring, and the graveyard where Ben is buried, now abandoned, weeds growing, the town deserted. Except for the wanderers—like Michael, and Khoza.
“I can find you food,” Khoza says.
“How?”
“I can hunt. For meat. With your gun.”
“My gun?”
“Every farm has a gun. You can give me yours.” He smiles at her now, the insolent smile that says he knows her. “There are antelope out there in the bush. I can go and shoot a rooibok if I have a gun.”
“There is still lots of mealie meal, and fruit.”
“A man needs meat. And a gun.”
“You know about guns?”
He extends a finger at her. “Bang, bang.”
“Is that something else you learned in school?”
The smile drops from his face. “You still want to know about my life, Märit? You want to know about life across the border? You want to know about the freedom fighters and the war?”
“Oh, are you going to tell me now that you are a freedom fighter? Is it something heroic like that?”
“Fighting for the land—to take it back. All of it. Even this farm here.”
Märit sneers. “Why aren’t you off fighting for freedom now?”
He gives a knowing nod. “I was trained. Many people have died already.”
“At your hands?” she asks. “My husband was killed not that long ago. By terrorists. Saboteurs. You know that word? They put a bomb in the road and when his car drove over it he was blown to pieces. I suppose some freedom fighter put it there. Someone who was trained. They probably didn’t even see who they killed. It could have been a busload of children, or a group of workers being taken to the fields. Anyone, really. Luckily it turned out to be a farmer, one Afrikaaner less! Isn’t that what they say, your freedom fighters—one bullet, one Boer?”
Khoza says nothing.
“Is that what you were trained in?” Märit asks. After a moment she adds, “I don’t think you were trained in anything. You probably stole something from your last employer and had to run away. And now it’s easier for you to come and live off two women.”
In one swift movement he swings his feet off the railing and springs to his feet, advancing on her with clenched fists. His look is murderous.
Märit flinches, but does not move from her chair.
Then he laughs. “You want to make the black man angry, eh, Missus? Be careful, he is angry enough.” He collapses back into his chair, relaxing his legs on the railing again.
Märit leaves him sitting there and walks through to the office, where she retrieves a key from the back of the drawer and unlocks the cupboard. The yellow box of cartridges is on the top shelf. Märit takes out the shotgun from the back of the cupboard and counts out three cartridges. One to miss, one to hit, one to make sure.
Khoza looks up as Märit steps out onto the veranda with the gun in her hands. His eyes widen, because the long barrels are pointing straight at him. He swivels his upper body to face her and grips the armrests of the chair, but rema
ins seated.
Märit stops about six feet away and points the weapon at Khoza. Where is your smile now? she wants to say. You think you can come here and have this farm? On your feet, she could say, and go back to wherever it is you came from.
Her face is cold, hard, and he sees the intent in her eyes. The fear is visible on his face. Perhaps he has gambled on her and lost.
Märit feels it would take nothing to shoot him. One gesture, one word. She could shoot him for Ben. She is ready, poised, calm, like an ax ready to fall.
She waits for him to prompt her, to give her a reason to shoot.
The fear in his face is naked, because he sees the intent behind her eyes.
Märit sees his fear, the fear of a boy who has blustered that he is a man, and has failed at his gamble. She sees the boy who has left his home and wanders across the veldt, a stranger. With an abrupt gesture she swings the barrels upright and thrusts the gun towards Khoza. He jerks away from her.
“Take it,” she says. “You wanted a gun. Take it.”
He reaches for the gun, gingerly at first, looking up at her. He sights along the barrel, aiming out across the veldt, then slowly swings the gun around to point at Märit.
This is a different story, she thinks, with a different ending.
“Is it loaded?” he asks, the beginning of a sly smile spreading across his face.
“What do you think?”
His finger curls around the trigger. “I don’t think it’s loaded.”
“Try it and see.”
Khoza studies her over the barrel. Märit waits. He is unsure of her now.
“You would have shot me?” he asks.
Märit smiles finally, and opens her hand, revealing the three cartridges in her palm. Khoza blinks and squeezes the trigger, and the hammer falls with a click that makes them both flinch.
Märit lets the cartridges fall into Khoza’s lap. “Go and see what you can kill with these.”
“Only three?”
“One for each of us. You said you were a crack shot.”
He loads the cartridges into the shotgun and sights down the barrel again, then pats the stock with his hand, and beams at her like a boy with a new plaything. “I will bring us meat. You will see, Märit.”
He shoulders the gun and steps off the veranda.
Märit watches him go. This is what it is now, she thinks—a young man hurrying across the veldt with a gun on his shoulder. This is how the landscape will look from now on.
45
ALL MORNING Märit listens. Is he out there hunting? She has not heard any shots. Perhaps he will not come back. Perhaps she has seen the last of him. Now that he has his gun, he can run off and join whatever ragtag army he can find.
She feels vaguely disappointed by this notion, in a way that she cannot quite reconcile with her feelings of hostility towards Khoza. After all, she wants him to be gone. Yet she feels a little abandoned, suddenly aware of how much impact his presence has.
Is it because he is a man, and they are women? she wonders. A man on a farm seems natural, but she doesn’t want a man here. The farm belongs to her, her and Tembi.
“Where is Khoza?” she hears Tembi call.
“Why does it matter to you where he is?” Märit answers, without being able to keep an edge of resentment from her voice. She knows why she speaks this way, even though she would deny it. It is because Tembi has put her hand on the gleaming skin of the naked man, and because she has asked after him.
“Why should it not matter?” Tembi says, giving Märit a puzzled look.
“He’s gone.”
“You sent him away? Why did you do that? Is this farm not big enough for the three of us?”
“Why are you so quick to take sides against me now, Tembi?”
“You don’t like him. You show it.”
“It’s quite obvious how much you like him.”
Their eyes meet, and that secret knowledge is there again between them. Märit sees a flicker of hostility in Tembi’s eyes.
“I didn’t send him away. He went off by himself.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“He asked for the gun, to go hunting. I gave it to him and he went into the veldt.”
Tembi turns and scans the distance. She gives Märit a distrustful look. “Where? Why did you let him go alone?”
“He said he was going to hunt and bring us some meat. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t come back. Now he has his gun, what is there here for him?”
“He will come back.”
“For you? Is that what you hope?”
“Because there is no other place for him.”
“What do you know about him? Has he told you anything about himself?”
“He doesn’t like it if you ask him questions. He doesn’t tell you things if you ask him.”
“Do you trust him? I know you like him, but do you trust him?” Märit softens her voice. “Tell me honestly.”
Tembi shrugs and chews on her thumbnail. “I don’t know…He is nice…I think he is good. Maybe he doesn’t tell us about himself because he is ashamed. Maybe he has come here because he was frightened…you know, with the war out there. He can’t tell us he is frightened because we are women and he is a man. It is shameful for a man to ask women for shelter.” She nods. “He is lost in himself. I think that is why he is here.”
“Oh, Tembi. I worry about what will happen between us now, if he stays on the farm. It won’t be the same. I worry that he is the kind of man who will not be satisfied until he has power over you and me. And now he has the gun. Guns always give men some illusion of power. They want to use it. I worry that he will use you, that he will be against me, and against the farm. He wants this farm.”
Tembi ponders this, her brow wrinkling, looking at Märit with a certain distrust. Then she gives a decisive shake of her head. “No, Khoza is not like that.”
“I know you like him,” Märit continues. “Do you want him to come back?”
She sees a kind of longing in Tembi’s expression, a hope. “Maybe you are falling in love with him. Just a bit. Hmm?”
Tembi turns away, offended.
A thought occurs to Märit and she says, “You haven’t been with him, have you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you sleep in your own bed last night?”
Tembi swings around, her face angry. “Is it for you to ask me that? Maybe you are the one that wants him. I saw how you looked at him yesterday. I am not just a stupid girl. You want him too. Just like you want everything. This farm, this country. You want to be the boss of Khoza. And of me. Maybe you want me to leave the farm!”
“That’s not true! Who has put these ideas in your head?”
Tembi moves away from Märit, hunching her shoulders. “You can’t be the boss of anything anymore. Nobody has to ask you for anything on this farm. You are just one person, like Khoza, like me. If he wants to stay here then he can stay. And if you want to go, then you can go.”
Märit hears in Tembi’s words a denial of everything they have both struggled for. She has given up so much already, but it is not enough. There will be more to give up. Perhaps she will have to give up everything.
“Tembi, this is not the way for us to speak to each other. After everything that’s happened, this is the wrong path for us. I’m sorry if I doubted you. We have to remain friends. Whatever happens.” Märit reaches across and takes Tembi’s hand in her own. “If Khoza returns, we must not let him come between us. Promise me that.”
“I don’t know…we were better friends before. Now…I don’t know.” She shakes her head slowly and looks out over the veldt. “Maybe he won’t come back, then.” Her voice trembles slightly, betraying two conflicting hopes.
A shot echoes across the veldt. The doves in the bluegum trees take flight.
“Where did it come from?” Tembi asks eagerly, almost with relief. She pulls her hand loose from Märit’s clasp and moves away a few steps. �
�Do you see him?”
A second shot sounds from near the koppie. The doves wheel and flutter. The women hear a shout, a distant cry of triumph.
Tembi starts forward towards the voice, shading her eyes against the sun.
Märit lets her go. The moment is lost, the outcome is undecided.
The silhouette of Khoza appears on the koppie. He raises one arm, brandishing the rifle, and hails the women. The hunter, victorious.
Märit follows Tembi, slowly, walking towards something that she knows will bring no joy in the end. But she walks in that direction nevertheless, because there is nowhere else to go.
THE LIMP CARCASS lies in the dust at the foot of the stairs behind the kitchen door. A young rooibok, tawny, sleek, almost as if sleeping with its long-lashed eyes shut. Except for the red stain on the white fur at its neck, and the dried blood on the muzzle where a fly crawls.
Märit kneels and brushes away the fly.
“Now there will be a feast tonight,” Khoza proclaims proudly, standing with the shotgun draped across his shoulders. “Eh, Märit. Eh, Tembi! A feast!”
Märit does not watch the skinning and cleaning of the antelope. She cannot bear to watch the belly being cut open, the innards dragged out into the dust, the skin peeled back from the flesh. She knows that she will not be able to eat from the flesh of this animal, sacrificed to the hunter’s vanity, to Khoza.
When evening draws on and the fire is made in the braai pit, and the meat is placed above the hot coals, the smoke drifts into the house through the open window. Märit shuts the window, but the smell of the grilling meat wafts into the house, and saliva fills her mouth involuntarily, and she remembers how long it is since she ate meat, and she remembers the taste, because the taste is in the air that drifts in with the smoke.
When Tembi calls Märit to come out to the braai pit, she relents; hunger overcomes her. To show her goodwill to the hunter, Märit takes from the cabinet in the living room a bottle of peach brandy and brings it with her to the fire that crackles bright and warm in the fading purple light, where the hunter stands, eyes bright from the flames, and the aroma of the meat is thick in the air.
