A Blade of Grass

by Lewis Desoto

  In a calm voice Märit says, “Make some tea please, Khoza.”

  Schoon directs his attention to the soldiers. “Anybody else in the house?”

  “A girl—sleeping in one of the rooms.”

  “That’s Tembi, the meid,” Märit says quickly. “I’ll wake her. Please, sit down. Rest. Khoza, make the tea.” She gives him a slight push towards the kitchen.

  In the corridor she whispers to Khoza, “Do what they tell you. Don’t make any trouble.” She propels him towards the kitchen and enters Tembi’s room.

  Tembi has the sheet drawn up over her face. Märit pulls it away and leans over her.

  “Tembi! There are soldiers in the house. I want you to get up now. Quickly!”

  Tembi gives her a sideways, doubtful glance. There are still smudges of makeup on her face.

  Märit grasps her chin and gives it a shake. “I’m not playing, Tembi! Get up immediately. There are four soldiers here. The same ones that came before. Get dressed now. And put on your clothes—your own clothes.”

  Tembi seems about to say something, when her eyes slide past Märit. She pulls the sheet over her face suddenly.

  Schoon is watching from the doorway.

  “She’s been a bit unwell,” Märit explains. “But she’s better today.” Moving forward she blocks Schoon’s view, then shuts the door behind her. “She will be up in a minute.”

  “The situation seems a little unusual around here, Mevrou,” Schoon mutters.

  “I’ll just see how the tea is coming along. I’ll bring it in directly. Are your men hungry? Would they like something? There’s nothing fresh. Mealie-pap, a bit of leftover rooibok stew.”

  Schoon smiles. “Good boere food. That would be very generous of you, Mevrou Laurens.” He makes a little bow.

  In the kitchen Märit busies herself preparing the food. Khoza stands near the window, tapping his teeth with a fingernail.

  “Who are they?” he asks quietly. “Why are they here?”

  With a warning nod at the door Märit whispers, “I don’t know any more than you do.”

  “But that one with the beard, he knows you.”

  “He was here once before.” She reaches past him to get cutlery from the drawer. “Don’t just stand there. Is the tea ready?”

  Hearing her own words, the unintentional echo of what Schoon had said a minute ago, gives her pause.

  “Listen carefully to me, Khoza. The bearded one, Schoon, is not someone to fool around with. He is a hard man. Don’t try your games with him. Do you understand?”

  “He knows you. He’s your friend. Now you can do what you like again.”

  Märit grits her teeth and shakes her head. “Sometimes I think you are nothing more than a fool.” She lifts the lid of the teapot to make sure there are leaves, then fetches the last tin of condensed milk from the pantry and punctures the lid with two holes before pouring the milk into a jug. As an afterthought she adds some water and stirs it into the milk.

  Khoza folds his arms across his chest, glowering.

  “Try to be sensible, Khoza. For Tembi’s sake, at least. Now take this tray into the dining room. I’ll bring the food. And you and Tembi stay out of sight here in the kitchen.”

  Märit calls the men in to the dining room. They leave their packs in the living room but carry their weapons with them and set the guns next to their chairs, close at hand.

  Schoon watches Khoza as he sets the plates down on the table. He notices the way Khoza studies the guns leaning beside the chairs. He notices this because he watches everything, and he says to Märit, “This houseboy, has he been working here for long? I don’t remember him from before.”

  “He came just after you were here the last time.”

  “He seems the cheeky type to me,” Schoon says, staring hard at Khoza. “A little too clever for his own good. These are the ones you’ve got to watch, Mevrou.”

  It occurs to Märit that a word from her would remove Khoza from the house and from the farm. All she has to do is ask Schoon. But what would they do with him, these weary, dusty soldiers who come from nowhere? In her mind’s eye she has an image of a lone figure running across the veldt, running like an antelope, then the single crack of a shot, and the legs stumbling, the fall, and afterwards the vultures, the hyenas, the scavengers that come for carrion.

  “No, he’s a good worker. There isn’t a problem.”

  “Well, it’s your house.”

  The soldiers bend over their plates with evident hunger. Their faces seem slack, eyes dull; everything about them speaks of weariness. Hardly more than boys, Märit thinks. Boys who should be on the farms or laughing with their comrades on the rugby field. Yet when they raise their heads, she sees the boyish faces and tired men’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry we can’t offer you anything more,” Märit says. “We don’t have transport to go into town. The generator is broken. It’s a bit isolated here.”

  “Yes, I see that the farm is not as it once was.”

  “A locust swarm destroyed the gardens, the crops.”

  “But you are lucky to be off the beaten track,” Schoon comments. “There has been worse destruction on other farms. Worse than a few locusts.”

  She notices that he has not joined the others at the table. “Aren’t you hungry?” Märit asks.

  “Not at the moment, Mevrou. Thank you. I’ll just have some tea.” He pours a cup and carries it out of the house to the veranda.

  Märit follows a minute later. Schoon is sitting in one of the wicker chairs. He does not look at her when she sits down next to him.

  After a while Schoon says, “A beautiful land. That’s what they say of us abroad. You might not think it, Mevrou Laurens, but I’ve traveled in other countries. Europe, America once. ‘Ah, but your land is beautiful,’ they say about us. But they only see the veldt, and the blue mountains, and the herds of antelope. Yes, they see the beauty—who can deny the beauty?—but they don’t see what it rests on. Do you know what this much talked-about beauty rests on, Mevrou?”

  Märit makes no response, for Schoon seems almost to be talking to himself.

  “I’ll tell you,” he says. “Blood. All this beauty rests on spilled blood. Blood feeds the flowers and the grasses. The spilled blood of our forefathers, and of their forefathers. Every beautiful thing that the tourists see is fed by blood. Yours and mine too, Mevrou. Yours and mine now.”

  He is thinner than the last time she saw him, much thinner. Not as neat and groomed as he was then. She remembers the faint scent of Vitalis hair oil that lingered around him. She had thought him vain then. Now his uniform is dirty, worn, the boots scuffed. He seems to have lost his vanity. Or relinquished it. And something else is lost too, she realizes—his confidence. He still retains his authority, but it seems empty now.

  “I didn’t recognize you at first, down by the river,” Märit tells him.

  “Nor I you, Mevrou. Nor I you.” He points at her sarong and bare feet. “Has it come to this now? That you dress like them?”

  Märit blushes and looks away. “Things change. We’re isolated here. Nobody comes to the farm…”

  “Yes, things change,” he says, and lapses into silence again.

  “How are things…out there? What is happening?”

  Schoon turns the corners of his mouth down. “Things are not what they were. That much I can assure you of, Mevrou. There have been setbacks.”

  His tired eyes meet hers and he takes a long time to continue. “I don’t know how much longer we will be able to call this country our own. The government forces are holding strong in the south, but up here…well, it’s a difficult situation. Defeat is a possibility that we must consider at last.”

  “Have you been to Klipspring? What is happening there?”

  “Abandoned. And the nearby farms. All your neighbors. The towns have been attacked. For all your isolation here, Mevrou, your situation is better.”

  “Where will you go now?” Her voice gives away her anxiety t
o have the soldiers off the farm.

  Schoon stands with a sigh and leans on the railing.

  “We will only impose on your hospitality a brief time, Mevrou Laurens.” He stands with his back to her, in silence, hands clasped behind his back. “I wonder why you are still here.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.” Schoon turns to face Märit. “What is there for you on this farm now? You are alone. Do you not have family somewhere, relatives, in a safer place?”

  Märit shakes her head.

  “You are not safe here.”

  “Where would I go?”

  “You can come with us, to the south. Leave this farm. Leave it to them. They are too strong for us, they are too many.”

  “I have nowhere else to go,” Märit says quietly, more to herself than to Schoon.

  The door behind them opens and Schoon spins around immediately, his hand reaching for the pistol at his waist. When he sees it is only Tembi, he shakes his head in irritation.

  “I would advise your servants to return to their huts when their duties here are finished. My men are a bit jumpy. We wouldn’t want any accidents to happen.” He shakes his head again and walks down the steps and across the garden.

  Tembi waits until he is out of sight before coming farther onto the veranda.

  “You will have to sleep in the kraal tonight,” Märit says. “Both of you. You heard what he said.”

  “How long are they going to stay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tembi folds her arms and looks out at the distant figure of Gideon Schoon as he paces across the mealie patch.

  “Now you have your house back again. And I must live in the kraal again.”

  “It’s not me, Tembi. You know that. The soldiers won’t let you stay in the house. You heard him.”

  “And now I will be the servant again.”

  Märit feels a wave of anger come over her. “What did you expect? Is it better for me to live in the kraal while you and Khoza live in the house? Shall I tell the soldiers that is what you would prefer and ask if they can arrange it for you?”

  Tembi turns away without a word.

  The evening meal is prepared and served by Tembi and Khoza. Märit does not enter the kitchen. She eats with the soldiers, a mostly silent meal; they answer her questions in monosyllables, and after a while she gives up trying to converse with them.

  When the dishes have been cleared away, Märit steps into the kitchen, where Tembi is drying the last of the cups. “Remember what I said—stay in the kraal tonight. It will be safer for you. Where is Khoza, have you told him?”

  “He is outside somewhere.”

  “You had better tell him not to wander around after dark.” Märit moves closer and lowers her voice. “These men can be dangerous, Tembi. Make sure that Khoza understands that.”

  When Gideon Schoon steps onto the veranda after dinner he finds Khoza sitting in one of the wicker chairs, feet up on the railing, a cigarette in his fingers. The chair is tilted back on two legs, rocking slightly. Khoza takes a puff of his cigarette and tips his head back to let the smoke trickle skyward.

  Schoon stands and watches him without speaking. Then he says, “What are you doing?”

  “I am smoking a cigarette. Your food has been served to you and the cleaning is done. Now I am smoking a cigarette after my work.”

  With two quick steps Schoon crosses the veranda. His boot lashes out and kicks the bottom legs of the chair away, and as Khoza flails for balance, Schoon grasps him by the collar and hauls him upright. With the palm of his other hand he slaps Khoza once across the face and then pushes him down the steps.

  “Go and smoke your cigarette where I don’t have to look at you.”

  For a moment it seems that Khoza will try to remount the steps towards the other man.

  Schoon lets his hand rest on the butt of the pistol at his waist and grinds his heel into the fallen cigarette.

  “Voetsak!” he says.

  SOMETIME LATE IN THE NIGHT Märit awakes, hearing a noise outside her window. She lies silently, holding her breath, and hears it again, the slow tread of footsteps. Could it be Khoza or Tembi sneaking back to the house? She gets up from the bed and throws a robe over her shoulders before slipping into the corridor. In the living room the soft snores of the soldiers asleep on the floor are the only sounds.

  As she steps through the front door, a voice asks, “Can’t sleep, Mevrou Laurens?”

  With a start Märit turns and sees Schoon sitting in one of the chairs. “I heard someone outside my window.”

  “That will be Malan, he is on sentry duty. Go back to bed, Mevrou. You are quite safe.”

  “Yes. All right.”

  Then he calls her back softly. “Mevrou?”

  “What is it?”

  “Explain something to me. Were we wrong? Was everything we believed in wrong? What we were taught, how we lived, our whole way of life? It all seems misguided now. A waste.”

  Märit has no answer to his questions.

  “Think about coming with us,” his voice says quietly from the shadows. “It will be better for you.”

  “No,” she answers. “I have nowhere else to go.”

  50

  IN THE MORNING the soldiers are gone. They have disappeared as silently as they arrived. As if they had never been in the house at all. Nothing remains of their presence except the lingering smell of dust and sweat and something metallic.

  Märit is alone in her house. The emptiness strikes her like a blow. She runs to the veranda and peers across the veldt in the hope of seeing the four men, her last link with a different life. Nothing. As if they had never been. She should have gone with them, to safety, away.

  She dresses. The sarong, the beads and bracelets. And bare feet—to feel herself on the slate floors, to feel her soles on the dust of the farm, to walk the earth with nothing between her skin and the soil.

  In the kitchen she kneels and scoops out the cold ashes from the stove, then begins her morning duties.

  In the kraal, in the hut, the morning enters the shadowy interior as a shaft of sunlight falling through the window upon the smooth brown skin of the sleeping Khoza. Tiny motes of dust hang in the beam of light above his back as it rises and falls with the gentle motion of his breathing.

  Märit stands in the doorway of the hut.

  Khoza shifts in his sleep, turning, and from behind his shoulder, where the light falls, the face of Tembi looks out at Märit. There she is, huddled down into the warmth of the sleeping man, nestled against his chest, sheltered, protected. Her eyes are wide, dark.

  Märit is held by the intensity of Tembi’s black eyes.

  Then, between the two women passes the knowledge, unspoken, but saying everything. Finally, Märit gives an imperceptible shrug of acceptance.

  “The soldiers are gone,” she says softly. “You can come back to the house.”

  Still Tembi gazes at her, still the dark eyes hold Märit, full of their new awareness. Märit turns away, not wanting the intimacy of the knowledge in Tembi’s eyes to touch her anymore.

  KHOZA IS THE ONE who appears at the house first, hat crammed onto his head, a peculiar energy seeming to vibrate around him.

  “When did the soldiers leave?” he asks without greeting Märit.

  “They weren’t here this morning when I woke up. Do you want some breakfast?”

  Khoza pours himself some water, gulps it, then sets his cup down with a bang in the sink before striding quickly out of the room. He is still angry with me, Märit thinks, realizing that the energy he emanates has nothing to do with Tembi.

  She hears him in another part of the house, cupboard doors opening and closing. When she goes through to the living room, he is there with the shotgun tucked under one arm, stuffing shells into his pocket.

  “Are you going hunting?”

  “Which direction did they go? Did you see where they went?”

  “What are you going to do?” she asks, beginning to rea
lize that there is another cause for his anger. “Where are you going with that gun?”

  There is a hardness in his eyes that she has never seen before.

  “I am going to look for that bearded one. Your friend.”

  “Schoon? Why?”

  “You can knock a man down, you can beat him with a stick, you can whip him, you can even shoot him. All of this, and he will accept it. But you cannot slap him in the face with your hand.” He shakes his head vehemently. “This you cannot do! To shame a man in such a way puts something in his heart that will eat him forever unless it is removed.”

  “Is that what Schoon did to you? When did this happen?”

  “I have to kill him. Until I kill him I can never be a man again.” He shoulders the shotgun and walks out to the veranda.

  “Don’t be stupid, Khoza! What can you do? They are soldiers. It is you who will be killed.”

  He ignores her.

  “What about Tembi?” Märit calls after him.

  Khoza’s step falters, he turns. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” Then he strides away.

  Märit watches him go. And when he is almost out of sight, a man with a gun on the veldt, she says to herself, “What will I say to Tembi?”

  TEMBI APPEARS, coming to the kitchen door where Märit sits at the table waiting. She enters with her hands cupped before her, and extends them towards Märit, as if making an offering.

  “Look.”

  In the bowl of her palms are three eggs, dust-colored and speckled.

  “What are they?”

  “Guinea fowl. For our breakfast. I heard the hen clucking in the grass, and when I went to look I found the nest.”

  “But should you have taken them?”

  “I did not take them all. The mother hen will have enough.”

  Märit studies Tembi as she prepares the eggs. When she looks over at Märit she smiles in a particular manner, an inward smile. It is a look only a woman can have, Märit thinks, not the look you would find on the face of a girl.