Before I Forget

by Andre Brink

  ***

  Turning points we often recognize only in retrospect. But not one of us needed hindsight to realize , at your exhibition in mid-October (the date had to be shifted from September when you decided to start working almost from scratch, and you were incredibly fortunate that a cancellation had made it possible to change), that this was a watershed. For your art, without a doubt, and the reviews in the press—there was even a TV spot on Carte Blanche—said as much. But most significantly for us, the three of us; for you.

  You had been driving yourself even harder than before; much too hard, I believed, and tried to persuade you to hold back, but that only made you angry. And I laid off very quickly, remembering how mad it had made me in my youth when Mam always pretended to know better and tried to push me harder, and I revolted, and it would end up with me locked in my room, and Father coming home to effect the predictable closure.

  There was a startling change in your work during the two months between my birthday and the exhibition. What I had tossed out as a random suggestion, not seriously meant at all, you had unexpectedly taken up as you set to work on a series of ceramics, both sculptures and decorated, curiously contorted pots, on the theme of incarceration. Some figures were surrounded, in a stark and straightforward way, by bars of all shapes and sizes; in others, the figures—human, animal, vegetable, or a mixture of them all—were attempting to break through the bars, reaching out as some of the inmates of Dachau or Auschwitz on old photographs pushed their emaciated arms and faces through the barbed wire; even more hallucinating were the figures who had their prison bars embedded inside them, like scarred trees growing around or through skewers or crowbars lodged in them. There were even some grotesque Giacometti-like stick figures, in which iron bars seemed themselves to be metamorphosing into human shapes with outstretched arms in gestures of beseeching or menace. In the pots, shards and jagged iron spikes stuck into the clay half melted during the firing, and the rust formed unpredictable shapes and deep rich colors created by oxidizing. You even returned to some of your earlier, already finished, pieces and hemmed them in with bars and grilles, or stuck spikes into their gullets or eyes or ears or arseholes. In three or four of the sculptures the figures had disappeared completely: all that was left were the bare cages, shockingly contorted bars, like clusters of spaghetti cast in rusted iron.

  I was drawn into much of the laborious process: the bisque firing followed by the slip glazing, the painting with pigments—I remember those flaming yellows, the vivid reds and greens, the deep cobalt blues—followed by the final glazing. The cages posed endless problems of their own. Much of it, especially in the first week or so, was hit-and-miss. The iron bars would simply melt in the firing and leave a mangled mess, or cause the clay figures to crack. Sometimes these unforeseeable results were in themselves spectacular, haunting. But mostly they were useless.

  As time began to run out, even with the date pushed forward, you resorted to making the bars from clay too, and painting them with iron oxide. These were in disquieting contrast to some of the earlier pieces you’d left untouched, of half-human and half-animal children or madonnas (like the one you’d given me), realistically painted, challenging the spectator with an unnerving and deceptive air of innocence and idyllic beauty. In the end you had enough work for what was undoubtedly the most remarkable exhibition of your short career. It took its title from an Alan Paton book: Ah, But Your Land Is Beautiful.

  George contributed a lot to the preparations. He did almost all the welding of the ironwork, spending days and nights on it. Which made it all the more upsetting that he had to miss the exhibition itself after all. Impossible to blame him: an invitation to visit the Palestinian territories right then was something he simply could not turn down, and it arrived only days before the changed date of your opening. But it came as a blow, even though you kept a very brave face.

  ‘Che sarà sarà,’ you said philosophically. But there was an edge to it which did not escape me.

  During the opening there was more than enough distraction to forget about George—particularly as the sales reached something of a frenzy: an American collector bought twelve of the forty pieces on show, and that created a stampede—but afterwards, when we finally managed to extricate ourselves from the crowd and drive off into the night for a quiet dinner à deux at our favorite place, La Colombe, your excitement was tempered by melancholy.

  ‘It was amazing,’ I say, as the sparkling wine is served—Achim von Arnim’s amazing Aurum. With specks of real twenty-four-carat gold leaf glinting through the foam.

  You nod absently, twirling the glass between your strong fingers.

  I have to do something to lighten the atmosphere. Making a somewhat deliberate effort, I tell you about the exhibition a friend of mine, Bridget, a painter, had at one of the top galleries in Johannesburg a few years ago.

  ‘A friend, or a lover?’ you ask.

  ‘Something of both.’

  ‘You think that is possible?’

  ‘It has worked for me. At least, we began as lovers. At the time of the exhibition we were friends.’

  ‘Hm.’ You don’t seem convinced.

  ‘If you must know, we slept together again after the opening.’

  ‘Ah, good.’ At least I’ve managed to get your attention. ‘How did that come about?’

  Carried away by the memory, I plunge into the story. Bridget and I had driven up to Johannesburg together a day or two earlier and conferred with the gallery manager who had invited me to open the exhibition, and who turned out to be an exotically beautiful blonde woman in her early forties, Vera. For both the women there was much at stake: it was not only the opening of the exhibition but also of the gallery, in a prime spot in Rosebank; at the same time a few of the top vintners from the Cape were invited to use the occasion as a showcase for a selection of recent prize wines from an international event in Frankfurt. I immediately felt attracted to Vera, and the feeling appeared to be mutual, which made me very grateful for the friendship my relationship with Bridget had eased into.

  For the time being there was no opportunity of pursuing the possibilities, as we were simply too busy arranging everything for the exhibition. But there certainly was electricity in the air, an unspoken agreement that after the opening… And then, quite unexpectedly, everything very nearly came to a premature end. On the morning of the exhibition Vera phoned in consternation: the pantechnicon that had to transport the paintings from Cape Town had got stuck somewhere between Colesberg and Bloemfontein. Vera wanted to cancel. But Bridget was horrified by the idea: we had come all the way from Cape Town, the invitations had been sent out, the wines had arrived, all the delicacies had been ordered, we just had to go through with it. I promised to adapt my opening speech to the occasion to ensure that the public would not be antagonized. I would simply present it as a prelude, a whetting of the appetite. But as it turned out, no adaptation was required. That evening the gallery was awash with people, spilling into the open spaces of the mall where it was situated, even into the street. Everybody was drinking—the wines were an exhilarating success—smoking, talking, having a ball. It went on until well after midnight.

  All three of us were on a high when the last guests finally oozed out. We repaired to Vera’s luxurious mansion in Northcliff (a place she’d acquired as part of a divorce settlement from a millionaire Italian husband whose shady past might or might not have included some involvement with the Mafia) for a more private celebration. And after several more bottles of the best, it turned into a rollicking clinch à trois in the course of which we stumbled and tumbled through most of the rooms in the palace, ending up in the illuminated pool at daybreak in a surrealist tangle.

  Two days later, the pantechnicon arrived, the paintings were hung and Bridget went to help Vera with the phone calls, to inform all the opening-night guests that the exhibition would now go ahead. But almost without exception the reply from eve
ry person they contacted was the same: ‘But we’ve already seen the exhibition, we were there on the opening night.’

  ‘Which undoubtedly gave the three of you reason for another little get-together?’ you ask.

  ‘You have a one-track mind, Rachel.’

  ‘Not you?’

  ‘All I can say is that I discovered, in the course of those two encounters, more about the imaginative limits of the human body than I had ever thought possible before. For one thing, it gave me a much more profound understanding of many of Picasso’s paintings. So you may say that it was all in the name of aesthetics.’

  You laugh with such mirth that everybody in the restaurant looks up. The mood has lightened. The evening, it seems, has been saved. We place our orders. Asparagus in an exquisite orange-flavored mousseline sauce for you, followed by Norwegian salmon; for me, artichokes, and duck with prunes.

  ‘At least tonight’s crowd got value for their money,’ I smile.

  ‘George wasn’t there,’ you reply flatly; and suddenly we are back at square one.

  ‘I’m sure no one regretted it more than he,’ I plead.

  You shrug, avoiding my eyes.

  ‘You can’t blame him, Rachel.’ I reach for your hand on the tablecloth, but you pull it out of reach.

  ‘He had a choice.’

  ‘Coming at this moment, with everything that’s happening on the West Bank, it was a chance in a lifetime for a photographer like George.’

  ‘I didn’t try to stop him.’

  ‘But you didn’t approve either, did you?’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t. How could I?’

  ‘Your show—his assignment. It’s a tough call for anybody.’

  ‘Chris, there’s not much point in discussing it now. We’ll just have to get used to doing our things separately.’

  ‘He was in this with you all the way. He worked with you every day, every night.’

  ‘And when it mattered most, he went off.’ In a shocking change of direction you ask, ‘Do you think he has another woman?’

  ‘Rachel, that is preposterous!’

  ‘Did he say anything to you?’

  ‘Of course not. Because I know for a fact that there was nothing to say.’

  ‘Do you know that?’

  ‘I know George.’

  ‘I also thought I knew him. Now I am no longer sure.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  You inhale deeply and look me right in the eyes. ‘I asked an astrologer and she told me.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. This isn’t a little game. You’re playing with both your lives.’

  ‘It’s the same woman who told me last year that on New Year’s Eve a broken-down car would bring a stranger into my life.’

  ‘Pure coincidence. Rachel, you can’t be serious.’

  ‘I know what I know.’ There is a set to your jaw that unnerves me.

  ‘You’ll have to get over this. And quickly.’

  ‘Yes, Grandpa.’

  That hurts, and I know you know it.

  The rest of the meal passes in polite conversation. I wish I could go to my own home afterwards, but I owe it to George, and perhaps to you too, to stay over like the last time.

  You clearly have the same misgivings. ‘There is really no need for you to stay,’ you say when we stop at your house in Camps Bay.

  ‘I’ll feel more comfortable if I do.’

  ‘So will George,’ you say. ‘But is it really for the two of you to decide? Don’t I have any say?’

  ‘Now stop this nonsense!’ I snap. ‘You’ve done enough harm for one night.’

  You gape at me: I have never been so sharp with you before. And rather to my surprise—and your own?—you turn contrite, take a deep breath and say in a small voice, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘It is still for you to say whether I should stay or go.’

  A pause. Then you say, ‘Please stay.’

  Predictably, perhaps, it is a sleepless night, and I get up much earlier than usual—to find you already in the studio, not working, just having a quiet cup of black coffee in an armchair in the far corner.

  You look up quickly when I come in, put the cup down and come to me, pressing your head against my shoulder.

  ‘Can you forgive me?’ you ask.

  ‘Nothing to forgive.’

  ‘Yes, there is. I was out of line last night.’ A wistful smile. ‘I think it’s hormonal. But I don’t want to hide behind easy excuses. What I said about George—do you think you can just pretend I never did? Please. I feel ashamed.’

  ‘You were sad and unhappy and left in the lurch. Now you can make a new beginning.’

  ‘A rather strange feeling.’ You gesture towards the work table and the shelves where the sculptures used to be. ‘They always kept me company. Suddenly it is very empty.’

  ‘Nothing like starting again.’

  Your eyes seem to narrow slightly. Perhaps in understanding? ‘You must know a lot about that,’ you mock. ‘Does one ever get used to it?’

  ‘Not really. But that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Every time there is a new challenge. Knowing that anything could happen.’

  ‘Which could be bad.’

  ‘It could also be wonderful. I keep hoping.’

  ‘Doesn’t one ever get too old to hope?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wish I could be so sure.’

  ‘It’s up to you, Rachel.’ I put my hands on your shoulders. Strange, I think: today it is a purely paternal gesture. ‘Why don’t you start on a new sculpture today?’

  ‘It’s too soon. I feel depleted.’

  ‘Try. Just to keep your hands busy.’

  ‘Will that bring George back?’ you ask without warning.

  ‘George will come back by himself.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I know it.’ I press my hands tightly to your shoulders, then let go.

  As I prepare to leave, you say behind me: ‘You know, I think I discovered an important thing last night.’

  ‘What was that?’ I wait for it.

  ‘I no longer need George.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Rachel.’ I swing round to face you again. ‘That is terrible.’

  ‘It’s not terrible. I don’t mean it to be terrible. It’s just—something I realized. I still love him, of course I do. I’ll always be here for him, and I hope he will for me. But something has shifted. The need is gone, Chris. It’s a lonely feeling. But I think I am free now.’ However good you made it sound, it was like news of a death in the family.

  ***

  There was an uneasy awareness of death, too, in my homecoming from Europe in the mid-eighties. Not death in the family, this time, but the convulsions preceding the death of a whole society, an old world drawing to a close. Emotionally, mentally, I knew it was time to come back. But I had no idea of what I was coming back to. Initially, it was an unsettling experience of not being part of anything, of being no longer there but not yet here.

  In many respects my life, certainly as a writer, was easier than it had been before I’d left. The weight of censorship which had pressed so crushingly on everyone involved with the arts had begun to ease up (certainly for those of us who were white; to be black remained a sorry fate). Books previously banned, including my own, were being unbanned. It was not so easy to discover the reasoning behind this. Some suggested that a regime headed by the unfortunate lump of flesh named P. W. Botha, the infamous president under whose misdirection apartheid entered its period of deepest darkness, a man whose mind was left uncontaminated as he was reputed not even to read newspapers, had lost its interest in writers and their nefarious preoccupations. Or had the government actually become sophisticated enough to realize at last that simply ignoring the possible subversi
ons of books or their authors instead of drawing attention to them through various forms of persecution, was working to the advantage of the regime? Or was there a more plausible and more practical reason altogether in the fact that there were so many real dangers menacing the regime—from international sanctions and boycotts to resistance in the churches, in the universities, in the new trade unions—that the SB had their bloodstained hands too full with urgent and immediate threats to worry too much about the arts? Whatever the reason, I no longer had to lie awake at night in fear of the infamous knock on the door at three in the morning.

  Among Afrikaans writers, I must admit, I did not meet with any warm reception, as they seemed to regard me as something of a traitor for having chosen to write in English. But most others, particularly black writers, readily embraced me as a fellow combatant in the political struggle; and this made life much more manageable.

  However, this was cold comfort. The situation was still dire, perhaps more than ever. It was, above all, chaotic and unpredictable—all the more so because of the erratic behavior of a state president who seemed to be sinking steadily into dementia.

  Inside the UDF, the United Democratic Front that assembled under one umbrella all the disparate groups formed to challenge to apartheid regime in the Eighties, which I joined soon after my return and which had become the front for the still-very-much-banned ANC, there were flickerings of hope, glimpses of a better future already becoming visible through the infernal gloom of one state of emergency after another. Even if that future could be reached only through an apocalyptic bloodbath, which seemed to be the general expectation, it was no longer the utter impossibility it had appeared only a few years earlier. Delegations of business and cultural leaders, many of them Afrikaners, were beating a track to Harare, to Lusaka, to Dakar, to Paris and elsewhere to meet representatives of the ANC and start planning a shared future; there were rumors of the imprisoned Mandela initiating discussions with the regime. But on the surface there was a deepening gloom. There were protests and demonstrations; there were massive arrests, and deaths in detention. At one point the state president had to be almost forcibly prevented by one of his ministers from arresting a group of more than sixty leading Afrikaners on their return from Senegal.