by Sally Andrew
Henk was at the bathroom door, knocking.
‘Maria . . .’
‘Just leave me,’ I said. ‘I’ll be fine.’
The words I’d said, when I’d pushed him off me, were: ‘I’ll kill you.’
When I was finished in the bathroom, Henk offered me a tot of brandy, and I shook my head. We lay down, and he held me tight against his chest. I was still shaking, and he pulled the blanket over me. After a while, he started snoring. The frogs were singing, but quieter now, like the party was over. I carefully climbed out from under his arm and made my way to the kitchen. I knew what I needed. It wasn’t brandy; it was Venus Cake.
I took the lid off the tin and saw the cake glistening inside.
‘Jislaaik, you look good,’ I said.
I ate until the bad taste was gone from my mouth. I ate until the shivering stopped. I ate until every corner of the emptiness was filled with peanut-butter coffee chocolate cake.
But even though it was the most satisfying cake I had ever made, and I’d eaten almost half of it, I did not feel complete. I wanted something else. And then, there he was, standing in the kitchen – the man I wanted to love and make love with.
‘Maria . . .’ he said.
He looked at me and at the cake. The tears started leaking from my eyes. I looked away; I didn’t want him to see me covered with icing and tears. But he touched my chin and turned my face towards him.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll try . . .’
But I didn’t know what I could try.
CHAPTER FOUR
Monday morning, I drove along the stretch of dirt road from my house to Route 62, and the ten minutes into Ladismith. My little Nissan pick-up is a sky-blue bakkie with a cloud-white canopy. We had been lucky with the rains this year. On the mountainside there were some patches of purple and yellow where the ericas and other fynbos were flowering, but mostly the veld was different shades of green. Grey-green of the sweet-smelling bushes, brown-green of the grass, deep green of the karee, gwarrie and boerboon trees, bright green of the spekbome – the bacon trees. There should be different names for each of these greens.
The sky was pale turquoise, a kind autumn sky after the long hot summer. I could see it was a lovely day, but my heart was having trouble enjoying it.
Outside the Klein Karoo Gazette office, I parked in the shade of a jacaranda tree, next to Jessie’s red scooter, which had her bike helmet clipped onto it. We kept a good distance from the back of Hattie’s white Toyota Etios, because her reversing was even worse than her forward driving.
I walked along the path between the potted vetplantjies. The leaves of the little succulents were fat and silver-green. The building used to be a grand Victorian-style house; the Gazette now shares it with a small plant nursery and an art gallery. Like my farmhouse, it was built a hundred years ago and has mud-brick walls, and floors and ceilings of Oregon wood. But it’s a town house and bigger and fancier than mine. At the front of the building are pillars with broekie-lace ironwork and those ‘Ladismith eyes’ – round, patterned air vents. The Gazette office fits into one room at the side of the house. I heard Jessie and Hattie chatting as I walked between the plants towards the open door. I was carrying a fresh tin of buttermilk beskuit – one of my favourite kind of rusks – and a Tupperware with a few remaining slices of Venus Cake.
‘This is the guy I’m going to interview in Oudtshoorn,’ Jessie was saying, pointing to the front page of the Weekly Mail. The newspaper was on Hattie’s desk. ‘Slimkat Kabbo.’
‘“Slimkat” . . . makes a change from all the “fat cats”,’ said Hattie.
‘“Slim” means “clever”, not “thin”, Hattie. Anyway, I’ll interview him tomorrow if someone doesn’t kill him first. He’s had death threats.’
‘Goodness gracious,’ said Hattie. ‘Just up your alley, Jess. But can you link the story to your coverage of the arts festival? You said he was launching his book there.’
‘Ja. It’s about the Bushman struggle for land. My land, my siel. My land, my soul,’ She looked up at me. ‘Oh, hello, Tannie M!’
Jessie’s a lot younger than me, so she usually calls me Tannie – Auntie. Her smile was wide in her brown face. It got wider as I handed her the Tupperware with the cake. She’s short like me (though not as round), and her dark hair was tied in a ponytail. She wore her usual black vest, jeans, and belt full of pouches with useful things in them.
‘Maria, darling,’ said Hattie. ‘We were discussing the KKNK.’ The Klein Karoo Nasionale Kunstefees is the arts festival that happens in Oudtshoorn every year. ‘Will you be coming?’
‘I’m not sure—’ I said.
‘My, oh my, whatever happened to your hair?’
Hattie is tall, blonde, blue-eyed, speaks a Mary-Poppins-posh English and never has a hair out of place. She’s the owner and editor of the Klein Karoo Gazette. Today she wore a clean cream top and an uncreased apricot skirt. Jessie’s half my age, and Hattie’s in her mid fifties – not much older than me, but it sometimes feels like she is the grown up, with Jess and I the youngsters.
I ran my fingers through my messier-than-usual brown curls. I had on a green floral dress that sort of matched my eyes but was already wrinkled.
‘Henk threw my hairbrush at a leopard,’ I said.
‘What?!’ said Jessie. Then she opened the Tupperware and forgot about the leopard. She popped a piece of cake into her mouth.
‘Here you are,’ Hattie said, handing me a hairbrush and a small mirror.
‘Ta,’ I said, and did the best I could with the brush. ‘It’s called the Venus Cake.’
‘Oh. My. God,’ said Jessie. ‘It is totally awesome.’ She stroked the gecko tattoo on her upper arm, which is something she does when she’s happy. ‘Out of this world.’
I put on the kettle, which lives on my desk next to the beskuit tin, and prepared coffee and rusks for us, and tea for Hats. Hattie’s not much interested in food, apart from my milk tart, that is. She’s funny that way.
There was quite a pile of letters on my desk. ‘Tannie Maria’s Love Advice and Recipe Column’ is popular. People write in with their problems, and I give them some advice and a recipe that I hope will help. Finding just the right recipe takes time, and I only work half-days. You’d think that with all the advice I give, I’d be able to sort out my own problems. But you know how it is: a mechanic often doesn’t fix his own car.
I opened last week’s Gazette to the page with my column. There was my recipe for soetkoekies, those old-fashioned sweet biscuits, which I’d given to that woman who was feeling bitter about her mother-in-law. Next to my letter was a small advert in a pink box, saying, ‘Relationship problems? Difficulty with intimacy? Free FAMSA counselling at your local hospital. Family and Marriage Association of South Africa.’ And a phone number. Could they help me with my problems? I wondered. I dipped my rusk, took a bite and felt better right away.
Jessie and Hattie were still talking about the newspaper article and this guy, Slimkat. I took my coffee over to Hattie’s desk to have a look. The headlines said: ‘Kuruman San Land-Claims Victory’.
There was a photograph of a big group of people on the steps of the Supreme Court in Bloemfontein. Closest to the camera were two men who were being carried on the shoulders of others. One looked like a lawyer: a white guy with a neat haircut and pinstriped suit, his mouth wide open as if shouting, and his arms stretched up in the air with joy. The other was a small man, in a T-shirt and neatly pressed trousers. He was a little crouched, and looking away, as if shy or thinking of climbing down.
‘That’s Slimkat,’ Jessie said to me. ‘One of the Bushman leaders.’
‘San or Bushman?’ asked Hattie. ‘What is the politically correct term these days?’
‘Organisations say “San”, but most Bushmen say “Bushman”,’ said Jessie. ‘Both are okay, I think.’
‘So they won at last,’ I said. ‘That case has been going on a long time.’
‘Ja, they got s
ome international funding for legal fees, and the Supreme Court ruled in their favour.’
‘I am glad,’ I said. The Bushmen were good people who had been treated badly.
‘Hardcore, the diamond miners, aren’t,’ said Hattie, pointing at a tall man in a dark suit, standing higher up the court stairs, looking down his nose at the Bushmen below.
‘Nor is Agribeest, the cattle company,’ said Jessie, tapping her finger on the big belly of a man with cross eyebrows and crossed arms.
‘These companies were both after the nature reserve beside the Kuruman River, which has now been awarded to the Bushmen as their ancestral lands,’ Hattie explained. The talk of Kuruman made me think of Tannie Kuruman from the Route 62 Café and her excellent chicken pies.
The title under the photograph said: ‘San leaders celebrate their victory’. The lawyer certainly looked happy, but the faces of the Bushmen were peaceful rather than celebratory. Some had soft smiles, but no one was jumping up and down.
Amongst the small crowd were an old man and woman wearing traditional clothes: leather aprons, ostrich beads, headbands with feathers and porcupine quills. The old woman was holding the hand of a small boy who wore only a loincloth; her face was turned away from the camera, looking at the child. A young woman in a smart dress gazed up at Slimkat with adoring eyes.
One of the Bushmen was not looking happy at all. He was staring at something or someone outside of the photograph. His fists were held tight, as if ready to fight.
‘They are a modest-looking bunch,’ said Hattie.
‘Ja, it’s not the Bushman way to boast,’ said Jessie. ‘Even if they catch a big animal when hunting they will tell others it is small. And they are cautious too. For good reason.’
She read out loud from the paper: ‘Caitlin Graaf, spokesperson for the International Indigenous People’s Organisation, said, “The San leaders have been subjected to harassment and death threats over the last few months. We are investigating this seriously and will not hesitate to take legal action.”
‘When asked about how they felt about this ground-breaking victory, Ms Graaf said, “Of course we are all pleased that the San can return in peace to their ancestral lands in Kuruman, but the San are not people to crow over a victory.”’
I looked at the lawyer with his arms in the air, and Slimkat crouching down.
‘“There is a saying,”’ Jessie continued reading. ‘“The rooster that crows loudest at dawn is eaten by the jackal at nightfall.”’
CHAPTER FIVE
The next morning, Jessie and I worked at our desks while Hattie was at the bank. I was getting through my pile of letters.
Dear Tannie Maria,
My boyfriend wants to have sex with me, but I don’t know if I’m ready. I am seventeen, and I really like him. It’s just that emotionally I don’t think I’m ready. But I am scared he will leave me if I don’t.
What should I do?
Janine
I didn’t feel ready to answer that letter, so I picked up the next one. I hadn’t seen Henk since Saturday. He was busy with work, he said. I helped myself to another rusk and offered the tin to Jessie.
‘He’s coming here,’ said Jessie, taking a rusk and brushing crumbs off her desk. ‘Slimkat. He said he and his cousin were dropping someone off nearby. They’re going to pop in.’
We heard a car backfiring as it parked in Eland Street.
‘That’s probably them now.’ She got up and stood at the door, and I put on the kettle.
I heard Slimkat before I saw him, his voice quiet but strong as he spoke to Jessie. She led him into the office, and he introduced his cousin, Ystervark. Porcupine. Then he shook my hand.
‘This is my colleague, Tannie Maria,’ said Jessie. ‘She does the “Love Advice and Recipe Column”.’
His hand was warm and dry, but I hardly felt it, because it was his eyes that filled me with feeling. They were big and black, like a kudu’s, and they looked right into me. It was very strange . . . I felt like he could see me. Really see me. Not only my body but all of me. It was as if my eyes were windows without curtains, and he could just look inside. He saw everything. Including the things I kept hidden, even from myself.
I looked away.
‘Coffee?’ I offered, fiddling with the cups.
‘Rooibos tea?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘Black,’ he said, ‘but with lots of sugar for Yster.’
Ystervark was looking at all the pouches on Jessie’s belt and frowning. Like Slimkat, he was a small man, but while Slimkat was relaxed, Yster’s whole body was tense. His hands were tight fists, and I recognised him from the newspaper photograph. Ready to fight. Ready to kill, maybe. He looked at Slimkat, then at Jessie’s belt and at Slimkat again.
‘Sorry,’ said Slimkat. ‘We don’t mean to be rude. But could you show us what you are carrying on your belt? We’ve had some . . . incidents, and Ystervark likes to be careful.’
‘Sure,’ said Jessie, and emptied all the things from her pouches onto her desk. They made quite a pile and included her camera, notebook, pen, phone, torch, string, knife and pepper spray.
Ystervark grabbed the spray and the knife and looked at Slimkat as if to say, ‘I told you so.’
‘Sorry,’ Slimkat said again. ‘He’ll give them back when we go. We can’t stay long.’
Jessie set up two chairs for the visitors, but Ystervark stood at the office door. Then he walked towards the street and back again, with the knife and the pepper spray in his hands. He put them in his pockets when I handed him his tea and rusk. I gave the others their hot drinks and beskuit too.
‘Would you like me to go?’ I asked Jessie.
‘No,’ said Slimkat. ‘Stay,’ and he fixed me with those eyes again.
I spilt my coffee on my desk. I rescued the letters, but the coffee got all over last week’s Gazette.
Jessie picked up her notebook. ‘I know you don’t like to sing your own praises,’ she said, ‘but you must be feeling good about the victory over big business. Diamond miners and agribusiness are used to getting their way. Yet you won the fight.’
‘I am sad,’ said Slimkat. ‘It was not right to fight.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Jessie. ‘It belongs to you, that land. Your ancestors have lived there for tens of thousands of years. You could not just let the companies steal it from you.’
‘No,’ said Slimkat. ‘You are wrong. The land does not belong to us. We belong to the land.’
Jessie blinked, and her mouth opened and closed. It was not often that I saw Jessie without words.
She found them again. ‘But surely,’ she said, ‘if you do not fight, then injustice will be done. Again and again.’
‘That is true,’ he said. ‘Some people like to fight.’ He took a sip of his tea and glanced at his cousin, who stood at the door with his back to us. ‘I do not. Fighting can make you bitter. But sometimes it must be done. If you have to fight, then you must do so with soft hands and a heart full of forgiveness.’
He dipped his rusk into his tea and took a bite. Then he smiled and looked at me.
I mopped at the Gazette with a napkin. There was a brown stain over the pink advert offering relationship help.
‘I hear there have been death threats?’ Jessie said.
Slimkat nodded and chewed on his rusk.
‘Who do you think is responsible?’ she asked. ‘Agribeest cattle business? Hardcore diamond company?’
Slimkat waved his hand as if pushing smoke aside. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Or people who are jealous. It doesn’t matter.’
‘What do you mean it doesn’t matter? Surely it will matter if you are killed?’
Slimkat smiled. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Yster wants me to hide away. He says that the buck that grazes in the shadows does not land on the coals. But I believe my time will come when it comes. I am not going to hide from the sun.’
Ystervark’s back twitched. He put his cup down on the ground and took out
the pepper spray.
‘My life is a very small thing,’ said Slimkat. ‘It is not like the life of a river, or the earth, or the stars. It does not matter very much if I die.’
Maybe he was right, but I wanted to say to him, ‘Don’t be crazy; of course it matters.’ But it wasn’t my place to say that. Instead I wrote down the phone number from the coffee-stained advert in the Gazette.
CHAPTER SIX
The interview was short, but it went far back in time. Slimkat told Jessie about the Bushmen’s ancient and sacred relationship with the earth and the stars. And then he spoke of the many ways that people, animals and plants were being killed today.
‘We must leave this highway of death,’ he said. ‘This road of hatred. We must return to the path of love.’
When they were finished, Jessie walked out with Slimkat and Ystervark, and I phoned that FAMSA number and made an appointment.
When Jessie came back to the office, she told me that Ystervark had not returned her knife.
‘It was weird,’ she said. ‘He looked up and down the street as if someone might be following them, and he wouldn’t let me near the car. There was someone in the back that I couldn’t see properly, wearing a woman’s scarf. I got my pepper spray back, but he shook his head when I asked for my knife.’
‘What did Slimkat say?’
‘I don’t think he realised what was happening. We’d said goodbye, and he was getting in the car.’
I clicked my tongue. ‘It wasn’t right to take your knife.’
‘Maybe he needs it more than I do,’ said Jessie.
Later that morning, I sat in a soft orange armchair in a small room at the Ladismith hospital.
‘So . . .’ said the counsellor from FAMSA. She also sat in an orange armchair. She was young, with wide eyes, blonde curls and a matching blue top and skirt, just like a little doll. A poppie. She looked down at some paper on her clipboard. ‘First, I need to tell you that I am a counsellor in training, but I’m perfectly qualified to assist you.’
