Flame in the Snow

by Francis Galloway

  I received the three Vasalis books from Mrs Bouws on Friday: Parken en Woestijnen, De Vogel Phoenix and Vergezichten en Gezichten. Do you know her? Apparently she was awarded the Reina Prinsen Geerligs Prize in 1957. Everyone loves me so much, as Jannie Gildenhuys says.

  André, you must please not have an “acute conscience” about our clash or whatever. I see you as a whole person, and I love you as such. And don’t be afraid. Fear is evil. I read your heartsore letter of Monday over and over again. I was damn insensitive as far as your distress is concerned. And about that I am sorry; but the pangs of conscience I feel about all that are positively subsumed in love, which heals everything. I want to exist in reality, and not be deadened by a dream. Lovely man, reddish longish hair, precious mouth, hands, lovely white moesie-body and cute little cock, protective force “that looks like me, that looks like everything I love” –

  Yours in passion and longing and happiness and acceptance,

  Your Cocoon.

  PS: I’m meeting (hopefully) with Johan [Cilliers] on Monday and with Koos about Die Ambassadeur.

  And come again soon, and tell me everything.

  Your Ingrid Jonker.

  PPS: You do belong with me after all. Love and darling. IJ.

  And more: Write, man! “Stage fright?” Had it too, but it’s nonsense.

  Read [Adam] Small: good, hey? I.

  Grahamstown

  Tuesday, 26 November 1963

  Beloved, faraway darling,

  Day after day I am errant, wandering, aware of “all that fall”, of an ever-increasing need to communicate, to break through to you, to exorcise you (like [Gerrit] Achterberg’s dead lovers), to utter the “Sesame” that will make everything open up. “But wherefore could not I pronounce ‘Amen’? I had most need of blessing.”

  How many times haven’t I come and sat here, and then all I have to show for it is a blank sheet. And my heart. “Forse il cuore ci reste, forse il cuore …”

  Paper – pen – letter. But how do I capture everything in this futile little snare? Over and over again, the shimmering bulbul slips away, teasing me from the nearest branch – “parrot-gaudy echo”. And I know, all the time, that the same desire afflicts you, because you’re also not writing. The silence is wondrous. (“Die woord is daar om die stilte reg te stel. Maar die stilte is on-her-stel-baar.” Karel Jonckheere.)

  This has now become a week in which I have done nothing and cannot do anything, trapped in the daily round, on purpose, because it keeps my hands busy. (But the heart – “dat altijd luider slaat, altijd maar luider”?)

  De profundis clamavi. Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, oh Lord. Verse for today.

  What happened has done nothing to change the preciousness and the irremovability of that which existed before; but it has placed before us this mountain (not even a “holy” one) which we’re going to have to climb, as in the days of myths and legends, when obstacles had to be conquered before the hero could take the young virgin away from her castle.

  You in your little castle?

  Oh my love, my cocoon, oh mine. We will get beyond this, too. We will be spared nothing, neither pain nor darkness, because we’re only human.

  But you: you didn’t deserve this. I, who was supposed to be your guide through these “three days of darkness”, I sit here upon the waters, forsaken, not knowing on which distant shore I will find the light again.

  Everything here has tensed into habit – a mimicry without sense, a complete lack of communication. I feel written-out sick-and-tired – not even this little harbour is a refuge. So I’m translating, mechanically, day in and day out. Suspend “life” and learn to exist like a Pavlov-dog?

  We’ve no longer even got the telephone to reach out to each other.

  But perhaps – I want to believe this (I must) – this is the deep darkness before daybreak (without the bitter berry). The guard on the wall …?

  “News”? Die Ambassadeur has finally arrived; I had to drive to PE twice, on Saturday and Sunday (170 miles each time), to fetch the parcel. Friday night’s little celebration with Frieda and Jack Meyer went off without the book, again (he says he met you last December? You’re not likely to remember: that was a time of great confusion for you). I received W.E.G. Louw’s review. Rubbish. Ignorant. Even his praise has a hollow ring to it. Iritating sloppiness and overhastiness. What does it matter, anyway? Die Ambassadeur actually exists; and – for me – it’s now in the past. Forward march. Orgie. Always the horizon that one never reaches. Will-o’-the-wisp. Why does one do this? Vanitas vanitatum. And each time, Sisyphus again begins to roll his rock to the top. Uncrucify us, Lord. And yet: what would we do without this? It’s the only bit of “being” that we have. (For the rest, we’re orphans!)

  Should I send this misery-on-paper? It’s unfair, and yet: if I throw it away again, when will you ever receive a letter from me? You will know well enough to see through the darkness to the love behind it that always remains, and remains.

  … die klein, skuilende

  verontregte, verontwaardigde

  ding: wat in die looggat

  afkyk: homself gaan bewapen.

  And I think about a morning, naked in the sun, at a river mouth: our last dazzling morning before the “battalions of lies” and the “organizations of hate” made their approach. Our small little Paradise. Sometimes the angel with the sword has to fall into a slumber at the gate. Then, we go back, we become whole again, me me, you you, us us, little dual-unit in the flesh, and the God of love born from us, short-lived, but there.

  Love: with everything that I have in me, your holy name: Ingrid, from

  André.

  Tuesday, 26 November 1963

  My André,

  Your lovely letter that touches the earth nowhere arrived yesterday. The one you wrote in the study; was that in your house or at the university? The one after your sleepless night. Was it awful to mull over everything like that, and why do you do it? Did you get a letter from me on Friday or Saturday, though? Or on Thursday already?

  And what notes are you making now for Die Ambassadeur, my treasure? I only saw the dust cover today. Koos hasn’t sent me mine yet; he would have on Monday already, and then we would have gone and had a drink to celebrate. Today I went to Nasionale Boekhandel and looked at it there. Initially I didn’t like the cover AT ALL, except of course for the lovely heavy paper and the production, but later actually more comforted – and now that I think back on it, it works. The ornate little section with the mirror just maybe a bit jarring in terms of tone – or not? It’s all over the Boekhandel, and then I asked Kosie (Nasionale Boekhandel-drudge) if they weren’t going to put it in the window, and he said no, they only put their own publications in the window, especially at this time of the year. The TASTE of the boere!

  Then Kosie said caustically: I see you have a whole page for yourself. So then I went to Juta’s and told Mr Herbst that he should exhibit it well, I’m taking him a review tomorrow as well as one of your photos. He was happy.

  Hello, darling! Oh yes I saw Rob on the beach on Sunday, he came to visit Uys. We were all busy reading bits of the Sunday Slimes, and Uys put a sheet down for him to sit on. Rob said, “Oh, I’m sitting on Uhuru.” “What?” shouts Uys, “You’re sitting on a whore?” Rob then shyly explained “the news about Uhuru”. Etcetera. It was a divine day. Rob arrived still warm from you. But he didn’t say the post was still available in Grahamstown. That evening, Jack and Manfred Hirsch (advertising manager for Contrast) and I went to a party, and last night I’d have gone to Beckett with Manfred (dead dead innocent), but Jack phoned him, and then me too, about my “pitiful behaviour”! Was completely astonished. I find Manfred not in the least attractive – that’s the first thing – and secondly, I am still unfortunately boss-less. Further news: saw Freda Linde. I sent her a book and we went to have tea together, and everything there is right again.

  Liefsteling, thank you very very much for the cheque from yesterday, but you mustn’t!
I know you work very hard and you can’t also support me and Simone! Still, I bought her the most beautiful white-and-gold sandals today. But I have lots left for the birthday cake, among other things. And I actually don’t know what I would have done without the cheque. Asked Bartho to send me my honorarium, but haven’t heard anything yet. Thank you, my generous angel, and don’t work yourself to death and lie awake all night, like you do.

  Your parcel STILL hasn’t arrived! I think you must enquire at the post office; maybe they sent it via goods train, and then it will only get here by the time you come again, January?

  “Forgive my unforgivableness.”

  My André – you are not unforgivable, you are pure and precious and generous, with moesies and little laughs, and you make me happy.

  As soon as my tape recorder is fixed I will tell you about Éluard. And the unsayable, all of it.

  Love darling,

  Cocoon.

  PS: The unsayable? Sat quietly for a long while now and looked at your name on the envelope. André P. Brink: “Zo buiten mij geboren …” and then read a few of your letters again. Lord! Last night I dreamt you were a girl, we had a meal somewhere together; you ordered so much food they had to bring it in a big bag, and then I wanted to kiss you, but I wasn’t allowed to. Public opinion, etc. But in a hotel we had a little island. Then you weren’t a girl any more! My God, my André, is it all possible? And here we live in such an ordinary way, and why, “I don’t understand …” But love you, I do, in my way. André, the unsayable. You alone know what that includes and means. “I was born to know you, to name you …” Kiss, kiss the papie. My papie, which is waiting to get little wings.

  And with love, love,

  Ingrid.

  {Thank you for review Sestiger; I’m going to read all the other stuff this evening too, but especially yours, of course. Where is our lost moesie?}

  Grahamstown

  Thursday, 28 November 1963

  Most dear, lovely darling,

  I feel guilty about my sombre letter of the day before yesterday, which is likely to make you miserable, too. But the scales are tilting; I see light again. “Stage fright?” you ask in your letter of yesterday. Yes. But let us join hands and rise together, beyond the lights, in the light, and stay there. The actual turning point in my pessimism was yesterday when I phoned Chris Barnard and he told me, without any prompting, about Rook en Oker’s selling almost 700 copies. That’s really fantastic. I mean, not even Tristia sold that quickly. This means you’re being read, that people are eager to read what you’re writing, and your work is being anticipated. I’m glad about this, and happy to hear it.

  I have now – at last! – retyped Orgie for you. I’m sending it with this letter. I think parts of the 4th and 5th cantos are some of the best writing in the whole work. Some dull spots remain (too much “realistic storytelling”, occasionally?), but they’ll be reworked. I want to refine it for Bartho though only in February; it need not appear before September.

  Last night I did a sample translation from Die Ambassadeur – the start of the third section (“How can I talk about her chronologically …”); the handful of people I showed it to say it’s even better than the Afrikaans. I hope the rest goes smoothly, too. It’s hellishly difficult work, but also a challenge, and a very good exercise. First, however, I must do Colette for Bartho – 250 pages in fine print – and it doesn’t translate easily!

  Rob returned from the Cape last night. He would have “heard” a fair amount from [Ernst] Lindenberg and company. I would very much like to talk to him. Why can’t a person just be completely open? You are the most precious thing in my life, I love you, and whatever happens at times that seems to muddy the waters, please just know that, keep believing it. If I hadn’t possessed the conviction of your love, I would’ve taken the (melodramatic) “final step” just a day or two ago. I got up on Tuesday night, almost physically ill with longing for you, and from deprivation arising from a life here that has to continue without any form of communication at all; I came and sat here in my study for hours. Drove out the next morning to the bluegums overlooking the town and just sat there. It was as if everything was finished, as if all that remained was for me to perform the deed with my litte black Beretta, or with a length of hosepipe attached to the car’s exhaust.

  Everything was so incredibly desolate. And there was only one thing that I knew for sure, and know now, still: that I love you, and you me, and that I should at least remain worthy of you.

  Child, my darling, I want to come lie against your bosom like an infant, comforting you, and being comforted. I am unsettled; but I love you. If Anton hadn’t been here, along with the huge responsibility I have for his entire life, I would come to you without a second’s hesitation, and stay, and never again drive away on a Sunday afternoon or a Monday or Friday morning. I would even accept the risk to my father’s condition. That much I know, now.

  Let us continue to live in reality, and continue to dream.

  And you, darling, Cocoon, my own? What’s going on with you? Did Jack go off to the farm? Was he sorry to leave? Were you sad? What’s his book like? How is he towards you?

  On Sunday it’s your blonde little girl’s birthday. My best wishes; give her a kiss from me, because I like very much to think of her as mine, too. Will I never have a daughter of my own? Or might the next time I come down be more “opportune”? Because the thought of you bearing my child and giving birth to her – it’s begun to mean so very much to me.

  The future’s lying in wait, slumbering in a crystal ball. (“En wéér het kristal. / Nu vóór nie.”) Anything is possible, the creation is yet to be brought into being, God continues to wander through his garden in the nightwind, everything is still untouched, virginal, beautiful. Tomorrow a new day begins. Tomorrow we begin.

  I charge you in your beauty and splendour: sleep like a little lamb, like a brief sigh, until my words awaken you.

  I will sleep with you. Now. In everlasting love,

  André.

  Friday morning, 29 November 1963

  {Postscript to last night’s letter, which has already been sealed inside a large envelope:}

  Dearest mine,

  Thank you for this morning’s adorable letter that almost brought me to tears, so very happy was I that it was there – because when I checked the first time, there was nothing in my postbox.

  Just to answer the few questions you asked: When I write “study”, it means here at the house; “office” means I’m at the university. I always write to you here – my office is too impersonal.

  I meant the first rough notes for Die Ambassadeur, which I sorted – dating from Nov. last year to Jan. this year. Not new ones!

  Personally, I’m quite impressed with the cover. Are you satisfied with it? And did you and Koos have your little drink together?

  I’m concerned about the parcel. They wrapped it up in such a flimsy sheet of paper, and then I put the whole thing into a big white envelope and posted it, just like that. If it doesn’t arrive within the next week, I’ll order another one. The parcel wasn’t registered or anything and so they won’t be able to track it down.

  Have you spoken to Johan Cilliers yet – and found a new job? I’d be so happy if you could get out of that grey pit. But wouldn’t you lose all the bonus money you’d get in February?

  I’m glad things are okay with Freda Linde. Despite that unfortunate episode a long time ago, I think she could still mean a lot to you.

  Oh love, my darling, I long for you hopelessly, despondently.Thank you for your restful, glittering recent letters.

  Thank you for your strange dream about me as the eating girl!

  BUT I CAN’T KISS THE PAPIE!

  You kiss your hand with those gorgeously messy nails, and then use them to greet the little cocoon, and the electric switch inside there. (As I say this, I can feel the papie growing!)

  I love you. And I am no longer “unbalanced”, either. In love I become whole for you.

&nb
sp; Always,

  André.

  Castella

  Thursday evening, 28 November 1963

  No, God! Child! This is not a letter, this is a note. Letters I did write, and listen well, redhead, here are the dates they were posted:

  19 November: Telegram: No moesie.

  20 November: Letter.

  21 November: Letter.

  22 November: Telegram: Bravo citizen brilliant Ambassadeur brilliant career all love all confidence confirmed.

  25 November: Letter.

  27 November: Letter.

  So you see, I committed acts of communication with you almost every day in spite of your drawn-out silences! Like you, I of course also feel hopeless about the words-words-words-on-paper, but I would not be so heartless as not to write you at all; especially now. Notes, evidence: even dates posted. You’ll make a methodical person of me yet. I’ll keep waging a campaign for you with statistics and love. Funny that you, before your word-despair (I refer to your letter which considerately arrived today at Castella), also thought of a bird: so often in the last week-and-a-half I have thought of Elisabeth [Eybers]’s “klein koggelvoël wat roep in my”.

  Why do you speak in the past tense: didn’t change anything about the preciousness and irremoveability of what was.

  I don’t understand French.

  Who is Koos Meyer and what does he say about me?

  This evening I’m writing to the good Sir J.B. Braaksma, Council for Press and Cultural Affairs.

  Molteno Trust kindly disposed towards me (I.D. du Plessis and that joke).

  Going to the Brits with Anthony Delius. (For another bursary.)

  Heard nothing from Johan Cilliers. Mainly I’ve got to take a walk because I can no longer bear to be dehumanised at the Press. God! I was almost hysterical there today.

  … Oh fill me