Flame in the Snow

by Francis Galloway

  PS: Why is your writing so weirdly small these days?

  PPS: Where is our little castle?

  PPPS: Where is the snow of the year before last?

  It’s almost your birthday, my lord – 29. Tomorrow I’ll buy you something nice. I love you. I wish I could write you a nice poem, but for that we will have to wait. An extremely boring teacher has just visited me here. And his name is André! I called him Klaas by mistake, magtig, what could it all mean? A crude South African wanted to kiss me the other day.

  Yes, I remember last Ascension Day. That wasn’t the Tent Day, was it? And you were certainly not inexperienced. You were ex-ce-llent. You’re a little like the gamekeeper (I read Lady Chatterley’s Lover in Dutch! Murder!). I can’t resist reading all the vile pathological books that are available here.

  Afraid the letter’s jumping around ever more wildly. But for you I can write anything. I had a letter from Jack. He says he always knew what (I) would do! (In relation to you.) “But that’s a dreary subject.” He says he might still go to America sometime this year (Carnegie grant).

  My André, I live here without any outward shape or form. For you. For Jack. For Simone. And that is probably good. It must be good. One has to believe in something. I know you won’t disappoint me, my precious virtuous man.

  We’ll probably still be arguing in the days of the flood. So bring lots to read! And how’s it going with the Spanish? Will you teach me? I’ll try in any case to get the necessary here. It must be most kak when you don’t understand the language at all. Well, my liefsteling, my-André-who-is-coming-to-me, tell all. Especially about your soul and what do other people say that you are coming? And forgive your angry Con for restlessness, shallowness and lightlessness! Come soon, and save my immortal soul!

  With love,

  my little boy,

  Your Cocoon.

  PS: I wrote a poem and was deeply disappointed at the appalling lack of talent it revealed. IJ.

  C/o South Africa House

  Trafalgar Square

  London.

  Friday, 15 May 1964

  My dearest André,

  Just an SOS-note to let you know that I left Amsterdam SOS – don’t get a fright now because it’s just for two weeks. I came by night ferry last night from the Hoek van Amsterdam and arrived in Liverpool at nine this morning. My God, Child, it’s a beautiful city and all, but the brutality and narrowness and mistrust: And it’s just a plain waste of time if I can’t get hold of a single one of the Dutch writers. So – I’ve secured my room and gone wandering. Of course, because I do everything on the spur of the moment, I arrived to find no one at home in London, but strangely enough I feel in any case more at home. It might be throwing in the towel and all that, but now I’ll arrange things better with the writers from England, and I luckily still have the room until the end of June. And I asked the dull, devout NZAV to address your letters here for the first week. The esteemed mister Von Bose talks a great deal though he is not up to the job. The night ferry was lovely, and the trip very pretty through The Hague and Leiden. I’m going back with the day ship. At least I wrote a naughty poem, so, here goes:

  Two Hearts

  Two hearts I have

  the one pumps blood

  and the other really looks like

  an appelliefkosie

  or a paddatjie.

  It’s a nice day in London. And probably also in Amsterdam today. But love, I am glad to be here and I’m going to find myself a room and be serious. I am good, and open, and naturally chaste, and miss you and Spain. Don’t take offence at the fact I can’t take the Amsterdammers right now with their damned prejudices against everything that is South African or German or English.

  The boss of the house (the people I stayed with last time I was here) just called and it looks like no one knows what possessed me – at least he sounded happy to hear my voice! But you do understand, don’t you? Maybe an emotional deep sea, because I was left to my own resources so much there. Radio Hilversum hasn’t reported on the position – but they know in any case that I’ll be away for two weeks. Just before I decided to come, I called Elisabeth Eybers – I think I told you, to chat. But even she was too busy to meet me. Seems I have much to learn! Arrange ahead of time, think ahead of time, and adapt, always just adapt. Hopefully it will still come. I’m still a novice at the art of travel. Have behaved primly in any case and didn’t curse the murderous traffic even once. Now, my liefsteling, till tonight or tomorrow, and keep your window open to Spain, where the puzzling pattern will indeed fall into place, and maybe, if we are lucky, become meaningful.

  From the heart,

  and the other,

  Your Cocoon.

  PS: Planes booked and paid and ready. I.

  PPS: To the Tate, with William (Plomer) (62). IJ.

  C/o South Africa House

  Trafalgar Square

  London

  Thursday, 21 May 1964

  My liefsteling,

  I received your little letter today; you know, the disconsolate one. Written on 12 May – time, distance, presence – God, my André, that Tuesday (12 May) I was probably equally disconsolate. Everything was going quite well and civilised in Amsterdam, but I’ll die if I have to go back – listen, beloved man and slumbering papie, the night ferry was lovely. By nine o’clock I’d landed at Liverpool St and then off with a family to their cottage in Cambridgeshire. Yes, all the heaths and the beauty and a real village barn-dance nearby. You should see how your Cocoon can shake by now. Do you far-away people know the dance yet? On its way out. The kind Australian friend also went along and now I’m staying with her for a while in Highgate; but how long, I don’t know. All I know is that I am definitely not returning to Amsterdam before 30 May. So, letters to SA House, because a permanent address I do not have and don’t want for the time being. I’m beginning to learn little things about life that I only intuited before or maybe only came across in books; yours too; and am starting also to develop quite a sense of privacy because it is so necessary here – growing up – 21! And slowly I am learning to love the English, and you, even more, because you, my darling André, are so English. That you are, and that’s final! Because the Dutch themselves say this: we Afrikaners have inherited far more from England than from The Netherlands. It’s all so strange, because I had such a different expectation. But my inner war with the Netherlands is not over by a long shot. Maybe I’ll carry on living there for a year, working for Radio Wereldomproep. I am now busy warding off the intimate charm of The Netherlands, as well as that of England: landscape of poets. Out there in the miserable English rain is a tree – this is Keats’s world – and it says: “All things betray thee, who betrayest me.”

  But dear God, darling André, you: you mustn’t work so much and sleep so little – in God’s name look after yourself because I say so: and don’t take any notice of the attacks from whoever in Standpunte; in any case, send me a copy via airmail; and listen – if they can change a Nicolette into a Beatrice (also my mother’s name), you haven’t yet strayed too far from the point! But I am worried about you. At all costs you must come away from the narrow-mindedness and the rot of those foul attacks. Don’t for one minute take it personally. Because then you become hopelessly involved in it, and you are far above malice. Come and lie here against my heart, dear heart. I know all the answers concerning your related [?]. My dearest André, I want to ask you for a great favour and gift. You must trust me – like a soldier in a war; and like I trust you. I wish that I could comfort you with something, with a nearness as I alone can comfort you, but we have to rely on words; and words have always been my enemy, “my quiet child”, Abraham Jonker always called me. That was then. And even before. And long ago. My treasure, I am so pleased your hair will be long, but you’ve really got too fat! Fifteen pounds! And how did you achieve that? As far as I know, I am still just the same; inspected myself well in bed (with a mirror) this evening, around 115 pounds and tanned! Mostly lay in the sun this weekend
in Cambridgeshire though at least (I’ll show you the photo) scrubbed a floor too. Strangely enough, I still have a cocoon, and everything –

  Saw Johann van Rooyen today and Laurens van der Post – they both know you’re coming – but don’t worry, they’re discreet (and they also rather love me).

  How is Estelle “very loving”? André, if you were here I would murder and love you in a rage.

  Your

  Cocoon.

  I asked my bank in South Africa to send you R20 for your birthday. Happy birthday, 29! Worried a small parcel would get lost and airmail and insurance and so on, you probably need money, and buy something nice.

  Cocoon.

  Friday, 29 May 1964

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY AND LOVE FOR THE YEAR AHEAD PRECIOUS = FROM COCOON

  Amsterdam C

  June 1964

  My dearest boy,

  I’ve really neglected you with letters, do you forgive me? Because I’ve just done a quick tour of Europe – so where shall I begin? My Australian friend Fay and I decided to go on a little tour through France and Germany because she happened to have leave and so we did! You also got a telegram from Berlin for your birthday. I am now sick and tired of flying and rushing and I miss my own little child. I have rather serious doubts about Europe, which I don’t quite dare put on paper yet.

  But one thing I know: I don’t like Holland. Not for a whole year. And now that I am back, I’ve also not sought anyone out. I chat to the old lady here in the room next to mine and go to the Leidseplein with a friend who lives on the floor above me. And read. And walk. De Bezige Bij is busy with the translation of your book: did I already write that, little darling? I will still go and call on them but to tell the truth, I am so thoroughly the hell-in with Holland that I am completely withdrawing to my own little world. The old lady next door just brought a little present for Simonetta.

  Thank you my darling André, for all your hundreds of letters that were awaiting me here in Amsterdam. You are so loyal and you NEVER reproach me for writing so seldom. And look! I don’t even go searching for that nice theology student and I don’t go on Harry Brinkman’s scooter any more. And yet I have much to tell and I’ll do so when we’re together, because it’s actually just chatter. It’s now less than two weeks and then you land at Schiphol and then life must become good again! And why are you AFRAID? Because we haven’t seen one another for such a long time? Six months, my treasure? And then we might fight too? God, I would so much like to get out of this sadland and back to the sun. It’s raining, and I am getting whiter and ever “smaller and smaller” from longing.

  I am busy with Orgie. It looks nice printed and I am following the changes because I do still remember the MS. I have some changes for you, which we can discuss together. In God’s name, bring the proofs with you again because there are parts I still feel unhappy about. Apart from those, bravo! And bring Elders with you and don’t worry about the price of the car and don’t be so nosey about the amount I got from the Oppenheimer Trust! I have LOTS to discuss with you, god I was alone: “All those yearning looks I had bestowed on the buildings and statues, I had looked at them so hungrily, so desperately, that by now my thoughts must have become part of the very buildings and statues, they must be saturated with my anguish.” And tell your government over there they should send their political prisoners out of the country for torture! These cities! This waking nightmare!

  Waiting in Amsterdam

  I can only say that I waited for you

  through western nights

  at tram stops

  in lanes

  by canals

  and the tower of tears

  You came

  through the forlorn cities of Europe

  I recognised you

  I prepared the table

  with wine with bread with grace

  but unperturbed you turned your back

  you took off your cock

  laid it on the table

  and without a word

  with your own smile

  forsook the world

  Ingrid Jonker

  No, my André P. Brink, I still don’t completely believe that you are coming here – it is a dream that was never dreamt. Miracles no longer happen, do they! But I will at least go and take a peep at the airport. And don’t think we’ll be going directly to the Prinsengracht, because the whole of Wereldomroep and Bezige Bij are also waiting for you! God, now Hilversum is playing “Nooi nooi die rietkooi nooi”. What other forms of torture do they still have in this impossible country?

  At least I still laugh. A lot. And especially at Henry Miller. “His only ambition in life was to get a fuck every night.” And boy do I sleep! In the day. Because at night I sit on Leidseplein until “Dames en heren, dit is die hoogste tijd” and read until day breaks over the Kommunistiese Hoofkwartiere. All of it probably good for the soul! Till later! Till tomorrow! Till 20 June! Love, my dear prince, ’night my André,

  Your Cocoon.

  PS: The auntie next door tells me she killed herself laughing over my sad poem, that “cock” is “pikkie” in everyday Amsterdam Dutch. IJ.

  Amsterdam C

  Saturday, 13 June 1964

  Dearest, my dearest child,

  It’s a beautiful evening with the grachte lit up and everywhere music and bright light; I’ve just come back from a documentary film about the Spanish Civil War, but even that cannot dampen the enchantment of the lovely evening – in ten minutes’ time I’ll be visiting some friends on the Heerengracht and then to the Leidseplein. But first I want to say hello, boy, and goodnight all the way to Schiphol on Saturday. You ask if I believe it. Of course I don’t believe it, but am starting to believe in it a very tiny bit; bought nice things today; beautiful, and am going to book on the Leidseplein because my landlady might be difficult. Tonight it’s as though I’ve awoken from a long winter sleep and the Amsterdam buildings are standing more sturdily on their paws. It’s not even worth writing “news”, because in a week we can chat the hind legs off a donkey. God, do you know how lonely and desolate I felt in this Netherland? But now everything is good again and is beginning to fall into a pattern. That’s not to say that God is not a God of surprises because maybe tomorrow it’ll rain again, but it won’t matter. Darling, thank you for you. Bring everything that you have and what is mine with you and your beautiful rescuing hands. I call you by the name you are mine: André.

  Till 20 June and afterwards.

  (Chaste Cocoon) Your Most-Cocoon Cocoon.

  Follow the instructions in the little book on the aeroplane. If you have to jump with a parachute, land at 477 Prinsengracht. Let your hair grow long and dress nicely. If the Wereldomroep is there, they must at least see what I have in you. Till then and till further, my unerring heart,

  Cocoon.

  PS: SLEEP on the plane. And EAT everything they give you. And drink a whole white John Collins to our Spain. Meanwhile, I drink to you and a horizon of joy. IJ.

  PPS: I’ve got my DC. Unused, of course. Presumptuous! Hell!

  Paris

  Midnight, Tuesday, 30 June 1964

  My dearest André – Just to say I’ve arrived safely in Paris; at Breyten’s house things are still in disarray; today I’m in Hotel NOUVEL ORLÉANS. Sitting here on a nearby terrace and quickly writing: only arrived at Breyten’s at around nine o’clock: wait for taxi and then the long trip through the city; I search everyone’s faces for answers to impossible questions about the impossible: but thank god Paris is still here. I will begin to feel at home here. You’re probably asleep already: in the green room without eyes. I am worried about you. Reading for today for both of us: “You have got to be good … if you are not good your love is a mess and your courage a slaughter …” or “vitality shows in the ability to start over”.

  Or anything. Or love.

  Your Cocoon.

  “If it must be” (Japanese greeting)

  Paris

  Thursday, 9 July 1964

  My dearest André,


  Although I haven’t heard from you I want to let you know – at least to prevent you from hearing the “news” from others – I am going back to South Africa tomorrow. I don’t want you to reproach yourself about this in any way at all and rest assured, if it is at all possible I’ll come back, this time directly to Paris. In South Africa I am immediately going to start learning French, to work, and to save money from the beginning again.

  I wasn’t able to stay with Breyten and them after all though Breyten nevertheless helped me a lot.

  What’s going to happen to Orgie now? I’ll go and see Bartho in Johannesburg immediately, also in that regard, I just hope he’s home.

  No one except Breyten and them and McNab and Jeremy know that I was (am) back in Paris. And I asked them to keep it quiet. Chris [Lombard] is apparently posting a book (Windroos) to me in Barcelona – keep it for yourself, I’ll get another one from Bartho.

  Paris is still beautiful.

  Alas, child, that is probably all the news. I’m enclosing a poem I’ve just written. A bit of an Éluard-rhythm. Don’t know. If you want to you can use it in Sestiger – if you want to you can leave off the dedication. Anyway, it’s for you, with love from,

  Cocoon.

  PS: A little late – but no baby.

  C/o Volkskas Ltd

  84 Adderley Street

  Cape Town

  Pls also inform Cooks. Barcelona.

  C/o Volkskas Adderley Street Cape Town

  July 1964

  Thank you for your little letter, which I at least received just before departure. In a way it feels as if I was never gone and in another way Paris is still swarming around inside me. I’m trying to get my old room back here. But god knows I won’t be here long either. Jack is as one should presumably expect angry and cold and sits and reads to his children for hours, probably so that he doesn’t have to have too much to do with me. What’s the point! And what’s the point of everything. Good remains good whether in Brakfontein or Brussels and angry remains angry {misquote evil remains evil} … And there is one ray of light. Simone is flying back to me tomorrow until I go to Paris again. Thus the old contract will only have to be changed slightly. So you see yourself how wonderfully the Lord leads. Best just to type out for you a little section from my wonderful diary: