The Crooked Path

by Irma Joubert

  Leonora bent double with laughter. “You sing out of tune,” she said. “But don’t worry, sing if you want to.”

  There you have it, Marco. You always used to smile when I joined in the singing!

  When the child had fallen asleep in her lap, Lettie looked at her friends in the soft firelight. Next to her sat De Wet and Christine. The two of them were never far apart. Klara and Antonio sat opposite them, next to Boelie, who was bent over his guitar. Irene’s head was resting on Reinier’s shoulder.

  Next to her sat Pérsomi, with young Lientjie in her lap, covered by a blanket. The child had fallen asleep. Pérsomi was stroking the child’s hair, her eyes on the dancing flames.

  Boelie’s eyes were on Pérsomi and the sleeping child. His dark eyes were filled with pain.

  “The oral polio vaccine that was refined for mass usage last year is now being used worldwide,” Lettie read in her journal. In South Africa as well, children were lining up to get the round white lozenge with the pink drop of liquid on it.

  “Some kids went back in the line for another sweet,” Isabella said at supper that night.

  “My teacher said I could just have the sweet without the drop, because I’ve already had polio,” Leonora said.

  Leonora was a slight figure in her heavy boots, but on the inside she was every bit as strong as Isabella. Mercifully she was a little more tactful.

  When Leonora was in standard seven and Isabella in standard nine, the school decided to stage an operetta: a romantic story with lyrics written to the music of a selection of Strauss waltzes.

  Auditions were compulsory for all pupils. The girls queued up, hoping to get a part. The boys had to be coerced into attending the auditions, “or they won’t be allowed to do sport,” Isabella said at supper that evening.

  “And how did it go?” Lettie asked.

  “Great,” Isabella answered. “Leonora will definitely get the lead, everyone says so. She sings better than anyone else.”

  But the next afternoon Leonora was quiet. She withdrew to her bedroom, where she sat listening to music.

  Lettie was immediately suspicious. “Isabella, what happened?” she asked, placing a glass of milk in front of her daughter at the kitchen table.

  Isabella’s dark eyes burned with fury. “You won’t believe what that old cow did, the horrid beast! Katrien got the lead. Katrien, who can’t sing for toffee, is supposed to mouth the words while Leonora sings from behind the curtain! Behind the curtain! With her talent! Mommy, I . . .” Isabella was so indignant, she nearly choked.

  Lettie felt as if someone had poured a bucket of ice-cold water over her. She sank into the chair beside Isabella.

  “Mommy, the teacher announced it during short break in the presence of everyone who had come to hear about the auditions. There were lots of kids, boys as well.”

  The pain increased. “Then what happened?”

  “When everyone had left, Leonora stayed behind to ask why she couldn’t sing the lead. The old cow told her it was a romantic role, the heroine is supposed to move lightly across the stage, the audience mustn’t feel sorry for her. Besides, the teacher said, Leonora was going to carry off all the prizes at the eisteddfod again, so that should be enough for her.

  “Then Leonora said—and I’m so glad she said it! She said she won’t sing from behind the curtain.”

  My child, my brave child, Lettie’s heart wept. “What will happen now?”

  “The old cow sent for me at long break. I thought she was going to tell me to get Leonora to sing from behind the curtain, which I wasn’t going to do anyway. But she said she wants me to sing the lead, so I told her to shove the operetta.”

  “Isabella!”

  “I know, Mommy. But I was angry. I was so angry I couldn’t think straight. I’m sorry. They’re probably going to call you in because of what I said. But I’m not sorry I said it.”

  “Oh, Isabella,” Lettie said, shaking her head. “And don’t call Mrs. Griesel an old cow.”

  “Yes, I know. But have you seen her?”

  How could she channel an active volcano’s boiling lava? Lettie wondered as she went upstairs and knocked on Leonora’s bedroom door.

  “Come in,” Leonora answered her mother’s knock.

  She was sitting on her bed, her legs stretched out in front of her. She had taken off her shoes. There was music in the background.

  She smiled at Lettie, her eyes calm. Gentle, like Marco’s eyes. “Isabella told you,” she said.

  Lettie sat down beside her, and the child snuggled up to her. “How do you feel?” Lettie asked, putting her arm round her daughter’s thin shoulders.

  “If you ask me, Isabella has thrown away her chances of being head girl next year,” Leonora said seriously. “I’m sorry about that, but I’m glad she had a go at Mrs. Griesel.”

  “I want to know how you feel about what happened to you,” Lettie said.

  “I’m sad,” Leonora said slowly, “but I understand what she was saying. I know she’s right. You can’t have a lead singer limping around onstage.”

  She fell silent. Lettie waited. She knew her youngest. Leonora was considering her next words.

  “That’s what hurts most,” she said at last. “I wanted to study music after school, you know, singing and piano and violin.”

  “You can still do it,” Lettie said.

  “I know. But I wanted to be a singer. And I wanted to sing opera—in Vienna and London and Italy, like Mimi Coertse. I wanted to be Leonora in Il Trovatore, onstage in La Scala.

  “I know I must let go of the dream. My left leg will always be one inch shorter than the right one, even if I get that operation at the end of the year. They’re just going to fix the bridge of my foot. But people will always notice my deformity, especially onstage. I’ll still study music, yes, but all those roles I was going to sing were just pipe dreams.”

  “My dream was to play rugby for the Springboks one day,” a boy once told Lettie.

  What could she say to her own fourteen-year-old now?

  “You don’t have to say anything,” the girl said calmly. “Just stay here with me. I just wanted to tell you: that’s what hurts most.”

  In January of Isabella’s matric year, Antonio had the idea to take all five Romanelli children to Italy in June. Cornelius had done his year of compulsory military service, and he and Lulu were both starting their studies at university. Marié—Klara and Antonio’s youngest daughter—was in standard nine, with Leonora in standard eight.

  “The kids will only get busier,” Antonio said. “My parents would love to see Marco’s daughters again. Last time I took them, they were eight and ten.”

  “Where will everyone sleep?” Lettie asked. “Or are you going to stay in Lorenzo’s mountain house?”

  “Villa, I’ll have you know, not house.” Antonio smiled. “Cornelius and I might sleep there, but the girls can sleep in the back room at their grandparents’ home. It’ll be more fun. We really should do it this year, my parents are getting on.”

  On their return, the girls couldn’t stop talking. “Oupa Giuseppe took us hiking in the mountain, and one night we all slept in a cave,” Isabella said, bubbling. “The mountain is like nothing you’ve ever seen, Mommy. The cliffs—it’s incredible! Oom Tonio said next time he’ll take us in winter and teach us to ski.”

  “And what did you enjoy most, Leonora?”

  “Ouma Maria taught me to cook a whole lot of dishes. I’ll show you,” Leonora said. “And Oupa Giuseppe played the violin for me. Oupa and I made music for hours. Music is the way we talk to each other. It’s easier for him.”

  “Oom Lorenzo and his children came for a weekend. His kids are proper windbags—”

  “Isabella!”

  “Sorry, Mommy. But to say they’re full of themselves is putting it mildly. If you could meet them, Mommy . . .”

  “Oom Lorenzo says people will think I’m his daughter, because we have the same walk,” Leonora said, smiling slightly.
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br />   “And the sunsets—” Isabella began again.

  “Mommy, the people in that village—” Leonora interrupted.

  Lettie began to laugh. “Wait! One at a time, I can’t keep up!”

  “Next time you really should come along, Mommy,” Isabella said urgently. “To see for yourself. Promise?”

  Lettie nodded. “Yes, one day I’ll go,” she said slowly.

  The Sunday before Christmas in 1968, the family sat around the table as usual, in De Wet and Christine’s big dining room. Everyone was there, even Klara and Antonio, who had come from Pretoria for the holiday. The young people had their own table on the veranda. They could no longer be considered children. Even Lientjie was in high school.

  Out of the blue Boelie announced, “My divorce was finalized last Monday.”

  Everyone sat frozen in disbelief. Boelie? Divorce? It was unthinkable.

  Only Pérsomi showed no reaction, Lettie realized. She glanced at De Wet and noticed that he didn’t look surprised either. He must have handled the divorce proceedings.

  “And . . . Annabel?” Christine asked slowly.

  “Annabel met someone else, a colleague,” Boelie said. “She’s the one who asked for a divorce.”

  “She . . . ?” Lettie began, but fell silent.

  “How do you feel about it, Boelie?” Klara asked, frowning.

  All eyes turned to Boelie. His dark eyes looked straight back at them. He addressed everyone around the table. “I made peace with it years ago. I’m just relieved it’s over without the kids suffering too much damage.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Oh,” Klara said at last.

  De Wet got up and went to the kitchen.

  Then Boelie dropped a second bombshell. “Yesterday morning I asked for Pérsomi’s hand in marriage,” he said, gazing at the lovely woman sitting opposite him, smiling gently. “And she agreed.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then pandemonium broke loose. Heads shook in disbelief, and there was much talking and laughter. The youngsters came in from outside. Glasses were handed out, and De Wet and Gerbrand popped the champagne corks. Everyone was patting Boelie’s shoulder. Lientjie smiled broadly, her arm round Pérsomi. “Daddy told us last night,” she said, beaming. “Do you know how hard it was not to give the game away?”

  Two months later Pérsomi walked down the aisle in a classic white wedding gown. Behind her followed Lientjie, conscious of all the eyes on her, but chic and proud in her floor-length light-blue evening gown. At the pulpit Nelius waited beside his father, smartly bow-tied for the occasion.

  When the “Wedding March” began to play, Boelie turned. He stood motionless, watching Pérsomi come down the aisle. Only once did he shake his head slightly, as if in total disbelief.

  “I’m going to cry,” Lettie whispered to Christine, who was standing beside her.

  “I’m already crying,” her friend said, sniffling. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “Oh, what a beautiful wedding! I want to get married in our church one day,” Isabella said.

  “You will. It’s where both of you were baptized and where Papa and I got married,” said Lettie.

  “I’m going to ask Oom Tonio to walk me down the aisle,” Isabella dreamed on.

  “Oom Tonio will cry,” Leonora warned her.

  “Your papa would have cried too,” Lettie said.

  “I don’t remember much about Papa,” Leonora said.

  “I do, but it’s more his music I remember,” Isabella said.

  “I’m glad Oom Boelie married Pérsomi. It’s so romantic.” Leonora sighed.

  Now Pérsomi will be in charge of the Big House, Lettie thought. Life certainly leads some people down strange paths.

  All people, actually.

  The reception took place in the barn of the Big House. And when Leonora and Antonio serenaded the bridal couple at the reception, Lettie knew Marco would have been proud. Your princess has walked her crooked path all by herself, she told him.

  And next year Isabella will be studying medicine at Tukkies. She didn’t want to hear of going to Wits. When she graduates, she wants to join me in the practice.

  She felt Klara’s hand on her arm. “That was beautiful,” Klara said.

  Lettie nodded. “Heavenly. Italian heavenly.”

  Klara smiled, her eyes gentle. “Do you still miss Marco?”

  “I think of him often,” Lettie said slowly, “and very often I wish he could have been here to share the joy his beautiful girls bring me. Like tonight. Yes, I miss him, but I have a full life nonetheless.”

  “I’ve always wondered—I still do when I see someone like you who lost the love of her life at an early age—whether the pain always remains so intense.”

  Lettie didn’t really know how to answer her friend. Words were so feeble, so inadequate. “The first few years I often dreamed of Marco at night, and it would ease the loneliness for a while. Though sometimes it made the thin scab fall off, and then the pain was worse. But after so many years the pain isn’t really there anymore. My memories are happy ones. I loved a wonderful man.”

  She paused, then continued, “I had the strangest feeling tonight, Klara. When Antonio sings, I always see Marco in him. Tonight, with Leonora by his side, the feeling was especially vivid. Suddenly I noticed that Antonio is turning gray—in an attractive way, I must add—but there’s gray at his temples.”

  “We’re all getting older,” Klara said, smiling, “older and a little heavier!”

  “We’re getting older, yes, and heavier,” Lettie said softly. “But I’m lucky: my beloved has remained slim, his hair is still dark, he’s young, and he’s handsome. Marco stayed behind in 1954. He’ll never grow old.”

  chapter

  SEVENTEEN

  It was a cool autumn evening, not yet cold enough to light a fire in the fireplace but with a nip in the air.

  The bean soup was simmering on the stove, the delicious aroma filling the kitchen. Lettie was expecting Leonora and Danie for dinner. They would probably spend all evening discussing their upcoming wedding. It was exciting, wonderful to see her youngest daughter’s rosy cheeks and shiny eyes. But Leonora was a perfectionist, and no matter how Lettie and Danie tried to reassure her that everything would go perfectly, Leonora wanted to be sure the smallest details had been attended to.

  She wondered what was keeping them.

  That very moment Leonora’s car turned into the driveway, followed by a second set of headlights. It must be Danie, Lettie thought and gave the soup a final stir.

  “Mommy?”

  Something in her younger daughter’s voice made her look up at once.

  Both her daughters were standing in the kitchen doorway. She knew at once that something was terribly wrong. “Where’s Danie? What’s the matter?”

  But she knew. She recognized the signs. “Who?” she asked softly.

  Isabella took her by the arm and led her to a chair. She didn’t want to sit. She remained on her feet.

  “Anna and Tannie Christine were in a car accident, in Pretoria,” Isabella said.

  They were there for the birth of Lulani’s first baby, Lettie remembered.

  She waited, surprisingly calm.

  “Mommy . . .” Leonora stopped, uncertain how to go on.

  “It’s Christine,” Lettie said.

  Her daughters nodded, their eyes on her. They want to spare me the pain. But no one can keep the people they love from suffering pain. Pain is part of life. Like death is part of life.

  “Christine died in the accident?” she heard her own voice ask.

  Her daughters nodded again.

  She sank down slowly on a kitchen chair. Isabella knelt beside her. Leonora sat down on another chair. They took her hands. “Mommy, I’m so sorry,” Leonora said.

  “And . . . Anna?” Her mouth was dry.

  “She only has minor injuries. Tannie Christine died on impact.”

  Still she was filled with that peculiar calm
. “Please get me a drink of water,” she said.

  Isabella jumped up. Lettie heard water running from the tap into a glass. She drank the cold water.

  Leonora stroked her arm.

  She thought about her friend, about their friendship that had lasted from their school days over so many years. And about De Wet. She knew what he was going through.

  “Oom Boelie took Oom De Wet to Pretoria,” Isabella said.

  After a while Danie came. And Albert, Isabella’s husband, came as soon as his hospital rounds were over. They ate the thick bean soup and fresh bread. They drank coffee.

  “How do you feel?” Albert asked worriedly.

  Death no longer held any fear for Lettie. Marco had gone to a better place so many years ago. Sometimes she thought she was the only one who still remembered him. She and Antonio—they thought of him. Her mom had gone almost ten years earlier, and shortly afterward her dad. Now her friend had gone.

  How did she feel?

  “My heart aches,” she said slowly, “and I know tomorrow and next week will be even worse. My heart aches for De Wet. And for Christine’s children. Right now their pain is raw.”

  She paused. “I’ll be fine,” she said calmly. “But right now I’d like to be alone.”

  She got up from the table and went to her bedroom.

  On a Sunday afternoon three years later, Lettie drove out to the farm with Antonio and Klara. “I think we’ll start moving in next week,” Klara said excitedly. “We’ve been planning to retire in my hometown for so many years, and now we’re about to move into our new home. I can hardly believe it.”

  “And I can hardly believe you’re going to be living so close to me,” Lettie said. “What a treat!”

  Lettie had a bowl of salad in her lap, and Klara had made dessert. “If we don’t plan ahead, there’ll be nothing but meat on the table at De Wet’s,” Pérsomi had said sometime in the months following Christine’s death.

  As they were crossing the Pontenilo, Antonio said, “When the move is over and everything is in place, Klara and I are planning to go to Italy. We wondered if you’d like to come, Lettie?”