by Andre Brink
“Perhaps I’ll look in at the court one morning,” Bea said when he left.
“Just warn me in time so I can put on my full act.”
There was a long pause between us after he’d gone.
“You see?” I remarked at last. “I told you you would like Bernard.”
“‘Like’ is a rather neutral sort of word.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sure he must have many violent enemies. And very loyal friends. He doesn’t seem to be the sort of person one can feel lukewarm about.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“He must have many women too,” she said, looking at her hands.
“Oh yes, all the years I’ve known him.”
“Is that a long time?”
“Nearly twenty years.”
“Strange how one builds up one’s own impression of someone. I’ve often read about him in the papers, you know. But he’s different from what I expected.”
“How different?”
“I don’t know what it is, but when he looks at one it’s as if your stomach contracts and your legs go all watery. I don’t generally react in such an adolescent way.”
“You see, it would have been better if you’d met him last night.” I tried to sound neutral, but couldn’t prevent a touch of sharpness.
“Why do you say that?” she asked, offended. “You don’t think I would have —”
“Most women seem to regard it as a privilege.”
“You think because I came back here with you – my God, what do you think of me?”
With a shock I recalled how she – this woman sitting so correctly opposite me, with the scarf round her neck, and her mauve knitted coat over her denim dress, and her protective dark glasses on her straight, small nose – how last night, only a few hours ago in fact, she’d taken my hand in hers and placed it between her legs. In the stern light of the new day it appeared preposterous.
“Do you regret what’s happened then, Bea?” I asked, very tense.
“No. I never regret anything. What’s the use of it?”
“Would you have preferred it different?”
“Oh stop all this questioning!” she said. “Is it necessary to have a post mortem?”
Realising that the conversation was becoming fraught with danger, I put my hand on hers. “It’s important for me to know. Because if we later —”
“I told you it’s over, Martin. And if we can’t accept it like that here and now —”
“I don’t want it to be over.”
Shrugging her shoulders, she pushed back her cup. “Will you take me home now, please?”
On our way through the heavy morning traffic she said: “Why can’t one always be together as on a first night? Why must it always be complicated afterwards? Why does one try to force the future?”
Sitting beside her I knew – a shaming thought, perhaps, but nevertheless – that if she hadn’t reacted to Bernard the way she had, I might have accepted it as a one-night stand. It wouldn’t have been the first in my life; nor the last. But now he was there, somewhere, invisible, threatening. Last night I’d stood in for him. And what other usurpations were waiting ahead?
“When may I see you again?” I asked when we stopped at her block.
“Please, Martin!”
“Or would you rather see Bernard?” I asked impetuously, even though I realised the childishness of my attitude.
She removed her sunglasses to clean the lenses with the hem of her skirt. With wide dark eyes she looked straight at me. “Bernard will be an abyss to me,” she said. “You needn’t be afraid.”
A strange thing to have said, wasn’t it? – You needn’t be afraid.
“Will you prove it to me?”
“I’m not promising anything.” With a small strained smile she put on her glasses again, and bent over to kiss me lightly on the lips. “Thank you, Martin,” she said. And before I could get out to open the door for her she was on her way to the front entrance.
It was no use going on grimly like that: one had to acknowledge one’s limitations. The constant concentration on the road had made my headache unbearable. And when we stopped at Aliwal North for petrol, I laconically told Louis:
“You may take over now if you want to.”
He looked surprised, elated. I handed him the keys and took some Disprin from the cubby-hole. Take the keys, I thought, looking right past him. But I shall have the last word after all. Don’t expect me to intercede for Bernard any more. Both you and he have forfeited that chance. Anyway, the very idea had been sentimental.
6
THERE WAS A feeling of something coming to a head: of ends being approached. Leaning my head against the head-rest I half-closed my eyes, listening to Ingrid Haebler. After Bloemfontein I took out the round biscuit tin in which Ma had packed our food for the road. As always, there was too much of everything. Bluish hard-boiled eggs, slices of lamb, chicken drumsticks, sandwiches, cheese, a thermos with sweet black coffee. Louis pecked listlessly at a sandwich, with no more appetite than I. After we’d finished I cleaned out the tin and threw the remaining food and papers through the window. Louis glanced swiftly, sharply in my direction (Keep your country clean), but didn’t say a word. I didn’t pay any attention to his silent disapproval. I felt relieved, as if we’d shed ballast. One was growing lighter all the way.
There was so much behind us now. Dad’s excruciating illness and his death (General Wim Mynhardt buried at last): Dad with his political monthlies and his bookshelves and the hidden frayed cane. Oom Hennie of my childhood, who could turn his saw and chisel into musical instruments, working with old Freddie. And the undertaker I’d had to fetch from his coffins and his vulgar pin-ups so that he could trim my hair with his blunt cutters. A boy praying passionately for fire from Heaven, and an altar washed away by the flood. Mpilo in the muddy dam. The morbid old diviner and his invisible water courses, the white stick blistering his hands. And the old black wizard in the wood, with the exquisite little stick of the Momlambo. The torture of Sunday afternoons. Ma milking with her strong, swift hands, the pail held between her knees, the foam bulging over the edges. Ma comforting the Black baby in her bed, or working among the sick in her little clinic. Thokozile’s mother arriving in the dusk and howling up the hill. Mrs Lawrence in her store; Cathy squirming under my hands in the sweet-smelling dark. Cow-dung on my shoe. But everything grew odourless in time and fell from one. Marlene’s odour, Cathy’s odour, Greta’s, Elise’s, long ago. And one day Bea’s too? Together with the sea-smell of Ponta do Ouro and the humus under the shady trees. Everything sterilised by memory; pliable, manageable. And have not love in the early dawn. I’m sorry, Grandpa. I can’t remember anything, not a single word. And going back in history: nothing.
Nearly two months passed before we spent another night together. Had Bea been any other woman, I would have left her long ago: if one cannot reach one’s goal with a woman within a reasonable time, the relationship becomes uneconomical, the investment too large for the eventual return. But I couldn’t abandon Bea – and not only because of Bernard, but for herself. I can’t stand “intellectual” women. But in Bea intellect itself was a form of passion and a challenge. Often our discussions became fierce arguments: not repelling one another, but, on the contrary, almost fatally drawing us closer together – I suppose that was the most remarkable aspect of it.
We went out for a meal from time to time, taking a very formal leave at her front door (“No, I’m not inviting you in. I know you don’t want coffee, you want to make love to me” – “Well, why shouldn’t I?” – “I don’t think I know you well enough” – “You didn’t object that first night” – “No, because it was the first night”). Once, more than a week passed without any sign of her: when I telephoned her flat there would be no answer; and when finally I went round there personally, the door was locked. I was just beginning to feel worried, when she had herself announced by my secretary one afternoon.
The moment after she’d closed the door again I went up to her. “Bea, what’s happened to you?”
“I’ve been working, that’s all.”
“But I could never find you at your flat.”
“Didn’t you read about the floods?”
“What about them?” Through a haze of statistics and prognoses I tried to remember what the newspapers had said: a cloudburst to the south of the city, houses submerged, people left roofless, the usual disaster stories.
“I went to help them.”
“What did you do?”
“Everything was in such a mess in the beginning, they needed people just to organise things. Arranging for tents and blankets, distributing food and medicine and so on. I spent most of my nights there.”
“But isn’t it dangerous?”
“Not more dangerous than any apartment in Joubert Park.”
“Bea, this is no time for joking.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s damn serious. There’s a danger of epidemics breaking out and they need more help.”
“I can give you a cheque.”
She looked at me without saying a word.
“Well, what’s wrong now?”
“I wish I could tell you to stuff your cheque,” she said. “But I suppose I’d better be grateful.”
“Where shall I send it?”
“You can give it to me right now. Unless you want to arrange for a photographer and a couple of reporters first?”
I nearly lost my temper with her. But, collecting myself, I pressed the intercom and spoke to the accountant. When I looked up again she was standing by the window, her shoulders sagging slightly.
“Bea, you look exhausted. Shall I order you some tea?”
“If you wish. I haven’t slept for three nights.”
“But why didn’t you get in touch with me?”
“I was afraid you might give me a cheque.”
I went to her, stopping behind her. “You really can’t stand me, can you?” I said bitterly. “You despise everything I represent.”
“Yes,” she said, unflinching. “But that doesn’t mean I despise you.”
“You think I can still be redeemed?”
“There’s a small possibility.” There was a brief flickering behind her dark lenses. “Have you always been like this, Martin?”
“Like what?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Your problem is that you are an incurable romantic,” I said.
“And you’re a fanatic materialist.”
The tea was brought in. She gulped down her first cup and immediately poured another.
“I’m not a fanatic materialist,” I said tersely. “You know I collect paintings, I love to listen to music, I give away thousands every year to art museums and literary prizes and God knows what else.”
We were interrupted by the accountant, bringing in the cheque.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll sign it later.”
“Are you joking about all your donations or are you really serious?” Bea asked after he’d left.
I looked at her in surprise. “What makes you think I’m not serious?”
“Do you really think you can save the world in that way?” she asked.
“I have no aspirations to save the world. I leave that to you.”
Pouring her third cup, she said quietly: “I have no illusions about myself, Martin. I’m a nobody. I can help distribute blankets and comfort children and arrange for housing. But in your position – my God, Martin, you can do almost anything.”
“Don’t you think I’m doing enough? Not as spectacularly as you might like it, I concede. But through better wages, better working conditions – that’s what people really need, you know. Improving their standard of living. It has nothing to do with politics.”
“And how long will it be before you’ve improved the world enough in your way? Do you really think there’s still time for it?”
“Everybody is always going on about time, time,” I said. “As a matter of fact we have all the time we are prepared to allow ourselves. Only changes introduced gradually and naturally have any hope of surviving. The moment you go too fast, you stimulate a revolutionary situation – and then all is lost.”
She got up and went to take the cheque from the desk. After a moment, the slip of paper still in her hand, she looked round:
“Do you know what shook me most of all in these floods, Martin? Not the dead or the injured or the sick or the broken shanties. That was bad enough. But there was something else. A young man smiling from ear to ear, one of the few in that crowd of soaked, miserable people who seemed happy. And when I asked him the reason, he said: ‘Madam, because I was just in time to grab my dombook before the water took it away.’”
“I suppose he was suffering from shock. Then one often acts strangely.”
“He was very serious, Martin. If that pass-book had been washed away, he would have been nothing. Don’t you see? Everything he is, is in there. His name, his number, his address, his whole life. Without it he can’t go anywhere. What do you think of a society in which a man’s dombook is his highest priority?”
“You’re reacting emotionally again.”
“Every time you have no answer you blame me for being ‘emotional’. You’re just another male chauvinist, you know.”
“That’s the easiest swear-word of our time.”
“No. You’re an Afrikaner, so you must be a male chauvinist.”
“I fail to see what the two can have in common.”
“Everything.” She sat down opposite me again, on the edge of the chair, her knees primly together. “Because this is a man’s land, don’t you see? Big-game, rugby, industries, power politics, racism. You Afrikaners have no room for women. The only place you assign to us is flat on our backs with our legs open for the Big Boss to in-and-out as he pleases.”
“Is that what you think of me?”
She rose and kissed me gently on the forehead. “You, my darling Boer,” she said, “are free to convince me of the contrary. And don’t forget to sign your cheque. We’ll send you a receipt.”
So many of our conversations during those few months developed along the same lines, as if all the time we were trying to provoke or test or challenge one another, moving closer and closer to what had probably been inevitable from the start. Yet the turning point, when it came, was very sudden.
She made a formal appointment to come to my office again soon after the end of the terrorism trial, when Bernard had already returned to the Cape. This time she wanted me to arrange jobs for two young matriculated Blacks she’d met at one of her evening classes.
“But we have no vacancies for that type of person, Bea.”
“You can create posts, can’t you? Or else you surely know other people who can help.”
“Now if they’d been looking for jobs on the mines —”
“They have their matric, Martin. I’m looking for decent work. They’re not bloody little teaboys.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’re going to offer me something concrete before I leave your office. I promised them.”
“That was taking rather much for granted, don’t you think?”
“I thought you were an influential man.” She was teasing again. “Or do you only use your influence to lure women to bed?”
I matched the lightness of her tone: “I’m afraid I’ve lost my touch with women lately.”
“Poor man. Have you been to a doctor?”
“Yes. He said there was only one remedy. To make love to a half Hungarian-American girl of Italian-German descent. But it’s rather difficult to find one. You don’t know of one you can recommend?”
“I’ll make enquiries,” she said. “Now what about those two youngsters?”
“You know,” I said, suddenly reproachful and not without bitterness, “whenever you have a chance you accuse me of being a bloody Boer or a racist or a chauvinist pig. But the moment I can do
something for you, you don’t hesitate to make use of me.”
“Oh, I’m not using you at all,” she said, still teasing. “I’m offering you a chance of becoming a better man.”
“Thank you very much. In exchange, I’ll make sure I find something for your needy wards.”
“I knew you would. Thanks, Martin.” She rose to go.
“Don’t go so soon,” I said.
“Why not? Do you first want to seduce me on your couch?”
“What about the desk? Then I needn’t stop working. I can read over your shoulder. Listen, Bea: I have something much more important than two young tsotsis to discuss with you.”
“What?”
“I have a job for you.”
“What sort of job?”
“I’m considering appointing a legal adviser and he’ll need an assistant. It’s a very responsible position.”
She studied me for quite a while before she asked: “Why me?”
“I know you’re desperate for a job. And I’m sure you’ll be excellent.”
“You think you’ll stand a better chance once you’re my boss?”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Don’t fool yourself. For Heaven’s sake stop trying to annex me. You Afrikaners are all imperialists by nature. Always want to be the boss, even in love.”
(Charlie once expressed it more brutally: “Deep down you have a very simple philosophy, Martin: ‘What I can’t buy or screw, I either tear down or fuck up.’” Typical of his way of thinking.)
“Can’t you see I sincerely want to help you, Bea?”
“I’ll accept the post on one condition,” she said unexpectedly.
“What’s that?”
“That from that moment we’ll communicate strictly on a business basis.”
“But you —”
“I learned a lot from my prof.” Coming closer to me she touched my cheek with her hand. “Sorry, Martin. Surely you know I can’t accept it.”
I’d planned it as a last manoeuvre. Now, defenceless, I stood looking at her, depressed and ashamed. She went to the door. As she touched the knob she looked over her shoulder to say goodbye.
