by Andre Brink
What caught my eye this time was a small box filled with books. He wanted to shove it aside but I stopped him.
“And these books, Isak?”
“I picked them up outside too, at auctions and things.”
“Do you read them?”
“No, I’m not a reader.” It took him a while to open up. “There’s one or two people around here who sometimes ask for a book. Lukas Death of course. And Brother Holy, when I have something religious”—a sly wink—“or something with pictures, you know what I mean?” He cupped a hand over his crotch, then grew serious again. “But mostly I brought them in for Little-Lukas.”
“How did he get started?”
“He often went into town with me, you see, when he was a little boy. That’s how it began. First newspapers, then books from the library. But it was actually Emma who pushed him. And as they grew up the two of them would spend whole afternoons reading here in my store.”
I kneeled beside the box and started unpacking. A curious mix. Several were by older Afrikaans authors: a few volumes from Langenhoven’s collected works, ghost stories by Leipoldt, some poetry, an early grammar. A couple of Dutch titles, even some English ones, like The Jungle Book, and Alice in Wonderland, and The Story of an African Farm. And then Oscar Wilde’s collected works, and textbooks on biology and geography, history. The most unexpected was Immanuel Kant.
“And this one?” I asked, both amused and amazed.
He looked at the Kant and grinned. “That one had Little-Lukas stumped. He tried his damnedest, I can tell you. He went so far as to copy every word of it into his exercise books, and when his hand got numb men Emma took over. They thought that would help them understand. They never made it so far, but I tell you, they never gave up trying. And from then on Emma kept up with him, book after book. There was a kind of fever in those two.”
“You aided and abetted them?” I joked.
But Isak remained deadly serious. “There was no way I could stop them, Neef Flip. We had a few children before them who also liked to read, but they never had it so bad as these two. And the others always came back after Standard Eight or Matric. People from here don’t transplant easily. But Little-Lukas and Emma…If anything, she was worse than him.”
“Then why didn’t she go to university too?”
“How could she? What is the use of education for a woman if she can’t bake a loaf of bread for her husband?”
“And so he went off on his own?”
“He promised to bring her books every vacation. And then the two of them would work together for hours here in this room, all out of sight. Quite a touching thing to see. You can imagine how it was for her when he died.”
“I must talk to her, but no one gets to see her.”
“She’s still in mourning,” he said gruffly, closing up like a bloody clam, as if I’d trespassed on private property.
“There’s a lot about Emma I simply don’t understand, Isak.”
“It’s better to let her be,” he said, just as reluctant to pursue the subject as Tant Poppie and Ouma Liesbet Prune had been. “She carries bad luck with her.”
One Never Knows
“Because of her mother?” I asked.
He began to burrow in his merchandise again and didn’t answer.
“What happened to her mother?” I insisted.
“Sometimes I wondered if I could perhaps smuggle Emma out of here,” he said as if he hadn’t heard me. “But one never knows with Hans Magic. He won’t let Emma go just like that.”
“What has he got against her then?”
“Hans Magic is a dark horse. All I know is that he’s got a grudge against her. They say she insulted him. But Hans Magic gets affronted so easily, it’s hard to say.”
“Little-Lukas told me about him, but I was stone drunk, so I can’t remember much. But there was something about a thief whose shoe he’d caught in a vice…?”
“So he told you. Yes. And then he died.”
I was waiting to hear more, but he was clearly not prepared to help me out. I decided to take the bloody bull by the horns: “What I don’t understand is how the news of Little-Lukas’s death reached the valley?”
He shrugged.
“And everybody seemed to be expecting me when I came,” I went on. “Lukas Death, Tant Poppie, Hans Magic, the lot.”
“It was Grandpa Lukas who told them.”
“But how did he find out?”
His answer was quite unexpected: “I told him.”
“You?!”
“Yes,” Isak said casually. “As it happened, I was in the Little Karoo with a load just after Little-Lukas died. That’s where I heard about it, so I went on to Stellenbosch and spoke to his landlady. She told me about you, and that you were going to come here.”
“Why didn’t she say anything to me?”
“I told her it was better not to talk about it.”
It took me a while to digest it all. Then, following a new track, I asked, “For how long have you been in your line of business?”
“It runs in the family.” He seemed relieved to move away from Little-Lukas. As he busied himself with his stocktaking again he started talking in fits and starts. If I hadn’t brought my tape recorder I’d have been screwed trying to sort it all out afterwards.
Merchandise
Isak’s story began with his first ancestor—inasmuch as anyone in the Devil’s Valley could still point to a specific ancestor, except the Lermiets of course, and even with them it seemed mainly hit-or-miss.
This gentleman, Abraham Koen (a Boer variant of Cohen?), first arrived in the Devil’s Valley with a load of merchandise some time after Grandpa Lermiet had broken his leg. The loss of the leg was another story: according to Isak the leg became gangrenous, starting at the toes, and to save his life the Seer had to hack it off with his hunting knife in three stages—first at the ankle, then at the knee, and finally in the groin. By that time the family was reeling from all its misfortunes and Abraham Koen⁄Cohen’s appearance was something like the coming of the Lord. Even old Lukas Lermiet, never an easy customer, relented. His wife, especially, couldn’t think of enough ways to express her gratitude. As a result of which she was pregnant by the time Abraham Koen quietly fucked off one night—just in case the Seer saw something amiss.
But the amazing thing—or perhaps not so amazing after all, given that Lukas Lermiet was on the verge of death—was that no one except Bilhah realised she was carrying another man’s child.
“I thought the wife’s name was Mina?” I interrupted.
“Her name was Bilhah.” And without giving me another opening he picked up his thread again.
It was at least three years before Abraham Koen returned. Whether Lukas Seer had just resigned himself to the inevitable by then or whether he’d really never guessed the truth, no one could tell. But Abraham became, in every respect, a member of the family. There were times when Lukas Lermiet still threw one of his legendary tantrums, destroying everything within sight; and then Abraham would quietly take his possessions and bugger off. But he returned every time, at shorter and shorter intervals, invariably loaded with provisions and implements of one kind or another.
The Lermiet clan was beginning to nibble at the bait. I mean, as Father Abraham explained, just look at what the Devil’s Valley had to offer. Skins of the game they shot (by that time Lukas Nimrod had already begun to win renown as a hunter). Wild honey from the bees that nested in the high cliffs. Bush tea. Dagga. It was as if the Lord himself had planted a dagga garden in this place, judging from the way the stuff grew in the kloofs. All this produce could be sold abroad, or bartered for necessities. The old Seer kept on protesting, more from habit than conviction, but Abraham had the advantage of mobility; if he wanted to go no one could stop him, nor when he decided to come back. And of course he had Bilhah’s support to rely on, expressed in ways both pleasing and practical. She made sure that there was never cause for strife between the men, as she remained fer
tile for an exceptionally long time, and in due course the older daughters also began to bring their side. Lukas Nimrod and the second son, Hard Hendrik, did what was required of them from an early age. And all this kept the females busy; after all, it wasn’t as if they had so many other things to do.
Bloodline
In this way Father Abraham’s comings and goings began to shape into a useful and predictable pattern, making life ever more manageable in the growing settlement. From time to time he also brought other men with him for jobs he regarded as indispensable—regularly provoking angry protests from Lukas, and energetic support from Bilhah and her daughters, as well as, eventually, her granddaughters. Among the arrivals who won approval was a preacher, Doep Dropsy. There were whispers that he’d fallen into disgrace in his Cape congregation, for minor misdemeanours involving communion wine, and more serious ones that included manslaughter; but Isak Smous’s memory was not very clear on these points. And in the Devil’s Valley they didn’t seem to matter so much anyway. Most of the people who’d moved in here over the years needed to cover up some dirty tracks behind them. Doep Dropsy’s history could readily be left behind the mountains; all that was necessary was the offices he could perform. If you think of it, the place was in bloody dire need of a man who could tend to the spirit, surrounding the rituals of burial, baptism, communion, and marriage; and Doep Dropsy was like an answer from heaven. Testimonials weren’t necessary, the readiness was all. And Doep Dropsy was ready, if nothing else, to look after both the spiritual and physical needs of his new flock. As the Seer’s womenfolk could testify.
There was another man Abraham brought in, a man whose hands could take on anything from stonecutting to carpentry, an artisan by training and an artist by nature. His name was Ruben Portier, soon changed to Ruben Tabernacle; and judging by the solid and secure masonry and woodwork of the houses, and most particularly of the church, he had been an inspired choice. In addition he, too, was not found wanting in doing his bit towards the multiplication of souls in the Valley.
In later years the bloodline was presumably renewed a few more times (thank God for small mercies), the last time being the arrival of Jurg Water’s grandfather and his two fellow firebrands from the Ossewa-Brandwag during the Second World War; but Isak didn’t have much to say about those. Understandably, he was more interested in talking about his own position in the community. What mattered to him was that in every generation there was at least one man who could follow in the footsteps of that first entrepreneur called Cohen or Koen and ensure a measure of prosperity for the settlement while amassing a sizeable personal fortune on the side.
Besotted With Her
Among these predecessors was a great wanderer known as Jacob Horizon, Isak’s grand- or great-grandfather. On one of his early journeys he’d met a young woman the likes of which one usually finds only in a dream. According to Jacob he’d found her in the Vale of Sharon, but it might just as well have been in the Little Karoo. Her name was Katarina, Katarina Sweetmeat. She had not come cheaply. To begin with, Jacob Horizon had had to put up with three years of fucking hard labour with her father, and then he still had to pay a lobola comprising most of his earthly possessions. But he thought it worth while. And it was the most wonderful day of his life when he could finally bring her back into the Devil’s Valley as his intended. He’d specially hired a black servant, bedecked in bloody white livery, to carry her down the mountains.
The problem was that all the other men in the valley, young and old, became besotted with her. Most stricken were the seven sons of Strong-Lukas, that is to say, the grandfather and great-uncles of Lukas Death. Those seven were used to running amok among the mountains and there were few brave enough to stand up to them.
They were a shrewd bunch too, it wasn’t just a matter of bedding and wedding the woman. Oh no, Katarina’s heart had to be won properly. Now as you know, explained Isak Smous, there’s a bad spot in every pretty girl. And they soon discovered that Katarina Sweetmeat was as vain as Salome in the Bible. She could never get enough of looking at herself. But in Jacob Horizon’s home there was only one small mirror, not nearly enough for a woman who liked to see herself from all sides at the same time. Some say Jacob was too stingy to buy more mirrors, but the more charitable view is that after paying so much for his bride he simply had no bloody money left. Be that as it may, the seven brothers saw their chance. They covered one whole room in their home with mirrors—walls, ceiling, even the floor. In one sweeping glance Katarina could see all of herself from top to pretty toes, and all the sweetmeats in between.
She dropped Jacob Horizon like a turd and moved in with the seven brothers.
What Moves A Woman
The brother designated to marry her was Lukas Bigballs, for rather obvious reasons. But God doesn’t sleep, said Isak Smous deeply satisfied. Lukas Bigballs was allowed no more liberties than any of his brothers, as Katarina was much too infatuated with herself.
“How did your grandfather get over it?” I asked.
Isak Smous gave an embarrassed chuckle. Jacob Horizon was broken, he said, and yet not broken either. Remember he had his ancestors’ entrepreneurial blood in his veins. He knew that in the long run there’s only one approach that works with a woman and that is patience. After Katarina had married Lukas Bigballs, Jacob Horizon went off on another trip and stayed away for three whole years. And just as he’d calculated, Katarina Sweetmeat began to miss him in his absence. So much so, that his return became a real celebration, and nine months later Katarina gave birth to her first child.
Like most things in the Devil’s Kloof, it became routine. Jacob Horizon would go off, stay away for a year or two, come back, and Katarina would fall pregnant. How it happened remained a mystery, because Lukas Bigballs and his brothers kept watch on her like fucking falcons, day and night. She never set foot outside the mirror room, which was the outroom where Lukas Death now has his mortuary. Only once a week was she let out for a walk up the kloof, accompanied by all seven brothers; yet every time Jacob Horizon came back from his wanderings it was the same story.
The Lermiet brothers decided that the only solution was to get rid of Jacob. One night all seven of them surrounded his house to dispatch him from this world with picks and shovels. What they didn’t know was that his loyal black servant, the one who’d accompanied him on all his journeys, the only black person ever allowed into the Devil’s Valley, had warned him beforehand, and Jacob got away. This time he stayed away for seven years, until everybody thought it was for good. But then he returned after all, and Katarina Sweetmeat fell pregnant again, even though she was no longer young. She was still beautiful, though, especially when she looked at herself in the mirror.
“What hold did Jacob have on her then?” I asked, intrigued.
Isak Smous shook his bald head. “He was Katarina’s first love, remember.”
“But she left him.”
“Does anyone know what moves a woman? The man she leaves, she keeps for life. The one she picks loses the lot.” Isak smiled again, slowly, as if he knew what I did not.
“But you said the brothers never gave her a chance, they watched over her day and night.”
“Love mos finds a way, man. The story has it that on full-moon nights Katarina changed into a little white nanny goat and flew from the chimney. And as it happened, the moon was always full when Jacob returned from a journey.”
“But that’s nonsense, Isak.”
“Love is never nonsense,” he said as if I’d insulted him personally.
“What became of them?”
“Katarina died at the birth of her last child, the one who came after the seven years. The Lermiets broke all the mirrors in the outroom to get rid of every trace of Katarina. But they still had her child to look after. He was the one who became known as Lukas Devil, born with two goat’s feet.”
“What happened to Jacob Horizon?”
“He never went on another trip. Decided to stay on permanently to keep an eye
on the baby. And in the process he got over the itch. But anyway, he’d brought home enough stuff from that last trip to keep the Devil’s Valley happy for a long time. After his death it all went to the church.”
“What’s become of it now?”
“Come with me,” said Isak Smous. “Let me show you. Then you can see with your own eyes.”
Facts, Facts
Facts, facts, I thought. Here they come, and not a bloody moment too soon.
We went down the rough road to the church, past the heap of stones piled up against the cemetery wall. Was I imagining things or did Isak give it a wide berth? Heavy and solid the church rose before us, a huge hulking thing, the blunt tower like a hump between its shoulders. On the front doorstep Bettie Teat was reclining as usual, crawling with children. High up on the massive door, as we came past, I noticed a large ring, presumably of brass because it had turned green; quite artistic in its way, decorated with vine-leaves and acorns and the faces of the little angels and devils. What its bloody function was, I had no way of guessing; probably purely ornamental, as it was much too high for a knocker. Before I could ask Isak, he hurried on, perhaps to get out of Bettie’s reach.
He led me round the building to the vestry door, which wasn’t locked. Nothing in this settlement is ever locked. Perhaps it isn’t necessary, there’s always someone looking after all. That morning too. I could see Brother Holy standing among his vegetables, solemn as a marabou, to keep an eye on us, and for some reason that look was enough to make me feel guilty.
Isak told me to wait below the pulpit while he scuttled up the steps on his short legs. There he dived in behind the gleaming dark wood that smelled of beeswax. The massive structure, I soon realised, had been carved by an inspired hand. Ruben Tabernacle’s, undoubtedly. Given the primitive tools he must have used, presumably no more than a knife and a chisel and something to smooth the surfaces, this was a fucking amazing piece of work. The greater part of the pulpit had been cut from a single block. It must have been some tree—yellowwood, with the deep, almost-orange shine one finds only in the oldest wood. But what most surprised me, this being the first time I had the chance to look at it up close, was the carving along the top edge of the pulpit. Funny business. From a distance one couldn’t make out any details, and from close up it just looked like a weave of abstract shapes. Yet the moment I turned away they appeared to regroup into identifiable figures. Pretty fucking startling figures at that, a proper kama sutra of men and women caught up in the clinches of sex; and the couples were not all human either. There were men with goats, with chickens, with tortoises; women with peacocks, with snakes, with ostriches, take your pick. The moment I tried to focus on any given couple, they would promptly dissolve again into the general blur of unrecognisable shapes. Was it my bloody imagination? Hallucination? Shades of my night with the succubus? The first sign of DTs provoked by Tant Poppie’s apostles? Time to pull myself together. There was something seriously wrong here.
