by Zoe Wicomb
Cooking for friends was a pleasure she would not have spoilt by Craig. Mercia would turn up the music and dance to Karoo blues, whilst stirring and waiting for the spices to fry slowly, on the gentlest of heat. Ek will huis toe gaan, she crooned along with David Kramer, ground her hips and dipped her shoulders hotnos style, waving her wooden spoon defiantly. Or hummed and shimmied along to a Klopse tune where Ibrahim’s piano allowed, where the beat picked up, and the cuts deferred to Basil Coetzee’s sax. Then, as the smell of fried cardamom rose, repeated its aroma and weaving through coriander and paprika revised its fragrance, she savored a bittersweet homesickness.
And always the moment of hesitation—should fennel not be given its rightful place with coriander? Always the sound of her father’s voice that could not be dislodged: soos vinkel en koljander—like fennel and coriander. The recipe does not call for fennel, but Mercia cannot imagine coriander without a dash of its twin. They were lookalikes, meant to go together, inseparable and, according to the Afrikaans idiom, interchangeable. Like the collie dogs Nicholas gave to Mercia and Jake, the puppies already named Vinkel and Koljander with their identical white collars, so that the children would not argue. Jake said that they were sheepdogs for Nicholas’s own convenience, but Vinkel attached himself to Jake, so that even he could not resist the adorable creature.
Craig, for all his bad temper beforehand, would be the life and soul of the party. He boasted about Mercia’s Cape dishes, her use of spices, learned, he announced to guests, at her mother’s knee. Mercia did not correct him. Did not say, no, that she learned from Jane Grigson’s recipes, the inventive English cook who borrowed, gloriously freed by the fact that there is no oppressive tradition of fine British cuisine which demands slavish adherence. Instead, Mercia dredged up stories of Lusitanian navigators, the Cape as refreshment station, the Cape of Storms turned Cabo Esperanza in the establishment of a spice route. Vinkel en koljander brought to Cape shores in exchange for scurvy-fighting fruit and veg. Once she spoke of slaves from Goa, Malaysia, East Africa, sizzling their spices in the shadow of Table Mountain, which was not nice, so that Craig explained that Mercia had had too much to drink. No one said that eating meat was not nice.
Ag, it’s the time of day, the dipping light that makes her vulnerable to sentimentality. All this nonsense about food when she should be thinking about her work, or rather, about Jake. Mercia, who has never had any difficulty in meeting deadlines, is anxious about the scholarly work that has given up on her. It is only October, but the temperature seems to have risen today and she simply cannot think, cannot come to grips with the argument. It is in her interest to leave Jake alone, to wait for him to come round and to observe in the meantime how things are with Sylvie and the boy, but without her work she is growing impatient, enraged by his slide back to drink.
The icon of the memoir beckons from the desktop, offers itself as diversion from the awfulness of being in this house. Mercia thinks of this writing as private, but she can’t help wondering what Jake would make of being translated into these words. Still, how else is she to get through the days in this place called home? How is she to manage sly nostalgia that creeps into the hole left by Craig? It is infuriating, this need to recollect a past that cannot be considered without irony. Is it in fact nostalgia? So layered are the fragrances of the past, so spliced the memories of places, that nostalgia will have to do without an object. This home where Jake snores and Sylvie squeals is not a place to yearn for a dubious past.
If memoir is driven by nostalgia Mercia finds it embarrassing that she is driven by the Zeitgeist. It is, she consoles herself, because there is no Craig to tell, because that daily decanting of events into words must find another form.
The table is set for three. Mercia prepares herself for a vaudeville performance, for cooing appreciatively over the food before doubling over with a bolt of invented tummy ache. But there is no need. Sylvie explains that the brawn is not ready. The infusion of spices takes time, does its work whilst the dish is still warm, then it must cool down completely and stiffen into a jelly. Which is why she’s fried some sausage for tonight. But look, she says, how Jake’s delaying her with his demands. Now she has to leave everything and go out to get him some potato chips. He doesn’t want sausage. Also, he says, a bottle of brandy, for which the chips are of course an excuse.
Mercia leaps to her feet. She is curt, insistent in her instruction. Sylvie must go about her business and pay no attention to Jake.
But he’ll scream the house down, she says, there’s only twenty minutes left before closing time.
Mercia says no, he can no longer be indulged. She storms into his room and tells him that Sylvie is getting their dinner, that Nicky is hungry, and that if he wants any he should join them at the table. Like a child he pulls the covers over his head and turns to the wall.
That means, says Sylvie, that he still has some drink left. That he’s just wanting to stash up for tomorrow.
Jake has eaten almost nothing since Mercia’s arrived. Mercia wakes up in the night and hears him stumbling into the kitchen. A squeaking door, a band of light from the fridge, the rustle of paper and a clatter of containers of some kind make her sit up and throw off her covers. Vinkel en koljander—the smell has driven him out. The smell of Nettie’s spiced tripe and trotters and the brawn they loved as children. No refrigerators in the old days, but their mother had a cooling contraption of chicken wire packed with wet coke that evaporated in a draft so that the brawn remained set.
You’re hungry at last, Mercia, who has tiptoed out in bare feet, says triumphantly.
No, not really, er . . . just checking, he says. Jake rubs his hands together, embarrassed, drags them through his uncombed hair. He is unsteady and has to lean on the cupboard.
Checking? she laughs. To see if your wife keeps the fridge well stocked? How would she manage that, Jake, on her wages?
Jake will not look at her; instead, he tries to make his way back to the bedroom. But she stands in the doorway. For God’s sake, Jake, why try to avoid me? You summoned me, remember? Now I’ve come all this way and you won’t talk to me. Why not tell me what’s wrong? And why not eat if you’re hungry? There’s bread, and butter, and by now yes, the brawn will be set.
No, I want nothing. I’m sorry; it’s all a mistake. I shouldn’t have written to you. I must’ve been drunk, he laughs. Then with surprising strength he pushes her out of the way. Why don’t you go back home and leave me alone, he says, I want nothing to do with any of you. He returns to his room and bangs the door shut.
What kind of character is Jake in her memoir? Mercia fears that he holds little interest, lying as he does in the fetid, darkened room with so little to say. He is not even good at playing the tortured drunk devil. No consular musings under the volcano, no clouds boiling, no mescal-induced thunder. What a dull pair they are—Jake thirsting after alcohol and she, Mercia, cravenly leaving him to his own devices whilst she bangs on about Craig.
The next day as Sylvie prepares to go out for brandy, Mercia intervenes. It is time to act. In her clipped, lecturer’s voice she forbids Sylvie to buy Jake drink, says that enough is enough, she will deal with him. Sylvie screws up her face. Does Mercia not know what he is capable of? That he is stronger than he looks? That it’s all right for Mercia, who is of another place, but that he will kill her and the child?
Nonsense, Mercia says. But you should go, keep out of the way. Take Nicky and stay with your AntieMa for the night, she orders. This is no sight for a child. She, Mercia, will see to Jake right away, get him to eat, take him to see a doctor and find the best route for rehabilitation. That is why she is here. It will be easier to manage on her own. She’ll call Sylvie when it’s all in hand.
Sylvie is uncertain. She does not think that this namby-pamby woman could handle Jake, who has on occasion leapt out of bed in search of the butcher’s knife that she has had to wrestle off him. She is his wife. It is her duty to stay. But Mercia has turned into a mad Murray; she is
determined; she has not come all this way to be defeated. Sylvie tuts, hurriedly grabs her things. Actually, she has had enough, could do with a break from these people. Even AntieMa’s darkened rooms seem like a haven, and she will make warm roosterbrood for the old woman, who at least will appreciate her efforts.
Mercia pats Nicky on the head and does not know what to do when, like a cat, he rubs his head insistently into her side, as if to drill his way into her belly.
There, there, she says, patting mechanically, you go and see your granny, and when you get back, we’ll . . . we’ll have a picnic. And play.
In the veld? he asks. In the veld, she replies.
When they are gone, Mercia charges into Jake’s room, yanks at the curtains and flings open the window. Jake is enraged. He calls for Sylvie, the doormat wife who will do his bidding.
Get Sylvie, and get out of my house, he roars, or rather, tries to roar, but his voice does not manage; it peters out into a sob.
I’ll get my own, he cries, as he struggles out of bed. Jake is unshaven, bedraggled in a torn T-shirt and crumpled boxer shorts. Mercia gasps at the sight of the swollen legs that struggle to carry him. Rising with Jake is the effluvia of sweat, alcohol and an unwashed body, so that Mercia turns away in disgust. He shakes violently, stumbles as far as the kitchen and falls into a chair. It is clear that he will not make it any farther. He breaks down, sobbing. And with the slyness of an alcoholic stammers that he can’t think, can’t speak, cannot tell her what’s wrong without a drink to calm him down.
You should keep out of this, he warns, you’ll be sorry. Just get me a drink, he cries pitifully, and then go home, leave us alone like you’ve always done.
Mercia ignores the jibe. No point in explaining herself, and besides, it is probably a device to get his way. So she says no, that she’ll drive him to the doctor’s, and that his rehabilitation will start today. They will try to find a suitable clinic. No need to be melodramatic, she says. Alcoholism’s an illness, and it can be treated. You’ve done it before. Why not have a shower now and the doctor will give you something for the craving.
M-Mer-cy, Mer-Mercy, Jake stutters comically, please, Mercy, you don’t know what they’ve done to me, that bitch and . . . and . . . ; you mustn’t hear this; you don’t want this—this punishment, just get me a fucking drink. Or get me a gun. I can’t tell you what they’ve done, you mustn’t know. A fucking drink, and then a gun. I should have killed him. I want to die. They wouldn’t let me die.
Stop this childish nonsense, Jake, she says. If there’s a story to be told, it should be let out, like bad blood, Mercia soothes. It can only do good to let it out. And then we’ll see about getting you back on your feet.
Jake cackles weakly. If only she would get him a drink. He doesn’t care about blood, good or bad. He must have a drink. How can he talk, let bad blood out, without a drink? Mercia’s eyes swim as she stares at him. Her little brother. A pitiful figure on the floor, where he beats his head against the chair from which he has slid down, sobbing. She swallows hard. In this order, she says: a shower, a drink, your story, and then the doctor. Jake must promise, and she will hold him to it. She has a bottle of duty-free whisky in her bag.
Mercia is sorry that she has let Sylvie go. She is no nurse, but now there is nothing to be done but to help him to the bathroom, grit her teeth, and get him out of his clothes. Jake, shaking violently, slumps on the tiled floor, incapable of soaping himself. He won’t be touched, and Mercia does not want to touch him. There is nothing to be done other than hosing him down. She fetches washing-up liquid from the kitchen, shakes it haphazardly all over Jake and directs the jet of water at various parts of his body whilst he squeals like a child and rolls into a ball, covering his nakedness. Soap that backside, she says. I won’t stop until you’re clean all over.
They sit across from each other at the kitchen table, an emaciated Jake wrapped in Mercia’s silk dressing gown. The glass in his hand is empty. He has gulped down his whisky and water, and reaches out with somewhat steadier hand for the glass that Mercia poured for herself, still untouched. She waves him on. What does it matter?
Mercia needs water; she is unable to speak. Like a child she probes with her forefinger in the cavity of her mouth, taps along her parched palate. It is a terrain of sun-baked mud, cracked, absorbing sound as if it were moisture, so that, try as she may, no words issue from her lips. Mercia does not have the strength to fetch water from the tap. She gulps repeatedly. When the words finally make it, they are strangled. She cannot look at Jake. She gropes for his hand, but he shakes her off.
How, she asks in a stranger’s voice, do you know all this? How do you know that it’s the truth?
Fanus, he says. Fanus let it out one night. We were drinking at Aspoester. I suppose he had too much on his plate. Their child had died of pneumonia a couple of days before, and he was bitter. Also, he was drunk. The Baatjies brothers were there also—we’d all been drinking—and I can’t remember what we were talking about when he said how could I be sure that Nicky is my child? Then it all came out. Everybody else was quiet and I knew at once that it was true. Actually I’ve known right from the start that somehow something was wrong.
Who’s Fanus? Mercia asks.
Are you mad? Of course you know Fanus Lategan. He was in your class at school. Have you forgotten everything about us, about home?
Mercia wants to say the word, home, after him, but it refuses to be uttered, offers its own pretentious substitutes. Pays de natal. Mal pays.
And who else . . . here . . . in Kliprand . . . knows about it?
Jake stares at her. Dunno. Who cares? So that Mercia answers her own question: everybody, I imagine.
Once sylvie had confided in one person there could have been no stopping the story from circulating, gathering detail and digressions, subplots, salacious frills, and codas as it passed from person to person. Or perhaps people just knew, in the manner of “just” as used in those parts, bypassing source or reason, stories like that having lain dormant for years, knowledge embedded in the sinews of a community shunned by the murrays, lying in wait for the moment of exposure. Oh, she shudders to think . . .
Will you stop, Jake shouts, stop thinking of yourself. This is about me, the wrong done to me. I don’t care who knows what. All I know is that he was a dirty vark, a sanctimonious pig, and I should have had the courage to kill him.
Jake is trembling violently; his fists held aloft are clenched, and with his wild, unkempt hair and open mouth he looks like something out of a historical painting. Mercia summons an image: Absalom caught with his head trapped in the oak, raging helplessly, whilst a mule with raised hooves slips out from under him. It is the shadow of the mule, stark in the bright light, she holds on to, a helpful image for Mercia, who does not, will not, think of this Jake as real. So she is able to say calmly, lingeringly, Ac-tually, Jake, was it really only some weeks ago that you heard this nonsense from Fanus? I wonder if you hadn’t heard it a long time ago, that that was why you married her—Sylvie. For revenge?
Jake’s open mouth snaps shut as he stares at her, before beating his head on the table, his face turned away. He is, of course, drunk.
Fanus, Mercia says, is patently wrong about Nicky. One thing is sure, the child is pure Malherbe, unmistakably Nettie’s grandchild. One need only look at those eyebrows, the entire brow is Nettie’s, just like yours.
Jake does not reply, does not lift his head. Horrible choking sounds escape from his throat. That is what Mercia must focus on, on Jake, on Fanus, the messenger. She must not think of Meester, Grootbaas, Nicholas. Her father. Or of the girl.
At school, in the seventies, Fanus Lategan had been the brainbox of the class—a clever boy, equally brilliant at the sciences as he was in the arts, and with a formidable, enviable memory. The midseventies was a breathless time of revolution, with Mercia and Fanus working together on Black Consciousness leaflets. Someone had tried to set the school on fire, and her father, who knew nothing of the
clandestine ANC branch they had helped to establish, warned her against the savagery of dangerous, low-down types intent on self-destruction. Mercia nodded meekly. He was of a generation who had pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps. He could hardly be blamed for his ignorance, his political naivety; indeed, she pleaded as Fanus spat contemptuously, he was like so many grown-ups a victim of apartheid propaganda. Hell-bent on being respectable coloreds. No point in wasting time arguing with his kind.
Halfway through 1976, through their Junior Certificate year, news of the Soweto uprising rippled through Namaqualand. Mercia and Fanus, not yet sixteen years old, bonded more closely as they listened to the official news, the brazen lies of the SABC, the savage killing spree of the Defence Force, and their resolve strengthened. They were black South Africans who with the dispossessed majority would bring the country to its knees. The following year Steve Biko was killed, and when Kruger, the minister of police, boasted to the world that he didn’t care about Biko’s death, Mercia wanted to know what her father thought of his words. Nicholas stared at her in silence. When she screamed, What do you think? What do you say? he left the room.
Devastated by her father’s silence, Mercia rushed off, turned to Fanus, clung to Fanus, who put his arms around her awkwardly as she listened to his pounding heart. For a couple of days there was an awkwardness between them, a quivering shyness that made their speech rustle helplessly. For many months they remained close friends, but Fanus would move away abruptly as she leaned toward him, would hastily withdraw the hand that she brushed against. Mercia was puzzled; she thought that they loved each other, that such intimacy was nothing less than love. Then it stopped abruptly. Fanus arrived at school one Monday morning speaking in clipped tones, his voice grave as he looked her straight in the eye. No, he was no longer interested in bourgeois poetry, and he waved away the anthology she had promised to bring along. The time for concessions, he said, was over.
