forward and untied the knot of the
abbadoek
. With a deft movement of her body she shifted the child round to her front and opened her arms to make him sit up in her embrace, as the man moved closer to look straight into those two bright blue eyes.
She said, Here is the lie I told, Grootbaas.
Mijnheer Lindenberg remained standing for a long time, peering at her. Then he motioned with his head towards the door.
I pretended not to hear what she said, but I’m sure she knew very well that I was looking. And at that moment I remembered a passage from the Bible that Pa often read. About Peter who looked Our Lord right in the face when he said: I don’t know the man. And about the cock that crowed. But this time, today, it was right inside my own flesh and blood that I heard that blasted cock crowing. And it sounded worse than that
trassie
hen in the backyard, that Zelda that cackled about the eggs laid by the other hens.
As I started walking away, there was something still trying to rein me in, to hold me back, in that office where I knew Philida must still be standing, waiting with the bundle on her back.
Her
bundle.
Mine
.
Ours
. What I’d done to her I could never wash from me again. I’d lied myself straight into hell. But what would become of me if I were to take back what I said? It wasn’t just about me and her and the child. What about Pa? What about MaJanna? What about our whole family, all the way back to Grandpa Andries who came on the ship? What about the Berrangé family I was supposed to marry into? What about every man, woman or child that was white in this godforsaken land? It concerned everybody and everything that had made me who I was.
Outside the Drostdy I mounted my horse and turned back to the old Elephant Trail. I could feel his chest expanding and contracting against my calves, expanding and contracting, I could hear his wheezing, groaning breath coming and going. He was tiring. But I thought: Just let him. Let him collapse right here under me if he wants to. It’s Pa’s horse. Everything on the farm belongs to him. It’s his just deserts if everything that’s here begins to fall apart under him.
All the time I could feel Philida seeping back into my mind, but then I urged the horse on. There was no time to think of her now. How she’d have to walk all this way with her small narrow feet to get back to the farm. But I thought: Good. Let her wear herself out and fall down in a small heap. Don’t let her ever come back. What made her bring this shame down on me?
The horse was beginning to slow down all by himself, his breath rattling and wheezing in his throat.
Until at last, at long, long last, we reached the aardvark hole where I had to turn off to the farm. I knew this hole. I was still a boy when soon after we came to Zandvliet from the Cape Pa showed me how to spot it: you look until you can make out where the animal positioned itself at the edge of the hole, its large hind pawmarks close together and the trail of its thick tail right between them, and on either side the hollows left by its balls. That was how one knew it was an aardvark, not a porcupine or a springhare.
And right after the hole one turns left to where one can see the white walls of Zandvliet flashing among the many greens of vineyards and fruit trees and shrubs. The thick white walls that have been standing there for generations, more than a hundred years and for all eternity. But the sweat running down my brow and starting to burn in my eyes caused a strange thing to happen. I couldn’t see straight any more. As if I was no longer looking
at
things but at what was happening inside my eyes, as if the walls in the distance were becoming transparent, losing their solidness, like when you’re whitewashing a wall and adding more and more water to the lime, until everything turns thin and colourless, until nothing is quite the way it was before, and nothing remains. All the greens of the farm – the vineyards and the
abbadoek
. With a deft movement of her body she shifted the child round to her front and opened her arms to make him sit up in her embrace, as the man moved closer to look straight into those two bright blue eyes.
She said, Here is the lie I told, Grootbaas.
Mijnheer Lindenberg remained standing for a long time, peering at her. Then he motioned with his head towards the door.
I pretended not to hear what she said, but I’m sure she knew very well that I was looking. And at that moment I remembered a passage from the Bible that Pa often read. About Peter who looked Our Lord right in the face when he said: I don’t know the man. And about the cock that crowed. But this time, today, it was right inside my own flesh and blood that I heard that blasted cock crowing. And it sounded worse than that
trassie
hen in the backyard, that Zelda that cackled about the eggs laid by the other hens.
As I started walking away, there was something still trying to rein me in, to hold me back, in that office where I knew Philida must still be standing, waiting with the bundle on her back.
Her
bundle.
Mine
.
Ours
. What I’d done to her I could never wash from me again. I’d lied myself straight into hell. But what would become of me if I were to take back what I said? It wasn’t just about me and her and the child. What about Pa? What about MaJanna? What about our whole family, all the way back to Grandpa Andries who came on the ship? What about the Berrangé family I was supposed to marry into? What about every man, woman or child that was white in this godforsaken land? It concerned everybody and everything that had made me who I was.
Outside the Drostdy I mounted my horse and turned back to the old Elephant Trail. I could feel his chest expanding and contracting against my calves, expanding and contracting, I could hear his wheezing, groaning breath coming and going. He was tiring. But I thought: Just let him. Let him collapse right here under me if he wants to. It’s Pa’s horse. Everything on the farm belongs to him. It’s his just deserts if everything that’s here begins to fall apart under him.
All the time I could feel Philida seeping back into my mind, but then I urged the horse on. There was no time to think of her now. How she’d have to walk all this way with her small narrow feet to get back to the farm. But I thought: Good. Let her wear herself out and fall down in a small heap. Don’t let her ever come back. What made her bring this shame down on me?
The horse was beginning to slow down all by himself, his breath rattling and wheezing in his throat.
Until at last, at long, long last, we reached the aardvark hole where I had to turn off to the farm. I knew this hole. I was still a boy when soon after we came to Zandvliet from the Cape Pa showed me how to spot it: you look until you can make out where the animal positioned itself at the edge of the hole, its large hind pawmarks close together and the trail of its thick tail right between them, and on either side the hollows left by its balls. That was how one knew it was an aardvark, not a porcupine or a springhare.
And right after the hole one turns left to where one can see the white walls of Zandvliet flashing among the many greens of vineyards and fruit trees and shrubs. The thick white walls that have been standing there for generations, more than a hundred years and for all eternity. But the sweat running down my brow and starting to burn in my eyes caused a strange thing to happen. I couldn’t see straight any more. As if I was no longer looking
at
things but at what was happening inside my eyes, as if the walls in the distance were becoming transparent, losing their solidness, like when you’re whitewashing a wall and adding more and more water to the lime, until everything turns thin and colourless, until nothing is quite the way it was before, and nothing remains. All the greens of the farm – the vineyards and the
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