An Instant in the Wind Read online

  Once again she started questioning him, going over everything he’d already told her in detail.

  “But can we still catch up with them if they leave in the morning?”

  “If we set out early.”

  After a while she went to the back of the cave. He didn’t look. He could hear her rustling in the half-dark. When she returned she was wearing the Cape dress. It hung down from her, badly crumpled; but in a strange outlandish way he found her beautiful.

  “I’ve lost weight,” she said, inexplicably shy before his eyes.

  “You’ve grown tougher,” he said. “More beautiful.” Desiring her so much that there came tears in his eyes.

  Pensively she stroked down the sides of her dress. “It's terribly crumpled.”

  “We’ll get up very early in the morning,” he said no longer looking at her.

  She kneeled before him. “What's the matter, Aob?”

  “Don’t call be Aob,” he said softly.

  “I’ll intercede for you in the Cape,” she said emphatically. “I promised you, remember. I’ll see to it that everything will be all right.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “If I allowed this chance to pass…” She inhaled deeply. “It's much worse now than when I had to decide to leave Larsson's wagon. There may never be another opportunity.”

  “I know. That's why I told you.”

  There was a light of revelation in her eyes. “You needn’t have told me the truth!”

  He didn’t move.

  “Isn’t that so? You could have kept it to yourself. I would never have known.”

  “But you had to know.”

  “Why did you make it so hard for me?” she burst out passionately. “It would have been so much easier if you’d decided for me. If you hadn’t said anything.”

  “Easier, yes,” he admitted. “For the moment. But later? If longing started gnawing at you? If something slipped out accidentally and you suddenly guessed… ? How could I?”

  “Why can’t we stay here?” she asked.

  “Nobody said we couldn’t.”

  “But it was you who wanted to go back, Adam. You said you couldn’t live without it, that you were not an animal.”

  “I was alone then. Now I’m with you.”

  “But can I be enough for you? Will I always be enough for you?”

  “One can only believe. Or hope.”

  “Why did you have to tell me?” she asked again.

  “Because they’re your people.”

  “They’re not my people! I was happy here. I still am.”

  “It's for you to decide.”

  “But what about yourself, Adam? What do you want? Tell me what I must do.”

  “Since when have you taken advice from others?”

  “Help me, Adam!” She grasped his hands, clinging to him.

  Somewhere in the night, he thought, two wagons were standing loaded ready to move off at the first light of day, back to the Cape. White bearded men with their oxen and their Hottentots.

  Suddenly she asked: “When we were with the Hottentots and I was ill: why didn’t you leave me there and go off on your own?”

  “How could I?”

  “You didn’t love me then.”

  “What has that got to do with tonight?” he asked.

  “I love you!” she said miserably. “Oh, my God!”

  “Come,” he said. “We must go to sleep. You’ll need some rest if we want to get up early.”

  “Why do you say ‘we’?”

  “I said: if we want to get up early.”

  She rose and started unlacing the bodice of her dress; then hesitated.

  “Why don’t you keep it on?” he asked. “You’d better get used to it again.”

  “Do you want me to keep it on?”

  Without answering, he spread the kaross over the bedding and lay down.

  “Come,” he said.

  She lay down beside him, like always; yet like a stranger in her dress.

  He held her in his arm, his hand on her breast. If this was the end, he thought, if this was really their last night, he should make love to her, unceasingly, till morning, marking her body for good, with scars like his own. But he could not. She was too remote to reach.

  Without stirring, he lay awake all night until the first light came filtering into the cave.

  Then he touched her lightly, whispering:

  “It's time.”

  “I am awake,” she said.

  “Didn’t you sleep then?”

  “No.” She sat up wearily, her dress more disheveled than before. The cool morning air made her shiver. “Adam… ?”

  “I’ll make the fire.”

  It was too early to eat. He made some wild bush-tea in the battered old pot they’d brought from the farmhouse; they drank it steaming.

  Then he went to his old look-out at the mouth of the cave. The sea-fog lay in a heavy bank against the rising sun.

  After a while she came and stood beside him. It was only when he put his arm round her that he realized she was naked.

  “Where's your dress?” he asked.

  “I don’t need it.”

  “What about the wagons? And your people? And the Cape?”

  “I’m staying here. I’m not going.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded.

  “It may be your last chance ever.”

  “I know. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Yes. We’re both mad. That's why we’re staying here. This is our place.” She gestured towards the sea, the inhospitable pristine world under the forlorn cries of the gulls. “This is all we’ve ever had. We’re staying here for good.”

  It sounded like a sentence, he thought.

  And he remembered the great carcasses strewn through the forest.

  This morning on the beach, washed out among weed and mussels, cowries, whelks and heart-urchins: a single paper nautilus shell, fragile cradle of forgotten eggs, untouched by all the violence of the waves.

  How would they, afterwards, remember the end of that warm season, what would they retain of it? The sun rising later in the morning and setting earlier at night, but almost imperceptibly: mistier mornings and more translucent days, ever more tender around the edges; sad calls of doves, and swallows gathering in great flocks to fly off to the north. A vaster openness opening, as if invisible dimensions were exposed to the light and the lukewarm sun; as if the wind came from farther away and spent itself in emptiness. A more agonizing awareness of vulnerability. Longer silences in the long evenings at the fire.

  “My mother would have a fit if she saw the stitches in this kaross. I always had to start all over again if the sewing wasn’t fine enough. How I hated those afternoons with the sound of the boys playing outside!”

  “Don’t you ever miss the Cape?”

  She looks up, firelight on her cheeks. “Of course, sometimes.”

  The throng of the wine-lease auctions in August; coach rides to Constantia, accompanying important guests from abroad, showing them the flamingoes; the cannon booming on the Lion's Rump, and the flags going up; the bustle on the beach… even though her mother had forbidden her to mix with all those common folk at the harbor; the flurry of getting letters finished before the fleet departed to Patria or Batavia; the sound of the clavichord, candelabras, crystal; slaves shuffling past barefoot, carrying laden trays, or fanning the guests with ostrich feathers; Uncle Jacobs and her father playing chess in the garden; rough games with the slave children in the backyard in her mother's absence. Does it still exist? Is her mother still complaining? Has her father withdrawn even more into himself? Are they alive?

  “I’m sure you miss it too,” she says defensively.

  The stories of his mother and his grandmother: the dancing fire in the craters of Krakatoa; the flaming beauty of hibiscus and lotus, and the scent of jasmine, cinnamon and cloves; Mohammed's flight to Medina, and the glorious crusades of the
Crescent Moon. The cynical fatalism of the frail old woman; the naive emotions of his mother, confusing Christ and Heitsi-Eibib, and the word of God and that of the Master.

  “You leading my child astray, Ma Seli.”

  “I tell him about the world. I seen the world.”

  “From the black hole of a ship?”

  “No, long before the ship, when I was young. Padang and Smeroes and Surabaya. I seen it. I was free then.”

  “You free now too. The Master he freed you.”

  “Can shove his freedom up his hole.”

  “Ma Seli, you don’t speak so of a Master.”

  “Whose Baas is he? Slave of his slaves, is what he is. What can he do without them? You listen to me, hey, Adam?”

  “Ma Seli, you stop saying things to my child. Adam, you listen to your Ma and your Master, you see? You don’t give ears to that old woman.”

  Shavings curling on his bench, the sharp smell of stinkwood in his nose as he chisels the table legs. Fetching wood on the Mountain, looking out across the sea below. The raisins in the loft. Harvest home. Threshing time, late autumn, with the baskets coming in from the vineyards and emptied into the treading-barrels; treading the grapes, holding on to the bar above, dancing, stamping until your legs grow numb: breaking the husks underfoot, feeling the sap trickle through your toes in a sticky soggy fragrant mess; the sweet stream running into the keg below. Rubbing the husks through a mat of plaited cane; pouring the must into the large vats, leaving it there to ferment, foaming and bubbling for days on end. Driving to the Cape on the back of the wine-wagon, perched high on the barrels, flicking your long whip past the flanks of the fat oxen, the dogs jumping and barking on either side. The harbor where they loaded the ships departing to the names of distant places: Amsterdam and Buitenzorg, Texel, and inevitably the Serabang and Surabaya of Grandmother Seli: those barrels of wine trodden by him, off to the corners of the earth, free.

  “Yes, I miss it. But it's very far away. And we’re happy here, aren’t we?”

  “Of course.” Her large eyes watching him in silence; questioning, acquiescing, shy.

  “Or are you regretting it?”

  “Oh no. Are you?”

  “Not I. But you often talk about the Cape nowadays.”

  “One has to talk about something.”

  “In the beginning, when we came here, we never spoke about the Cape at all.”

  “There was so much to do. Everything was strange to me, and new, and beautiful.”

  “Isn’t it any more?”

  “Of course it is. But it's different. One has more time to think.”

  And so it slipped in, stealthily, as the days turned cool and their defense weakened. Afterwards, it was impossible to tell when they’d first discovered the new stillness of the flaming water-lilies on the dark pools, the new brilliant colors of the mushrooms in the wood, brown and pink, green and white, and splendid vermilion or yellow; impossible to recall at what stage they’d become more conscious of the cry of the bustard in the morning, or the rustling of small partridges in the dry grass; impossible to pinpoint the changeover, in making their fire, to hard, oily ironwood which smoldered much longer at night, the acrid smoke mingling with the ozone of the sea and the warm, fetid smell of lichen and rotting leaves. It all just happened, a gentle metamorphosis. No longer did they run down to the sea at all times of the day to bathe, but maintained only the early morning ritual—and even that was different, a conscious defiance of the cold, gasping for breath in the icy water, thrashing about frantically, rushing out to wrap oneself in the warm kaross to feel the tingling heat slowly spreading through one's limbs again. Only at the hottest time of day did they dare to shed the karosses and bask in the sun in corners hidden from the wind; and he noticed that she was gradually losing her summery tan again, becoming whiter and more frail under her wraps.

  There were other shifts, other transitions. In making love, a new urgency seemed to possess their bodies, a more overt violence, a physical compulsion—as if something of the original spontaneous lust had subsided, compelling them to struggle more strenuously, clawing and tearing into each other in search of the receding source of ecstasy. There was something desperate about it, aggravated by the fact that each, out of anxiety and compassion, tried to hide it from the other, frantically trying to prove the constancy of love in the most aggressive ways.

  While the game was still possible, they had to cling to it, terrified lest everything disintegrated at a single word or unguarded gesture. And slowly the game itself became a way of living and reacting. But precarious; oh, precarious.

  And then the weather worsened. He couldn’t understand it. The mild warmth was supposed to last until the lashing winds of August began, followed by the torrential rains of October. But that year something went wrong. Leaden clouds; icy winds; a depressing drizzle lasting for days on end so that they were confined to the cave, sitting in silence at their smoky fire; or talking endlessly, mainly about the Cape, so remote now, so desirable beyond the grey monotony of those wintry days: yearning for it the way they’d yearned for the sea. Otherwise they lay under the large sleeping kaross, deliberately urging their bodies on to passion, struggling and panting; trying to sleep—but not for long, already saturated with it as they were.

  The few fine days in between were exquisite, simply because they could go out again, and explore and rediscover sea and veld and forest. Then miraculously, all the joy and faith returned; and their love was nude and new like rocks stripped bare of barnacles.

  But those days were rare and vulnerable, and the irritations of the surrounding days began to intrude upon them. There was a passive expectation in them both, a weary certainty that something would, inevitably, happen. They didn’t discuss it, but they knew it was simply a matter of time.

  When it did happen, it was more sudden and less obvious than they’d expected.

  The sky was still filled with loose masses of drifting cloud but it was just possible that it might turn into one of the precious clear days of winter. It was quite early when they set out for the forest in search of mushrooms. Not far from the first elephant carcass—now a scattered mass of bones ravaged by hyenas and vultures and jackals and the wind—it began to rain. At first it was no more than a rustling among the leaves above, a darkening of the light, a general dampness bearing down on them. But soon it grew worse, although they were well protected in the undergrowth below a group of very ancient, enormous stinkwood trees, huddled on a fallen trunk, trying to keep each other warm. The storm had none of the terror of that other night at the river: it was merely aggravating and depressing.

  “Do you think it’ll last long?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Everything is upside down this winter. This morning I was sure it wouldn’t rain.”

  “Do you think it would be better if we… ?”

  “What?” he asked, almost eagerly.

  “No, nothing. I suppose we’re as comfortable as can be in our cave. And it will pass again, won’t it?”

  “What were you going to say, Elisabeth?”

  “Never mind. I’m just irritable because it's raining. Don’t pay any attention.”

  She looked straight ahead, her breath forming small white clouds.

  “Are you very miserable?” he asked.

  “Not at all.” She looked at him. “Why? Aren’t you happy any more?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I don’t either.”

  They fell silent again, waiting morosely. He looked at the trunk on which they were sitting: a hundred and fifty, two hundred feet long, or more, the end hidden in the undergrowth. On their side it was quite decayed, a slow, destructive rot creeping up the pith of the wood, hollowing it. But where the trunk had been torn loose, a new young sapling was growing from the original roots, as thick as a man's arm. Its own peculiar form of eternity, he thought: his mother would have approved.

  It was late afternoon before the storm abated. It was still drizzling, but the
violence had ebbed away. The world seemed weary and morbid. They had to go back before it grew worse again.

  A hundred yards from where they’d been, a dove-nest had fallen from a tree and three tiny birds lay shivering among the soaked twigs, their yellowish beaks obscenely gaping, uttering pathetic little squeaks.

  Elisabeth kneeled to pick them up.

  “What will become of them?” she asked.

  “It's hopeless.” He sounded annoyed. “Why the hell did they lay their eggs this time of the year? That's just asking for it.”

  “Well, they’re here now.”

  “What about it?”

  “We can’t leave them here to die.”

  “We can’t keep them alive either.”

  “I’m going to try,” she said stubbornly.

  He was much too concerned about getting back safely to raise any objection. It was dusk before they arrived at the cave, and by that time one of the baby birds had died.

  She carried the remaining two inside, in her cupped hands, breathing over them until Adam had lit the fire. He watched her rolling them in a piece of skin, close to the fire, where they lay trembling and squeaking weakly, two hideous little things with prickly feathers and bare necks and soft open beaks.

  “You’d better give them something to eat,” he said.

  “What can I give them?”

  “Try some of the fruit. There's nothing else.”

  But the squabs only stared at the food, yawning stupidly. For a moment she looked round in a panic. Then, with a sudden inspiration, she put a piece of dried fruit in her mouth and started chewing it. Leaning over, holding one of the squabs in her hand, she took its tiny beak between her lips, spitting some of the masticated mess into its throat. The bird gave a hiccup, and shuddered, and swallowed; then gaped with wide open beak again. With infinite patience she managed to feed them both.

  Shaking his head, Adam roasted the mushrooms they’d brought back with them. Vapor came steaming from their wet karosses. Outside it was still drizzling faintly, there was a final gust of wind; then silence.

  When, late that night, he went to the mouth of the cave to look out, the clouds lay scattered in the black sky and right overhead was the moon, looking like the old shoe from which Heitsi-Eibib, in his mother's tales, had fashioned it. He looked round. She was lying beside the fire, the two baby doves against her breast. With a sigh he returned to her.