Philida Page 20

  It’s because of Philida, she told him to his face. You treated her badly and I won’t let you shake it off like a burr in your clothes. It’s your own grandchildren you sold with her. God will come back to ask you for them one day. One way or another, it doesn’t matter. I know him, and he will.

  It was between her and Frans, Cornelis answered. I can’t interfere in their affairs.

  But I can interfere in yours, she told him. And I promise you, I’ll follow you all the way to the gallows if I have to, and you’ll pay for it.

  He even started working on two new gables for the front of the longhouse.

  In those same days Frans also got exceptionally busy, driven by something, like that devil between his father’s shoulder blades, but in a different way. He started building a new bamboo cage. Much like the previous time, he cut and prepared the bamboos in the night, but this time he set to work slowly and methodically. Everything has to be just right. A bit bigger than the last cage he built for Kleinkat, but more manageable, more comfortable, neatly finished off, nowhere rough or uneven. Room for a sand tray, a food bowl, a small bakkie for water. A soft blanket. And nobody is told what he is working on. To Ouma Petronella he says what it is, only because it is impossible to keep anything from her, but not before the very last moment, the day before he leaves.

  Very early that morning he sets out, the first hour or so very cautiously and slowly, so that his parents won’t suspect anything. Old Petronella has to be warned, in case anybody asks her, just to say he went off, she isn’t sure where to, but most likely to the Caab, presumably to visit Maria Magdalena Berrangé.

  You sure you doing the right thing? she asks Francois, but he refuses to discuss it. Of course it’s the right thing. What else can he do? It’s for Philida, it’s for his children. He realises what he has done only now that she is gone and all he knows is that it must be put right.

  The whole long journey one can think of as a route of psalms and hymns, over hills and dales, under a sun that scorches like hell itself. But it doesn’t bother him. And he doesn’t want to think either. Neither of what is past, nor of that gone; nor of what may still be ahead, because there is no way of imagining anything in advance. All he does know is that if it fails, if Philida cannot come back with him, he won’t come back either. Then he’ll simply gallop away, as far from the Caab as possible, over mountains and rivers, perhaps to a distant place about which, over the years, he has heard rumours, a place that sounds as if someone has remembered it from a dream, the Gariep. In the Caab, from as far back as he can recall, when he was no more than a boy, there have always been stories about the Gariep. About all the runaways that gathered across its muddy red waters, beyond the whole of the known world. Runaways, murderers, slaves, good-for-nothings, vagrants, adventurers, dreamers, young men in search of wild dreams, old men grown grey from too many years and too many mirages, too many improbable stories. A place that has by now become a kind of Paradise in his imagination, like the one Adam and Eve were once expelled from. He knows only too well what people say, that one cannot step further than your legs are long. But for once he is sure his legs are long enough. And he will take it slowly. Until one day he reaches that distant Gariep. A place for anyone who has grown tired of a world where everything is known and predictable. A place like the stories Philida used to tell when he was almost too young to understand. Gariep. Yes. Gariep. A name like a rising sun, like an unexpected shower in a dry landscape, the promise of a rainbow. He. He and Philida and their children. And nobody else. Not a father with a sore back and a mother as big as a packing shed and a crowd of brothers and sisters and bothersome ghosts. Gariep.

  So he rides to the rhythm of his thoughts. Forces himself a few times to stop so that the horse can have a rest and take water. Almost too impatient to wait. But he has to think about coming back. Either coming back or going on to the Gariep. But then with Philida.

  But even in his thoughts he knows it is too extravagant to be true. He remembers the last few times he saw her. What she said. Most especially what she did not say.

  But if he doesn’t do it he will never know. And he’s got to try, at the very least. Otherwise he will be even worse than she has always said he is.

  What will he say if she allows him to speak? Something like this? – Just give me a chance to explain, Philida. Please listen. Please, I do not want to waste your time. But let me look at you. Try to remember the bamboo copse. That first time and all the other times. I know it is asking a lot. After what I’ve done. But just give me a chance. For God’s sake!

  His head churning with thoughts, after a difficult night of rest in the mountains, Francois covers the last stretch of road where the mountains open on a long plain that stretches out pale yellow and rough in the summer sun, broken here and there by small clumps of trees. And the many blues of new row upon row of mountains in the distance.

  The cluster of white houses of the village opens up ahead of him like a picture book, surrounding the large white structures of church and Drostdy on the clearing in the centre.

  He reins in the horse. Large white saltpetre stains are visible on his trembling, shiny flanks. Reaching a small group of people – they must be slaves, they’re all barefoot – Francois brings the horse to a standstill.

  I’m looking for Meester de la Bat’s house, he shouts at the group.

  All the people point in the same direction, close by.

  Jesus! he hears a sharp voice exclaim behind him. That man must be mad in his head. Did you see he got a cat with him?

  Minutes later he reaches the house. A middle-aged coloured slave with slightly oriental eyes approaches from the backyard to help him outspan.

  Is Meester de la Bat here?

  The man points to the back. He’s at work now, but if the Baas waits for a while he’ll be back.

  I’m really looking for Philida, he says. She works here.

  Why didn’t you say so? asks the slave.

  I first wanted to greet the people.

  She’s also a people, the pale brown slave says cheekily.

  Francois tightens his grip on his crop, but changes his mind. He’s not looking for trouble.

  I’ll go find out if she can come, says the slave, not subserviently at all.

  Two, three minutes later she stands before him, her eyes screwed up against the sun. Those eyes of obsidian.

  The woman stands waiting in silence. She is wearing an old bluish dress which hangs down to her feet. Her dusty bare feet. Francois fleetingly remembers what they felt like in his hands, so many years ago. Beyond the orchards and the vineyards, along the Dwars River. But it feels like something that must have happened in somebody else’s life.

  Philida? he asks hesitantly.

  My JesusGod! he hears her exclaim against the sun. She approaches very suddenly. But it is not to come to him: it is the bamboo cage on the horse she has noticed. And she calls shrilly: My Kleinkat!

  Before he can intervene she stands with the cage in her hands and squats down on her haunches, making small sounds deep in her throat. And the cat replies. Philida puts out her hands and starts tugging at the thong that keeps the gate shut.

  Watch out! he cries. If she gets out she’ll be gone for ever.

  But it is already too late. The little gate is wide open. Kleinkat darts out. But this time she isn’t trying to get away. Deep into Philida’s arms she crawls, purring and chirping like a small nightbird. She wriggles into the woman’s embrace, and Philida wriggles back, pressing the cat against her, turning her upside down to push her face into the grey-and-white belly.

  She still just as small as ever, coos Philida. And just as pretty. Oh my God. Has my Kleinkat come back to its Ounooi?

  It takes a long time before she can sit back and glance up, quickly and almost furtively, towards Francois, once again into the sun.

  I knew she wanted to be back with you, he says, happy and embarrassed at the same time. I had to bring her.

  Now Philida’s body be
comes more rigid. With the cat pressed against her chest, she draws back, out of reach.

  Why did you do it? she asks. What you doing here?

  I came to find you, he says openly. Both of us missed you.

  We got nothing for you here, she says tonelessly.

  But, Philida –

  You want to buy me back with the cat, says the slave woman. We don’t want you here.

  But I had to bring Kleinkat back to you.

  Kleinkat is one thing. You are something else.

  Philida, please understand!

  I understand blarry well, she says. If you tell me Come, you want me to come. If you tell me to scoot, I got to go. How many more times do you want me to do that?

  That’s not what I came for, he says wretchedly.

  What is it then? You want to push your thing into me? Philida gets up from the ground, the cat still pressed against her.

  Or is it your old pa that needs me again?

  Philida, no, please! He looks around, not knowing which way to go.

  Without warning Philida bends over and pushes the little cat back into the cage, then ties up the thong again.

  Take the cat, she says. Go back to Zandvliet where you come from. You not wanted here.

  But you’re the one I want! he pleads.

  You had time enough to say that. Now that time is past. Go home.

  Round the corner of the house he sees two children approaching. Two small fair heads. Both with dirty bare feet. The little girl is skipping ahead, her long dress billowing. Behind her follows a baby on all fours, covered from head to toe in red dust, his small bottom bare. A boy, no doubt about that.

  For some time Francois cannot find anything to say. Then he ventures hoarsely, Our children have grown –

  No, says Philida. They’re mine. They don’t know nothing about you and they don’t want to know.

  I’ve come all this way from Zandvliet! My backside is raw. But it was all I could do.

  For what? she asks, still closed and resentful.

  I told you: I had to come and see you. We didn’t have time to talk properly when my father took you.

  We got nothing more to talk about.

  I brought you something.

  She shakes her head. I don’t want anything more from you. And I got nothing to say to you.

  Wait and take a look first.

  I don’t want to see nothing and I don’t want to hear nothing.

  She prepares to turn away.

  Philida, it’s time for you to come back. Back to us. I am the children’s father.

  Now you expect me to come back? After everything you done? After everything you made me do?

  We can forget about that and start again.

  How does one start again after a thing like that? Until the end of my days I’ll carry this thing with me like a half-chewed lump of meat in my guts.

  I’ll help you. We can start again. Even my pa is going to start again after what happened, after the auction.

  I’m not talking about selling and throwing away, Frans. That is bad enough, but in a way I can still understand it, because you are white. But the thing you made me do I shall never understand and never forget.

  I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do, and you know that bloody well. We had good times together.

  It was good to naai, she says. So good I could see your eyes turn up. But when you saw I had a child in me, what then?

  What else could we do? Pa … and Ma –

  To hell with your pa and ma, man. What you made me do was more than anyone got a right to do.

  You chose to do it.

  Chose? To choose something you got to be free to choose or not to choose. What did I have? I was a slave. Your blarry slave. It was you who wanted to go and drown that child the way you used to with kittens. And when I tried to stop you –

  I had to stop you, goddammit! And from that day you can say I never really lived again. I was dead. I walk about like one of the Vaalvoete, the Shadow People, I no longer leave footprints when I walk.

  After a long time he says, Do you think you were the only one who found it difficult? What about me?

  You?! Philida gives an ugly laugh. Nothing can ever make up for what you did to me. Life is not long enough for that.

  That is all over and done, Philida. We must now move on from there.

  After what you did there is nothing more anybody can do, Frans. So just please let me be. And never come back here.

  She bends over and sweeps up the two children from the ground, then walks off with them to the house without looking back.

  Francois remains staring after her. Once the back door has closed behind her, he leans forward and slowly picks up the bamboo cage again and goes to his horse.

  As he rides out of the yard, Meester de la Bat comes walking through the small gate. As usual, he is wearing his black suit and the tall hat on his head. He stretches out a hand in greeting, but quickly drops it again as the man on horseback nearly crushes him against the wall. De la Bat keeps staring after him before he shakes his head and walks on towards the house.

  In the voorhuis he meets Philida who is standing with one child on the hip and the baby at her breast, as if she is not quite sure about what to do next.

  Who was the man who left in such a hurry? asks Meester de la Bat, still nonplussed.

  She does not look at him. Don’t know, Meester, she mumbles. I have no idea. He just come here to ask for the road to the Bokkeveld, but he don’t really know where he’s going to.

  Meester de la Bat sniffs and moves on to the main bedroom.

  Philida goes round the house towards Labyn’s workroom. Just as well she did not stay behind to look after the stranger and see what happened: how he rode on, out of the village, and how, once out of sight, without reining in his horse or even slowing down, he hurled away the small cage with the cat inside into the bushes next to the road.

  XXII

  An Account of another unforeseen Visitor arriving at the de la Bat Household in Worcester, where he encounters a Philida he has very clearly not expected

  JUST UNDER TWO months later, they received another visit, this time even more unexpected than when Francois showed up. Because on this occasion it turns out to be, of all people, Cornelis Brink. We do know that very soon after Francois’s visit he ran into Daniel Fredrik Berrangé in Stellenbosch, when Cornelis went to deliver a stuckvat to someone in the district; Berrangé had come to discuss with the Slave Protector the punishment of a slave for his cheekiness: with the emancipation of the slaves at hand it was getting impossible to keep many of them under control. They met in the home of a mutual friend in the Church Street, enjoyed a few glasses of wine together, and used the opportunity to exchange some thoughts on the prospects of their children, Francois Gerhard Jacob and Maria Magdalena. For Cornelis it would no doubt have come as a shock to learn that Maria had already heard about Francois’s visit to Worcester, news had an amazing way of travelling through the Colony. The story had undergone quite a transformation in the process and the impression was created that the young Brink had secretly tried to look up his old love.

  Impossible, Cornelis retorted in indignation. I know my son, and I know your Maria is the only woman he ever thinks about. That slave meid has never meant anything to him. He was just a boy with red shins when the thing started and you know how we all were when we were young and didn’t know any better.

  That is not my understanding of the matter, Berrangé replied. According to me – he and his family were still very Dutch in their habits and ways of thinking, and in most discussions he would invariably open his argument with According to me – Francois is still infatuated with that slave girl Philida and barely even notices any other female around. And rumour has it the two already have a barnful of offspring. What father of a nubile daughter could stomach a thing like that?

  Slander! Cornelis shouted. You know how envy and jealousy get out of hand in this Caab of ours. The moment the c
hildren get married and settle down, all the stories will be forgotten. That’s what happened to you and me too.

  For you perhaps, Berrangé replied haughtily. In my case such lies were never spread. I have always been most scrupulous in my behaviour.

  Before they knew where they were it was a full-fledged quarrel. Cornelis could already see all the arrangements made in the wake of the auction blowing up in their faces. No wonder he now decided it was his turn to go to Worcester. But it was not just a matter of saddling his horse and galloping off. Cornelis was a busy man, especially with all the new schemes he had set in motion after the auction, and there were many decisions to be taken.

  But at last, in the dark predawn of a Wednesday morning, Cornelis sets off, once again in the mule cart, driven by one of his skilled slaves, Slembang of Batavia. The road is long, as always, and there is enough, too much, to think about. Perhaps he’s acted too hastily, he thinks. But what was there he could really have done about the case? Philida has been sold upcountry. Francois is at Zandvliet. Maria Magdalena is in the Caab with her parents. And God alone knows what will happen next.

  His head feels thick to bursting with thoughts, but it makes no difference to the tightness inside him. Shouldn’t he just turn back? But whatever may lie ahead, returning to Zandvliet can only make it worse. He spurs on the mules. As far as Paarl the road is relatively easy. But beyond, where one has to pick one’s way through Du Toit’s Kloof down to the Breede Valley, one has to be very careful, past old Schonfeld’s tollgate and the Clay Hole where Cornelis is forced to get off several times to help the mules. Even then it’s hair-raising and more than once the wheels of the cart very nearly slide over the edge into the abyss.

  In Worcester, where he arrives the next day, he is announced very politely at Meester de la Bat’s office in the Drostdy. The tall thin man with the pointed Adam’s apple, who now looks even more like a scarecrow, welcomes him at the door with outstretched hand.