Philida Read online

  In wooden silence everybody eats and drinks. Beside the long low coffee table a naked slave boy stands with a fan of ostrich feathers on a long bamboo which he waves to keep away the flies. One can see that he is tired – he must have been chasing flies since early morning – but on his buttocks is a pattern of dark lines from a previous hiding which must be the reason why he goes on waving the feathered bamboo so energetically with his thin arms to keep the flies at bay, to and fro, to and fro, to and fro.

  Only after the coffee ceremony does Vrouw Berrangé get up. I suppose you two still have something to discuss, she says to Maria, but without looking at Francois. Why don’t you go into the garden if it’s too stuffy inside? He knows that this is just because he is a familiar visitor; otherwise a few of the younger children would no doubt have been sent to accompany them.

  The slave girl carries the tray back to the kitchen; the children silently disperse into the house; only the naked boy remains to wave and wave his large fan of plumes. Maria keeps watching him for a while, as if she hasn’t noticed him before. He seems to become conscious of her stare and moves his feet to turn his back. A slow smile tugs at Maria’s full mouth.

  You may also go, Jantjie, she says to the boy.

  He scurries out.

  Maria moves her head to look at Francois. He self-consciously looks away.

  Did you see? she asks deliberately.

  Did I see what?

  That slave boy is growing up fast. Soon he’ll be a handful.

  I didn’t notice, says Francois gruffly.

  Would you like to go into the garden?

  If you want to. He gets up and lets her walk ahead of him, so that he can look at the graceful sweep of her long skirt.

  It’s a long time since you’ve been here, she says when they come outside.

  We’re kept busy at Zandvliet.

  With what?

  You should know. I got to help Pa on the farm.

  And is that the only reason?

  What else could it be?

  I started thinking that you had somebody else in the eye.

  He nearly misses a step. Like who?

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, she asks in her disconcertingly direct way: What is it you want of me?

  Francois thinks fast, then says: I want to ask you something. It’s an invitation.

  And what is that?

  You must come to visit us at Zandvliet again, he says. I’d like to show you the vineyards now that the summer grapes are beginning to swell. And I want you to see the bamboo copse. It is a beautiful and shady place in this hot weather.

  Who says I want to see it? she says.

  If you’ve seen it once you will know what I’m talking about. And then you’ll want to see it again.

  I wonder to how many people you’ve already shown your bamboo copse, she says.

  He feels flustered, but tries to pull himself together. To nobody, he says, trying urgently to believe his own assurance. You are the only one I’ve always waited to show it to.

  I have something to tell you too, she says.

  And what is that?

  I heard about the slave Philida, Maria says very calmly.

  There’s nothing to know about her.

  They say you have children.

  Maria! He indignantly pulls up his head, but the young woman does not look back at him.

  If you have any plans with her, she says, flowing gracefully down the steps into the garden, you’d do well to stay away from me.

  He feels his face glowing, but does his best to control it. This is the Caab, Maria! You know what things are like here.

  You’re making as if that is something very common!

  Well, it is. It happens on all the farms.

  I don’t believe you, Frans.

  Surely you cannot pretend to be shocked about it, Maria!

  Of course I am. And if you think we can be married while you – We can’t have something like this standing between us.

  Whatever you may think happened between me and that slave Philida has been over for a long time now.

  You may just as well be honest with me, Frans. Or do you think it’s good for a husband and a wife to have silences between them?

  You’re not supposed to know about such things, he protests.

  I have a father, she says calmly. I have brothers. I don’t want my husband to be like them one day.

  I won’t! he promises precipitously. I swear!

  Swearing is against the Bible, she says. And she turns round to face him squarely. All I’m telling you, Francois Brink, if you want to marry me, then you will have to stay with me for the rest of your life. I won’t share my husband. Once we’re married I don’t want slave women in my bed.

  If we get married, I shall stay with you. And with no one else.

  And this Philida? And her children?

  They are already gone. Into the interior.

  You went to visit them in Worcester the other day.

  How do you know that? he asks.

  A woman knows these things. Her voice grows more vehement: My mother has fourteen children. That doesn’t mean that she doesn’t know.

  Francois hangs his head. Maria, I promise you –

  Don’t start promising me things. You’ll first have to prove to me that I can trust you.

  I swear –

  She presses a forefinger to his lips, so hard that it bruises them. Don’t swear to me, Frans! And after a silence she adds: All you need to do is to prove what you said. Once you’ve done that we can talk again. Otherwise you’ll stay at Zandvliet and I’ll stay right here.

  How can I make you believe?

  There’s no need ever to make me believe. Just make sure you don’t betray me. Because I shall know.

  All I’m asking is for you to give me a chance.

  I’ll give you enough of a chance. But I tell you before God: I shall know. And if I find out that you have lied to me, it will be better for you never to come here again.

  You can believe me, Maria.

  Have you seen what they do to a young bullock?

  Involuntarily he presses his knees together.

  You will miss your balls, Frans. But then it’ll be too late.

  He doesn’t know why he should think of a thing like that now, but he says: You mustn’t think I didn’t notice!

  Notice what?

  It flusters him, but it also makes him angry: The way you looked at that slave boy in the voorhuis.

  What are you talking about, Frans?

  You’re not the only one who can look where your eyes don’t belong, he says.

  Unflinching, she looks him straight in the face: That’s the only way I can find out about things. And that’s why I’m telling you to watch out. Because I shall know exactly what you’re doing or what you’re trying to do.

  I tell you I won’t try anything.

  That is something only you can decide. I already told you what will happen to you if you lie.

  If you marry me –

  If I marry you, your eyes and your thing will stay at home. I don’t want any Philidas in my home. And I don’t want to bring up another woman’s children like my mother did.

  You can trust me, Maria.

  Then it will be all right. You can go back to your Zandvliet now. Use the chance and think about it. And when you come back you can tell me.

  I can come back tomorrow, Maria.

  She gives a laugh. No, not tomorrow. That is too soon. I’ll give you a chance. I’ll give you a year. Then you can come and tell me. And then you will do as you said.

  But a year?! Do you know how long a year is?

  I know exactly. And I’m not a child any more. I am twenty-seven. I’ve been waiting long enough. But I refuse to be hurried.

  After a long silence he pulls his breath in deeply and slowly. Then he says: All right, if that is how you want it.

  I do. Because I have to make dead sure.

  I give you my word.

  I
’m not all that eager to take a man’s word. But if you can wait for a year and I can see that you mean what you said, then I shall give you my answer.

  But Maria!

  I don’t want any But Maria, Frans. If you prefer, you can turn round right now and go home. I won’t blame you, because you’re a man. But if you come back in a year and give me your word once again, then I may believe you. She calmly looks him in the eyes. And Maria Berrangé says: Then you can do with me what you want, Francois Gerhard Jacob Brink. And then I may want to do it with you.

  She turns away quickly, back to the house. But halfway up the garden path she looks back over her shoulder, drops both hands and picks up her dress by the seam of her skirt and briefly lifts it up to her knees. Just a moment, then she drops it back. Over her right shoulder her teasing eyes look back at him. Without knowing why, something in her gesture makes him feel unbearably sad.

  When he gets onto his horse soon afterwards, what amazes him is that it is not Maria who keeps coming back into his head, not even her ankles. What does return to his mind, over and over, is a name. Philida. Just that: Philida.

  But it is different from other times. The name carries a feeling, a sound, a weight. It is a name that belongs to the past. But not a past that is irrevocably behind him. It is a past which will never again, even if he tries to make it happen, let go of him.

  Philida.

  XXV

  In which there is Talk of three Messages: one from the Past, one from the Dead and one from the Moon

  THE NEWS OF Frans’s visit to the Berrangés in the Caab travelled, like many other items of scandal, beyond the mountains to Worcester where it also reached Philida. This did not always happen quickly, because the route to the interior wasn’t easy, no matter which road one took. Some horsemen followed new and different short cuts, but that was mostly asking for trouble, if not death. And yet, when all was said and done, there was nothing that could stop news from travelling. Not that it upset Philida much to hear about Francois and Maria. Especially after Kleinkat had returned to her, life began to continue on its way at a tolerable pace. But there were some interruptions.

  One of the first of these comes early on a winter’s day, when the frost turns the grass brittle and white, when Meester de la Bat and his wife and children leave on the Cape cart to visit friends, the Jouberts, on a farm just outside the village. Setting aside his work on a few new coffins, Labyn comes to tell Philida: I want you to come with me.

  She looks up from where she sits knitting on the back steps of the house: nowadays she works more and more in an array of colours, which demands a lot of concentration. This day’s woman’s cardigan is in a rusty red, dark yellow and olive green. She asks: Where do you want to take me?

  We’re going to the Drostdy, you and me.

  To do what?

  There are people we got to see. You can say we got an appointment.

  Who you talking about now?

  You remember the day the Meester took us into the Bokkeveld and told us about the slaves that killed their Baas a few years ago?

  Yes, I remember. But –

  He told us about five that were locked up here at the Drostdy for hard labour. Two for fifteen years and another three for life.

  The chameleon which now sits almost permanently perched on Philida’s shoulder watching the world with its protruding eyes, she first leaves with Floris where he is making shoes as always; afterwards she goes to put away her knitting in the dark brown painted cupboard in the kitchen. Now I’m ready, she says eagerly. Let’s go. The baby stays behind to play with Lena at Delphina’s feet.

  Labyn takes a short cut to the prison that forms the back part of the tall white Drostdy. He carries three bulging flour bags in his hands. In the backyard several prisoners are toiling with picks and heavy hammers and chisels to break large rocks into smaller and smaller ones until they are reduced to gravel. Against the farthest wall is a massive treadmill with steps hollowed by years of wear and rungs covered with dark stains, on which another eight or ten prisoners are chained, treading on and on like mules on a threshing floor, under the supervision of a Khoe guard with a long whip. Their clothes are soiled and hanging from their emaciated bodies in filthy tatters. Presumably they are forced to make do with whatever they were wearing when they arrived here, whether they are serving a sentence of five or ten years or lifelong imprisonment, summer and winter. A few of them are completely naked. Some look quite young, others are older, three or four ancient and doddering. Labyn must have arranged the visit with the guard beforehand, because he takes Philida straight to two men working in the farthest corner of the yard. Another Khoe guard, this one armed with an assegai, quickly scrambles to his feet and stares suspiciously at them, but then he recognises Labyn and withdraws again. He doesn’t look much stronger than his prisoners, but at least his biltong body is more or less covered by a dilapidated red-and-white uniform.

  Labyn motions Philida in the direction of the nearest prisoner: This one, he says, is Achilles. And then the oldest, who is Ontong. The old man, as rickety as a stick insect, has a wretched look about him, with spidery legs, hollow cheeks, and dull eyes set deeply in their sockets, like two old, extinguished coals. He doesn’t look up when the visitors arrive beside him.

  Achilles comes from Macassar, says Labyn. He is a Slams like me. So is Ontong, but he is from Batavia.

  They say you come from the Bokkeveld? asks Philida.

  Achilles shrugs his bony shoulders.

  I heard about your uprising, says Philida.

  He gives her a quick glance, then continues with his monotonous chopping-chopping-chopping.

  My new Baas went to show me Galant’s head on a pole in the Bokkeveld.

  For a moment it seems as if he is going to say something, but then decides against it.

  That must have been a really big thing, says Philida.

  Another quick glance from Achilles, but he remains silent.

  I am a Slams like you, says Philida.

  This time there is a hint of fire in the embers of his dull eyes.

  Philida stares intently at him, which forces him to look up. She says: I really came to say thank you.

  Why? he asks suspiciously.

  One of these days, she says, next year, all of us, all the slaves, will be free. As I understand it, it’s really owing to people like you.

  It doesn’t help us, he says with unexpected vehemence. We sitting here until we die. But that will not be very long now, Inshallah.

  Labyn told me, says Philida. The people have not forgotten about you.

  Another shrug of the small, thin shoulders. He is so skinny and bent that it looks as if there is a hump between them.

  It’s not as if I did such a big thing, he says unexpectedly. The others did most of it. I was just there.

  Sometimes it is enough just to be there, says Philida.

  Even little Rooij did more than me, he protests. He was only a child, barely fourteen. If you ask me, he just went because he was too small to say no. But when the time came to shoot, he did. And I? I just stood there, out of the way.

  Suddenly his tongue seems to loosen.

  All my life I know just one thing: I am far away from my land. Nothing that is here is mine. So how could I let them drag me into murder and killing? All I did was to try and make sure it didn’t get too bad. And when the Nooi got hurt, I tried to help. She said she would ask the big Baas people to look after me. But did she? Here I am still. Breaking stones. For fifteen years. So what now? Even if they let me go, even if they free us all, I shall never find the way back to my land and see the mtili trees moving in the wind. He remains silent for a long time. Then he looks up with a small, sad smile: I always thought it was those mtili trees that made the wind blow, but now I know better. The wind doesn’t take orders from anyone. It just blows. And one day when I am dead it will still be blowing. Only I shall not be there to see.

  After a while – chop-chop-chop-chop – he resumes: In the e
arly days at Houd-den-Bek I often run away, but every time they bring me back and beat me. He draws his breath in deeply before he concludes: In the end one no longer try to run away. But what does that help? Here they still beat us every day. Look at me.

  Without warning he turns round. Around his skinny shoulders and across his bare back they can see the bloody traces of beatings, some old, blackish, bluish stripes stained into the skin, others less old and covered with scabs, still others looking fresh, with red blood and yellow pus oozing from them.

  Every day, he says with quiet resignation. But I am not complaining. Who am I to resist the will of Al-lah?

  He glances quickly at the guard, who responds with a brief gesture of his head. It must be time to go. Labyn hands one of his small bags to Achilles, who very quickly thrusts it under one of his arms while the guard keeps his head turned away. Now they must move on to old Ontong.

  Like Achilles, he is breaking stones, only much more slowly. He is evidently more exhausted than his friend. The hammer is clearly too heavy for his thin arms, his face looks wrinkled and bruised like an old fruit long past ripening, which has rotted and dried out. But when he starts talking, it comes more easily than with Achilles. He, too, has been here for almost ten years. Another five or six to go. It doesn’t sound like so much, but he reacts vehemently when Philida asks about it.

  Not so much? he asks, narrowly missing her with a gob of spit. Come and sit here or try to walk on that long mill and see how you like it. Then try to think how it will be if you do it for fifteen years or for the rest of your life. Every day is like a year. Just five years, six years, and you are an old man. Death soaks into you like snow into these mountains in the wintertime.

  Philida goes down on her haunches to listen as he speaks in a toneless, tireless voice. How he came out on the ship from Batavia to the Caab when he was barely ten years old. About the time on Houd-den-Bek and how he helped to bring up the boy Galant. How he and Nicolaas and the little girl Hester grew up like three small plants in the same vegetable bed. How they began to grow apart. Until the day Nicolaas nearly beat Galant to death after he’d flogged a horse, and how Hester later went to cut the thongs from which he was hanging in the stable, and how she told Ontong to cut down the slave that had been like a brother to him. How Ontong was always the first to stop them when trouble threatened to break out. How he once prevented Galant from setting fire to the house with all the people inside. But what good did it do him? All right, in the end they didn’t hang him like they did Galant and the others. But sometimes he wonders if it wouldn’t have been easier just to be hanged and have done with it, than to sit here for year after year crushing stones or treading the mill.