Imaginings of Sand Read online

  ‘I didn’t expect to see him here?’ I say, bemused.

  Anna shrugs. Her face looks very pale. She is still – or again? – wearing her dark glasses. She fumbles in her handbag, takes out her purse and thrusts it into Lenie’s hand. ‘Won’t you go and get us some cool drinks?’ When the girl has gone, Anna lowers her voice. ‘I must talk to you,’ she says. Her tone is strained.

  ‘Of course. I’ll come over.’

  ‘No. I’d rather come to see you at Ouma’s.’

  ‘Anything happened?’

  She nods and angrily wipes at a tear that trickles from behind her glasses.

  ‘Any time this afternoon,’ I say, and lean over to kiss her on the cheek.

  Lenie reappears. I sip up half my Fanta through the multicoloured straw, then say goodbye to return to my place so that one of the others can take a stroll. There is something muted in the day now; Anna has cast a shadow over my earlier excitement. But it dissipates again, as a ripple runs through the crowd. ‘We’re moving!’ comes the message from ahead. ‘The papers have arrived.’

  The progress is still not fast, but at least we can now shuffle along. A metre or two, then a pause, another metre, a pause, an unexpected surge of five, six metres, then a longer pause. Two blocks to go. One. A half. It’s three o’clock, Dutch Reformed time.

  At half-past three Trui and I cross the threshold of the hall together. In a brief panic she grabs my hand. I wink at her. She takes courage, lets go again, walks very straight to the nearest official, presents her ID, thrusts her hand under the scanner, offers it to be stained with the invisible ink, takes her floral ballot papers, goes to the nearest booth, now taking it all in her stride as if she’s been doing it all her life. Drawing comfort from her assurance I follow in her wake, make a mess of the inking – it smells of orange blossoms, flavour of the month – drop one of my papers, start giggling, and scuttle into my booth.

  It is very quiet in here. It’s like entering a shower cubicle. I feel like throwing back my head to catch the stream on my upturned face, to feel my whole body laved by it. The water of history, I think, a little preciously: but I’ve always had the urge to find a word for important occasions; one small step for a man.

  This is a woman’s step. Out of space comes the recollection of Anna’s story about Mother: how in that last election of their unhappy lives, when Father was the candidate, she cast her vote against him. The only act of defiance available to her. She’s here with me now, I think. How lucky I am to be able, at last, to vote for something, not just against.

  Almost without my noticing it the booth has become very crowded. We’re all here together, as cramped as the crowd in the hearse, but just as joyous, all our bodies exposed to the exuberant stream that splashes over us, cleansing us, confirming us even as we make our cryptic crosses, as surely as a Boer woman who once embroidered her name and the date of her death on a cloth. Mother; Ouma, preserving for posterity the menstrual blood of a lifetime; Rachel, who splashed the walls of her prison with erotic paintings; Petronella, the prophet; Wilhelmina, whose sole articulation was her growing weight; Samuel, growing her hair, cutting her hair; Lottie, who wrote on bark and leaves and earth; Kamma, who unleashed the fireflies. And a host of others, shadows whose names I don’t even know, but who are here. Here is my cross. Kristien Müller her mark. And damn the rest.

  5

  IN THE LATE afternoon, from my bedroom window, I see Anna stop outside under the loquat tree. She has the two girls with her. I turn off the radio. I have been listening to the news, something I haven’t bothered doing since my arrival. But today is different. And we haven’t gone up in flames after all. After the early-morning news about the bomb at the airport there have been no further outbursts. The great tide of violence that has been engulfing the country these last months seems to have been arrested, like the photograph of a rearing wave caught in mid-swell. Only temporarily suspended? Or has something miraculous occurred to change its course? Too soon, of course, to tell. But in the afterglow of what we’ve been living through today, anything is credible. The impossible has happened. Now we can face the possible.

  I meet them at the back door.

  ‘I was wondering whether you were still going to make it,’ I say, briefly hugging Anna. Normally she would tense up, I know she doesn’t like being touched; but she even presses her forehead against my shoulder.

  ‘It wasn’t so easy to get away.’ She hesitates, looking at the children. ‘Scoot, you girls,’ she says.

  ‘Can we climb trees, Mom?’ asks Nannie.

  ‘That’s for monkeys,’ Lenie remarks haughtily.

  ‘You’re not much fun to be with any more, you know,’ complains Nannie. She has a new idea and sets off. ‘Let’s go and chase the peacocks.’

  Lenie makes a face, then follows her at a more dignified pace.

  ‘The birds have all gone,’ I tell her.

  ‘It’s that time of the year,’ says Anna, not very interested; the way she might have said, ‘It’s that time of the month.’

  ‘What a day,’ I say. ‘I’m afraid I’ve become rather cynical lately, but this morning made me think that change is possible after all. I can’t believe the high spirits I’ve seen everywhere.’

  ‘It will subside again, don’t worry,’ she says. ‘It’s a kind of mass hysteria, that’s all.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong. Look, I’m not so naïve as to think everything will suddenly be moonlight and roses. But what we’ve seen today – not just here, but all over, throughout the country – cannot just dissipate again. People will remember it. Surely that will help us through bad patches.’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘Because the one thing we know now is that we’re all in it together.’ I was still doubtful when Thando Kumalo said it yesterday, Trui this morning; now I’m prepared to believe it. ‘We’re in it for better or for worse. I feel a sense of complicity. It’s like a marriage.’

  ‘Marriages break up too.’

  ‘Anna, I’m sorry! I got carried away.’ I take one of her hands in both of mine. ‘It was hard not to. Are things very bad?’

  She nods. ‘I don’t want to dampen your spirits. But frankly, even if the country does change, what difference can it make to me? I live on a different level, I’m afraid it’s very basic. Man and woman. And that’s not going to change.’ A sudden surge of urgency. ‘Or is it?’

  ‘It must. We’ve got to make it work for us.’

  ‘You may be free to decide to make it work for you, Kristien.’ There is a hard, still bitterness in her voice. ‘I’m living on a kind of subhuman level. I’m not even a woman any more. I’m just somebody’s wife, somebody’s sister, somebody’s mother.’

  ‘And now you’re blaming all the “somebodies”? Isn’t that a cop-out?’

  She turns on me. ‘What joy can there be in kicking someone that’s down?’

  For once I’m not stung into tartness, cleverness. Instead, I’m surprised by the understanding I feel for her. And I reply almost gently, ‘There are two mistakes in your reasoning, Sis. I’m not kicking. And you’re far from down.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure.’ She takes me by the shoulders and shakes me; for a moment she is uncontrollable. ‘Kristien, I’m desperate.’

  ‘The very fact you’ve come here tells me that you’re not down and out yet.’

  ‘Coming here was the final straw, I think.’ She is more controlled now, but I sense in her a rage and a desolation that is frightening. ‘He tried to stop me. He told me – he practically ordered me – to stay away from here. He can’t stand the idea of the two of us conspiring behind his back.’

  We go inside; I take her up to my room. She sits down on the bed. I remain standing, leaning against the window-sill.

  ‘I’m leaving him,’ she says, like a straight jab to the chin; but in a matter-of-fact tone as if announcing that she’s bought a dress.

  ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard since I came back,’ I exclaim. Her expressi
on makes me check myself. ‘Is it really true?’

  ‘It’s the only way. But I don’t know how I’m going to make it work.’ Unasked, she picks up my packet of cigarettes from the bed. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ I watch her closely while she holds the lighter to her cigarette, inhales, exhales; her hand is trembling. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  She hesitates. ‘I suppose I can do with something.’

  ‘There isn’t much, but I think I can find some brandy.’

  ‘Anything will do,’

  When I return from the dining-room downstairs, ice-cubes gently tinkling in the two glasses, she hasn’t moved; but the cigarette is stubbed out on the bedside table. She gulps down a large mouthful, closes her eyes, throws back her head; at last she looks at me again, a wan smile on her pale mouth.

  ‘Thanks, Sis.’

  ‘Have you told him?’ I ask.

  ‘I tried to, last night. That was the first time I’ve had the guts.’

  ‘And?’ I ask when she remains silent.

  ‘At first he didn’t take it seriously. He thought I was just putting on an act. I tried to stand my ground. I told him my mind was made up. Then he suddenly changed and became all contrite. Said he couldn’t live without me, he loved me. I tried my best to be unmoved. But he knows me so well. In the end –’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ I say, more to myself than to her; and yet I do believe her. I have seen glimpses of his male wizardry.

  She takes another swallow. ‘In the end we made love. If that’s the word for what we did. Do you think I’m kinky?’

  ‘Does it matter what I think? Why did you do it?’

  ‘It just happened. I became too tired to resist. One keeps hoping against hope. Still, at the back of my mind there was something like a small, angry, lucid spot. I thought: all right, afterwards we’ll talk, he’ll be more understanding. But when it was over he turned away and fell asleep. He thought it was all resolved.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I was awake all night. In the beginning I just felt hurt, used, miserable. But as the night went on I became angry. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in my life. I felt filthy. Like an old rag. Like a piece of toilet-paper he’d wiped his backside on. I could have killed him in his sleep. But I restrained myself. I waited until he woke up this morning. And then I told him again.’

  ‘Did he pay attention?’

  ‘He was in a hurry. He’s always in a hurry in the morning, But I told him I was serious. I literally jumped up and cut him off when he tried to go out. He tried to shove me aside, but I told him he wasn’t going to get out before he’d listened to me.’

  ‘Did he get violent?’

  ‘He didn’t … beat me, if that is what you mean. For once he didn’t. But he was furious. I could fuck off, he said, the sooner the better. But he won’t let the children go. Not even the girls.’

  ‘And that is where it’s at?’

  ‘I’ll have to see a lawyer of course.’ A trembling smile. ‘Just like you told me.’

  I take a cigarette and move the packet towards her, but she declines. ‘You can count on me,’ I promise her; but it sounds so disgustingly inadequate, so trite.

  ‘It’s like …’ Another pause. ‘It’s taken such a long time. Now I can’t go back.’ Her composure suddenly cracks up. She drains her glass. ‘But what am I going to do, Kristien? If I give up the children there’s no point in going on any more. But if I take them, even if he lets me, how am I going to cope? I have no money. I have nothing, I am nothing. It’s all his. I have nowhere to go. I’m forty-two. How does one start a new life?’

  ‘You’re still in your prime. You have qualifications.’

  ‘They’re all useless now. I have no confidence. I’m not sure about anything at all any more. Except that I’ve got to leave.’

  ‘Move in here,’ I say. ‘At least to begin with.’

  ‘It’s too close. He’ll – I’m scared, Kristien. I’m more scared than I’ve ever thought possible.’

  ‘I’ve often wondered,’ I say on an impulse, without any idea of where this may take me, ‘why we put up with it all. It shouldn’t be necessary. It’s not logical, it isn’t normal. For all the thousands of years we’ve been on this earth: why is it always they who decide, we who follow meekly? Why does everything happen on their terms? Whether they drag us across the Drakensberg, or declare war, or wreck the planet, we always let them have their way. And we can put a stop to it. We must, or else –’

  ‘There’s always the children.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Perhaps you won’t understand that. You don’t like children.’

  ‘It’s not that. I know I’ve been a shit to your kids. Although I’ve been trying, the last few days –’

  I’ve noticed.’

  ‘I can’t explain. Perhaps the abortion had something to do with it. I’ve never been able to face children again. Stupid, isn’t it? Guilt is a very corrosive thing.’

  ‘I wish we’d known each other better, sooner,’ she says.

  ‘We’ll make up for it.’ I consider for a while, then look at her. ‘And I do understand what you mean about children. I mean, why we let the men get away with so much.’

  ‘They’ve got us exactly where they want us,’ she says quietly.

  I flare up again. ‘We shouldn’t let them, for fuck’s sake. It’s not necessary. We can say no. That’s the one thing I truly believe. It’s up to us.’

  She raises her glass, discovers that it is empty and reaches for another cigarette. She inhales deeply, then chokes briefly on the smoke. ‘The problem is that it comes at a price. But you were prepared to pay it. So I thought why not I? Only it’s so terribly difficult, Kristien.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Just be here.’ There is desperation in her voice. ‘Don’t go away. Stay here. I’m going to need you very much.’ She smiles through shimmering eyes. ‘I know I shouldn’t say this. I’ve got to stand on my own two feet. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? If one’s never done that before. I don’t even have a name of my own. I started life with Father’s. Then he passed me on to Casper. Like some object of barter. So where does one begin?’

  ‘You’ve already made a beginning.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m trying to act very brave right now. But tonight, when I’m back there …’

  In a rush of concern I ask, ‘He won’t try to –?’

  She shakes her head wearily. ‘But it may be even worse if he turns on the charm. He knows me so well.’

  ‘You dare not let him, Anna!’

  She looks hard at me, her eyes now steady and focused. ‘Tell me what to do,’ she says at last.

  ‘Oh no,’ I stop her. ‘You know very well what I think. But I’m not going to tell you anything. I won’t take the blame for it afterwards. You must decide for yourself.’

  She shrewdly shifts her position. ‘Be honest with me,’ she says. ‘What would you do if you were me?’

  It is a very precarious moment; she is grossly unfair. At the same time it would be irresponsible to duck out of it. Even so: dare I tell her this or not? God knows I derive no satisfaction from it; but yielding to the blind belief that it is necessary, for both of us, I say, ‘Do you know that he was here on Sunday night?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Casper. It was very late, past midnight. He had a spare key. When I found him he was already inside.’

  She stares at me, her eyes vacant with shock.

  ‘He tried to force me.’ Now I must go all the way. ‘It wasn’t the first time either.’

  ‘When –?’ she asks mechanically.

  ‘The day of your wedding.’

  ‘Jesus.’ She covers her face in her hands. From between her fingers a thin line of smoke curls up. After a while she looks up again. ‘And did he-?’

  ‘No. Someone helped me. He was very pissed off.’

  ‘And afterwards he came home to me.’

  ‘Yes. I’m so
rry. I’m so sorry.’

  She leans over to stub out the cigarette. ‘Well, I’m glad you told me. It does make it easier. At least for the moment.’

  ‘Please stay here tonight. It’s always more manageable in the daytime.’

  ‘One’s got to do what one’s got to do, not so?’ she asks with a bitter smile.

  ‘Let me go back with you. He won’t dare to do anything if there’s company.’

  ‘You can’t be there all the time. I can take it. I think I can. Anyway, the sooner I learn to cope on my own, the better.’ She gets up. ‘I want to wash my face. And I must say hello to Ouma.’

  She goes to the bathroom; afterwards I accompany her to Ouma Kristina’s room. She stops in the doorway; I hear the sharp intake of her breath. I should have warned her about the coffin. Now I can only offer her a shrug by way of apology, if not of explanation. Leaving her alone with Ouma I go downstairs, feeling as if I’m walking in my sleep.

  The girls are just coming into the kitchen with untidy little bunches of flowers they have picked in the garden.

  ‘It’s for Ouma,’ announces Nannie.

  Before I can waylay them they dart upstairs. I remain in the kitchen door. The sun has set. The last blood is draining from the sky; with its characteristic African suddenness the dark comes down. In the distance, through the trees, I see the lights from the labourers’ houses.

  Ten minutes later I hear Anna and the children descending the stairs. The girls are chattering away. Lenie has dropped her dignity as she comes sliding down the banister, crash-landing in the passage. They rush past me in a race to reach the car first.

  Anna and I follow much more slowly.

  ‘Look after yourself.’

  ‘That’s the one thing I intend to do.’

  ‘If there’s any need at all, phone.’

  I’ll be all right. You’ve been a brick.’

  In spite of the lightness on the surface I am only too conscious of the turbulence she is trying to cover up. And when they drive off and the red tail-lights disappear along the farm road I feel something contract in myself as a soundless voice cries out, Come back, come back!

  It is a long time before I turn round to face Ouma and the night.