Philida (11 page)

On the bank, next to the bundle of clothes, I stopped.

I call: Philida!

She turns round to face me. One might think she would have bent over to cover herself with her arms, but Philida keeps standing up very straight, so I can get a good look.
The
swelling of her breasts with the big black nipples, hanging down like heavy bunches of grapes. Her belly wrinkled like an old bag because of the child, yet still something to look at. And without wanting to, I can feel myself growing from desire until the dumb thing is standing like a beacon pole, something that hardly ever happens to me these days.

Why are you so bloody late? I call out. We’ve been waiting for God knows how long.

She shrugs as if she cannot be bothered. What is it you been waiting for, Ouman? she asks. It is the first time I have heard her say that: no longer a courteous
Oubaas
, but a crude
Ouman
. This is what happens when they lose all respect.

Even as I try to swallow the confusion of thoughts inside me, I take my time to look at Philida, from top to bottom and then halfway back, before I say: It’s you I’m waiting for, you
hoer
. Today you’re looking for a proper thrashing.

What for? she asks cheekily. I don’t need a thrashing from an old man.

You ran away, I say.

I did not, says Philida. I tell Ouma Nella I go to lay a charge in Stellenbosch, and she tell Nooi Janna and then I walk there and now I am back. No one try to stop me.

Who gave you a pass to leave the farm? I ask her. I certainly didn’t.

I do not need a pass to complain.

I am the Baas and you know that bladdy well and you need my permission to go to Stellenbosch or anywhere else for that matter.

My business is with Frans, not with the Ouman.

Come out of the river, I tell her.

I do not come out if you want to beat me.

Meid!
I shout at her. You’ve got to listen to me.

My name is not Meid, Ouman. I am Philida.

Come out,
poesmeid
.

I am nobody’s
poesmeid
. I am Philida.

Come here! By this time I can no longer see straight. But something stronger than myself holds me back and I try to say very quietly: Philida, come out of that river.

At this moment I notice again the baby lying in a small bundle wrapped in its blanket on the bank of the river. And immediately I know what to do, because it is the only way I can force Philida to obey me. Although it is not easy, I bend over and pick up the bundle.

You can’t do that! Philida shouts behind me.

You just come with me, I tell her over my shoulder. Or else you’ll see what’s going to happen to this bladdy monkey.

She is screaming behind me, but by now I am striding along with the bundle in my arms. I can hear her wading through the shallow water. I can even hear her gasping for breath. In my arms I clutch the small, hot bundle. Ahead of me I can see the thick, dark green bamboos clustered together around the dark secret in their midst. And inside my breeches I can once again feel that thrilling, tight, almost painful stirring I haven’t felt in God knows how many months. This is it, I think, and I call, Come on now, Philida. Just stay with me. Stay with me.

I’m coming, I hear her say.

Come with me, I say again. I can see that she first considers objecting, but when I turn round she is following me, dragging her feet. She won’t allow me to get too far away with the baby, that I know.

I walk a little distance along the white dusty footpath and turn off into the bamboo copse.

Where the Ouman going now?

It’s not for you to ask, Philida, I snap at her. You just do as I tell you. And I walk on, pushing the first bamboos out of my way. Then I move deeper into the copse. A few steps further I can hear her footsteps stopping behind me.

Damn you, Philida! I shout without looking round.

This place is Frans’s place, she says behind me.

What do you know about Frans’s place?

I just know.

Today you’re coming with
me
.

She follows me slowly and cautiously. I lead the way with stiff legs, following my half-rampant member that tries half-heartedly to point the way. As far as I want to take her.

The stirring in my breeches becomes more urgent. I can feel my grip tightening around the heavy belt I am clutching in my hand under the baby. The breeches have started slipping. I kick them off. In a heap they cluster around my ankles. It is painful to bend over but with a grunt I stoop forward and use my free hand to disentangle myself.

But only a few steps further she says behind me: I won’t let the Ouman beat me.

I turn back to her. Now I have to think very clearly. I don’t want to have an argument with a bladdy slave here where everybody can observe us. Even here among the dense bamboos, who knows what they can see?

You want your child back? I ask over my shoulder.

You can’t do this, Ouman! she says.

Don’t be so sure.

The Ouman is not going to beat me today, she says again, but her voice is wavering.

All right then, I try to soothe her. I won’t beat you with my belt today. What you need is a snot sjambok. Get down on your knees. And turn your arse this way.

I won’t, she says.

On your knees, Philida. Today you’re going to pray before we leave this place.

I don’t feel like praying, she says.

It is to say goodbye.

I do not need to say no goodbye. The Ouman must put down that belt, she says.

I won’t.

Then I go back to the river, Philida says, aiming to turn away towards the fringe of the copse.

What about your child?

Give him back to me.

You’ll have to come and get him first.

She shakes her head.

Get on your knees,
meid
, I order her.

Her lips are trembling. I can hear her breath come in sharp and shallow gasps. But she repeats: I won’t.

Oh yes, you will, I tell her. I’m not waiting any longer.
Meid
.

I am not your
meid
, Ouman. Haven’t been for a long time now.

I raise my free arm, now holding the belt. But then I stop and lower the arm again.

On your knees, Philida, I order her very quietly.

Why, Ouman?

The breeches lie crumpled at my feet. I kick them aside and say, Because you’re going to leave us. After today I never want to see you again. This is the last time.

The Oubaas cannot do this, she objects. I lie with Frans now.

You got a bloody cheek,
meid
!

I will tell the Ouvrou Janna, she says.

For a moment I feel winded and cannot think of anything to say.

Frans lie with me, she repeats. I am his woman now. It’s a bad thing the Ouman want to do in this bamboo place today.

What shit is this? I ask in a rage. You are no longer the Philida you used to be before you went to Stellenbosch.

My Ouma Nella tell me long ago what your father do to her, she says.

All I can say under my breath is, Bend over, Philida.

When this young woman bends over, it is different from when I lie with Janna. How shall I put it? The very first time I saw Janna it was clear, even at a distance, that she was a woman of substance. She was still a de Vos at the time, but that poor sod didn’t last long. Janna is a woman straight from the Bible, great and wide. When she comes through the front door, and it is an almighty big door, she fills it from side to side. She can hit you with a fist so you feel like you’ve run into a stone wall. I know what I’m talking about. Janna knows no half measures, she always goes full out. And if the time is right and she is willing, which doesn’t happen often, but when she’s ready it’s like an earthquake. I am small of stature, and with Janna, people say, I’m like a mouse on a sugarloaf, like a rowing boat on mighty waves. Janna is a terrible woman.

And Philida is everything that Janna is not. When she bends over in front of me, I feel my throat go dry. It is as if every word from that scene in Ezekiel suddenly seems to burst into flames before me. I see her and I feel like a horse or an ass again. As if the world has started spinning around me. For God knows how long I stand like this, with my bottom half bare and ridiculous. But nothing happens. I cannot do anything. Not with the thought of Janna which Philida has brought back into my mind. After a very long time she simply straightens up again and keeps her face turned away from me.

And now I want my child, she says.

I hand her the baby still swathed in his blanket. She lifts him up to her and clutches him against her breast. It makes a small whimpering sound, but then turns quiet again. By now I am crying in helpless rage.

After a very long time I stoop down to pull on my skin breeches and painfully slowly stumble away, cowering like a beaten dog.

Philida comes past me, without turning to look at me. I see the bamboos swaying in her wake, then closing behind her. And then she is gone.

Much later, as I stumble out of the copse I see Philida far ahead, on the riverbank, wading back into the shallow water of the river, her whole wet body glistening in the sun.

I hear the child starting to cry on the grassy bank. Philida wades out of the shallow river and goes to sit down beside him, picking him up. She doesn’t even bother to put her clothes on again. From where I stand the child seems bigger and heavier than before, and it seems as if she is trying to smother him in the fullness of her breasts. She never even looks in my direction. Her body glistens. Not because of the sun on her wetness, but as if the light comes radiating from herself in that bright day.

Very slowly, I draw the
riem
of my breeches tightly around my body but without bothering to fasten it again. Keeping it hanging limply in one hand as I hold the breeches up with the other, I walk off back to the longhouse, feeling wilted and empty. Today, I know, today I’m an old man. Now I know what the LordGod must feel like some days when he looks down at his world and knows it’s all been in vain, a bladdy failure. I look up and see the thin, tall palm trees swaying in a row in front of the house, even
though
I can feel no wind, not even a breeze. Climbing slowly up the rise to where the house stands waiting for me, I turn to look round again. Philida has gone back into the shallow river, splashing and splashing as if there isn’t enough water to wash herself clean. As if she wants to scrub the very skin off her body.

IX

In the Graveyard Cornelis reflects on Wriggling around in the Damp

AT THE SMALL
green gate in the ring wall around the graveyard, halfway up the hill, I go inside. My generation has not really taken root here yet.
I have been a stranger in a strange land
. Oupa Andries died at seventy-one in the Caab and that was where we buried him. I can remember how we used to visit his grave every Sunday afternoon to leave some flowers before we moved here to the farm. And Pa Johannes will also be buried there, I suppose; he is already eighty. Those of my own children who didn’t make it were left in the Caab. Pietertjie and Stefaansie and the little one without a name. Here at Zandvliet little Woudrien is the only one from my family to be buried in our graveyard. So far.

As I stand there among the graves of strangers – Du Toit, Van Niekerk, Joubert, Hugo, several de Villiers, some people who don’t even have a name, leaving only the small mounds of their graves behind – a shadow moves in between the afternoon sun and me, and when I look up I see it is Petronella. My mother. And she asks, Cornelis, what are you doing here?

Nothing. Just standing.

Where you been?

That’s not your business.

It is precisely my business, Cornelis. What were you looking for down there among the bamboos?

I wasn’t looking for anything.

Perhaps you weren’t looking, but maybe you found something, she says, staring at me with that look I knew so well. The look that blames me for everything. What are you doing here among the graves? she asks.

I’m just looking at the place where I will come to rest one day. I and my children and my children’s children.

I don’t think you’ll come to rest here. You got too many ants up your arse. And you don’t even know the people who lie here.

There will be enough time later to get to know them. I’m slowly getting acclimatised. Look at the names on the stones.

There are many names here you don’t know anything about and will never know. And here’s lots of stones that are not even marked and still they’re graves.

Like which ones?

There are people buried here – in this corner, in that one over there, everywhere – that go back hundreds and thousands of years.

What sorts of people?

My kind of people, says Old Petronella. Khoe people, Bushman people. Lots of them. More than you can even count.