Philida (28 page)

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 children 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.

Mijnheer Brink, he says. A pleasure and a privilege. To what do I owe the honour of your visit?

I have an important matter to discuss with the slave girl Philida, says Cornelis, feeling terribly ill at ease in the man’s company. His whole prepared speech has dried up in his parched mouth.

I hope it isn’t illness or death? asks Bernabé de la Bat.

No, no. It is much more serious.

Then it must be very bad. Shall I accompany you to my house?

Over the last stretch Cornelis feels as if he is on his way to his own funeral.

At Meester de la Bat’s house the homeowner invites him to sit in the
voorhuis
; his wife appears to greet the visitor,
half
suspicious, half inquisitive, and quickly leaves again to fetch tea in spite of his protests – these people prefer tea to the potent bitter root brew that here in the interior passes for coffee – to hear Cornelis’s unexpected story.

By the time she returns with the tray Meester de la Bat has already enquired about the business that has made him come so far.

Actually, he has come to see Philida, Cornelis explains again, embarrassed. He starts in a very long-winded way as is his wont, by asking about the slave woman’s health.

For that, says de la Bat, you should ask my wife. It is for her that I bought the
meid
.

We don’t have any complaints, Anna Catherina says laconically. Nor does she have any, I should think. She is the best knitting girl I have ever had. Nowadays she is giving rather a lot of time to knitting the baby’s and children’s clothes, but that doesn’t interfere much with her other work, so I’m not complaining.

This Philida, says the Meester, is doing such good work that we have started hiring her out to other people too. In that way she earns a few pennies which she can put away for next year, when the slaves are freed. We don’t want her to end up on the street.

That won’t happen anyway, says Cornelis. If I got it right, the slaves will stay booked in for another four years.

Exactly, confirms de la Bat. But one has to make provision, not so? Otherwise they end up with nothing, and you can imagine for yourself what will happen in the Colony after that. He gets up. But let me go and call her, Mijnheer Brink, then you can speak to her yourself.

A few minutes later Philida returns to the
voorhuis
with a half-finished piece of multicoloured knitted baby clothing hanging from two ivory needles in her hands. She is wearing
a
faded green dress, a doek and a red-chequered shawl over her shoulders. From her doek protrudes a fringe of her dark hair. And of course she is barefoot, as behoves a slave.

She looks flustered. And before she has crossed the threshold she asks, What’s the matter? What has happened?

Nothing has happened, says Cornelis curtly. I’ve come about what may still be happening.

What is that?

It looks as if my son Francois may not get married after all.

Philida draws in her breath deeply and very slowly. Then she asks, What’s that got to do with me?

If he doesn’t marry Maria Magdalena Berrangé we’ll all be down the drain. His face flushes a very deep red. And then it’ll be all your fault, Philida.

You come all this way from Zandvliet to tell me that?

It’s very serious, Philida. You’ve got to come back to Zandvliet with me. You’ve got to talk some sense into Frans. He will listen to you if you tell it to him yourself. Afterwards I’ll bring you back here again. Or if you prefer, I can buy you back.

That is not what he has meant to say. But now that it has come so far there is no turning back.

You must be mad in your head, she says very quickly.

Philida, please think about it. You don’t know what you’re holding in your hands today. It’s all our lives. We’ve made a hell of a mistake, man. You must go with me and help me to make Frans understand reason.

You know it’s not about Frans. It’s not even about the Berrangés. It’s all about yourself. You want to make me kneel in the bamboo copse again, and that I’m not doing. Not for you and not for nobody. They say that next year in December I’ll be free. But here inside me I’m already free.
It’s
no longer for you to say do this or do that. You understand that, Oubaas?!

Please, Philida. For God’s sake, please!

What use will my talking be? she asks shrilly. It’s you, the white people, who tell us what to do. But now we saying no.

I’m talking to you about my whole family, Philida. About our future. So it’s about your own future too. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise you, I swear.

That’s what Frans also said to me when he tried to make me lie with him the first time.
I shall make it worthwhile for you, Philida. I shall make you free
.

Don’t you understand? he asks in a rage.

No, I don’t understand. I understand nothing about you people. When you want to use me, I got to kneel before you. But today your balls are hanging in the sand, so now suddenly you want me to help you?

The words break out of her: I swear to you today, Ouman, I swear to Al-lah!

You swear to what? He gawks at her. For a long time he cannot utter a word. At long last he manages to force it through clenched lips: I can see what is happening here. You’ve landed among the heathens here. Look, I want to bring you back home so that you can live among Christian people the way you were used to, the way we brought you up. We want to save your soul!

Why you suddenly care about my soul? Here in this place I got to know Labyn. He taught me different.

Who is this Labyn?

He is a slave like me. But on the first of December next year we shall both be free, that is what he tell me.

What shit are you talking, Philida? What kind of a man is that Labyn? What kind of a weed in our garden?

Labyn is a Slams. I am with the Slamse now.

Cornelis gasps for breath. Philida, you got mixed up with the Slamse now? That will take you straight to hell.

I will rather burn in hell than sit in your
voorhuis
again with my back to the wall when you open your big black book in the evening to read all the names and things. And as soon as you finish reading it’s back to the bamboos and you know it. You know that book better than the bamboo place. What you don’t know is that the Slamse people got their own Book. His name is Korhaan. And he don’t talk to white people and shit. He talk to
us
.

I don’t know what to say to you any more, Philida.

Then don’t say it. I hear and see enough of you Christian lot. I got nothing more to do with you.

Does Meester de la Bat know about this shit you’re talking?

I don’t care if he know or not. My shit is my own and my soul is my own.

Somewhere along the road you lost your way.

Look here, Ouman. She holds up her hand when he tries to interrupt. Look here, she says again. I’m not clever like you. Right now I’m just learning from Labyn. I still got a lot to learn. But all I know is that I want to be with the Slamse, that’s where I belong. You Christians treat me like dirt.

Cornelis shakes his head. I told you I don’t understand you any more. Philida.

You never understand me, Ouman. It always just been you, you, you.

A strange wailing sound slides into his voice. Today I’m on my knees before you, Philida.

You used to make me kneel on mine. Now it’s your turn, Ouman.

This is when he surprises her. Slowly and laboriously he
goes
down on his knees, breathing heavily through his mouth. Philida, look at me! What must become of me!

She does not even try to answer. With the half-knitted baby cardigan in her hands – in many colours, red and white and yellow and green and blue – she turns round and goes to the kitchen.

Cornelis slouches back to the front stoep, where he finds de la Bat.

I’d better be going again, he says. That one won’t understand reason.

You cannot go back like that, Oom! protests Meester de la Bat. You’re no longer a young man. At least stay over for the night. Things may look better in the morning.

Cornelis still considers for a while before he reluctantly decides to accept the invitation. But he withdraws quickly into the bedroom assigned to him, keeping the shutters closed, and only ventures outside in the late afternoon again – just in time to see Philida coming past. It doesn’t look as if she has noticed him. Perhaps she doesn’t want to.