Philida (30 page)

In the beginning there isn’t much talk, but as it grows darker the words find their way more easily.

You must tell us about the Gariep, says Labyn.

That Gariep is a different kind of place, begins Floris with a small grey chuckle. You won’t think there can be so many people living on an open plain. And of all sorts too, from the preachers and baptisers of Al-lah and the LordGod to runaways and murderers and robbers, everybody. There
are
deserters and free people among them, black and brown and yellow and white, all the colours under the sun and moon and stars, and in a way they all live happily together. The people of that place, the Griquas, make sure that they more or less keep the peace. And there’s talking like you cannot believe, day and night. Sometimes they talk about war too, but most of the people are not looking for trouble. As long as they keep the Gariep between themselves and the Colony, everybody is satisfied. Many of them have started farming already. It’s a dry world, but close to the Gariep there are green fields. And there’s more than enough grazing for cattle and sheep and goats.

If it goes so well, says Labyn, then why did you come back? It sounds like a good place to stay for the rest of your life.

To stay, yes, Floris agrees. And that was what I also wanted to do. Even took myself a wife. She was a good woman, and good to look at too. He gives a soft groan and turns his head away. But then she got sick and she died, and the Gariep is a place without mercy for a man on his own. That’s why I thought I must rather go back to where I come from. One of these days they going to let us go anyway, then I’ll stay here for the four years the Meester will still take care of me, and afterwards I can think again. It’s bad when a man got no woman with him. It’s bad, I tell you. It’s bad shit all the way.

After Floris has spoken, it’s his turn to ask them about their own lives. And as the conversation wanders along, the sky goes on wheeling overhead with its stars, big and small, like a slow dust-devil that refuses to be hurried on its way.

From all the talking stories gradually emerge. This is how it has always gone on this farmyard and all the other
farmyards
in this land-without-end. It is Floris who begins, telling the story of how the chameleon was born: how he had no father, but two mothers, the moon and the rainbow, and how he was born before there were any people in the world. The moon gave him light on his way – because he was so slow he never needed much light to see by – and the rainbow knitted a little coat for him that helped him to change colour all the time, so that one couldn’t see him easily. Only the sun got very grumpy and kept out of the way whenever the moon or the rainbow was around. And that, says Floris, is why he used to keep the little one under his shirt or somewhere out of reach of the sun, so that he wouldn’t be scorched to death.

Philida keeps asking Floris questions about the small creature, and his stories grow more and more wonderful. This little man has come a hell of a long way with me, he tells her. I found him when I was still on my way to the Gariep, or perhaps it was he who found me, in a thin little stream with thorn bushes on both sides.

And weren’t you scared to bring him with you? asks Philida.

No, why should I be?

My Ouma Nella always say I must watch out for them, for they bring death.

Ag
, no, he’s a good little man, his eyes see everything and if there’s any trouble on the way, he always tells me about it long before it comes.

Somewhere during the long night, after Philida has brought out her breast once again to nurse Willempie, she drifts off from pure tiredness while the stories are still running into one another like strands of wool in a loose piece of knitting, and only at the first light of the new day does she wake up again from a giggling and scurrying all
around
and over her. It’s the children, she discovers, who are watching Kleinkat playing with the chameleon that has come to hide in the crook of her arm. He is sitting there without making a sound, his mouth wide open, hissing, while the cat flips him upside down and rolls him to and fro to get to him with her small sharp teeth.

Stop it! cries Philida, grabbing the cat behind its neck. What are you doing?

Kleinkat tries to wriggle herself loose, but Philida holds on. Only when the cat begins to calm down in her grip does she relax and sit up.

Now you listen to me, she tells the cat very sternly. He is my new little friend and you’re going to let him be. Do you understand what I’m saying?

Kleinkat hisses and forms a small, deep growl in her throat. Philida tightens her grasp again and lightly shakes her.

I say, do you hear me? Are you listening?

Another muttering of protest.

No, I want an answer from you. I won’t have what you’re doing. You not touching this chameleon, you hear? Not today, and never again. He’s mine, Kleinkat. Do we understand one another?

For a moment it is very quiet. Then the cat stops fidgeting. With her grass-green eyes she looks up at Philida and makes a curious little chirping sound Philida has not heard before, like a small bird.

So, do you agree?

Once more Kleinkat utters the small sound.

All right, says Philida, then you may go. But from now on you let him be. Otherwise I’m sending you back to Frans.

The cat turns on her back and starts purring softly in her lap. Philida lets her go. Kleinkat gently crawls over Philida’s
thigh,
stretches her neck forward, sniffs at the chameleon, then steps lightly over him, jumps down to the ground and goes her way.

It is the last time Philida will ever have any trouble with the small grey cat.

The encounter with the cat turns into a long game of teasing and giggling among the children, before it is time for a new story. And then another. And then Philida brings a new bowl of water for Floris, followed by still others, and Floris resumes his account of the Gariep and its people. He talks about crooks and
skelms
, about women who can knock you down with one blow of a fist, and men who can swallow live fire. He tells them about Griqua captains like Adam Kok and Willem Waterboer, he drops the names of a Jan Bloem and a Jager Afrikaner and one Stephanos, and his stories become so vivid that Philida can no longer make out whether the people are still around or long dead, as in his tales they are all so very much alive that they sound like his close friends. Not that it matters much, as he doesn’t bother to make any distinction between the living and the dead, between night walkers and day walkers. He tells them about Griquas and Tswanas and Korannas, about missionaries and murderers. Every time when it seems he is getting too tired to go on, he begins with something new. And then some more. After which Philida goes to fetch a new bowl of water for Floris, and another. His speech gets slower, and the stories creep on like a row of chameleons, the stars of the Milky Way glide past them overhead and slowly the darkness turns more grey and a red smudge stains the underside of the sky, and here and there cocks start to crow and a new day begins.

The groans that come from Floris become deeper and darker as his body grows more weary and aching from lying
stretched
out like that, but at last that, too, is over. From time to time Philida offers her baby a breast, until she finally gets up to prepare him for the day. Delphina goes to the kitchen to make coffee and stoke the fire in the hearth. Afterwards the dough that has been left against the back wall of the hearth, and has risen over the tops of the long pans, is stacked in the oven, and the small door is pushed shut and smeared with cow dung, and everywhere around them cows begin to low and dogs are barking, and men stagger out in backyards with stiff legs to piss in foaming puddles, and before one knows where one is it is high day.

About that time Meester de la Bat emerges from his back door. He has a vicious-looking long sjambok in his hand with which he gives brief slaps against the black legs of his breeches, sending small puffs of dust up around him.

Morning, Floris, he grunts.

Morning, Meester, the man groans.

Slept well? asks the Baas.

Not really, Meester.

Are you ready for me?

Ready for Meester.

Meester de la Bat puts his long white hands with the knobbly knuckles on his hips, and asks: Where is Labyn?

Meester, I am here.

You can untie him now, says de la Bat with a small nervous grin towards Labyn. I think he’s had enough of a scare.

Later, in the kitchen, while Philida is bustling about, the Meester comes in from outside and she overhears him saying contentedly to his wife Anna: It’s important for a slave to be reminded regularly of who is the Baas.

Yes, Bernabé, she says meekly. As you wish.

Bring me my coffee, he says.

XXIV

The Narrative of what may be a Chapter from the Kind of Romance that was not uncommon at the Time of our Story, even though it may not be unequivocally happy

ONLY A DAY
after Cornelis Brink has returned to Zandvliet from Worcester – his back aching, his rump raw from the long ride and in agony from the gland that gives him hell – he summons the whole family to report back. Janna is there, of course, draped over the full extent of the couch, and then the remaining children.

It is time for us to talk, announces Cornelis.

Complete silence, but all eyes are on him, both curious and in dread. With a father like this one can never be too complacent.

I have been to Worcester, says Cornelis.

Did Pa go to the de la Bats? asks Daniel.

Yes, I saw them.

Alida asks very quickly, Did Pa see Philida? When is she coming home?

She is not coming back, Cornelis says. She has no wish to leave from where she is.

But I miss her, wails Alida. It isn’t nice to be on the farm when she isn’t here. And I could do with a new cardigan.

We are getting on very well without her, sneers Janna from the couch; its legs creak in protest.

I don’t know anyone who can knit like her, ventures Maria Elisabet.

Then why did she leave? Janna asks moodily. She must have known that we need her. But she always thought only about herself.

It wasn’t her fault, Ma, says Maria Elisabet. What say did she have? Pa and Frans decided she had to go, so she had to go. I don’t think they gave her any choice.

You watch out, warns Cornelis. I can see that backside of yours is itching to be tanned.

Well, I wish she can come back, says Alida. Did Pa tell her we’d like her to come home?

I said nothing to nobody. I won’t allow that
meid
to set foot here again. She no longer belongs with decent Christian people.

How can Pa say a thing like that? asks Francois unexpectedly.

Philida went over to the Slamse, snaps Cornelis. She is with the heathens and unbelievers now.

I don’t believe that, Pa!

I have said what I wanted to say, says Cornelis. What that means is that the road to Maria Berrangé is now open. For all of us, and that includes you. You better start moving your arse.

He was expecting Frans to object, but to his surprise his son seems unexpectedly amenable, as if for the first time he is beginning to understand reason.

I’ve begun to think, he says, that Maria Berrangé may not be such a bad idea. I’ve noticed that she has fine ankles.

What has that got to do with it? Janna asks indignantly, moving her massive legs on the sofa. Her feet protrude like two well-risen loaves. She adds: Her looks have nothing to do with it. What matters is what she
does
.

And if she can breed, says Cornelis. That, at least, the Berrangés can do. Seven sons and seven daughters.

One needs something for the eye too, says Francois. And
for
the hand. He shakes his head. But don’t get in too much of a hurry. I’ll have to sound her out first. And I’ve heard she’s not an easy one. She’s choosy.

As long as you make a move soon, says Cornelis. That auction was a bad blow to us. Without you we’ll never get out of the shit properly.

I promise Pa I’ll do my best.

And just over a week later Francois makes his appearance under the high front stoep of the big house below the slope of Oranjezicht in the Caab. He has brought an anchor of his father’s red wine for Berrangé, and a jar of green-fig preserve for the lady of the house. For Maria he has a small sewing box he has made himself, with a delicate inlaid pattern on the lid.

I never thought I’d see you again, she says when she is called from her room to greet the visitor. She is wearing a yellowish, oldish dress and the bands of her embroidered bodice are only loosely tied. Also, she is barefoot. The expression on her mother’s face makes it clear that this is not how Vrouw Berrangé likes to see her daughter – at any rate not in front of guests. But Maria has turned her head away, clearly deliberately. It’s only when she discovers who the guest is that one can see she has no wish to be here at all. She half turns away towards her room, but Francois says quickly:

Afternoon, Maria.

She remains standing.