Philida (34 page)

But here in Worcester it grew quiet earlier than elsewhere. In the evening new fires were lit at first dusk, and more reels were danced. But the magistrate and his helpers made sure that action was taken very rapidly.

For much of the day Philida goes on knitting on her seat in the backyard, neither faster nor more slowly than usual. The only difference compared to other days is that she keeps on her two shoes. And from time to time she still glances up quickly, almost guiltily. As if she isn’t sure of what she will see there. The day remains blue, deep blue and very quiet, and empty after the wind has blown everything away. And bloody hot, causing the blue to start melting and turn limp and exhausted.

And then, in the midst of all this blue, something breaks loose inside Philida. Suddenly it feels as if all the aimlessness in the day changes course and starts moving in a new direction. Now she knows what it is: until this moment it has been like one of those occasions, so very long ago, when she and Frans found themselves together in the bamboo copse and, inexplicably, nothing would come of it. They would just be there, she and he, she lying in his arm, and she could feel desire beginning to grow in him and slowly insinuate itself into her own body. But it would remain shapeless, aimless. If he put his hand between her legs, she would start thinking of the knitting she still had to do in Ouma Nella’s room. Or she would become conscious of the male
kiewiet
calling outside and her body would tighten as she waited for the female to respond, but it wouldn’t happen.
Something
would remain unfinished, incomplete, unfulfilled. She would feel the urge gathering inside her, and be aware of the same happening to him, yet nothing would come of it. And this blue day was exactly like that.

Until it happened by itself, without her knowing how or why. All of a sudden, as a turtle dove started calling in the bluegums outside, Philida sat up, knowing:
This
is what I have been waiting for!
This
is what must happen now! And she thrust her knitting back on the bench and ran into the kitchen. As she ran she could feel all the thoughts in her head tumbling into place, everything exactly where it had to be. From the large water barrel next to the hearth she filled two wooden pails. And then she hobbled across the yard to a spot of shade just behind the big loquat tree, where one could be completely protected and invisible from either the slave quarters or the kitchen, because today she couldn’t bear to be interrupted or seen.

Back in the room she shares with Delphina and the children, she takes two toys from under the bed: a mealie-cob doll for Lena on which Labyn has drawn two round eyes and a big red mouth, and in a small wooden box a little tortoise he has picked up in the veld. The boy is still too small to play with it, but he keeps grinning at it and sometimes even laughing out loud as he watches it scurrying about on its short crooked legs. These toys she puts inside their box in the shade of the loquat tree before she hurries off again to where Delphina has been keeping the kids occupied.

Lena is playing with the quick, deft movements of a bobtail, while Willempie grins through gobs of spittle as he keeps on trying to grab the little tortoise as it scuttles about. Philida waits until both are so occupied that they become oblivious of everything else before she grabs the two wooden
pails
and upends them, one by one, over the children. Both gasp for breath and howl blue murder, making such a row that Juffrouw comes running from the kitchen to see what is going on. Even old Labyn comes running, clutching an unfinished chair leg in his hands. Only Meester de la Bat seems to have remained unaware of the commotion as he continues to work, unperturbed, on his documents at the dining-room table.

It takes quite a while before peace and order has been restored in and around the home. Only then does Labyn, still flustered, ask Philida: Can you please tell me what on earth has happened here?

Nothing, she replies quite unruffled. I just baptised the children.

You what? he gasps. But, Philida, you can’t do that!

I can, she says calmly, and I just did.

But why in Al-lah’s name?

On a day like this I had to do
something
, she says quietly. It was high time. And if it doesn’t happen by itself, I got to do something, not so? I been waiting for heaven knows how long, and where can we find a better day for it? You and I are free, and the children are now baptised in the name of Al-lah, so now we can go on from here. With shoes on our feet and all.

I told you one cannot be baptised in the faith of Islam. The imam will never agree to it.

It wasn’t a baptism for
Islam
, Philida points out. It was only for us. No one ever needs to know.

But it’s sinful, Philida!

Now you talking like Ouman Cornelis. You and I know better than that, Labyn. We did it to praise Al-lah. In a way the two of us started a new church here today.

You know my people don’t believe in a church.

Then make it a new mosque, she says, unperturbed. We can call it the Free Mosque Church of the Cross and the Crescent, if you wish.

And Al-lah is in charge of it?

Both Al-lah and the LordGod, if you want, she says, a laugh in her voice. Her head is racing ahead of them now. I’ll tell you what: we can add Muhammad and Jesus to it, they both prophets, aren’t they? And what about A’isha and Mary as well? We can’t leave them out, can we? I tell you what: our place for prayers will be the best there ever was. It will have room for everybody.

Well, when do we start? asks Labyn. But before she can reply, he changes his mind and shakes his head with a sigh. No, wait. Let’s keep it to ourselves for the moment. Some things are better in dreams.

That is enough too, Philida agrees. Just look at how blue the day has already become. Blue and blue and blue, wherever you look. Al-lah’s sky and the LordGod’s sky.

And after Labyn has returned to his workplace, she thinks: So this is Monday, the first of December, 1834, the day everybody been dreaming about. I think it’s been worthwhile after all. Now I know what it really feel like to be free.

She knows: it started with the children, with the first little one, that day she’d held him in her hands, as small as a cat. That was when she understood: What happened has happened and I cannot change it. It
had
to happen. But never-ever again. If there must be another child, children, they stay with me, they will live. If Frans try anything or want me to do something again, I shall wait until he sleep and then I shall do what I must do and that will be that. But the child, the children shall live with me. When little Mamie is born everybody can see right then that she will not live long, so there is no need to do anything. Later,
with
Lena, the stories about freedom are already everywhere and I know I must just wait. From the first day with her I know I must hope, and wait. From that day I live with the hope and it keep us alive. I shall never again think I am Al-lah or I am the LordGod and decide for myself about living and dying. And today with this baptism I can say it openly. These children are mine and they will live. That is freedom for me. And for them. For now and for ever.

And it is only three days later that she hears the news from the Drostdy: all the slaves have been called in by the Commissioner and ordered to chop the treadmill into small pieces for firewood. Only that, nothing more. No word about breaking the stones into little chips. For Ontong and the others, that punishment continues, but there is no more stepping on the treadmill.

The following Monday, when Philida comes in again to tidy up the Commissioner’s office, she casually remarks: I just want to say thank you to the Meester.

He looks at her, suppressing the frown on his forehead, pretending not to know what she is talking about. And mumbling, as if to himself: There’s nothing I did. Nothing at all.

And all Philida can do is quietly to finish her dusting as she says: So I want to say thank you for nothing, Meester. Adding as an afterthought: But it’s a good nothing to say thank you for, Meester.

XXVII

In which Everything unravels and comes together again

IT IS ON
that same Monday that I think: Today is the day I been waiting for all my life. Even when I was a child, I always thought: Surely, this cannot be all. This
cannot
be all. One day something will happen that will change everything. Because it’s impossible that this can be all there is. It was worst on the days Ounooi Janna beat me, which was most days. But even any other ordinary day, as I carry out the shit bucket or the piss pots to empty them in the big hole at the back, or to feed the dirty old sow in the pigsty, or even on the good days when I can just sit and knit for hours, I used to think: Jirre, no, this cannot be all. And then it will come into my mind, no matter if the sun was burning me or the moon is caught in the branches of an oak tree: One day there must be something else and something new. One day – one day – one day.

Now this must be the One Day. Because if it isn’t, I rather not be here.

But of course one also get used to it. You learn to think: This is what it is to be a slave. Just this, and nothing more. This: that everything is decided for you from out there. You just got to listen and do as they tell you. No matter if it is a piece of knitting you got to unravel and knit again, or to kneel when some baas want to beat you. You don’t say no. You don’t ask questions. You just do what they tell you. But far at the back of your head you think: Soon there must
come
a day when I can say for myself: This and that I shall do, this and that I shall not. But such a day never come. Until that Monday. When the people come running up and down the street, and singing and dancing and kicking up dust, and the sky stay just as blue as it always was. A Blue Monday, as they say. And from now on blue will be my colour. That is when I say to Labyn: From now on everything will be different.

Say who? he ask, with a laugh.

Say I, Philida.

And how will you make that happen? You know we will be slaves for another four years.

That may be so, Labyn. But to be a slave will now be something else.

Just try, and see what happen, he say.

I will try, and
you
will see what happen.

This is when I decide in my own head: All these years it was they who decided they got the right to say: Philida, you a slave. But they don’t have the right to say: Philida, now you free. That is something only I can say. And this I say today: Today I am a free woman.

But saying, I know, is always easier than doing.

It begin on the long-ago day with KleinFrans, but I do not even know it myself. Because that is the most terrible day of my life. The day we never speak about. Not ever. I remember the look in his baby eyes. He was so small. Like a little kitten. He half lift his head to look into my face. The small frown between his eyes. He know what is coming. There is just a feeble struggle. A smothered sound. Then nothing. He go limp in my hands. He put out one of his tiny hands and touch my cheek, so softly one can barely feel it, like a leaf stirring. He touch me the way Kleinkat sometimes do when I’m sleeping and she touch me with
one
of her little paws to wake me up. Just like him. Like KleinFrans that day. Only, he don’t want to wake me but to say goodbye. But I know: he know what is happening. I swear he know. In that one moment he know who I am. He know I am his mother. And I am doing what nobody on the LordGod’s earth got the right to do.

There is only one reason why I got to do it. And that is to stop Frans from doing it. I do it to stop
him
from killing our child. You can say I do it to save him. From the man I love. Because I know I cannot live with that. I who am his mother. Now and for ever. That is where the world begin. With a man and a woman. Just the two of them. And then with a child they make between them. And then I kill him. To stop Frans.

To stop Frans from killing him, to go and drown him the way he do with kittens and puppies that are not wanted on the farm. I decide I must rather do it myself, and take him out of his hands. So that he won’t become a slave like his mother was a slave. That’s all.

Six years old, that is what he’d have been today. Six years, four months and thirteen days. That is how I learn to count, and when all my learning begin.

There’s one specially good thing about being free, you know, I say to Labyn.