Summertime Part 7

The house is a nondescript cube with a corrugated-iron roof, a shaded veranda running the length of the front, and a steep wooden staircase up the side leading to a loft. The paintwork is in a sorry state. In front of the house, in a bedraggled rockery, a couple of aloes struggle to stay alive. Does he really mean to dump his father here, in this dull house in this exhausted hamlet? An old man, trembly, eating out of tins, sleeping between dirty sheets?

'Would you like to take a look?' he says. 'The house is locked, but we can walk around the back.'

She s.h.i.+vers. 'Another time,' she says. 'I'm not in the mood today.'

What she is in the mood for today she does not know. But her mood ceases to matter twenty kilometres out of Merweville, when the engine begins to cough and John frowns and switches it off and coasts to a stop. A smell of burning rubber invades the cab. 'It's overheating again,' he says. 'I won't be a minute.'

From the back he fetches a jerrycan of water. He unscrews the radiator cap, dodging a whoosh of steam, and refills the radiator. 'That should be enough to get us home,' he says. He tries to restart the engine. It turns over dryly without catching.

She knows enough about men never to question their competence with machines. She offers no advice, is careful not to seem impatient, not even to sigh. For an hour, while he fiddles with hoses and clamps and filthies his clothes and tries again and again to get the engine going, she maintains a strict, benign silence.

The sun begins to dip below the horizon; he continues to toil in what might as well be darkness.

'Do you have a torch?' she asks. 'Perhaps I can hold a torch for you.'

But no, he has not brought a torch. Furthermore, since he does not smoke, he does not even have matches. Not a Boy Scout, just a city boy, an unprepared city boy.

'I'll walk back to Merweville and get help,' he says at last. 'Or we can both walk.'

She is wearing light sandals. She is not going to stumble in sandals twenty kilometres across the veld in the dark.

'By the time you get to Merweville it will be midnight,' she says. 'You know no one there. There isn't even a service station. Who are you going to persuade to come out and fix your truck?'

'Then what do you suggest we do?'

'We wait here. If we are lucky, someone will drive past. Otherwise Michiel will come looking for us in the morning.'

'Michiel doesn't know we went to Merweville. I didn't tell him.'

He tries one last time to start the engine. When he turns the key there is a dull click. The battery is flat.

She gets out and, at a decent distance, relieves her bladder. A thin wind has come up. It is cold and is going to be colder. There is nothing in the truck with which to cover themselves, not even a tarpaulin. If they are going to wait out the night, they are going to have to do so huddled in the cab. And then, when they get back to the farm, they are going to have to explain themselves.

She is not yet miserable; she is still removed enough from their situation to find it grimly amusing. But that will soon change. They have nothing to eat, nothing even to drink save water from the can, which smells of petrol. Cold and hunger are going to gnaw away at her fragile good humour. Sleeplessness too, in due course.

She winds the window shut. 'Shall we just forget,' she says, 'that we are a man and a woman, and not be too embarra.s.sed to keep each other warm? Because otherwise we are going to freeze.'

In the thirty-odd years they have known each other they have now and then kissed, in the way that cousins kiss, that is to say, on the cheek. They have embraced too. But tonight an intimacy of quite another order is on the cards. Somehow, on this hard seat, with the gear lever uncomfortably in the way, they are going to have to lie together, or slump together, give warmth to each other. If G.o.d is kind and they manage to fall asleep, they may in addition have to suffer the humiliation of snoring or being snored upon. What a test! What a trial!

'And tomorrow,' she says, allowing herself a single acid moment, 'when we get back to civilization, maybe you can arrange to have this truck fixed properly. There is a good mechanic at Leeuw Gamka. Michiel uses him. Just a friendly suggestion.'

'I am sorry. The fault is mine. I try to do things myself when I ought really to leave them to more competent hands. It's because of the country we live in.'

'The country we live in? Why is it the country's fault that your truck keeps breaking down?'

'Because of our long history of making other people do our work for us while we sit in the shade and watch.'

So that is the reason why they are here in the cold and the dark waiting for some pa.s.ser-by to rescue them. To make a point, namely that white folk should do their own car repairs. How comical.

'The mechanic in Leeuw Gamka is white,' she says. 'I am not suggesting that you take your car to a Native.' She would like to add: If you want to do your own repairs, for G.o.d's sake take a course in auto maintenance first. If you want to do your own repairs, for G.o.d's sake take a course in auto maintenance first. But she holds her tongue. 'What other kind of work do you insist on doing,' she says instead, 'besides fixing cars?' But she holds her tongue. 'What other kind of work do you insist on doing,' she says instead, 'besides fixing cars?' Besides fixing cars and writing poems. Besides fixing cars and writing poems.

'I do garden work. I do repairs around the house. I am at present re-laying the drainage. It may seem funny to you but to me it is not a joke. I am making a gesture. I am trying to break the taboo on manual labour.'

'The taboo?'

'Yes. Just as in India it is taboo for upper-caste people to clean up what shall we call it? human waste, so, in this country, if a white man touches a pickaxe or a spade he at once becomes unclean.'

'What nonsense you talk! That is simply not true! It's just anti-white prejudice!'

She regrets the words as soon as she has spoken them. She has gone too far, driven him into a corner. Now she is going to have this man's resentment to cope with, on top of the boredom and the cold.

'But I can see your point,' she goes on, helping him out, since he doesn't seem able to help himself. 'You are right in one sense: we have become too used to keeping our hands clean, our white hands. We should be more ready to dirty our hands. I couldn't agree more. End of subject. Are you sleepy yet? I'm not. I have a suggestion. To pa.s.s the time,why don't we tell each other stories.'

'You tell a story,' he says stiffly. 'I don't know any stories.'

'Tell me a story from America,' she says. 'You can make it up, it doesn't have to be true. Any story.'

'Given the existence of a personal G.o.d,' he says, 'with a white beard quaquaquaqua outside time without extension who from the heights of divine apathia loves us deeply quaquaquaqua with some exceptions.'

He stops. She has not the faintest idea what he is talking about.

'Quaquaquaqua,' he says.

'I give up,' she says. He is silent. 'My turn,' she says. 'Here follows the story of the princess and the pea. Once upon a time there is a princess so delicate that even when she sleeps on ten piled-up feather mattresses she is convinced she can feel a pea, one of those hard little dried peas, underneath the last mattress. She frets and frets all night Who put a pea there? Why? Who put a pea there? Why? and as a result doesn't get a wink of sleep. She comes down to breakfast looking haggard. To her parents the king and queen she complains: "I couldn't sleep, and it's all the fault of that accursed pea!" The king sends a serving-woman to remove the pea. The woman searches and searches but can find nothing. and as a result doesn't get a wink of sleep. She comes down to breakfast looking haggard. To her parents the king and queen she complains: "I couldn't sleep, and it's all the fault of that accursed pea!" The king sends a serving-woman to remove the pea. The woman searches and searches but can find nothing.

'"Let me hear no more of peas," says the king to his daughter. "There is no pea. The pea is just in your imagination."

'That night the princess reascends her mountain of feather mattresses. She tries to sleep but cannot, because of the pea, the pea that is either underneath the bottom-most mattress or else in her imagination, it does not matter which, the effect is the same. By daybreak she is so exhausted that she cannot even eat breakfast. "It's all the pea's fault!" she laments.

Exasperated, the king sends an entire troop of serving-women to hunt for the pea, and when they return, reporting that there is no pea, has them all beheaded. "Now are you satisfied?" he bellows at his daughter. "Now will you sleep?"'

She pauses for breath. She has no idea what is going to happen next in this bedtime story, whether the princess will at last manage to fall asleep or not; yet, strangely, she is convinced that, when she opens her lips, the right words will come.

But there is no need for more words. He is asleep. Like a child, this p.r.i.c.kly, opinionated, incompetent, ridiculous cousin of hers has fallen asleep with his head on her shoulder. Fast asleep, undoubtedly: she can feel him twitching. No peas under him.

And what of her? Who is going to tell her stories to send her off to the land of nod? Never has she felt more awake. Is this how she is going to have to spend the night: bored, fretting, bearing the weight of a somnolent male?

He claims there is a taboo on whites doing manual labour, but what of the taboo on cousins of opposite s.e.xes spending the night together? What are the Coetzees back on the farm going to say? Truly, she has no feeling toward John that could be called physical, not the faintest quiver of womanly response. Will that be enough to absolve her? Why is there no male aura about him? Does the fault lie with him; or on the contrary does it lie with her, who has so wholeheartedly absorbed the taboo that she cannot think of him as a man? If he has no woman, is that because he has no feeling for women, and therefore women, herself included, respond by having no feeling for him? Is her cousin, if not a moffie moffie, then a eunuch?

The air in the cab is becoming stale. Taking care not to wake him, she opens the window a crack. What presences surround them bushes or trees or perhaps even animals she senses on her skin rather than sees. From somewhere comes the chirping of a lone cricket. Stay with me tonight Stay with me tonight, she whispers to the cricket.

But perhaps there is a type of woman who is attracted to a man like this, who is happy to listen without contradicting while he airs his opinions, and then to take them on as her own, even the self-evidently silly ones. A woman indifferent to male silliness, indifferent even to s.e.x, simply in search of a man to attach to herself and take care of and protect against the world. A woman who will put up with shoddy work around the house because what matters is not that the windows close and the locks work but that her man have the s.p.a.ce in which to live out his idea of himself. And who will afterwards quietly call in hired help, someone good with his hands, to fix up the mess.

For a woman like that, marriage might well be pa.s.sionless but it need not be childless. Then the whole brood could sit around the table of an evening, the lord and master at the head, his helpmeet at the foot, their healthy, well-behaved offspring down the two sides; and over the soup course the master could expatiate on the sanct.i.ty of labour. What a man is my mate! What a man is my mate! the wife will whisper to herself. the wife will whisper to herself. And what a developed conscience he has! And what a developed conscience he has!

Why does she feel so bitter toward John, and even bitterer toward this wife she has conjured up for him out of thin air? The simple answer: because due to his vanity and clumsiness she is stranded on the Merweville road. But the night is long, there is plenty of time to unfold a grander hypothesis and then inspect it to see if it has any virtue. The grander answer: she feels bitter because she had hoped for much from John, and he has failed her.

What had she hoped for from her cousin?

That he would redeem the Coetzee men.

Why did she want the redemption of the Coetzee men?

Because the Coetzee men are so slapgat slapgat.

Why had she placed her hopes in John in particular?

Because of the Coetzee men he was the one blessed with the best chance. He was blessed with the chance and he did not make use of it.

Slapgat is a word she and her sister throw around rather easily, perhaps because it was thrown around rather easily in their hearing while they were children. It was only after she left home that she noticed the disquiet the word evoked and began to use it more cautiously. A is a word she and her sister throw around rather easily, perhaps because it was thrown around rather easily in their hearing while they were children. It was only after she left home that she noticed the disquiet the word evoked and began to use it more cautiously. A slap gat slap gat: a r.e.c.t.u.m, an a.n.u.s, over which one has less than complete control. Hence slapgat slapgat: slack, spineless.

Her uncles have turned out slapgat slapgat because their parents, her grandparents, brought them up that way. While their father thundered and roared and made them quake in their boots, their mother tiptoed around like a mouse. The result was that when they went out into the world they lacked all fibre, lacked backbone, lacked belief in themselves, lacked courage. The life-paths they chose for themselves were without exception easy paths, paths of least resistance. Gingerly they tested the tide, then swam with it. because their parents, her grandparents, brought them up that way. While their father thundered and roared and made them quake in their boots, their mother tiptoed around like a mouse. The result was that when they went out into the world they lacked all fibre, lacked backbone, lacked belief in themselves, lacked courage. The life-paths they chose for themselves were without exception easy paths, paths of least resistance. Gingerly they tested the tide, then swam with it.

What made the Coetzees so easygoing and therefore so gesellig gesellig, such good company, was precisely their preference for the easiest available path; and their geselligheid geselligheid was precisely what made the Christmas get-togethers such fun. They never quarrelled, never squabbled among themselves. They got along famously, all of them. It was the next generation, her generation, who had to pay for their easygoingness. For their children went out into the world expecting the world to be just another was precisely what made the Christmas get-togethers such fun. They never quarrelled, never squabbled among themselves. They got along famously, all of them. It was the next generation, her generation, who had to pay for their easygoingness. For their children went out into the world expecting the world to be just another slap, gesellige slap, gesellige place, Voelfontein writ large. And behold, it was not! place, Voelfontein writ large. And behold, it was not!

She herself has no children. She cannot conceive. But if, blessedly, she had children, she would take it as her first duty to work the Coetzee blood out of them. How you work slap slap blood out of people she does not know offhand, short of taking them to a hospital and having their blood pumped out and replaced with the blood of some vigorous donor; but perhaps rigorous training in self-a.s.sertion, starting at the earliest possible age, would do the trick. Because if there is one thing she knows about the world in which the child of the future will have to grow up, it is that there will be no room for the blood out of people she does not know offhand, short of taking them to a hospital and having their blood pumped out and replaced with the blood of some vigorous donor; but perhaps rigorous training in self-a.s.sertion, starting at the earliest possible age, would do the trick. Because if there is one thing she knows about the world in which the child of the future will have to grow up, it is that there will be no room for the slap slap.

Even Voelfontein and the Karoo are no longer Voelfontein and the Karoo as they used to be. Look at those children in the Apollo Cafe. Look at cousin Michiel's work gang, who are certainly not the plaasvolk plaasvolk of yore. In the att.i.tude of Coloured people in general toward whites there is a new and unsettling hardness. The younger ones regard one with a cold eye, refuse to call one of yore. In the att.i.tude of Coloured people in general toward whites there is a new and unsettling hardness. The younger ones regard one with a cold eye, refuse to call one Baas Baas or or Miesies Miesies. Strange men flit across the land from one settlement to another, lokasie lokasie to to lokasie lokasie, and no one will report them as in the old days. The police are finding it harder and harder to come up with information they can trust. People no longer want to be seen talking to the police; sources have dried up. For the farmers, summons for commando duty come more often and for longer. Lukas complains about it all the time. If that is the way things are in the Roggeveld, it must certainly be the way things are here in the Koup.

Business is changing character too. To get on in business it is no longer enough to be friends with all and sundry, to do favours and be owed favours in return. No, nowadays you have to be as hard as nails and ruthless as well. What chance do slapgat slapgat men stand in such a world? No wonder her Coetzee uncles are not prospering: bank managers idling away the years in dying men stand in such a world? No wonder her Coetzee uncles are not prospering: bank managers idling away the years in dying platteland platteland towns, civil servants stalled on the ladder of promotion, penurious farmers, even in the case of John's father a disgraced, disbarred attorney. towns, civil servants stalled on the ladder of promotion, penurious farmers, even in the case of John's father a disgraced, disbarred attorney.

If she had children, she would not only do her utmost to purge them of their Coetzee inheritance, she would think seriously of doing what Carol is doing: taking them out of the country, giving them a fresh start in America or Australia or New Zealand, places where they can look forward to a decent future. But as a childless woman she is spared having to make that decision. She has another role prepared for her: to devote herself to her husband and to the farm; to live as good a life as the times allow, as good and as fair and as just.

The barrenness of the future that yawns before Lukas and herself this is not a new source of pain, no, it returns again and again like a toothache, to the extent that it has by now begun to bore her. She wishes she could dismiss it and get some sleep. How is it that this cousin of hers, whose body manages to be both scrawny and soft at the same time, does not feel the cold, while she, who is undeniably more than a few kilos over her best weight, has begun to s.h.i.+ver? On cold nights she and her husband sleep tight and warm against each other. Why does her cousin's body fail to warm her? Not only does he not warm her, he seems to suck her own body heat away. Is he by nature as heatless as he is s.e.xless?

A ripple of true anger runs through her; and, as if sensing it, this male being beside her stirs. 'Sorry,' he mumbles, sitting upright.

'Sorry for what?'

'I lost track.'

She has no idea what he is talking about and is not going to inquire. He slumps down and in a moment is asleep again.

Where is G.o.d in all of this? With G.o.d the Father she finds it harder and harder to have dealings. What faith she once had in Him and His providence she has by now lost. G.o.dlessness: her inheritance from the G.o.dless Coetzees, no doubt. When she thinks of G.o.d, all she can picture is a bearded figure with a booming voice and a grand manner who inhabits a mansion on top of a hill with hosts of servants rus.h.i.+ng around anxiously, doing things for Him. Like a good Coetzee, she prefers to steer clear of people like that. The Coetzees look askance at self-important folk, crack jokes about them sotto voce. She may not be as good at jokes as the rest of the family, but she does find G.o.d a bit of a trial, a bit of a bore.

Now I must protest. You are really going too far. I said nothing remotely like that. You are putting words of your own in my mouth.

I'm sorry, I must have got carried away. I'll fix it. I'll tone it down.

Cracking jokes sotto voce. Nevertheless, does G.o.d in His infinite wisdom have a plan for her and for Lukas? For the Roggeveld? For South Africa? Will things that look merely chaotic today, chaotic and purposeless, reveal themselves at some future date as part of some vast, benign design? For instance: Is there a larger explanation for why a woman in the prime of her life must spend four nights of the week sleeping alone in a dismal second-floor room in the Grand Hotel in Calvinia, month after month, perhaps even year after year, with no end in sight; and for why her husband, a born farmer, must spend most of his time trucking other people's livestock to the abattoirs in Paarl and Maitland an explanation larger than that the farm would go under without the income these soul-destroying jobs bring in? And is there a larger explanation for why the farm that the two of them are slaving to keep afloat will in the fullness of time pa.s.s into the care not of a son of their loins but of some ignoramus nephew of her husband's, if it is not swallowed down by the bank first? If, in G.o.d's vast, benign design, it was never intended that this part of the world the Roggeveld, the Karoo should be profitably farmed, then what exactly is His intention for it? Is it meant to fall back into the hands of the volk volk, who will proceed, as in the old, old days, to roam from district to district with their ragged flocks in search of grazing, trampling the fences flat, while people like herself and her husband expire in some forgotten corner, disinherited?

Useless to put questions like that to the Coetzees. Die boer saai, G.o.d maai, maar waar skuil die papegaai? Die boer saai, G.o.d maai, maar waar skuil die papegaai? say the Coetzees, and cackle. Nonsense words. A nonsense family, flighty, without substance; clowns. say the Coetzees, and cackle. Nonsense words. A nonsense family, flighty, without substance; clowns. 'n Hand vol vere 'n Hand vol vere: a handful of feathers. Even the one member for whom she had had some slight hopes, the one beside her who has tumbled straight back into dreamland, turns out to be a lightweight. Who ran away to the big world and now comes creeping back to the little world with his tail between his legs. Failed runaway, failed car mechanic too, for whose failure she is at this moment having to suffer. Failed son. Sitting in that dusty old house in Merweville looking out on the empty, sunstruck street, rattling a pencil between his teeth, trying to think up verses. Even the one member for whom she had had some slight hopes, the one beside her who has tumbled straight back into dreamland, turns out to be a lightweight. Who ran away to the big world and now comes creeping back to the little world with his tail between his legs. Failed runaway, failed car mechanic too, for whose failure she is at this moment having to suffer. Failed son. Sitting in that dusty old house in Merweville looking out on the empty, sunstruck street, rattling a pencil between his teeth, trying to think up verses. O droe land, o barre kranse O droe land, o barre kranse . . . O parched land, o barren cliffs . . . What next? Something about . . . O parched land, o barren cliffs . . . What next? Something about weemoed weemoed for sure, melancholy. for sure, melancholy.

She wakes as first streaks of mauve and orange begin to extend across the sky. In her sleep she has somehow twisted her body and slumped down further in the seat, so that her cousin, still dormant, reclines not against her shoulder but against her rump. Irritably she frees herself. Her eyes are gummy, her bones creak, she has a raging thirst. Opening the door, she slides out.

The air is cold and still. Even as she watches, thornbushes and tufts of gra.s.s, touched by the first light, emerge out of nothing. It is as if she were present at the first day of creation. My G.o.d My G.o.d, she murmurs; she has an urge to sink to her knees.

There is a rustle nearby. She is looking straight into the dark eyes of an antelope, a little steenbok not twenty paces off, and it is looking straight back at her, wary but not afraid, not yet. My kleintjie! My kleintjie! she says, my little one. More than anything she wants to embrace it, to pour out upon its brow this sudden love; but before she can take a first step the little one has whirled about and raced off with drumming hooves. A hundred yards away it halts, turns, inspects her again, then trots at less urgent pace across the flats and into a dry river bed. she says, my little one. More than anything she wants to embrace it, to pour out upon its brow this sudden love; but before she can take a first step the little one has whirled about and raced off with drumming hooves. A hundred yards away it halts, turns, inspects her again, then trots at less urgent pace across the flats and into a dry river bed.

'What's that?' comes her cousin's voice. He has at last awoken; he clambers out of the truck, yawning, stretching.

'A steenbokkie,' she says curtly. 'What are we going to do now?'

'I'll head back to Merweville,' he says. 'You wait here. I should be back by ten o'clock, eleven at the latest.'

'If a car pa.s.ses and I can get a lift, I'm taking it,' she says. 'Either direction, I'm taking it.'

He looks a mess, with his unkempt hair and beard sticking out at all angles. Thank G.o.d I don't have to wake up with you in my bed every morning Thank G.o.d I don't have to wake up with you in my bed every morning, she thinks. Not enough of a man. A real man would do better than this, sowaar! Not enough of a man. A real man would do better than this, sowaar!

The sun is showing above the horizon; already she can feel the warmth on her skin. The world may be G.o.d's world, but the Karoo belongs first of all to the sun. 'You had better get going,' she says. 'It's going to be a hot day.' And watches as he trudges off, the empty jerrycan slung over his shoulder.

An adventure: perhaps that is the best way to think of it. Here in the back of beyond she and John are having an adventure. For years to come the Coetzees will be reminiscing about it. Remember the time when Margot and John broke down on that G.o.dforsaken Merweville road? Remember the time when Margot and John broke down on that G.o.dforsaken Merweville road? In the meantime, while she waits for her adventure to end, what has she for diversion? The tattered instruction manual for the Datsun; nothing else. No poems. Tyre rotation. Battery maintenance. Tips for fuel economy. In the meantime, while she waits for her adventure to end, what has she for diversion? The tattered instruction manual for the Datsun; nothing else. No poems. Tyre rotation. Battery maintenance. Tips for fuel economy.

The truck, facing into the rising sun, grows stiflingly hot. She takes shelter in its lee.

On the crest of the road, an apparition: out of the heat-haze emerges first the torso of a man, then by degrees a donkey and donkey-cart. On the wind she can even hear the neat clip-clop of the donkey's hooves.

The figure grows clearer. It is Hendrik from Voelfontein, and behind him, sitting on the cart, is her cousin.

Laughter and greetings. 'Hendrik has been visiting his daughter in Merweville,' John explains. 'He will give us a ride back to the farm, that is, if his donkey agrees. He says we can hitch the Datsun to the cart and he will tow it.'

Hendrik is alarmed. 'Nee, meneer!' he says.

'Ek jok maar net,' says her cousin. Just joking.

Hendrik is a man of middle age. As the result of a botched operation for a cataract he has lost the sight of one eye. There is something wrong with his lungs too, such that the slightest physical effort makes him wheeze. As a labourer he is not of much use on the farm, but her cousin Michiel keeps him on because that is how things are done here.

Hendrik has a daughter who lives with her husband and children outside Merweville. The husband used to have a job in the town but seems to have lost it; the daughter does domestic work. Hendrik must have set off from their place before first light. About him there is a faint smell of sweet wine; when he climbs down from the cart, she notices, he stumbles. Sozzled by mid-morning: what a life!

Her cousin reads her thoughts. 'I have some water here,' he says, and proffers the full jerrycan. 'It's clean. I filled it at a wind-pump.'

So they set off for the farm, John seated beside Hendrik, she in the back holding an old jute bag over her head to keep off the sun. A car pa.s.ses them in a cloud of dust, heading for Merweville. If she had seen it in time she would have hailed it got a ride to Merweville and from there telephoned Michiel to come and fetch her. On the other hand, though the road is rutted and the ride uncomfortable, she likes the idea of arriving at the farmhouse in Hendrik's donkey-cart, likes it more and more: the Coetzees a.s.sembled on the stoep for afternoon tea, Hendrik doffing his hat to them, bringing back Jack's errant son, dirty and sunburnt and chastened. 'Ons was so bekommerd!' they will berate the miscreant. 'Waar was julle dan? Michiel wou selfs die polisie bel!' From him, nothing but mumble-mumble. 'Die arme Margie! En wat het van die bakkie geword?'We were so worried! Where were you? Michiel was on the point of phoning the police! Poor Margie! And where is the truck?

There are stretches of road where the incline is so steep that they have to get down and walk. For the rest the little donkey is up to its task, with no more than a touch of the whiplash to its rump now and again to remind it who is master. How slight its frame, how delicate its hooves, yet what staunchness, what powers of endurance! No wonder Jesus had a fondness for donkeys.

Inside the boundary of Voelfontein they halt at a dam. While the donkey drinks she chats with Hendrik about the daughter in Merweville, then about the other daughter, the one who works in the kitchen at a home for the aged in Beaufort West. Discreetly she does not ask after Hendrik's most recent wife, whom he married when she was no more than a child and who ran away as soon as she could with a man from the railway camp at Leeuw Gamka.

Hendrik finds it easier to talk to her than to her cousin, she can see that. She and he share a language, whereas the Afrikaans John speaks is stiff and bookish. Half of what John says probably goes over Hendrik's head. Which is more poetic, do you think, Which is more poetic, do you think, Hendrik: the rising sun or the setting sun? A goat or a sheep? Hendrik: the rising sun or the setting sun? A goat or a sheep?

'Het Katryn dan nie vir padkos gesorg nie?' she teases Hendrik: Hasn't your daughter packed lunch for us?

Hendrik goes through the motions of embarra.s.sment, averting his gaze, shuffling. 'Ja-nee, mies,' he wheezes. A plaashotnot plaashotnot from the old days, a farm Hottentot. from the old days, a farm Hottentot.

As it turns out, Hendrik's daughter has indeed provided padkos padkos. From a jacket pocket Hendrik brings out, wrapped in brown paper, a leg of chicken and two slices of b.u.t.tered white bread, which shame forbids him to divide with them yet equally forbids him to devour in front of them.

'In G.o.dsnaam eet, man!' she commands. 'Ons is glad nie honger nie, ons is ook binnekort tuis': We aren't hungry, and anyway we'll soon be home. And she draws John away on a circuit of the dam so that Hendrik, with his back to them, can hurriedly down his meal.

Ons is glad nie honger nie: a lie, of course. She is famished. The very smell of the cold chicken makes her salivate.