A Blade of Grass
Lewis DeSoto
for Gunilla
The World was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:
They hand in hand with wandering steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way.
—Milton,
Paradise Lost
, Book XII
F
IRST SHE MUST
wash the seeds.
To do this, Tembi places them in an old tin can, salvaged long ago from the refuse heap of the big house—a tin can that once might have contained jam, or peaches, or sauce, but is now scrubbed clean of its label and any residue of sweet or bitter. A vessel of many uses, worn smooth by many hands.
There are five seeds. Each is no larger than one of her own fingernails—pale, pink, oval, the outer husks hard and corrugated with fine ridges that gradually appeared as the seeds dried. She has kept them safe for many days, folded into the corner of a handkerchief tucked in the pocket of her dress.
Cyril brought the seeds. Not like this, hard and dry, but still inside a fruit, a fruit strange to this part of the world, with firm yellow flesh and the seeds deep inside. Cyril, who is a friend of her father, from the time before the Relocation. Cyril brought them, a gift from her father, from the city, from the gold mines where her father works, where he digs the hard yellow metal deep underground. A gift from her father, Cyril said, a gift from a faraway city.
Her father cannot come himself, so he sends this fruit instead, in his place, this fruit offering such surprising flavour, such smoothness on her tongue, and the taste that is there and then not there. And the seeds hidden deep inside.
When the fruit is eaten, every bit of the yellow flesh taken from the rind and the juices licked from her lips and fingers, all that is left are these five pale seeds. Tembi folds them into her handkerchief and tucks this gift into
her pocket. Already, while eating the fruit, she has resolved to plant the seeds, in some secret place, and nurture them, and bring forth sweetness out of the earth, so that when her father returns from the mines he will have this taste in his mouth to wash away the bitterness of the gold dust. A gift.
First she must wash the seeds. There is an iron tap outside the kraal washhouse, one that the farmer installed not long ago, so that the women would not have to walk to the river with buckets and pails to fetch water or to wash their clothes. Washing clothes in the river was bad for the water, the farmer said, so he built the washhouse and installed the tap outside. Now the water is drawn out of the deep earth by the windmill in the maize field, the metal blades always drifting in a lazy circle under the soft breeze that blows from the west and the faint regular grind of the pump mechanism, always audible amongst the sounds of birds during the day and the chirrup of the crickets at night.
The water is warm on Tembi’s fingers when she opens the faucet, warm from its journey through the sun-heated iron pipe laid across the field to the kraal washhouse, and when she stoops to touch her lips to the spout of the tap the water is warm and tastes of iron. She lets the stream run a minute, splashing on her bare feet, until the water becomes cold and tastes of the dark deep earth.
Tembi unfolds her handkerchief and lets the seeds fall into the bottom of the tin can, then half fills it with water. She cups her hand over the opening and shakes the can, rinsing the seeds, then pours out the water and fills the can again, and shakes the seeds, then repeats the whole procedure, rinsing the seeds until the can is cold in her hand and the seeds glisten in the sunlight, cool and moist.
Above Tembi, the African sky is a high wide arch of blue. The air is hot and dry, the season is new, ready for planting. She raises the tin can and touches it to her brow, shivering at the pleasant little stab of the cold metal on her hot skin. Far above her in the blue arch of the sky, a glint of silver light gleams for a moment and the sigh of a jet’s engine mingles with the rustling breeze in the branches of the eucalyptus trees.
Someone is going somewhere, to the faraway world. How does this place where she stands look from up there in the faraway sky? She sees a quilt of ochre and brown and green, and the white farmhouse, small as a
page in a small book, and the tiny glint of metal sparking in the sun where the light catches the tin can in her hand.
Tembi turns off the faucet. At her feet the earth is muddy, and she wiggles her toes into the cool, wet soil, and her skin is the same dark color as the African soil when it is wet after the rain.
A shadow moves across the land. Across the quilt of ochre and brown and green, across the hills and the valleys and the rivers, across the maize fields and the veldt grasses where the cattle graze, across the farmhouse bordered by eucalyptus trees and the kraal and the washhouse, across this place called Kudufontein. From the corner of her eye, just on the edge of her vision, Tembi sees the rapid flicker of a shadow on the ground, as if a hand has suddenly placed itself between the earth and the sun. More rapidly than her senses can register, the shadow becomes a sudden dark cloud that leaps from the earth to swoop over her. A metallic shriek rips the sky and the black shapes of two military jets boom and flash over the farm just above the roofs. Like predatory hawks they scream away towards the border, and the booming of the engines slams against Tembi’s body, buffeting the air with the acrid stench of jet fuel.
Behind the farmhouse the treetops bend and sway in the hot wind and the doves that roost there fling themselves wildly into the air like bits of torn paper. Tembi feels the trembling of the earth in her legs and in the soil at her feet and in the chase of her heart as it races inside the cage of her ribs. Above her the two metallic specks glint in the far blue heavens. At her feet is the fallen tin can and the spilled water and the seeds scattered in the mud.
She bends to gather the seeds, for she will plant them this day. But first she must wash the seeds.
I
N THE KITCHEN
of the farmhouse, in the coolness of the slate floors and the thatched roof, a fly buzzes with noisy persistence towards the sunlight on the other side of the window screen. Grace Mkize, the mother of Tembi, pushes up the mesh and shoos the fly out with her dishcloth. Behind her the kettle on the big iron stove whistles a plume of steam into the air, and Grace slides it off the burner before turning to set out a single cup and saucer, a glass bowl of sugar, and the small china milk jug. From the oven she takes two pieces of toast and cuts off the crusts before buttering them and spreading on a thin layer of Rose’s Lime Marmalade. She slices the toast into neat triangles and arranges them on a plate. The teapot is then rinsed with boiling water, two spoonfuls of tea leaves are added, and everything is placed on a tray.
Grace removes her apron, smudged in places with fingerprints, and ties on the clean one she uses for serving, then carries the tray down the hall to the living room at the front of the house. She places the tray on an ebony coffee table before crossing the carpet to knock once on a door leading to a farther room.
“The tea is ready, Missus.”
The woman sitting at the desk with the papers and envelopes spread across it, her face half hidden by her thick chestnut hair, looks up at Grace with a distant expression in her gray eyes. “Fine, Grace. Just leave it out there.”
Grace hesitates a moment, for she has something to tell the Missus. But the detached, almost dreamy look on the young woman’s face deters her.
It is not her place to disturb the Missus when she is busy, even if the matter is important. Perhaps later.
Grace goes back to the kitchen along the dark cool corridor, her rubbersoled sandals making a soft squeak on the slate floor, and hangs up her apron. She replaces it with her usual one, then eases her tired body into a kitchen chair and begins peeling potatoes for the evening meal.
Märit Laurens sits at the desk in the room she calls her office, with a row of small envelopes spread out on the desk, and on each envelope is a small pile of banknotes and coins. She has an open ledger at hand. She is putting together the weekly pay packets for the farm workers. It is one of her duties, one of her responsibilities. The accounts, the correspondence, the bills, the lists, the wages—these are the responsibilities that her husband Ben has entrusted to her. The understanding between them is that he will farm and Märit will look after the house.
She is a young woman, in her mid-twenties, recently orphaned, recently married, recently mistress of this farm in the remote African countryside. And she is still new to all these three states. It is strange to her to know that her parents have died, and even though the grief is starting to lessen there is still pain with each memory, and a hollowness inside her when she realizes that she is without family, without that link to the past. It is strange to her to know that somewhere on the farm her husband, Ben, is busy with his farming, and that he will come later to sit with her at the evening meal when the sun sets. It is strange to her to know this, but not without joy. And it is strange to her to think that this place, this farm called Kudufontein, is now also her responsibility and that she is mistress to the field workers and their families, and to the cattle and the fowl, and the crops and the fruit. It feels strange to call this place her home.
Three months since she came to this farm, six months since she married Ben, nine months since her parents died. Everything happening so quickly. Somewhere in the back of her mind, in the recesses that are not visited except in the small hours before the dawn, is fear that she will not be adequate to this life, to this responsibility. And even farther behind those unvisited recesses, in the place where the soul hides its deepest truths, is the thought that perhaps she has made a mistake with her life,
that she has chosen too soon, too hastily, and that her decision to marry, to live on this farm, has not been wise.
In the nearest town, Klipspring, they know her at the shops and at the Retief Hotel as Mevrou Laurens, a term of address with a certain dignity that she appreciates. They ask after her health and that of her husband, and about the general welfare of the farm. A part of her acknowledges these things, and takes some satisfaction in them—the ownership, the belonging, the responsibility to the land and the people. But there is also the loneliness. She pretends a bit about the farming, to herself and to Ben, for she finds it difficult to be really interested in cattle and crops and growing seasons and the price of maize or beef.
She misses the job she had in Johannesburg, even though it was only secretarial work, even though she still lived at home with her parents. At least she felt free then, strolling along the streets after work, stopping to window-shop, to go to a café if she wanted, or to a film.
She loves Ben, and that is enough. Yet why couldn’t he have chosen a farm closer to civilization, closer to a city, or to the sea, for if she admits it to herself, they are isolated here, surrounded by blacks and Boers, hard-necked Afrikaaner farmers who trace their settlement of this land back two hundred years and cling to their God-given rights of occupancy with the same tenacity as their forefathers. And now this talk of war on the borders, of guerillas attacking farms.
These are thoughts best not visited, for to acknowledge them, to even consider them, will put a rip in the fabric of her life and cause it to unravel. She fears this even as she hides it from herself.
So Märit raises her eyes to the window, which gives a view of the rock garden where aloes and cacti grow, and down the slope to the orchards, and beyond to the maize fields, and to the river hidden behind the willow trees, and across the grasses of the veldt to the hills blue in the distance, and the high arch of the empty sky. And beyond that lies the border. Where there are rumors of war.
Ben’s farm. Her farm.
Kudufontein.
Even the name is new, for when she came here with Ben the farm was called Duiwelskop, which means Devil’s Hill in the Afrikaans language, but can also mean Devil’s Head, named so because of the koppie, or hill, behind the farm, which at certain
times of the morning, when the shadows are long, can look like a head with horns. She said to Ben that she could not think of living in a place with such a name, so they called it Kudufontein, because on her first visit to the farm they had come upon a magnificent kudu buck drinking at the river. The animal had raised its majestic head slowly at the sound of their voices and stared regally at the two interlopers. Ben had shaken his head in admiration and said softly, “There’s the rightful owner of this place.”
When they took possession of the farm, Ben surprised her one day by painting the new name of the farm onto one of the stone gateposts, so that all who came past would know the new name, and he told the workers that this was the name of the farm from now on and they must call it that always.
Märit sighs and looks down at the papers on the desk. She pushes the envelopes and ledger away and lifts her long thick hair from her shoulders, shaking it loose, then leaves her office and goes out to the living room to drink her tea, and to smoke a cigarette, which she allows herself because she is alone in the house.
Here in this room, between the thick stone walls and the thatched roof above the sturdy beams over her head, she is alone. The furniture is dark oak, inherited from her parents’ house. A couple of watercolor landscapes, purchased by Ben, brighten the walls. On the sideboard are a few gilt-framed photographs: her parents, Ben’s mother and father, her wedding. It seems as if she has stepped into a timeless past, where life on the land has not changed in a century. Even the radio plays only severe classical music and crop reports between the weather and the news.
She is alone, and because she is alone she fears that she has made the wrong decision, that her life will not change. And she fears the future.
G
RACE PLACES
the peeled potatoes in a bowl of water so that they won’t discolor and covers the bowl with a cloth before she sets it on a shelf in the refrigerator. She washes her hands and removes her apron once again, then takes the clean apron from behind the door and goes down the cool passageway to the living room.
Outside the door Grace listens, hears the sound of a teacup being placed in its saucer, the flutter of a magazine’s pages. She knocks.
Märit looks up at the matronly figure of Grace—a woman roughly her mother’s age, in her clean white apron, her rubber sandals, the pink head scarf.
“You can take the tray now, Grace. I’ve finished.”
“Yes, Missus.”
Grace gathers the tea things. Märit studies the other woman’s broad back, a sturdy back, used to work. At the door Grace sets the tray down on a side table and pauses. She takes a breath.
“Missus, I must go away for a few days.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, my cousin is sick. She must go to the hospital.”
“Which cousin is that?” Märit asks, and hears in her own voice the unintentional adoption of the same tone her mother used in her conversation with the domestic servants. There is a slight undertone of sarcasm in her voice, a hint at disbelief, which she is unable to suppress, for this is a standard excuse, almost a formula, that any domestic servant or worker will use when asking for leave from duties.
Märit asks this question of Grace not entirely out of disbelief, but also because she is less than sure of her own authority in this house. Märit has grown up with servants, and she is used to assuming a superior role when talking to a black person. It is the way things are done in this country. But here on the farm she is the newcomer.
“Why do you have to go?”
“Sofia. She lives in Rooifontein. She is sick. She has a small child, and no husband. I must help her.”
“Rooifontein? That’s some distance away, isn’t it? How long do you need to be away?”
“Only two days, Missus.” Grace holds up two fingers. “Two days, only.”
“Yes, I can count, Grace. But who is to prepare the meals while you are gone? Who will do the kitchen work?”
“My girl Tembi can do the work. She knows how.”
Märit shrugs. There is no point in objecting. If workers want to go they will often just disappear, and give you some excuse days later when they return. A sick relative, a family member arrested for not carrying the proper identification papers—always something.
“I suppose we can manage. But only two days, mind.”
“Yes, Missus. Thank you, Missus.” Grace bobs her head gratefully and backs towards the door.
Märit feels a sudden pang of guilt, aware of the coldness in her manner, aware that even though this woman works in the house every day, Märit knows so little of her. For a moment she cannot quite remember the daughter’s face or even if she has met her.
“How old is your girl now, Grace?”
“Eighteen years, Missus.”
Not that much younger than Märit herself. “And how is she getting on?” Märit asks, curious now. “What does she do here on the farm?”
“Tembi is working in the dairy, Missus. She is a good girl. A very clever girl.” The lines around her eyes wrinkle in a smile.
“Does she have any schooling?”
“Oh yes, Missus. Before we came to this place Tembi was learning many things in the school. And there is a school here, on Sundays. She is very clever now. She is clever in everything. One day she can be a teacher, or even a nurse in the city.”
“Well, perhaps. The city is not always the best place for a country girl. And her father, what does he do here on the farm?” How little she knows of their lives, Märit realizes. How invisible they can be. Even now, after three months, she has asked almost nothing about Grace’s life. But she is still a stranger here herself, still unsure. She wonders if she can ask Grace to sit down, to drink a cup of tea with her. But that sort of thing is not done. It would break all the rules.
“My husband is in Johannesburg, Missus. He is working in the gold mines.”
“Oh, I see. But you prefer to be here?”
Grace shakes her head. “There is no place for families on the mines. The men live in hostels on the mines.”
“But you see him, don’t you?”
“The men have annual leave, Missus. So that they can visit their families. We are not traveling to Johannesburg.”
“Well,” Märit says, drawing back from any further intimacy, from any further knowledge. This is not the time or place to discuss the ways of this
country. “Of course you can go to see your cousin, Grace. But only two days, mind.”
“Yes, Missus.” The relief shows on her face. “Thank you, Missus.” She bows her head and moves to the door.
“Oh, Grace?”
“Yes, Missus?” Grace says, turning in the doorway.
Märit points. “Don’t forget the tea tray.”
“No, Missus,” Grace says humbly, bowing her head. “Sorry, Missus.”