A Blade of Grass (10 page)

In the shadows a shape moved, something pale and too large to be a cat. Märit could not understand what she was looking at—the shape was like a
pale cloth moving back and forth. She peered closer, cupping her hands on either side of her face and pressing against the window. And then she realized what it was—the naked back of Sondra.

But why had Sondra locked herself in the cabana? And why was she rocking back and forth like that, making kitten noises?

Märit raised her hand to knock on the window, and at the same time Sondra arched her back and her breasts were visible, paler than the rest of her skin, and a hand reached out from the shadows and stroked one breast, then a head stretched forward to kiss the breast, and the moaning rose loud from Sondra’s throat.

Märit pulled away in fright. But she did not call out.

Slowly she leaned forward and pressed her face to the window again. Dollar was reclining on the cushions strewn across the floor of the cabana, his shorts around his ankles as Sondra straddled him. Märit watched as his head lifted forward to kiss Sondra’s breasts, and she saw Sondra rise into a crouch, her buttocks milky white below the tan lines of her bikini, and Märit saw Dollar’s erect penis enter the place between Sondra’s thighs.

Märit shut her eyes and clenched her fists over her ears. She stumbled away from the cabana, pressing her knuckles hard against her ears, shaking her head from side to side. She didn’t want to see, she didn’t want to hear. Nothing, nothing, nothing. The shame, the awfulness, the obscenity of it. She didn’t want to see, she didn’t want to hear. Inside herself she felt the violence, the pleasure, so that she wanted to cry out. The fever was inside her, burning.

Oh, the betrayal! The beasts! The jealousy burned in her face. She hated Dollar and Sondra. As she ran blindly from the cabana, shaking her head from side to side to banish the image of what she had seen, she knew that she could not—because she wanted to be there, with Dollar, in place of Sondra.

T
HE SOUND
of a vehicle on the road brings Märit back to a sudden awareness of her surroundings. The images of the swimming pool, of the cabana, and of Dollar, flee as she looks up, realizing that she is half naked.

Hurriedly she pulls on her skirt and stuffs her brassiere into her handbag, all the while listening to the sound of the engine. What if it stops—one of the neighbors, the van Stadens? How will she explain herself, sitting here dripping wet, half dressed?

By the time Märit reaches the road the vehicle is not in sight; there is only the faint sound of the receding engine as the dust settles. It could have been Ben, she tells herself. The engine sounded familiar. He must have found assistance with the truck and got it fixed, and he is probably going back to the farm to fetch her. She sets off at a brisk pace, carrying her shoes in her hand.

The walk back to the house takes little more than a half hour, but when Märit reaches the house she doesn’t see the truck in the driveway. She wonders if Ben has parked it already in the garage.

The radio is playing softly in the living room as Märit enters from the veranda. She leans against a chair for a moment, rubbing at the soles of her aching feet.

“Ben?” she calls. “Are you back?”

Draped across the couch is the housecoat that Märit asked Tembi to wear when cleaning the house. Then she sees Tembi’s sandals lying on the floor.

A quick accumulation of images tumbles through Märit’s mind—pictures, not thoughts—Dollar and Sondra in the cabana, Ben crouching
next to Tembi to retrieve the fallen tray in the breakfast room, the look on Ben’s face. Märit stands a moment, frowning at the discarded housecoat on the chair, at the sandals kicked negligently off, aware of the soft music on the radio.

“Ben?”

Without calling out again she walks softly on bare feet down the corridor to the bedroom. The door is ajar. On the bed Märit sees the rumpled sheets, Tembi stretched out in a position of abandon with one arm flung to the side, wearing a blue dress, Märit’s own blue silk dress from Durban, the one she wore on her honeymoon. The air in the room is thick with the scent of roses.

“Ben?” The images in Märit’s mind twist into a tangle of limbs and bare skin entwined on the sheets.

Tembi raises herself from the bed, eyes clouded with sleep. Märit shouts, “What do you think you are doing in here? Get up!”

M
ÄRIT’S HAND
closes around Tembi’s wrist and jerks her upright, dragging her across the bed. She tumbles to the floor as a blow lands across her shoulders. Her arm feels as if it is being wrenched from its socket. The voice is shouting at her.

Tembi manages to scramble away across the floor and half rises to her feet. But then Märit is grabbing and flailing at her again. She cowers under the blows.

“How dare you wear that dress!” Märit shouts. “How dare you!” Tembi cannot think, she cannot gather her thoughts in this sudden onslaught. Märit is pushing her out of the room, along the corridor towards the kitchen, grabbing and slapping at her, shouting all the time.

“This is not your house! That is not your dress! Get out, get out!”

Once they are in the kitchen Tembi manages to pull away. “Let me go!”

Märit is pale with rage, two bright red spots burning on her cheeks. Her hand grasps the bodice of the dress and pulls. With a ripping sound a long tear appears down the front. Märit grabs at the cloth, tearing it off Tembi’s body.

The dress falls away, leaving Tembi naked except for her underwear.

“Leave me alone,” Tembi screams, shocked out of her surprise and fright at last. She pushes at Märit. “Don’t touch me!”

“Who do you think you are?” Märit shouts. Her hand flies up and slaps Tembi hard across the cheek. “Get out of here! This is not your house!”

The tears of pain and shame are sudden and hot in Tembi’s eyes, blurring the room around her. She falls back against the kitchen table, stunned. It is not the pain of the slap on her face that silences her, but the astonishment. She has never been struck before, never been touched by another’s hand in that way. Not even as a child. The violence shocks Tembi, the perverse intimacy of the violence—to be touched in this manner by a stranger.

And still Märit is shouting and pushing at her, shoving her towards the back door. Tembi stumbles down the steps, and the door slams with a bang behind her.

The world swims. A pain throbs in her chest, lodged deep in her heart. She falls to her knees in the dust, sobbing. The blow across her face still burns, pulsing with the beating of her heart. She feels again the flat, smacking sound of Märit’s palm. The violence of it. The obscenity of it. The shame.

Clutching her arms across her exposed breasts she runs hunched over back to the kraal, away from the house.

A
T THE VAN
S
TADEN FARM
Ben has managed to find someone to help him start his pickup truck. He considers whether to return to the house and fetch Märit or to press on to town. A glance at his watch shows him that there is time still to collect his seedlings from the station, but only if he drives there directly. He decides to phone Märit from the station and explain to her. They can always come back to Klipspring tomorrow.

After completing his errand at the station, Ben drives out of town with the two dozen seedlings sitting in a tray next to him on the seat, the loamy smell of the earth that they are packed in filling the cabin. In his mind he sees the row of almond trees that will develop from these seedlings, he sees the blossoms waving in the breeze, he sees the future. Ben smiles to himself and begins to whistle.

All around him is the veldt of Africa, his home. Rolling down the window he inhales as the scent of the countryside flows into the car. He would know this particular smell anywhere; if he was a sailor on board a ship in the darkest night and a brief whiff of this land came on a breeze he would know this smell. It is in him, in his clothes, on his hands and hair, embedded in the very pores of his skin. He knows this smell in the morning when the earth is wet from the dew, he knows it after rain, when the dust has been washed from the air and a slight mist hangs on the ground and the earth is newly washed.

The grass flows across the veldt, undulating over the dips and rises; the trees stand dark and green; the hills and koppies rise and fall, the mountains are soft and blue in the distance.

In his heart Ben feels that this is home. He has known it since he first
saw this landscape. When the neighboring farmers talk of blood and soil, Ben understands what they mean, even though he is a recent arrival, and was not born in this country, and does not have any history of farming in his family. Even so, he understands that he belongs here. His soul has recognized this place, and the longing that was in him has been stilled.

Above the treetops on the right hand side of the road, the girders and aerials of the radio transmitter are visible and Ben realizes with a guilty start that he forgot to call Märit from the station. He pictures her walking along the road in her elegant clothes—he is proud of her when she accompanies him to Klipspring—but if he imagines her out here on the veldt, she seems misplaced and out of her element. He really should have remembered to phone her.

Ah well, he thinks, nothing to be done now, and he’ll be home soon anyway. He feels no urgency to hurry, for if the truth be told, he is happiest like this, alone in the veldt under the clean sunlight, in company with the breeze and the scent of the earth.

As the pickup follows a curve, Ben sees a small herd of impala standing in the middle of the road. He is not driving very fast and it is easy enough to slow the car to a halt. The antelope raise their heads, black-tipped ears swiveling towards the truck, short tails flicking from side to side, alert to him but not alarmed. The herd is clumped together, a mass of tawny brown hides with heraldic antlers above them like branches. Ben is close enough to see the dark liquid eyes, which remind him of the cattle on the farm.

When he leans out of the window for a closer look at the animals, heads turn to regard him, muzzles lifted to his scent, ears twitching. Then the herd of impala sets off at a quick trot. Because the brush is thick on either side, the herd stays on the road, and Ben drives slowly behind them.

The road forks—in one direction lies Kudufontein, to the right is the radio tower, and beyond that the border. The impala take the right-hand road. Ben follows in the truck, mesmerized by the grace and delicacy of the thin legs and the tawny hides and the outward curving horns, all bathed in golden light and purple shadows.

As the herd of antelope passes the radio tower, Ben increases speed slightly to keep up and the herd takes fright, breaking into sudden long
stretching leaps that are like water shooting over a falls, that are like a ballet, that defy gravity.

Ben hears the thudding of the hooves on the road, and smells the dust they kick up, and he is one with them, leaping and stretching through the air, his heart running with them.

As the underbrush clears, they veer off across the veldt in one smooth flowing motion.

And here on this quiet stretch of country road, where earlier that morning two men paused in the dawn, the wheels of Ben’s pickup truck roll over the device those men have buried in the sand, the weight of the vehicle triggering a fuse, which detonates an explosive charge that rips upward into the engine of the truck. The gasoline in the fuel tank ignites with an instant searing heat. The truck becomes a sudden ball of flaming metal as it skids off the road into the underbrush and explodes.

Across the veldt, the herd of impala leaps high above the grass.

I
NSIDE THE HOUSE
Märit pulls the sheets from the bed and bundles them into a heap on the floor. She flings open the window to dissipate the cloying smell of perfume that fills the room. With the bundled sheets in her hand she marches through to the laundry room; she has half a mind to take them outside and burn them, but she stuffs them into the washer and sets the temperature to the hottest setting.

Her blue dress is still lying on the floor in the kitchen, her torn blue dress that will never be worn again, not by anyone. She pushes the dress into the rubbish bin under the sink, then washes her hands. As she dries them she remembers the sound of the slap she delivered to Tembi’s face, remembers the feel of it on her palm, and the look of shock in Tembi’s eyes. Good, she thinks, good. Tembi deserved it, deserved to be thrown out half naked like that. Let her go back to the kraal and tell the others what she had done, sneaking into the Missus’s room and wearing her clothes and sleeping in her bed. Let her go back naked and ashamed.

In the living room Märit pours herself a glass of gin with trembling hands, adds a spray of soda water, then takes a big swallow. The taste is vile and she pours in a few drops of lime cordial and stirs the liquid with her finger. Her hand is trembling, she notices, and her whole body is coiled tightly like a bale of wire.

With her drink in hand she stands at the window and lights a cigarette.

When Ben gets back, she will demand that he do something about this. He is too casual with the workers as it is, and now they think they can treat her as a familiar. They have to learn to respect her. But what can he do? He will think she is overreacting. And she can’t explain to him that she
thought for an instant that he was in the bedroom too. It is her own fault for letting Tembi have the run of the house.

Where is Ben? He should have been back by now.

She paces back and forth as she smokes, sipping occasionally at her gin, and slowly calms down as the alcohol uncoils the tightness within her.

She finishes her drink and goes to the cabinet to make another one, then stands sipping it at the window. Shadows from the eucalyptus trees are beginning to stretch across the lawn. Where is Ben? She wonders if she should telephone the van Staden farm and ask if they have seen him. As she turns away from the window her eyes fall upon Tembi’s housecoat, still lying across the couch.

Suddenly a great sadness descends upon Märit, as if the long shadows have come into the room and enveloped her, like a cloak of sorrow. Why is everything so wrong? When she looks out the window at the farm it is a meaningless place—what does it have to do with her? If she were to leave tomorrow, who would care, who would remember? Even Ben, how long would he care? After a while he would find himself a real wife, who could bear him children, who could work next to him on the land.

She hears again the sound of her palm slapping Tembi’s face, what an ugly sound, flesh striking flesh, and she knows that she was wrong in what she did. But she had been confused, everything mixed up in her mind.

It was an overreaction, from the surprise and the shock, from the fear that Ben was in the house, had been in the bed, and the revulsion that thought had given her. And the fear. She sinks down on the couch and bows her head, covering her face as the tears come.

At last she rises and goes through to the bedroom, where she rummages around amongst her jewelry until she finds a bracelet made of blue stone beads—the same color as her dress, another purchase from her honeymoon in Durban—a gift from Ben, bought one afternoon at the Victoria Street Market.

Clutching the bracelet in her fist Märit leaves the house and follows the path that leads to the kraal. The sun is high but the shadows under the trees are thick. A smell of wood smoke fills the air. At the edge of the kraal she pauses, hearing voices. A group of women are standing over the communal fire pit, tending to the big cast-iron cooking pot, one of them stirring
the contents with a long wooden spoon. A few chickens peck in the dust near the huts. To one side, outside the washhouse, a man bends over a tap, shirtless, with his head thrust under the gushing water. There is no sign of Tembi.

The women notice her presence and turn towards her, expectantly, ceasing their talk. The man at the tap raises his head, also turning to her with the same air of expectation. A small child wanders over towards Märit, half timid, half curious, his eyes fixed on the blue bracelet dangling from her fingers. Just a little boy, with a smear of mud across his cheek and a patched sweater that is too small for his frame.

“Do you know Tembi?” Märit asks.

The boy nods his head.

“Is she here?”

He shakes his head, his big round eyes held by the gleam of the blue stones in her hand.

Across the clearing the women watch her. The man at the tap has turned and stands with his hands resting on his hips. The beads of moisture glisten on his shoulders in the sun. He returns her gaze without embarrassment, curious, alert to her presence. His skin is wet, smooth, and silky. Just like Dollar, she thinks, the thought rising to her awareness unbidden.

There is no welcome in the faces that watch her, only curiosity, only wariness. She is unable to go forward towards the huts, to cross an unmarked line in the dust.

Märit shakes her head and looks down at the boy. “Give this to Tembi,” she says, thrusting the bracelet towards him. Then she turns and walks back to the house, overcome with a sense of being outside of the life in the kraal, of not being welcome there. She walks back to the safety of the house, a sense of shame upon her.