A Blade of Grass (20 page)

“Is that a reason to kill him?”

“I am surprised at you, Mevrou, surprised to hear
you
, of all people, take such a tone. Perhaps you have no feelings about the burning of the Potgieter farm, and the burning of their crops, and the killing of their dogs. Those dogs were pets of the Potgieter children, and their throats were cut and the bodies left in the driveway for the children to see. Perhaps you never met the Potgieters, so why should you feel sorry for them? But, considering your own personal tragedy, Mevrou Laurens, that is why I am surprised.” He shakes his head in feigned wonderment.

Märit forces herself to look at the dead body again. Was it him? Did he set the bomb in the road? Did he murder Ben? But she cannot see this man as a murderer, this ragged malnourished corpse—one of the dispossessed who live on the fringes of her country.

“Perhaps you know this man, Mevrou Laurens? Is he one of your workers? Look closely, Mevrou.”

Märit shakes her head. She remembers what Bodule said earlier this morning—that there were strangers on the farm, two of them.

Schoon waits for her to speak. “Well, if he is a stranger here then let us go and talk to the rest of your employees and see if there is anyone else who doesn’t belong.”

In the vegetable patch next to the kraal the squat brown helicopter sits amongst the rows of vegetables. The pilot has found a tomato and he leans against his machine chewing it, looking at the herded inhabitants of the kraal with a bored expression.

The faces are turned to Märit, not to Schoon, although they are all aware of his authority and power, but it is upon Märit that their hopes lie. It seems like only yesterday that she stood before them full of her own hopes and announced that she would run the farm. She had reassured them, as well as herself. But how quickly her weakness has been revealed.

“
Maak hulle in ’n ry staan.
Line them up!” Schoon orders.
“Vroumens daar, mans daar.”
He waves his hand. “Women to one side, men on the other. Now, Mevrou Laurens. Please identify each one of your workers.”

She walks slowly along the line.

“By name, Mevrou.”

Märit mumbles a reply, and Schoon says, “A little louder, please.”

“I don’t know all their names,” Märit answers, turning away from the workers, ashamed to admit her ignorance in front of them.

“Then, perhaps you can tell me if there is anyone amongst them that is not familiar. Take a good long look, Mevrou. Just tell me if there is anyone you haven’t seen before.”

The men are standing in a loose line before her, clutching their green identity books, and the first face Märit looks at is one she does not know. His eyes meet hers and he does not look away. Is it defiance she sees in his face? Or a challenge? Or even a pleading?

That’s him, she wants to say. Take him away. Does she not have the right of judgment, the right of revenge? Shouldn’t someone pay for the death of her husband?

She looks away from the man’s face. “They all belong here.”

But Schoon has been watching her, and he turns slowly to see whom her gaze has lingered on.

“Do you see a stranger amongst these men, Mevrou?”

“I am the stranger here, Captain Schoon. These people lived on this farm long before I came. I don’t know their names and I don’t know anything of their lives. What is it that you want from me?”

“I will remind you, Mevrou Laurens, that under the terms of the Emergency Measures Act it is a treasonous offense to harbor criminals.”

“Arrest me, then.”

Instead, Schoon points at the man. “
Gee my jou pass.
Your papers!”

The man takes out his identity document. As Schoon stretches out his hand, the pass falls to the ground. Schoon puts his hands on his hips.
“Optel dit, kaffir.”

The man hesitates, then bends to pick up the green booklet at Schoon’s feet and hands it over. Schoon leafs through the pages and gives it back, but as the man reaches for it, Schoon lets the booklet drop to the ground again.

“Pick it up,
kaffir
,” Schoon says again.

The man crouches in the dust again, and as he rises, Schoon nods to the nearest soldier. “
Weg met hom.
Take him away.”

Two soldiers grasp the man by the arms and quickly march him towards the helicopter.

“Where are you taking him?” Märit says.

With his hands on his hips Schoon walks slowly down the line of men. “
Elkeen wilry met hom?
Anybody else want to ride in the helicopter?”

“Where are you taking that man?” Märit demands.

Schoon turns back to Märit, and the contempt is naked on his face. “He is being taken for questioning. He will be released later. Unless, of course, he is guilty. Then he will take a different kind of journey.”

Märit has a sudden vision of a body falling through the clear blue sky.

“You have no right to do this.”

“Don’t worry yourself about my rights, Mevrou Laurens.” He moves away and speaks to the radio man, then strides towards the helicopter.

The machines rise into the air, throwing waves of dust and fuel smell onto the people on the ground. The machines clatter away with a rhythmic beating of the air. And then even the echo of their passage fades, and the sky is empty again.

F
OR THE REST OF THE DAY
and evening the inhabitants of the farm, in the kraal and in the house, exist in a stunned silence. Their actions and their movements are done by rote, as if there is no meaning in them. If words are exchanged they are whispered or delivered in a monotone.

What will happen now? Anything can happen now.

The next morning, early, when Dik-Dik the rooster crows in the chicken coop, a timid tapping sounds at the front door. Märit has just risen and put the coffee on the stove. Tembi’s door is still shut.

Bodule, the foreman, stands on the porch, his hat clutched in his hands. He bows his head to her. “
Sawubona
, Missus.”

“Good morning, Bodule.”

“The weather will be fine today, Missus.”

“Yes. No rain.”

“No rain. But the mealies are not needing rain.”

“That’s true. They don’t need rain.”

Bodule nods his head a few times, twisting his hat in his hands.

“The fence by the bottom field, it’s fixed now.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Bodule. Good work.”

“Yes.”

Another silence. He shuffles his feet and drops his head. Then he takes a deep breath and raises his eyes. “Missus, I am sorry.”

“I am too, Bodule. Terrible things are happening.”

“I must leave, Missus. I cannot stay here. It’s trouble for my family.”

“Why? Has someone told you to leave?”

“Nobody is telling me, Missus. But I must take my family and leave.”
He steps aside, and she sees a donkey cart in the driveway, loaded with bundles and a few items of furniture. A woman sits at the reins and three small children stand near the cart, watching their father.

“This is your land too,” Märit says. “You don’t have to go.”

He nods his head and looks her in the face, distressed. “The troubles here, Missus, it’s not your fault. You are good. Baas Ben was good. But…my family.” He makes a helpless gesture, indicating those who wait.

“But where will you go, Bodule?”

“To my wife’s people.” He tilts his chin over his shoulder, as if that explains his destination, as if she will know where it is. Märit doesn’t ask more, better that she does not know. Her heart sinks with the finality of it, with the inevitability.

“All right, Bodule, just a moment.”

In the office Märit opens her ledger, finds Bodule’s name, and does some quick calculations on a pad. She counts out some banknotes, and on an impulse she adds a few more and seals them into an envelope.

Bodule tucks his hat under his arm and cups both hands to receive his wages.

“
Usale kahle
, Missus. Stay well.”

“Go well, Bodule.”

Märit watches the cart trundle down the drive, the woman sitting up on the seat and the man leading the donkey, and the three children walking a few steps behind.

Märit has barely finished her coffee before a knocking raps again at the door. She hurries to open it, thinking Bodule has changed his mind. But it is one of the younger women standing on the veranda, and behind her in the driveway Märit glimpses family members with their bundles and luggage.

“You are leaving?” Märit asks, knowing the answer.

“Yes, Missus. We are going from this place.”

“You are Lebitsa, aren’t you?” Hers is one of the names Märit remembers.

“Yes, Missus, I am Lebitsa.”

Märit writes down the names and the amounts paid and hands the envelope
of wages to the young woman. She does not watch the family walk away, but shuts the door and goes back into the house.

Tembi is standing in the doorway to the kitchen in her nightgown, clutching a cup of coffee.

“They are leaving,” Märit says.

“I know.”

“You knew this would happen?”

“Last night. I was in the kraal, I talked to some of them. That man, Schoon, he told them that soon this district will be for the white people only and that it would be better for everyone to go now, before the soldiers come back.”

“How can he do this!” Märit rages. “He can’t just come on to someone’s property and do what he likes—kill people from helicopters. It’s savage. It’s wrong.”

Tembi stands silent. She has seen what men like Schoon can do. They come with their papers and make a declaration, and then they destroy.

Märit ceases her pacing and sits down, turning her face up to Tembi.

“And you, Tembi?” Märit asks the question that is uppermost on her mind. “Are you leaving too?”

“No.”

“You don’t have to stay here.”

“Where must I go?”

“Your father lives in Johannesburg.”

“Yes, he works in the mines in Johannesburg. But there is no place there for me. I cannot live in the shanty town near the mines. Those are bad places.”

“Do you have no other family anywhere?”

Tembi only shakes her head.

T
HROUGHOUT THE DAY
a steady stream of visitors comes to the house, always standing like supplicants at the door. Märit brings the ledger and cash box to the living room for easier access, and ticks the names off in the columns. With an increasing apathy and a sense of inevitability Märit
watches the money dwindle away as the population of the farm depletes itself. At one point, almost overcome by fear of what the farm will become now, she lifts the phone to call Connie van Staden, to ask for help, for advice. But the phone line is dead, not even a hum on the line, just silence.

In the evening there is no longer the haze of cooking-fire smoke hanging over the kraal like a mist. There is no longer the scent of wood smoke in the air, the smell that is as much a part of the place as the smell of the soil, that clings to the skin of the people and binds them to the farm. The kraal is an empty place.

High overhead in the sky, the last rays of the sun glint off the wings of aircraft flying towards the border, and the roar of their engines is only a distant thunder.

W
HEN
M
ÄRIT RISES EARLY
the next day, ready to make her rounds of the farm, she is struck by the silence: the mist still hangs above the river and the outlines of the trees are soft and the light on the veldt is pale and honey-colored.

How still everything is, how empty—how strangely beautiful.

A light breeze stirs the air and the vanes of the windmill begin to revolve with a slow creak. She looks back at the low farmhouse with its thatched roof and whitewashed walls that gleam in the morning sun. A thin stream of white smoke rises from the chimney, signaling that the kitchen stove has been lit, that Tembi is awake. She is alone, but not abandoned. There is still home.

Tembi is standing on the veranda, sleepy-eyed, still in her nightgown, waiting for Märit.

“I dreamed that you had gone,” Tembi says. “You walked to the river and you disappeared.”

“I’m still here, but everyone else is gone.”

Tembi looks across to the kraal. “It doesn’t matter. Let them go. Now we have the farm to ourselves.”

After breakfast, Märit switches on the radio, to hear the weather report, to hear the news, to know something of the world outside the farm. But like the telephone, the radio does not work: the only sound is static.

When she takes her coffee out to the veranda and joins Tembi, Märit says, “What are we going to do?”

“Farm, of course.”

“Can we do it by ourselves?”

“We have to.” Tembi sets her cup down on the railing. “Come, let us go and look at our farm and see what is to be done.”

Their first stop is the kraal. The ground around the huts is swept clean, the fire pit is cleared of ashes, a single piece of cloth hangs on the clothesline near the washhouse—a handkerchief, forgotten in the exodus.

Tembi notices that even the big black iron cook-pot has been removed. That pot had always seemed to her to be rooted in the earth, as much a part of the farm as the huts and the trees.

“Which hut was yours?” Märit calls, peering into the doorway of a
rondavel.

Tembi shows her, bending to enter through the low doorway. They stand together in the gloom, the empty gloom, until their eyes adjust to the meager light from the small window opening.

“Were you ever happy here, Tembi?”

“It was my home,” she answers with a matter-of-fact tone. The interior is empty except for an upturned crate near the marks on the floor that show where a bed stood. Even the bed has been taken. Lives uprooted, another Relocation.

Now there is nothing here, as if nobody ever lived enclosed within these walls, as if she herself were never sheltered here. Only memory remains. Tembi wonders if she too should have joined the exodus. Is there not something of a betrayal in not following her people?

Noticing the flicker of doubt in Tembi’s face, Märit says, “But you have a better house now. The farmhouse is your home. You know that, don’t you?”

With a nod Tembi goes out into the sunlight again.

The silence upon the farm is like a cloak: no sharp whistles from the herd boys chasing cattle, no chugging from the tractor as it navigates the fields, no lowing of cattle in the pasture, no voice to call her name. All is silence except for the slow creak of the windmill, a slow, repetitive exhalation of breath, like a person in sleep.

“We are alone,” Märit says, just to hear the sound of her own voice, suddenly fearful that the silence will swallow her as well.

Tembi catches an edge of fragility in Märit’s voice. She knows that she is stronger than Märit, and this knowledge places a burden of responsibility upon her shoulders and upon her heart. Tembi knows that if ever that fragility is broken, Märit will be lost.

“We will manage,” she says.

“How?” Märit says, turning to look at Tembi with panic in her eyes. “How?”

“By making the farm smaller. We will only give water to the strong and healthy vegetable plants, and we will only tend a few rows of maize. There is fruit in the orchard. And there are chickens for meat and eggs.” She has noticed the fowls pecking through the underbrush behind the huts. “At least they didn’t take the chickens.”

“There will be a lot of work for just the two of us.”

“We can work! This will be a farm for two women. Aren’t we strong? Like lions!” She curls her hands into imaginary claws. “Watch out all who come here. This is the farm of the lion women.
Grr!
” Her hands rake the air.
“Grr!”

They continue their inspection of the farm.

Outside the milking hut Tembi says, “The cattle are gone. All the cows. No milk or butter.”

“We don’t need it. We will drink water.”

They walk over to the shed where the generator is housed. Märit opens the door and regards the machine, smelling the oil and diesel fuel. Ben had installed a new generator when they bought the farm, as well as batteries that are charged by the turning of the windmill vanes so that the fuel consumption will be less. The electricity for the lights and the refrigerator in the house are powered from this generator. She has no idea how any of it works. What will happen if it fails? With a shake of her head she shuts the door again. At least there is paraffin for lamps in the house, as well as candles. And there is plenty of firewood. They will manage.

Later that afternoon Märit makes an inventory—of the food in the house, of the money left in the cash box. She takes down the box of shells
for the shotgun and counts them too. She makes a silent calculation, counting the days for which there is enough food, as if laying in for a siege.

When the heat of the afternoon is heavy on the house, Tembi and Märit walk down to the orchard and sit under the peach trees. Märit lies on her back, gazing up through the leaves. Far above the trees is the occasional glint of light on metal and the faint rumbling of aircraft. But it is distant.

She wonders about the other farms in the district. Have their workers left also? Are the men and women who remain also counting the days?

D
URING THE NEXT FEW DAYS
the two women begin to reshape the new boundaries of the farm. Much will be neglected, out of necessity, but there is also much they can do. Together with Tembi, Märit spends the mornings digging with a hoe between the rows of vegetables to remove the weeds that never cease to grow. They block off some of the irrigation channels that will now stream to unused beds and divert the water to where it will do the most good.

“We must make sure the chickens stay in their pen now,” Tembi tells Märit as they examine a gap in the mesh fence. “Without the children to look after them, they will wander off and maybe get eaten by animals. And we won’t find the eggs if the hens lay all over the place.”

With a roll of wire mesh found in one of the sheds they repair the chicken coop. The rooster, Dik-Dik, watches from his perch on a nearby branch, emitting a threatening cluck every time Märit ventures near him.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Märit says.

“He’s a man. He doesn’t like to see women doing things without his permission.”

The chickens are herded into the pen, which is a small hut surrounded by a patch of ground, enclosed in the wire-mesh fence. Märit shoos the last hen in. The rooster is still on his perch.

“What about him?” she says.

Tembi takes up an old broom and advances on the rooster. “Come on, Dik-Dik, join your women.” The rooster spreads his wings and darts his
beak at the broom that Tembi waves at him. With a deft movement Tembi dislodges the rooster from his perch. “Hold the gate open,” she calls to Märit, as Dik-Dik flaps his wings at her.

For a minute there is a contest of wills, but the broom wins, and Dik-Dik is urged into the coop. He flutters up to the roof of the shed and crows mightily at the two women.

“All right, all right,” Tembi says. “We know you are the king.”

When it is time to collect the eggs, Dik-Dik accepts Tembi’s presence in his domain, but if Märit enters, he swoops down from his perch and challenges her, crowing, flapping his wings, trying to peck at her calves. So Märit lets Tembi collect the eggs in the mornings while she stands at the gate, making sure that none of the hens wander out.

O
NE EVENING AT DINNER
, which is potatoes and beef stew, Tembi says, “That was the last of the meat.”