A Blade of Grass (31 page)

She remembers that Ben liked to watch the birds at their nest building. He wanted the farm to be like this—a small community, living in harmony. Why did it have to end?

Becoming aware of the apricot in her hand Märit lifts it to her cheek and rubs the silky texture of the fruit skin against her own skin, inhaling the scent. The old half-conscious reverie descends over her as the tension lifts from her mind, lulled by the texture of the birdsong and the gurgling of the river flow—that old dreamy state of being outside herself, of being somewhere else.

She bites into the apricot, crunching on the firm flesh, but it is sour on her tongue.

As she stands to toss the unripe apricot into the river, Märit sees the men coming towards her through the trees.

T
HERE ARE THREE MEN
, spread out in a loose line, cutting off any path of escape. Soldiers. She sees that immediately—the guns in their hands, the habitual manner in which they carry their weapons, the way they point them in her direction.

The soldiers advance through the trees, camouflage tunics dappled olive and khaki in the light and shade that speckles through the leaves. Their path towards her is stealthy, intent—a tension suddenly vibrating through the air like electric current.

Märit realizes that the birds have fallen silent. The half-eaten apricot drops from her fingers.

Her dreaminess is now dread, for the soldiers have a weariness about them, their tunics are dusty and stained, their faces are gaunt and unshaven. They have the weariness of men who have fought for, and lost, something. Her dreaminess becomes dread, because the war has finally come to the farm.

Those distant sounds sometimes heard far off, heard as a whispering across the sky, or the faint rumble of thunder on a cloudless day, those sounds she pretended not to hear, have finally come to the farm.

It is not fear that Märit feels as she stands to face the soldiers, but dread at what was inevitable. Now she will have to look into the faces of these soldiers and know that war has come to the farm at last—not a plague of locusts or a broken generator or a faulty water pump, not a squabble about who will wear whose clothes, or who will cook and who will eat.

The inevitable harm will come now to her, to Tembi, to Khoza, and to the farm. Even to the soldiers themselves. Märit knows this with a terrible certainty as the soldiers come for her. She sees it in their gaunt and weary faces. They bring harm. Despite themselves, they bring an end to something with their arrival.

She turns, to the right, to the left, looking behind her where there is only the river. Some futile hope in her wants to stave off the future, and she turns towards the river, seeking a path along the shore beneath the willows.

She has taken only a few steps before she comes face-to-face with a bearded man, so close that she can look into his eyes. A blur of camouflage, the soft cap, the glint of silver buckles, the dark sinister shape of the pistol in his hand, and the blue eyes peering into her own.

He grabs her arm and pulls her towards him.

“Mevrou!” he whispers. “Mevrou Laurens, be still!”

Hearing her name like this, her old name that nobody has spoken in a long time, shocks her. Beneath the man’s beard and the dust on his face and the fatigue that has etched itself into the lines of his skin, Märit recognizes the blue eyes.

“You!”

“Gideon Schoon, Mevrou,” he says in a low voice.

“Why are you here?”

With a jerk of his head in the direction of the house he whispers, “Who else is up there?”

“Tembi. My
meid.
And the houseboy.”

“Anybody else?” His grip on her arm is hard, hurting her.

“We are the only ones left on the farm. The others all left, a long time ago.” She does not know how long ago; the days have become months. “They all left, after the last time you were here.”

His grip on her arm relaxes slightly but does not loosen. “You are hurting me,” she tells him.

“Excuse me.” He steps away a couple of paces.

The other three soldiers have spaced themselves out in a loose semicircle around her and Schoon, favoring the shadows, two of them facing
outwards, the other watching her. Märit feels the tension emanating from the men, she smells it in their sweat as something metallic and acrid.

“Has there been anybody here to this farm lately?” Schoon asks in a more normal tone.

“Who?”

“Any soldiers? Military personnel. Other visitors?”

“No. There hasn’t been anybody.”

“Good, good. Let’s go up to the house, shall we?” He says this casually, as if they are going for a stroll, but at the same time he makes a quick gesture to the soldiers. “Kruger, Malan, watch the back of the house. And careful, hey?”

“Come,” Schoon says to Märit, speaking with some of his old authority as the soldiers melt away through the orchard, but she sees the wariness in him, the anxiety. “Nobody up there but the
meid
and the houseboy, you said?”

“Only them.”

The remaining soldier walks just behind her and Schoon, his head moving to left and right, eyes scanning everything.

In the back of Märit’s mind there is something new now, a relief. That they are white soldiers. On her side. And something else—a feeling that, if she were to analyze it, could only be characterized as a sense of righteous revenge. She will be reinstated in her house now. Khoza will be put in his place.

Schoon mounts the veranda steps with her and stands to one side, away from the door. Märit hesitates, then, when he nods, tries the handle.

The door is locked.

Schoon frowns—not entirely trusting her, she sees.

“It’s locked,” she says. “For safety.”

“Knock,” he whispers.

She does. Then again.

After a moment from the other side of the door Khoza’s voice says, “What do you want?”

“Khoza, it’s me.”

“Go away.”

“Open the door. We have some visitors.” She makes a gesture of apology to Schoon.

“Take them to the kraal and entertain them there,” Khoza chuckles.

Schoon leans in front of Märit and raps hard on the door.

The bolt rattles open, the door swings wide; Khoza stands blocking the entrance with his hands on his hips.

“I told you…” His eyes widen as he sees Schoon.

“This is…these are…” Märit stammers, then gathers her composure. “We have visitors, Khoza. Go and put on the kettle and prepare some tea.”

But he just stares dumbfounded at Schoon.

“You heard the Missus, boy,” Schoon says, pushing into the house.

Khoza retreats. He stares wide-eyed at Märit, as if this is some trick she has played on him.

“Don’t just stand there,” Schoon says with irritation.

As Khoza turns towards the kitchen, the other soldiers appear and he backs away from them looking wildly about him, like a trapped animal seeking escape.

In a calm voice Märit says, “Make some tea please, Khoza.”

Schoon directs his attention to the soldiers. “Anybody else in the house?”

“A girl—sleeping in one of the rooms.”

“That’s Tembi, the
meid
,” Märit says quickly. “I’ll wake her. Please, sit down. Rest. Khoza, make the tea.” She gives him a slight push towards the kitchen.

In the corridor she whispers to Khoza, “Do what they tell you. Don’t make any trouble.” She propels him towards the kitchen and enters Tembi’s room.

Tembi has the sheet drawn up over her face. Märit pulls it away and leans over her.

“Tembi! There are soldiers in the house. I want you to get up now. Quickly!”

Tembi gives her a sideways, doubtful glance. There are still smudges of makeup on her face.

Märit grasps her chin and gives it a shake. “I’m not playing, Tembi! Get up immediately. There are four soldiers here. The same ones that came before. Get dressed now. And put on your clothes—your own clothes.”

Tembi seems about to say something, when her eyes slide past Märit. She pulls the sheet over her face suddenly.

Schoon is watching from the doorway.

“She’s been a bit unwell,” Märit explains. “But she’s better today.” Moving forward she blocks Schoon’s view, then shuts the door behind her. “She will be up in a minute.”

“The situation seems a little unusual around here, Mevrou,” Schoon mutters.

“I’ll just see how the tea is coming along. I’ll bring it in directly. Are your men hungry? Would they like something? There’s nothing fresh. Mealie-pap, a bit of leftover
rooibok
stew.”

Schoon smiles. “Good
boere
food. That would be very generous of you, Mevrou Laurens.” He makes a little bow.

In the kitchen Märit busies herself preparing the food. Khoza stands near the window, tapping his teeth with a fingernail.

“Who are they?” he asks quietly. “Why are they here?”

With a warning nod at the door Märit whispers, “I don’t know any more than you do.”

“But that one with the beard, he knows you.”

“He was here once before.” She reaches past him to get cutlery from the drawer. “Don’t just stand there. Is the tea ready?”

Hearing her own words, the unintentional echo of what Schoon had said a minute ago, gives her pause.

“Listen carefully to me, Khoza. The bearded one, Schoon, is not someone to fool around with. He is a hard man. Don’t try your games with him. Do you understand?”

“He knows you. He’s your friend. Now you can do what you like again.”

Märit grits her teeth and shakes her head. “Sometimes I think you are nothing more than a fool.” She lifts the lid of the teapot to make sure there are leaves, then fetches the last tin of condensed milk from the pantry and punctures the lid with two holes before pouring the milk into a jug. As an afterthought she adds some water and stirs it into the milk.

Khoza folds his arms across his chest, glowering.

“Try to be sensible, Khoza. For Tembi’s sake, at least. Now take this tray into the dining room. I’ll bring the food. And you and Tembi stay out of sight here in the kitchen.”

Märit calls the men in to the dining room. They leave their packs in the living room but carry their weapons with them and set the guns next to their chairs, close at hand.

Schoon watches Khoza as he sets the plates down on the table. He notices the way Khoza studies the guns leaning beside the chairs. He notices this because he watches everything, and he says to Märit, “This houseboy, has he been working here for long? I don’t remember him from before.”

“He came just after you were here the last time.”

“He seems the cheeky type to me,” Schoon says, staring hard at Khoza. “A little too clever for his own good. These are the ones you’ve got to watch, Mevrou.”

It occurs to Märit that a word from her would remove Khoza from the house and from the farm. All she has to do is ask Schoon. But what would they do with him, these weary, dusty soldiers who come from nowhere? In her mind’s eye she has an image of a lone figure running across the veldt, running like an antelope, then the single crack of a shot, and the legs stumbling, the fall, and afterwards the vultures, the hyenas, the scavengers that come for carrion.

“No, he’s a good worker. There isn’t a problem.”

“Well, it’s your house.”

The soldiers bend over their plates with evident hunger. Their faces seem slack, eyes dull; everything about them speaks of weariness. Hardly more than boys, Märit thinks. Boys who should be on the farms or laughing with their comrades on the rugby field. Yet when they raise their heads, she sees the boyish faces and tired men’s eyes.

“I’m sorry we can’t offer you anything more,” Märit says. “We don’t have transport to go into town. The generator is broken. It’s a bit isolated here.”

“Yes, I see that the farm is not as it once was.”

“A locust swarm destroyed the gardens, the crops.”

“But you are lucky to be off the beaten track,” Schoon comments. “There has been worse destruction on other farms. Worse than a few locusts.”

She notices that he has not joined the others at the table. “Aren’t you hungry?” Märit asks.

“Not at the moment, Mevrou. Thank you. I’ll just have some tea.” He pours a cup and carries it out of the house to the veranda.

Märit follows a minute later. Schoon is sitting in one of the wicker chairs. He does not look at her when she sits down next to him.

After a while Schoon says, “A beautiful land. That’s what they say of us abroad. You might not think it, Mevrou Laurens, but I’ve traveled in other countries. Europe, America once. ‘Ah, but your land is beautiful,’ they say about us. But they only see the veldt, and the blue mountains, and the herds of antelope. Yes, they see the beauty—who can deny the beauty?—but they don’t see what it rests on. Do you know what this much talked-about beauty rests on, Mevrou?”

Märit makes no response, for Schoon seems almost to be talking to himself.

“I’ll tell you,” he says. “Blood. All this beauty rests on spilled blood. Blood feeds the flowers and the grasses. The spilled blood of our forefathers, and of their forefathers. Every beautiful thing that the tourists see is fed by blood. Yours and mine too, Mevrou. Yours and mine now.”

He is thinner than the last time she saw him, much thinner. Not as neat and groomed as he was then. She remembers the faint scent of Vitalis hair oil that lingered around him. She had thought him vain then. Now his uniform is dirty, worn, the boots scuffed. He seems to have lost his vanity. Or relinquished it. And something else is lost too, she realizes—his confidence. He still retains his authority, but it seems empty now.

“I didn’t recognize you at first, down by the river,” Märit tells him.

“Nor I you, Mevrou. Nor I you.” He points at her sarong and bare feet. “Has it come to this now? That you dress like them?”

Märit blushes and looks away. “Things change. We’re isolated here. Nobody comes to the farm…”

“Yes, things change,” he says, and lapses into silence again.

“How are things…out there? What is happening?”

Schoon turns the corners of his mouth down. “Things are not what they were. That much I can assure you of, Mevrou. There have been setbacks.”

His tired eyes meet hers and he takes a long time to continue. “I don’t know how much longer we will be able to call this country our own. The government forces are holding strong in the south, but up here…well, it’s a difficult situation. Defeat is a possibility that we must consider at last.”

“Have you been to Klipspring? What is happening there?”

“Abandoned. And the nearby farms. All your neighbors. The towns have been attacked. For all your isolation here, Mevrou, your situation is better.”

“Where will you go now?” Her voice gives away her anxiety to have the soldiers off the farm.

Schoon stands with a sigh and leans on the railing.

“We will only impose on your hospitality a brief time, Mevrou Laurens.” He stands with his back to her, in silence, hands clasped behind his back. “I wonder why you are still here.”