July's People (11 page)

She pulled the shirt over her head and shook it. To lie down was to become a trampoline for fleas. —What’re you
making a fuss about.— The baring of breasts was not an intimacy but a castration of his sexuality and hers; she stood like a man stripped in a factory shower or a woman in the ablution block of an institution. —I used to take them to be spayed.—

—Well of course you took them to be spayed.—

—Obsessed with the reduction of suffering. It was all right, I suppose. …Not how to accept it, the way people do here.—

—I should damn well hope not.—

Her neck was weathered red and over-printed with dark freckles down to a half-circle bisected by a V, the limits of the T-shirt and cotton blouse which were her wardrobe. He would never have believed that pale hot neck under long hair when she was young could become her father’s neck that he remembered in a Sunday morning bowling shirt.

The tight T-shirt dragged back down her features, distorting eyes, nose and mouth. It was as if she grimaced at him, ugly; and yet she was his ‘poor thing’, dishevelled by living like this, obliged to turn her hand to all sorts of unpleasant things. —Why didn’t you get one of them to do it?—

A
t first the women in the fields ignored her, or greeted her with the squinting unfocused smile of those who have their attention fixed on the ground. One or two—the younger ones—perhaps remarked on her to each other as they would of someone come to remark upon them—a photographer, an overseer (at certain seasons they had used to hire themselves out as weeders on white farms, being fetched by the truck-load from many miles distant). She followed along, watching what it was they selected, picked and dug up—July’s mother, in particular, seemed to have a nose for where her pointed digging-stick would discover certain roots. She herself could not expect to acquire that degree of discernment but could recognize wild spinach and one or two other kinds of leaves she saw the women bend for and put in their baskets. When her hands were full, she dropped what she had garnered into one of these. Then she found herself an old plastic bag that had once contained fertilizer—people brought home whatever
could be scavenged when they went to the dorp or worked on the farms—and tied it with a bit of string to hang from her shoulder, as those who did not have baskets did.

The sun brought the steamy smell of urine-wet cloth from the bundles of baby on the mothers’ backs. The women hitched up their skirts in vleis and their feet spread, ooze coming up between the toes, like the claws of marsh-birds; walking on firm ground, the coating of mud dried matt in the sun and shod them to mid-calf. She rolled her jeans high, yellow bruises and fine, purple-red ruptured blood-vessels of her thighs, blue varicose ropes behind her knees, coarse hair of her calves against the white skin showed as if she had somehow forgotten her thirty-nine years and scars of child-bearing and got into the brief shorts worn by the adolescent dancer on mine property. July’s unsmiling wife was laughing; looking straight at those white legs: she did not turn away when Maureen caught her at it. Laughing: why shouldn’t she? July’s wife with those great hams outbalancing the rest of her—Maureen laughed back at her, at her small pretty tight-drawn face whose blackness was a closed quality acting upon it from within rather than a matter of pigment. Why should the white woman be ashamed to be seen in her weaknesses, blemishes, as she saw the other woman’s? For a while they worked along a donga like a team, unspokenly together, now side by side, now passing and repassing each other, closely; then July’s wife was hailed by somebody a little way off, and moved on about her business, as every woman did, individually, yet keeping the pattern of a flock of egrets, that rises and settles now here, now there, where the pickings are best.

The family ate their share of the greens with mealie-meal. If he—Bam—knew she had gathered them herself, he said nothing. But when Victor demanded more greens, he answered him swiftly. —You’ve had your share. It takes a lot of
effort to get them.— Turning the dry
pap
in her mouth she had a single throb of impulse, quickly inert again, to go over to the man and sink against, embrace him, touch someone recollected, not the one who persisted in his name, occasionally supplying meat, catching fish for people.

The news: that day the station was impossible to tune into under the hooting racket of jamming and for the first time they found themselves listening to what could only be
MARNET
, the Military Area Radio Network, that had been developed originally to supplement vulnerable telephone communications on the border in the Namibian war, and lately extended to the whole country. The voices were employing a code, but there were direct references to Diepkloof, the military base between Soweto and Johannesburg. The abrupt urgency of Afrikaans voices was suddenly lost; like the impulse. She watched him fiddling with the knob and trying to find the transmission again. He kept his back to her as if he were doing something private and shameful. He had switched off; and took possession of the bed.

She walked out into the vacuum of the hot afternoon without any objective, bothered by a veil of flies. Thatch, old tins, cock’s plumage glittered drably: she made for the place where the yellow bakkie was hidden, only because it was
somewhere else
—there was nothing belonging to her, in the vehicle, any more. Ants had raised a crust of red earth on the dead branches that once had formed a cattle-pen. With a brittle black twig she broke off the crust, grains of earth crisply welded by ants’ spit, and exposed the wood beneath bark that had been destroyed; bone-white, the wood was being eaten away, too, was smoothly scored in shallow running grooves as if by a fine chisel. She scraped crust with the aimless satisfaction of childhood, when there is nothing to do but what presents itself; wandered on; there the vehicle was, still there.

A pair of legs in Barn’s old grey pants stuck out from beneath it.

There is always something to say: the formula for the road-side breakdown. —What’s the trouble?—

July’s voice came between grunts. —No, is coming all right. That pipe, like always, it’s little bit loose—

—Oh the exhaust. Well, it took a bashing getting here. Can’t expect anything else.—

He worked himself out, along the earth, on his back, blinked and shook his head to get rid of the dirt that had fallen on his face. Smiling, made a deep clicking exclamation of comic exasperation: — That thing!— He questioned someone, in their language; Daniel was still under there.

July got stiffly to his hunkers. His greasy hands hung by the wrists. —At home we had that strong wire.—

She nodded. A roll—far too much, more than they could ever have put to use, taking up space in the double garage between the sack of charcoal for the braais, and the lawn mower.

He laughed. —Man, I wish I can have some of that wire here!—

—I wonder if there’s anything left.—

—Ye-s-
ss
! Everything it’s there! When we go I’m putting that big (he mimed the padlock with first finger and thumb hooked across the knuckle of the other hand) I’m closing up nice!— He leaned his back against the wheel of the bakkie. Pride, comfort of possession was making him forget by whose losses possession had come about.

—The fighting must be very bad.—

—You heard something what they say?—

—Not the radio we always hear. I think that’s finished. Maybe the building is blown up—I don’t know. The special radio, for the army.—

For him, too, there had always been something to say: the servant’s formula, attuned to catch the echo of the master’s
concern, to remove combat and conflict tactfully, fatalistically, in mission-classroom phrases, to the neutrality of divine will. —My, my, my. What can we do. Is terrible, everybody coming very bad, killing… burning… Only God can help us. We can only hope everything will come back all right.—

—Back?—

She saw he did not want to talk to her in any other way.

—Back?—

His closed lips widened downwards at each corner and his lids lowered as they did when she gave him, back there, an instruction he didn’t like but would not challenge. —I don’t want to hear about killing. This one is killing or that one. No killing.—

—But you don’t mean the way it was, you don’t mean that. Do you? You don’t mean that.—

Daniel, young and lithe, rolled easily from under the vehicle and stood by. She glanced to him for agreement, admittance to be extracted by the two of them. He too, had something to say to her: a greeting,
ihlekanhi, missus.
July spoke to him. A few half-attentive questions were followed by some sort of order given: in any case, the young man was propelled by it down into the valley, going off in the direction of the settlement, maybe to fetch something for the repair-work.

But as soon as he was ten yards off they both knew it was a pretext to get him out of the way. Maureen felt it had been decided she had come to look for July; helpless before the circumstantial evidence that they were now alone, again, as they were when he came to the hut and she was aware he was looking behind her to see if anyone was inside.

She might just have come into his presence that moment; he spoke as if opening a conversation out of silence, as if they had not already been talking. —I’m getting worried.—

She knew his use of tenses. He meant ‘am worried’.

—You are hungry. I think you are hungry.—

She smiled with surprise; and suspicion. —Why d’you say that? We’re not hungry. We’re all right.—

—No… No. You have to go look for spinach with the women.—

The answer came back at him. —I go. I don’t have to go.—

—If the children need eggs, I bring you more eggs. I can bring you spinach.—

—I’ve got nothing to do. To pass the time.— But they could assume comprehension between them only if she kept away from even the most commonplace of abstractions; his was the English learned in kitchens, factories and mines. It was based on orders and responses, not the exchange of ideas and feelings. —I’ve got no work.—

He smiled at the pretensions of a child, hindering in its helpfulness. —That’s not your work.—

She had had various half-day occupations over the years; he used to shut the gate behind her—a wave of the hand, lingering to talk to his passing friends in the street—when she drove away to her typewriter, newspaper files, meetings, every morning. Yet he knew she could work with her hands. When the shift boss’s daughter had dug and planted all Saturday in the garden he would (it seemed to her then) acknowledge her comradely: —-Madam is doing big job today.— Now he chose what he wanted to know and not know. The present was his; he would arrange the past to suit it.

—Anyway, I don’t want the other women to find food for my family. I must do it myself.— But here they both knew the illusion of that statement, even while they let it stand. July’s women, July’s family—she and her family were fed by them, succoured by them, hidden by them. She looked at her servant: they were their creatures, like their cattle and pigs.

—The women have their work. They must do it. This is
their place, we are always living here and they are doing all things, all things how it must be. You don’t need work for them in their place.—

When
she
didn’t understand
him
it was her practice to give some noncommittal sign or sound, counting on avoiding the wrong response by waiting to read back his meaning from the context of what he said next. (Despite his praise of Bam—was it not given to wound her rather than exalt Bam?—Bam did not have this skill and often irritated him by a quick answer that made it clear, out of sheer misunderstanding, the black man’s English was too poor to speak his mind.) He might mean ‘place’ in the sense of role, or might be implying she must remember she had no claim to the earth—‘place’ as territory—she scratched over for edible weeds to counter vitamin deficiency and constipation in her children. She didn’t wait to find out. She spoke with the sudden changed tone of one who has made a discovery of her own and is about to act on it. —I like to be with other women sometimes. And there are the children, too. We manage to talk a bit. I’ve found out Martha does understand—a little Afrikaans, not English. It’s just that she’s shy to try.—

The pleasant smile of her old position; at the same time using his wife’s name with the familiarity of women for one another.

He settled stockily on his legs. —It’s no good for you to go out there with the women.—

She tackled him. —Why? But why?—

—No good.—

The words dodged and lunged around him. —Why? D’you think someone might see me? But the local people know we’re here, of course they know. Why? There’s much more risk when Bam goes out and shoots. When you drive around in that yellow thing… Are you afraid— Her gaze sprang with laughing tears as if her own venom had been spat at her; he
and she were amazed at her, at this aspect of her, appearing again as the presumptuous stranger in their long acquaintance. —Are you afraid I’m going to tell her something?—

Giddied, he gave up a moment’s purchase of ground. —

What you can tell?— His anger struck him in the eyes.

—That I’m work for you fifteen years. That you satisfy with me.—

The cicadas sang between them. Before her, he brought his right fist down on his breast. She felt the thud as fear in her own.

It echoed no other experience she had ever had. The shift boss with his thick, miner’s wrists and stump where the right third finger had caught in a kibble underground would never cross the will of his little dancer; her husband—what could ever have arisen, back there, that would make him a threat to her? And here; what was he here, an architect lying on a bed in a mud hut, a man without a vehicle. It was not that she thought of him with disgust—what right had
she
, occupying the same mud hut—but that she had gone on a long trip and left him behind in the master bedroom: what was here, with her, was some botched imagining of his presence in circumstances outside those the marriage was contracted for.

She had never been afraid of a man. Now comes fear, on top of everything else, the fleas, the menstruating in rags—and it comes from this one, from
him.
It spread from him; she was feeling no personal threat in him, not physical, anyway, but in herself. How was she to have known, until she came here, that the special consideration she had shown for his dignity as a man, while he was by definition a servant, would become his humiliation itself, the one thing there was to say between them that had any meaning.