Too Late the Phalarope

  But I would take the shame, and I would be like that myself, if I could; for to have such a horror is to be safe. Therefore I envied him.

  I HAVE met Moffie de Bruyn myself and he was as ordinary a man as one could meet, and full of vanity. So when I read that he envied him, I could not see to read at all.

  WELL, MY BROTHER WENT TO BED AFTER ALL. For two or three days he resisted it, grumbling and growling, and picking at his food. Then he went to bed, complaining that he had been forced by nagging women, and would go if only to escape. The English doctor came, and it was influenza true enough; but the doctor said to me privately that he didn’t like the sound of my brother’s heart, and as my duty was, I told my sister. So we spent much time in my brother’s room. But I tell you he enjoyed himself when the worst of the influenza was over. Dominee Stander came to see him and the captain, and Sybrand Wessels. With the dominee he talked church matters, solemn and serious, and with the captain he talked grave and austere, each smoking his pipe. But with Sybrand Wessels he talked everything, politics and farming and Russia. Then they would have a drink of brandy (which he otherwise never touched in the day) and then would start the sly jokes, a bit coarse and rough; you could hear them chuckling over them, but if either of us came up, or his daughter Martha, you could hear them shushing each other like a pair of girls. And when we came in Sybrand would say, Ja, nee, as though he could not let the joke go entirely, and he would snort and giggle like an old fool. My brother would watch him with a kind of devil in him, because there was no brandy in the world that could make him foolish, but I tell you that only Sybrand would have been allowed to do such a thing. And they laughed most over the coarse story of Bram Boshof’s little house which was one of those places that you find on a farm, built over a pit; and Bram’s brother-in-law Hennie, whom he did not like, came to the farm to spend Christmas. And when Hennie went to the little house, Bram set off one of those Christmas fireworks under him in the pit. Then Hennie came rushing out, not even decent, and Bram rushed to meet him, shouting, My God, you’re a low man, to make such a noise in my little house. So Hennie packed his bags and went off in a great anger, with Bram’s wife all weeping, and Bram both ashamed and pleased.

  Then my brother lay back in the bed and watched old Sybrand, for my sister-in-law and I had just come in, and Sybrand had had some brandy, and Sybrand pulled himself together, but my brother would look at him to remind him, and Sybrand would snort, and then blow his nose, and be in a great distress, whilst my brother watched him with the devil in his eyes.

  Then they would get out the book of the birds, and go through it all again, sometimes pleased with the Englishman that made it and sometimes pitying him for his lack of knowledge. When Sybrand was gone my brother would read the Bible, not the great Bible that would have been too heavy for him, but a smaller one; then the coarse jokes would be forgotten and he would read and ponder in the Book.

  And I remember the night that his son came, and after prayers we all sat in the room, except Martha, who was gone to something at the church. My brother was not so well that night, and did not even smoke his pipe. He said very little, but we three sat and talked, and we made the coffee over the fire in his room, which is a thing he likes.

  After the coffee he looked at his son out of the heavy eyes, made heavier by the influenza.

  — When do you get a holiday, he asked.

  — When the captain …

  — I don’t mean the long holiday, he said irritably. I mean a day.

  — I might get off on Empire Day.

  My brother grunted, for he hated the name of Empire Day; and he hated it doubly too, because it was also the birthday of General Smuts.

  — You mean the twenty-fourth of May, he said.

  — Is there anything you want, father?

  My brother said very slowly, almost grudgingly, because he himself would have taken more time to reach such a point, I thought we might go for a day to Buitenverwagting.

  And the dark face lit up at the thought of going to Buitenverwagting.

  — We could have a picnic, I said.

  — If you are asked, my brother said.

  Now though my brother often said such things, and though the sharpness of his tongue was not always meant to hurt, yet he knew that my face fell; for he growled at once, yes, we could have a picnic.

  Then he said firmly, not at the pan. In the Long Kloof if you like.

  — Why not the pan, I said.

  — Pieter and I are going to the pan, he said.

  I looked at my sister-in-law and saw that she was not looking at us at all, but at her hands quiet in her lap, and I knew what she was knowing, that she was listening to unusual words such as she had never thought to hear spoken, but which she had prayed to hear these many years. But I knew also that my brother knew what was in our thoughts, and that the thing that he had tried to say carelessly and naturally was crying itself out aloud in the room. He closed his eyes as though he were tired, and made a movement as though he had felt some sudden pain through lying so long in bed.

  — Can you take the car to the pan, he asked.

  — Easily, father.

  Then my brother opened his eyes, and they were suddenly alive and mischievous.

  — We’ll take the glasses and the book, he said, and see if we can find the phalarope.

  — The phalarope?

  — But it’s no use going on your Empire Day. You see, this phalarope isn’t an English bird, and it won’t wait for Empire Day. It’ll be gone by then, to Russia or some other place.

  — I could take a day before then, father.

  — Good.

  He turned to his wife and me.

  — This phalarope that no one has ever seen, is clearly a very shy bird, he said. That’s why I want no women and children nagging and screaming around the pan.

  He was quiet for a moment.

  — I’ll teach an Englishman, he said, to write about our birds.

  Then he was jovial and teased my sister-in-law and me, though about what things I cannot now remember. And his son sat silent, not sombre, but quiet and grave. And when I looked at him, with the cleanness of the rugby shining out of his eyes and face, I felt a fool for my fears, and for tormenting my soul with the bold look of an idle girl. And I tried to remember if he were looking at her when she gave him the bold look, because if he were not, it could be quite otherwise. But truly I could not remember. So I sat and looked at them both, and knew that my brother was looking for no phalarope, but for something that he had lost, twenty, thirty years ago, God knows, I do not know.

  WHEN HE got home there was a letter under the door, and he knew it was from the captain. He opened it and inside it was a letter from Nella, and a note from the captain, which said, Thought you’d like to have this tonight. H.M. For our post comes late in Venterspan, and the captain always got it from the Post Office box. And the captain must have seen that this was a letter from Nella, and he had thought to bring it round, which shows you what kind of man he was. And I give you first the letter that my nephew had written to her, to the farm Vergelegen.

  …and when I come home I switch on the lights and put a match to the fire, for the nights are getting cold. But even if I switched on all the lights and had a fire in every room, there’d be something missing from the house. Sometimes I look at the stamps, and I smile when I remember what you said about them, for they look just like bits of paper when you are not here. I go to Mother’s sometimes, and sometimes to Kappie’s. Father isn’t well, and is like what the English call, a bear with a sore head; but he’s all right when Sybrand comes, and they have a drink of brandy and tell their jokes. Kappie plays me music and gives me coffee, good coffee, but not so good as a certain woman makes. He always calls me lieutenant, and one day I want to tell him to call me Pieter, and see what he will do. He will rub his hands, and look very shy, and probably say, thank you, lieutenant, as though I had given him a block of Cape triangulars.

  The rugby is in full s
wing. We played Sonop on Saturday, and beat them 27-3. Good, not so? It was the dominee that did the damage. They just can’t hold him. He does that shift on the leg, and suddenly has the whole field to himself. I still hope he may play for South Africa; his heart would burst. By the way, that’s not the only damage that he’s done. A certain young girl with the name of van Vlaanderen goes about sighing and blushing all day long. But don’t say a word.

  Tante and Japie are as close as thieves in Social Welfare. She’s always in the butcher shop, and he says Ta’ Sophie this and Ta’ Sophie that, and she pretends to be angry. If you ask me, Japie is interested in Veronica, and you remember he often said he must marry an English girl and join the English church, so that he can play tennis on Sundays. But he has also said the girl must have money, and I think he’s still finding that out.

  I cannot tell you how I miss you and the children. I look for the day when you are back again, and think about it at nights before I go to sleep. When you come back, that first night I’ll have no meetings, no stamps, no rugby, no visitors. And I shall kiss every part of you, from your head to your feet. We’ll go to bed early, so that afterwards we can talk. I shan’t even smoke, I suppose. I’ll somehow convince you, and I know you’re not convinced, that my love of you is a love of everything about you, and not just a love of your body. And perhaps one day when you are convinced, and know that my love of your body is part of my love of you yourself, and when you are no longer afraid of it, and accept it truly, and know that such love is no enemy, then perhaps I shall tell you more about myself, for you do not know it all. And if I knew your love was sure for ever, I should not fear to tell you, in fact I should wish to tell you. Then our love would be complete, and nothing would be hidden by one from the other. I believe too that you would then give me more sweetly of your body (I mean more sweetly than you do, which is almost enough already) not because you wished to be kind or suffer me, but because you too would wish to do so. Then I would be in heaven, and safe from all the dangers I told you of, and the angers and ugly moods, all the things I try to tell you about, but I am a fool in telling.

  Look after yourself, sweet love, and come back well and strong; and take a big kiss for yourself, and one for Frikkie and one for Grieta. And give Frikkie a good smack on the bottom for me in the bath, not a hard one, just a good one, and then kiss it better. And give my love to Pappie and Ma, and all the family, and all the relations, but don’t ask them all to come and stay with us. And don’t dare to bring one of the family back that first night. Don’t worry about me; Johannes looks after me well, and gives me a clean tablecloth every meal, ha, ha.

  You have my love for ever,

  Pieter.

  PS. Anna is having a wonderful holiday, and I am beginning to fall for her in a kind of big way. So you’d better hurry.

  YES, THAT was the letter he wrote to her, the letter she showed me after we had been destroyed. For then and then only did she understand. Strange it is, that to me who would have given half my life to have had such a letter from a man, no such thing was given; and the one to whom it was given, did not want it or understand it, and wished it never written. For this is what she wrote, amongst other things.

  The long part of your letter I cannot answer fully now, but we shall talk about it when I get home. But even if I hurt you, I must tell you that it hurts me that you think my love is not complete and sure, and that I do not accept the kind of love you write about. Or do you think that Frikkie and Grieta came straight from heaven? Yet it seems to me that a woman’s nature is different from a man’s, and that for a happy marriage each must give up something, which I try to do. As for these dangers, I think you imagine them, and they are not there at all; for sometimes I think I know you better than you know yourself. But do not worry; three weeks will soon go and I’ll be home. I think about you too, every day, and when I go to sleep at night; and though I have the children that is not quite the same. I have given them your kisses and tonight in the bath I shall …

  AND HE sat and read her letter with a face of stone.

  AND THAT NEXT DAY he was in the black mood, what we call the swartgalligheid, which is the black gall. And the heart is black too, and the world is black, and one can tell oneself that it will pass, but these are only words that one speaks to oneself, for while it is there it is no comfort that it will pass. One could as easily go to the young widow who has just put on her weeds, and tell her that before the year passes she will be laughing in another’s arms. For who knows the swartgalligheid better than I, though I knew it worse when I was young? Sometimes it lasts for a morning or a day, and will suddenly lift for no cause at all, or when someone says a word of praise or kindness; and sometimes it will not lift for any word at all, and poisons all, food and sleep, and even friends and love. But it came to me less often now, because my life was at the turn; and maybe it would have left me altogether, and I would have gone into my peace, even as the winter veld, when the smoke goes up straight and still into the windless sky, and the whole world lies silent under the sun. Maybe it would have done it at this very time, but for the bold look of a girl; and I tried to remember if he were looking too, because that would have made it otherwise, but I could not remember.

  So it was in the black mood that he went into Kappie’s store, on his way to work. And Kappie saw at once that it was the black mood he was in, and tried to joke and make him smile, but the dark face stayed hard as stone.

  — It’s music you want, he said.

  — Music?

  — Yes, music, lieutenant. At half-past seven I play the Moonlight, and we put out the light, and after that we have some coffee.

  And then he felt a fool, because the dark face stayed hard as stone, and he felt like a man who offers treasure and it is scorned. For he was afraid of the lieutenant in his ugly mood. Yet though he was afraid he would not desist.

  — You’ll come, he said.

  — I’ll come, said the lieutenant.

  Then the lieutenant went out of the store and down van Onselen Street to the Police Station, and the street was full, or as full as our street can be with the children going to school, and the young men and the girls going to their offices, in the sharp air and the lovely sun of the high veld autumn months. And the schoolboys turned, as they always did, to see the great Pieter van Vlaanderen, who might be Captain of the Springboks this very year.

  Then he went into his office and waited for the inspection. And he vowed to himself he would say no word to the sergeant in this evil mood, not even if the cells were filthy beyond all reason, and the yellow seeds of maize were lying in every door. Then Sergeant Steyn came for the inspection, and the lieutenant greeted him civilly, and they went out to the yard. And the first thing that the lieutenant saw in the yard was the native prisoner Kleinbooi, who should have been that day in the court at Sonop for a case.

  And I stood still and looked at Kleinbooi, trembling with anger. And I told myself I had vowed to say no word to Steyn in my ugly mood. But this was beyond all reason, for there was everyone in Sonop waiting for the case, the magistrate and the police, and witnesses and lawyers. But I stood still and tried to control my trembling, so that I could speak in a quiet voice. Then I said to Steyn in the quiet voice, were you not instructed to send Kleinbooi to Sonop today? And the sergeant looked at me with apprehension, and said uncertainly, Lieutenant, that was for tomorrow. Get the instruction, I said.

  While he was away getting the instruction I told myself I must keep quiet, because I was in the evil mood, and because who knew, perhaps I had put down tomorrow, or perhaps I had put Tuesday the sixteenth instead of Tuesday the fifteenth. But when he came back with the instruction I could see he was full of fear. He started to speak, but I said to him, give me the instruction.

  And the instruction was for Tuesday the fifteenth, and I saw it was beyond all reason. So I said to him in English, which I know he does not like, and using words that I almost never use, God damn and blast it, can’t you read? And then I sa
id, not even Afrikaans? And when he did not answer, I shouted at him, answer me. So he began to answer me in Afrikaans, and it is a rule in the Police, if you force a man to it, that he must answer in the language in which he is addressed. So I shouted at him, answer me in English. So he said to me in English with now not fear but murder in his eyes, I can read. That’s wonderful, I said, who would have known?

  And I was trembling and shaking, with all the strength gone out of me, and I felt that all the blood was out of me, so that I was weak as a child.

  — Telephone Sonop, I said in Afrikaans, and tell them that Kleinbooi is being sent at once. Take the car, and go yourself, or send anyone you like. But do it at once.

  — Yes, lieutenant.

  When he had left me I went to my office, and shut the door, and sat in my chair. I sat there for an hour or more, and did no work, for I had no strength to lift even a pen; and there was a sick feeling in my stomach and throat, and my eyes were burning.

  AH, HOW easy it is to speak such bitter words, but they can never be recalled. I was told by Head Warden van den Bos how a prisoner escapes from prison, even the strongest prison in the world. For a warder, he said, must have eyes for a thousand things, but a prisoner has eyes for only one; and a warder looks to see that a thousand things are safe and closed, but a prisoner looks only for the one that is unseen and open. And that is the only thought of all his nights and days, and that is how he finally escapes. So the sergeant had only one thought and only one purpose, and that was to destroy the lieutenant. Therefore he saw the one unseen and open thing, in a street safe and sure, with the people all about, and cars moving, and the sun shining; thus under the sun and in the open day, the secret was made known to him, not as knowledge, but as a thing that might be so, a thing that might be so one time in a thousand, so that others would pass it by, except the one who has hatred in his heart. And with that knowledge the sergeant struck the lieutenant down, because one was a lieutenant and one was a sergeant, because one took the red oath and one would not, because one was in authority and spoke words in the black mood that even God can not recall.