And when he had sat there the hour, and the strength was coming back to him, Japie came to see him, with the case full of papers that he likes to take about.
— Old brother, I’ve got Stephanie another job.
— Where?
— With old Louis Griesel and his wife.
— And you told them all about her?
— Every word. But they’ll take her, for the sake of our Lord, they said.
And the lieutenant smiled, the first time that day, and he said to Japie, Japie, you’re a good fellow.
And Japie fiddled with his papers, and said, you take the black nation too much to heart.
— Old brother, he said, if I took them too much to heart, I wouldn’t get any peace.
— I was sitting here in my office this morning, said the lieutenant, and a little bird came and sat there, right on the sill.
— So you were pleased, said Japie, and all kinds of poetry came into your mind.
— No poetry came into my mind, said the lieutenant. And the little bird said to me, the lady’s name begins with a V.
— Japie blushed, then he got up and shut the door.
— I’m telling you the truth, he said, I’m feeling something. Mind you, old brother, I’ve felt it before. But not so strong, Pieter, not so strong.
— Has she money, asked the lieutenant.
— That’s the funny thing, said Japie. That’s why I know it’s strong, because she hasn’t any money at all. And there’s another reason I know it’s strong, because her father is an Empire man, and has the King and the Queen in the sitkamer. So every time I go there I have to look at them.
— Do you look at them much?
— Well, not so much. But I have to look at the old man, and he thinks Cecil Rhodes had a pair of wings under that black jacket of his. And he doesn’t call me Grobler, but Grobbler, which sounds to me like a kind of turkey in a yard. How’s Nella?
— She says she’s feeling better. I had a letter last night.
Japie sighed.
— As the English say, absence makes the heart grow fonder. It’s true, old brother. I want to see that girl every night. But I can’t, because if I do, they’ll think I’ve made up my mind.
Then he laughed his laugh, and it could be heard through the whole Police Station.
— You’d better not do that, said the lieutenant, or you’ll have the captain in.
Japie was quiet at once, and he got up at once and picked up his case.
— I’ll go, he said.
— I was teasing you, said the lieutenant. He’s out.
— I don’t like these silent men, said Japie. In any case, old brother, I must go. And don’t you worry about the girl Stephanie, or any other of the black nation. I’ve got them on my heart too.
He put his hand on his heart to show it.
— Ladies and Gentlemen, he said in English, I pledge myself to the cause of Social Welfare, and will devote to it all my gifts and powers, to uplift the poor and succour the distressed, hoping thereby to purify our human society, that …
— I’ve got to work, said the lieutenant.
— You’ve got no feeling for language, said Japie.
So he went, and left the lieutenant with the black mood a little lifted. He went home for lunch, and ate it sitting in the garden in the sun; and when he went back, worked hard till the captain came into his room. He stood up, and the captain did not tell him to sit down.
— Coetzee phoned from Sonop, said the captain, and complained that Kleinbooi didn’t get there till nearly eleven o’clock.
— Yes, sir.
— Why was that?
— My instruction was overlooked, sir.
— A written instruction?
— Yes, sir.
— If there’s one thing above all that I hate, it’s to promise a man for nine o’clock and deliver him at eleven o’clock. That means you had to send the car, I suppose?
— Yes, sir.
— Did you make a note of it yourself?
— No, sir. But I remembered it as soon as I saw the man.
— It was pure accident you saw the man. He might have been out working, you might have been out yourself.
— Yes, sir.
— Next time make a note of it yourself. You can’t leave such matters to a sergeant.
— Very good, sir.
The captain went out, but he had hardly taken two paces in the passage before he returned.
— It’s the one thing above all else that I hate, he said. Duty’s duty, and it must be done. One can’t put such a thing on to another man.
— Yes, sir.
So the captain went again, and came back again.
— Someone will have to pay for the car, he said. I suggest it’s fair that you divide it between you.
— Very good, sir.
And this time the captain went out and did not return. And when the lieutenant was sure that he would not return, he sat down in a black and angry rage, for never before had the captain spoken to him like that. He thought he would go to the captain, and refuse to pay, because he had given a written instruction, and what more could be done than that? And why should he pay for the mistakes of a sullen man that hated him with such bitter hatred? He got up from his chair, and walked down the passage to the captain’s office, to tell him he would not pay, that he would rather resign than pay. The captain’s door was open, and he would have gone in and spoken God knows what words, but he heard the sound of Dominee Stander’s voice in the office, so he did not go in. He went back and shut his door and sat down in his chair, and pulled some papers to him; then he took the papers and flung them across the room. Then he shouted in English, God damn and blast the bloody Police. He took out his pipe, and bit it with such anger that his teeth went through the stem, and it was one of his favourite pipes. He took the two pieces of it and flung them across the room also, then he stood up and picked up the papers, saying to himself, damn the bloody papers, damn the bloody papers.
And the injustice of it climbed and climbed in my throat, that I should have to pay for the sergeant’s mistakes. So I got up again and went to the captain’s office, and I could still hear the dominee’s voice. So I went back to the office and wrote a note to the captain, and this was the note I wrote.
TRANSPORT OF NATIVE PRISONER KLEINBOOI TO SONOP
Sir,
Under no circumstances whatsoever could I consent to pay half of the cost of the above service to Sonop. I issued a written instruction to Sergeant Steyn, and in the absence of any instruction to the contrary, I consider that my duty was discharged. If you find yourself unable to accept this argument, I shall have pleasure in tendering my resignation, to take effect from as early a date as may be possible, so that I may without delay look out for some more enjoyable and remunerative occupation.
I am, Sir,
Your obedient servant,
Pieter van Vlaanderen (Lieutenant).
And never before in my life had I said or written such a thing about the Police, nor had I ever complained, except as policemen do, about the money. But it was true. I could have got a hundred better jobs, with my war record and my rugby. I could have got a job in Johannesburg, in the mines, where they pay high for rugby. And I thought it was a letter in a thousand, that said what it wanted to say, with pride that a man ought to have, and the right kind of respect and anger, and not a mistake in the English that I could see, although they were learned words. Then there was a knock on the door, and young Vorster was there, and the first thing he saw was the two pieces of the pipe. He picked them up and looked at them and said, Ag, lieutenant, you’ve broken your pipe. And he looked so sorrowful that my mood was lifted.
— Ag, you’re clever, I said.
He fitted the pieces together, and said, again with sorrow, it’s finished.
— You’re cleverer still, I said.
— Have you got another, he said.
— Not here.
— Shall I nip out and bu
y one, he said. I made a face.
— I don’t like a new pipe, I said.
He looked at me like a conspirator.
— I could nip over to your house, he said.
— Ag, don’t worry.
— It’s no worry, lieutenant. Just say the word.
— All right, nip over.
— Which pipe, lieutenant?
— Any one but the fancy ones.
So he was off to get the pipe. Then I read the letter to the captain again, and got the red ink and drew two lines across it, and between the lines I wrote,
CANCELLED
GEKANSELLEER
But I thought it a pity that such a letter would never be read.
WHEN HE HAD FINISHED HIS DAY’S WORK, he went out into van Onselen Street, and whom should he meet there in front of the Police Station but our cousin Anna, the one who wears the yellow trousers when she is in Pretoria, and who says she is not married because the only man she wanted married someone else. And I say that she walked about there on purpose in van Onselen Street, waiting for her cousin to come out, but I do not say there was any wrong in it, nor do I think it. It is just what the schoolgirls do, every Saturday morning; they walk up and down van Onselen Street, and will take three hours to buy some stamps at the Post Office and some vegetables for their mothers at Kaplan’s store. And to buy these stamps and vegetables it is necessary to put on a Sunday dress, and there they go up and down the street, giggling and turning and looking at the boys, so that that foolish man van Belkum, the one who teaches at the school and talks so much, made some silly plan and had extra classes on Saturday mornings, to keep the children off the streets, he said.
But though it is all right for boys and girls, it is hardly the thing for a grown-up woman. And I nearly wrote down here that no van Vlaanderen would do it, but then I remembered, my niece Martha was walking up and down van Onselen Street a great deal now herself. Ag, what a time of life, when one will walk hours in a street to have one second of bowing and saying goeie middag to a man!
So Anna looked with great surprise when my nephew came out of the Police Station, as though it were the last place in the world he might come out from. And she said to him, Pieter, I’m dying for a drink.
— Come on then, he said. I want a drink myself.
So they went to Abraham Kaplan’s Royal, and sat in the place where women can go, and talked in English, for that is a fashion of hers, her people having come from the Cape a hundred years after ours.
— What’s yours, he asked.
— Brandy and soda, she said.
— What will your father say?
She lifted her bag.
— I’ve got my peppermints, she said.
For her parents were simple, and when she came in with the smell of peppermints, they thought it was peppermints that they were smelling.
When he ordered two brandies and soda she was surprised, and said to him, brandy for you? In the rugby season too?
— I’ve had a bad day, he said.
And she was full of sympathy, so that he told her the story of Kleinbooi and the sergeant and the captain, and even brought out the letter that he had written. And when she saw the two red lines, and the red words, CANCELLED, GEKANSELLEER, she laughed with pleasure and put her hand on his arm, and said, Pieter, I adore you. So they had two more brandies to celebrate her adoration.
Then she told him of the misery of her life, and how it was death to spend a holiday in Venterspan, except that he was there; and of the time she had wanted to go to Durban, and her parents were as hurt and unhappy as if she had said she wanted to go to hell, so she had to come to Venterspan after all. And they did not mind her going to Kruger Park, reckoning she would be safe there with the lions. And she was so depressed that they had another two brandies to lift her out of her depression, and he smoked her cigarettes, which was a thing he seldom did.
So they laughed and joked, and he said many things for which she adored him. How many brandies they had I do not know, but it was more than enough, and I shall write down here, even though I do not know, that it was more than he had ever drunk before.
— Hemel, Pieter, it’s seven o’clock. Magtig, what shall I say?
She was at once distressed, for her father may be a simple soul, but he is stern and strict, and has the evening meal at half-past six, summer and winter.
— Thank God I was with you, she said.
Then she started to eat the peppermints. She said to him anxiously, am I sober, Pieter?
— Don’t be a fool, he said, you’re as sober as I. And seeing her fear, he said to her gently, don’t worry. I’ll look after you.
They walked quickly in the cold night air to Anna’s home, and he left her there at the gate. She was feeling better, and said to him, it was worth it, Pieter, you gave me a lovely time. Then she leaned over the gate and kissed him, and he watched her go in, quietly and carefully; yet even though she was anxious, she gave him a wave from the door.
Then he walked back home, and turning off van Onselen Street, he bumped against the iron standard at the corner of the fence, and knew he had drunk too much. But he did not care, for the world was good and happy, and the black mood of the day seemed foolishness, and he was full of power. The black boy Richard brought him his food, and he drank the soup but waved away the rest with distaste, for it had been spoiled by the waiting. He waved away the pudding too, and cut some bread and cheese to have with his coffee. Then he went to the cupboard and got out the brandy that Nella kept against sickness, and poured himself a drink. Then he went into the study and got one of the cigarettes that he kept for visitors, and when he had finished the bread and cheese, he sipped at the coffee and brandy, and smoked the cigarette.
Then he went to the telephone and rang up Kappie, and told him he could not come, having had such a day, but that he would come tomorrow. And the time was half-past seven. Then he went up to his room, and took off his uniform, and put on his flannels and his old jacket of the brown tweed. But he did not look at the beds, his or Nella’s, nor even the beds of the children. And he put on his overcoat too, and came down again, and locked the front door after him, and stood a moment at the gate.
And the whole town was still and dark, but for the sound that the wind makes in the trees.
And he did not go to van Onselen Street, but away from it, and turned right and right, and crossed over van Onselen Street where it is dark, away from the three pools of light. And he came to the place where the bluegums are, and the kakiebos weed in the vacant ground. And he stood there waiting in the dark, with the mad sickness and the fear.
And there, God forgive him, he possessed her.
AND WHEN SHE HAD GONE, quietly and carefully through the weeds, he stayed there in the dark, and knelt there at the foot of one of the blue-gum trees, and put his head against the trunk, and prayed to God in Heaven. And before each thing that he prayed, he said in a humble agony, indien ek mag, indien ek mag, which is, if I may pray, if I may pray; so that if it were presumption, and God did not wish to hear his prayers, then at least he might be pardoned for the praying. For he had a vision that a trumpet had been blown in Heaven, and that the Lord Most High had ordered the closing of the doors, that no prayer might enter in from such a man, who knowing the laws and the commandments, had, of his own choice and will, defied them.
And while he was praying, if he might pray, he heard a twig crack loudly in the vacant ground, and was filled with terror. He stayed where he was, like a man caught in a great trap of dark, full of his enemies, with eyes that could see in the blackness, watching and waiting, but doing nothing so that they might torment him. How long he stayed there he could not remember, but though he strained his ears, he could hear no other sound; and if there were a watcher, he was as silent and as still.
Then he fell again to praying, and made sacred vows, that if there were no watcher in the dark, he would give his life to God. And the brandy he would never touch again. And he would give the rugby and
his great fame and honour, and be humble and loyal and unknown, if only there were no watcher in the dark. And he would cease tormenting Nella, to give him something that he now saw was selfish and of the flesh. And when his father died, and he received his portion, he would keep half of it for Nella and the children, and half he would give away, if only there were no watcher in the dark.
And how long he stayed there he could not remember, but at last he rose and came out of the vacant ground. And his body and his clothes stank with the kakiebos, which stinking was a symbol of his corruption, so that in his going he feared that the stench of it would go through the town, and bring men and women from every house, to find him and know what he had done. He walked slowly away from van Onselen Street, and turned left and left, and came back into van Onselen Street, far from the pools of light, and turned again there and took the broad road that goes into the grass country, south to Natal and Zululand. Then he walked faster and faster, thinking only to get away from the town. He was a mile or more from the town, where the road runs past the farm Verdriet, which is Sorrow, because husband and wife had trekked there a hundred years before, and no sooner did they reach there after the great sufferings than the woman died, leaving the man alone. And there a car came along the road from Venterspan, and in a moment he was in terror, and was up the bank and burying his body in the grass. And had the car stopped, his heart would have stopped too, but it went on into the dark; and as he lay there trembling, he thought of his contemptible estate.
Then he climbed through the fence, on to the farm which is called Sorrow, and sat there amongst the oxen, some lying down, and some moving and pulling at the grass, and some standing with the cud, and all at peace after their labour. And he saw that they were holy and obedient beasts, and envied them. And for another thing he envied them too, and later wrote it down in his secret book.