A Blade of Grass (26 page)

M
ÄRIT IS IN THE KITCHEN
preparing a cup of tea when she sees Tembi walking past the window with a red plastic pail in her hand.

Märit opens the window and calls out, “I’m making tea. Do you want some?”

“Later.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the river.” She raises the red pail.

“Don’t we have enough water for now?”

“Just one more,” Tembi says. Just one for her garden.

Märit carries her cup through to the living room and eases her aching body into an armchair. The carrying of the buckets together with her lack of sleep in the night has left her very weary. She shuts her eyes, dozing, her cup of tea forgotten, weariness overcoming her.

A shape appears in the doorway, a silhouette dark against the outside glare, waking Märit.

“Tembi?”

The figure steps into the room. A man.

The sudden fright brings her out of the chair. “Who are you?” she exclaims in a sharp, alarmed voice. “What do you want?”

He steps farther into the room and she shrinks back from him.

“What do you want?” Märit cries, squinting against the light to see his face.

“
Ek soek werk
, Missus.” It is the phrase that every wanderer uses when accosted by a landowner, by an official. It is what every black person in an
unaccustomed place says when questioned by a white person in this country—I’m looking for work.

“Work? There is no work here.”

He takes another step into the room; Märit retreats, but still blocks his way. He is visible to her now—a young man, slim, with ropy muscles in his arms, dressed in a checked shirt, quite new, and a pair of khaki trousers.

He studies the room, trying to see into the rest of the house over Märit’s shoulder. His eyes have an alert, inquisitive look.

Märit is frightened of him, but her fear makes her bold.

“Don’t you know to knock when you come to a house?”

“No, I knocked, Missus. Maybe you didn’t hear me.” He smiles at her, white teeth bright against his smooth, dark face.

She knows without doubt that he is the one she saw yesterday, the quick darting movement out there on the veldt. He has been watching the house, and now he has come.

“Well, you should knock louder. What do you want?”

“Like I said, Missus, I’m looking for work, here on this farm.”

“There is no work here. I told you. We don’t need anyone.” She takes a step towards him, her tone resolute, trying to force him to step back, because she is afraid of him, of his insolent smile, and her fear makes her determined. But he does not step back. He looks around the room again with his earnest curiosity, and he smiles at her again, confident, almost mocking, so that she is aware that her boldness and her authority mean nothing to him. He knows she is alone.

“I’m noticing, Missus, that there is nobody working on the fields in this farm. Nothing is growing. I see that the locusts have been here. There is nobody cleaning up around the place. I can do these things. I can help you do these things.”

“We don’t need help. The Baas does what needs to be done.”

“Only I’m not seeing the Baas. I don’t see him.”

“He is in town, with the field boys. They will be back soon. He will tell you that we don’t need any help.”

“I don’t see anybody for a long time, Missus. There is no smoke from the kraal; I don’t see the men in the fields. No cattle. Where are they? I ask
myself. No, I don’t see them. I’m thinking you are alone on this farm. You are needing my help.”

How many days has he been watching the farm? she wonders.

He steps farther into the room, no longer on the threshold, crossing a line, and she can’t prevent herself recoiling from him. She smells him now, the smell of countryside, of wood smoke, of sweat, of the dust of travel. And she cannot help but shrink away from him.

He smiles again, confident. “You are alone.”

She darts her eyes towards the office. The shotgun is there, above the cupboard. How many steps will it take to reach the gun? But is it loaded? She can’t remember if she replaced the cartridges after she fired at Joshua.

The stranger follows her glance, attentive, curious.

Her heart is racing and she tries to keep her voice from shaking. “You must leave at once. Don’t you know that you’ll have trouble if they find you here?”

“Trouble?”

“The police. The soldiers. They are here all the time looking for people.”

A slight frown of doubt flickers across his face. “I’m not seeing any soldiers. For a long time. I think they have gone also.”

“No, they were here just the other day. They took the workers away. They shot a man.”

He considers this news, regarding her with a suspicion that pinches his face, and he suddenly looks very young to Märit, a boy only.

But then he shakes his head impatiently, and his voice changes, and there is an edge of menace in his voice.

“This is a big farm, maybe you have something for me?”

Not a question, but a demand. And the threat beneath it, the implication that he can take what he wants.

Is it money that he wants? She restrains the impulse to look towards the office again, where the last of the money is hidden. Should she give him some money and send him on his way? But what is to stop him taking it all, taking everything? Where is Tembi? Should she call for Tembi?

“There is nothing here. You can see that. It’s a poor farm.”

“I am hungry. You can give me something to eat, Missus.”

In normal times she would say, Yes, go round to the kitchen and I will tell the cook to give you something. But those times are over. He knows it as well as she does.

“Anything,” the stranger says. “A sip of tea. I am thirsty, I have walked a long way.”

“Where do you come from?”

A jerk of his chin over his shoulder. “That way.”

Anywhere, everywhere.

“All right,” she relents. “All right, I’ll find something for you to eat. But then you have to go, you can’t stay. The police are always here, looking for people. They could come at any time.”

He looks past Märit at a sound from the corridor behind her. She spins around. Oh God, she thinks, there is more than one of them! Images flash through her mind—of the worst that can happen to a woman trapped alone in a house by desperate strangers.

The figure in the corridor materializes as Tembi. Märit’s knees almost buckle with relief. “Tembi!”

Tembi looks from Märit, alarmed at her almost pitiful cry, and to the young stranger, who now smiles at her and raises an open palm.

“
Sawubona
, sister. I greet you.”

He speaks rapidly to her, leaning forward, but his language is unfamiliar to Tembi; it is a language from the north, which she does not understand. She replies in her own language, asking him where he has come from, and what his name is. But he shakes his head. He does not understand her.

“He speaks English,” Märit says.

“Yes, we can speak English,” he says. “I am Khoza.” He extends his hand to Tembi.

When he turns to Märit, she pointedly puts her hands in her pockets.

Tembi frowns at her. “And this is Märit.”

He holds out his hand, waiting, smiling faintly, until Märit has no choice but to shake it.

“Where are you coming from, Khoza?” Tembi asks.

“I have walked from Swartkloof, from across the border.”

“Such a long way! And where do you go?”

“Anywhere. Away from the war.” He seems just a boy now, no threat or menace in him—just another wanderer.

“I was just going to give him some food,” Märit interrupts. “To take with him. Before the soldiers come back.”

“What soldiers?” Tembi asks. “The soldiers have been again?”

“They could come back at any time.”

“I haven’t seen any soldiers for a long time now, Missus,” Khoza says. “You don’t have to worry. There are no soldiers in this district.”

“They could come back at any time,” she repeats. “We will make you up some food for your journey.”

“But he can’t go back out there if the soldiers are around,” Tembi objects. “Did you see soldiers today, Märit?”

Märit pushes past them towards the kitchen. “Come and get your food,” she calls to the young man. Tembi hurries after her.

In the kitchen Tembi moves the kettle over the burner and throws a couple of pieces of coal into the stove, then stokes up the fire.

Märit brings rusks and jam from the pantry. “I don’t want him in the house longer than is necessary.”

“I can do it,” Tembi says, grabbing the plates from her.

Märit shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She sits down at the table.

Khoza leans in the doorway. “You have a cigarette for me, Missus Märit?”

His voice has a slight insolence. He is aware that a rift has opened between the two women, and he is aware that he is the cause.

Märit slides the cigarette package across the table. He takes one and bows slightly to her.

“Can you give me a match, Missus?”

Tembi turns and looks at them, sensing the tension. “You don’t have to say ‘Missus’ all the time.”

Märit slides matches across the table. Khoza lights his cigarette and blows out a stream of smoke. “Thank you, Märit.”

Tembi sets out a plate with rusks and a sliced apple. “Please sit, Khoza. I’m sorry, we don’t have much.”

When he sits, Märit moves to stand at the counter.

Tembi sits across from him as he eats hungrily. He devours the rusks in
a couple of bites and she sets out more for him. And when he has eaten the apple, she fetches another one from the bowl and slices it onto his plate.

“Thank you, Tembi,” he says courteously. “I have been hungry these past days.”

She smiles at him, and Märit sees that she is flattered by his courtesy. “What is happening out there? What have you seen?”

“There is war.”

“Where? What kind of war? Have you been near the town—Klipspring?”

He shrugs and avoids her eye. “Everywhere it’s the same. War.”

“Are there people in the town, on the farms?”

“There are no people. That is why I am coming here, Missus.” He looks up at Märit. “Because I am hungry and thirsty.” He says this with a kind of pleading in his voice, and she sees the boy in his face again, the boy masquerading as a man. When he looks at Märit there is something impudent in his grin, as if he knows that she cannot tell him to leave now.

His presence in the room is an affront to Märit. She does not want him here with her and Tembi. She does not trust him, because she remembers the way he looked around the room when he first came into the house, and she remembers the way he came in on silent feet, and the way he talked to her, almost with a threat in his voice. She does not want a stranger in her house.

When he has finished eating he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tilts his head back to drain the last of his tea. Both women watch the working of his smooth brown throat as he swallows.

Tembi glances quickly at Märit, then rises to gather the plates and cup and carry them to the sink.

“I can wash those,” Khoza says, jumping to his feet and taking the plate from her hands. He turns the taps on over the sink. The faucets gurgle.

Märit moves away slightly. “There is no water,” she says. “You have to use the water in the bucket.”

“Why don’t you have water?” he asks.

“We do. We bring it up from the river.”

“No, but you don’t have water in the taps.”

“Something is broken in the pump,” Tembi interjects. She points out
the window. “There in the windmill. The pump isn’t working so the water doesn’t come out of the taps here.”

Khoza steps over to the window. “I can fix that. I know machines. I can fix that for you.” He turns back to them. “Then you won’t have to go to the river.”

“Don’t bother yourself,” Märit says. “It’s no trouble for us to go to the river for water.”

“No, but I can fix it for you. You have given me food and now I can do something for you.”

“Come on,” Tembi says to him. “I’ll show you where the pump is.” She glares at Märit, offended at her evident rudeness, and goes out with Khoza.

F
ROM THE WINDOW
Märit watches the two figures at the base of the windmill.

The young man turns and points at the house and Tembi nods. Are they talking about her? Märit wonders. He puts his hand on Tembi’s shoulder for a moment. Märit can almost see his smile, the insolent smile when directed at her, but now charming when he turns to Tembi. He leans closer to Tembi and says something to her, and they both look up at the house. Märit scowls and steps back from the window.

When Tembi enters the kitchen, Märit turns her back, pretending to be busy with the dishes.

“He says he needs some tools. A wrench and a hammer.”

“Why?”

“He is going to fix the pump for us. Don’t you want that?”

Märit shrugs. “There are tools in the generator shed. On the bench by the door. And see if he can fix the generator too if he is such a genius.”

As Tembi turns to leave, Märit rushes over and grabs her arm. “I don’t want him here!”

“But why not?”

“Why is he here? What is he doing wandering the countryside on his own? You don’t know who he is. Or what he wants.”

“Does he want anything?”

“He’s probably on the run from some trouble that he’s got into.”

“If he is in trouble then we should help him.”

“I don’t trust him. I think he’s been watching the house the past few days. I’ve seen someone.”

Tembi looks at Märit disbelievingly. “Why do you say this now?”

“I didn’t want to worry you before. It was for your sake, Tembi.”

“And you said that the soldiers had been. Did you see any soldiers?”

“He cannot stay in this house, so don’t invite him.”

“Why not? There is room—that small room where the sewing machine is. You can put a bed in there.”

“No. If he wants to stay then he can sleep in the kraal.”

“Why are you like this, Märit? You were kind to Michael.”

“That was different. I don’t trust this Khoza.”

Tembi shakes her head and slams the door as she leaves.

Märit watches from the window, sees Tembi bringing him the tools, and the familiar way he puts his hand on her shoulder again. The girl standing there ready to hand the man the tools—patient, helpful. And when Tembi hands him the tools, Märit imagines the touching of their hands.

Oh, he is a sly one, she thinks. He knows exactly what he is doing. Of course Tembi will side with him, against her. Tembi will trust him, will treat him as a familiar.

She watches as he crouches at the machinery of the pump, and Tembi leans over him, resting her hand on his back as she peers forward.

Why should Tembi not trust him? After all, she only sees his smile, not the sly darting glances around the room when he first entered the house, not the silent way he sneaked in. Nor did she hear the veiled threat in his voice when he asked for food.

A sudden hissing sound behind her makes Märit jump. The taps above the sink give a splutter and gurgle, then water gushes out the faucet. From the pump house a shout of triumph sounds across the yard.

The stream of water from the tap is silty brown, with the faint smell of iron, but in a moment it runs clear, and Märit puts her hands into the flow, into the cool, earth-deep flow, and she scoops the water onto her face, glad to have the cool, sweet water again.

Despite her mistrust of Khoza she is glad to have the water again, glad not to have to carry buckets from the river and to boil the river water before drinking it. She is glad not to have to clean herself in the river, or wash her clothes in the river. But she resents him still, as she hears the
laughter and the triumph in his voice as he returns to the house, laughing with Tembi. Even though he has brought the water back she resents him.

He walks in laughing, proud. “You see, Märit,” he exclaims, pointing to the flowing taps. “I can fix it. I told you.”

She resents his pride, his boasting, and she cannot bring herself to thank him. And when he moves towards the sink, she steps away from him.

Khoza plunges his hands into the flow of water. “See!” he exclaims. “Aren’t you happy now?”

Märit shrugs.

“You should be,” Tembi mutters. “You should be glad.”

“I am,” she answers grudgingly, then turns to Khoza. “Where did you learn your skills with machinery?”

“I have been to school. Technical apprentice.”

“And where was that?”

“In another place.” He laughs, reaching for a glass, which he holds under the tap before raising it to his mouth. When he drinks, tilting back his head, a thin stream of water trickles along his chin and down his smooth, upturned throat.

Märit looks away, offended by the vitality and the health that emanates from him, offended by the vigorous male life in him. She does not want to acknowledge him. She leaves the room.

Later, in the coolness of the dusk, she wanders aimlessly through the orchard, asking herself how things are going to change now, for she knows they will change. But she finds no answer and eventually walks back up to the house. She does not enter but sits in the wicker rocking chair on the veranda.

Night is coming, another day ending. Swallows dip and dart in the air like bits of shadow themselves, feeding on the insects hovering in the fading light.

She senses rather than sees when Tembi comes to stand in the open doorway. After a while Märit turns and looks at her but cannot gauge Tembi’s expression in the fading light.

“Where is your friend?” Märit says.

“He is working again on the pump. It needs more fixing.”

“Did you ask him about the generator?”

“He looked at it. He will try to fix it tomorrow.”

“I suppose that means he is going to sleep here tonight.”

“And why not?” Tembi says.

“He can sleep in the kraal.”

“No, we have room enough here. Khoza can sleep in the house.”

“Tembi, I don’t trust him.”

“If it was one of your neighbors, would you turn them away? If it was one of your people from the town?”

“You know that’s not what I mean. It’s not about his color. I just don’t want any more trouble here. For us.”

“Then don’t make any trouble where there is none.” She swings away, and Märit slumps back into her chair with a sigh of defeat.

Dinner is maize porridge, carrots, and canned beef. Märit prepares the meal. She counts the few remaining cans on the shelf. Soon there will be none. And now another mouth to feed.

“Can I help you, Märit?” Tembi asks, poking her head through the door, her tone conciliatory.

“You can peel the carrots, please. Where is Khoza?”

“I think he is on the veranda.”

“You should call him in for dinner.”

“Märit?”

“Yes.”

“You mustn’t worry about him. He is not a bad person. He is here because he has nothing. He is like Michael, lost. It’s not so hard to be nice to him, is it?”

“I suppose you are right, Tembi.” She smiles wanly, resolving not to let her anxiety get the better of her. “It just makes me nervous to have someone else in the house. I’m not used to it. Go and call him to dinner now.”

“W
HERE DID YOU GROW UP
, Khoza?” Märit asks as they sit at the table. “What is your home language?”

“I speak Shona.”

“But your English is very good.”

“I have had some schooling. I have worked at many jobs. I have been to a lot of places. I know many things.”

“What sort of things?” Märit says, unable to keep an edge of sarcasm out of her voice.

“You ask me a lot of questions, Märit.” He pushes his chair back and carries his mug to the sink.

“I’m just curious.”

Later, before she retires to her room, Märit says to Tembi, “You can make up a bed for him in the sewing room. There is a folding cot in the cupboard.” She locks her door. Just before she blows out her candle she rises from the bed and presses her ear to the door, listening to the low murmur of Khoza’s voice and the soft laughter of Tembi. She makes sure the door is locked, then blows out the candle.

K
HOZA IS AT THE STOVE
, an apron tied around his waist, when Märit enters the kitchen.

“Good morning, Märit! You have slept well? Tea is ready.”

She nods at him, not particularly pleased at this image of domesticity, and leans over to see what he is cooking. Six eggs are jostling in a pot of boiling water.

“Eggs! Where were you able to get eggs?”

“I saw a chicken in the bushes, I followed her, I found her nest.” He points at the pot. “And I found eggs for you.”

“An ordinary chicken? Not something wild?”

“Just a hen like you find on any farm. But I see that you don’t keep any chickens on this farm.”

“We did have some. They were all killed by some kind of animal.” For a moment she looks at him suspiciously. Could he be responsible for killing the chickens? But then she dismisses the thought from her mind. It happened ages ago. If Khoza had been lurking around the farm back then he would have shown himself much sooner. Her suspicion brings back a memory of looking at the windmill pump and finding the workings loose,
recently unscrewed. Could he have staged the whole thing, broken the pump, and then repaired it to ingratiate himself here?

Märit pours herself tea. “So cooking is another one of your talents?”

“There are many things I can do. You need a houseboy on this farm, Missus? I can do everything.”

“No, we don’t need a houseboy.”

Tembi appears in the doorway, bleary-eyed. “Good morning,” she mumbles, and yawns. When she reaches up to cover her mouth, her morning robe falls open, revealing a glimpse of smooth belly and the roundness of one breast.

Khoza’s eyes are quick to notice, Märit observes. How long, she wonders, did they stay up last night, talking together? How late did Tembi sit up flirting with this stranger who comes from nowhere?

“Can’t you dress before coming to breakfast, Tembi?” Märit remarks.

Tembi yawns again and looks at Märit uncomprehendingly. “Breakfast is ready,” Khoza says. “Sit down, Tembi, my sister. I have made you breakfast.”

Tembi looks pleased, and flattered, as he brings her a plate of rusks and eggs, then pours her a cup of tea. He sets a second plate in front of Märit.

They eat breakfast in silence, Khoza looking from Tembi to Märit with his eager glance. “The eggs are good?” he asks.

“Very good,” Tembi answers. Märit merely nods.

When she has finished, Märit gathers the plates and cups and carries them to the sink. Khoza springs up and take them from her hands. “I can wash these for you.”

“I’ll do it myself.” She is determined to resist him. “If you are so keen to do something then you can help us in the garden,” she tells him. “You did say you were looking for work, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Missus. I am looking for a job.”

“Now that the pump is running again we can make sure that the vegetable garden gets water. And the irrigation ditches have to be cleared again. We have to undo the damage that the locusts did. I’m sure you know how to do garden work. And our generator, it’s broken.”

“Of course, Märit. I can fix it. I can do everything.”

“You’d better get dressed now, Tembi. We all have to work.”