A Blade of Grass (27 page)

T
HERE IS ALWAYS
work to be done on a farm, even a farm as diminished as this one. The land will not feed even three people without constant attention. The vegetable garden must be reconstituted, more seeds must be planted. The dried cattle manure in the fields has to be gathered as fertilizer; fallen branches must be collected for firewood; the mealies in the storage shed must be set out in the sun to dry so that the kernels can be ground into flour for porridge. And now that the water runs again from the pump, the irrigation ditches have to be maintained so that the water can feed the plants.

“Have you looked at the generator?” Märit asks Khoza when he appears later. “Can you fix it?”

“No. The alternator coil is burned out. It must be replaced. Something like that cannot be fixed. Even I cannot fix it.” He spreads his hands apologetically.

“Never mind, we don’t need it. There is lots of paraffin for the lamps. And we have candles. It’s more important to get the vegetables growing again.”

Khoza is adept with the spade and the hoe. He works quickly and methodically, faster than both women. Märit increases the tempo of her labors, determined not to be outdone.

The day progresses, the sun rises higher in a cloudless sky, the heat beats down on the three people with a steady, relentless intensity. Märit loses herself in the motions of her labor, in the repetitive actions, the growing heat, the sense of nothing else existing except this patch of land
where she shovels and digs. The sweat trickles down her face, a white haze seems to surround her, the landscape disappears.

The sound of Khoza’s spade comes to her through the white haze, and she matches her own motions to his, trying to surpass him. If he works hard, she will work harder. She will not let him have even a small victory over her.

The sweat runs into her eyes, stinging, and she shakes her head, rubbing her forehead across her upper arm. When she raises her eyes the sun is there, a white-hot disk beating down. Her throat is dry, aching. Dizziness suddenly overcomes her so that she drops her hoe and sinks to her knees. The earth seems to spin beneath her feet and she has to put her palms on the ground to still the motion.

She looks up and sees that Khoza has taken off his shirt and is leaning on his hoe looking into the distance. His face is lost in shadow.

Tembi stands some yards away, a slack, dazed look on her face, her mouth half open. The heat is unbearable.

Khoza seems unaffected by the heat, although the sweat shines on his skin. Everything centers on him now, Märit realizes. His presence is at the core of their awareness. He stands, seemingly unaware of them, in the heart of the white haze of heat. A gleam of perspiration shines in the narrow channel down the middle of his back, following the contour of his spine, and disappears beneath the waistband of his trousers.

Märit wipes the sweat away from her eyes and squints at the man standing in the sun. She sees him in the abstract, not as Khoza, but only as a man, his body bared, the thin gleam of moisture trickling down his spine, shining on the brown skin. She forgets who he is and sees only a man, and he is beautiful to her, a thing of beauty.

The sweat blurs her vision and stings her eyes, and she sees the dark shape of the young man standing in the center of the world with his skin shining. The same way that Dollar’s skin glistened when he came out of the pool, when she was a girl, when she touched his skin and he smelled of mimosa.

Märit wipes her dusty hand across her eyes, and she smells mimosa blossom in the air and she sees the naked man.

Turning her head slowly in the white haze that surrounds her, Märit looks at Tembi. Tembi too is gazing at Khoza as if mesmerized. Then she shifts her eyes and they meet Märit’s. Something unspoken passes between the two women—a knowledge of themselves as women, defined by their relation to the man. They see the knowledge of his nakedness in each other’s eyes.

Then Tembi lays down her shovel, and goes to the man, and says to him, “Are you thirsty? I will fetch some water.”

He turns to her, and his eyes focus and become aware of her, and he nods.

“I will fetch you some water,” Tembi says, touching his arm. As she steps away, it seems to Märit that Tembi’s hand trails across Khoza’s back—a brief touch, almost casual. But a touch. She does not look at Märit as she walks past.

Märit struggles to her feet and wields her hoe energetically, hacking at the weeds with fury, the blade of the hoe ringing on the cement of the irrigation ditch. Cicadas buzz in the long, dry grass—a piercing, grating sound, like metal grinding on metal. The noise fills her head, the serrated legs of the insects rubbing against each other like the teeth of a saw, teeth meshing on metallic teeth. The sun strikes the blade of the hoe as she wields it against the earth. Light hammers on steel, a steady hammering that pulses with the beat of the blood in her head. Around her the landscape shimmers and bends and tilts. The figure of the man at the center of it. The heat of his skin, the stickiness of the perspiration, her fingertip touching the sweat. And somewhere the scent of mimosa.

Märit turns her head up to the white sky and sees its emptiness descending upon her. She succumbs to it, sinking to her knees, bowing her head to the ground. Then the world tilts and the white sky strikes her flat, so that she falls, and tastes the bitterness that is in her mouth.

Märit smells mimosa. There is a pool of blue water, and the mimosa blossoms surrounding it, and from the blue depths of the water the man’s face surfaces.

“Märit, Märit!” he calls to her from the cool, blue water, with his laughing eyes.

She lifts her head to go to him, but the haze envelops her and she falls back into the dry heat.

He lifts his hands and cups the water for her. “Drink.”

The liquid touches her lips and spills over, and his fingers brush away the spill and touch her lips, and his palm is cool against her lips.

“Please,” Märit says, appealing to him as the haze descends upon her.

Khoza and Tembi carry Märit into the house and lay her down in her bedroom. Tembi draws the curtains shut to block out the daylight, throwing the room into shadow. She fetches a bowl of cool water and a cloth, and sits next to Märit, bathing her face gently with the cool water.

“Bring me a glass of water,” she whispers to Khoza.

He cradles Märit’s head, lifting it slightly, and she sips the water, then moans and falls back. Tembi smoothes the damp cloth across Märit’s fevered brow.

“Is she sick?” Khoza asks quietly.

“Too much sun,” Tembi murmurs. “She must rest indoors, away from the sun.”

In the white-hot light, in the long, dry grass, the cicadas shrill, like metal beating on metal, and somewhere, the smell of mimosa lingers.

M
ÄRIT WAKES
and glances at the bedside clock. Nine o’clock. Experiencing a moment of confusion at the hour, she draws aside the curtains and sees the sun in the east, not overhead where it had been. She remembers fainting. But how long has she slept? She is dazed, but curiously alert to her surroundings, and very hungry. In the kitchen she finds fruit, rusks, cold mealie-pap, and she eats ravenously. There is tea in the pot.

Khoza is on the veranda, lounging in the rocker with his feet up on the railing, when Märit comes out with her cup. She feels a tremor move across her skin at the sight of him, a strange pang of apprehension and anticipation.

“Where is Tembi?” she asks.

He makes a lazy gesture with his arm. Märit sits down in the farthest chair.

“You are better?” he asks after a moment. “You slept a long time.”

“Yes.”

“Too much sun.” He chuckles. “Your skin is the wrong color for the African sun. Maybe you should wear a hat.”

She looks away from him and sips her tea.

“You like that tea, Märit? I made it for you.”

“It’s fine.”

“But I didn’t make any breakfast for you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of making my own.”

“Yes.” He sits in silence for a while, turning his head every so often to look at her. She does not look back. Then he says, “Soon there will be no more food. Just mealie-pap and what you have in tins.”

“In that case I will go to Klipspring and find some more.”

“No, you won’t find anything there.”

“Why not?”

He turns the corners of his mouth down. “The people who lived there, they took all their food with them when they left. Everything. From the shops, from the houses.”

“You were there? Why did they leave? What’s happened?”

“Too close to the war. So everybody is leaving.”

The news frightens her, even though she has suspected something all along from the total absence of a single visitor all these months. An image comes to her mind of the church in Klipspring, and the graveyard where Ben is buried, now abandoned, weeds growing, the town deserted. Except for the wanderers—like Michael, and Khoza.

“I can find you food,” Khoza says.

“How?”

“I can hunt. For meat. With your gun.”

“My gun?”

“Every farm has a gun. You can give me yours.” He smiles at her now, the insolent smile that says he knows her. “There are antelope out there in the bush. I can go and shoot a
rooibok
if I have a gun.”

“There is still lots of mealie meal, and fruit.”

“A man needs meat. And a gun.”

“You know about guns?”

He extends a finger at her. “Bang, bang.”

“Is that something else you learned in school?”

The smile drops from his face. “You still want to know about my life, Märit? You want to know about life across the border? You want to know about the freedom fighters and the war?”

“Oh, are you going to tell me now that you are a freedom fighter? Is it something heroic like that?”

“Fighting for the land—to take it back. All of it. Even this farm here.”

Märit sneers. “Why aren’t you off fighting for freedom now?”

He gives a knowing nod. “I was trained. Many people have died already.”

“At your hands?” she asks. “My husband was killed not that long ago. By terrorists. Saboteurs. You know that word? They put a bomb in the road and when his car drove over it he was blown to pieces. I suppose some freedom fighter put it there. Someone who was trained. They probably didn’t even see who they killed. It could have been a busload of children, or a group of workers being taken to the fields. Anyone, really. Luckily it turned out to be a farmer, one Afrikaaner less! Isn’t that what they say, your freedom fighters—one bullet, one Boer?”

Khoza says nothing.

“Is that what you were trained in?” Märit asks. After a moment she adds, “I don’t think you were trained in anything. You probably stole something from your last employer and had to run away. And now it’s easier for you to come and live off two women.”

In one swift movement he swings his feet off the railing and springs to his feet, advancing on her with clenched fists. His look is murderous.

Märit flinches, but does not move from her chair.

Then he laughs. “You want to make the black man angry, eh, Missus? Be careful, he is angry enough.” He collapses back into his chair, relaxing his legs on the railing again.

Märit leaves him sitting there and walks through to the office, where she retrieves a key from the back of the drawer and unlocks the cupboard. The yellow box of cartridges is on the top shelf. Märit takes out the shotgun from the back of the cupboard and counts out three cartridges. One to miss, one to hit, one to make sure.

Khoza looks up as Märit steps out onto the veranda with the gun in her hands. His eyes widen, because the long barrels are pointing straight at
him. He swivels his upper body to face her and grips the armrests of the chair, but remains seated.

Märit stops about six feet away and points the weapon at Khoza. Where is your smile now? she wants to say. You think you can come here and have this farm? On your feet, she could say, and go back to wherever it is you came from.

Her face is cold, hard, and he sees the intent in her eyes. The fear is visible on his face. Perhaps he has gambled on her and lost.

Märit feels it would take nothing to shoot him. One gesture, one word. She could shoot him for Ben. She is ready, poised, calm, like an ax ready to fall.

She waits for him to prompt her, to give her a reason to shoot.

The fear in his face is naked, because he sees the intent behind her eyes.

Märit sees his fear, the fear of a boy who has blustered that he is a man, and has failed at his gamble. She sees the boy who has left his home and wanders across the veldt, a stranger. With an abrupt gesture she swings the barrels upright and thrusts the gun towards Khoza. He jerks away from her.

“Take it,” she says. “You wanted a gun. Take it.”

He reaches for the gun, gingerly at first, looking up at her. He sights along the barrel, aiming out across the veldt, then slowly swings the gun around to point at Märit.

This is a different story, she thinks, with a different ending.

“Is it loaded?” he asks, the beginning of a sly smile spreading across his face.

“What do you think?”

His finger curls around the trigger. “I don’t think it’s loaded.”

“Try it and see.”

Khoza studies her over the barrel. Märit waits. He is unsure of her now.

“You would have shot me?” he asks.

Märit smiles finally, and opens her hand, revealing the three cartridges in her palm. Khoza blinks and squeezes the trigger, and the hammer falls with a click that makes them both flinch.

Märit lets the cartridges fall into Khoza’s lap. “Go and see what you can kill with these.”

“Only three?”

“One for each of us. You said you were a crack shot.”

He loads the cartridges into the shotgun and sights down the barrel again, then pats the stock with his hand, and beams at her like a boy with a new plaything. “I will bring us meat. You will see, Märit.”

He shoulders the gun and steps off the veranda.

Märit watches him go. This is what it is now, she thinks—a young man hurrying across the veldt with a gun on his shoulder. This is how the landscape will look from now on.