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earned. It is a just reward I m entitled to in terms of my economic
contract with the land: that I m allowed to take from it what I can;
and that, in return, the capital I ve earned with my know-how and
hard work be used to stimulate the economic development of the
underprivileged to the point where they can assume greater respon-
sibility for themselves. In this way the country at large benefits
from it.
My people and I have come a long way to where we are I ll come
back to this in due course and we shall continue to fight for our
right to be here, if it is necessary. We know only too well what it
means to be powerless and exploited and oppressed in our own coun-
try. It s time we started reaping the fruit of our labor. And I am pre-
pared to make any reasonable change or concession to ensure that I
retain what I ve acquired with so much effort.
This is no mere abstraction. I experience it daily. Sometimes it
gives me an almost voluptuous feeling to take off my shoes and
walk barefoot on the incredibly thick pile of the carpet in my hotel
room. Or to phone down for a light snack at one or two in the
53
A NDRÉ B RI NK
morning. Or to contact an agency to send round a masseuse. For
however much, through the years, I ve grown accustomed to these
luxuries, nothing can ever obliterate the memories of being a bare-
foot boy limping to school on cracked footsoles on the frosted earth
in winter, or stepping in chicken shit in summer, or breaking my
shins in the erosion ditch among the pepper trees. When I nurse
my glass of whisky, I remember Granny s homemade lemon juice
on the farm, or opening my mouth to the warm jet of milk straight
from the cow s udder, or making clay oxen to pull our toy cars fash-
ioned out of sardine cans. I remember ash-cakes and golden syrup,
or collecting eggs, or baking a sheep s head in an antheap; ghost sto-
ries, and wanking off behind the shed to see who could shoot the
farthest; and Grandpa s booming voice reading And have not char-
ity at evening prayers, and swimming bare-arsed in the dam on the
farm together with all the other Black and White boys of the
neighborhood.
It was in that very dam I came closer to death than I d ever been
in my life until earlier this year: when, one Sunday afternoon, I went
in too far trying to retrieve a boat of tin and planks the others had
warned me not to, but I d paid no attention and suddenly began
to sink into the soft clay, unable to pull loose. I started shouting for
help. The others took fright and ran off. By the time the mud was
up to my hips I was getting hysterical. And then one boy came back
into the water to help me, a Black piccanin, I believe his name was
Mpilo but we used to call him Pieletjie, which means Prick, because
at the age of twelve or thirteen he already had a penis which, even
in its flaccid state, dangled down halfway to his knees. He grabbed
hold of me. We nearly went down together into that slimy mud. But
in the end he managed to pull me out and I rewarded him with a
shilling (although he really wanted my new pocket knife). All these
memories are intimately mine and I can t deny them. Without them
I would not have been me. Even in my dreams they return to me.
54
R UMORS OF R AI N
It had been planned as  our weekend. What we really needed was
another week like the one in the red bungalow at Ponta do Ouro, but
we were both too busy to break away. (In addition to her work at the
University she was helping out, as on some previous occasions, with
Afrikaans lessons in a Soweto school.) In the circumstances even a
brief weekend suggested paradise. Then it became imperative for me
to go to the farm before His Excellency, Minister Calitz, could sab-
otage the deal; so I had to phone her to cancel our plans.
 Is it because of the riots at Westonaria? she asked.
 No. I ve got to go to the farm.
 Your mother ill?
 No. It s on business.
There followed a long pause before she said:  I see.
 I ll tell you all about it later.
She didn t reply.
 I ll be back by Monday night. So I can see you on Tuesday.
 All right.
 Why do you sound so negative?
 I m not negative. I m used to taking second place. That s my
 role , isn t it?
 Please, Bea.
 I m sorry. I didn t mean to I suppose if you ve really got to go
there s nothing else to be said.
She was in her flat in the dilapidated old block in Berea, sheltered
from the narrow uphill street by a row of jacarandas. She would be
standing by the window. I could almost visualize her, with her back
turned to me. The inclination of her neck, the narrow shoulders and
hips, long legs; barefoot, most likely. In those familiar surroundings
her eyes would not need the protection of the sunglasses. The  woman
of thirty, with all the experience of winters and summers; all the
superfluities of adolescence and spring stripped away; no need for
55
A NDRÉ B RI NK
deviation or illusion, unashamed about the sincerity of either desire
or disgust. Essentially naked, exposed to light and pain, no longer pre-
pared to betray others or fool herself. Yet it is remarkable how vul-
nerable a woman like that can also be. Not the vulnerability of youth
or virginity, but exposed more uncompromisingly to loss; no longer
bending, but prepared to splinter or to break. Every scar bare and
hard and clear. (Look: I am prepared to suffer, I am suffering, I don t mind.
What else is there? For I m alive, I am delivered to life. Yet I m at no one s
ready disposal.)
 I m terribly sorry, Bea, I insisted.  You know how much I ve
been looking forward to this weekend. But we can always do it later.
Next week. Any time. We re not bound to anything.
 Of course. Her voice sounded flat and tired. And I could imag-
ine the stubborn line of her shoulders against the window: Why don t
you ring off, for God s sake? Don t try to be  kind or  considerate to me.
 Please, Bea, you must believe me.
 I told you it didn t matter.
 But I can hear you re upset. I moved the telephone to my right
hand.  Tell me what s the matter.
A short silence, as if she first had to draw her breath.  There s
something I must discuss with you. But not on the telephone.
 I ll see you on Tuesday.
 I know. It s just It seemed rather urgent, but I suppose it can
wait. Anything can wait.
 Look after yourself. It s only a few days.
Suddenly, abandoning her restraint, she asked:  Martin, is it really
quite impossible to postpone this farm business just for one week? I
must see you.
 But I told you.
 Oh well, if it s out of the question. Adding in a smothered
tone, as if she didn t mean me to hear it:  Oh, God.
 Goodbye, Bea. See you Tuesday.
56
R UMORS OF R AI N
She rang off.
One remembers every word of such a conversation. Because it
was our last.
There s this dam with a water lily in the center growing all the time.
I want to wade in to pick it for Bea who stands waiting on the other
side. But the moment I touch the stem, my feet are caught in quick-
sand. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a black shadow hovering
on the edge. It must be Mpilo, but he looks like Charlie.  Help me!
I scream.  Help me, I m sinking! But he stands there with his arms [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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