South African Stories - Five: The Mixed Marriages Act
The Mixed Marriages Act of 1950 prohibited marriage between
black and white. The law was repealed in 1990.
Paul Pretorius Le Roux was forty-five years old. His slight baldness made his forehead seem high, and the remaining hair, which just touched his shirt collar, was thick and curly, and tinged with grey. This gave him a scholarly appearance.
He shifted uncomfortably on the hard, straight-backed chair in which he had been sitting throughout the night. First a rooster crowed in the dark and then, slowly, chinks of light appeared around the edges of the curtains. He yawned.
Sitting crosslegged on a bed opposite Paul was an Indian man in saffron robes. This man smiled and said: "Do you have any more questions?"
"No," Paul answered, "but I'm not sure whether it's because I'm exhausted or enlightened."
"Then we'll stop," said the Hindu, ringing a small bell.
The door opened letting in more light and an Indian woman dressed in a plain white sari. She was about thirty, wore her black hair in a long braid and was barefoot. Her rather severe face lit up when she approached the Hindu.
"Can I smell your delicious cooking, Lataben?" the Hindu asked.
"Yes, Mahatmaji," the woman answered. "Shall I bring you a tray of food?"
"No, thank you," said the Mahatma. "If you will save me a bowl of dahl and a chapati, I will eat later. Now I need to sit for a while and meditate alone. But make sure Paul is fed well. He has had a long tiring night."
"Which was wonderful!" said Paul, squirming with an unusual humility. "More than that! I can't say how thankful I am for your teachings," he added as he realized that his newfound happiness was very like a feeling he had before called "gratitude", but had seldom felt.
Lata held the door open for Paul. He took a few steps forward and backward awkwardly, instinctively wanting her to pass first. She motioned with her hand curtly for him to exit. He did and then turned to wait for her and noticed that she had prostrated herself on the floor and was kissing the Mahatma's feet. The Mahatma tapped her head and she rose quickly. She saw Paul and her light brown skin darkened with a blush.
Hurrying out, she closed the door firmly but quietly behind her and said to Paul: "I have put a few things out for you to eat, on the verandah. Come."
He followed her and stepped onto the verandah. As it was still soon after dawn, the sun was only a few degrees above the horizon and it cast a carpet of crimson light across the Indian Ocean right up to the beach which was only a few feet from the house. Two frangipani trees, covered with sweet-smelling flowers, grew beside the verandah. Their perfume filled the air. Paul stood staring at the sunrise as if he'd never seen one before. He inhaled deeply, kicked off his shoes and began to run towards the sea. He shivered as his toes sank into the cold dry sand.
Lata called impatiently. "Your food will get cold, and I cooked for you personally since four o'clock this morning." Her voice was sharp, almost imperious, unlike the usual shy singsong of Indian women.
"Well, it seems that your humble ways are saved for the Mahatma only," said Paul, returning towards Lata.
"Yes," she answered simply. "Please sit and eat." Paul sat and Lata stood beside him uncovering one warming-dish after another of steaming aromatic Indian food. He ate as if he were tasting food for the first time. He felt new. Everything was strange and miraculous. Everything except Lata. He knew her as familiarly as himself. He wondered at that, because it was obvious that she did not like him. They had only recently met through her brother, Radesh "Tiny" Bhoola, whom Paul had known for many years.
"I have never tasted anything so delicious in my life," he said to her, "actually, everything - the sun, the sea, the flowers - everything seems so delicious. It's like the Garden of Eden, and I am Adam."
"Well," said Lata, "I am not Eve."
But when he looked at her she would not lower her eyes as Indian women were wont to do. He became aware that they were both breathing deeply, slowly. Neither moved. He felt he could almost hear her heart beat. He wanted to enfold her. But they stared at one another. There was nothing left to say. Something so basic had been communicated that all words that followed would seem like small talk. He lowered his eyes, feeling somehow shy.
Just at that moment a car pulled up beside the verandah and Tiny jumped out, yelling: "Paul, Paul, did you get it?"
"If you mean did the Mahatma teach me ..." Paul began.
"Yes," said Tiny, who, unusually for an Indian, was over six feet tall. Paul nodded.
Lata slipped her arm through her brother's and led him to the table. She was radiant with smiles for Tiny and, with little pattings and cooings she seated him and dished up some food. When Tiny pushed the plate aside and told her that he had had breakfast at their parent's house in Chaka's Kraal, her face fell.
Tiny began to question Paul relentlessly about the past few days which he had spent with the Mahatma in this remote beach cottage on the south coast of Zululand. Lata melted away unnoticed by either man.
When she re-emerged a short time later she was carrying a small suitcase. She said in her most imperious tones: "It is time to go. Mahatmaji's servant is awake and ready to take care of him. Our parents are expecting us at Chaka's Kraal for lunch, Tiny. There is no time to waste, and I don't want you driving like a cowboy. Besides, didn't you promise to take Mr Le Roux to see Phoenix Farm? We don't want him to think that we just invented mahatmas yesterday, do we? Come, Tiny. Did you know, Mr Le Roux, that Mahatma Ghandi lived in South Africa for twenty one years, many of them at Phoenix Farm, not far from my home really, where he developed the ideas which would later bring about the liberation of India?"
Tiny said: "How can you speak to Paul so disrespectfully, Lata? And we won't have time to visit Phoenix today."
They all climbed into the large grey Mercedes and Tiny drove speedily towards Chaka's Kraal.
Tiny continued: "Paul is a highly educated man, Lata, as well as a true liberal. He and I fought the Naidoo-Sondeza treason trial together in Durban in 1968, before it was fashionable for white lawyers to engage in black battles. And he has just had darshan."
"What's that?" inquired Paul.
"The vision of God," answered Tiny.
"Perhaps Mr Le Roux does not agree," interjected Lata.
"You see," said Tiny, "there you are using that same cold disrespectful tone of voice."
Paul turned so that he could see Lata in the back seat and said: "You know, we are not enemies. I had not met you till five days ago and I've only seen you at mealtimes since then. I realize that you gave up your time to run things while the Mahatma was with me. I am ... not ungrateful." He became bashful. "I don't even know what to call you. Lata? Or would you prefer 'Ms Bhoola'?"
He turned his neck further so he could see directly into her eyes. The indifference he saw there chilled him and he turned back to the front, saying: "Anyway, thank you for all your beautiful food and your kindness of the past days, Ms Bhoola."
Then he slipped down more comfortably in the soft black leather seat, determined that Lata's coldness towards him would not spoil the lovely inner warmth and satisfaction which had enveloped him ever since he had understood what the Mahatma had been so patiently explaining to him. Paul luxuriated in the comfort of the seat, the smooth ride, the car's ability to flow over ruts in the rough road and the sensation that it slid, or poured, itself around corners. He promised himself that his first major purchase when he got back to Pretoria would be a good car. He had driven nothing but jalopies since he had begun his wanderings soon after loosing the treason case in 1968.
Paul was the oldest son of one of the wealthiest of the Afrikaner families. He could have had his own law practice, or he could have entered politics at the highest level. Instead he had become a public defender, taking political cases no one else would touch and had been branded a notorious radical. He had turned down the opportunity to marry a beautiful and intelligent woman, the only child of a cabinet minister. He had embarrassed his parents and shown contempt for all that they held dear.
"Well," he said to himself, "I am different now; more mellow, more tolerant, older. It is time for forgiveness on both sides. I'll fly back to Pretoria first thing tomorrow."
Paul was busy thinking about visiting his parents in Pretoria when Tiny steered the car into the driveway of his parents' home, a huge white futuristic house with large expanses of windows and many terraces and balconies. Vines of bougainvillea and clematis climbing around the pillars and cantilevers gave the building the appearance of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Tiny parked in the carport beneath the building. Lata jumped out and disappeared through a small inconspicuous door. Tiny ushered his friend towards a more imposing carved wooden door. They ascended the stairs and were greeted at the top by Tiny's mother and father.
They exuded pure politeness towards Paul. Mrs Bhoola, who spoke no English, only Gujerati, clucked around him and cajoled him towards a long table spread with dozens of colorful dishes of food. She piled a plate full and bade him to sit and eat. Lunch was served buffet-style as there were about twenty other guests present. It was Sunday, the Bhoolas' day for entertaining relatives and business acquaintances.
Paul sat and ate, again as if he had never eaten before, and he made another promise to himself: that he would have Indian food every day from now on. He was wondering how he would go about accomplishing this when a group of guests approached him.
He stood up to greet them and became absorbed in conversation. He sensed his fellow guests' reserve, but their actual words demonstrated that they knew all about him, no doubt from Tiny. Though none of them had read it, they all knew that he had written a controversial book about the Suppression of Communism Act. They knew about his radical past, his travels around the world, his wealth, his powerful family and most importantly to them, it seemed to Paul, that he had met the Mahatma. No one talked politics, in fact it was studiously avoided whenever anything remotely polemical arose. Paul knew that that was the way of many rich banyas [merchant caste.] The Bhoolas and their relatives and friends seemed not so cautious about political discussions as indifferent to them. Paul remembered that Tiny had told him that his family was more religious than political.
Lata came down the broad curving staircase, greeted her family, kissing all the woman and children, and walked out into a walled garden which seemed like an extension of the livingroom because glass doors slid back completely to reveal it. It was laid out formally with flowering hedges and ornamental shrubs. Lata took a mango from a table full of fruits and drinks, crossed the courtyard and headed for a fountain which stood in the center of the garden. Two peacocks flew ponderously away at her approach. She had changed into a more elaborate white sari with gold embroidery which fluttered in the breeze. Paul found himself longing to go to her.
As soon as he could he excused himself from the gaggle of guests and walked out into the garden. He approached Lata cautiously. She reminded him of the peace he had experienced sitting in the darkened room with the Mahatma.
Lata watched Paul calmly as he sat down on the edge of the fountain beside her but said nothing. He thought, "There is nothing to say." They sat quietly side by side watching the peacocks scratch about in a bed of pansies. Occasionally he stole sideways glances at Lata. She was not pretty. Her mouth was too big, her cheekbones too prominent, and she was no longer young, yet Paul found himself entranced by her in spite of her apparent dislike of him.
"You put me in an awkward position, Mr Le Roux," she finally said.
"I do realize that," he answered. "I'm not totally thick-skulled. Perhaps I won't make sense but I'll try. When I see you I feel as if my mother has just baked a chocolate cake especially for me. It's not my birthday. It's just an ordinary quiet day. Maybe it is one of those days when she has let me stay away from school, and just the two of us are at home. It's a special treat just for me in a way in which no one else can comprehend. No one else is even aware of it. If I were in the habit of speaking in religious terms, I would say it was like a gift from God, unasked for, perhaps even slightly disturbing, definitely suprising ... I don't want to even put it into words. I wish you could just read my mind." He lowered his voice to a whisper and continued: "It's not about sex, well not particularly ..."
Lata looked at Paul sideways through narrowed eyes. A wry smile played around the corners of her full-lipped mouth. Paul felt as if he could look at her all day. Her strange, bold, open face was beginning to look beautiful to him. Her black eyes seemed to betray her every thought. All was clear between them. Nothing could be hidden.
He was thinking: "I will ask her to marry me," when she inexplicably said: "Please be careful before you say that."
He said: "If I don't say it, then we coulod go round in circles for ever."
"You are right but enough, here comes Deviben, and her brats."
A fat woman, dressed in a loud purple, green and gold sari, came out into the garden, followed by a litter of children, all tumbling and shouting together, "Goodbye!"
The guests were beginning to go home. Lata rose and went indoors to say her farewells to aunts and uncles. Paul waved from the fountain very casually. He knew that he could be offending some of the more old-fashioned Gujerati aunties with his lack of formality, but he also knew that it would not be the last time he would do so.
Paul knew little about Lata. He had until today never met Tiny's family though he had known the man for nearly twenty years. Tiny had told him a few things; never very much, probably because he had assumed that his Afrikaner friend was not interested in the fortunes of his rather stuffy Gujerati family.
Paul remembered that, during the famous trial in Durban, Tiny had been depressed one day and had confided to his friend that his youngest sister, Lata, had disgraced the family by leaving her husband and returning home after only a few months. Lata was one of the first banya women in South Africa to be divorced; to refuse to remain with a husband in a marriage which had been arranged. Tiny had also confided to Paul that he had questioned his father's wisdom in marrying off Lata at sixteen, only to be told that his own mother had been fifteen when she had married his father.
Paul sat on the fountain thinking about Lata. By the time the last of the guests had left it was beginning to get cool and cloudy. He went inside. Lata and her mother were nowhere to be seen. Tiny and his father were sitting on a sofa talking. Paul joined them.
"We were just talking business," Tiny explained.
"Tiny tells me," Mr Bhoola said, "that you have written a book. Is it selling well?"
"Considering that it is non-fiction," Paul answered, "yes, it is doing quite well. It seems that people are reading more into it than I wrote."
"He is being modest," Tiny said to his father.
"Are you planning another book?" Mr Bhoola asked.
"I am doing research for a book about the French Huguenots, my ancestors," Paul answered. He hoped that Mr Bhoola would not question him further on this subject as he was only just beginning it and was not yet sure of his knowledge. When Tiny and his father remained silent Paul asked them about the possibility of buying a small sugar farm in the area. They both lept eagerly at so businesslike a topic.
They sat talking until dusk when a Zulu servant entered the room and closed the doors leading to the garden and drew the curtains. Tiny turned on the television and the three men began to watch the news. The picture on the screen was of an African township, probably Soweto. The image wavered as the camera was jolted by a crowd. It steadied again and advanced through the crowd to where a young woman was being held captive by a group of teenagers. In the background a crowd had gathered. It all happened very quickly. A car tire was placed around the girl's neck. Gasoline was poured into the hollow rim. A youth threw a burning match. The tire exploded in flame. The crowd jumped back. Then, as the woman fell to the ground screaming, the mob closed in again and began to stone her. The young woman's arms and legs were now also ablaze. She thrashed around. The stones and bricks bounced off her rubbery body. Then she lay still while the tire belched thick black smoke and the teenagers danced like demons around her corpse, singing and chanting triumphantly.
Paul watched with disbelief. Then the tragedy sank in. They had just watched a "necklacing." It was the childrens' mad ecstacy that made him realize just what it was that he was watching. Their pride of accomplishment was all out of proportion to the worthless act that they had just committed. They behaved as if they had just succeeded in finding the solution to all the problems in the world when all they had done was barbecue one of their fellow teenagers. Their stupidity was so sad that Paul found himself weeping quietly.
Then Tiny said: "It's the fault of that idiotic woman, Winnie Mandela. She encouraged these kids to do this when she told them to liberate the country with the matches and tires."
Mr Bhoola sat in stony silence, stoical. His brown skin has turned ashen.
The next morning Tiny drove Paul to the local railway station, from where he travelled to Durban. He had decided to go to Pretoria by train as the trip was longer than a plane-flight and he would have time to compose himself before seeing his parents. They were expecting him and would be at Pretoria station to meet him.
The reunion was predictably strained. Paul, though surprised at how much his parents had aged, could not help feeling that he was taking care of two shrivelled grey children as he intervened in their silly arguments, listened to his father's childish jokes and tried to avoid looking directly at his mother because of the terrible mixture of years of heartbreak and little fleeting moments of happiness which he saw in her eyes.
The car was driven by a chauffeur so Paul sat between his mother and father on the backseat of the limousine as it glided through Pretoria. The jacaranda trees were in full bloom. Pools of lilac flowers lay around the foot of the trees looking like reflections of the blossoming branches above. His parents' home was surround by high walls. A guard opened the gate. Paul experienced the old familiar sensation of oppression as the gate slammed shut behind them. He noticed that he was still susceptible to that atmosphere of fear and restraint which had driven him from the house. The very walls of his old room seemed soaked in worry and pain. He showered, changed and hurried out to the garden where he was immediately attended by a servant. Paul ordered a double scotch and sat staring at the cloudless Transvaal sky, trying to recapture that light spacious mental clarity he had possessed not so long ago.
Soon his mother joined him. She prattled on in Afrikaans about the relatives, their latest offspring, surgical operations, promotions and purchases. He listened patiently. The effects of the scotch evaporated under the glare of his mother's miserable eyes. He was torn between a desire to take her in his arms and tell her not to be so frightened, and a longing to tell her that she lived in a nightmare. He thought, "Why does she always have to try to infect me with her anxious attachment to worldly trivia?"
Mrs Le Roux said: "Marie-Yvette Marais ... remember her? She used to be Marie-Yvette Bezuidenhout. You should, seeing that you nearly married her. Lovely girl. Beautiful. Intelligent. Very religious, just like you ..."
"No, not just like me, mother," Paul said in a long-suffering voice. "I haven't set foot in a church for twenty years."
"Well, you're religious in your own way, just like my father," she continued, undaunted. "Anyway, as I was saying, Marie-Yvette has just had her fourth child. She says its her last because she must be ... what, nearly forty? Her husband is very high up in the government. They are coming for dinner tonight."
She noticed that Paul had stopped listening. She reached into her large sewing bag and took out a Bible. Holding it towards Paul she said: "Take this. Even when you think you know all the answers, there are always questions you haven't asked, and, if the Word of God is not beneath your dignity, perhaps you will read this."
Paul was relieved when his father came out to join them, though their was another trite argument between his parents when Paul succeeded in persuading his father to have a drink. Mrs Le Roux became so annoyed that she stormed off in a huff.
Mr Le Roux called out after her: "I hope you don't sulk tonight."
Then he turned to his son and asked: "Did your mother tell you that Ben Marais, and his wife, Marie-Yvette, are coming to dinner tonight? I believe Marais is bringing along someone else. I haven't told your mother yet. She pretends to hate politics so much. When I told Marais that you would be here, he was very enthusiastic, very eager to meet you. It seems that your brand of fiery radicalism will soon be in fashion. Ben's job is to talk to formerly imprisoned political dissidents. In fact the other person who is coming with Marais is just about to be 'officially' released. You will be discreet, won't you? If anything goes wrong we may have to postpone or cancel the release. But Marais foresees no trouble with Mbuka. That's the man coming tonight."
"Steve Mbuka?" Paul asked.
Mr Le Roux nodded and said: "I don't suppose you knew him once."
"No," answered Paul. "But I know of him. He was convicted of killing a policeman. Why are you letting him go?"
"Well, it seems that further evidence has come to light," said Mr Le Roux. "It is possible that the police concocted some of the 'facts' in the case. He's a very talkative man. Not given to violence. Oh, he talks about war. Just talks. Talks a lot. Just the man we need."
"It stinks," said Paul.
"I thought you would have jumped at the chance to bring a former radical into government circles," said his father. "Marais is hoping to convince you to join him in his work, which, as you will find out, is to facilitate the ... which is to rehabilitate former dissidents ... or, as Marais would put it, 'expanding democracy.' I hope you will give him a chance to explain his vision. You've got to co-operate with someone eventually. You can't disagree with everybody forever."
"I know. I was a slow learner," said Paul. "But you will find me very changed. Don't expect anything. I've lost a lot of my appetite for politics. That's why I said your whole little scheme with Mbuka stinks. It reeks of hypocrisy. Have you become as two-faced as the English, whom you hated?"
"Give it a chance," urged Mr Le Roux. "Don't be so damned self-righteous. Certainly, politics stinks. It's the stink of power. If you don't dirty your hands a little now you may find the stock that your grandfather left you being nationalized in the next ten years, and you'll be sweeping Mr Mbuka's floors for food."
"Well, you have definitely changed," said Paul. "Why, the last time I saw you, you were ready to fight to the last drop of blood rather than hand over a jot or tittle of power to the blacks."
"I've grown older, more tolerant," said Mr Le Roux.
"So have I," said Paul.
Mr Le Roux raised a silent smiling toast to his son and drained his glass. Then he rose and excused himself. He had to coax his wife out of her sulk before dinner. Paul went upstairs to his bedroom and lay down on his bed. He thought about Lata. Just the memory of her soothed him more than the scotch had done.
He picked up the bible that his mother had given him. Then he put it aside, with the promise to himself that he would one day read it. He was still upset by what he had seen on the television the night before. His feeling of lightness, the inner warmth, the wholeness and understanding he had possessed for a short while after leaving the Mahatma had evaporated. His heart was heavy again with the burden of living; his mind confused and unconcentrated. The usual stiffness in his left shoulder, a chronic muscular spasm of tension, spread its pain up his neck. He had not noticed that it was gone until it had returned.
Paul decided to meditate. He did not feel very confident about doing it, but he knew it could do him no harm. He got up and locked his door. He felt embarrassed to meditate in his parent's house. It seemed so silly compared with the serious matters which were so often in the air. His father seemed to be in the advance guard of South African politics. Paul fell asleep while trying to meditate.
He was awoken by a maid with coffee, telling him that he only had half an hour to dress for dinner, and that the distinguished guests were already here, waiting for him. Paul felt refreshed, but, as he dressed, he found the tension in his shoulder returning, and it was with a heavy heart and mind that he descended to dinner.
He was introduced to Ben Marais and his wife, Marie-Yvette, who suprised him with her bleached shoulder-length hair of a style that he associated with Hollywood more than Pretoria. When Marais, in turn, introduced Mbuka, he did so in English, and then proceeded to talk in English all night, as did his wife. Paul supposed that it was because no one spoke Xhosa, Mbuka's language, and because Marais did not want to appear to be a chauvinistic Boer by speaking Afrikaans. Mrs Le Roux, who seldom deigned to speak English, sulked all night. Steve Mbuka spoke little during the meal. He glanced nervously at the black servants, answered briefly if spoken to and kept a wary eye on everyone through his thick spectacles. He refused wine and drank only water. Paul began to think that his father had been misinformed about the man. "He's not a talker. He's a silent worrier," Paul thought.
After dinner Marais and Marie-Yvette joked insincerely about following old-fashioned customs, and, in that way, achieved the removal of the two women from the room. Paul imagined that they must have discussed every seemingly innocent move ahead of time. As Marais must have hoped, with the women absent, Mbuka relaxed somewhat, accepted a brandy and a cigaret, and began to realize that the floor was all his. These three Boers were waiting attentively for him to speak.
"I know what you're up to and it won't work," said Mbuka.
Marais smiled blankly, pretending not to understand. Mr Le Roux topped up everyone's brandy.
Paul leaned forward and said: "It will work, whether you co-operate or not. Marais and his neo-liberal Afrikaner friends will make it work. I've lost my stomach for politics lately. I never thought I would find myself disagreeing with your aims, Marais. But I've seen so much of your brand of democracy in England, you know, the kind of social-engineering politics where it's a terrific public relations job but the world isn't particularly better off because of it. In fact the stink of deceit only adds to our already polluted atmosphere."
"Your mother tells me you've become religious," said Marais with an oily grin, glancing obsequiously at Mbuka.
"Yes, she does seem to have drawn that conclusion without any confirmation on my part," said Paul.
"It must be your newfound soulfulness and humility," Mr Le Roux put in.
Paul's head ached with the effort to follow all the little hidden motives and thrusts. Why would his father make a joke at his son's expense? Mbuka fidgeted, lit another cigaret and announced: "I've been in prison for fifteen years and you sit here and talk nonsense and expect me to be amused."
Paul still did not see an opening for real communication. Marais' hypocrisy and Mr Le Roux's politeness prevented any real discussion between Paul and Mbuka. Paul guessed that Mbuka would flourish in a more emotional atmosphere, but he was determined not to manipulate the direction this meeting would take, for in doing so he would play right into the hands of Marais. He began to suspect that Marais had foreseen it all; had hoped that Paul and Mbuka would engage in passionate dialogue, while Marais and Le Roux senior would ply the two former radicals with expensive brandy and nod their heads patronizingly.
Paul decided to sit back and watch as Marais, the two-faced diplomat, struggled to build a bridge of hypocrisy over the chasm of racial prejudice, which both he and Mbuka possessed in good measure. The night was a failure. At midnight, probably as previously arranged, Marie-Yvette returned and more staged conversation followed, which resulted in the departure of the three guests. Paul followed them to the front door and noticed that the house was surrounded by plainclothes policemen. He went to bed, promising himself that he would phone Lata in the morning.
The next morning Paul was cornered by his mother after breakfast, just as he was about to phone Lata. Mrs Le Roux instructed her maid to bring coffee to the table beside the swimming pool, and, putting her arm through Paul's, led her son there.
"I must talk to you," she whispered in Afrikaans. "Marie-Yvette has thrown herself away on that scoundrel. She could have been your ... but no regrets. I know what your father and that snake, Marais, were up to last night. I told your father that you're not interested in politics anymore, that you have come to your senses, have let God back into your life and seen that love, not hate and anger, is the answer ..."
"Where do you get these ideas from?" asked Paul. "I haven't talked to you about anything since I've come back, let alone poltics and religion."
"Oh, I know that you have despised me ever since you were fourteen ... no don't deny it," said Mrs Le Roux, forestalling her son's demurral. "I know you have, ever since you discovered sex. It's natural. That is the way God has ordained it. A mother's heart must be broken so that her son may take a wife. Except you haven't taken a wife yet ..."
"Don't change the subject, mother," Paul said. "We were talking about how you have assumed that I have become religious. I'm not denying it. It's just that I'm curious as to how you jumped to that conclusion before I'd even said anything to you."
"You speak to me every day, son," said Mrs le Roux, "in my dreams, in my thoughts, and God also tells me all about you. I know that you have wandered far off the path, especially when you were in America, and even now you waver, although I know - I saw it in your eyes the moment you stepped off the train - that you have had the path shown to you. I know you have seen God, or have been touched by Him in some way. I know that you now know how to obey your Creator. So why do you hesitate to do so?"
"Yes, you are right, as usual," Paul conceded. "I am not surprised. I have often told my friends that the reason that I cannot live with my mother is because I cannot keep any secrets from her. But you are wrong to say that I have despised you since I was fourteen. I have feared you, I have rebelled against you but I have never despised you."
"Feared me, your own mother, who would give her life for you?" said Mrs Le Roux, red in the face with the battle which raged within her between the competing forces of pain (she did not want her own son to fear her) and pleasure (out of habit she thrilled to know that she had instilled fear.) Like Paul she had always claimed to despise hypocrisy, yet it had become such a familiar atmosphere to her that she found she needed at least a little deceitfulness in the air in order to breathe comfortably.
"I have not so much feared you," said Paul, "as I have feared your intrusions into my inner life. You think you can read my mind. Well, I can read yours. For instance, I know that you are itching to know whether or not I have a woman in my life."
"That's only natural," Mrs Le Roux said. "It doesn't take much psychic ability to guess that. Yes, I do want to know. You are forty-five years old. Soon it will be too late. You will die a lonely man without children to love you and care for you in your old age."
"We've had this conversation a hundred times," Paul said.
"And you say that you do not despise me," said Mrs Le Roux. "Then, seeing that you are so touchy and can't give me a straight answer on that subject, perhaps you will tell me if you read the Bible which I gave you."
"You know that I've read the Bible many times before," said Paul, resorting to a very old tactic of his; one that he'd first used in his teens; deliberately, but slightly, misunderstanding his mother. He quickly realized his mistake. It had been his mother's invasion of his thoughts, and his concommitant use of evasive tactics, that had led to this point, where they were divided by a gulf of misunderstandings, mistrust and presumptions about each other. Paul sighed and poured some more coffee.
His mother said: "There is a way out, and I know that you know it. I can tell. There is a look in your eyes which says that you know; which tells me that you have prayed, begged, and received an answer. Is it that you are still so much of a rebel that you find it hard to obey God's will?"
"You are right about a lot," Paul conceded, "but not about everything. I will read the Bible again. Not now. It seems too cluttered with war and anguish when the answer is so clear. Yes, I do know something. I know how to meditate. What I don't know is how to maintain my faith."
"That is why I gave you the Bible," Mrs Le Roux said, "but I also know how stubborn you are, and how rebellious. Have you looked at it yet?"
"Yes," answered Paul, "it is interesting. The trouble is that it doesn't provide the answer to one very important question: how do I keep the faith? Two days ago I felt on top of the world. I found myself laughing out aloud when I was on my own. All of a sudden everything was as clear as daylight. I knew what the purpose of life was. I knew who I was. I knew what this world was for. I was happy. Then, the night before I flew back to Pretoria, I watched the news on TV, you know, the necklacing in Soweto."
"No, I don't know," said Mrs Le Roux emphatically. "I never concern myself with the horrors of life. It helps no one. Your father tried to tell me about it. It's too disgusting. I hope you will not enter politics. The only power is the power of prayer. One cannot help the blacks to become more civilized through politics. They need to understand the teachings of Jesus Christ. Then they will know that God helps those who help themselves. Those blacks who are Christians do not go around burning each other to death."
"Maybe you are right, mother," said Paul. "I certainly wish that I could ignore the world's problems and think only of God, but that is something that I have not been able to do yet."
"Well then, that is why you're unhappy," declared Mrs Le Roux. "The day you learn to ignore the world's problems, as you say, that day you will be happy."
"But you aren't happy," Paul said.
"I soon will be," said his mother. "I feel it in my bones. You have been my only real worry for the past forty years, well thirty, since your teens, when you rebelled. I think those days are over and soon you will settle down and accept the destiny that God has written for you. I don't think you will go away again. Maybe because you have found a woman ..."
"Yes," said Paul, "I have found a woman, as you put it, but I'm afraid that will not make you happy either. In fact I was about to phone her when you caught me. " Paul's mother's face lit up. She smiled for the first time since her son's return, and said: "I knew it."
"What you don't know yet, and nor do I," said Paul, "is if she will have me. I've only known her for a week ..."
"A week!" exclaimed Mrs Le Roux. "Why couldn't you have picked someone we knew, in our circle? Is it a Durban girl?"
"Sort of," answered Paul. "She's from a small town north of Durban, but I'm not telling you another thing until I have phoned her and made sure that she wants me."
Mrs Le Roux said: "She must have given you some indication ..."
"I'm not sure," said Paul.
"Oh, I'm not sure that I like any of it," whined Mrs Le Roux. "It just sounds so impossible and impulsive."
I don't want to talk about it so don't ask me anymore ... enough said. I can promise you that the woman I hope to marry is not another Marie-Yvette Bezuidenhout. "
"I don't care if you marry a Zulu girl," said Mrs Le Roux, "as long as she loves you. I'm just so happy that you are even considering the idea of sharing yourself with someone else. It is not natural to be alone. I hope you are coming with your father and me to dinner with Marie-Yvette and Ben tonight. There will be many other important people there. You don't have to rely on that snake, Marais, for a job, and he won't have that terrorist in his own house of course. Marie-Yvette is a marvellous hostess. It will be a grand evening."
After lunch Paul telephoned Lata. A servant answered and could only say that Lata was not at home. He meditated and found that the tension in his shoulder disappeared. That evening he went with his parents. The dinner was very grand and the guests were all distinguished. Several government officials mentioned to Paul that they had heard of his proposed job with Ben Marais, congratulated him and gave him advice. Paul said very little. He did not say that he hadn't accepted the job, let alone been offered it formally. He found himself smiling a lot, making small talk and even flirting with Marie-Yvette. He wondered if it was because the wine was so good and flowed so freely (he had had four glasses of an old Cape cabernet), or if it was because he felt unusually relaxed.
Ben Marais cornered Paul after dinner and asked him if he had made up his mind yet.
"If you mean about this ephemeral job," Paul answered, "which my father mentioned, which you haven't offered me yet, and which has already elicited congratulations. Yes, I am interested, if it is what it appears to be. At least I am interested now because I'm feeling happy and healthy. Who knows how I'll feel tomorrow. The other night, with Mbuka there, I could have vomited with disgust. I don't know how closely I can work with you. You are a bit too smooth for my taste."
"That's my boy," said Marais, slapping Paul on the back. "We need all the honesty and frankness we can muster for this job. Initially you will not be doing much. Mbuka is a test case. By hook or by crook get him involved in talks, committees, the whole parliamentary game. You will be judged on your success or failure with this task. If you succeed you will officially have a job. Right now it is not for public consumption. We are taking a chance with both you and Mbuka. You will however be renumerated, not that you need it. If you can tame Mbuka then you can reel in the ultimate big fish, Mandela. " Marias laughed phonily.
Paul detected some envy, but averted his eyes so that Marais would not see what he was thinking.
"Can't say yes or no yet. I need to make a phone call tomorrow. My future hangs on it. I will let you know afterwards. Of course, I have a feeling that if it turns out right for me, then you won't much like it." Paul said.
"Now, don't jump to conclusions," said Marais. "Your mother did mention something to Marie-Yvette about a Durban girl. We'll keep our fingers crossed."
When the night drew to a close and the Le Rouxs were leaving, Marie-Yvette whispered to Paul, "Good luck, Paul. Your mother tells me that you are in love and just waiting to name the date. Don't suppose it's anyone we know? No, I didn't think so."
When Paul got home he went immediately to the privacy of his room. Later when his parents were out of the way he went downstairs into his father's study and dialed Lata's telephone number eventhough it was past two in the morning. Lata answered.
"I'm amazed really," Paul said. "I was afraid that one of your parents or a servant would wake up and answer the phone."
"It's so hot I couldn't sleep," said Lata. "I was just sitting out in the garden when the phone rang."
"Lata," said Paul, "please marry me."
"Don't be ridiculous," she answered. "Now that you have returned to the bosom of your family where will I fit in? Besides, how do get around the Mixed Marriages Act? Where do we marry? Who performs the ceremony? Where do we live?"
"The Mixed Marriages Act," said Paul, "will soon be repealed. It's in the air. You would realize that the Afrikaner politicians are adapting if you could see the changes in my family. But even if we became pariahs I would want to do it. We could ask Mahatmaji to marry us. And I don't want you to fit into my family. I don't even fit in. I'm an oddball. I don't even know if I can say 'I love you' ... yes, I can. I do. Do you?"
"Yes," answered Lata, "I feel as if I have loved you since the begining of time."
"You sure didn't show it before," Paul said teasingly.
"I was scared," said Lata. "I couldn't understand it."
"I've got a plan," said Paul. "I couldn't live here in Pretoria. The society is to incestuous, too closed for my tastes, and also too addicted to political games. I've been offered a job, but it's not the kind of job I could do here. In fact it would be better to do it away from the politicians. I would only do it part-time. Well, it is not really a job, more like a small investment in the future. My real interest is in a farm which Tiny mentioned to me. Near Chaka's Kraal - a sugar cane plantation. I am writing to Tiny tomorrow to see if he can still get it for me. You and I could live there with no interference from anyone. And make lots of babies."
"I'll speak to Mahatmaji, "Lata whispered.
They both knew at once that they had a lot to talk about. Paul suggested talking after getting married. Lata hesitated, but only briefly, because she knew that Paul was right.
When Lata told her parents they were not surprised. They had always suspected that Lata would do something out of the ordinary. Paul set about buying the sugar cane farm. They married two weeks later on the verandah of the beach cottage, at sunrise, overlooking the Indian Ocean.
The homestead on the farm was an old brick building with an ornamental iron verandah almost entirely covered with bougainvillea, honeysuckle and canary creeper. Four rooms had french windows opening onto the verandah: the living room, the dining room, the main bedroom and Paul's office/study. He tended to do his bookkeeping, farm administration and other "work" at his large mahogany desk. He did his "writing" at a small table on the verandah, except during the worst weather.
Paul felt that he had paid his dues by writing one book about political dissent and now he wrote for his own education. As he was sitting at the small table on the verandah one afternoon three months later, Lata brought out a tray of tea and sandwiches, and, instead of leaving him alone as usual, sat down beside him and asked if she could read what he had written so far.
By the time Lata had finished reading Paul's notes, the sun was setting. She said: "So are you engraving your story on stone like Gilgamesh for posterity?"
He laughed and answered: "You know I am."
Copyrighted 2005, Patrick Joubert Conlon, Aantrek Publications
black and white. The law was repealed in 1990.
Paul Pretorius Le Roux was forty-five years old. His slight baldness made his forehead seem high, and the remaining hair, which just touched his shirt collar, was thick and curly, and tinged with grey. This gave him a scholarly appearance.
He shifted uncomfortably on the hard, straight-backed chair in which he had been sitting throughout the night. First a rooster crowed in the dark and then, slowly, chinks of light appeared around the edges of the curtains. He yawned.
Sitting crosslegged on a bed opposite Paul was an Indian man in saffron robes. This man smiled and said: "Do you have any more questions?"
"No," Paul answered, "but I'm not sure whether it's because I'm exhausted or enlightened."
"Then we'll stop," said the Hindu, ringing a small bell.
The door opened letting in more light and an Indian woman dressed in a plain white sari. She was about thirty, wore her black hair in a long braid and was barefoot. Her rather severe face lit up when she approached the Hindu.
"Can I smell your delicious cooking, Lataben?" the Hindu asked.
"Yes, Mahatmaji," the woman answered. "Shall I bring you a tray of food?"
"No, thank you," said the Mahatma. "If you will save me a bowl of dahl and a chapati, I will eat later. Now I need to sit for a while and meditate alone. But make sure Paul is fed well. He has had a long tiring night."
"Which was wonderful!" said Paul, squirming with an unusual humility. "More than that! I can't say how thankful I am for your teachings," he added as he realized that his newfound happiness was very like a feeling he had before called "gratitude", but had seldom felt.
Lata held the door open for Paul. He took a few steps forward and backward awkwardly, instinctively wanting her to pass first. She motioned with her hand curtly for him to exit. He did and then turned to wait for her and noticed that she had prostrated herself on the floor and was kissing the Mahatma's feet. The Mahatma tapped her head and she rose quickly. She saw Paul and her light brown skin darkened with a blush.
Hurrying out, she closed the door firmly but quietly behind her and said to Paul: "I have put a few things out for you to eat, on the verandah. Come."
He followed her and stepped onto the verandah. As it was still soon after dawn, the sun was only a few degrees above the horizon and it cast a carpet of crimson light across the Indian Ocean right up to the beach which was only a few feet from the house. Two frangipani trees, covered with sweet-smelling flowers, grew beside the verandah. Their perfume filled the air. Paul stood staring at the sunrise as if he'd never seen one before. He inhaled deeply, kicked off his shoes and began to run towards the sea. He shivered as his toes sank into the cold dry sand.
Lata called impatiently. "Your food will get cold, and I cooked for you personally since four o'clock this morning." Her voice was sharp, almost imperious, unlike the usual shy singsong of Indian women.
"Well, it seems that your humble ways are saved for the Mahatma only," said Paul, returning towards Lata.
"Yes," she answered simply. "Please sit and eat." Paul sat and Lata stood beside him uncovering one warming-dish after another of steaming aromatic Indian food. He ate as if he were tasting food for the first time. He felt new. Everything was strange and miraculous. Everything except Lata. He knew her as familiarly as himself. He wondered at that, because it was obvious that she did not like him. They had only recently met through her brother, Radesh "Tiny" Bhoola, whom Paul had known for many years.
"I have never tasted anything so delicious in my life," he said to her, "actually, everything - the sun, the sea, the flowers - everything seems so delicious. It's like the Garden of Eden, and I am Adam."
"Well," said Lata, "I am not Eve."
But when he looked at her she would not lower her eyes as Indian women were wont to do. He became aware that they were both breathing deeply, slowly. Neither moved. He felt he could almost hear her heart beat. He wanted to enfold her. But they stared at one another. There was nothing left to say. Something so basic had been communicated that all words that followed would seem like small talk. He lowered his eyes, feeling somehow shy.
Just at that moment a car pulled up beside the verandah and Tiny jumped out, yelling: "Paul, Paul, did you get it?"
"If you mean did the Mahatma teach me ..." Paul began.
"Yes," said Tiny, who, unusually for an Indian, was over six feet tall. Paul nodded.
Lata slipped her arm through her brother's and led him to the table. She was radiant with smiles for Tiny and, with little pattings and cooings she seated him and dished up some food. When Tiny pushed the plate aside and told her that he had had breakfast at their parent's house in Chaka's Kraal, her face fell.
Tiny began to question Paul relentlessly about the past few days which he had spent with the Mahatma in this remote beach cottage on the south coast of Zululand. Lata melted away unnoticed by either man.
When she re-emerged a short time later she was carrying a small suitcase. She said in her most imperious tones: "It is time to go. Mahatmaji's servant is awake and ready to take care of him. Our parents are expecting us at Chaka's Kraal for lunch, Tiny. There is no time to waste, and I don't want you driving like a cowboy. Besides, didn't you promise to take Mr Le Roux to see Phoenix Farm? We don't want him to think that we just invented mahatmas yesterday, do we? Come, Tiny. Did you know, Mr Le Roux, that Mahatma Ghandi lived in South Africa for twenty one years, many of them at Phoenix Farm, not far from my home really, where he developed the ideas which would later bring about the liberation of India?"
Tiny said: "How can you speak to Paul so disrespectfully, Lata? And we won't have time to visit Phoenix today."
They all climbed into the large grey Mercedes and Tiny drove speedily towards Chaka's Kraal.
Tiny continued: "Paul is a highly educated man, Lata, as well as a true liberal. He and I fought the Naidoo-Sondeza treason trial together in Durban in 1968, before it was fashionable for white lawyers to engage in black battles. And he has just had darshan."
"What's that?" inquired Paul.
"The vision of God," answered Tiny.
"Perhaps Mr Le Roux does not agree," interjected Lata.
"You see," said Tiny, "there you are using that same cold disrespectful tone of voice."
Paul turned so that he could see Lata in the back seat and said: "You know, we are not enemies. I had not met you till five days ago and I've only seen you at mealtimes since then. I realize that you gave up your time to run things while the Mahatma was with me. I am ... not ungrateful." He became bashful. "I don't even know what to call you. Lata? Or would you prefer 'Ms Bhoola'?"
He turned his neck further so he could see directly into her eyes. The indifference he saw there chilled him and he turned back to the front, saying: "Anyway, thank you for all your beautiful food and your kindness of the past days, Ms Bhoola."
Then he slipped down more comfortably in the soft black leather seat, determined that Lata's coldness towards him would not spoil the lovely inner warmth and satisfaction which had enveloped him ever since he had understood what the Mahatma had been so patiently explaining to him. Paul luxuriated in the comfort of the seat, the smooth ride, the car's ability to flow over ruts in the rough road and the sensation that it slid, or poured, itself around corners. He promised himself that his first major purchase when he got back to Pretoria would be a good car. He had driven nothing but jalopies since he had begun his wanderings soon after loosing the treason case in 1968.
Paul was the oldest son of one of the wealthiest of the Afrikaner families. He could have had his own law practice, or he could have entered politics at the highest level. Instead he had become a public defender, taking political cases no one else would touch and had been branded a notorious radical. He had turned down the opportunity to marry a beautiful and intelligent woman, the only child of a cabinet minister. He had embarrassed his parents and shown contempt for all that they held dear.
"Well," he said to himself, "I am different now; more mellow, more tolerant, older. It is time for forgiveness on both sides. I'll fly back to Pretoria first thing tomorrow."
Paul was busy thinking about visiting his parents in Pretoria when Tiny steered the car into the driveway of his parents' home, a huge white futuristic house with large expanses of windows and many terraces and balconies. Vines of bougainvillea and clematis climbing around the pillars and cantilevers gave the building the appearance of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Tiny parked in the carport beneath the building. Lata jumped out and disappeared through a small inconspicuous door. Tiny ushered his friend towards a more imposing carved wooden door. They ascended the stairs and were greeted at the top by Tiny's mother and father.
They exuded pure politeness towards Paul. Mrs Bhoola, who spoke no English, only Gujerati, clucked around him and cajoled him towards a long table spread with dozens of colorful dishes of food. She piled a plate full and bade him to sit and eat. Lunch was served buffet-style as there were about twenty other guests present. It was Sunday, the Bhoolas' day for entertaining relatives and business acquaintances.
Paul sat and ate, again as if he had never eaten before, and he made another promise to himself: that he would have Indian food every day from now on. He was wondering how he would go about accomplishing this when a group of guests approached him.
He stood up to greet them and became absorbed in conversation. He sensed his fellow guests' reserve, but their actual words demonstrated that they knew all about him, no doubt from Tiny. Though none of them had read it, they all knew that he had written a controversial book about the Suppression of Communism Act. They knew about his radical past, his travels around the world, his wealth, his powerful family and most importantly to them, it seemed to Paul, that he had met the Mahatma. No one talked politics, in fact it was studiously avoided whenever anything remotely polemical arose. Paul knew that that was the way of many rich banyas [merchant caste.] The Bhoolas and their relatives and friends seemed not so cautious about political discussions as indifferent to them. Paul remembered that Tiny had told him that his family was more religious than political.
Lata came down the broad curving staircase, greeted her family, kissing all the woman and children, and walked out into a walled garden which seemed like an extension of the livingroom because glass doors slid back completely to reveal it. It was laid out formally with flowering hedges and ornamental shrubs. Lata took a mango from a table full of fruits and drinks, crossed the courtyard and headed for a fountain which stood in the center of the garden. Two peacocks flew ponderously away at her approach. She had changed into a more elaborate white sari with gold embroidery which fluttered in the breeze. Paul found himself longing to go to her.
As soon as he could he excused himself from the gaggle of guests and walked out into the garden. He approached Lata cautiously. She reminded him of the peace he had experienced sitting in the darkened room with the Mahatma.
Lata watched Paul calmly as he sat down on the edge of the fountain beside her but said nothing. He thought, "There is nothing to say." They sat quietly side by side watching the peacocks scratch about in a bed of pansies. Occasionally he stole sideways glances at Lata. She was not pretty. Her mouth was too big, her cheekbones too prominent, and she was no longer young, yet Paul found himself entranced by her in spite of her apparent dislike of him.
"You put me in an awkward position, Mr Le Roux," she finally said.
"I do realize that," he answered. "I'm not totally thick-skulled. Perhaps I won't make sense but I'll try. When I see you I feel as if my mother has just baked a chocolate cake especially for me. It's not my birthday. It's just an ordinary quiet day. Maybe it is one of those days when she has let me stay away from school, and just the two of us are at home. It's a special treat just for me in a way in which no one else can comprehend. No one else is even aware of it. If I were in the habit of speaking in religious terms, I would say it was like a gift from God, unasked for, perhaps even slightly disturbing, definitely suprising ... I don't want to even put it into words. I wish you could just read my mind." He lowered his voice to a whisper and continued: "It's not about sex, well not particularly ..."
Lata looked at Paul sideways through narrowed eyes. A wry smile played around the corners of her full-lipped mouth. Paul felt as if he could look at her all day. Her strange, bold, open face was beginning to look beautiful to him. Her black eyes seemed to betray her every thought. All was clear between them. Nothing could be hidden.
He was thinking: "I will ask her to marry me," when she inexplicably said: "Please be careful before you say that."
He said: "If I don't say it, then we coulod go round in circles for ever."
"You are right but enough, here comes Deviben, and her brats."
A fat woman, dressed in a loud purple, green and gold sari, came out into the garden, followed by a litter of children, all tumbling and shouting together, "Goodbye!"
The guests were beginning to go home. Lata rose and went indoors to say her farewells to aunts and uncles. Paul waved from the fountain very casually. He knew that he could be offending some of the more old-fashioned Gujerati aunties with his lack of formality, but he also knew that it would not be the last time he would do so.
Paul knew little about Lata. He had until today never met Tiny's family though he had known the man for nearly twenty years. Tiny had told him a few things; never very much, probably because he had assumed that his Afrikaner friend was not interested in the fortunes of his rather stuffy Gujerati family.
Paul remembered that, during the famous trial in Durban, Tiny had been depressed one day and had confided to his friend that his youngest sister, Lata, had disgraced the family by leaving her husband and returning home after only a few months. Lata was one of the first banya women in South Africa to be divorced; to refuse to remain with a husband in a marriage which had been arranged. Tiny had also confided to Paul that he had questioned his father's wisdom in marrying off Lata at sixteen, only to be told that his own mother had been fifteen when she had married his father.
Paul sat on the fountain thinking about Lata. By the time the last of the guests had left it was beginning to get cool and cloudy. He went inside. Lata and her mother were nowhere to be seen. Tiny and his father were sitting on a sofa talking. Paul joined them.
"We were just talking business," Tiny explained.
"Tiny tells me," Mr Bhoola said, "that you have written a book. Is it selling well?"
"Considering that it is non-fiction," Paul answered, "yes, it is doing quite well. It seems that people are reading more into it than I wrote."
"He is being modest," Tiny said to his father.
"Are you planning another book?" Mr Bhoola asked.
"I am doing research for a book about the French Huguenots, my ancestors," Paul answered. He hoped that Mr Bhoola would not question him further on this subject as he was only just beginning it and was not yet sure of his knowledge. When Tiny and his father remained silent Paul asked them about the possibility of buying a small sugar farm in the area. They both lept eagerly at so businesslike a topic.
They sat talking until dusk when a Zulu servant entered the room and closed the doors leading to the garden and drew the curtains. Tiny turned on the television and the three men began to watch the news. The picture on the screen was of an African township, probably Soweto. The image wavered as the camera was jolted by a crowd. It steadied again and advanced through the crowd to where a young woman was being held captive by a group of teenagers. In the background a crowd had gathered. It all happened very quickly. A car tire was placed around the girl's neck. Gasoline was poured into the hollow rim. A youth threw a burning match. The tire exploded in flame. The crowd jumped back. Then, as the woman fell to the ground screaming, the mob closed in again and began to stone her. The young woman's arms and legs were now also ablaze. She thrashed around. The stones and bricks bounced off her rubbery body. Then she lay still while the tire belched thick black smoke and the teenagers danced like demons around her corpse, singing and chanting triumphantly.
Paul watched with disbelief. Then the tragedy sank in. They had just watched a "necklacing." It was the childrens' mad ecstacy that made him realize just what it was that he was watching. Their pride of accomplishment was all out of proportion to the worthless act that they had just committed. They behaved as if they had just succeeded in finding the solution to all the problems in the world when all they had done was barbecue one of their fellow teenagers. Their stupidity was so sad that Paul found himself weeping quietly.
Then Tiny said: "It's the fault of that idiotic woman, Winnie Mandela. She encouraged these kids to do this when she told them to liberate the country with the matches and tires."
Mr Bhoola sat in stony silence, stoical. His brown skin has turned ashen.
The next morning Tiny drove Paul to the local railway station, from where he travelled to Durban. He had decided to go to Pretoria by train as the trip was longer than a plane-flight and he would have time to compose himself before seeing his parents. They were expecting him and would be at Pretoria station to meet him.
The reunion was predictably strained. Paul, though surprised at how much his parents had aged, could not help feeling that he was taking care of two shrivelled grey children as he intervened in their silly arguments, listened to his father's childish jokes and tried to avoid looking directly at his mother because of the terrible mixture of years of heartbreak and little fleeting moments of happiness which he saw in her eyes.
The car was driven by a chauffeur so Paul sat between his mother and father on the backseat of the limousine as it glided through Pretoria. The jacaranda trees were in full bloom. Pools of lilac flowers lay around the foot of the trees looking like reflections of the blossoming branches above. His parents' home was surround by high walls. A guard opened the gate. Paul experienced the old familiar sensation of oppression as the gate slammed shut behind them. He noticed that he was still susceptible to that atmosphere of fear and restraint which had driven him from the house. The very walls of his old room seemed soaked in worry and pain. He showered, changed and hurried out to the garden where he was immediately attended by a servant. Paul ordered a double scotch and sat staring at the cloudless Transvaal sky, trying to recapture that light spacious mental clarity he had possessed not so long ago.
Soon his mother joined him. She prattled on in Afrikaans about the relatives, their latest offspring, surgical operations, promotions and purchases. He listened patiently. The effects of the scotch evaporated under the glare of his mother's miserable eyes. He was torn between a desire to take her in his arms and tell her not to be so frightened, and a longing to tell her that she lived in a nightmare. He thought, "Why does she always have to try to infect me with her anxious attachment to worldly trivia?"
Mrs Le Roux said: "Marie-Yvette Marais ... remember her? She used to be Marie-Yvette Bezuidenhout. You should, seeing that you nearly married her. Lovely girl. Beautiful. Intelligent. Very religious, just like you ..."
"No, not just like me, mother," Paul said in a long-suffering voice. "I haven't set foot in a church for twenty years."
"Well, you're religious in your own way, just like my father," she continued, undaunted. "Anyway, as I was saying, Marie-Yvette has just had her fourth child. She says its her last because she must be ... what, nearly forty? Her husband is very high up in the government. They are coming for dinner tonight."
She noticed that Paul had stopped listening. She reached into her large sewing bag and took out a Bible. Holding it towards Paul she said: "Take this. Even when you think you know all the answers, there are always questions you haven't asked, and, if the Word of God is not beneath your dignity, perhaps you will read this."
Paul was relieved when his father came out to join them, though their was another trite argument between his parents when Paul succeeded in persuading his father to have a drink. Mrs Le Roux became so annoyed that she stormed off in a huff.
Mr Le Roux called out after her: "I hope you don't sulk tonight."
Then he turned to his son and asked: "Did your mother tell you that Ben Marais, and his wife, Marie-Yvette, are coming to dinner tonight? I believe Marais is bringing along someone else. I haven't told your mother yet. She pretends to hate politics so much. When I told Marais that you would be here, he was very enthusiastic, very eager to meet you. It seems that your brand of fiery radicalism will soon be in fashion. Ben's job is to talk to formerly imprisoned political dissidents. In fact the other person who is coming with Marais is just about to be 'officially' released. You will be discreet, won't you? If anything goes wrong we may have to postpone or cancel the release. But Marais foresees no trouble with Mbuka. That's the man coming tonight."
"Steve Mbuka?" Paul asked.
Mr Le Roux nodded and said: "I don't suppose you knew him once."
"No," answered Paul. "But I know of him. He was convicted of killing a policeman. Why are you letting him go?"
"Well, it seems that further evidence has come to light," said Mr Le Roux. "It is possible that the police concocted some of the 'facts' in the case. He's a very talkative man. Not given to violence. Oh, he talks about war. Just talks. Talks a lot. Just the man we need."
"It stinks," said Paul.
"I thought you would have jumped at the chance to bring a former radical into government circles," said his father. "Marais is hoping to convince you to join him in his work, which, as you will find out, is to facilitate the ... which is to rehabilitate former dissidents ... or, as Marais would put it, 'expanding democracy.' I hope you will give him a chance to explain his vision. You've got to co-operate with someone eventually. You can't disagree with everybody forever."
"I know. I was a slow learner," said Paul. "But you will find me very changed. Don't expect anything. I've lost a lot of my appetite for politics. That's why I said your whole little scheme with Mbuka stinks. It reeks of hypocrisy. Have you become as two-faced as the English, whom you hated?"
"Give it a chance," urged Mr Le Roux. "Don't be so damned self-righteous. Certainly, politics stinks. It's the stink of power. If you don't dirty your hands a little now you may find the stock that your grandfather left you being nationalized in the next ten years, and you'll be sweeping Mr Mbuka's floors for food."
"Well, you have definitely changed," said Paul. "Why, the last time I saw you, you were ready to fight to the last drop of blood rather than hand over a jot or tittle of power to the blacks."
"I've grown older, more tolerant," said Mr Le Roux.
"So have I," said Paul.
Mr Le Roux raised a silent smiling toast to his son and drained his glass. Then he rose and excused himself. He had to coax his wife out of her sulk before dinner. Paul went upstairs to his bedroom and lay down on his bed. He thought about Lata. Just the memory of her soothed him more than the scotch had done.
He picked up the bible that his mother had given him. Then he put it aside, with the promise to himself that he would one day read it. He was still upset by what he had seen on the television the night before. His feeling of lightness, the inner warmth, the wholeness and understanding he had possessed for a short while after leaving the Mahatma had evaporated. His heart was heavy again with the burden of living; his mind confused and unconcentrated. The usual stiffness in his left shoulder, a chronic muscular spasm of tension, spread its pain up his neck. He had not noticed that it was gone until it had returned.
Paul decided to meditate. He did not feel very confident about doing it, but he knew it could do him no harm. He got up and locked his door. He felt embarrassed to meditate in his parent's house. It seemed so silly compared with the serious matters which were so often in the air. His father seemed to be in the advance guard of South African politics. Paul fell asleep while trying to meditate.
He was awoken by a maid with coffee, telling him that he only had half an hour to dress for dinner, and that the distinguished guests were already here, waiting for him. Paul felt refreshed, but, as he dressed, he found the tension in his shoulder returning, and it was with a heavy heart and mind that he descended to dinner.
He was introduced to Ben Marais and his wife, Marie-Yvette, who suprised him with her bleached shoulder-length hair of a style that he associated with Hollywood more than Pretoria. When Marais, in turn, introduced Mbuka, he did so in English, and then proceeded to talk in English all night, as did his wife. Paul supposed that it was because no one spoke Xhosa, Mbuka's language, and because Marais did not want to appear to be a chauvinistic Boer by speaking Afrikaans. Mrs Le Roux, who seldom deigned to speak English, sulked all night. Steve Mbuka spoke little during the meal. He glanced nervously at the black servants, answered briefly if spoken to and kept a wary eye on everyone through his thick spectacles. He refused wine and drank only water. Paul began to think that his father had been misinformed about the man. "He's not a talker. He's a silent worrier," Paul thought.
After dinner Marais and Marie-Yvette joked insincerely about following old-fashioned customs, and, in that way, achieved the removal of the two women from the room. Paul imagined that they must have discussed every seemingly innocent move ahead of time. As Marais must have hoped, with the women absent, Mbuka relaxed somewhat, accepted a brandy and a cigaret, and began to realize that the floor was all his. These three Boers were waiting attentively for him to speak.
"I know what you're up to and it won't work," said Mbuka.
Marais smiled blankly, pretending not to understand. Mr Le Roux topped up everyone's brandy.
Paul leaned forward and said: "It will work, whether you co-operate or not. Marais and his neo-liberal Afrikaner friends will make it work. I've lost my stomach for politics lately. I never thought I would find myself disagreeing with your aims, Marais. But I've seen so much of your brand of democracy in England, you know, the kind of social-engineering politics where it's a terrific public relations job but the world isn't particularly better off because of it. In fact the stink of deceit only adds to our already polluted atmosphere."
"Your mother tells me you've become religious," said Marais with an oily grin, glancing obsequiously at Mbuka.
"Yes, she does seem to have drawn that conclusion without any confirmation on my part," said Paul.
"It must be your newfound soulfulness and humility," Mr Le Roux put in.
Paul's head ached with the effort to follow all the little hidden motives and thrusts. Why would his father make a joke at his son's expense? Mbuka fidgeted, lit another cigaret and announced: "I've been in prison for fifteen years and you sit here and talk nonsense and expect me to be amused."
Paul still did not see an opening for real communication. Marais' hypocrisy and Mr Le Roux's politeness prevented any real discussion between Paul and Mbuka. Paul guessed that Mbuka would flourish in a more emotional atmosphere, but he was determined not to manipulate the direction this meeting would take, for in doing so he would play right into the hands of Marais. He began to suspect that Marais had foreseen it all; had hoped that Paul and Mbuka would engage in passionate dialogue, while Marais and Le Roux senior would ply the two former radicals with expensive brandy and nod their heads patronizingly.
Paul decided to sit back and watch as Marais, the two-faced diplomat, struggled to build a bridge of hypocrisy over the chasm of racial prejudice, which both he and Mbuka possessed in good measure. The night was a failure. At midnight, probably as previously arranged, Marie-Yvette returned and more staged conversation followed, which resulted in the departure of the three guests. Paul followed them to the front door and noticed that the house was surrounded by plainclothes policemen. He went to bed, promising himself that he would phone Lata in the morning.
The next morning Paul was cornered by his mother after breakfast, just as he was about to phone Lata. Mrs Le Roux instructed her maid to bring coffee to the table beside the swimming pool, and, putting her arm through Paul's, led her son there.
"I must talk to you," she whispered in Afrikaans. "Marie-Yvette has thrown herself away on that scoundrel. She could have been your ... but no regrets. I know what your father and that snake, Marais, were up to last night. I told your father that you're not interested in politics anymore, that you have come to your senses, have let God back into your life and seen that love, not hate and anger, is the answer ..."
"Where do you get these ideas from?" asked Paul. "I haven't talked to you about anything since I've come back, let alone poltics and religion."
"Oh, I know that you have despised me ever since you were fourteen ... no don't deny it," said Mrs Le Roux, forestalling her son's demurral. "I know you have, ever since you discovered sex. It's natural. That is the way God has ordained it. A mother's heart must be broken so that her son may take a wife. Except you haven't taken a wife yet ..."
"Don't change the subject, mother," Paul said. "We were talking about how you have assumed that I have become religious. I'm not denying it. It's just that I'm curious as to how you jumped to that conclusion before I'd even said anything to you."
"You speak to me every day, son," said Mrs le Roux, "in my dreams, in my thoughts, and God also tells me all about you. I know that you have wandered far off the path, especially when you were in America, and even now you waver, although I know - I saw it in your eyes the moment you stepped off the train - that you have had the path shown to you. I know you have seen God, or have been touched by Him in some way. I know that you now know how to obey your Creator. So why do you hesitate to do so?"
"Yes, you are right, as usual," Paul conceded. "I am not surprised. I have often told my friends that the reason that I cannot live with my mother is because I cannot keep any secrets from her. But you are wrong to say that I have despised you since I was fourteen. I have feared you, I have rebelled against you but I have never despised you."
"Feared me, your own mother, who would give her life for you?" said Mrs Le Roux, red in the face with the battle which raged within her between the competing forces of pain (she did not want her own son to fear her) and pleasure (out of habit she thrilled to know that she had instilled fear.) Like Paul she had always claimed to despise hypocrisy, yet it had become such a familiar atmosphere to her that she found she needed at least a little deceitfulness in the air in order to breathe comfortably.
"I have not so much feared you," said Paul, "as I have feared your intrusions into my inner life. You think you can read my mind. Well, I can read yours. For instance, I know that you are itching to know whether or not I have a woman in my life."
"That's only natural," Mrs Le Roux said. "It doesn't take much psychic ability to guess that. Yes, I do want to know. You are forty-five years old. Soon it will be too late. You will die a lonely man without children to love you and care for you in your old age."
"We've had this conversation a hundred times," Paul said.
"And you say that you do not despise me," said Mrs Le Roux. "Then, seeing that you are so touchy and can't give me a straight answer on that subject, perhaps you will tell me if you read the Bible which I gave you."
"You know that I've read the Bible many times before," said Paul, resorting to a very old tactic of his; one that he'd first used in his teens; deliberately, but slightly, misunderstanding his mother. He quickly realized his mistake. It had been his mother's invasion of his thoughts, and his concommitant use of evasive tactics, that had led to this point, where they were divided by a gulf of misunderstandings, mistrust and presumptions about each other. Paul sighed and poured some more coffee.
His mother said: "There is a way out, and I know that you know it. I can tell. There is a look in your eyes which says that you know; which tells me that you have prayed, begged, and received an answer. Is it that you are still so much of a rebel that you find it hard to obey God's will?"
"You are right about a lot," Paul conceded, "but not about everything. I will read the Bible again. Not now. It seems too cluttered with war and anguish when the answer is so clear. Yes, I do know something. I know how to meditate. What I don't know is how to maintain my faith."
"That is why I gave you the Bible," Mrs Le Roux said, "but I also know how stubborn you are, and how rebellious. Have you looked at it yet?"
"Yes," answered Paul, "it is interesting. The trouble is that it doesn't provide the answer to one very important question: how do I keep the faith? Two days ago I felt on top of the world. I found myself laughing out aloud when I was on my own. All of a sudden everything was as clear as daylight. I knew what the purpose of life was. I knew who I was. I knew what this world was for. I was happy. Then, the night before I flew back to Pretoria, I watched the news on TV, you know, the necklacing in Soweto."
"No, I don't know," said Mrs Le Roux emphatically. "I never concern myself with the horrors of life. It helps no one. Your father tried to tell me about it. It's too disgusting. I hope you will not enter politics. The only power is the power of prayer. One cannot help the blacks to become more civilized through politics. They need to understand the teachings of Jesus Christ. Then they will know that God helps those who help themselves. Those blacks who are Christians do not go around burning each other to death."
"Maybe you are right, mother," said Paul. "I certainly wish that I could ignore the world's problems and think only of God, but that is something that I have not been able to do yet."
"Well then, that is why you're unhappy," declared Mrs Le Roux. "The day you learn to ignore the world's problems, as you say, that day you will be happy."
"But you aren't happy," Paul said.
"I soon will be," said his mother. "I feel it in my bones. You have been my only real worry for the past forty years, well thirty, since your teens, when you rebelled. I think those days are over and soon you will settle down and accept the destiny that God has written for you. I don't think you will go away again. Maybe because you have found a woman ..."
"Yes," said Paul, "I have found a woman, as you put it, but I'm afraid that will not make you happy either. In fact I was about to phone her when you caught me. " Paul's mother's face lit up. She smiled for the first time since her son's return, and said: "I knew it."
"What you don't know yet, and nor do I," said Paul, "is if she will have me. I've only known her for a week ..."
"A week!" exclaimed Mrs Le Roux. "Why couldn't you have picked someone we knew, in our circle? Is it a Durban girl?"
"Sort of," answered Paul. "She's from a small town north of Durban, but I'm not telling you another thing until I have phoned her and made sure that she wants me."
Mrs Le Roux said: "She must have given you some indication ..."
"I'm not sure," said Paul.
"Oh, I'm not sure that I like any of it," whined Mrs Le Roux. "It just sounds so impossible and impulsive."
I don't want to talk about it so don't ask me anymore ... enough said. I can promise you that the woman I hope to marry is not another Marie-Yvette Bezuidenhout. "
"I don't care if you marry a Zulu girl," said Mrs Le Roux, "as long as she loves you. I'm just so happy that you are even considering the idea of sharing yourself with someone else. It is not natural to be alone. I hope you are coming with your father and me to dinner with Marie-Yvette and Ben tonight. There will be many other important people there. You don't have to rely on that snake, Marais, for a job, and he won't have that terrorist in his own house of course. Marie-Yvette is a marvellous hostess. It will be a grand evening."
After lunch Paul telephoned Lata. A servant answered and could only say that Lata was not at home. He meditated and found that the tension in his shoulder disappeared. That evening he went with his parents. The dinner was very grand and the guests were all distinguished. Several government officials mentioned to Paul that they had heard of his proposed job with Ben Marais, congratulated him and gave him advice. Paul said very little. He did not say that he hadn't accepted the job, let alone been offered it formally. He found himself smiling a lot, making small talk and even flirting with Marie-Yvette. He wondered if it was because the wine was so good and flowed so freely (he had had four glasses of an old Cape cabernet), or if it was because he felt unusually relaxed.
Ben Marais cornered Paul after dinner and asked him if he had made up his mind yet.
"If you mean about this ephemeral job," Paul answered, "which my father mentioned, which you haven't offered me yet, and which has already elicited congratulations. Yes, I am interested, if it is what it appears to be. At least I am interested now because I'm feeling happy and healthy. Who knows how I'll feel tomorrow. The other night, with Mbuka there, I could have vomited with disgust. I don't know how closely I can work with you. You are a bit too smooth for my taste."
"That's my boy," said Marais, slapping Paul on the back. "We need all the honesty and frankness we can muster for this job. Initially you will not be doing much. Mbuka is a test case. By hook or by crook get him involved in talks, committees, the whole parliamentary game. You will be judged on your success or failure with this task. If you succeed you will officially have a job. Right now it is not for public consumption. We are taking a chance with both you and Mbuka. You will however be renumerated, not that you need it. If you can tame Mbuka then you can reel in the ultimate big fish, Mandela. " Marias laughed phonily.
Paul detected some envy, but averted his eyes so that Marais would not see what he was thinking.
"Can't say yes or no yet. I need to make a phone call tomorrow. My future hangs on it. I will let you know afterwards. Of course, I have a feeling that if it turns out right for me, then you won't much like it." Paul said.
"Now, don't jump to conclusions," said Marais. "Your mother did mention something to Marie-Yvette about a Durban girl. We'll keep our fingers crossed."
When the night drew to a close and the Le Rouxs were leaving, Marie-Yvette whispered to Paul, "Good luck, Paul. Your mother tells me that you are in love and just waiting to name the date. Don't suppose it's anyone we know? No, I didn't think so."
When Paul got home he went immediately to the privacy of his room. Later when his parents were out of the way he went downstairs into his father's study and dialed Lata's telephone number eventhough it was past two in the morning. Lata answered.
"I'm amazed really," Paul said. "I was afraid that one of your parents or a servant would wake up and answer the phone."
"It's so hot I couldn't sleep," said Lata. "I was just sitting out in the garden when the phone rang."
"Lata," said Paul, "please marry me."
"Don't be ridiculous," she answered. "Now that you have returned to the bosom of your family where will I fit in? Besides, how do get around the Mixed Marriages Act? Where do we marry? Who performs the ceremony? Where do we live?"
"The Mixed Marriages Act," said Paul, "will soon be repealed. It's in the air. You would realize that the Afrikaner politicians are adapting if you could see the changes in my family. But even if we became pariahs I would want to do it. We could ask Mahatmaji to marry us. And I don't want you to fit into my family. I don't even fit in. I'm an oddball. I don't even know if I can say 'I love you' ... yes, I can. I do. Do you?"
"Yes," answered Lata, "I feel as if I have loved you since the begining of time."
"You sure didn't show it before," Paul said teasingly.
"I was scared," said Lata. "I couldn't understand it."
"I've got a plan," said Paul. "I couldn't live here in Pretoria. The society is to incestuous, too closed for my tastes, and also too addicted to political games. I've been offered a job, but it's not the kind of job I could do here. In fact it would be better to do it away from the politicians. I would only do it part-time. Well, it is not really a job, more like a small investment in the future. My real interest is in a farm which Tiny mentioned to me. Near Chaka's Kraal - a sugar cane plantation. I am writing to Tiny tomorrow to see if he can still get it for me. You and I could live there with no interference from anyone. And make lots of babies."
"I'll speak to Mahatmaji, "Lata whispered.
They both knew at once that they had a lot to talk about. Paul suggested talking after getting married. Lata hesitated, but only briefly, because she knew that Paul was right.
When Lata told her parents they were not surprised. They had always suspected that Lata would do something out of the ordinary. Paul set about buying the sugar cane farm. They married two weeks later on the verandah of the beach cottage, at sunrise, overlooking the Indian Ocean.
The homestead on the farm was an old brick building with an ornamental iron verandah almost entirely covered with bougainvillea, honeysuckle and canary creeper. Four rooms had french windows opening onto the verandah: the living room, the dining room, the main bedroom and Paul's office/study. He tended to do his bookkeeping, farm administration and other "work" at his large mahogany desk. He did his "writing" at a small table on the verandah, except during the worst weather.
Paul felt that he had paid his dues by writing one book about political dissent and now he wrote for his own education. As he was sitting at the small table on the verandah one afternoon three months later, Lata brought out a tray of tea and sandwiches, and, instead of leaving him alone as usual, sat down beside him and asked if she could read what he had written so far.
By the time Lata had finished reading Paul's notes, the sun was setting. She said: "So are you engraving your story on stone like Gilgamesh for posterity?"
He laughed and answered: "You know I am."
Copyrighted 2005, Patrick Joubert Conlon, Aantrek Publications
posted by Joubert at 5:00 PM
4 Comments:
Very interesting, kinda similar to my own background. :-)
I have never read a more beautiful story celebrating love that transcends all boundaries ~ may there be many more brave Afrikaner men marrying lovely Indian women.
I am pleased that you now have linked the South African Stories as a distinct group. I am less pleased that when I read them, they seemed unfamiliar. either my brain is dying or you have added to the canon.
LOVELY STORY
but a bit long!!!
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home