Chapter 2
We walked in silence again. I loved being in the dust with her; in the clop-clop of the horses hooves on the sunny soil and the flies buzzing round the flick of his black tail. It just felt so comfortable. I looked up at the peeling strips of bark hanging in tatters from the trees; and beyond them the blackened fields.
One hundred thousand acres burnt bare down to little stubs of stalks in row upon row, mile after mile. Not a good crop. Even before the fire. Three years of drought adding to the tinder dryness of the grass which, with the help of a hot southerly wind, managed to carry the flames across all the roads and hastily ploughed firebreaks in its way and burn through more than a million Rands worth of mealies before fizzling out just this side of Pretoria .
I had turned off the highway at a sign saying “Driefontein” (meaning three fountains; someone was having a joke) and onto a dirt road that bumped and wound it's white way through the black lands for many miles before, coming over the brow of a low hill, I saw the huge sprawling farm complex, untouched by the fire, like a dusty island in a sea of darkness.
The road coiled like an umbilical chord, winding its way down to the farm, past the native compound and the empty grain silos before disappearing in amongst the buildings and trees. There were stables, sheds, kraals with cattle, lean-tos with tractors underneath, harrows and subsoilers lying discarded here and there amongst some broken bales of hay.
A few picanins with runny noses and dirty feet ran along side the car waving and calling and clapping their hands as I drove through to the main farmhouse, nestling in a grove of trees. There were no signs of life there except for a few mangy hens scratching in the dirt, pecking up little stones and eating them. I stood and waited for a while, hoping someone would appear. Every now and then one of the hens would tilt her head and give me the eye, wobbling the fleshy comb on top of her head and making those ‘kwrrrrr, koer, koer, koer' sounds in her throat. It was a nice sound actually, and quite comforting; a pretty conversation they were having and very hypnotic once you started listening. Then a hen came scooting out of the bushes, flapping her wings and singing a song of celebration for just having produced the most miraculous and perfectly shaped object in the universe. An egg. She proudly crowed out her announcement that she was going to be a mother and we were all very pleased for her and clucked our delight.
I came back to the present and caught the girl looking at me. She averted her eyes very quickly and turned her attention to the horse again. It gave me quite a start though, to see that the bruises under her eyes weren't just skin deep, and there was an unnatural pink flush on her cheeks, as if some veins had broken under the skin. Drink? So young. More likely from too much crying.
“I've never ridden a horse you know.” Why I said that I have no idea; I was just desperate to keep a connection with her, in case she faded away altogether and disappeared. She didn't say anything.
“I suppose it's as hard as it looks.” I said. She turned and gave me a little sad smile as if to acknowledge my efforts; but she still didn't say anything. I shut up for a while but it wasn't long before I launched into my next suicidal attempt at conversation. “I saw a film once; about those big white horses.” Well, in for a penny…”but they made me feel…trapped. The way they marched in tight patterns all the time with all that pent up power and nowhere to go, just mincing little steps, on and on and on, prancing around like poodles.” She laughed at the image. “I never thought of it that way,” she said.
“I just kept hoping that one of them would break free and run.” An odd breeze gently stroked the long grass next to the road. “I feel a bit like that sometimes,” I said looking towards the blue sky. She glanced at me under her eyebrows. I turned to look at her. “I suppose you do too?” I said, but she turned away and shrugged noncommittally. Good try. Better luck next time. But I didn't really care. It felt good just being there with her.
“What does it feel like? To ride a horse?”
She thought about it for a while and then shrugged her shoulders again. “It feels like…” she looked around in search of a suitable sounding word.
“Thunder,” she said and closed her eyes. I could imagine it all; huge hooves hammering at the ground, massive muscles thrusting her forward, her hair blowing back, free as the wind.
“It's very exciting.” She blurted out and blushed, quickly turning her head away to compose herself again. I got a bit excited there myself I must admit.
“I'll give you a ride if you want?”
“Oh. On him ?” I pointed.
She laughed. “No, not on him. I have another horse. Not so…skittish.”
Then she frowned as she remembered some prior commitment. “I can't today though; but when you come again…” she ended lamely. We both knew I wasn't coming again. There were too many problems with that. Her age, her step mother, the dog.
“Sure, but not in these stupid clothes.” I said, feeling self conscious in my suit. She gave me a sideways look, down and up. “I think you look nice. I think it's nice when a man dresses properly.”
I was in the deep end now and starting to drown. I was literally choking with emotion after that compliment. How this girl affected me. I was all in an uproar over her; she made me feel like I was someone nice. We walked on in blissful silence.
“Take me away with you.”
It was the way she looked straight ahead, pretending that she hadn't said those words, which drove that sentence into my heart like a stake, as if I would refuse or laugh at her hopeless cry for help. Maybe once in a lifetime, if you're lucky, a fairy tale is there for the taking. You got no time to think, you just have to grab it. I wanted to say yes but nothing came out of my mouth; and after an eternity, the moment slipped away and she turned her head so I wouldn't see her cry.
I wanted to kill myself; I just wanted to die. What kind of cruel coward was I? Not only was I not the man for her. I was no man at all. It took a little girl to point that out. The happiness of the day leeched away into the hard hearted stones beneath our feet.
A tractor came roaring round the corner on its way to fill up with paraffin, a young native boy bouncing dangerously up and down on the steel sprung seat. The horse half reared, half stumbled backwards with its wide eyes rolling in fright. The girl clung desperately to the bridle, trying to keep its head down so that it couldn't rear up. The boy switched off the engine and stood on the brake pedal. The tractor skidded to a halt amidst a cloud of dust, and the native boy and I watched as she fought to bring the frantic animal under control. A slip of a girl sweet talking him, holding, stroking, moving with him, pleading, gentling him with all her strength and her whiles until eventually he stood trembling quietly in her hands, ducking his head and snorting out his pent up tension and neighing softly into her blouse.
“Joseph.” She called.
“Ja klein mies,” came the prompt reply.
“Where is Baas Fourie?”
He pointed to the heat-hazy horizon. “Lapa-side,” he said
“Okay. You wait till I've got the horse in the stable before you start again.”
“Ja klein mies,” he said, nodding furiously, aware of how lucky he was to come out of this incident with his skin intact. Bass Fourie was a very fair man. But if his daughter had been hurt…?
Johannes Fourie was a square, sun baked man with short cropped blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Weather worn lines criss-crossed his ruddy face in a good natured pattern. Alert, kindly and capable eyes, he was a gentle man with big blunt hands that could stop a charging bull. A man whose frame and feet were solidly planted in the earth, the dust always creeping up his veldshoes and trousers as if he was a son of the soil and she was forever trying to reclaim him.
He was too rough and raw for the fancy floors of civilization. He seemed to wilt and diminish indoors as if he couldn't draw enough sustenance from the sterile cleanliness to survive. He was uncomfortable when seated on a couch or sleeping between sheets. He was born to the bush.
“Hello doll,” he greeted his daughter with a kiss on her forehead.
“Hi Pa. ” Her eyes were fond and full of pain. She looked at him like she didn't look at me. Me she observed; him she loved. They gave each other a brief, awkward hug, full of mixed emotions. There was more to it than met the eye. There was a certain tragic undertone in their greeting, as if someone in the family had died. I suddenly felt like the outsider I was.
“This is …?” she couldn't remember my name; I couldn't remember telling her.
“Epis,” I filled in quickly to cover her slip. “Epis Harram. I'm an insurance assessor with the Old Mutual.”
“How do you do. Johannes Fourie.” His handshake was surprisingly gentle. “How can I help you?” He seemed relieved to be talking about something other than what was on his mind. “There's already been one of your investigator fellows out here, taking photo's and stuff; statements. I hope there's no trouble with the claim is there?”
“No, no, no, no. Nothing like that. Just tidying up the loose ends.” Did he believe me? He must know that the coincidence of crop failure followed by ‘accidental' fire was very suspicious. Someone could have set the fire on purpose. Maybe he knew who it was. Maybe it was him. There was certainly something strange going on here, but I don't think it was about the fire. I looked at Lilly and smiled. She looked as if she'd seen a Rinkhals.
“You don't suspect us, do you?” Her eyes were blazing now. My balls on a barbecue would be the only thing'd make her smile. She looked betrayed, duped. I had befriended her under false pretences. I should have told her when we first met. Little did I know that that was what she thrived on. She felt at home with betrayal……..I had unwittingly fulfilled her deepest need.
“No. Just a few routine questions, for our records mainly.”
Where did it start? The fire? Right there. I should have walked away and led a happy life, but I was drawn into their misery like a knight looking to right a wrong. She was too young for such burdens. I wanted to be her champion, and prove myself to her. I didn't know what the trouble was, but I wanted to make it better. I wanted her to cry it all out on my shoulder. The very thought of it made my knees go all shaky again. What an idiot!
“They say it started on Pienaars farm. That's what the policeman said anyway. I haven't spoken to anyone else really so that's all I know.”
“And do you know how it started?” I asked the million dollar question.
“No. Could be a thousand things. Even spontaneous combustion. It's hot enough for it.” He nodded over his shoulder. Behind him a team of tractors were ploughing up a cloud of dust that rolled across the black earth and blue sky.
“I'll say.” I said, loosening off my tie and undoing the top button of my shirt.
*
There's a little hotel at Diepkloof called the ‘Aardvark' with an old drunk at the bar who presides like the oracle on his three legged barstool. He say's what he knows because he's got no friends left to lose. In Vino Veritas is his motto. In other words, too drunk to tell a lie. I wanted a room for the night and I got the rest of my life in purgatory because I made the mistake of buying him a drink. It's funny how an adult can't sing a song unless he's drunk. He sang a few filthy songs through his only two front teeth and then he told me a story. He hadn't said more than a slurred sentence or two before I knew what kind of trouble I'd let myself in for.
There were no heroes in his story and no happy endings, just trouble ahead, like it say's in the song. And I was no dancer who could disarm the devil with my fancy footwork and winning ways. She needed a Fred Astaire to take her there, away from who she was born to be. Her destiny. Lilly, the girl on the horse who saved me from a dog worse than death. Too young to understand her daddy; who he was, or should have been, or shouldn't have been. She just loved him anyway. I felt very sorry for her; it's not something you can ever live down, that kind of scandal. I watched her slipping further away from me as the story unfolded and there was nothing I could do. She belonged to her past and her parents and their unfolding present tense which was about to scorch everyone connected with them.
“He's out on bail. And the other one too. Pienaar. Half a million each. The women don't get it so easy though…shit.” He spilled most of his beer over his lap. “Especially the black one. I'll be surprised if she gets out of jail alive.”
“Why?” I asked naively. He ogled me with one uncertainly focused eye. “Because,” he said, “this is South Africa ,” as if that explained everything.
To be continued