‘You’re not angry with me?’
‘Angry?’ Harman Kloot laughed, coughing at the same time. ‘You’re not the first one to do it. Won’t be the last.’
Roeloff waited for him to stop coughing.
‘Your cough’s getting worse, Oupa. Maybe it’s that pipe. Sanna said she was going to give you something—did she?’
‘Sanna’s too busy boxing Zokho’s ears.’ He paused for a moment to catch his breath. ‘We miss you. Are you eating?’
‘Twa roasted a tortoise last night.’
‘A tortoise?’ Oupa Harman made a face. ‘You must come back, or you’ll end up like him scouring for food in the dust.’
‘Pa told me not to come into the house.’
‘He didn’t mean it. You know your father. He thinks with his fists. Afterwards he’s sorry.’
‘He wasn’t sorry about killing the Sonqua.’
‘That’s different. If you stay out here too long, it’ll make it harder to come back. Just come in tonight and say nothing.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You mean you won’t. You may look like your mother, but you’re stubborn like him.’
‘When David makes mistakes, Pa doesn’t go on like that. But he hits me. For any little thing.’
‘Maybe your father doesn’t know the things David does.’
‘Some things, Oupa, he does. Sometimes I think Pa’s afraid to tell him anything.’
‘Your father’s not afraid of anyone.’
‘He listens to Oom Jan.’
‘Well, Oom Jan, that’s a different story. Oom Jan’s the devil’s disciple, there’s no salve for him. You don’t have to agree with everything Oom Jan does, but it’s good to know someone like him when you’re out here alone. Oom Jan has his usefulness. Don’t think your Pa doesn’t know that. And don’t think he agrees with all that Oom Jan does.’
Roeloff listened some more, but didn’t do as his grandfather asked. After a few claustrophobic nights in Twa’s hut, he had grown used to the cold and the smell of smoke clinging to his hair and clothes.
One evening, sharing a plate of food with Twa that Sanna had sent from the kitchen, Willem Kloot’s shadow fell over them at the fire.
‘So, you’ll show me what you’re made of, Roeloff Kloot? You’ll stay in this hok and show me you don’t care to improve yourself? Maybe I’ve misjudged you. Maybe it’s time to test your mettle in the bush.’
‘I won’t go killing Sonqua, if that’s what you mean.’ The words came out unbidden, and Roeloff cringed: not only had he spoken out of turn, he’d also remained on his heels while his father spoke.
Willem looked down at his son, squatting beside the fire.
‘Yes, I can see I have misjudged you. Another week and I wouldn’t be able to tell you from this goat-smelling bosjesman. You’ve made a mistake; I’ll overlook it this time, but I warn you—don’t go turning the Kloots in their graves. Now get yourself into the house.’
Spring came with a torrent of rain and a rush of yellow and purple flowers rising from the veld. There was water in the barrels, the well, the house. The tin tub came out for the first time in months. It was a warm October evening, and Roeloff turned his grandfather’s chair on the stoep so he could look out directly over the veld. Propped up with a cushion in the mahogany chair with the riempie seat he’d bought from a Roodezand farmer, half dozing, half listening to Roeloff tell of his success with Boerhaan, Oupa Harman had got thinner over winter. He didn’t have to talk or cough or be in a closed room for Roeloff to pick up the gangrenous odour. Roeloff knew, better than his father who didn’t want to face the fact that Oupa Harman had poison brewing in his lungs, that it was only a matter of time. His grandfather had no strength in his legs and had to be helped into his chair where he insisted on being instead of in bed. His beloved pipe lay, dried out and dusty, on the window sill.
‘That sunset’s like a paralysed scorpion bleeding over the rant. Look at that, Oupa. The whole veld’s red.’
Oupa Harman shuddered at the description. A scorpion didn’t bleed, but what did it matter, he knew what the boy meant. Someone else had talked like that. His difficulty with his estranged brother had always been Krisjan’s obsession with words. Visionary verse, he called it. What was a man of vision if he couldn’t foresee the result of his actions? But Roeloff was right. It was a rosy sky flecked with gold, and he wasn’t yet dead to its beauty. It was his last season. Hewn from the blood dust of Africa, the land would soon claim him back.
‘You all right, Oupa?’
‘Everything’s all right on a day like this, Roff. Beauty is God’s cure for despair.’
‘You are quiet today.’
Oupa Harman coughed, farting at the same time. His grandfather never broke wind in company; it showed his lack of control.
‘I’m thinking of my brother, Krisjan. Your father never wanted him to come here.’
‘Is there something wrong with him?’
‘No.’
Roeloff waited for his grandfather to continue, but he didn’t.
‘One day I will travel to the Cape. There are many things I want to see there. I’ll look him up.’
Oupa Harman turned sideways to look at him.
‘You must leave that part of the family alone.’
‘He’s blood.’
