‘I have one Stoffel gave me. He got it from an Engelsman who came to discover Africa. The explorer had bad luck at the Cape and lost all his money. He gave the book in exchange for a lamp and blankets. The trade wasn’t fair, Stoffel said, but he was impressed by the cover, and it had enough pages to last a winter.’ She fetched it and handed it to him.
‘He’s right, it has a handsome cover. It was good of Stoffel to be so generous. He’s been generous to you, Neeltje, giving you dogs and books and everything.’
‘He’s like that.’
‘A man’s not like that for nothing. And I didn’t know you had lessons.’
‘Pa said I should learn just in case. He paid for lessons for one year.’
‘Will you read a few pages for me?’
‘Some of the words are big. I might not pronounce them right. Why don’t you read?’
‘You first. Over there.’
She went to sit in Wynand’s stuffed chair by the hearth.
‘From the beginning?’
‘Yes,’ he leaned back in his chair. ‘Don’t hurry.’
She opened the book and started to read. It was in Dutch, a story of merchants and spices and Spanish kings, and she read slowly, stumbling over the names. The house was silent except for the music of words, and the odd crackle coming from the hearth as the wood split and burned in the fire. Then his voice, soft and persuasive, entered into it.
‘Lift up your dress.’
The request was so unexpected, she thought she’d heard wrong and continued reading.
‘Lift up your dress, Neeltje,’ he asked again.
This time there was no mistake. She raised the hem of her dress an inch.
He got up and came forward.
‘Higher.’
She looked at him. ‘No.’ She was feeling terribly hot and strange things went on in her body.
He came to kneel at her feet.
‘Read, Neeltje, don’t stop. Tell me about the emperor.’
‘There are no emperors. It’s an adventure on the seas.’
‘Just read to me. Anything.’
The words tumbled out, dry and incoherent, with no significance. The evening had taken on an unreality and she was swept up in it.
He touched her ankle, the white of her calf.
The book fell from her hands.
‘What are you doing?’ she slapped his face. ‘Go to your quarters, you need rest! You want me to wake Pa?’
‘All right, Neeltje,’ he said, getting up, his face hot with his efforts. ‘Don’t wake your father, and don’t send me to my room now.’
When Wynand came into the kitchen in the morning, he found Neeltje asleep in the chair, just as he’d left her the previous evening, Roeloff on the bench with his head slumped on his arm.
The wedding took place a few weeks later; a small supper, with a dominee, and a handful of farmers coming for roast lamb and Marta Reijnhardt’s botterbeskuit. When the rains stopped in August, Roeloff and Neeltje took Wynand Roos up on his offer and made the trip to the Cape. When they returned a month before Christmas, the wagon stocked with lace and cloth and bedding and glass plates and spices and chairs and tools and enough books to bring enjoyment for several winters, Roeloff was ready to settle into his new life. He had seen what he wanted, and had made good on his promise to look up Oupa Harman’s brother. Krisjan Kloot had died, but he located Maria, and Maria’s son, Pieter, who had left him the newspaper and book. The mystery was explained. Krisjan Kloot had married the slave girl from Ceylon who had come to work for him after his first wife had died. Their daughter, Maria, a baster with straight hair, light eyes, and brown skin, darkened the strain further by marrying Stefan Cornelius, himself the mixed offspring of a Nederlander and a Hottentot. Maria had two brothers and several nephews and nieces who were fair like the Kloots, but they had moved to Stellenbosch, wanting nothing to do with their dark-skinned relatives. It wasn’t uncommon behaviour, Pieter said. There were Africaanders who married Koi-na or slaves, but not all family members accepted this and there was often estrangement as a result. Mixed marriages and half-breed children divided families.
On a wet morning in June the following year, Wynand oiled his gun and saddled his horse for the ride to Jan Dissels Vlei. He had recovered completely, except for an occasional twinge in his legs.
‘I lost Neeltje’s mother during childbirth, Otto,’ he said when he arrived at the German doctor’s house. ‘I don’t want anything going wrong with my child.’
Otto Lieberband spanned in his horses and came with him right away. They were at the Roos house half a day when Neeltje went into labour, in the middle of a storm.
Wynand sat in the kitchen with Harman, listening to the skies rumble and groan, and the rain pelting down on the house. There was nothing he could do except wait, and keep the coffee and hot water going. A scratch at the door made him turn.
‘Oubaas?’
‘Nothing yet, Twa. You want coffee? Come in out of the rain.’
‘Ta!’ Harman wriggled off Wynand’s lap.
Twa came in and picked him up.
Harman waved his stubby hand in the air, pointing to the door.
Twa’s eyes twinkled.
