Читать книгу Heartfruit - Ingrid Wolfaardt - Страница 4

This land is not his land.

Tired of travelling, Isak longs for heat and dust and an expanse of sky. Troubled, he checks the traffic in the mirror, staring at the child, glued to the car window ahead, recalling his own lonely journey as a boy.

Here, there are no kestrels on telephone poles.

Here, there are no mountains overlooking broad plains.

The land is not his land, nor the people.

He feels nothing for the gentle landscape surrounding him. For the most he longs for her to be sitting here with him, gesticulating excitedly in all directions.

Dark skies clear as he pulls off the road next to lawns lined with white crosses. Cars stream past. He climbs out, stretching his body in the cold, worried that he has not heard anything from her.

Perron. Isak rolls the sounds out loud.

Perron, he thinks of home.

Geese feed off snails as he studies the map, running his finger along the road from Paris to the Dutch border. It is the name of the village that changes his mind to stay, and the crosses too. He wants to know more about them, their wooden simplicity moving him inexplicably.

Stiffly, he descends the embankment towards the Fiat, taking the turn-off from the highway that leads to the main street where old men lock up for the night. Some have ribbons pinned onto their blazers and it is the first time since Rungis that he has seen men wear berets like himself.

He parks next to a dilapidated scooter under the flickering name of the hotel, cracking his knuckles in thought, when a man comes out through the swinging bar doors with a clumsiness that catches his attention. Isak hesitates but two others, jovial and younger step out of the bar, cradling the jerking body onto the scooter’s seat. One of them kick-starts the engine while the other maneuvers the scooter off the pavement.

The man’s head lolls to one side.

The taller one turns to Isak, tapping the side of his head. “Idiot,” he mouths exaggeratedly and the other laughs as they shoulder their way back into the bar.

He watches the man drive erratically down the avenue, until the swinging doors quieten. Inside, the ceiling is low and there is a woman behind the desk with rouged cheeks.

“Excusi moi, ja ne parle pas Français?”

“You speak Anglais?” she asks charmingly.

“Un peau.” Isak measures with his fingers to show how little.

“Visa?” She offers her hand, commenting appreciatively on his younger image. “Beau homme.” Her bangles tinkle as she passes it back. “Afrique du Sud … Mandela?”

“Yes, yes,” he replies, grimacing impatiently. “Just hurry,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Une chamber.” A flamed fingernail makes her point clear.

Together they mount the staircase, his bag between the two of them. She unhooks a key from her cleavage, chatting in broken English as he studies the number on the door.

The room is Spartan and the Madam gestures expansively. “Perron, Verdun, Somme is famous for bloody fighting.” She pushes open the shutters and he can see the endless fields of crosses. “Land, men killing men for land,” she tries to explain the view.

Beneath the artificial ruddiness, there is skin like Ouma’s.

“Merci.”

“Cle.” She hands over the key, while indicating the time for dinner with her fingers but he curtly dismisses the offer.

Above the bed is a crucifix with a carved Christ figure and he stays at the open window until she closes the door. The room is sided by watercolours of men fighting in trenches with haloes around their heads. Shoving off his shoes at the heel he pulls the beret off his head. Made in China, it reads on the inner satin. Disgusted, he kicks it under the bed.

Madam calls as she goes down the stairs and her gaiety adds to his frustration.

Brochures are piled on the bedside table. Idly he flips through France. Versailles, Montmarte, the Moulin Rouge, cafés on the Champs Elysees. Tossing them to the floor, he recalls the Peripherique long before sunrise. Him caught that very morning in the swirling motion around the city. An enormous spinning wheel of vehicles that never rests. Then Rungis with its stark halls, large enough to house bomber planes, deceptive in their tattiness, displaying perfect fruit from all over the world.

Made in China, he thinks again. Nothing is sacred. What is worse, the battle of the body or the mind? He knows both, the fight to survive in grass and swamps and the fight to survive in a competitive world of money. A man who has turned his back on the old order of things and yet the fight has gone out of him, long ago. Only he knows that this last attempt to save everything they have worked for, believed in, is like sending a cripple to the front lines, without weapons.

It is hopeless.

A gong sounds in the passage of the hotel. He sits up and yawns. Out in the back yard, kitchen staff feed geese through funnels. Isak closes the shutters to their cries. There is mud on his shoes. Carefully he wipes at the spots, remembering Japie in the shed, praying a blessing over him.

Their trust in him is too much to bear.

Accordion scratched out on vinyl, rises up from the dining room, while the e-mail from Danie lies untouched in his pocket. His visit to Europe is to kill two birds with one stone and one has already been put to flight, while the second remains hidden from him.

It would be good to see you again.

Once again he opens the shutters for fresh air, endless crosses creating endless vistas. Disturbed, he checks the cellphone for messages from her but there is nothing. Despite his disappointment, he keeps her updated and the tone light.

On my way to becoming a real Frenchie. Clumsily, he presses the OK button, continuing with the second part. Paris, now Perron, registers on the screen. Frogs making a racket outside, like scooters with cut-off exhausts – perhaps from fear? He struggles to find the question mark option, deleting his failed attempt at humour. There are a number of voice mails from the bank and the agricultural co-op. Without listening, he deletes each one, moving over to the basin where he brushes his teeth, staring absentmindedly at the scentless rose.

France has not been a success. He has misread the enthusiasm of the French clients. It is one of admiration and not of commitment.

Despondently, he sits down on the bed picking at a hair on the pillow, seductive in its solitariness. Violently, he kicks at the bedding of the too-short bed.

Who has guilt? Who has guilt over Africa? Maybe the British? The memory of the concentration camps still fresh in their collective conscience, the diamond and gold desecration, their African legacy. Perhaps the guilt of the Dutch about Jan van Riebeeck and his bitter almond hedge. And the French, he thinks in the dark, the French have had Africa, the Belgians under Leopold, too.

At last it is quiet downstairs. He studies the paintings in the dark, calling up her face before him. How he loves the way her hair falls and the way she woos him with her joy. He catches her doing it but it is impossible to resist. He loves them both, her and the child, and yet the farm is his mistress, his lover, a prison that ensnares him. And there is no way out of this self-induced sentence. He has made the mistake to think work equates with love and now that it is almost too late it is their love that he wants most, the only constant in all of the uncertainty. And yet he fears he will lose it with everything else. Other fears haunt him too, his fear of losing the land, of losing Perron. So he is pulled between his two loves.

The morning spent in Paris is a lifetime away. Strolling between the fruit he saw his own, bruised and marked, and he had turned away so that no one would know it was his.

What nation still had a social conscience? Who would pay for the sins of the father?

His agent amongst the pallets, white-coated like Madam, shrugging his shoulders, “Pardon, monsieur Minnaar, but only the best sells at Rungis. There is no place for beginners. Too much good fruit.” Dominique’s finely wrought face frowns up at him, the words formed voluptuously on his thin lips.

Later they sit in the diner surrounded by men smoking cigarillos, Dominique, apologetic over the baked Camembert and the Bordeaux in his hand. Uncomfortable and embarrassed by this attention, Isak regrets the invitation to eat.

“Rungis is dying,” Dominique tries to soften the blow, waving his hands. “Another hall is to close down. We have lost the battle with the supermarkets.”

Dominique greying at the temples, just like him. Dominique, fourth generation on the market floor. Perhaps the last generation on the market floor. They walk back through the halls to the red-and-blue carton of Oupa. He bites into a pear, the wind marks and russeting forgotten as he tastes the sweetness and tartness of home.

Without hope, all is lost.

Sleeping in the cramped room, he dreams of the men on the wall.

He wakes to a moon and the clock-face down the street, searching in the dark for the briefcase with its calculator, listlessly pressing the digits over and over. The bank wants answers and he needs to give them the bigger plan, they too have little patience with a white man and a social experiment. Cartons, fruit, fuel, fertilizer and people, lots of people are coded into figures. Abruptly he switches on the light. It is the time of day that markets across Europe switch on their lights too.

And back home in the valley someone will be lighting a candle and another heating water on a stove and they will be sleeping, the two of them together in his absence. Lambs will be born and the leaves will fall and the river will run full through the orchards as he struggles to find a saviour for them all.

In despair he drops the calculator with totals that won’t go away.

* * *

Spine to the wall, the little boy waits in the dark for the crying. It begins, rising and falling, then dissolving into a whimper. He mimics Outa’s song, clicking his tongue, filling the hollow space in his head. With a cocked head he waits, wrapped in Ouma’s eiderdown. There’s a lull, then another voice, singing songs of comfort and he repeats the words, over and over again. Suddenly the song stops. He studies his feet and the shape of his sleeping brother, curled up like a frightened songololo. The shamed thumb moves in and out and the light from the stoep makes tiger stripes, light and dark, light and dark. His eiderdown is made of different material. One by one he strokes the blocks, guessing the names; calico, satin, velvet, kaffir sheeting.

On the wall is Jesus walking on water and the water looks like the wave pattern they do in their books at Sunday school, rows and rows of them, especially for Noah’s ark.

Without waking the other, he climbs in, curving his body with his brother’s back, mimicking the breathing of the smaller boy. The lines over his face dissolve into oneness and the words of the lullaby sink into the waves on the wall.

* * *

Walking down the main street of Perron, he rolls his head tentatively from side to side, feeling the old neck injury. Automatically he lifts the phone to check the screen but Amelie is silent. Bad news travels fast, he consoles himself, as he enters the old church.

Perron’s museum is hell displayed in glass cabinets; framed, listed and catalogued. Artificial limbs made from wood and cloth stand at attention on shelving. Against the wall a projector flashes scenes of soldiers in trenches of mud. Running, shooting, riding, falling in mud as high as horse bridles. There is no sun, no golden aura, just misery and defeat on their faces.

This is Oupa’s war. Thousands of lives for a metre of soil. Trenches turned into bloodied moats, men turned into bloated bodies, embalmed in the ever-present mud. What for? he thinks, as Europe moves to a union. If only one could see ahead.

He exits through the fire escape onto the grounds of the castle that leads to the church. Old men sit on canvas chairs fishing in the canal. He zips his jacket and hunches his shoulders from the cold as he stops to look at the tables. Live crabs and unplucked ducks lie next to each other while eels squirm in shallow baths. Again he unfolds the map showing the Autoroute de Soleil. It is a five-hour drive to the Belgian-Dutch border.

Our house is the last in the street, on a hill, the only hill in Holland.

The putt-putt of the scooter comes from behind. Isak points to apples and the lady lifts them off the table by their stem ends, apples with unblemished skins. He sits down on the low wall of the church biting into one, its insipid taste offering no consolation. There are millions of such apples spread over Europe.

Fruit is the beginning and the end of him.

Across the canal a girl plays the accordion. He notices her sullenness. She is the age of his daughter, her slim limbs reminding him of Sophy and the awkwardness that comes with being a father to a girl-woman.

The scooter stops. He senses the man’s closeness. Without speaking Isak passes on an apple. They watch the lines in the water, listening to the thin singing.

Then he tosses the stripped core into the water and the other does the same. The two cores drift downstream until they are sucked under the bridge. With delight the man claps his hands while Isak returns to the car. Small pleasures no longer please him.

Pulling at the choke, he wonders about the cores and whether they will seed as he drives past the girl, hidden by falling hair. She is only a child. He stops the car, holding out a coin to her, which she takes with barely concealed anger, dropping it disdainfully onto the red velvet of the opened case.

Wheat and mustard lands replace the fields of crosses. Stone villages and fuel stops break the monotony along the highway. Eventually, the hills flatten out to beech forests and the first polders appear. He switches on the fan as a concentration of piggeries spew their stench onto the road and the sign for the village, straddling the border, comes up on the board.

It is a truck stop, a take-away town for travellers and below the road, shop windows sell women. At the end of the village is a hill and a house with a weather vane pointing south.

Two men stand on the porch, each holding a dachshund. Isak flips the indicator’s arrow towards them as he slowly turns into the driveway.

His brother is of slighter build but with the same neatness as Father and a sallowness of skin he cannot remember. The other is like the house, modest in build and appearance. The dogs fly at the Fiat’s wheels.

The other scolds the dogs.

“Isak … Sakkie.” His brother pulls at the door.

“Danie.” Isak struggles to release the safety belt, his eyes on the catch.

He gets out, with the dogs snapping at his heels, holding out his hand but Danie steps forward, embracing him.

“Boeta.” Danie grips him hard.

Isak withdraws, dropping his arms to his side and his brother is thinner, less muscular than he can remember.

“We’ve been waiting for you.” Danie’s eyes are placid like dam water.

“Business in Paris.” Isak apologises. “I underestimated the time it takes to get out of the city.”

The other with lashless eyes holds out his hand. “Gabriel.”

The dogs are picked up and carried like watermelons under the arm.

“I thought you may have changed your mind as we didn’t hear from you.” Danie drops the dog in the entrance hall. “Welcome to one of the last vicarages in Holland.”

The house is compact and meditative in its tones. He waits awkwardly as they unlace their shoes, staring at the picture on the hat stand. It is of mountains and sky. Next to it is a blackened teacup with a blue rim. Isak runs his finger along the lip.

Gabriel calls the dogs and walks through to the kitchen, leaving them alone.

“I’m glad you’ve come, it would have been a terrible disappointment having you so close and then not seeing you.” Danie stands next to him and they look at the photo of sky and mountain. He speaks with a slight Dutch intonation that is foreign and off-putting to Isak.

“I guess my curiosity got the better of me. For a moment I thought it was Dad.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Danie smiles at him. “You look again more and more like Oupa.”

Isak sniffs in disagreement, wondering of which one.

“Marrow cabbage.” Danie sniffs as well. “You must be hungry and in need of a drink. The Boeing has come and gone.” He peers out of the door. “Not that we would know.”

The kitchen is tiny. Danie pulls out a stool for both of them and together they perch, their shoulders touching. Isak unzips his jacket.

“Hang it behind the door.”

Gabriel stirs at the stove, casually drinking a beer, while Danie tears at the bread on the table, the white flour sifting over his hands. “Easter loaf, peasant style.” He holds out a chunk of bread. “Our version of the hot cross bun. Help yourself.”

Isak takes a piece. “The wine?”

“The supermarkets are overrun with South African wines, overpriced and a sentimental buy more than anything else.”

Isak sniffs at the bottle’s neck, pulling his face.

“Sweet memories from our childhood.” Danie laughs at Isak’s expression. “Remember the bottles amongst the oleanders?” He fills the glasses. “Gesondheid, glad that you came, after all.”

They sip and Isak pushes his stool slightly back to see his brother’s face from the front. It is a face of people from a time long past.

“Mamma, how is she holding up?” Danie asks lightly.

Isak chews in thought, “Mamma is no longer.”

Quizzically his brother holds his gaze, then drops his head to rub one of the dogs. “I often think of her.”

Isak shakes the flour off his pants. “Well, she no longer thinks of you … or anyone else for that matter.”

The dogs lick the drippings from Gabriel’s spoon off the tiles.

For a while they eat the bread and drink the wine.

“Your noses.” Gabriel gestures with the spoon, feeling their discomfort. “Nostrils like an Arab horse, just the same, and your eyes.”

The dogs watch the spoon as they turn to each other.

“Tieroë,” they reply together.

“Our ouma’s saying,” Danie explains to Gabriel. “Eyes like a leopard’s,” he translates, then he turns back to Isak.“And your family?”

Isak flexes his fingers. “Like river stones.”

“Round and smooth?”

“Perhaps. I was thinking more about rolling by.”

Gabriel sets the table with blue-rimmed plates. Slowly, he spoons the cabbage sauce over the potato, the fatty water soaking into the folds of the mash. “Stamppot soos myn Oma’s recept.”

The sauce swims over the plate. Isak concentrates on the fatty whorls. They take hands and Danie says Dutch grace. The three of them sit in a row at the counter.

“Your congregation?”

Danie stops eating. “The Dutch are self-sufficient. God is a quaint concept to them.” He dismisses the topic, playing with his fork, stabbing at the slivers of cabbage. “The farmers around here are suffering; farming is a dying profession.” He looks up, pausing. “And Perron?”

Isak pulls the bottle closer, filling his glass. “We have no subsidies. Just getting poorer and poorer and no-one here or there cares a damn. Cheers!”

Gabriel opens another beer, his eyes flitting from one to the other.

Isak tastes the tannin. “The honeymoon is over; everyone believes in the new South Africa until it asks something from them.”

The cellphone in his jacket starts to ring.

“Don’t say you’ve also succumbed to one of those?” Danie looks on in mock horror. “South-African yuppie boer.”

Isak ignores the sarcasm “They steal the telephone wires, that’s why,” he explains brusquely. “If you’ll excuse me.” He walks back to the entrance hall.

Her voice fills the emptiness inside of him. “What does he look like, are you glad to see him? Can Dominique help?”

“Slowly, Amelie, we’re eating supper, I’ll speak to you later.”

“I can’t wait till then. I want to know now.”

Her forcefulness contrasts sharply with the coolness he feels from the men in the kitchen.

“Later,” he insists, feeling his anger rise towards her, “after I’ve sorted out my own mind.”

“That’s so unfair.”

“Did you get my message?” He changes the topic, knowing exactly how she would push her lips, provocatively, without knowing the effect it had on him.

“Mmm … Sophy had a dream that you were coming home on Thursday and now she believes it.”

“I won’t be able to come home until I’ve got some sort of answer. It can take weeks.”

“Let’s hope we have that luxury.”

“Did wages go through?”

She hesitates. “We stood there until they gave it to us. I refused to budge.”

There is laughter from the kitchen.

“You should have been here. It was a mistake coming alone.”

He softens for a moment, staring at the photo, imagining their faces and her holding the phone, swaying from side to side as she speaks. The mountain and the sky captured in the entrance hall behind her and the bare deltoidia branches. He feels her absence intensely. All he desires is simplicity. The land without the trouble.

“Que sera sera, whatever must be must be,” she sings with little enthusiasm. “Love you,” she adds but he doesn’t reply, switching off the phone in thought.

The kitchen is warm and the dogs lie with the gammon bone between them.

“I’ll be with you,” he drops his eyes at the sight of their intimacy, “just need to fetch my things in the car.”

He opens the front door and the air is chilly. He feels uncomfortable with them, excluded, not knowing what to talk about. Without thinking he slips on Danie’s jacket, tight over the shoulders and too narrow over the chest. The dogs follow him out into the night.

Here is no wilderness and there are no stars either. The stench from the piggeries drifts over the house as he struggles to find the porch light. In the dark he guesses where the car is, all his senses sharpening to gauge the distance. The dogs keep at his heels as he steps to the right where the driveway must be but there is no driveway, just a low wall. Tripping, his knees buckle and he cannot stop it, the fall downward, head first. Down, down, down, twisting in the fall that ends with hardness so hard that his head splits open, then his shoulder, then his chest.

Then the rest of him.

Pain blackens out all thought and feeling as he lies in a pool, seeping out of his own body and nothing becomes everything.

* * *

He wakens from the hammering of many fists on the door, like a stampede of wildebeest over dry plains, driven on by raucous laughter and cursing.

Another night of fear.

Quick, off the mattress and up on the trunk with cold metal under cold feet. He knots his stomach, thrusting out his chin, clamping his fists stiff against his sides.

The other boys do the same. The deep sleepers are dragged off their cots. Faces are slapped hard to waken them. Then chaos as the beating on the door explodes. Door hinges pull like gum from a thorn tree as the door comes smashing down.

Dozens of eyes in the dark looking in at them.

He is third in line. The punches are rapid and powerful. Knuckles kneaded by rock and arms loaded with muscle cut into him. Nausea rises from his gut. The blows continue as he tries to think of home, yet the pain shreds his mind.

The next man is on him but he daren’t look down. The next boy tips forward, knees buckling on thin stilts. He hits the floor face first.

Isak shifts his eyes to the opposite wall.

Boys are crying. The aisle between the rows of beds is congested. The oumanne walk over the bodies into the night. The last one turns spitting at them. His bulky form has no face and Isak feels the spittle on his cheeks.

“We’ll be seeing you fucking roofies sometime.”

The bungalow breathes and someone switches on the lights. He jumps off the bed, next to the boy whose nose is bleeding.

Isak wipes the hairless face with marbled eyes and shattered spectacles. “Are you OK?”

The boy appears not to hear, picking up the pieces. “Are they coming back?”

“Next time we’ll be ready for them. I promise you.”

He looks at the boy with a thin chain around his neck. It has a red snake on the plaque. On his t-shirt is written, Jaws, and there’s a small figure swimming above the massive snout of a shark.

“We’ll be ready,” he reassures him again.

The boy smiles weakly.

Isak measures the damage around him. Boy’s blood on the cement floor and it’s only been forty-eight hours since they’ve been there and there is another four months to go.

“Vasbyt, guys, vasbyt,” he says to them and to himself.

* * *

Dogs with dripping paws around his head make him aware of what has happened. Their raspy tongues licking his face, stinking of smoked meat and cabbage.

His breath disappears as air escapes from his punctured lung. Face down he lies. Bones snapped, crushed and bruised, himself frozen by calamity and cold. Whining, they keep watch as he spits out grit and chipped teeth. He tries to shout but the garage swallows the sound.

Later, much later, men in socks drag what is left of him up the hill to the house. He lies on white tiles and wonders whether the dogs will clean his mess too.

His father is on the phone calling the doctor. Not for his mother because his father repeats his name, over and over. A blanket is thrown over him. He waits for them to pull it over his face and there is a great cold coming in from the door.

Men in white coats pick him up, drop him on the frosted ground, then pick him up again. He can see inside his father’s head. All is revealed, a longing for a land of mountains and sky and his father thinks he will die, that he sees right behind his eyes.

There is a siren wailing and the siren is for him. Out by the door one of the men loses his grip and the stretcher tips a second time and he feels himself go down and he can do nothing to stop it.

He lies in rose bushes, their fragrance comforting. “Souvenir de Madame Leonie Vionenot,” he helps them out.

“Verdomme!” There’s a swearing and scramble around him as they roll him back on.

He is straitjacketed by pain. “Stop!”

No one hears him as they load him into the ambulance.

“Back, back, back!” the men shout and he wants to remind them that one can never go back, what is gone is gone, but he cannot speak.

Under the flashing light a masked man bends over him with a syringe. And the needle is stuck in his arm.

“Stop!” he warns them in his head but it is too late. The cold is not from outside but from within, creeping up his legs into his chest and then into his head. He sees their smiling faces with outstretched arms to take him with them and he isn’t afraid any more. “Let’s go!” he calls out with relief, feeling himself die in her arms as wings lift him up.

* * *

And she is dancing. Her bare feet cracked at the heels and the child is pressed against her breast. He can see her thighs through the cotton skirt, the dimples below the buttocks as she rocks the child to a song.

The walls are black. She has painted the walls black without his consent.

He stands before her but she ignores him, dropping her chin, the room in disarray. There is paint on the table and the brushes lie hard in the sun.

Terracotta, the walls are terracotta and he will not live in such a house, with walls the colour of mud. So he paints over those dark walls while she sits on the couch watching him. Layer upon layer of white but the brown shines through the whiteness.

And they do not speak of the walls, her silence worn like a shawl that she wraps around herself.

“Let’s go,” he tries again but instead the cot moves beneath him.

A medic in green kicks open a door and the lights are green for go.

A woman controls him and the machine. Metal plates are pressed under his bruised flesh. They chat over his body, seductively, as he lies stripped on the trolley but for the mask over his face feeding him oxygen.

Then he is out of the green room and the medic whistles a tune brightly as they go into another room where he is buried in a vibrating tunnel. A voice through an intercom commands him to lie still as the winking eye looks into his brain. He wanders whether he has feet and whether he will walk again.

“Dead still.” The voice speaks to him and his eyes twitch in answer to the irony of this and his coldness towards the caricature of a man on the scooter.

He is pulled out, unstrapped and trollied back.

The ceiling is white and the fluorescent bar needs cleaning. He is plugged into machines with pipes and nodes.

He fell. He can remember falling and twisting and not knowing where was up or where was down. That is all he can remember and their faces, when the cold came over him he saw their faces, but their faces are gone.

He tries to bunch his fists but he cannot find his hands.

There is another cot next to his. His father lies asleep and this room could be a morgue if it weren’t for sounds behind the screen, the farting and coughing of old men. Through the night he sees men in white and faces looming over him and they speak about him as though he is dead.

A withered hand touches his face. Isak looks up. It is an old man with an arm in a sling, who talks to him in Dutch that is impossible to understand and the clearness of his gaze makes Isak want to weep and he wonders if this is what morphine does to you, make you long for something you’ve never had.

Without hesitation the old man feels the hardened bandage around Isak’s head, barking at the night nurse. His father sits up in the cot next to him but it is Danie, his sallow complexion, in contrast to the other’s face, reddened by wind. The old man speaks agitatedly, pointing at Isak’s head.

“Your acrobatic skills gave us all a fright.” Danie swings his legs off the bed, rubbing his eyes. His shirt is crumpled and there is grey stubble on his chin.

The clock on the opposite wall to the cot says it is five in the morning.

The old man turns his attention to Danie as Isak’s head is unwound and the dressing replaced. Panic sets in. Will his mind fall out through the hole in his head?

“He wants to know what happened to you, where you come from and what you do for a living. In that order.”

Isak can see the fear for him in Danie’s eyes.

“The old man farms outside the village. He noticed your red neck and forearms as signs of your mutual calling.” Danie keeps his eyes on the screen while talking. “You gave us one bloody hell of a fright,” he repeats, unaware of his expletive, fingering Isak’s wrist for his pulse.

The mask covers his mouth so he doesn’t have to say anything.

All he wants to do is close his eyes and escape everything and everybody.

“The old man farms with pigs.” Danie prattles, fiddling with the needle in his dead arm. “Do you remember Dad’s Landrace?” Danie’s voice is anxious as he rinses his hands in the basin next to the cot. “Isak?” His voice rises like that of a boy long ago. “The old man has an album, entirely of pig photos here with him in the hospital.”

The swinging cross sparkles over him.

Landrace, Isak thinks, it could be my name too.

* * *

The pigs are in cement pens. The men look at the miserable creatures, spitting in the dust.

“Aikona, Baas must look again, that creature has more head fat than anything else.”

The sprig of heather in Outa Floors’s hatband wilts and his nails curve over his fingertips. But his father ignores them. The pig is caught, a nervous creature, unused to being alone, whisking its ears and peering suspiciously with small eyes. Outa scatters mielies at its snout and the pig’s head drops greedily.

They play, Isak, Danie and Pettie amongst the pens, running and jumping along the cement wall when his father kneels with the point-22. They freeze obediently like statues on cue. Pettie’s wiry body contorted over Danie’s softness.

The gun on his father shoulder lies level with the pig’s backbone. It lifts its head. His father shoots and the bullet pierces the pig between the eyes and they carry on playing.

The pig is the weight of a full-grown man and they must help Outa and Piet lift the carcass onto the wooden door. Danie flinches while Isak keeps vigil over the dead animal. His father swats the dust off his knee, placing the rifle on the wall, picking up the guitar, humming under his moustache while Outa sharpens the knife on the wetted stone. The pig stares at Isak with surprise. He closes the lids. With one cut Outa slices through the neck. The hind legs kick. The blood drains into the basin and the dogs lick the cement. The guitar rests on his father’s knee while he smokes and sings and strums.

Sewe snye brood. That is what he plays. Outa shuffles to the music around the makeshift table and there are red flecks on his shirt. Piet pours boiling water from the soap pot over the carcass while Outa scrapes the hair off and Pettie sweeps.

Sewe snye brood, becomes, Die kat val innie modderwater. Isak taps with his foot as his father knocks the side of the guitar with his hand.

They’ve had their morning dop, Outa and Piet. Liquor on empty stomachs is something they share with his father. The men open like Namaqua daisies. His father smiles and he looks happy here in the yard with the men singing and Isak hopes the singing won’t stop.

One after the other Outa and Piet abandon the carcass and they do a dance like mating storks, dipping and diving around each other.

Without warning his father places the guitar back on the wall. He picks up the rifle. “Enough of this nonsense.”

Piet drops his arms and moves back to the rigid carcass. “Ja, Baas.”

They watch him walk up the hill and Outa rolls a cigarette. “Janneman got up off the wrong side of the bed.” He spits on the cement.

He and Danie say nothing.

The two men share the cigarette, then Outa takes the knife, splitting the ribcage in two. The first to come out is the bladder. Pettie presses the urine out, passing it on to Danie to blow up, while the men remove the innards and the boys kick the bladder around.

The intestines are placed onto one side, bloodied and full of feed. The carcass is stripped of its hide and hung from a hook to be dried in the wind. The gelatinous membrane swaddles the pink flesh and Isak can’t think that it was a pig before.

The head is kept to one side. The head belongs to Outa.

The intestines are hosed, inside and out, and the fetid mess spills out at their feet. They throw long pieces into the ashes under the soap pot, waiting for the stinking membranes to blacken. Danie gets the end bit of the gut because he is the youngest. With quick hands they turn the pieces over, sitting on their haunches. Deftly, Pettie hooks the blistered intestines, claiming the first for himself because he is the eldest. They stuff their mouths with the burnt offal until there is nothing left.

The stench stays on their hands until evening. Even after violent scrubbing with soap and water it lingers on their skin.