S. Naudé - The Alphabet of Birds

When she is done at dusk, she calls Kobus and they observe the vehicle in the bare yard. Except for the red and yellow stripes, it is almost white again, the Dordrecht Municipal Health Services address still on the back. Sandrien wishes it were pure white with a single red cross on each side.

Kobus nods his head.

‘It is ready,’ he says, ‘your miniature clinic.’

His fingers are counting the vertebrae in her lower back. Her sleeves are rolled up. Her blood is flowing.

The corners of her demarcated area are Smithfield, Colesberg, Burgersdorp and Aliwal North. In the next two weeks, she drives to every farm in her district. In the mornings, she departs at dawn. After the first week, she is quiet over dinner, a slice of bread and a hard-boiled egg for both her and Kobus.

‘I could not have imagined,’ she says. ‘Invisible, just on the other side of these hills. Like proverbial flies. Under grain bags in the dusk. Dozens of them.’ She touches her forehead. The sore, sharp corners of bodies: they now populate her dreams.

Kobus says nothing, presses her hand underneath the table. She walks through the cool house, heading for bed without having eaten, ready for an early start.

When she enters the offices in Aliwal North, it is Lerato who is sitting there. She is leaning back in the chair, filling it.

Lerato calls out gregariously, as if old friends are reuniting. ‘ Meisie! ’

‘Lerato?’

‘But I’m the new director, meisie! See?’ She points to the nameplate on the door.

‘I had no idea.’

‘We must talk, we must talk. You’re one of my nurses, aren’t you? A travelling one at that.’

‘There are lots of things we have to discuss, yes.’

‘Wait, wait, let’s get a quick lunch.’

Lerato takes her to the Wimpy at the petrol station.

‘See,’ says Lerato when she has managed to get comfortable, ‘this is a meeting. Get it? A me-eating.’ She roars with laughter.

‘Lerato, I have to get straight to the point. The situation is beyond belief. The numbers of HIV patients in my area are unimaginable. I don’t know what my predecessor did, but nobody is on antiretrovirals and children aged five have not had any vaccinations. On most of the farms they cannot remember when someone last—’

‘Wait,’ says Lerato. She orders a milkshake from the passing waitress. ‘Oh, and there’s the mayor!’

Lerato waves. The mayor’s car window shifts down. His head is as round as a bullet. He smiles from behind his sunglasses. Lerato struggles out of the booth with a sigh, instructs the waitress to pack her food and have it delivered to the municipal offices.

Over her shoulder, handbag tucked under the arm, she shouts, ‘Send me your agenda, meisie , then we’ll set up a proper meeting!’

Sandrien stays behind in the booth. At the petrol pump Lerato leans into the mayor’s window. He says something and she laughs. Then she gets in on the passenger side. The dark window closes and they drive away. Sandrien pays the bill. An icy milkshake is left behind on the table.

That same evening she faxes a long report to Lerato. She requests clinic facilities in Venterstad one day per week. She lists requirements: HIV testing kits, vaccinations, a long list of medicines. The items at the top of her agenda are a discussion about the provision of antiretrovirals and strategies for the prevention of mother — child transmission.

A week later, not having had a response, she calls. The secretary answers. Lerato has allocated an office in Venterstad to her, the secretary tells her. She immediately drives there. When she finds it, it turns out to be a small storeroom. She drives to the farm again, where she collects a table and two chairs. Back in Venterstad, she arranges these as best she can. She then builds shelves with bricks and planks that she finds behind the building. Driving to the farm once more, she looks down Venterstad’s white, dusty streets. The town buildings are mostly run down, nailed shut. The only movement is at the town bar, a small brick building with one window behind bars and a steel gate in front of the open door. A man exits and gets into his pickup truck. When he is gone, the street is empty.

‘The entire team together again, aren’t we?’ says Dr Shirley Kgope, and smiles when Sandrien tells her about Lerato’s new position.

They are sitting in Dr Kgope’s air-conditioned office in Colesberg. Sandrien is excited to hear that Widereach is establishing a branch and that Dr Kgope has moved here to become the regional representative.

‘The government policy regarding antiretrovirals has been so complicated and so defensive for such a long time, and there has been so much hostility towards NGOs who want to provide them,’ says Dr Kgope. ‘The policy of course changed some time ago, but in practice it’s not simple. Let me get back to you on this. I’m still new and am trying to gain influence. Currently it is not Widereach’s policy to provide antiretrovirals to government agencies, especially when we’re not managing the infrastructure. Let’s see how things work out.’

‘But surely you understand the urgency of this matter, probably better than anyone else!’

‘Believe me, I get it.’ Dr Kgope’s head nods slowly. ‘We can let you have HIV testing kits immediately. But antiretrovirals? Much more problematic.’

Sandrien starts her rounds on Helpmekaar, where Grace lives. It used to be her parents’ farm; now it belongs to her and Kobus. Here, in the outbuildings, was the weaving mill. At ninety-three, Ma Karlien is roaming through the half-remembered rooms of the homestead, wasting away. She refuses to move in with Kobus and Sandrien. Sandrien can recognise nothing in her mother of the woman she remembers. And it is someone other than Sandrien whom her mother is searching for in the dim rooms.

To prevent their labourers from obtaining lifelong tenure on the land, her parents let most of them go a few years ago. Only Grace, her daughter Brenda, and Xoliswe are left. Grace’s other daughter, Alice, is dead. Grace is looking after Alice’s baby. Brenda is looking after Ma Karlien.

Sandrien ties Grace’s granddaughter to her back with a blanket while doing pap smears and drawing blood from the three women. When she is done, she sits down, right up against Grace. There is a small gust of wind. Grace’s upper body sways slightly, and Sandrien feels the joints hinging inside Grace.

‘I cannot stay for long; I have many other farms to take care of. I’ll come again tonight.’

She rinses clothing for Grace, washes the child’s cloth nappies, builds and lights a fire. Further promises are on the tip of Sandrien’s tongue. As she drives away, she looks in her side mirror. Black veils of soot cling above the windows and doors of Grace’s little house.

‘At least I can do HIV tests now,’ says Sandrien, ‘thanks to Widereach.’

Lerato sits authoritatively behind her desk, arms folded.

‘Look,’ she says, ‘the government also gives testing kits. But work with the Americans instead if you want.’

‘I cannot get antiretrovirals from them.’

Lerato looks through the window. ‘Have you heard,’ she says, ‘that Walter Mabunda is now the provincial MEC for health? We must be careful, they want to completely provincialise health.’ But then she brightens and continues. ‘I’ve been invited, and the mayor too, for a hunting weekend at Twilight Lodge. A new hunting farm, a nice posh one. I’m not much of a hunter, but believe me, the mayor is — especially of girls!’

Lerato laughs as if she and Sandrien are conspiring.

‘Can you please install a basin for me in my office in Venterstad? I have to sterilise my hands between patients.’