Nadine Gordimer - The Conservationist

NO THOROUGHFARE

GEEN TOEGANG

AKUNANDLELA LAPHA

— As if anything’ll keep them out. It’s a constant parade, all weekend especially, cutting up through the farm to that shanty town over beyond the vlei. And old De Beer and Nienaber, too — a short cut for their damned milk trucks. It’s the fire-risk that bothers me. -

You nod; and to what are you assenting? The signboard’s absurd, a hopeful claim that can never be recognized? Or that it’s not a sense of possession but concern for the land that has set it up? What do you mean, Namibia ? With that bloody affected laugh of hers: You can’t own it by signing a bit of paper, the way you buy a farm, you know.

— At least it’ll never burn down. I made sure, no wooden posts. -

— It all looks all right- He’s gazing round almost shyly as the car pitches smoothly over the bumps (it should be possible to keep the surface in better repair once the milk trucks take the longer way round).

— Ah well, now — the willows are almost out, and you’re looking at the rye — that wasn’t touched. But the vlei! —

Sure enough, there are Sunday visitors tramping along the private road. They have some touches of fancy dress about them. They stop; in daylight, stand like hares caught in headlights. It is an admittance that these can read, they have surely read the sign because no one ever stopped at the sight of the farmer, before. But (almost like one of Kurt’s old cronies not missing out any points of interest on a tour — it really is a long time since the boy was on the farm) he pulls up and, arm on the window, accepts their obeisant greeting. One calls him ‘master’, the other ‘sir’ — a city type. This one wears the jacket of the employees of a bus company, khaki with initials that make up the name of the firm PUTCO embroidered in red, on the top pocket. With it goes a sort of string necklace with small beaded pouches pendant. Both men carry ceremonial staffs or canes encased in coloured beadwork — really quite an art. (Of interest. - Look at that, Terry. —)

— Is there a dance? —

And all the to-and-fro, comfortable, assenting noises come with the affirmation, Yes, there’s a dance. They smile shinily, greased by excitement or effort. God knows how far they’ve walked.

Perhaps there’s some ceremony, initiation or something, that would provide entertainment. — What’s the dance for? —

— Someone he was sick and now he’s all right. Yes, master. —

— To say thanks because he is better? —

The two of them laugh, flexing their knees to applaud the farmer’s quickness; their unexpected welcome to the farm. — Yes, sir — Yes, yes, he’s coming better. Yes. —

— And plenty beer —

More laughter. The one flourishes his stick and peers jokingly into the car. — If you got beer for us we can be very pleased, master. -

Everyone is laughing, except the boy, he doesn’t manage more than a distant grin.

— D‘you like to go along and have a look at this ‘dance’? —

— No, no, it’s embarrassing. —

He means to avoid using this tone for the few hours he’s going to be spending with him, but — For God’s sake — why embarrassing? —

The face goes through the contortions of taking a breath, looking for where to begin, beginning again. — Because it is, that’s why. It’s a private thing. Nothing to do with us. —

— Nonsense. They’d love an audience. Why shouldn’t dancers love an audience. — But he lets the subject sink down under silence between them as they drive slowly, as he always does once he’s on his own property, almost as if he were already strolling on foot, looking alertly about to see how things are. Some young bullocks being let out of a paddock buck and frolic, and they are both amused. The little boy of a few years ago says — Gee, I wonder how long you’d be able to stick on when they come out like that. —

— Well try, if you don’t mind risking a broken bone or two. But you wouldn’t have far to fall. - The bullocks are only half-grown and his legs are so long now.

— And here we are. - He recognizes old landmarks, returned from the pilgrimage with begging bowl, thirty years off, down in the Swakop river bed in an ancient jeep breaking through tamarisk and wild tobacco with yellow flowers.

Here we are. Along with the main farm buildings which are grouped around, this remains the centre of the farm’s existence, empty as the house is, shut up as usual. It’s here that people tend to hang about on one piece of business or another. There are two ugly ones with stocky greased legs stuck out before them in the sun against the workshop wall. They wear black berets drawn down straight to their ears. They have the stolidity of women sitting for many hours. There’s a group of four or five others, more of them come for the dance, and they’re standing around, a man in a white, high-collared jacket (doctor’s, waiter’s?) and various females draped in blankets. And there’s Jacobus — Jacobus’s going through the whole unavoidable ritual of seeing you at last, after so long, not since the Easter holidays…?

— I was here at half-term in May —

— Were you? —

So you were, but time-changes, Japan, South America, Jamaica, lost hours in planes, they make it much longer. Jacobus first stood up straight from whatever he’s tinkering with, he received the sun of your presence full in the face, he exposed himself in a broken, stinking-toothed smile and lifted a hailing palm that he’s holding up still, a standard, as he approaches. You cannot escape Jacobus, you can’t disappear under the seat or look the other way out the window or pick at your dirty thumbnail. He greets you, he thinks the world of you, he’s crowning you with a laurel of thorns whether you accept it or not.

— I’m happy for this day. This day! Why you don’t come long, long time, Terry? Terry. — The name is handled lovingly, admiringly, since it’s conjured up in the flesh, there in the car.

— think I’m never see you, my young baas — he’s very very good, this young baas, you know? —

— I know. I know, Jacobus, you like him- Smiling, Jacobus and I; kidding the old devil.

— And he’s growing too strong! Coming big man now! Yes, I’m very very please. -

Out of the car, looking down over himself under this regard, this praise, smiling, snickering with shame under it, staring at the bare Namib-burned feet with gingerish hairs shining on the big toes, at the ragged jeans, the sweat-shirt washed colourless, the big hands with the snake ring, as if this — self — is something he picked up somewhere, any old thing.

Not for Jacobus. For Jacobus you are my son. You go to school. You will learn everything. You will have everything. A car. A house. A farm to come to on Sundays. Everything I have.

— From pig-iron, she says (yes) enviously. If I had your money -

You will have my money. There is nothing you can do about it: — He’s grown up, now, ay, Jacobus. —

— Yes. Yes. Very good. I’m happy for see. — The welling of enthusiasm settles at high watermark; Jacobus, looking down from it, always vigilant in his own interest no matter what a loyal old devil he seems to be, turns his attention — Those peoples they want ask they can come today -

— A big party on, ay? —

Jacobus can’t stop grinning fondly, distractedly, at the long blond hair and the quite respectable beginnings of the beard. — Yes. The wife of Phineas she’s want to be witch doctor — He giggles with what he anticipates will be white amusement at this. — She’s learn, and today is come big witch-doctor from there-there, in other side town. You know? He must see this and this, if she’s know how to do. — He has sidled right up close to his young baas, he puts his arm on his shoulder conspiratorially, he lowers his head, grimaces on those teeth with the effort of extreme secrecy, and draws his little group in with a whisper: — You — you mustn’t go in the barn there. Not in the barn. There’s — (he looks down under his dropped eyelids so that the visitors, a little way off, will not be able to learn anything from his expression) — there’s the goat inside there. -