Ingrid Winterbach - It Might Get Loud

In order to survive as whites we must be prepared. This city and others must be abandoned as soon as possible. Quite a few assembly points outside Johannesburg have already been identified. At these points people will be referred to camps and resorts so that they can unite in resistance. The Spar in Heilbron, in Bethal and in Koster are three such assembly points for Gautengers.

Some of the predictions of Siener van Rensburg that have already come to pass are the termination of apartheid, riots and imminent revolution, necklace murders, the dissolution of the Soviet Union, large-scale emigration, farm murders, the influx of illegal immigrants from neighbouring countries, rapes and hijackings, escalating unrest and country-wide strikes.

Some of the predictions of Siener Serfontein that have already come to pass are the worldwide recession, the destruction of the Twin Towers, the murder of Eugene Terre’Blanche, the irresistible rise of a young black despot (Malema), the fall of the Berlin Wall, the gradual demoralisation of the Afrikaner and his subjection to powers intent upon bringing about his downfall at all costs. (Siener Serfontein also warns repeatedly against the growing imperialism of the English language — it was revealed to him in more than one dream — and its devastating effect on Afrikaans.)

Ominous signs that cannot be ignored are the military training of ex-APLAs, — MKs and — PACs beyond the national borders, the increasing number of pangas and other weapons being sold to blacks in Pretoria, and that clearly can be regarded as practice runs — the sporadic blockading of main routes, strikes, murders, and the meticulous reconnoitring of country areas by black learners.

Mandela’s glass coffin waits in readiness in Pretoria. At his funeral millions of blacks will assemble in stadiums all over the country, sing traditional songs and commemorate apartheid. That night many whites will be sitting at ease on their stoeps, until the dogs start barking hysterically, bloodcurdling screams are heard, and it is too late for flight. High up in the sky the letters XC will be suspended.

Siener Serfontein has even predicted that a darkness will come upon the land, as during the rending of the curtain of the Temple.

If Ma is interested (and it is my prayer that Ma will be), I’ll forward a list of camping supplies, emergency food rations and a first aid checklist. Mandela is old and no longer in very good health.

Ma, I beseech you in all seriousness and with all my heart to regard these things in a serious light, for Ma’s own welfare and security. I pray regularly for Ma so that Ma should see the light.

Regards also from Lizelle.

Lots of love,

Freek.

PS Sharné is becoming very cute.

‘What am I to make of this?’ Vera Schoonraad asks Maria. ‘This is a child who received a good education, who visited the Prado and the Uffizi with me. How and where did I fail him? And where do they get a name like Sharné? With their convictions, shouldn’t they have selected something a bit more ethnically authentic?’

Maria has no answer to any of these questions.

*

A month later Benjy phones. When is she coming to Cape Town again? Maria can tell from his voice that something’s not right. When he’s in trouble, his nose develops a slight wheeze (the enlarged adenoids). Her ex-husband warned her that Benjy was in trouble. She does not want to consider its possible cause. How is his research going? she asks, as neutrally as possible. It’s going okay, says Benjy, also neutrally. So, what then? she can’t help asking. (Conditioned maternal reflex.) He has here like, he says, got himself actually into a sort of a difficult situation. Something that she or his father should help him with? she asks. His father says he’s sort of busy, as in actually busy with some kind of upcoming show. (That surprises her not at all. Damn Andreas and his upcoming shows.) Something they can discuss by telephone? she asks (hopefully, although she already suspects the worst). Actually as in actually not, he says. She’ll see what she can do, she says. (It’s not the first time that she’s left holding the baby.)

She gets her affairs in order (there are a few clients she can see in Cape Town; as far as work is concerned, there’s enough to occupy her for at least two weeks), she buys an air ticket, asks Joy Park once again to keep an eye on the house. Water the plants on the balcony, please, see to it that the gardener is paid every week, bring in the post every day, switch on different lights in the house every evening so that nobody (malefactor and intruder) should suspect that the house will not be occupied for a while. She might stay away for longer this time, she says. She asks her neighbours to cast an eye over her property now and again in passing. She tells her business partner that she can’t say exactly how long she’ll be absent. There are a few personal matters requiring her urgent attention.

Maria packs her case. She takes along the natural history book, as well as Sofie’s red exercise book. For the second time in three months she leaves for the Cape of Good Hope. Now she has to undertake this journey, just at the point when she was starting to hope for a kind of spiritual awakening to the wonders of the natural world — an empathy of some kind with locust, moth and eel. Blade of grass and alga.

This opportunity she must make the most of. Here she is once again (sooner than she had any reason to expect) being accorded a chance to have a proper conversation with Sofie’s partner, Tobie Fouché.

*

Karl wakes up the next morning with a number in his head. Before he can block it, before he can say the right numbers, before he can count around the numbers, it leaps into his half-asleep head. Nothing to be done about it now — the number, in conjunction with the date, means that he can’t undertake the last leg of his journey today. It’s not safe. No use arguing. He’s powerless against the forces of his own subconscious. Been there, got the T-shirt. Might as well make his peace with it, find something to occupy himself today, and hope that the number thing won’t get out of hand any further. You mustn’t yield to it, Juliana used to say. Yeah, sure. Did she really think he didn’t know it was irrational? At least today he doesn’t have to justify, exonerate, please explain himself to her. He knows the number thing is an effect of stress. When his stress levels get too high, it sticks out its hideous head. Beelzebub. Satan. Whatever you want to call it. Suit yourself. Assume control over your life! Juliana used to say. (Exclaim in despair.) Yeah, sure. Embracing, exorcising, every possible route and strategy he tried. However much he curses himself for his feebleness, however distressed he is about the relationship (he’s crazy about Juliana, as simple as that), at least today he doesn’t have the additional stress of trying to cope with her reaction on top of it all.

He takes a shower. (It takes quite a while, because he has to count how many times he rinses under every arm.) He washes his hands. He has breakfast with eyes cast down. In the dining room there are two other people, one looking as primed for conversation as the other. What is it about women who run guest houses that makes them crave interaction? He really doesn’t feel up to chit-chat this time of the morning. What should he do today — go for a walk in the mountain Elzette told him about, admire the natural beauty? What’s wrong with him, that he doesn’t care a flying fuck about nature? Another failing. Juliana was fond of walking in the mountains. Next to the sea. God forbid. He accompanied her a few times, and almost passed out with depression. A great futility descended upon him from heaven like a cloud. The eye of God. Laboriously he schlepped his body along. Mind over matter. Juliana always saw through his defences. And mercy or patience she did not have. He could pretend nothing. No sympathy if she could see that he was suffering. Quite the opposite. He does swimming, and that’s the only outdoor activity he does. For the rest he is to all intents and purposes a mole — the only surfing he does, is surfing the internet. From bending over backwards always trying to accommodate her, his back just about snapped. If only he could speak to Iggy himself. So that he could get some idea of his condition. The psychic didn’t help at all, just made him anxious. The frostbite fellow also just got him totally worked up. Not to mention Josias Brandt. He doesn’t know which one of them to believe. Fuck knows.