‘
A little, but my father was more into it when he lived here,’ said Christian, shaking the man’s hand.
‘
I’m Jacob Visser.’
Christian looked at the man as he stood there opposite him. There was something familiar about him that he was unable to place. He was about Christian’s height, with broad shoulders and obviously very athletic. Despite the friendly greeting, there was something foreboding about him that created a sense of unease. He was sure that he had seen him somewhere before.
‘I’m Christian de Villiers,’ he said. ‘I played rugby for the first XV at school, in Adelaide, but my father played here when he was attending the University of Cape Town.’
‘
Well, I might have known him then,’ said Visser, gesturing to his friend to come and join him.
They pulled up two seats between Christian and Isabella. He handed a business card to Christian that was shaped like a wineglass, indicating that he was a wine exporter. He then gestured at his colleague, who, he said, was also in the wine industry, introducing him as Schalk Coetzee. Christian noticed that for a businessman, he also looked very fit and athletic, and wondered whether that meant they sampled little of the wine that they exported.
‘So, what did your father do at the University of Cape Town? And more importantly, what position did he play in the University of Cape Town team?’ said Schalk.
‘
He was training to be a doctor, and I think, from what my mother said, he was a loose forward. He could have played for Western Province, but the Springbok captain was already playing in the position that he played in.’
‘
Well, I can’t remember a Jannie de Villiers, and I guess he would be about my age, so perhaps he didn’t play in the inter-varsity rugby,’ said Schalk.
‘
That’s a shame that you can’t remember him,’ said Christian. ‘He was killed in a shooting here in Cape Town, and I’ve come back to find out as much as I can about him.’
‘
Yes, I do remember that; it was in all the newspapers. That wasn’t long after the terrorist attack on the church when all those people were killed,’ said Schalk.
‘
Wasn’t he involved in some controversial research?’ said Jacob, looking directly at Christian.
‘
I believe he was,’ said Christian, ‘but I don’t know what it was; although I’m hoping to find out.’
‘
He was shot after that terrorist attack in the church, if I’m not mistaken,’ said Jacob.
‘
That’s right, he survived that, but then about a week later was shot in our home in Wynberg.’
‘
And no one knew why,’ said Jacob. ‘Probably one of those black robbery things gone wrong.’
Jacob continued looking directly at Marais trying to see whether he had made him uncomfortable by saying one of those
‘black’ robberies. Marais looked at him but chose not to reply, not wanting to provide further satisfaction to the insult.
‘
And I suppose that you’re going to follow his example and become a surgeon?’ said Jacob, turning back to Christian.
‘
Well, maybe. I’m hoping to start medicine next year in Adelaide, so I really don’t have a good idea yet if I want to specialise.’
‘
Have you found out much about him so far?’ said Jacob.
‘
No, I’m just starting, really, and we are about to go and visit the farm that he grew up on in the Paarl area.’
‘
Well, good luck,’ said Schalk. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for, and if we can be of any assistance, please give us a call.’
Both men then stood up and shook hands, before collecting their sunglasses from the table they had previously been sitting at, and heading away down the front stairs of the hotel.
‘That was a bit strange, don’t you think?’ said Christian to Isabella and Marais.
‘
They didn’t seem interested in either of you. And how do they know that my father was a surgeon and that his name was Jannie de Villiers?’
‘
Christian, stop being paranoid,’ said Isabella. ‘They obviously heard your Australian accent and, being mad keen rugby players, thought that you might have something in common.’
‘
I don’t know,’ said Marais. ‘That wasn’t your normal, friendly, so-glad-that-you-are-here-enjoying-our-country type of conversation.’
‘
What is the matter with you people that come from Australia? You don’t have enough conspiracies there, so you’ve got to come and find them here,’ said Isabella, with a cheeky grin. ‘Come on, you two, let’s go and see what we can find in terms of memories for both of you on the old farm.’
The windy, dusty dirt road up to the old farm had many young coloured children playing along the edge, rolling wheels and old tyres. Christian could see that they were covered in a light yellow dust, which gave them a slightly ghostly appearance. As they got to the end of the road that Christian’s mother had described, they drove in through the gate and made their way up to the front door. He wondered, as he was about to knock on the door, whether the new owners would be more than a little bit taken aback when a white man, a coloured woman, and a coloured man with striking blue eyes turned up making enquiries about those who lived there in the past.
Christian knocked twice and then, as he waited for the door to open, looked round. He could see clearly the shed in the background that his mother had told him was the site of his father’s twenty-first birthday party and when his father finally stood up to his grandfather. As he looked at the shed, he tried to imagine his father standing up to the bully that his grandfather was. As his mother’s story of that night came flooding back, Isabella pulled at his hand.
‘
What is it? You looked like you were remembering something awful.’
‘
That “shed”,’ said Christian, pointing in the direction, ‘was where my father had his last argument and a stand-up fight with my grandfather.’
‘
What happened?’ asked Marais.
‘
It’s a bit involved.’
‘
Well, you can’t just leave a girl hanging, Christian!—what happened?’
‘
Well, Hannes Marais de Villiers, my grandfather, was immensely proud of his pioneering instincts and the fact that the Afrikaner had made it their country. His pride in the achievements of his ancestors gave rise to an indescribable passion to preserve its essence, and he lost no opportunity to instil this belief in my father, to the point that it was almost like an orison. Emotion, he would often say, had little place in a pioneer’s life. He repeated quotes like “To show emotion, was to show weakness”, which, by itself, deserved commination. He would hammer into my father quotes like “To feel emotion for others was to compromise the greatness that could be achieved in a nation” and “in Africa only the uncompromisingly tough could survive”. “All whites needed to be tougher than the blacks” was evidently also a term he would constantly use.’
‘
So, in essence, pretty typical of that era?’ said Marais.
‘
I guess so, but from the story my mother told of my father’s twenty-first, he seemed to also have a cruel controlling streak.’
Shrugging her shoulders impatiently, Isabella said
, ‘But what was it about the shed and the party?’
‘
My father’s twenty-first birthday party was to be a huge affair. In his case, it had even more meaning, as his mother had fought to keep the family together, after my father’s decision to leave home and go to the white, liberal, English-speaking University of Cape Town to study medicine. His father had really not talked to him for two years following that decision, feeling that his only son had betrayed his Afrikaner heritage.’
‘
Amazing that he was even allowed back to the farm for his birthday,’ said Marais.
‘
Well, as my mother told the story, a large banquet was planned by my grandmother, partly as a celebration and partly because she hoped it would be a chance to re-establish the relationship between her husband and my father. The other problem that had developed with my father going to the University of Cape Town was that he had now an English-speaking girlfriend—my mother, Renata. Since English was never spoken in the Marais household, for him to bring an English-speaking girlfriend to the party had the potential to be embarrassing. His mother had pleaded with him not to bring her.’
‘
Evidently, my father had been going out with my mother for about twelve months, and he felt comfortable enough with the relationship, despite his mother’s concerns, to invite her to the party, even though it was going to be essentially an Afrikaner party, celebrating Afrikaner tradition. When he had explained to my mother, well ahead of time, what to expect, she was amazed that he wanted her to be there. Her recollection of that night, as closely as I can remember her telling it, was that a group of five (three girls and two boys) drove through from Cape Town. They had all piled into one car, speaking a mix of Afrikaans and English. She could remember it was one of those beautiful evenings, a yellow light rippling across Table Bay towards the Paarl Mountains, bathing all the vineyards in a golden glow. As they drove towards Paarl, they could see rows and rows of the manicured vines, each with their slowly ripening grapes. It was one of the most beautiful views she had seen in South Africa.’
‘
If the whole evening ended in a fight, it sounds like it might well have been the best part of the evening,’ said Isabella.
‘
If I tell you the rest of the story as my mother related it to me, you’ll see how close that is to the truth.’
Realising that no one was answering the door; Isabella said
, ’Why don’t we head towards the shed, and you could tell us what your mother told you about that night.’
‘
OK, but I should warn you that not only does it not have a nice ending, but also you may not enjoy the story at all.’
Isabella looked at Christian for a moment before speaking
. ‘I think we’ve all heard and experienced the inhumanity that one race group inflicted on another, and so I’m sure we won’t be too shocked, even by graphic detail. And now that you have built this up you just have to tell us!’
‘
OK, but I did warn you. This is how my mother told it to me in Adelaide.’
The mood for a party was present amongst everyone in the car; the bright lights of the farmhouse welcoming everyone. It was picture perfect—the Afrikaner tradition demanding a perfectionist approach to most things. Lights twinkled in the trees surrounding two large marquees, which were the size of small houses, each with their edges rolled up and a band placed between them.
‘Spectacular,’ said Etienne Truter, Jannie’s best friend.
‘
I hope you won’t be intimidated by all the Afrikaans spoken,’ Jannie had whispered to Renata.
‘
I’ve been able to deal with you, so I think I’ll survive,’ she said, laughing.
Rubena, the Marais family maid for twenty years, met them as they made their way towards the house. She embraced Jannie like a prodigal son, and squealed with delight when he kissed her on the cheek—something Jannie’s father hated, as it was what whites did to each other, not to blacks. Renata knew it was something that he did
as an act of defiance against his father.
Rubena took all their jackets and showed them through to the very large dining room with its polished wood floor. Jannie explained that the floor was Rubena’s pride and joy; she polished it daily to the point where his mother had to warn any young woman stepping on it that it had mirror-like qualities.
Large French doors opened outwards from the dining room on to an equally large stoep. From there it was possible to see the Simonsberg Mountain. In many ways, it was comforting and beautiful; in some other ways, Renata thought, the mountain also represented the unyielding nature of the Afrikaner.
‘
Jannie, this is the most exquisite view,’ said Renata, echoing the thoughts of all the others, who were, by this time, equally spellbound.
‘
Yes, there are parts that I really miss.’
Renata wondered how Jannie’s father was going to react to her, his English girlfriend. In the distance, she could see a group of his father’s friends and could hear only Afrikaans being spoken. Jannie’s uncle and his wife interrupted her thoughts.
Jannie turned and reached out to shake Heinrich Marais’ hand, greeting him as he did so in Afrikaans. He then turned to Renata and introduced her to his uncle. Without missing a beat, Renata looked at him, smiled, and continued the conversation in fluent Afrikaans. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Jannie was surprised; he had never heard her speak Afrikaans before. In the past, she had refused to speak Afrikaans; to her, it was the language of the oppressor, which had been one of the sources of conflict between them. However, this was a special occasion, and she could see he was both impressed by her accent and that she had chosen to speak in his native tongue.
She noticed that he moved a little closer to her. He then put his arm around her waist and gently squeezed his approbation and said quietly to her
, ‘You speak beautiful Afrikaans.’
Since the encounter with his uncle had been successfully negotiated, Renata felt more comfortable and less concerned about the introduction to his father. After discussing their medical studies with his Uncle Heinrich, they looked inside to see where his parents were. His mother was in the kitchen organising the maids, and she could see his father talking to some of the neighbours. Judging by the gesticulations and the mock shoulder charges, they were discussing rugby, a national passion for the Afrikaner.
Some people thought rugby was an endemic disease within the Afrikaner culture. It was both a source of pride and a way of expressing dominance. Renata knew that when the English colonised South Africa in the eighteen fifties, they had considered the Boer farmer had had insufficient class to play the game. It had been a source of ongoing pride that the Afrikaner had successfully established themselves in rugby, with English teams becoming the ones they all loved to beat. There was also the small issue of the English incarcerating Afrikaner women in concentration camps during the Boer war. Many Afrikaners considered this as the greater crime and one to be avenged on the rugby field.
Renata knew Jannie’s father had played for Stellenbosch University and Western Province, the latter being the province that they all lived in and therefore considered a high honour. His father had sent Jannie to Paarl Boys High School, primarily because it was an Afrikaans speaking school and because it also had one of the best high school rugby teams in the country. It was a disappointment to him that even though Jannie made the first XV, he never made the Western Province schoolboy team as all the de Villiers before Jannie had done.
Jannie’s father looked up as he saw them approaching and stopped talking. The group, as one, turned to greet Jannie and Renata. His father turned and thrust out the large hand, which Renata knew had many painful memories associated with it, to greet Jannie. For a second she could see it startled Jannie, so overwhelming were the memories of the beatings that he had received from his father.
‘
Happy birthday, my son.’ His father greeted him with what seemed to Renata as genuine warmth. This was a signal for all his friends to indulge in much greeting and backslapping, overwhelming her introduction.
Renata had to wait until there was a pause. Then Jannie turned and pulled Renata a little closer to him and introduced her to his father in Afrikaans. His father looked at her, without replying. The silence threatened to dampen the mood, until Renata walked into the middle of the circle and, with perfect Afrikaans, informed Hannes Marais and his friends that they should be really proud that Jannie de Villiers was topping his medical year. They all looked at her, and then looked at Hannes Marias, seeking guidance on how to deal with this English-speaking woman, no matter how perfect her Afrikaans. Hannes Marais looked at her, appearing impressed by both her confidence and language skills but unwilling to offer any encouragement to an English speaker.
‘You must teach him to dance, then. All Afrikaner boys should know how to do the Sakie Sakie without two left feet,’ he said, in a slightly dismissive tone, too much laughter from the group. Then he turned his back on Jannie and Renata, indicating that that was as much of a conversation as he was willing to have.
As they walked towards Jannie’s mother, Renata turned towards Jannie and whispered
, ‘Is he always that friendly?’
‘
You got him on a good night.’
Like most Afrikaner families, the son, especially the only son, had a special place in the mother’s heart. Renata could see that Jannie was no exception—in his mother’s eyes, he could do no wrong. Renata was introduced to his mother and was greeted with genuine warmth. Ina kissed Renata on both cheeks and switched freely from Afrikaans to English. She seemed keen to make Renata feel at ease and talked about the beauty of the valley and the drive through to Paarl. What a difference to his father, she thought.
Renata knew one of the ways in which a party was judged to be successful was by the quantity and quality of alcohol served. Jannie’s father had spared no expense in this area, and she was delighted to see that their friends were taking full advantage. She was glad that none of them would have to drive back to Cape Town, as already Tim and Michael looked more than a little affected by the wine. She could see, though, that Jannie was a little concerned about the amount being drunk.
‘
Why don’t you get the band to play because that might slow everything down,’ Renata suggested.
Jannie smiled back at her, nodded, and called over the bandleader. The music initially was slow and low key, but Jannie took hold of Renata’s hand, looked at his friends and headed towards the dance area, gesturing to them to follow. As more people filtered on
to the dance floor, the rhythm of the music picked up. Before long, all the guests were twirling their partners with great enthusiasm, so much so that Etienne was now calling out various requests to the bandleader, who was responding with great gusto and volume.
Renata could feel Jannie relaxing and started to enjoy herself a little, to the point where she was content to twirl beneath his outstretched arm. As they began to really liven up, Renata began to wonder whether it was possible to successfully blend two distinct families like theirs. She was about to sit down and take a break from all the energetic dancing when she noticed one of the coloured workers, breathless from running, at the back door.
‘Baas, Baas, come quick, the men are fighting,’ she shouted in the direction of Hannes Marais de Villiers.
‘
Who is that?’ she said to Jannie.
‘
It’s one of my father’s favourite workers,’ replied Jannie, the look of anguish on his face obvious to Renata. ‘There have been rumours for years about a relationship between her and my father.’
Renata looked up to see where Jannie’s father was and then saw him making his way towards the back of the kitchen. Renata watched as Jannie’s mother turned in disgust and headed out towards the stoep.
The woman’s interruption had caused the band to stop playing. Embarrassed that all the attention was now on her and his father, Jannie left Renata’s side and walked up to the bandleader and instructed him to continue playing, glancing over his shoulder to see which direction his father had taken.
Jannie returned to Renata and seeing her puzzled expression pre-empted her question
. ‘It happens often on the wine farms,’ he said. ‘The workers get drunk, try to take someone’s girlfriend, and end up fighting!’
They returned to the dance floor and resumed their dance as a degree of conviviality returned to the party. However, she could tell he was tense.
‘What is it Jannie?’ she whispered as they danced. ‘What’s worrying you?’
‘
I hope my father controls his temper.’
‘
I’m sure he will,’ replied Renata, annoyed at the shallowness of her reply and that she had been unable to offer anything more to encourage Jannie in her belief.
They sat out the next dance, and she could tell that Jannie was wondering whether he should follow his father.
‘Jannie, if you’re going to have a relationship with someone, you need to communicate what’s happening inside!’
‘
Renata,’ he said, without looking at her directly, ‘that’s the English way, not the Afrikaner’s. We deal with our problems differently. Rational thought, dissection of the problem, and finding a solution is our way!’
She was astounded, frustrated and annoyed that he could talk to her like that.
‘Well, no wonder you’re so screwed-up as a culture,’ she said as she walked away from him.
‘
I’ll go and see whether I can do anything,’ he said, without waiting for her to reply.
As she sat and thought what to do next
, Paul walked up to her.
‘
Renata, where’s the birthday boy?’
‘
Having a cultural crisis, I think,’ she replied, knowing that such a reply would invite no further questions.
‘
Cabernet or chardonnay, Renata? If you like red, the Kanonkop is superb,’ said Georgina as she joined Etienne, trying to direct the conversation away from the developing personal contretemps.
‘
No, thank you,’ Renata replied, noticing Jannie disappear through the open kitchen door and heading in the direction his father had taken.
Jannie proceeded down the dirt path leading from the house. It was a path he had taken many times before, although mostly during the day when he had carried supplies down for the workers. The path was illuminated by the full moon, the well-worn track clearly outlined in front of him. As he quickened his pace to try to catch up with his father, he could hear the music from the house drifting across the vines beside him. The vines had a rippling and amplifying effect on the music, giving it an irenic quality. He hoped that on such a beautiful night there would not be an unhappy ending, as on so many previous evenings during his childhood.
As he half ran, half walked along the pathway, he strained to try to make out his father ahead of him. He stopped to catch his breath. Initially, he could see no one. He could just hear voices whispering up ahead. Then, as the moon came out from behind a cloud, two figures were clearly defined. The first was the large frame of his father, the second the coloured worker whom he had seen at the house. He slowed to a walk and in the moonlight could see that his father was embracing her—not only embracing her but kissing her roughly, his hand on her breast.
Jannie stopped, looking at the two entangled shapes and trying to deal with the revulsion that he was feeling. As the nausea gripped his gut, he briefly contemplated going to fetch one of the guns that were always kept in the house. Then he heard footsteps behind him. Turning from his father’s meretricious embrace, he could see Renata’s outline about ten met
res away. She was walking briskly towards him. He quickly advanced to meet her on the track, not wanting her to see what was happening ahead of them.
‘
What are you doing here?’ he demanded as he stood in front of her blocking her view ahead.
‘
I could see how concerned you were and I felt bad about the way that I spoke to you. I thought that if we were going to go through life together, then I needed to be with you.’
‘
You have to go back; this is not about you or your culture.’