—Three of these consonants consist of these sounds—the noise made by the lips in lightly kissing, as when you kiss your hand; that made by smacking the tip of the tongue against the palate, as you do when tasting a flavor, or as some women do when they express petty vexation; and the clucking noise made with the back part of the tongue against the palate to urge a horse forward or to gather chickens; these are all very common. A vowel sound often repeated resembles the French
eu,
but uttered from the chest with the singsong drawl of a boy driving away birds . . . In fact, it seems that the Hottentots have two vowels more than European languages; one is expressed by the famous click of the tongue, and the other by a suction of air between the tongue and the palate. Yet, with a few of these clicks, a Khoekhoe chief can command two hundred warriors in battle, a rainmaker can cure an illness, two warring tribes can lay out a treaty . . .
—Tomorrow, ask Saartjie to repeat a phrase in her own language or give her a sentence to translate and you’ll see exactly what I mean.
—How will we know if she’s really saying what we ask her to if we can’t understand her language?
—She looks honest. I trust her to tell the truth. She’d never lie— besides, I bet the children speak Khoe—just ask them . . .
Through all this, the Hottentot was standing behind the curtains, spying on us. I was sure she did speak Khoe to the children and that they answered her. But it was only a guess.
—I’ve been taught since I was a boy, interjected Caesar’s voice as it wafted out onto the night, that the Hottentot is ruled by prostitution. Adultery has no meaning for them, nor does virginity. The poverty of their mental universe can be seen in the poverty of their language. For example, they have but one word for maiden, woman and wife. They are at the nadir of primitive lasciviousness. There is no difference between the Hottentot and the prostitute, so there is no moral deterrent to using one as the other . . .
—Even as a Christian gentleman?
—Even as a Christian gentleman.
—Should we not be saving these females instead of taking advantage of them?
—They are to all intents and purposes, unlike the prostitute, beyond redemption.
—Even your little Hottentot, Saartjie.
—Oh, no, no. Never, croaked Hendrick. I’ve never touched Saartjie. Nor would I allow anyone else to—she’s family! My boys’ nurse.
—You’ve never even peeked at this . . . apron of hers?
—No, he lied.
—Then how do you know it really exists?
—I don’t know really . . . my wife says it does.
—Come now, Hendrick. There’s no one out here but me, surely you were curious enough to . . . look . . .
—No.
—Well, would you allow me to examine her, as a medical doctor?
—No, Dunlop. I’m afraid not. Besides, she would never agree. She’s extremely shy and has the modesty of a white woman.
—Actually it doesn’t matter if it exists or not, as long as people believe it does. Do mermaids have tails? Does Cyclops have one eye? Is Isis a baboon? It’s what people believe that counts.
I noticed a shift in one of the shadows projected onto the floor of the veranda. I smiled. Saartjie was not above spying on her masters or eavesdropping on their conversation like all good servants . . .
—After all, friend, I concluded, determined to shock the Hottentot, a cannibal is not necessarily ferocious. He eats his fellow creatures not because he hates them, but because he
likes
them . . .
The next day, at breakfast, Alya Caesar invited me to spend a few weeks at the farm with them while my ship was made ready. She had already opened and prepared the guesthouse for me and assigned me a servant. I would be so much more comfortable here than in a dirty noisy hotel in town, she insisted. To Hendrick Caesar’s surprise, I accepted eagerly. It was like agreeing to live like a monk. There were no pretty tavern waitresses nor spectacular red-haired whores on the Caesar farm that I knew of. But I knew what I would do for entertainment.
For entertainment, I spied on Saartjie when she bathed. Eventually, she caught me at it. And forgave me. I proceeded to seduce her.
Listening to me, Saartjie would drop her head as if her ears had been opened to the voices of the world. She heard beyond the ramparts of Cape Town to the swell of waves breaking on the beach with monotonous and solemn vibrations, as if all the earth had been a tolling bell.
—And then, a ship’s a ship and a voyage isn’t marriage, I whispered.
—It is not a marriage contract, she whispered in return.
—I’ve never taken a false name and I’ve never told a lie to a woman (which was a lie).
The Hottentot’s teeth chattered.
—You’re cold.
I put my arms around her, wrapping her closely in her cotton
lappa.
—Hold the ends together in front, I commanded.
—What did you come here for?
—To be . . . to be surprised, I replied, truthfully. I have been everywhere and done everything . . . Yet I remain alone, unattached to anything . . .
—Oh, but I am sorry for you—don’t you have a home?
—Some such place as this? I’d kick it down around my ears!
—And where do you hope to die?
—In the bush somewhere; at sea, on a bloody mountaintop, at home? Yes! The world’s my home. Anyplace is good enough as long as I’ve lived there. I’ve been everything you can think of, ship’s surgeon, army doctor, soldier, anatomist, dentist, slave trader; I’ve sheared sheep, harpooned whales, rigged ships, prospected for gold, hunted wild game, collected fossil specimens, gambled in St. Petersburg, robbed tombs in Cairo, turned my back on more money than your master will ever see or you can imagine!
I overwhelmed Saartjie. She tried to pull herself together. I straightened up, away from the wall, and said:
—Time to go.
But I did not move. I leaned back and hummed a bar or two of the song I had been singing at dinner.
In the bay of St. Helena
Stands the island of St. Helena
Where surrounded by my comrades
I behold a strange lass with skin so black
Who fled in fright to see men so white . . .
I stopped, embarrassed, I had completely forgotten Saartjie’s origins.
—It’s a cruel song, about Hottentots, I ended, censoring the rest of the lyrics.
—It’s the song of the gold prospectors, of the restless men who mine the riverbeds of the Hottentot country and the kingdom of Monomotapa for gold. During the dry season, they can find gold nuggets in the cracks of the dried riverbeds, like pearls . . . It’s all desert: cracks in the earth making canyons that you can’t see the bottom of; and mountains—sheer rocks standing up high like walls and church spires like the white cliffs at Dover, only a hundred times taller. The valleys are full of boulders and black stones and pyramids made by Ethiopians. There’s not one blade of grass, one tree, one cactus to be seen. And the sunsets are redder there than anywhere else in the world, I said.
—Red?
—Blood red and mad as hell.
—You would rather stay there on land?
—Not in that country. It gives me the shivers sometimes. I look for specimens there, that’s all—I have a gift for it and a fever . . . The animals, the desert stones, the skulls, the artifacts, sometimes even gold. But it is not for the gold or even the artifacts . . . it’s the wandering about
looking
for things.
—The Khoekhoe have a word for men like you; they call you
Khoeku
!gaesasiba ose
—men with no stillness . . . I bet no mistress can hold you.
—No longer than a week, yet I am fond of women—so many different ones: Chinese, African, European, Arab, so many different shapes and colors, skins and hips and bottoms, legs and feet and hair . . . Anything for a woman, a new woman or a woman of the right sort or a woman like I’ve never seen before—the scrapes they have gotten me into. I love them all. I love them at first sight. I’ve fallen in love with you already . . .
—Saartjie, little Sarah . . . I sighed. Yes, Saartjie, come here.
—I don’t have a very pretty face.
—No matter. I don’t take to faces very much . . . It’s your . . . aura . . . your mystery. You are a rare specimen, unique. Worth a lot of money brought back to England . . .
I reached out, mesmerized despite myself.
—How about showing me your apron . . .
—I couldn’t do that, Master. No, Master.
She was suddenly terrified. After all my words. She thought I only wanted to fuck her. I laughed angrily.
—I can simply take a look if I have a mind. Hendrick doesn’t mind.
—No, she groaned, backing away. I’m a married woman.
—Married, are you?
—A widow.
—That’s not the same as being married and you know it. You are a lone female and you’re not a virgin. You need protection. What if I took you with me to England . . . You could make your fortune and stop being a slave.
—I’m not a slave.
—Well, what is this, I said, looking around the decrepit bare wooden cabin, Versailles?
—What?
—The governor’s palace? I laughed, but this time good-naturedly.
She made a movement as if to escape, but stopped and raised her hands to her temples.
—You are making me crazy! Sometimes you treat me like a princess, then next like a slave, then like a whore! What am I? A woman or a thing-that-should-never-have-been-born?
—You are nothing but a vagabond, she added angrily.
—I’m a surgeon! And a damn good one. Nigger bitch. Come with me to England, where you’re free to be anything you like. We’ll make a fortune. Money. Gold. Understand? Freedom! Slavery was abolished in England three years ago!
I held up my hand mockingly.
—I swear if you are not famous in a month in London, I’ll send you back home to the Cape.
—You will have to. I shall make you . . .
—Look who’s talking . . .
—Yes, look who’s talking . . .
Instinctively Saartjie drew in a deep breath and took a step towards me—then a step backwards, having crossed the line between master and servant.
—How long does it take to sail to London?
—About eight weeks.
She had not moved, but remained half turned away from me, with her head in her hands.
—My word, I continued with a wry smile on my lips.
—I have a great mind to . . .
Her elbows trembled as I clutched them in my fists.
—Escape, I concluded without a pause. You’d be a free woman . . .
Saartjie still hid her face in her hands. I drew her closer to me and took hold of her wrists gently. I breathed into her ear.
—Saartjie, do this for me . . .
I tried to uncover her face. She resisted. I let her go then, stepping back a little.
—I’ve already spoken to Hendrick. He’ll sell you to me.
—I’m not his slave.
—He can sell you as an indentured servant. Think on it.
She nodded quickly, shamefaced, trembling with emotion. She bowed her head.
—Oh, go away, she murmured. Please, please, go away. There will be only trouble. You bring only trouble.
—Riches and perhaps trouble, I said, you females always give me trouble, I whispered softly. Never fear. I’ve never forgotten any of you.
I held out my hand and in the dim light Saartjie stared at the coin lying in my palm. It was a gold napoleon, more money than she had ever seen.
—You can’t buy me. I’m not a slave.
—Who said anything about slavery? I’m talking about bride-price— that’s a lot of cattle. I laughed. Since you say you are an orphan, to whom do I pay the bride-price?
—My father’s sister.
—And where is she?
—In Namagua, I think.
—And how would I get this gold napoleon to her?
—I don’t know, Master.
—Well then, I’ll just have to keep it in the bank until we return, won’t I? I smiled and winked at her as I dropped the coin back into my purse. Or shall I give it to you?
Saartjie shook her head dejectedly.
—I cannot sell myself . . . You can’t buy me. I’m not for sale.
The next moment, I swept the Hottentot up in a powerful embrace. I kissed her face with an overmastering ardor as if to bury the very soul I claimed she didn’t have. The kisses broke into the citadel of her loneliness. Her eyes were closed. She was mine. I turned and left her, abandoning my conquest. She gathered up her skirts and ran after me.
—Stop, she shouted. I’ll go. I’ll go.
I continued walking away from her, my fateful tread echoed malevolently upon the stones. Presently her voice grew fainter as though she, too, were turning into stone. I could feel the desperation that took hold of her at that moment. I was going, never to return! I would leave without her, forever. Leaving her to die in this godforsaken place. As if she were struggling in a dream, Saartjie called out my name in a final appeal.
—Master Dunlop! I’ll go. I’ll go . . . I promise, I follow.
The echo of my footsteps joined the faint sound of my triumphant laughter, mixed with the night sounds and the voices of restless crickets and wolves. There was no hint of human life in the desolate landscape. The Hottentot and I were totally alone in the world, solitary, lost in this fiendish, hopeless country where she possessed not even a footprint. And she was totally mine.
Inside the main house, Hendrick must have heard my laughter or her frightened cry. A window opened and into the silence her master spoke to her, over my head, high up in the black air.
—Saartjie, Saartjie, you come on in here and wash our feet. Tonight, be a good girl, we’re taking you to London!
Hendrick couldn’t believe how perfectly everything was turning out. I had solved all his problems. He would lease his preserve out for two years. His wife and children would come to live with his brother. He and I would take Saartjie to London, present her to the scientific world as the first female Hottentot ever to set foot in Great Britain. We would make a fortune off Saartjie’s monstrous shape, which would be immortalized for all time . . .