Ag, shame. Madam Cornelia’s husband. She who had the power of life and death over her. He became a whimpering fool on top of her, babbling insanities that she could not make out. Then there was the final long scream, “Eina-naaa!” A dog’s howl at the moon. And two sharp jerks. It was all over. His body had vomited inside hers.
He was in control again. He had the power of life and death.
10. A BARN FULL OF MOANS
THE ONE in front has big feet. Big brown feet with grey toenails. Five toes on each foot. An occasional departure from the trinity’s norm. Feet and toes! She wears a grey knee-length dress and a grey beret. Her sad face is black and her eyes are cast down to the red ground. Her gaunt posture hides the fact that she is a leader. She leads four women in their prime. A woman in a red blanket and red slippers. A grey crocheted hat on a brown head. She has bedroom eyes, and she walks sideways. Her feet point in the direction from which she comes.
She is followed by the one who has thin legs. Grey legs without feet. The only one carrying a baby. There is a softness about her. Soft yellow blanket. Soft grey baby wrapped in a soft yellow blanket. The baby wears a soft grey woollen cap and the mother a soft grey beret. The mother is not really carrying the baby. The baby stands on the palm of her hand. The brown woman behind her holds out her open hand so that it can support the weight of the baby. The brown woman’s bare feet point to where she is going. Forwards. She has only three toes. The last woman faces sideways, giving us her back. Giving us her bare heels. Her grey dress has a matching broad figure-belt. She wears a grey doek. Her black face is turned to the other women. She is looking in the direction they are all going. Her hands are raised to the heavens as if in supplication.
Five women sneaked into the barn. Five supplicants walking into a wanton temple. When they left their homes, they were going to collect cow-dung in the veld. And everyone knew that. Cow-dung in the fields and not in a big barn built of corrugated-iron sheets. There was no cow-dung in the barn. But here they were, walking gingerly on the hay that carpeted the floor. Bales of hay were stacked in one corner. Some were scattered around on the floor. Creating little havens of joy. Five men sat on some of the bales. Five men in khaki shorts or grey wash ‘n’ wear pants. Five men drinking Johannes Smit’s cherry liqueur. Two bottles from the ten that were not sold at the festival. Johannes Smit, threatening to burst out of his grey safari suit. Johannes Smit, proudly serving the dark liquid in beer and coffee mugs. He was the host. This was his barn on his farm. His territory. The four men and five women were his guests.
He had made elaborate arrangements for this gathering of the partakers of stolen delicacies — to the extent that he had neglected some of his crucial duties. He had, for instance, left his cows at the mercy of summer pastures. Even though he knew that cows needed to be fed green-coloured legume hay in order to maintain high milk yields. Even though he was aware that cows start preparing for their next lactation as soon as they are dried off. The gathering in the barn was more important than dry cows. More important than his docile Brahmin cattle, three of which were loitering outside the barn, collecting strands of hay with their tongues and dispatching them to their stomachs.
The five men welcomed the five women with drinks. One of the women, Niki, said no thank you. Johannes Smit, the man who was offering her a mug, urged, “Come on, Niki, you will see it is much more fun when you are a bit tipsy.”
But another man, Stephanus Cronje, stepped between them and said, “She does not want any of your cherry liqueur, Johannes.”
“Today we must swop, Stephanus,” said Johannes Smit. “Last time you refused to swop. Everyone swops. You can’t keep to one partner all the time.”
He was already breathing like someone who had just run a marathon. Niki looked at him as if he was something someone had forgotten to throw into a rubbish bin. She seemed to be the only one of the women who had full awareness of the power packed in her body. And she was using it consciously to get what she wanted. Since the cherry festival, Johannes Smit died of desire every time he thought of her. Especially when he imagined all the things she must have done with Stephanus Cronje. He had hoped that during these partner-swopping orgies, he would have his opportunity. But Stephanus Cronje was obviously becoming un-sportsmanly. As if he had the sole ownership of Niki. And this was the same Stephanus Cronje who had a taste of other men’s partners when Niki was not there!
“He will not be allowed here if he does not want to share,” said the Reverend François Bornman, fondling Mmampe’s breasts. She had planted herself on his lap.
“If they banish us from here, Niki, we’ll just do our thing in the sunflower fields,” said Stephanus Cronje with a tinge of boastful-ness in his voice.
They had “done their thing” in the sunflower fields before. In between the barn romps, which happened only once a fortnight. They had even “done their thing” in Madam Cornelia’s bedroom, when she went visiting her parents in Zastron. They had used Madam Cornelia’s own metal antique bed that looked like a hospital bed to Niki. On Madam Cornelia’s own downy duvet. Niki’s head resting comfortably on Madam Cornelia’s own fluffy continental pillow. Niki’s greatest triumph!
“So what do you want here if you won’t play by the rules?” asked Johannes Smit, taking his cue from the man of the cloth and fondling Maria’s breasts.
“Rules?” cried Stephanus Cronje. “Whose rules? When did we lay hard and fast rules that we’ll swop no matter what?”
“He’s always been a selfish boy,” muttered Groot-Jan Lombard. “Even when he was a baby I knew he was going to be a selfish boy.”
“You should say that about your own son, Oom Groot-Jan,” said Stephanus Cronje. “He is the selfish one. Klein-Jan eats his black honey on the sly.”
The woman with the baby placed the child on the floor at the far end of the barn. She sat on Groot-Jan Lombard’s lap and ceremoniously took off his shirt. Then she yanked at the hair in his armpits. With each jerk he bleated like a goat. The pleasurable pain was all he would ever get from these sprees. It was before the wonder of Viagra was invented.
Soon naked hairy white bodies were frolicking on the hay with naked smooth black bodies.
The baby played with an empty cherry liqueur bottle. Da. da. daaaa. The baby who was almost white rolled the bottle on the floor and crawled after it. Da. da. daaaa. Brownish hair like young maize-cob filaments. A product of these barn romps. Daaa. da. daaaaaa! Mummy administering such creative pain to a poor old man. Everybody lost in a dizzying whirl of partner-swopping. Everybody but Niki and Stephanus Cronje. They were lost deep within each other.
The single-titled man became a whimpering baby as before. As always.
Once he carried two titles: boss and Madam Cornelia’s husband. Now he was just Madam Cornelia’s husband, as he had insisted that she resign from the butchery. She was unemployed. But she didn’t have a single regret. She earned more money than she did when she worked full-time at the butchery. Once a week she would send Viliki to Stephanus Cronje’s house in town. During the day, when Madam Cornelia was busy ringing up the till at the butchery, counting rands and cents — some of which would end up as Niki’s share of the spoils — and weighing workers on the black iron floor scale twice a day. Viliki would knock timidly. Stephanus Cronje would appear at the window. Viliki would give him a note from his mother. He would read it and then put some bank notes in an envelope.