Rosélie would have driven through Stellenbosch and its whitewashed houses, full of memories of apartheid, without stopping. But Dido always woke up on entering the town and demanded they have a coffee in the rose-covered patio of D’ouwe Werf.
“I can’t believe I’m actually sitting here,” she would say. “When I was small, we were barred from this place, like so many others. And I used to dream about it. So you can understand how I feel sitting here today!”
Although the waitresses in their ample aprons were polite, the tourists had no scruples, staring in hilarity at this unusual trio. Were they a father and his two daughters? A husband and his two wives? They had no idea they were a sight themselves. Tourists had always fascinated Rosélie. In Guadeloupe, most of the visitors were extremely average French families, both in bank account and physique, seeking cheap exoticism.
Canadian women have long gone. They now prefer the males in Saint Martin.
Whereas the whole world was streaming into Cape Town. But why do you see only the garish, the brash, the loud, the fat, the potbellied, and the big-bottomed? Where were the handsome, the slim, the polite and discreet? Don’t they travel anymore?
Despite the slow pace of Papa Koumbaya’s driving, they soon reached Lievland from Stellenbosch. Lievland boiled down to its homestead. Nestled in the foothills, amid a setting of oaks, it was a magnificent example of eighteenth century Cape Dutch architecture. Throughout the years, every owner had added his mark. One a stable, another a gable, and yet another a granary covered in fire-retardant material where they stored coffins and provisions side by side. The tourists, raising their heads to the gabled facade before dragging their sneakers through the series of rooms, had no idea of the drama being played out upstairs. In 1994, swearing he would never see his beloved country in the hands of a Kaffir, Jan de Louw had turned his back on his vineyards and locked himself in his bedroom, his eyes stubbornly fixed on his wardrobe from Batavia made from coromandel ebony. His wife, Sofie, had first tried to get him to go downstairs. Unable to do so, she had written to Willem, their only son, who, long ago, had taken refuge in Australia. There, at least, the aborigines stayed in their place. At the most, they won medals at the Olympic Games! Willem had refused to set foot in South Africa. So Sofie had tried to look after the vineyards herself. But that’s a man’s job! With an aching heart she had had to sell her land and put the estate house on the well-known tourist circuit of AfriCultural Tours. It had become a major point of interest, attracting busloads of admiring tourists. A Dutch photographer fell in love with the place and asked for permission to include it in a series of postcards entitled “Marvels of the World.” A Norwegian had flown from Hammerfest to have his picture taken alongside his bride. There was a time when Dido had proposed opening a restaurant in the former slave quarters, beside the stables, opposite the animal park. But Sofie had firmly opposed it. She suffered enough seeing hordes of strangers stream over the de Louws’ floor and considered it a comedown. She didn’t want to see them. She didn’t want to hear their stupid comments.
“Did you see that barometer? How old is it? How does it work?”
“And that wonderful clock! Look, it not only shows the days but also the phases of the moon.”
“How extraordinary!”
Every day from nine-thirty to five o’clock she would hole herself up in the kitchen behind the door marked PRIVATE. By craning her neck, the curious visitor could see the stone hearth that stretched the whole width of the kitchen, and salivate at the thought of the meat that was once smoked there.
Dido and her mother lived in the former slave quarters, a long, low building to the side of the homestead under a heavy roof that would have delighted an amateur of local color. No heating. No hot water. A rudimentary shower. A makeshift WC. In order to counterbalance the lack of comfort, Dido had scattered colored rugs over the floor of beaten earth, laid lace crochet work on the back of shapeless pieces of furniture, and, above all, hung one of Rosélie’s paintings, oil on wood, in the center room. With no title, of course. Despite her allegations, the weekends at Lievland were anything but “enjoyable.” They would walk around the vineyards. They would eat a bobotie cooked by Dido’s mother. They would take a siesta. They would take another walk, this time on the road, and pick wildflowers. They would dine on the rest of the bobotie. With Dido’s mother rambling on in the background about the time she visited Maputo, describing the city like a Muslim the Garden of Allah. They would then watch films on the VCR; always the same ones, featuring Keanu Reeves from every possible angle. They would go to bed. They wouldn’t sleep. Yet they always got up at the crack of dawn and started all over again, except the bobotie would be replaced by a lamb curry. At 6:00 p.m. on the dot, Papa Koumbaya’s car would be waiting. They would drive back to Cape Town. They would go to bed. They wouldn’t sleep.
But that weekend, the thirteenth since Stephen had died, was destined to be different.
When they arrived, Rosélie and Dido found Sofie deep in conversation with Elsie.
Sofie was a frail little woman. Wearing a white headscarf tied into a bonnet and a black dress, she looked like someone out of a painting by Vermeer. Despite the extraordinary difference in size — Sofie, a featherweight, weighed under sixty pounds — Sofie reminded Rosélie of Rose. Rose had finished her days the same way: alone in a house that was too big, neglected by her husband and deserted by her only child. At the back of their eyes you could read an identical tale of solitude and desertion, as if this were the lot of mothers and wives.
Sofie looked up as they came in and croaked:
“It’s Jan. He’s thrown himself out of bed and fractured his skull. The doctor says he hasn’t got long to live.”
As if to ward off ill fortune, Elsie made the sign of the cross.
Dido and Sofie hurried over to the estate house. Seeing Rosélie hesitate, Dido shouted to her:
“Come on! You could help him. You know you’re worth more than all the doctors on earth.”
Faith is the only saving factor!
The tour buses were now jostling into the parking lot, and some Germans were getting out. Sofie explained she hadn’t been surprised by her husband’s act. Recently, Jan had changed a lot. He who devoured the newspapers, rejoicing at the upward curve of AIDS and the increase in the number of child rapes and robberies, was no longer interested in anything. He dozed all day long. He would ask for his mother and brother, who had been laid to rest years ago. Rosélie was ashamed of her curiosity. It was as if the ogre’s padlocked door were finally creaking open on its hinges. She had never been near Jan, around whom Dido had woven a thick mythology of tales and legends in which he had become a hairy, longhaired, one-eyed beast, evil personified, his personal stench lingering around the homestead like a decaying carcass. At last she was going to see him with her own two eyes. A troubled feeling of triumph mingled with her curiosity. She was going to see for herself his downfall. For this voluntary end to his life was a point of no return. At last he had admitted that this country, where he and his kin believed they could lay down their law, had escaped them for good. The Kaffirs in power were here to stay.