‘Even when it happened right underneath my nose I did nothing. I walked past people and didn’t see them. I blanked out an entire population, a history. I still do. You know Agnes, you know she once asked me whether I thought she was too old to finish her matric? Gosh, it was years ago now. The kids were all born, Agnes would have been – can’t remember – in her forties maybe. And she said one day … I don’t know, she was washing the dishes and I was asking why she didn’t just use the dishwasher. I was always chiding her like that. Why, after many explanations, did she still not use my appliances properly, still not get how to fold a wet towel, how to fold a fitted sheet. Anyway she asked me if I thought she should go back and study, told me how she had always wanted to be a teacher. Know what I told her? I told her it was … I said to her that it was too late.’ Speaking this out loud made Marion catch her breath. ‘You say I’m a hypocrite. I have to be. I have to pretend it happened somewhere else; that I read it in a book. I would not be able to get out of bed otherwise.’
Marion bent her head down, turned it away. She cried for not long, then she smoothed out her skirt that never needed any smoothing and stood up, left the kitchen.
The Constantiaberg Bulletin covered a story about the case: ‘Last attempts to reach an out-of-court settlement in Katterijn land claim.’
The Samsodiens had rejected an offer from the State based on the consumer-price index for translating past loss into present-day value. The solution that now seemed the most probable was for the State to apportion state-owned land (within a certain mile radius of the contested land) out to the Samsodiens. It looked like the Von Struikers would get to keep their farm and the Samsodiens receive a portion of the Koppie as fair compensation. Talks were being held.
‘Well.’
‘Why doesn’t it feel like a solution?’
‘What do you mean?’ Hortensia asked. She put the Bulletin down, collected her glass of lemonade. They’d taken, sometimes, to sitting in the lounge together. Tripped into the habit.
‘The Von Struikers don’t actually have to do anything. Doesn’t seem fair.’
‘I think “fair” has been lost and forgotten for a while now. Besides, who are you to say what is fair or not? When the Samsodiens move in … or whoever, go over and ask them. Was it fair? Do you feel compensated? Is all forgiven?’
Marion was quiet. Hortensia started searching for the remote control. She ambled about without her walker. She wasn’t supposed to, but she hoped if she acted like she didn’t need one she eventually wouldn’t. She found it underneath a decor magazine, started clicking.
‘One of the … a grandmother, a Samsodien grandmother died. Not died, well, died but … hanged herself. After everything, after the move and the family trying to settle … with a belt.’
Hortensia stopped chopping channels. She thought of being at a set of traffic lights. Waiting for cars to pass.
‘She was our age, Hortensia. Could you … I mean, I couldn’t. What would she have been thinking? How could she have felt?’
Hortensia turned the television off and set the remote aside. She blew air from her cheeks.
‘I suppose there are so many like that. I suppose you think I’m stupid or ridiculous.’
Hortensia frowned. ‘We had a guest once. Not someone we knew well, but a friend of Zippy’s whom she asked us to host. Maria-Louisa was her name, Florentine woman. Of course Cape Town is accustomed to being fawned upon. Maria hated it. We took her along Beach Road. Camps Bay, Bantry Bay – the whole toot. The vineyards. Lovely, lovely, she said, but there is something I cannot abide. She cut her trip short. Now,’ Hortensia sat back, pleased with how much she’d captured Marion’s attention. ‘That’s not something that happens often, but it does happen. And weeks later I called Zippy to find out what it was all about. She said Maria had … Now you have to understand her English is alright, but not brilliant – Maria’s, I’m talking about. Well, Zippy confessed that she wasn’t sure she’d understood it all but, apparently, Maria had ‘struggled’. That was the word she’d used. The best Zippy could get out of her was how she’d never felt so white before. And so special for being white. Mi ha fatto male, she’d said. It made her sick.’
Marion’s face was drawn.
‘Of course there should have been enough in her own European history to make her want to throw up. She shouldn’t have had to come to South Africa for that, but all the same … Discomfort, Marion. If you want to look and look honestly, then prepare for discomfort. To be sick. I met a woman once. A white woman. “I feel terrible” she said. “Rotten.” That’s no good, I thought. What she ought to feel is responsible. But then again, look at me … I can’t preach … I’m not brave, myself. I’m a coward. I looked away as much as possible.’
‘Did you do anything wrong, though? It doesn’t sound like it to me. Your husband broke his vows.’
‘After everything died down. The affair ended and we just carried on, tolerating each other. That’s a sort of crime, don’t you think? I took his life. And I squandered my own.’
Marion looked sad, but Hortensia was relieved to see that she was not crying.
‘You and Max. You fell pregnant easily? Just like that?’
‘I’m sorry, Hortensia.’
‘I’m asking.’
‘Yes. Yes, we did.’
‘I did get pregnant, you know. Just couldn’t keep hold of them.’
Marion thought to seek out Hortensia’s hand, surprised at how little it was, how delicate and lined. She thought Hortensia might pull away, but she didn’t.
‘The first time was different, though. I didn’t tell Peter the first time. We’d been married barely a year. House of Braithwaite was up and running, a real success. I was busy and I was happy. And when I realised I was pregnant I didn’t tell Peter.’