An Instant in the Wind by Andre Brink

Author:Andre Brink
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2010-03-07T16:00:00+00:00

This morning on the beach, washed out among weed and mussels, cowries, whelks and heart-urchins: a single paper nautilus shell, fragile cradle of forgotten eggs, untouched by all the violence of the waves.

How would they, afterwards, remember the end of that warm season, what would they retain of it? The sun rising later in the morning and setting earlier at night, but almost imperceptibly: mistier mornings and more translucent days, ever more tender around the edges; sad calls of doves, and swallows gathering in great flocks to fly off to the north. A vaster openness opening, as if invisible dimensions were exposed to the light and the lukewarm sun; as if the wind came from farther away and spent itself in emptiness. A more agonizing awareness of vulnerability. Longer silences in the long evenings at the fire.

“My mother would have a fit if she saw the stitches in this kaross. I always had to start all over again if the sewing wasn’t fine enough. How I hated those afternoons with the sound of the boys playing outside!”

“Don’t you ever miss the Cape?”

She looks up, firelight on her cheeks. “Of course, sometimes.”

The throng of the wine-lease auctions in August; coach rides to Constantia, accompanying important guests from abroad, showing them the flamingoes; the cannon booming on the Lion's Rump, and the flags going up; the bustle on the beach… even though her mother had forbidden her to mix with all those common folk at the harbor; the flurry of getting letters finished before the fleet departed to Patria or Batavia; the sound of the clavichord, candelabras, crystal; slaves shuffling past barefoot, carrying laden trays, or fanning the guests with ostrich feathers; Uncle Jacobs and her father playing chess in the garden; rough games with the slave children in the backyard in her mother's absence. Does it still exist? Is her mother still complaining? Has her father withdrawn even more into himself? Are they alive?

“I’m sure you miss it too,” she says defensively.

The stories of his mother and his grandmother: the dancing fire in the craters of Krakatoa; the flaming beauty of hibiscus and lotus, and the scent of jasmine, cinnamon and cloves; Mohammed's flight to Medina, and the glorious crusades of the Crescent Moon. The cynical fatalism of the frail old woman; the naive emotions of his mother, confusing Christ and Heitsi-Eibib, and the word of God and that of the Master.

“You leading my child astray, Ma Seli.”

“I tell him about the world. I seen the world.”

“From the black hole of a ship?”

“No, long before the ship, when I was young. Padang and Smeroes and Surabaya. I seen it. I was free then.”

“You free now too. The Master he freed you.”

“Can shove his freedom up his hole.”

“Ma Seli, you don’t speak so of a Master.”

“Whose Baas is he? Slave of his slaves, is what he is. What can he do without them? You listen to me, hey, Adam?”

“Ma Seli, you stop saying things to my child. Adam, you listen to your Ma and your Master, you see? You don’t give ears to that old woman.

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