Disgrace Read online

  ‘This has nothing to do with belief. And I never said I took Ovral.’

  ‘You could have told me earlier. Why did you keep it from me?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t face one of your eruptions. David, I can’t run my life according to whether or not you like what I do. Not any more. You behave as if everything I do is part of the story of your life. You are the main character, I am a minor character who doesn’t make an appearance until halfway through. Well, contrary to what you think, people are not divided into major and minor. I am not minor. I have a life of my own, just as important to me as yours is to you, and in my life I am the one who makes the decisions.’

  An eruption? Is this not an eruption in its own right? ‘That’s enough, Lucy,’ he says, taking her hand across the table. ‘Are you telling me you are going to have the child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A child from one of those men?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? I am a woman, David. Do you think I hate children? Should I choose against the child because of who its father is?’

  ‘It has been known. When are you expecting it?’

  ‘May. The end of May.’

  ‘And your mind is made up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. This has come as a shock to me, I confess, but I will stand by you, whatever you decide. There is no question about that. Now I am going to take a walk. We can talk again later.’

  Why can they not talk now? Because he is shaken. Because there is a risk that he too might erupt.

  She is not prepared, she says, to go through with it again. Therefore she has had an abortion before. He would never have guessed it. When could it have been? While she was still living at home? Did Rosalind know, and was he kept in the dark?

  The gang of three. Three fathers in one. Rapists rather than robbers, Lucy called them – rapists cum taxgatherers roaming the area, attacking women, indulging their violent pleasures. Well, Lucy was wrong. They were not raping, they were mating. It was not the pleasure principle that ran the show but the testicles, sacs bulging with seed aching to perfect itself. And now, lo and behold, the child! Already he is calling it the child when it is no more than a worm in his daughter’s womb. What kind of child can seed like that give life to, seed driven into the woman not in love but in hatred, mixed chaotically, meant to soil her, to mark her, like a dog’s urine?

  A father without the sense to have a son: is this how it is all going to end, is this how his line is going to run out, like water dribbling into the earth? Who would have thought it! A day like any other day, clear skies, a mild sun, yet suddenly everything is changed, utterly changed!

  Standing against the wall outside the kitchen, hiding his face in his hands, he heaves and heaves and finally cries.

  He installs himself in Lucy’s old room, which she has not taken back. For the rest of the afternoon he avoids her, afraid he will come out with something rash.

  Over supper there is a new revelation. ‘By the way,’ she says, ‘the boy is back.’

  ‘The boy?’

  ‘Yes, the boy you had the row with at Petrus’s party. He is staying with Petrus, helping him. His name is Pollux.’

  ‘Not Mncedisi? Not Nqabayakhe? Nothing unpronounceable, just Pollux?’

  ‘P-O-L-L-U-X. And David, can we have some relief from that terrible irony of yours?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Of course you do. For years you used it against me when I was a child, to mortify me. You can’t have forgotten. Anyway, Pollux turns out to be a brother of Petrus’s wife’s. Whether that means a real brother I don’t know. But Petrus has obligations toward him, family obligations.’

  ‘So it all begins to come out. And now young Pollux returns to the scene of the crime and we must behave as if nothing has happened.’

  ‘Don’t get indignant, David, it doesn’t help. According to Petrus, Pollux has dropped out of school and can’t find a job. I just want to warn you he is around. I would steer clear of him if I were you. I suspect there is something wrong with him. But I can’t order him off the property, it’s not in my power.’

  ‘Particularly – ’ He does not finish the sentence.

  ‘Particularly what? Say it.’

  ‘Particularly when he may be the father of the child you are carrying. Lucy, your situation is becoming ridiculous, worse than ridiculous, sinister. I don’t know how you can fail to see it. I plead with you, leave the farm before it is too late. It’s the only sane thing left to do.’

  ‘Stop calling it the farm, David. This is not a farm, it’s just a piece of land where I grow things – we both know that. But no, I’m not giving it up.’

  He goes to bed with a heavy heart. Nothing has changed between Lucy and himself, nothing has healed. They snap at each other as if he has not been away at all.

  It is morning. He clambers over the new-built fence. Petrus’s wife is hanging washing behind the old stables. ‘Good morning,’ he says. ‘Molo. I’m looking for Petrus.’

  She does not meet his eyes, but points languidly toward the building site. Her movements are slow, heavy. Her time is near: even he can see that.

  Petrus is glazing windows. There is a long palaver of greetings that ought to be gone through, but he is in no mood for it. ‘Lucy tells me the boy is back again,’ he says. ‘Pollux. The boy who attacked her.’

  Petrus scrapes his knife clean, lays it down. ‘He is my relative,’ he says, rolling the r. ‘Now I must tell him to go away because of this thing that happened?’

  ‘You told me you did not know him. You lied to me.’

  Petrus sets his pipe between his stained teeth and sucks vigorously. Then he removes the pipe and gives a wide smile. ‘I lie,’ he says. ‘I lie to you.’ He sucks again. ‘For why must I lie to you?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, ask yourself, Petrus. Why do you lie?’

  The smile has vanished. ‘You go away, you come back again – why?’ He stares challengingly. ‘You have no work here. You come to look after your child. I also look after my child.’

  ‘Your child? Now he is your child, this Pollux?’

  ‘Yes. He is a child. He is my family, my people.’

  So that is it. No more lies. My people. As naked an answer as he could wish. Well, Lucy is his people.

  ‘You say it is bad, what happened,’ Petrus continues. ‘I also say it is bad. It is bad. But it is finish.’ He takes the pipe from his mouth, stabs the air vehemently with the stem. ‘It is finish.’

  ‘It is not finished. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. It is not finished. On the contrary, it is just beginning. It will go on long after I am dead and you are dead.’

  Petrus stares reflectively, not pretending he does not understand. ‘He will marry her,’ he says at last. ‘He will marry Lucy, only he is too young, too young to be marry. He is a child still.’

  ‘A dangerous child. A young thug. A jackal boy.’

  Petrus brushes aside the insults. ‘Yes, he is too young, too young. Maybe one day he can marry, but not now. I will marry.’

  ‘You will marry whom?’

  ‘I will marry Lucy.’

  He cannot believe his ears. So this is it, that is what all the shadow-boxing was for: this bid, this blow! And here stands Petrus foursquare, puffing on the empty pipe, waiting for a response.

  ‘You will marry Lucy,’ he says carefully. ‘Explain to me what you mean. No, wait, rather don’t explain. This is not something I want to hear. This is not how we do things.’

  We: he is on the point of saying, We Westerners.

  ‘Yes, I can see, I can see,’ says Petrus. He is positively chuckling. ‘But I tell you, then you tell Lucy. Then it is over, all this badness.’

  ‘Lucy does not want to marry. Does not want to marry a man. It is not an option she will consider. I can’t make myself clearer than that. She wants to live her own life.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ says Petrus. And per
haps he does indeed know. He would be a fool to underestimate Petrus. ‘But here’, says Petrus, ‘it is dangerous, too dangerous. A woman must be marry.’

  ‘I tried to handle it lightly,’ he tells Lucy afterwards. ‘Though I could hardly believe what I was hearing. It was blackmail pure and simple.’

  ‘It wasn’t blackmail. You are wrong about that. I hope you didn’t lose your temper.’

  ‘No, I didn’t lose my temper. I said I would relay his offer, that’s all. I said I doubted you would be interested.’

  ‘Were you offended?’

  ‘Offended at the prospect of becoming Petrus’s father-in-law? No. I was taken aback, astonished, dumbfounded, but no, not offended, give me credit for that.’

  ‘Because, I must tell you, this is not the first time. Petrus has been dropping hints for a while now. That I would find it altogether safer to become part of his establishment. It is not a joke, not a threat. At some level he is serious.’

  ‘I have no doubt that in some sense he is serious. The question is, in what sense? Is he aware that you are . . . ?’

  ‘You mean, is he aware of my condition? I have not told him. But I am sure his wife and he will have put two and two together.’

  ‘And that won’t make him change his mind?’

  ‘Why should it? It will make me all the more part of the family. In any event, it is not me he is after, he is after the farm. The farm is my dowry.’

  ‘But this is preposterous, Lucy! He is already married! In fact, you told me there are two wives. How can you even contemplate it?’

  ‘I don’t believe you get the point, David. Petrus is not offering me a church wedding followed by a honeymoon on the Wild Coast. He is offering an alliance, a deal. I contribute the land, in return for which I am allowed to creep in under his wing. Otherwise, he wants to remind me, I am without protection, I am fair game.’

  ‘And that isn’t blackmail? What about the personal side? Is there no personal side to the offer?’

  ‘Do you mean, would Petrus expect me to sleep with him? I’m not sure that Petrus would want to sleep with me, except to drive home his message. But, to be frank, no, I don’t want to sleep with Petrus. Definitely not.’

  ‘Then we need not discuss it any further. Shall I convey your decision to Petrus – that his offer is not accepted, and I won’t say why?’

  ‘No. Wait. Before you get on your high horse with Petrus, take a moment to consider my situation objectively. Objectively I am a woman alone. I have no brothers. I have a father, but he is far away and anyhow powerless in the terms that matter here. To whom can I turn for protection, for patronage? To Ettinger? It is just a matter of time before Ettinger is found with a bullet in his back. Practically speaking, there is only Petrus left. Petrus may not be a big man but he is big enough for someone small like me. And at least I know Petrus. I have no illusions about him. I know what I would be letting myself in for.’

  ‘Lucy, I am in the process of selling the house in Cape Town. I am prepared to send you to Holland. Alternatively I am prepared to give you whatever you need to set yourself up again somewhere safer than here. Think about it.’

  It is as if she has not heard him. ‘Go back to Petrus,’ she says. ‘Propose the following. Say I accept his protection. Say he can put out whatever story he likes about our relationship and I won’t contradict him. If he wants me to be known as his third wife, so be it. As his concubine, ditto. But then the child becomes his too. The child becomes part of his family. As for the land, say I will sign the land over to him as long as the house remains mine. I will become a tenant on his land.’

  ‘A bywoner.’

  ‘A bywoner. But the house remains mine, I repeat that. No one enters this house without my permission. Including him. And I keep the kennels.’

  ‘It’s not workable, Lucy. Legally it’s not workable. You know that.’

  ‘Then what do you propose?’

  She sits in her housecoat and slippers with yesterday’s newspaper on her lap. Her hair hangs lank; she is overweight in a slack, unhealthy way. More and more she has begun to look like one of those women who shuffle around the corridors of nursing homes whispering to themselves. Why should Petrus bother to negotiate? She cannot last: leave her alone and in due course she will fall like rotten fruit.

  ‘I have made my proposal. Two proposals.’

  ‘No, I’m not leaving. Go to Petrus and tell him what I have said. Tell him I give up the land. Tell him that he can have it, title deed and all. He will love that.’

  There is a pause between them.

  ‘How humiliating,’ he says finally. ‘Such high hopes, and to end like this.’

  ‘Yes, I agree, it is humiliating. But perhaps that is a good point to start from again. Perhaps that is what I must learn to accept. To start at ground level. With nothing. Not with nothing but. With nothing. No cards, no weapons, no property, no rights, no dignity.’

  ‘Like a dog.’

  ‘Yes, like a dog.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  IT IS MID-MORNING. He has been out, taking the bulldog Katy for a walk. Surprisingly, Katy has kept up with him, either because he is slower than before or because she is faster. She snuffles and pants as much as ever, but this no longer seems to irritate him.

  As they approach the house he notices the boy, the one whom Petrus called my people, standing with his face to the back wall. At first he thinks he is urinating; then he realizes he is peering in through the bathroom window, peeping at Lucy.

  Katy has begun to growl, but the boy is too absorbed to pay heed. By the time he turns they are upon him. The flat of his hand catches the boy in the face. ‘You swine!’ he shouts, and strikes him a second time, so that he staggers. ‘You filthy swine!’

  More startled than hurt, the boy tries to run, but trips over his own feet. At once the dog is upon him. Her teeth close over his elbow; she braces her forelegs and tugs, growling. With a shout of pain he tries to pull free. He strikes out with a fist, but his blows lack force and the dog ignores them.

  The word still rings in the air: Swine! Never has he felt such elemental rage. He would like to give the boy what he deserves: a sound thrashing. Phrases that all his life he has avoided seem suddenly just and right: Teach him a lesson, Show him his place. So this is what it is like, he thinks! This is what it is like to be a savage!

  He gives the boy a good, solid kick, so that he sprawls sideways. Pollux! What a name!

  The dog changes position, mounting the boy’s body, tugging grimly at his arm, ripping his shirt. The boy tries to push her off, but she does not budge. ‘Ya ya ya ya ya!’ he shouts in pain. ‘I will kill you!’ he shouts.

  Then Lucy is on the scene. ‘Katy!’ she commands.

  The dog gives her a sidelong glance but does not obey.

  Falling to her knees, Lucy grips the dog’s collar, speaking softly and urgently. Reluctantly the dog releases her grip.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she says.

  The boy is moaning with pain. Snot is running from his nostrils. ‘I will kill you!’ he heaves. He seems on the point of crying.

  Lucy folds back his sleeve. There are score-marks from the dog’s fangs; as they watch, pearls of blood emerge on the dark skin.

  ‘Come, let us go and wash it,’ she says. The boy sucks in the snot and tears, shakes his head.

  Lucy is wearing only a wrapper. As she rises, the sash slips loose and her breasts are bared.

  The last time he saw his daughter’s breasts they were the demure rosebuds of a six-year-old. Now they are heavy, rounded, almost milky. A stillness falls. He is staring; the boy is staring too, unashamedly. Rage wells up in him again, clouding his eyes.

  Lucy turns away from the two of them, covers herself. In a single quick movement the boy scrambles to his feet and dodges out of range. ‘We will kill you all!’ he shouts. He turns; deliberately trampling the potato bed, he ducks under the wire fence and retreats toward Petrus’s house. His gait is cocky once more, though he s
till nurses his arm.

  Lucy is right. Something is wrong with him, wrong in his head. A violent child in the body of a young man. But there is more, some angle to the business he does not understand. What is Lucy up to, protecting the boy?

  Lucy speaks. ‘This can’t go on, David. I can cope with Petrus and his aanhangers, I can cope with you, but I can’t cope with all of you together.’

  ‘He was staring at you through the window. Are you aware of that?’

  ‘He is disturbed. A disturbed child.’

  ‘Is that an excuse? An excuse for what he did to you?’

  Lucy’s lips move, but he cannot hear what she says.

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ he goes on. ‘He is shifty. He is like a jackal sniffing around, looking for mischief. In the old days we had a word for people like him. Deficient. Mentally deficient. Morally deficient. He should be in an institution.’

  ‘That is reckless talk, David. If you want to think like that, please keep it to yourself. Anyway, what you think of him is beside the point. He is here, he won’t disappear in a puff of smoke, he is a fact of life.’ She faces him squarely, squinting into the sunlight. Katy slumps down at her feet, panting lightly, pleased with herself, with her achievements. ‘David, we can’t go on like this. Everything had settled down, everything was peaceful again, until you came back. I must have peace around me. I am prepared to do anything, make any sacrifice, for the sake of peace.’

  ‘And I am part of what you are prepared to sacrifice?’

  She shrugs. ‘I didn’t say it, you said it.’

  ‘Then I’ll pack my bags.’

  Hours after the incident his hand still tingles from the blows. When he thinks of the boy and his threats, he seethes with anger. At the same time, he is ashamed of himself. He condemns himself absolutely. He has taught no one a lesson – certainly not the boy. All he has done is to estrange himself further from Lucy. He has shown himself to her in the throes of passion, and clearly she does not like what she sees.

  He ought to apologize. But he cannot. He is not, it would seem, in control of himself. Something about Pollux sends him into a rage: his ugly, opaque little eyes, his insolence, but also the thought that like a weed he has been allowed to tangle his roots with Lucy and Lucy’s existence.