And he took off his greatcoat, all stinking of the kakiebos, and laid it down in the heavy dew, so that it might be cleansed. And he lay down in the dew also, also so that he might be cleansed. Then he thought he would go to his home, and boil tins of water on the stove, and pour them into the bath, and wash himself clean of his corruption.
So he stood up soaked with dew, and put on the coat, and walked fast along the road to Venterspan, and met neither car nor any human soul. And he renewed his vows, and was grateful that the stink of the kakiebos had gone.
He went through the little gate and up to the door, and on the door in the dark was a white note fastened double with a pin. He took it down and let himself in at the door. He put on the light and looked at the note. It was written in pencil, in printed letters such as a child would make. And it said, I SAW YOU.
THEN WAS HE FILLED WITH TERROR, for the twig that went breaking in the dark. And he forgot the tins of water and the bath, for now his thought was not to be cleansed but saved. He closed his hand over the paper, as though someone might see it in that empty house, and carried it to his study and put on the light and shut the door. Then he looked at the paper but it said the same as it had said before, I SAW YOU. It was a piece of paper such as any person might keep in any house. It was unruled and clean, with no name on it, nothing at all but three small words, seven letters, enough to destroy a world.
He sat at his desk, and though the curtains were drawn, he held his hand folded over the paper, lest anyone might see. And why not too? For the town was suddenly full of eyes, that could see in the dark of night, and the thoughts that moved in the darkness of men’s minds. And he said in an agony, o God wees my genadig, o Here Jesus wees my genadig, but now it was another mercy that he sought, not to be saved from sin but from its consequence. And he repeated all his vows, offering double what he had done before, if only he could be saved. Then though it was after midnight, he heard the car in the street and was filled again with terror. He put the note between the pages of a book, and put the book in the bookcase, yet with the fear that if any person had come, he would have gone at once to that book and pulled it out, so strong was its power; and frantically he brought the books of stamps, and laid them out on the desk, yet with the fear that if any person had come, he would have seen at once that the books had just been laid out, and that their very pattern as they lay was not of accident but of design. So he sat down at once, and pulled the book of South Africans towards him, and tried to study them, but could not for listening to the car. And the car stopped, right before the house, it seemed, and he was in a panic till he heard the laughing of young people; then he knew it was the Vosloo girls back from the party at Hamman’s farm, and that the car had stopped, not before the house, but half a block away.
Then he went back to the bookcase and took out the note from the book, and brought it to the light on his desk. The words looked as though they had been written by a child, or by some person either white or black not used to writing, or by some person who wrote thus to torment him. And he considered with fear what the next step would be, for surely it would not end with that. Then he prayed and vowed again in the agony, and thought of his wife and his children, and his father and mother and myself, and of his brother and sisters, especially Martha and the young dominee, and the old dominee too, and Nella’s father and mother and brothers and sisters, and the captain and the sergeants and young Vorster who thought he was some kind of god, and Hannes de Jongh and all the others of the rugby club, and Colonel de Wet who was his colonel in the war and had recommended him for the Distinguished Service Order, and Professor Krige of Stellenbosch who had written to Jakob van Vlaanderen, you may be proud of your son, who has won himself great honours, and remained quiet and modest. But his father never told him that; it was his mother.
And he thought of his children with especial agony, for what kind of man would destroy what he had created, and hurt what he had loved?
That I could not understand, that I could so endanger them; therefore I knew the power of my enemy. For had an angel said to me, you may buy this victory, with an eye or a hand, or with both hands and eyes, I would have said, I buy it. Even had the mad sickness been upon me, and an angel had come there with my son, and said, go on and the child will die, I would at once have desisted. But because the child was not there, and no angel brought it there, I risked to do it a harm more terrible than death.
THEN HE went to the kitchen, and built a fire in the stove, and put the tins of water on. He put his overcoat and clothes on chairs before the fire, and found some scent that Nella had left, to take away the stink of the kakiebos.
He went out of the kitchen door, and down the side of the house to the servants’ gate. The whole town was quiet and still, but for the distant barking of some restless dog, and the faint movement of the pines. And maybe the watcher was asleep, and would leave him in peace till tomorrow. Then suddenly he thought that maybe the watcher was now at that very moment in the captain’s office or at the captain’s house, with the captain more grave than ever; and maybe the girl Stephanie was there too, smiling and frowning, lying and denying, or maybe, God have mercy, admitting and confessing. Or maybe the watcher was in some other house, and they were gathered round him furtively, listening to the story of the shining star that had fallen into the mud and slime. Yet what proof could such a man have had beyond his word, and a few crushed weeds, that might have been crushed by any man?
But this was no comfort to me, for if they had come and said to me, this is your offence, then I might lie, but they would know I lied. How often have I myself not been to a man and said, this is your offence; but he has lied, and I, with the little I knew, could do nothing at all. Yet if they came to me, then I would think that nothing could hide from them the whole pattern of my offence, that it would betray itself in my face, my eyes, my hands, in my mouth that trembled, and said some word it had not meant to say.
It would seem to me that every act, every word, every gesture, would fit only and could fit only into the pattern of my offence; that every reasonable man would see it, and I being also reasonable could not deny it.
And if I denied what they could see to be the truth, then something within me would be broken, and I would cry out or break down and weep, or something within me would break so that they, knowing that I had never been so before, would know beyond doubt that I lied.
Yet surely I was a fool, for if a man had been to the vacant ground, what magic was there that could tell him who had been there, and who had crushed these weeds?
THEN SUDDENLY he thought of the dogs, for they could bring the dogs from Sonop in the hour; and the terror returned to him, even though he knew they must have some scenter for the dogs. And perhaps they had already taken something while he was away. And the dogs would go out along the road into the grass country, to the farm called Sorrow, and there they would turn amongst the oxen, and knowing nothing of a man’s penitence and grief, come back and destroy him.
So he went to the room in the yard where the black boy Johannes slept, and knocked on the door. And when Johannes woke at last, and came to the door and stood there shivering, he said to him, did anyone come to the house tonight? And the boy, no one, baas. Are you sure? Baas, I’m sure. Were you here all the night? All the night. And no one came? No one, baas. Think, Johannes, did no one come? No one, baas. Goodnight then, Johannes. Goodnight, baas.
Then he took the tins of water and poured them into the bath and washed himself from head to foot, especially the parts of his shame. It was now one o’clock, and he went up to his room, and stood looking at the beds, and vowed and prayed again. Then he got into bed and could not sleep, but heard two o’clock strike and three o’clock strike and four o’clock strike from the clock in the tower of the church. Then he fell into a sleep, and dreamed that he was at the top of a hollow tower, with no way up and no way down. And it was not like any other tower, for the walls were hollow too, from the bottom up, and the space between the wal
ls was filled with knives and forks, and the handles of the knives were made of metal not of bone, like they use in a soldiers’ camp. And he lay naked on the knives and forks, and they cut his flesh and drew the blood, and down below on the ground his cousin Anna was shouting to him to come down, but he dared not look at her because of the dizzy height, and because the whole tower shook and quivered, as though it might at any moment crumble to destruction.
So he woke in sweat and fear, not knowing for a moment that it was a dream. Then he knew it was a dream, and would have been comforted, but that he suddenly remembered the note, the note; therefore he vowed and prayed, that if only this thing was lifted, he would never sin again. So he heard five o’clock strike and six o’clock strike. Then he heard the boy Johannes moving quietly below in the kitchen, so as not to disturb him, and fell into a sleep.
When he awoke he wondered if he would let the captain know that he was ill, and could not come. But he decided against it, for if the watcher went to the captain, it would not matter if he were ill or not. And if the watcher went to the captain, what would the captain do? Then the great hope came to him that perhaps the captain would send for him privately, and he would confess, and the captain would save him, even as he himself had saved the boy Dick. And the great fear came to him that the captain would do his duty, for Duty was to him like God; and had the captain not said to him, not much more than twelve hours before, Duty’s duty, and it must be done.
And I thought to myself, twelve hours! In those twelve hours the whole world had changed, because of one insensate act. And what madness made a man pursue something so unspeakable, deaf to the cries of wife and children and mother and friends and blind to their danger, to grasp one unspeakable pleasure that brought no joy, ten thousand of which pleasures were not worth one of the hairs of their heads? Such desire could not surely be a desire of the flesh, but some mad desire of a sick and twisted soul. And why should I have it? And where did it come from? And how did one cure it? But I had no answers to these questions.
AND THE greater fear came to him that the watcher would not go to the captain, but to the sergeant at the desk, and today it would be Sergeant Steyn. He would say to Sergeant Steyn, I want to lay a charge against Lieutenant van Vlaanderen. And the sergeant would pull the papers towards him, eager to hear what it was. And after the first sentence or two he would say to the watcher, come to a private room. And the story would be told to him there, and he would put it down, sentence by sentence, with a heart full of hate and joy. And when it was finished he would say to the watcher, wait here, and do not say a word. Then he would go to the captain and give him the report, and stand there like a soldier doing his duty as though he knew nothing of hate and joy. Then there could be no mercy, for when a charge is made, a charge is made, and once a thing is written down, it is written down; and a word can be written down that will mean the death of a man, and put the rope round his neck, and send him into the pit; and a word can be written down that will destroy a man and his house and his kindred and his friends, and there is no power, of God or Man or State, nor any Angel, nor anything present or to come, nor any height, nor depth, nor any other creature that can save them, when once the word is written down.
THEN HE got out of his bed and prayed and vowed again. And he thought he was wrong to think there was no power of God or Man or State, for surely there was a power of God, for was there not a story of a man who was caught and surrounded by enemies that wanted nothing but his death and were strangers to all pity? And there was nothing for him to do but kneel and pray. And when he opened his eyes he was alone, and in the whole wideness of the veld no man at all but he himself. They had talked about that at Stellenbosch when he was young; and some said it was an act of God, and some said that the man was crazed with hunger and thirst and that no enemy had ever been there at all. But he liked to think it was an act of God, and that God could do it now, even when he was surrounded and at the point of death. Then he wondered how God might do it. And the thought came to him that even now the watcher might be dying, that even now he might be dead; or that the girl Stephanie might have died. Or that that very day the great planes from Russia might darken the sky like locusts and rain down death upon the earth, and all men jump to war, and all crimes be forgotten. Or that the rain and the great black storms might return even when the world was turning to winter, and pour down on the earth day after day, and the Buffelsrivier would rise and rise, overflowing its banks, flooding the location and the town and putting all in danger, so that all the police would be called out, day after day, and all other duties be forgotten. And he himself would work night and day, to wipe out his sin and prove his contrition, and the watcher would relent. Or perhaps he would save the watcher, or his wife or children, and he relent. Or perhaps if there were no other way, the watcher would be drowned.
Thus in his misery he would have filled the earth with death, if only he could be saved; and he who asked God’s mercy would have had it at the cost of any man or child or nation. Therefore he repented, and asked forgiveness, and left it in the hands of God, whose knowledge is not known to any man; so he was comforted by the knowledge of God’s power. He rose to his feet, and by this very rising was filled again with misery, not seeing anything that God could do.
Then he bathed again, from his head to his feet, and went down to breakfast, and tried to be cheerful to the boy Johannes. But he thought only of the note, the note, with the three small words and the seven letters that could destroy a man.
Before he left for the Police Station he went to the kitchen and said to the boy Johannes, I had a feeling someone was here last night. And the boy said, no one, Baas. And the lieutenant said, there are always skelms about (and a skelm is an idle person, who will not hesitate to break the law, but the truth is that in Venterspan we have hardly any skelms, and they are mild enough, loafers and pilferers, nothing like Johannesburg).
Then he took up his lieutenant’s stick and cap, and went out to the gate, and stood there a moment before he opened it, and walked with fear towards van Onselen Street.
BUT THERE WAS NOTHING TO SEE in van Onselen Street. The whole town lay in the morning sun, and the great tower of the great church stood over it as it had always done before. One of the young rugby boys gave him a swift smile, and said, see you this afternoon, Pieter, as though the world was safe and going on. Abraham Kaplan was standing outside the Royal, and smiled at him too and said, I hear you’ve been drinking all my brother’s coffee. And all the black people from the location moved about the street, and it did not look as though they had any secret knowledge. And Sergeant Steyn was at the desk in the front office, and stood up and greeted him without a smile, and though this morning it pained him, yet every morning it was so; for how could you smile at a man who the day before had said to you, God, damn and blast it, can’t you read?
So they went through the inspection without a word of enmity, yet the enmity was there as always. He could have said to the sergeant, let me humble myself, and declare that I am no longer your enemy, and let you yourself forgive me for my words. But how can one say such a thing?
He went into his office but did not shut the door. For if there was doom to meet, and the watcher came to the captain, no door would shut it out, and one might as well bear it before it must be heard. But the whole morning no one came. When it was time to go to lunch he went down the passage past the captain’s office, and the captain was standing in the office with his hands in his pockets doing nothing but look at the floor. So the lieutenant forced himself to say, good afternoon, sir, but the captain neither looked up nor smiled, nor said a word. And the lieutenant thought that the watcher had been after all, and went home with the terror all renewed.
He would not sit in the garden and eat his food, though the boy Johannes had laid it there, because he was in an agony that mocked the trees and sun, and because there seemed some kind of safety in the house. Nor could he eat the lunch, but drank many cups of coffee; and his pipe he lit and p
ut away, and went for the visitors’ cigarettes, and sat smoking them, inhaling them into his lungs, which was not his habit. And he listened to every footstep that went past, because perhaps the captain would rather come to the house, and spare him some of his shame. And he went to the study and shut the door, and took the book out of the bookcase again, and because the windows were open and the curtains pulled back, he went into a corner of the room, and took out the note and looked at it, but it told him no more than it had told him before, that he was in peril greater than any death. And in the corner of the room he prayed and vowed again, to give all that he possessed if only the watcher would not tell.
Then he put the paper in the book, and the book back with its fellows, and thought with the first shadow of a comfort that he had had, that now it looked more of an ordinary book. Then he took the lieutenant’s cap and stick, and went out to the gate, and walked with fear towards van Onselen Street.
But again the world was sunny and laughing, and the clean young boys and girls smiled at him in the street, so that he had some comfort. Then he drew in his breath like a man suddenly stabbed with pain, and the marks of pain came between his eyes, for he had remembered the note, the note.
Young Vorster was at the desk when he went in, for the sergeant had not yet returned, and the boy stood up. And the lieutenant put down his hat and stick on the counter, and leaned on it.
— What’s it like being in charge, he said.
And the boy looked on the floor and said, with no smile at all, it’s all right, lieutenant.
Then the lieutenant was filled with fear, and could not think of another word to say, and he picked up his cap and stick and the boy turned and looked at him with a strange look of some distress, and looked away again, and then stood like a soldier on parade, for a soldier on parade stands stiff and straight, and does not look at any man at all, and if he has grief or hope or anger or contempt, it does not show.