October

  October

  ALSO BY ZOË WICOMB

  You Can’t Get Lost in Cape Town

  David’s Story

  Playing in the Light

  The One That Got Away

  Copyright © 2014 by Zoë Wicomb

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, without written permission from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to reproduce selections from this book should be mailed to: Permissions Department, The New Press, 120 Wall Street, 31st Floor, New York, NY 10005.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to quote the following copyrighted material:

  Home by Toni Morrison, copyright © 2012 by Toni Morrison. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

  Home by Marilynne Robinson. Copyright © 2008 by Marilynne Robinson.

  Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.

  “Poem in October” by Dylan Thomas, from The Poems of Dylan Thomas, copyright 1945 by the Trustees for the Copyrights of Dylan Thomas, first published in Poetry. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.

  Kanna Hy Kô Hystoe by Adam Small, copyright © 1965. Used by kind permission of Adam Small.

  Published in the United States by The New Press, New York, 2014 Distributed by Perseus Distribution

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Wicomb, Zoë.

  October : A Novel / Zoë Wicomb.

  pagescm

  “Distributed by Perseus Distribution”—T.p. verso.

  ISBN 978–1–59558–967–5 (e-book)

  I.Title.

  PR9369.3.W53O282014

  823'.914—dc232013024379

  The New Press publishes books that promote and enrich public discussion and understanding of the issues vital to our democracy and to a more equitable world. These books are made possible by the enthusiasm of our readers; the support of a committed group of donors, large and small; the collaboration of our many partners in the independent media and the not-for-profit sector; booksellers, who often hand-sell New Press books; librarians; and above all by our authors.

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  Composition by dix!

  This book was set in Adobe Caslon Pro

  24681097531

  For Theo McClure

  This house is strange.

  Its shadows lie.

  Say, tell me, why does its lock fit my key?

  —Toni Morrison, Home

  Home. What kinder place could there be on earth, and

  why did it seem to them all like exile? Oh to be passing

  anonymously through an impersonal landscape! Oh, not

  to know every stump and stone, not to remember how the

  fields of Queen Anne’s lace figured in the childish happiness

  they had offered to their father’s hopes, God bless him.

  —Marilynne Robinson, Home

  And I saw in the turning so clearly a child’s

  Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother

  Through the parables

  Of sun light

  And the legends of the green chapels

  And the twice told fields of infancy

  That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.

  —Dylan Thomas, “Poem in October”

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I gratefully acknowledge the generous fellowship at the University of Macau, which enabled me to finish this novel.

  Many thanks to Sophia Klaase, whose photographs have been an inspiration; to Frances Cairncross as well as Alice and Johnny Green for kindly allowing me to escape to their cottages in Galloway; and to Professor Derek Attridge for his support. I am also indebted to Henrietta Dax, Annari van der Merwe and Lynne Brown for their help in Cape Town.

  Special thanks are due to The New Press, to Diane Wachtell for her support since the beginning and to Jed Bickman and Sarah Fan for preparing this novel.

  And for everything, thanks, as always, to Roger Palmer.

  October

  Mercia Murray is a woman of fifty-two years who has been left.

  There is the ready-made condition of having been left and that, as we know, as she knows, involves a death of sorts. But that is a less-than-helpful metaphor. For all the emptiness, there is her broken heart and an unthinkable amount of tears. As a thinking woman, Mercia goes over every gesture, every word that was uttered at the time, in search perhaps of ambiguity, but reflection reveals no hidden meanings. She has been left, and that is the banal truth. Thus, moving from the passive voice, from the self as subject, her thoughts stumble over the question: whom has she been left by? Well, she can hardly say that Craig has left her, since the man who spoke and acted was not the Craig she knew. Thus another ready-made: Mercia has been left by a stranger. Which should mean that there is something unreal about her grief, but that does not stop the tears from flowing, the heart from bursting.

  Mercia has a best friend, her younger colleague Smithy, who says that time will bring an end to the suffering. When Mercia, slumped on the sofa, stops crying for a second to send a scornful look, Smithy warns that ready-mades cannot be sniffed at, and that there is the danger of becoming addicted to grief. Many a left one will not let go of the condition, will cosset a heart that lurches about to the broken rhythms of sobbing.

  Smithy claps her hands and says, Let’s get organized. What do you have to do this week? Let’s clear lectures and supervisions for the next three days so you can get some healing sleep. Which makes Mercia sit up. Good old considerate Craig, she says wryly, not a stranger after all. See how he chose a Friday afternoon to tell me. All packed up and gone within a day, leaving me with a long weekend for grieving. By tomorrow I will have cried my heart out, so no need to miss a single class, she sobs.

  There’s my girl, Smithy says, and pulls out of her bag the peaty, medicinal Bruichladdich that they discovered on a trip to Islay. This will put hair on your chest.

  Jacques Theophilus Murray is a bad egg.

  Unlike an egg his badness is not contained, concealed within a sound, flawless shell. He is a drunk, and wears his drunkenness on his sleeve, which is to say that there are bags under his eyes, that his face is a flushed mass of veins barely concealed by his dark brown coloring, and that Meester, a pillar of respectability in the village of Kliprand, has suffered the humiliation of his son spending his days in the new, unfortunately named Aspoester bar that has opened in the village. Jake wears his trousers low down on his hips, showing the crack of his buttocks. Which may be the fashion nowadays amongst well-to-do young men, but he is neither young nor well-to-do; there may well be a whiff of urine; and, in fact, the trousers reference the skollie gear of his youth.

  When Jake wakes on the morning of the first of September with an evil taste in his mouth, his first thought is of oblivion. What would he give to sink into the softness of a feather pillow, down into deep forgetful sleep, but there is no pillow under his throbbing head. His mouth is parched; he stretches out his hand for the jug of water—Sylvie always puts a jug of water by his bedside—but there is no jug. Light drilling through the curtains, blood-red cu
rtains for fuck’s sake, pierces his eyes, so that he turns onto his stomach. Already the heat is oppressive. He must snatch more sleep, but then a groan escapes as he remembers what has to be done on that day. Already it is late; he can tell from the light; and there can be no more than say nine hours of daylight left.

  On that first day of the month he must kill Grootbaas, Meester, his father. In the kitchen, Sylvie has a fine butcher’s knife, which she keeps razor sharp. He need look no further. He will plunge the knife, twist it into the bastard’s heart.

  Sylvie is in the kitchen feeding the baby. She knows nothing of Jake’s thoughts, but the baby, Willem Nicholas Murray, known as Nicky, who has woken up late after a night interrupted by his father’s shenanigans, must sense the patricide, for hearing Jake groan in the adjacent room, he spits out the nipple and purses his full rosy lips with distaste for the nasty world of adults.

  Nicky is nearly five years old and given his rude health and firm tread is by no means a baby. Some busybodies would say that he is well beyond breast-feeding. Sylvie has thought of weaning, but what harm could a suckle at the beginning and end of the day do? Besides, the boy would make such a fuss. But what now? Has the little one decided for himself?

  What’s up with you? she asks. But Nicky stares at his mother and refuses to speak.

  Sylvie has much experience with sheep. She has since childhood reared lambs, has cradled hanslammertjies in her arms, hand-fed them milk from a bottle and teat, knowledge which she expects to transfer readily to child rearing, but this one has flummoxed her since birth with his contrary human ways. She tries the left breast. The child turns away with unmistakable disgust, so that she puts him down on the old sofa and buttons up her blouse. He does not protest; instead, he stares at her with wide-open woeful eyes. Nicholas, she says, trying out the controversial name. The child, normally a chatterbox, does not answer.

  She has insisted; it was only right that Nicky should have his grandfather’s name. Jake had no business registering the first name as Willem, a common Afrikaans name at which she still smarts. Why not at least William? Jake was of course drunk, but for all her scolding he just nodded knowingly, and spat, Call him Klaas if you like. And count yourself lucky I didn’t call him Theophobe. Which sounds quite respectable to Sylvie. She has a feeling that Jake does not care for the boy. She knows that to be a sin.

  Sylvie is unnerved by the child’s silence, by his unflinching stare. Standing like the countrywoman that she is, her left arm is tucked back, the left hand stretched across her back to clutch at the right elbow. The right hand rests on her chest. In this manner, an expert on the television said, countrywomen announce at the same time their humility and their steely determination to see things through. Sylvie listened with interest; she is not averse to explanations that show her to be part of a wider world, only what a pity that the program was in English, which she does not follow with ease.

  Thank God, the boy shuts his eyes abruptly and turns over, draws up his knees as if to sleep. Now Sylvie will have to deal with Jake, who is stumbling about behind the door. Damn, damn, damn the devilish drink. She has never been read to as a child the terrifying tales of monsters and giants who chill the blood, but who get their comeuppance in the old end. Behind the door Jake grows vast and evil, a giant-devil capable of anything, so that she flinches. Perhaps it is she whom he will kill today.

  Thank heavens she baked yesterday. Sylvie takes Jake a placatory cup of coffee and peanut-buttered bread as well as some panados, and gently pushes him down, back onto the bed.

  Here, she says, you’ll feel better after more sleep.

  You get that knife sharpened, Jake says quietly. Today, no later than today, I’ll kill him.

  Sylvie laughs mirthlessly. He’s dead and buried, Jake. How many times do you want to kill him? He’s saved you the trouble, remember?

  Would you like sausage and beans for supper? she asks, in the knowledge that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. She has made the sausage herself, and would stretch the dish with salted, wind-dried intestine. What Jake imagines they live on, Sylvie has no idea. Her part-time job at the butchery is poorly paid and Jake has been on sick pay for two weeks. What she does suspect is that he has been lost for good to the evil drink, that she will never have him back, and although she knows that there is nothing a girl can do to change the course of events, she should at least make an effort to challenge Lady Fortune. For all her social fears, Sylvie does not take things lying down. She has after all nursed him back once before, rescued him from death’s very door, and that only six years ago. But today he is impossibly evil.

  You’ve crept out of a reed hut to ruin my life, Jake replies calmly, and reaches for his bottle. He coughs violently, then a horrible gurgling sound escapes from his throat.

  See, she says, it’s not nice to drink from a bottle, not healthy, and points to an empty glass.

  Jake picks up the glass, a tumbler, turns it this way and that, for all the world as if he were checking for any smudges, for evidence of her failing as a wife, before aiming it at the wall.

  Ouch, Sylvie laugh-cries, holding her head, as if she’s been in the firing line. This is no way to behave. If only you could pull yourself together and stop this childishness, this badness. What an example for Nicky! I’m not used to such behavior. Also, I didn’t grow up in a reed hut, she adds, my AntieMa’s house has a good zinc roof.

  So why don’t you fuck off to AntieMa. Or to Kiewiet Street. Fuck off and take the little bastard with you. Get out.

  Sylvie sighs. She hopes the child has not heard. She may be a nobody, but she hasn’t bargained on raising a child on bad language. Sylvie knows that Kiewiet Street is shorthand for Meester, whose name Jake will not, cannot utter. But surely he has not forgotten that Meester is dead, that the house is now being sold?

  At the kitchen sink, instead of doing the dishes, she stands clutching her right elbow in her left hand, staring fixedly ahead. Just her luck that Jake is not only a drunk, but is also losing his marbles.

  It is in the small, dark hours that things get tough, and Mercia must find ways of stemming the phantasmagoria of grief. The conference paper is finished, needs to rest (like pastry, she advises her students, acquiring new properties in left-alone time) so that it becomes more legible for the final edit, and now she should perhaps try her hand at . . . memoir. Oh, there is cause for pause. Mercia is skeptical of the genre, has misgivings about the contemporary turn to memoir, would not dream of reading such a thing. A cliché, of course, this kind of writing deemed suitable for a woman who has been left. Which means that she spends some time hunched over the screen, blank save for the word memoir at the top of the page, typed first in plain text, turned into bold, then into parodic italics.

  Mercia’s youthful idea of herself as a poet, she thinks, has in fact been a false start at autobiography, and meeting Craig, a real poet, has mercifully put an end to that folly. Then there was much raking of fingernails across her scalp, much doodling in the margins, as you would, not knowing who you are. But now, in a forest of midnight loneness, in the crazed hours of grief, she grows bold. If she thinks of such writing as private, not for publication, then really she is free to write; there need be no thinking through the reason or purpose, no need to retract her views on memoir, and more importantly, no repetition of the angst-ridden biting of the pencil. There is after all a screen, ready to receive an image of herself, but also to protect, to conceal.

  Mercia has no intention of wasting her research day on this project. The memoir will be strictly for midnight. And so her fingers fly across the keyboard; words flow effortlessly, for rather than start with the self, there are her parents, Nicholas and Antoinette, both dead and representable. How little, really, she remembers or knows about them; how much there is to invent. She saves the file as Home.

  In the past friends have said wistfully—even Smithy—How far you have traveled. You should write your story.

  Mercia has met this with embar
rassed silence. They are mistaken, also about the source of her embarrassment. Yes, she has come a long way geographically, crossing a continent, but what people really are alluding to is what they believe to be a cultural gap, a self-improvement implied in the distance between then and now, the here of Europe seen as destination. In that sense, Mercia is not conscious of having traveled any great distance. As she once deigned to explain to Craig, her humble origins left little room for improvement. Besides, autobiography is what people like her are expected to produce, and thus for Mercia not a possibility.

  Craig has been gone now for eighty-seven days and sixteen hours.

  Nicholas Theophilus Murray was a good man, a decent colored man, with a name that he had never disgraced—unthinkable, he was a Murray, of civilized Scottish stock. He neither drank nor smoked. A good man need not rely on anything other than himself. Nie Klaas, he jested, cracking his name in two. No Klaas, so ever my own Baas, and he thumped his chest proudly.

  I am Meester, he announced when he first arrived in Kliprand as a young teacher, and Meester was what everyone called him. Within weeks he became a deacon in the Sendingkerk with its new modern building in the center of the village. There he devised plays for young folk, Old Testament narratives turned into dramatic dialogues, with brimstone homilies for keeping the youth out of the bar and on their toes. His thoroughly up-to-date Moses would strike a papier-mâché rock and declaim the commandments, bringing tears to the eyes of old and young alike. But the truth was that even respectable, churchgoing people were all too fond of the devilish drink. Which saddened Nicholas, not least for the fact that the bar was a humiliating window at the back of the Drankwinkel, where they waited (how could they?) until every white customer had been served. Really, it was this abject behavior that made him think of the Namaqualanders as hotnos.

  Not that Nicholas had any objection to a decent tot of whisky or brandy, or even a beer stout; he was not narrow-minded, and a drink on festive occasions, birthdays, New Year and so on—though not Christmas—was not a problem. For such rare occasions he favored brandy, something with a good name like Oude Meester. Wine, like the cheap Oom Tas or Lieberstein favored by the people, did not so much turn his stomach as turn his thoughts to dignity, a reminder to straighten his back and lift his chin. So that Jake the reprobate said that in spite of Grootbaas’s belief in his own rectitude, it showed that everyone slumps and slackens, and from time to time finds to his horror that his head is hanging. Like shitting, he added, everyone slumps, so that Mercia shut him out with palms pressed against her ears.