sister?
The first two bridesmaids, having by now recovered from their own brief fit of giggles, shot her a few indignant glances. Kleinboet raised his eyebrows, concerned. Only Hannes, the second groomsman, looked as if he too was choking with laughter. And apparently it was precisely the third bridesmaid’s desperate attempt to keep from laughing that amused him so.
Or so he’s just confessed to her, while they wait under the pepper tree watching the bridal couple pose for Mister Giuseppe one final time on their own. Colette tries to hide her embarrassment by staring at her yellow satin shoes. One of her paper dolls had shoes exactly like these. Judy Garland? Vivienne Leigh? She still has the flat cardboard box with her collection of cut-outs under her bed at home.
Now, for the very last time, Mister Giuseppe pleads, beeeg cheeeeza. The swarthy little man with the limp apparently ended up in South Africa as an Italian prisoner of war, and after the war decided to build his future here. Far more opportunities here than in the impoverished south of Italy where he was born, or so he had confided to Kleinboet in between taking pictures – the only member of the bridal party who had engaged him in a conversation. More opportunities for a white man, certainly, Kleinboet had said.
‘Well, I will never ever dream of a wide wedding dress again,’ Colette says. ‘It is all very well for a paper doll or a princess in a cathedral, but it doesn’t work for an ordinary bride in a Dutch Reformed Church. That is something I learnt today.’
‘What I have learnt from the past two days’ rehearsals and fuss,’ Hannes says. ‘is that it might be better to marry quietly in a magistrate’s court.’
‘After the past couple of days,’ Kleinboet says, ‘I think it might be better not to get married at all.’
‘Not even if it meant riding in such a beautiful wedding car?’ Hannes gestures towards the gleaming black Jaguar with cream leather upholstery – specially borrowed for the wedding from somewhere – in which the bridal couple is about to depart for the reception in town. Just like the lean predator that gave it its name, the vehicle presents itself to be admired, its nose high and round, its tail low and flat, chrome finishes sparkling in the late afternoon sun.
‘There has to be an easier way to earn a ride in such a car,’ Kleinboet sighs.
The two groomsmen gaze longingly at the car for a few moments. Colette wonders, not for the first time in her life, why most men find it easier to resist a beautiful girl than a beautiful car. Not that she wants Hannes – or any other young man at this wedding – to find her irresistible. But still.
Pappie-Deddy is growing old, Colette realises a while later at the reception, watching her father propose an official toast. When he decided to grow back his moustache after the war, it came out silver-grey. He trims it far less severely than before, nothing that would remotely remind you of Hitler, rather of a retired British air-force officer. His hair is steely grey and still plastered to his head with oil. Unlike Mammie, growing older hasn’t made him rounder, just greyer. Even his skin is starting to wear a faint grey sheen.
Imagine, he is already in his fifties. To Colette, who is barely nineteen on this first weekend of April 1952, it seems inconceivably old. Everyone must grow old and die, she tries to convince herself, no exceptions. Except of course for those who die young. Not exactly a comforting thought. Better to grow old, then. Barely two months ago the British king dropped dead, and now the young Princess Elizabeth is queen of the mighty British Empire. Ouboet is convinced, though, that the Union won’t remain a member of this Empire for much longer. It is the Afrikaner’s God-given destiny, Ouboet believes, to have an independent fatherland with its own flag and its own anthem.
‘But I like the Union Jack,’ Mammie remonstrates. ‘I like to see it waving above buildings!’ Fluttering, Deddy corrects her, ever the linguist. A person waves. A flag flutters. ‘And I like singing “God save the King”,’ Mammie continues undisturbed. ‘I mean “God save the Queen”, of course.’
Ouboet’s new father-in-law, the important MP who gets up to make a speech after Deddy, believes just as stolidly as Ouboet in the Afrikaner’s God-given destiny. You can hear right away that this is a man accustomed to addressing large crowds at political gatherings and agricultural shows. His voice carries so much better than Deddy’s, his tone is so much more jovial and self-assured, and he keeps interrupting his phrases with expectant pauses, as if he wants to give the audience a chance to applaud.
‘This is an exceptional weekend for all of us,’ says Frans Louw MP in his booming voice, followed by a little pause. ‘Not only because we are celebrating the wedding of two exceptional young people, but also because we are commemorating an exceptional day.’ Another pause. ‘The day on which Jan van Riebeeck brought the light of European civilisation to this dark continent.’ A longer pause. ‘Tomorrow, on the sixth of April 1952, it will be exactly three hundred years since the three ships from Holland dropped anchor here.’ Lengthy, solemn pause.
Mammie gazes at the speaker, almost open-mouthed with admiration. She is delighted with the new in-laws, not because of the association with the ruling party, but because of the beautiful old farm and the ‘genteel refinement’ of the people. Mammie is growing steadily plumper, but today she has squeezed all the bumps and folds into a murderous step-in girdle so she can wear a fitted dress of sky-blue shantung. With a few yellow accents, for the sake of the bride. She looks elegant and dignified, Colette has to admit, in contrast with the bride’s mother, who must also have been a beautiful girl in her day but who now looks like a sack of potatoes wearing a dark blue hat and gloves. Thick neck, double chin and swollen ankles. Shame, Colette thinks, if it is true that girls end up looking like their mothers, she is exceptionally grateful that she isn’t Elsa.
‘Many of us took part in the celebrations in Cape Town this past month,’ the father of the bride continues. ‘We visited the imposing Festival Grounds.’ Pause. ‘Admired the exceptional float procession.’
Colette catches the eye of Kleinboet sitting opposite her at the table set aside for the retinue, and sees his eyebrows rise in consternation. Earlier in the week he had rather reluctantly accompanied her and two student friends to the city to watch the float procession through the streets. He had only agreed because both friends happened to be unusually attractive, one tall, dark and athletic, the other petite and blonde like a doll. She knew her brother all too well! The three girls had thought the procession wonderful: all the historical scenes depicted by various towns, all the historical figures such as Jan van Riebeeck, Piet Retief and Paul Kruger represented by actual walking, talking people. Everything had made a big impression on them. To Kleinboet it had all been a big joke. When the float from the town of Worcester sailed past, he succumbed to uncontrollable laughter. The scene had something to do with Piet Retief’s Manifesto, that was clear from the bevy of young girls in Voortrekker dresses and bonnets, but at the front end of the float a pole was held aloft by a few muscle-bound, bare-chested blond young men. It wasn’t clear why they were half-naked or what they intended doing with the pole.
‘Probably hoping to put one of the girls up it,’ Kleinboet had said, weak with laughter.
Colette wasn’t sure if he meant what she thought he meant. She quickly turned her attention to the next float, hoping that her two friends hadn’t heard her rude brother. But then Vera, the athletic one, said, ‘No man, it isn’t a pole, it’s a torch! Probably symbolic of the light of civilisation which the Voortrekkers carried deeper into Africa.’ Dead serious.
Then you should’ve heard Kleinboet laugh.
Now that she thinks back on it, it also strikes her as funnier than it did at the time. Or perhaps it is the sweet pink sparkling wine that makes everything seem funnier than usual. She takes a few more gulps. Just to check
