are the stuff of comedy. Comedy is what you get when principles bump into reality. I know he had a reputation for being dour, but John Coetzee was actually quite funny. A figure of comedy. Dour comedy. Which, in an obscure way, he knew, even accepted. That is why I still look back on him with affection. If you want to know.
[Silence.]
I was always good at arguing. At school everyone used to be nervous around me, even my teachers. A tongue like a knife , my mother used to say half-reprovingly. A girl should not argue like that, a girl should learn to be more soft . But at other times she would say: A girl like you should be a lawyer . She was proud of me, of my spirit, of my sharp tongue. She came from a generation when a daughter was still married from the father's home straight into the husband's, or the father-in-law's.
Anyway, 'Have you a better idea,' John said – 'a better idea for how to use one's life than writing books?'
'No. But I have an idea that might shake you up and help give direction to your life.'
'What is that?'
'Find yourself a good woman and marry her.'
He looked at me strangely. 'Are you making me a proposal?' he said.
I laughed. 'No,' I said, 'I am already married, thank you. Find a woman better suited to you, someone who will take you out of yourself.'
I am already married, therefore marriage to you would constitute bigamy : that was the unspoken part. Yet what was wrong with bigamy, come to think of it, aside from it being against the law? What made bigamy a crime when adultery was only a sin, or a recreation? I was already an adulteress; why should I not be a bigamist or bigamiste too? This was Africa, after all. If no African man was going to be hauled before a court for having two wives, why should I be forbidden to have two spouses, a public one and a private one?
'This is not, emphatically not, a proposal,' I repeated, 'but – just hypothetically – if I were free, would you marry me?'
It was only an inquiry, an idle inquiry. Nevertheless, without a word, he took me in his arms and held me so tight that I could not breathe. It was the first act of his I could recollect that seemed to come straight from the heart. Certainly I had seen him worked on by animal desire – we did not spend our time in bed discussing Aristotle – but never before had I seen him in the grip of emotion. So, I asked myself in some wonderment, does this cold fish have feelings after all?
'What's up?' I said, disengaging myself from his grasp.'Is there something you want to tell me?'
He was silent. Was he crying? I switched on the bedside lamp and inspected him. No tears, but he did wear a look of stricken mournfulness. 'If you can't tell me what's up,' I said, 'I can't help you.'
Later, when he had pulled himself together, we collaborated to make light of the moment. 'For the right woman,' I said, 'you would make a prima husband. Responsible. Hard-working. Intelligent. Quite a catch, in fact. Good in bed too,' though that was not strictly true. 'Affectionate,' I added as an afterthought, though that was not true either.
'And an artist to boot,' he said. 'You forgot to mention that.'
'And an artist to boot. An artist in words.'
[Silence.]
And?
That's all. A difficult passage between the two of us, which we successfully negotiated. My first inkling that he cherished deeper feelings for me.
Deeper than what?
Deeper than the feelings any man might cherish for his neighbour's attractive wife. Or his neighbour's ox or ass.
Are you saying he was in love with you?
In love . . . In love with me or with the idea of me? I don't know. What I do know is that he had reason to be thankful to me. I made things easy for him. There are men who find it hard to court a woman. They are afraid to expose their desire, to open themselves to rebuff. Behind their fear there often lies a childhood history. I never forced John to expose himself. I was the
[Silence.]
I was always good at arguing. At school everyone used to be nervous around me, even my teachers. A tongue like a knife , my mother used to say half-reprovingly. A girl should not argue like that, a girl should learn to be more soft . But at other times she would say: A girl like you should be a lawyer . She was proud of me, of my spirit, of my sharp tongue. She came from a generation when a daughter was still married from the father's home straight into the husband's, or the father-in-law's.
Anyway, 'Have you a better idea,' John said – 'a better idea for how to use one's life than writing books?'
'No. But I have an idea that might shake you up and help give direction to your life.'
'What is that?'
'Find yourself a good woman and marry her.'
He looked at me strangely. 'Are you making me a proposal?' he said.
I laughed. 'No,' I said, 'I am already married, thank you. Find a woman better suited to you, someone who will take you out of yourself.'
I am already married, therefore marriage to you would constitute bigamy : that was the unspoken part. Yet what was wrong with bigamy, come to think of it, aside from it being against the law? What made bigamy a crime when adultery was only a sin, or a recreation? I was already an adulteress; why should I not be a bigamist or bigamiste too? This was Africa, after all. If no African man was going to be hauled before a court for having two wives, why should I be forbidden to have two spouses, a public one and a private one?
'This is not, emphatically not, a proposal,' I repeated, 'but – just hypothetically – if I were free, would you marry me?'
It was only an inquiry, an idle inquiry. Nevertheless, without a word, he took me in his arms and held me so tight that I could not breathe. It was the first act of his I could recollect that seemed to come straight from the heart. Certainly I had seen him worked on by animal desire – we did not spend our time in bed discussing Aristotle – but never before had I seen him in the grip of emotion. So, I asked myself in some wonderment, does this cold fish have feelings after all?
'What's up?' I said, disengaging myself from his grasp.'Is there something you want to tell me?'
He was silent. Was he crying? I switched on the bedside lamp and inspected him. No tears, but he did wear a look of stricken mournfulness. 'If you can't tell me what's up,' I said, 'I can't help you.'
Later, when he had pulled himself together, we collaborated to make light of the moment. 'For the right woman,' I said, 'you would make a prima husband. Responsible. Hard-working. Intelligent. Quite a catch, in fact. Good in bed too,' though that was not strictly true. 'Affectionate,' I added as an afterthought, though that was not true either.
'And an artist to boot,' he said. 'You forgot to mention that.'
'And an artist to boot. An artist in words.'
[Silence.]
And?
That's all. A difficult passage between the two of us, which we successfully negotiated. My first inkling that he cherished deeper feelings for me.
Deeper than what?
Deeper than the feelings any man might cherish for his neighbour's attractive wife. Or his neighbour's ox or ass.
Are you saying he was in love with you?
In love . . . In love with me or with the idea of me? I don't know. What I do know is that he had reason to be thankful to me. I made things easy for him. There are men who find it hard to court a woman. They are afraid to expose their desire, to open themselves to rebuff. Behind their fear there often lies a childhood history. I never forced John to expose himself. I was the
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