“Ons moes beter beplan het,” sê hy bekommerd vir Posmeester, soos hulle deur die donker lane wandel.
“Ek het ‘n plan, Swartskaap,” sê Posmeester. “Byt net vas.”
En ‘n oomblik later: “Eina!”
“Sorrie,” sê Swartskaap. “Jou trisep was die naaste ding waaraan ek kon vasbyt.”
Posmeester sug en vryf sy bo-arm. Dan, skielik, steek Posmeester sy regterhand ferm in die lug – soos ‘n rugby-skeidsregter wat ‘n vryskop aandui. “Daar,” sê hy.
Swartskaap tuur na die nederige kothuis met die groengeverfde hortjies van hout. “Jy bedoel, dis waar die pragtige wese woon? Hoe het jy dit uitgewerk?”
Posmeester glimlag. “Jy het daai koevert ordentlik opgeskeur, maar ‘n Posmeester het sy weë … en sy kontakte.”
Hy knik na agter. Asof vanuit nêrens verskyn ‘n groep inwoners vanuit die enkele vissermanshuisies wat nog in die buurt staan.
“Klop! Klop! Klop!” dreunsing die klein skare.
Swartskaap krap onwillekeurig agter sy nek. “Jislaaik. Julle gaan my laat bloos soos … wel … Bloos.”
Hy giggel vir sy grappie, maar die res kyk hom bloot paaiend aan. Swartskaap kug en sug – hy het duidelik nie ‘n keuse nie.
Hy stap skepties na die kothuis se voordeur … en klop.
Sekondes gaan verby. Dan minute.
Swartskaap draai na Posmeester. “Sien jy nou! Ons moes beplan-”
Hy word onderbreek wanneer die voordeur oopswaai. Daar – met nat in haar lang hare wat oor die kraag van haar japon krul – staan sy.
Vir ‘n ewigdurende splitsekonde kyk hulle in mekaar se oë. En dan soen hulle.
Die klein skare juig, maar Posmeester draai om. “Net nog ‘n dag vir ‘n Posmeester. Ek word elders ook benodig.”
So wandel hy die donkerte in – tevrede en doelgerig.
]]>
“Jip, no name or address,” he sighs. But something tells him he’s found the answer to his question.
In the kitchen, he finds Kleinboet commisserating with Swartskaap, topping up their wine glasses.
“Ag, it’s not that bad, Swartskaap. You only met her once.”
“How can you say that?!” Swartskaap replies. “You know I’m Swartskaap. You know no-one ever quite gets me, or the dinge that I do, or why I do them. But the beautiful being at the dance-off …”
Suddenly, they become aware of Posmeester’s presence.
“Do you bring any lekker nuus from the area, Posmeester?” Kleinboet asks.
Posmeester shrugs. “Not vandag, unfortunately. But there is one envelope I couldn’t deliver. Because there was no name or adres on the front. Perhaps julle twee can take a look?”
“Jammer, Posmeester,” Swartskaap sighs. “I’m not in a lekker mood. I thought it was true liefde, but then it was just she-left-e.”
“Just look at the koevert, please,” Posmeester says.
Swartskaap takes it, inspects it … and his eyes widen. “You said there was nothing on the front!”
Posmeester smiles mischievously. “I said there’s no naam or adres.”
Kleinboet leans over. “So what does it sê?!”
“It’s a riddle, I think. ‘One vreemde dans was the start, so. Solve the raaisel inside, and then it’s een-twee-drie go!”
Kleinboet whoops. “That must be from the beautiful being! Open it!”
Swartskaap nods, and rips open the envelope, but in his haste to reveal the contents, he rips the letter up along with it.
They all stare at the many tiny shreds of paper fluttering to the floor.
“Eina,” Posmeester whistles. “What do we do now?”
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]]>The whole family laughs. “Jislaaik,” Kleinboet teases, “did you eat too much on purpose, to get out of the dance-off?”
“Um … no,” Swartskaap protests. “It’s just that the food Skoonma and Kaalvoet Meisie made was beyond lekker.”
Kat leans back in her chair, chuckles. “Why are you afraid, Swartskaap? Do you think I’ll challenge you to something difficult? Like a tango? Or a salsa? Or a boeremusiek-wals?”
Swartskaap gets up. Or, at least, he tries to – weighed down by the delicious food. It takes a minute or two.
Everyone takes the gap to check their social media on their phones. “Oh, look,” Bloos says. “Swartskaap’s video got another share.”
Kat sneers. “More like, another stare! In disbelief, about how uncoordinated he is!”
Swartskaap (slowly) steps up to Kat. “That’s it, Kat! I don’t care how overfull of potjieskos I am! I’m going to dance you under the tafel, right now!”
Kat scoffs. “I’m not the one dancing against you! I got a real fundi for the dance-off. Someone who will truly toets your skills.”
Kat makes a flamboyant gesture to the kitchen entrance. Soon, a mysterious figure – robed and hoodied – enters, marches silently to the middle of the room.
The figure disrobes. There, not quite in a leotard, but not quite not in a leotard either, stands the most beautiful being Swartskaap has ever seen.
“Hello, um … beautiful being,” he stutters.
The being smiles. “Hello, Swartskaap. I saw your video, and I liked your liedjie.”
“Tsk!” Kat interrupts. “This is a kompetisie, not a ken-mekaar-sessie!” Kat turns around, snaps her fingers in the air. “Music! Right away!”
“Um, Kat,” Kleinboet says, “we don’t have a DJ or anything like that. But … I can beatbox!”
Kleinboet starts beatboxing … clumsily.
Skoonma gets up, shushes him: “You have many talente, Kleinboet. Especially with the Bordeaux blends. But music is not one of them!” Skoonma turns around. “Bloos! Do you still have your flute?”
All eyes turn to Bloos. She blushes, as she does. A moment, then she puts her lips to the mouthpiece … And out rings a mesmering, hitherto unheard tune. Swartskaap and the beautiful being lock eyes. Soon, they are enthralled by the melody, improvising their steps and moves, completely in sync with one another.
It ends in a crescendo, with Swartskaap placing his hands on the being’s hips and lifting her high above his head, amongst wows of awe from the onlookers.
The beautiful being looks down – ecstatic, but worried. “Your arms are trembling. And you’re sweating like a Bulls-rugbyspeler before a game against the Stormers. You can put me down.”
“I’m … fine,” Swartskaap huffs – determined. But his arms give in, and the two dancers collapse into a heap. All the onlookers gasp – worried, rushing over.
Kat remains calm as she takes in the scene. She claps slowly.
“I know every dance from here to Tokyo, and back over to Santiago,” Kat says, “and I’ve never seen anything like daai gedoente. Bravo!”
Swartskaap and the being get up slowly, amidst growing applause from all present. They enjoy the moment, take a little bow.
Swartskaap turns to the being. “What’s your name?” he whispers.
She shakes her head, whispers in his ear: “I’ll tell you eendag.”
With this, she takes her leave, without looking back. Swartskaap is stunned. He turns to Kat, who simply shrugs.
“C’est la vie,” Kat muses … and winks.
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“Yoh,” says Kaalvoet Meisie as she looks out over the vineyards. “Such a beautiful sunset. It looks like something Pierneef could have painted.”
Skoonma nods patiently. “Except that Pierneef was more into the bosveld. And the Vrystaatse vlaktes and so on. Not vineyards.”
“Ag, Skoonma, you know what I mean,” Kaalvoet Meisie laughs. “Besides, my focus is on the food. Swartskaap deserves a lekker feesmaal after his great day at Die Markie.”
Skoonma nods in agreement as she stirs the big pot. “I heard some people took videos of his song. And that it’s already going biral!”
Kaalvoet Meisie chuckles. “Now who is teaching whom? It’s viral, not biral!”
Before Skoonma can quip back, they hear a deep, velvety voice from a dark corner of the kitchen.
“I saw that video,” the voice quips in a sophisticated drawl.
Kaalvoet Meisie is surprised. “Kat? How long have you been sitting there?”
The elegant female figure of Kat steps forward, out of the shadows. She grins. “Long enough to hear you praising Swartskaap as if he’s won some sort of kompetisie.”
“It wasn’t a competition,” says Skoonma, sternly. “But he made up a new song, on the spot! We should all be proud of him.”
Kat scoffs, with a teasing tone: “Sure, the people liked it. Sure, Kleinboet jumped onto a tafel. But Swartskaap has much to learn. Especially in the delicate art of singing … while dancing!”
Kaalvoet Meisie and Skoonma share an uncertain look – not sure if Kat has a point.
Just then, Swartskaap enters the kitchen, beaming. “Hallo, mense! Don’t worry, I won’t forget you now that I’m becoming famous en alles!”
He laughs, but quickly notes the uncomfortable silence. Then, he sees Kat. Swartskaap’s eyes narrow.
Out of nowhere, haunting flute music starts playing, as if straight from a Western Cowboy film.
Swartskaap turns to the entrance. “Bloos! Can you please practise your flute somewhere else? We’re in the middle of something!”
Bloos blushes, and rushes off.
“That was mean,” Skoonma says. “You know Bloos is shy about her music.”
“Kat is the one being mean,” Swartskaap retorts. “I can tell from her look. She’s about to reject my sukses. To say that it doesn’t mean anything at all.”
Kat chuckles, lights a cigar and takes a deep drag from it. She blows the smoke out – the elegant aromas of starfruit and dragonfruit, as well as the undertones of tropical fruit from her tabacco fill the room. “Nothing of the sort, Swartskaap. I want you to improve. To dance along with your singing. But for you to really prove you can do what is nodig, it will have to be in a situation with lots of pressure.”
Swartskaap gulps. “What do you mean, Kat?”
“I mean,” she says, letting a short silence build the tension, “we have a dance-off. Tonight, after the feast.”
Swartskaap looks around, sees the expectant gazes of Skoonma and Kaalvoet Meisie. Even Bloos has popped back in – too curious to miss this.
Swartskaap inhales, turns back to Kat. “Bloos,” he says, “You can play that ominous, fight-erige fluitmusiek now.”
Kat grins as she locks eyes with Swartskaap. Bloos musters courage, puts her lips on the flute:
“Toodle-doodle-doo,” the notes ring out …
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But something bothers her. Kleinboet spots this, steps closer to her.
“The cellar just pressed the Sauvignon blanc grapes this week,” Kleinboet says proudly. Bloos nods – distracted, because she’s looking at the massive speakers and stage Swartskaap has set up.
Kleinboet follows her gaze, sighs. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Swartskaap won’t do anything too belaglik.”
But Bloos is unconvinced. “Remember the day after the Valentine’s Jol? When Swartskaap said he was going to write songs about justice and so aan? We haven’t seen him since!”
Kleinboet nods. “Ja, I know. Sounds like he locked himself into his cottage … Even Skoonma tried to convince him there was no thief, but he wouldn’t open the door, and-”
Kleinboet is interrupted by a procession entering the venue: A marching band, three dancers, and one slightly confused Whale Caller, his kelp trumpet in hand, clearly not briefed on his role.
Kleinboet and Bloos watch them as they get on the stage. Kaalvoet Meisie and Skoonma join them, both their jaws dropped. “What on earth is aan die gebeur?!” Kaalvoet Meisie exclaims.
Swartskaap rushes up, his eyes bright with excitement. “Julle! I’m ready for my protest song about thievery! Look at all the band members! I’m gonna be the voice of a generation! Like Bob Dylan or The Beatles!”
Kaalvoet Meisie puts her (bare) foot down. “Nobody stole Skoonma’s heart-shaped necklace. It was just a misunderstanding!”
Swartskaap goes pale – unusual for Swartskaap. “You mean … I wrote all those deep gevoelens from my heart … for nothing?”
The rest share a concerned look, not sure what to say.
Skoonma puts her arm around him. “Oh, Swartskaap. You are a true original, and I’m sure you can figure something else out. Sommer on the spot!”
Swartskaap sees the band members assembled on stage. He musters courage, and takes his place behind the microphone. A bit of feedback pierces through the venue, but it has a silver lining: It grabs the attention of the audience.
Swartskaap clears his throat. “There’s, um, something I want to sing about today,” he stutters. “And that’s justice, and thievery.”
Kleinboet, Kaalvoet Meisie and Skoonma gasp softly – he did not listen at all!
But Swartskaap turns to the band members. “It’s a new song … about Valentynsdag, and how we sometimes get it wrong.”
Confusion reigns – especially in the mind of the unbriefed Whale Caller. But Swartskaap starts singing:
“Oe, baby. The only justice is love …”
The band members hear the melody, start to fall in: First the strings …
“Oe, baby. But there’s thievery happening …”
One of the drummers adds a beat …
“Oe, because love is not a thing to sell, it’s not a commodity, but ja, it is an … oddity …”
Cheers and whoops from the audience. The rest of the marching band join in, creating a contagious combination of snares and cymbals.
“Oe, because love is togetherness. Love is chilled Sauvignon blanc on a hot summer’s day. Love is just lekker, love is not for sale!”
The full marching band kicks in, the crowd goes wild. Kaalvoet Meisie whoops in support, Kleinboet jumps onto a table and dances along to the music. Skoonma blows Swartskaap a kiss, gives him a thumbs-up.
“Bwuaaaaaap,” goes the Whale Caller on his kelp trumpet, finally getting in the groove.
Swartskaap inhales, his legs quiver – now amped and ready to rock and roll …
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It’s a misty morning in the Sondagskloof. Kleinboet and Swartskaap whistle as they look around them. The mist on the farm just about covers the remnants of their proper Valentine’s jol the previous night. Proteas and Speldekussings are still strewn everywhere. And yet, the harvesting team is already hard at work, picking Sauvignon Blanc grapes in the vineyards.
But while almost everyone – even Posmeester and Kat – laugh and chat about the newly made memories from the party, someone rummages through the fynbos flowers with a sad look on her face.
Kleinboet realises that all did not go perfectly with his mal plan to have the Togetherness Party by the dam, because if Skoonma is sad, the whole family will soon be sad.
He and Swartskaap approach her quickly. “Jinne, Skoonma,” he says, “for what are you so hartseer? It was mos a lekker party?”
A wry smile from Skoonma. “You did very well, Kleinboet. I will never forget this party you and Bloos threw! But alas, not only for good reasons.” She sighs. “You remember that heart-shaped klippie I found at Sandbaai beach, not far from our cellars?”
“Ja, bliksem! Sorry, I mean … Ja, blikskottel,” Swartskaap says. “Skoonma even made it into a necklace, like a hangertjie. Did you lose it of wat?”
Skoonma nods, wipes away a tear from her eyelid. “You know mos, that klippie is very spesiaal for me. I wore the necklace at the party, but now it’s just gone.”
“Yoh!” Kleinboet shouts. “We have a thief in our midst! And also, in our mist!”
Swartskaap rushes off in no particular direction. “I will vang the dief!” he shouts.
Kleinboet sighs. “He will vang aan nonsens before he vangs a thief,” he says to Skoonma. “I should follow him.”
Skoonma chuckles as she watches them go. Her smile fades as she touches her neck, aware of the absence of her favourite pendant.
Then, she sees something curious: Bloos and Kaalvoet Meisie are skipping stones on the dam, having a Southern Right Whale of a time.
Skoonma walks over to them, wanting to join in. “Hallo julle twee,” she says, “I can do with some fun right now. Seeing as my gunsteling hartjie-hangertjie has been stolen.”
Bloos blushes – naturally, as she does – while Kaalvoet Meisie giggles. “It’s not lost, Skoonma,” Kaalvoet Meisie says, “We found the hartjie pebble amongst the Proteablare and goeters, and we thought … This is the perfect skipping stone!”
Bloos’ cheeks turn red, she looks away. “Sorry, Skoonma, it was just … I saw this nice and flat heart-shaped pebble, and I thought … This is mos now togetherness. Me, letting your heart huppel over the water, almost giving it wings. And I am sure it made it to the other shore.”
Skoonma frowns, thinking her pebble now lies at the bottom of the dam. Just then, Swartskaap appears from the other side, with the missing pebble in hand and with Kleinboet in tow. “Aha,” he shouts, “I have proven myself! I found the hartjie-klippie, and next, I will find the thief!”
Redness appears in Bloos’ cheeks again, but Skoonma laughs it off as she takes the pebble from Swartskaap. “Dankie, Swartskaap, but we have solved the groot mystery.”
She clasps the heart-shaped pebble in her hands gratefully, but Swarstkaap is on a mission:
“Huh-uh,” Swartskaap announces, “there’s been an injustice! I think I will write a song about it, and perform it at Die Markie on Saturday, and then everyone will know to look out for the klippie thief!”
He walks off, humming an off-tune melody – determined. Skoonma, Bloos and Kleinboet share a slightly concerned look: What on earth will Swartskaap do next?
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The sun rises in the Sondagskloof on a bright, warm morning … but there is little light in Bloos’ heart.
For it is early February, and all the land is gearing up for a hot Valentine’s Day. But while Kaalvoet Meisie is overwhelmed by all the envelopes containing love letters, Bloos has not received a single card.
Bloos blushes – even more than she usually does – where she sits at a dam on the farm, her feet dangling above the water. “This is not lekker,” she mutters.
Kaalvoet Meisie passes by, humming a soft tune while strolling through the vineyards.
She sits down next to Bloos, puts a comforting arm around her. “What’s wrong? You seem especially blooserig today.”
Bloos just shakes her head and looks away, the redness in her cheeks now near-glowing.
Eventually, Kaalvoet Meisie gets up, gives Bloos an encouraging squeeze of the shoulder. “Don’t stress,” Kaalvoet Meisie muses, “I’m sure you’ll make a good decision about which cards you accept and which you reject.”
With this, Kaalvoet Meisie leaves. Bloos slowly picks up a pebble, chucks it into the water.
On the other side of the dam, Kleinboet is in the Bordeaux section of the vineyards. He sniffs at the vines, takes gleeful whiffs of the maturing grapes. “Bliksem, this is mos ekstra premium goeters,” he thinks.
Then, he looks up. He sees Bloos on the other side of the dam as she gets up and walks off, her shoulders drooped.
Kleinboet realises he may have done something wrong in his efforts to do something right. As quickly as he can, he runs around the dam to catch up with her.
Finally, he catches up to her. “Bloos,” he pants. “You looked really hartseer there by the dam. Is it because you didn’t get any Valentine’s cards?”
Bloos’ cheeks turn red again, but she pretends to shrug it off: “That’s life, né? We expect lots of things, and we get some of those things, and then we don’t get some of those things.”
Kleinboet steps forward with a comforting smile.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “but you got at least ten times as many cards as Kaalvoet Meisie did. I saw them at your stoep, this morning at sunrise, and I thought … You don’t need this as much as Kaalvoet Meisie does.”
Bloos looks up at him quizically. “So … you just took all my Valentine’s-goeters? And burned them?”
“No … I threw them on the farm’s organic compost heap,” says Kleinboet. “Sorry, but I’m glad I did it, because now the rest of us can have a real jol of togetherness on Valentine’s, instead of silly dates with silly strangers.”
Kleinboet hangs his head in shame, but Bloos smiles.
“That sounds really kwaai, actually,” she says. “In fact, if we tell Kaalvoet Meisie about our togetherness vibes, she’ll sommer gooi all those cards and invitations in the dam!”
Kleinboet – surprised and worried. “I hope not,” he says. “That’s littering. And water pollution. And it could clog up the pump systems, which we need for our irrigation.”
“Ag, man, you know what I mean,” Bloos giggles. She puts her arm around Kleinboet’s shoulders. “You know what? I think we need to find the together-nest. Where everyone will feel welcome and, you know, not ge-judge.”
Kleinboet’s eyes widen. “You mean … the venue for the big jol?”
Bloos nods shyly. “What do you think?”
Kleinboet looks around him, as his mischievous smile grows …
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