“Pete wants to open a restaurant on the farm. Some businessmen have approached him. He wants to do the whole Boschendal thing: picnic, deli and restaurant. I mean, how many of them do we need in Stellenbosch?” He took a long sip of his whisky.
“Well, if it generates income and it attracts more people to the farm to buy our wine, then why not?”
John shrugged. He seemed irritable and distracted.
“Cheers, darling,” he said. “To generating money.”
“To generating money,” Brig said, blowing him a kiss.
It was late Autumn, yet today had been particularly stifling. “So? Have you had a good week?” John asked her.
If you call shagging Mom’s best friend’s boyfriend a good week.
“Busy at work, on an article on black entrepreneurs and professionals in the Western Cape.” Brigit answered, her mind recalling the events of Thursday night. She couldn’t tell her dad she had interviewed Leonard, as he had represented her mother in their divorce. John hated him with a passion, and it didn’t help that he happened to be black either. Oh my God! Can you imagine if he knew I screwed him? But in the throes of lust she hadn’t given a single thought to her father’s prejudices.
John lifted his eyebrows. “That sounds very BEE.”
“How well they’re doing. Interesting, actually.”
“Ja! With their fingers in state coffers and a BEE helping hand. How interesting can it be?”
“Do you have to be so argumentative? You really sound racist.” Brig looked around her. She hoped nobody could hear her father’s inflammatory comments.
“I’m not being argumentative. And I am not a racist, but this whole country is going to the dogs.”
Brigit shrugged. “I disagree. There’s a lot of good stuff happening. I just know we didn’t have a very open, inclusive lifestyle growing up.” She looked around her then whispered. “Please be careful what you say in public. I don’t share your opinions, and these days you can get into a whole lot of trouble saying things like that.”
John sipped on his whisky.“What’s that supposed to mean?” He stared sternly at Brigit who shrugged again. “I’m not entitled to express myself? Any fool can see this country is on a one-way ticket to disaster. I am what I am, like they are what they are.” Brigit cringed. “And this business about being inclusive growing up; am I going to be blamed because you had no black friends at school? The schools were open; you just didn’t make any. What was I supposed to do, insist on a fucking quota system?”
John could see Brigit was beginning to writhe in discomfort. It bothered her that he just didn’t give a shit.
Brigit tried to change the subject, made a comment about how good he was looking. She tried to placate him, ease the tension. She and her brother had often joked that their father had a babalas from the apartheid era. He seemed to be getting worse. She looked around her again. Fortunately, there were only a handful of people sitting outside. Further down, a few tourists were walking the paths, posting Instagram pics of the breathtaking vineyards hugging the mountainside, of the artwork, of one another against the undulating backdrop of the Tokara landscape.
“Come on Dad, what’s up? You seem restless and bloody aggressive.”
John inhaled deeply. “To tell you the truth, Brig, Mom’s fiftieth that’s just been celebrated without me; our divorce; your mom leaving me and you cosying up to her.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Sorry, Brig. I don’t mean to burden you but I’m telling you what’s bothering me. You asked.”
Brigit combed her fingers through her own short hair, mirroring an action John was known to do when anxious. She was trying to grow her hair long and the result was a fringe that continually fell over her left eye.
She noticed the setting sun. It had begun to colour the sky crimson and the tufts of clouds bounced the light, creating shades of red and orange.
“I spent the whole of last year in therapy. I’m still in therapy.” Brigit directed her statement at the sky.
John downed his whisky then placed his glass on the table, just a little more gently than a slam. “So am I.”
Brig’s eyes shifted to her father. “You are?”
John looked away from his daughter and stared out at the rolling vineyards wrapped around the mountain.
Brigit rose from behind her end of the table and walked around to kiss her dad on the cheek. “It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
John laughed. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
He hailed their waiter. A young lady bounced towards them. Brig could see her father’s appreciation of the woman’s beautiful legs clad in tight white pants; her blonde hair pulled back from her face in a long ponytail. She trotted up to them, foal-like.
“Hello!” John flirted, “You’ve undergone a radical change.”
She laughed. “I’ve just started my shift. What can I do for you, sir?” She turned to Brig, “Madam?”
Brigit stood behind her father’s chair.
“This is my daughter, so you don’t have to worry about jealous girlfriends. I’m John.”
Brig recoiled, embarrassed at her father’s ogling. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she spoke to her dad. Then to the young woman, “Can you get me another mojito, please?”
When she returned, her mojito and John’s whisky had been replenished.
“I hate it when you do that.” She slumped down in her chair.
John smiled, sticking his middle finger into his whisky on the rocks and stirring it. He withdrew his finger and licked it. “Do what?”
“Well, what you’ve just done now, dipping your middle finger in your whisky, and flirting with young girls. God! They’re half your age. She’s younger than me!”
Her father’s laugh irritated her too. He was behaving like an errant teenager.
“Most girls like older men. Sorry. And most old men like ‘young girls’ as you call them.”
Brig looked away. Their Dad and Daughter day seemed to be heading into dangerous territory.
“I’m a divorced man. It’s not like I’m cheating on anyone.”
“Yes, but I’m your daughter and it’s embarrassing. You’re embarrassing.” This didn’t seem to deter John. It seemed to egg him on even further.
“Well, who knows? You may not even be my daughter.” The view of the sunset suddenly became inconsequential. Brig sucked in air, held it, then released a gasp. “Dad!”
“Look, Brig, I’m not going to love you less. But just like you, I feel fucked-over by life. And actually, your mom, let’s be honest, she seems to be the only one who has benefited from our divorce. I’m also reeling.” Brigit opened her mouth then shut it as quickly.
“I was left alone. Really alone. You cosied up to Mom, trying to repair years of shit you and she had.” Again, her mouth opened and closed like a blowfish. John allowed her no chance to speak. “I’ve also had to re-evaluate my life. My whole life has changed and thrown in the mix is the fact that I don’t know if I’m really your father.”
“Not to me, it hasn’t.” What followed seemed to be a plea rather than a statement. “You are my father.”
“Yes, I’m all that.” John sounded irritated. Brig looked down at her glass. “I’ve decided with the help of a therapist – who you all insisted I see, by the way – that I