6 She doesn’t speak Before you read a) What do the words in the word bank have in common? b) What reasons might someone have for not speaking? Reading: She doesn’t speak The following short story takes place in Britain and South Africa today. While you are reading it, think about which elements of a short story it contains (e.g. characterisation, point of view, climax). Short stories are supposed to be read in one sitting. So when you read the story for the first time, try to get the gist and don’t worry about understanding every word. Word bank to be mute • to be dumb • to be silent • speechless • to be a chatterbox • to be talkative • to be chatty • to chatter • to be communicative • to be a talker W VIP file Marita van der Vyver • born 1958 in Cape Town • studied in South Africa and became a journalist and writer • has written many novels and short stories • now lives in southern France V 1 2 13–14c “Her name is Anouk and she doesn’t speak.” That is how my mother always introduces me to other people. My name is Noekie, I always say without moving my lips or making a sound. I speak all the time in my head, to myself. If anybody wants to know more about it she would say, “No, she isn’t dumb.” Almost casually, as if there was nothing strange about a fourteen-year-old who doesn’t speak. “She stopped speaking after experiencing a traumatic incident.” Usually people don’t ask any more questions after that. At least not immediately. Usually they would be scared off by the words traumatic incident. But later, if they wanted to know more, she would tell them everything. Like a tap that had been opened, the words would just pour from her – how the robbers burst into our lounge one evening and shot my father dead and how she was seriously wounded and how I saw it all while I was hiding behind the kitchen door with the maid, Rebecca. How Rebecca had pushed me behind the door and had held her hand over my mouth while Dad’s blood stained the Persian carpet. How she had tried to crawl to her handbag to get to her cell phone while the robbers were searching the bedroom for money or jewels or whatever they were looking for. How she pretended to be dead when they came back into the lounge. Do you see what I mean? I don’t need to speak. My mother speaks enough for both of us. The robbers had hardly looked at her. They had run out through the verandah door when they saw a car with a blue light patrolling the street. It was a security company’s car, a routine patrol, like there was every evening. But the robbers probably didn’t know about this. They had probably thought that one of the neighbours had heard suspicious sounds. Usually when my mother gets to this part of the story she gives a dejected little laugh. “Even if someone had suspected something,” she would add, “they wouldn’t have been able to see anything from the street. A few months before, my husband had built a high wall around the property to protect us.” My mother believes that the more you talk about a difficult thing the easier it will be to bear – my mother and all the psychologists I have already seen. But as yet, no one has been able to tell me about what you should do when something is so difficult that you simply can’t talk about it. In the beginning I really tried. Forcing the sounds out of my throat like dry vomit. They said that if I forced myself to speak about it I would stop dreaming about it. But after a few awful sessions with a psychologist the nightmares just got worse. “It was Rebecca who dialled the emergency number and got the ambulance to come. Saved my life. And Anouk’s. If the child had made a single sound …” What my mother doesn’t say is that maybe we could have saved my father’s life, too. Maybe if I had slipped out the back door and called the neighbours, if I had stayed calm and done something. If I had just acted like Buffy against the vampires or someone like that. But I went rigid, scared stiff. Mute. “And that is why we are living in England now.” That is how my mother always ends her story. As if the attack was the only reason why we had left. She doesn’t say that she had wanted to go and live in England long before the attack. Her father was British and she had the right passport. She had always stood with one foot in the sea, ready to emigrate, every time she read a newspaper heading that scared her. It was my father who didn’t want to go. He loved his country. So did I. “I’m not going anywhere,” Dad had said in his quiet way. “Over my dead body.” Then he died. And then we left. It’s almost three years since we moved. We live in a 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 82 South Africa Nur zu Prüfzwecken – Eigentum des Verlags öbv
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