The Promise

by Damon Galgut

And in the morning, of course, when the whole country wakes up with a hangover, like a compound fracture in the brain, it’s no different with the Swarts, who are filled with greed and grief, as well as alcohol. A poisoned, unwell atmosphere overshadows the house, somewhere between melancholia and boredom, though the day has a glassy clearness and a crisp breeze is blowing.

For there is nothing unusual or remarkable about the Swart family, oh no, they resemble the family from the next farm and the one beyond that, just an ordinary bunch of white South Africans, and if you don’t believe it then listen to us speak. We sound no different from the other voices, we sound the same and we tell the same stories, in an accent squashed underfoot, all the consonants decapitated and the vowels stove in. Something rusted and rain-stained and dented in the soul, and it comes through in the voice.