And still there is a restlessness in me, precisely because there is no turning back any longer. The day after tomorrow, well before the sun comes out, we must set out to reach Worcester in the district of Tulbagh in time for Wednesday. That, I learned in the Caab, is when the next slave auction will be held. God alone knows how it will go, because who in his right mind will still want to buy slaves at a time like this? Who still has money to spend on such a doubtful proposition? Here I’ve just been to the Caab, and what did I get for my wine? Thirty-six rix-dollars a leaguer. A bloody shame. Just more than half, I tell you, of what I got almost ten years ago when I started farming on Zandvliet. In those days we could reckon on fifty rix-dollars, give or take. Perhaps a week earlier or later the price might have been better. But it could also have been worse, because every time it’s different and you can never calculate in advance. The one thing you can count on is that everything you buy is getting more expensive.
