Chapter 10 – Emma

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Yet another vehicle was carrying Sayowa, she had stopped counting how many she had been into during the past four days. That time, it was a cute little car, completely purple, brand new, with soft and comfy seats. Of course, it was not difficult to be comfier than the floor of the bus or the side of the road, but she had to recognise a certain quality to that new mean of transportation.
The person driving, a woman maybe forty years old, with a face outlined by small wrinkles around her eyes and at the corners of her lips, had not seemed very enthusiastic with the idea of welcoming Sayowa onto her passenger seat, but had done it without much discussion. Her hair, curly, made an almost perfectly spherical helmet around her skull. She wore a long colourful shirt with number of motives intertwined in a quantity of details and bright jeans, tight. Her arms were thin with showing muscles, her hands firmly handled the steering-wheel and directed their way with precision, following the curves of the winding road getting lost into the green hills, the very same Sayowa was admiring while she was waiting next to the stranded bus a few minutes before.
– So you are interested in olive oil right? the woman said, with a stiff and sharp voice.
– Yes madam. Actually, I would like to see how it is made.
– You can call me Emma. That’s my name.
– Yes madam Emma.
– Just Emma.
The woman had an indulging smile.
– And you were in that bus going to...? Cape Town right?
– Yes mad... Emma.
– On your own?
– Yes Emma.
– And then, all of a sudden, you decide not to go to Cape Town, but to come with me to see how olive oil is made.
– Yes.
– I see.
That questioning made Sayowa uncomfortable. She had acted impulsively, not asking herself that many questions. She was now quite unable to justify her deep motivations, for the simple reason that she was ignorant of them.
– Where is that passion for olive oil coming from?
– Well...
– Or might it just be curiosity?
– Yes, yes that’s it.
– But, what I don’t understand is, where were you going in Cape Town exactly?
– I... actually I was going to meet with a friend of my grandfather, she ended up saying.
After all, that was the truth, or at least her initial intention.
– My questions are annoying aren’t they? But you know, this is not a common situation, picking up a small girl, alone on the side of the road, who improvises herself an olive oil lover. Well small... You’re not that small.
Sayowa was watching the green hills through the window, they were all covered with a uniform vegetation, short bushes from which a few imposing houses pocked out.
She was reluctant to turn her eyes towards Emma. That woman intimidated her. They both had the same skin colour; even their faces looked alike, their stretched eyes, their flat noses; still, she looked like she was from another species, just the way she expressed herself. It was hard to define.
– What do you think of the scenery... your name is?
– Sayowa.
– Sayowa, very well. Do you know where we are Sayowa?
– No. I mean, South Africa.
– Yes, indeed. But more precisely we are in Stellenbosch. Do you know this place?
– No, not really.
– It is a very famous viticultural region, one hour away from Cape Town. All those trees you see there, these are vines.
– Vines?
– Yes vines. Trees that make grapes.
– Oh! They make wine?
– Yes, that’s what viticultural means.
“Yeah whatever” Sayowa thought. She was allowed to not know what viticultural meant, wasn’t she? She was not sure she liked that woman.
– Most of the domains here grow grapes, but you can also find the first producer of olives in the region. Do you know who that is?
Sayowa did “no” with her head.
Emma showed herself with her thumb, with a proud rictus.
– Oh, you’re...
– The owner of a domain, yes. You won’t see many women, or black owners here. I will show you around my farm. You will see, olives are very interesting!
Her face had change expression, it had lightened. Her voice was suddenly inhabited with a passion that rendered her touching. Sayowa revised her judgment, in the end she found that Emma very sympathetic. Funny how one could quickly change their mind.
– And we’re here.
The little purple automobile left the main road for a narrow way, uneven, still surrounded with vines climbing on a prominence in the terrain. It led to a wrought iron gate, edged by a row of tall dense trees. A small sign, the same colour as the car, indicated: “Stellenbosch Olive Oil Co.”
– I need to change this board, Emma said.
She exited the car to open the gate, one panel after the other, and went back in.
They followed a paved alley, bordered by high trees of another species than the ones in the entry, until a gray gravel courtyard lying in front of a stone house. Emma parked there, right in the middle of it.
It was a beautiful one storey house, with wooden door and shutters. A few terra cotta pots and a metal bench disposed next to the entrance made it welcoming.
– Welcome home, Emma said.

Inside the residence it was cool, the closed shutters left rays of light in, barely reviling the simple decor. The wooden furniture agreed well with the stone walls.
Emma and Sayowa were in a spacious room, separated in two parts by a big step on the floor. Doors on the side left imagination wonder the true extent of the abode.
– I need to phone a mechanic to go and assist the bus. Make yourself at home.
Emma went into another room.
Sayowa put her chitenge on the floor and slowly inspected the details of the place. Strange framed images nailed to the walls captivated her. She observed them at length, until Emma reappeared.
– There, help is on the way. Oh, you like these paintings?
– Yes! The colours are very nice.
– Do you know who painted them?
– No. You?
– Oh no. It is a Dutch painter, very talented and very famous called Vincent Van Gogh.
– Yes, you can congratulate him. It is very beautiful.
– That will be difficult, he died over a hundred years ago.
– Oh, I’m sorry.
– That’s quite all right. Are you hungry? I can prepare lunch, then we can go to visit the olive grove.
– Yes, I’m very hungry! Sayowa said enthusiastically.

Emma sat her at a large table, adjacent to a patio door looking out onto a neglected garden.
– Olive wood, that table, she explained.
She disappeared a moment and came back with a big salad bowl.
– Lettuce, tomatoes we grow here, maze and olive oil. From here obviously.
The mix had a strong taste, a fruity bitterness, new for the palate of the little girl.
– That’s young olive oil, it has a more pronounced taste.
The tour thus started right during lunch. Emma then took Sayowa outside through a door at the back of the room. They followed a path traced in tall grass which went up the hill behind the house. The track was steep, Sayowa’s sneakers often slipped on small stones. On their right, perpendicularly to their trajectory, a series of plateaus developed, one above the other, each of them harbouring a row of ten olive trees.
On the third row, Emma approached the first tree, stopped near it, giving Sayowa the opportunity to observe it closer: the grey trunk had grown in tortuous curves, full of gaps and lumps. The leaves, stretched out, ovals, wore a different shade of green on each side. Tiny black and green balls hung from the thinnest branches. Emma plucked one out and threw it to Sayowa who caught it in mid-air.
– An olive.
– Yum, Sayowa did bringing the fruit to her mouth, imperturbably watched over by her guide.
She bit. It was hard, bitter. Gross. She spat it all out on the spot. Emma had a small laugh.
– You can’t eat it like that, you need to prepare it.
– You could have told me.
– Mistakes are the best teacher.
A familiar lesson. Emma continued her stroll along the plateau, languorously walking, caressing the leaves with her hand, as if it were her children hair. Above them, tens of olive trees. Below, tens of olive trees and the flat roof of the house. The chilled atmosphere in the shade of the low branches and the murmur of the vegetation was appeasing.
– So all of this is yours? You own it? And you do oil with all?
– Yes, it’s mine. We don’t really do oil anymore since a couple of years, we just sell the olives to companies, it’s simpler for us. But we still have a small traditional mill. I will show it to you.
She went back on the rising path.
– How did you do to get all that?
Sayowa could not conceive that that short woman could be in charge of such a large operation.
– It’s the result of a lifetime’s work. I started with nothing and built everything, step by step, year after year.
– You must have a lot of money.
– Now yes. But when I started I had nothing. You know, a lot of Africans think that, because they have black skin, they can’t accomplish anything. It’s not true, I am the living proof of that.
Soyowa listened avidly. It all seemed obvious said like that. She had the impression of listening to a less cryptic version of Inyambo’s morals.
– I know very well that some of my neighbours would not agree with what I’m telling you. They never said anything, but I see the way they look at me. I am not a good example of the typical demography of the region, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I’m glad you are interested.
They reached the end of the path, which finished with a last row of olive trees. After that there was a fence and behind, vines. That last bed of tree was covered with big tarpaulins placed and the ground and nets stretched between trunks, full of olives.
– Oli! Come down here! Emma shouted.
A head appeared from the foliage of one of the trees. Feet placed themselves on the bars of a ladder, followed by purple pants and by a torso in the same colour. A young man jump to the ground and rushed over. He stopped in front of Emma, straight, as if standing to attention. He was young, less than eighteen years old, medium sized, fine traits, big round and hollow eyes. His arms and legs, concealed by his working cloths, seemed to be simple sticks.
– Oli, let me introduce you to Sayowa, a future expert in olive oil.
That Oli person did a small salute of the head.
– Sayowa this is Oli. That’s not his real name. His name in Xhosa is unpronounceable by most people, so we call him Oli, because he spends more time than anyone with olives.
– Hello, Sayowa said, amused by the anecdote.
– Oli, can you show us the mill?
He did “yes” with his head and left for the back of the bed of tree, Emma and Sayowa tailing him. Another track was going down, getting deep into an abundant land, more vast than what Sayowa had imagined at the beginning of their walk.
Oli advanced with confidence. He knew exactly were to step to avoid weeds, holes. Sayowa, not accustomed to those rolling terrains, did her best to follow.
In a nook of the hill, they arrived to a big structure made of three high stone walls and a metallic roof. Inside, diverse sturdy looking machines, some large shinny tanks and a workshop in the corner, on which were placed a number of old tools.
Oli stepped aside and let the two girls enter into that mechanic temple. Emma walked until a cylindrical device resting on the ground, rough in appearance, with two big vertical stony wheels on top.
– Here is the only place where we still make olive oil on the domain. As you can see, it is a bit small to handle all of the olives we have. We only do a few litters every year and we sell the rest of the olives as is. Oli, can you explain to us how it works?
The young boy came near his boss and showed the cylinder with his hand, his eyes set on his shoes.
– We here do a traditional oil extraction method. This is the grindstone, it is in granite.
He spoke with a monotonic voice, as if he was reciting a lesson he had learnt by heart.
– We put the olives there, after we cleaned them. Those wheels turn and crush the olives to make a paste.
– Don’t we have some olives already gathered to show her? Emma asked.
Oli looked embarrassed.
– That’s all right. Please carry on.
– Then we put the paste on this type of mat.
He showed discs of braided materials dispersed on the workshop.
– We pile them up one on top of the other, to make a tower this high (he lifted his hand to show a level well above his head). Then we wait. The olives get crushed under their own weight and we gather the first oil.
He moved to another apparatus, tall like half the room.
– Then we put the tower under a hydraulic press, like that one (he showed the device). It pushes down with a lot of force and we gather the rest of the oil.
Sayowa did her best to picture each step. She showed her interest with a few discrete “hum”, “okay”.
– Actually, what we gather is a mix of water and oil. But if you wait a bit, the oil goes up. Since the oil is less dense than water, it floats on top. We gather it and we put it in a tank like this.
– There’s oil in there?
– Yes. The tank is there to protect it from heat and light.
– Do you want a bottle Sayowa?
– Yes, that would be very nice!
– Oli, could you fill a bottle for us?
From a crate hidden under the workshop, the young man took out a rectangular shaped flask and carried it to a tap at the bottom of one of the tanks. He operated a small wheel, a golden liquid poured.
Once the recipient was full, he corked it and gave it to Emma.
– Thank you. Don’t we have some of those bottles with our logo on it?
He shook his head.
– Too bad. Here Sayowa, that is for you. Virgin olive oil of prime quality, pure fruit juice of Stellenbosch. That’s expensive in the shop.
Sayowa took the precious flask. It would go straight with the wheat and the salt in her chitenge, back in the house.
– Is everything clear?
– Hum. Yeah, Sayowa replied.
– Perfect. Oli, you can go back to work. Sayowa, let’s go back to the house.
They took another path to go down to the residence.
– Oli is a very good employee, Emma said, he works well. Perfectly in fact. But I don’t know if he would be able to take over the company when I retire. Too shy, not audacious enough. I am still looking for the man who will be my successor. Or woman, she added with a side glance to Sayowa
– Don’t you have kids?
– No. I was married very young, very quickly divorced. I believe I was not made to be someone’s wife. And I did well, otherwise I could never have build all this.
As they arrived at the stone building, Emma embraced her domain, both her arms in the air.
– It’s a little sad. Not having kids I mean.
– No it’s not sad. Let’s say I chose my priority. A woman is capable of other things than having kids, she said in a firm ton, almost provoking.
– Don’t you think it’s possible to make it in life and also have a family?
– Oh, certainly yes. But not with the coward who was my husband for two years.
Sayowa felt it was time change the topic. Emma closed down as she talked of her past.
– Anyway, thanks for the olive oil. One last thing on my list of ingredients!
– What list of ingredients?
– Oh it’s nothing, it’s actually not important.
– Ingredients for what?
– A pizza. But…
– Can I see?
Sayowa unbuttoned her t-shirt’s pocket and took the paper out, which was getting more and more crinkled. Emma read each line with interest.
– A pizza... I don’t see the connection with...
She flipped the page. Her eyes became two perfectly round circles.
– Stefano Limoni?! That’s who you’re going to see in Cape Town?!
– You know him?
– If I know him? He is our best customer, the only one who comes to buy his oil directly at the domain!

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Excerpt from “Recette de pizza pour débutant” © (SACD) Thomas Botte