Hottentot Venus by Barbara Chase-Riboud Page A

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    —Of course, I continued, Voltaire claimed they have no language at all, but this is not true. The language we speak of, Khoe, contains a set of implosive consonants, called clicks or clucks, which do not exist in the English phonological system. To further complicate things, not only do most of the words begin with a click consonant, but also the number and variety of these clicks are modified still further by vowel colorings and variations of tone and pronunciation that make it ten times more complicated than Chinese, which is possibly the world’s most difficult language . . .
    —Three of these consonants consist of these sounds—the noise made by the lips in lightly kissing, as when you kiss your hand; that made by smacking the tip of the tongue against the palate, as you do when tasting a flavor, or as some women do when they express petty vexation; and the clucking noise made with the back part of the tongue against the palate to urge a horse forward or to gather chickens; these are all very common. A vowel sound often repeated resembles the French
eu,
but uttered from the chest with the singsong drawl of a boy driving away birds . . . In fact, it seems that the Hottentots have two vowels more than European languages; one is expressed by the famous click of the tongue, and the other by a suction of air between the tongue and the palate. Yet, with a few of these clicks, a Khoekhoe chief can command two hundred warriors in battle, a rainmaker can cure an illness, two warring tribes can lay out a treaty . . .
    —Tomorrow, ask Saartjie to repeat a phrase in her own language or give her a sentence to translate and you’ll see exactly what I mean.
    —How will we know if she’s really saying what we ask her to if we can’t understand her language?
    —She looks honest. I trust her to tell the truth. She’d never lie— besides, I bet the children speak Khoe—just ask them . . .
    Through all this, the Hottentot was standing behind the curtains, spying on us. I was sure she did speak Khoe to the children and that they answered her. But it was only a guess.
    —I’ve been taught since I was a boy, interjected Caesar’s voice as it wafted out onto the night, that the Hottentot is ruled by prostitution. Adultery has no meaning for them, nor does virginity. The poverty of their mental universe can be seen in the poverty of their language. For example, they have but one word for maiden, woman and wife. They are at the nadir of primitive lasciviousness. There is no difference between the Hottentot and the prostitute, so there is no moral deterrent to using one as the other . . .
    —Even as a Christian gentleman?
    —Even as a Christian gentleman.
    —Should we not be saving these females instead of taking advantage of them?
    —They are to all intents and purposes, unlike the prostitute, beyond redemption.
    —Even your little Hottentot, Saartjie.
    —Oh, no, no. Never, croaked Hendrick. I’ve never touched Saartjie. Nor would I allow anyone else to—she’s family! My boys’ nurse.
    —You’ve never even peeked at this . . . apron of hers?
    —No, he lied.
    —Then how do you know it really exists?
    —I don’t know really . . . my wife says it does.
    —Come now, Hendrick. There’s no one out here but me, surely you were curious enough to . . . look . . .
    —No.
    —Well, would you allow me to examine her, as a medical doctor?
    —No, Dunlop. I’m afraid not. Besides, she would never agree. She’s extremely shy and has the modesty of a white woman.
    —Actually it doesn’t matter if it exists or not, as long as people believe it does. Do mermaids have tails? Does Cyclops have one eye? Is Isis a baboon? It’s what people believe that counts.
    I noticed a shift in one of the shadows projected onto the floor of the veranda. I smiled. Saartjie was not above spying on her masters or eavesdropping on their conversation like all good servants . . .
    —After all, friend, I concluded, determined to shock the