A Dry White Season Page 19

  He was startled when the knock on the door came. But Emily said, without hesitation: “It’s Stanley,” and she went to open for him.

  Immediately the whole room was filled with his boisterous presence as if the interior had become electrically charged; as if, all over the place, hidden forces were preparing themselves so that amazing things could start happening. Only the children slept through it all.

  “So how’s it, Auntie Emily? You had a nice talk?” Without waiting for an answer he offered Ben his packet of Lucky Strike: “Like a fuse?”

  “No thanks,” Ben said, automatically reaching for his pipe but without taking it from his pocket.

  “Tea?” asked Emily.

  “Thanks, Auntie, that’s too strong for me. How about whisky?”

  “You know I don’t keep drink in the house,” she said.

  “Well, let’s line,” he said to Ben. “We can fill up at a shebeen.”

  “I must be in my classroom early tomorrow morning, Stanley.”

  Pulling up his sleeve, Stanley revealed his large gold watch: “Judge the jampas, man, it’s early times yet.”

  “Not in the week,” Ben said politely.

  “I see. The old puritan blood still running strong, hey?” Hislaughter caused the crockery on the sideboard to rattle. “All right, come along then. Someone at my place wants to see you.” He waved from the door: “Notch you, Auntie Emily.”

  And suddenly they were outside, back in the night that had been going its way all the time he’d been inside, as if the hour spent in the small house had been a mere interlude between darker acts. They drove along the potholed streets, and across a railway line and an expanse of black open veld. In the distance Ben once saw red flames from the power station flickering through clouds of smoke. A few minutes later Stanley pulled up behind a house and led the way to the kitchen door.

  This interior, too, was familiar to Ben: the gay linoleum and the display cabinet, the decorated plates, the birds of paradise on the tray, the settee and armchairs with multicoloured cushions.

  The front door stood half-open. “What’s happened to him?” muttered Stanley, going out. A minute later he came back supporting a man who was trying, not very successfully, to zip up his pants. He looked fortyish, wearing a checkered shirt and green trousers, with a large ornamental buckle on his belt; his two-tone shoes were spattered with drops.

  “Godalmighty!” said Stanley, not really angry. “I wish you’d stop it. On my bloody doorstep!”

  “My bladder was bursting.”

  “You’re boozing too much.”

  “What else do you expect me to do?” the stranger said reproachfully, a dazed stare in his eyes, as he tried to wipe his face with a large coloured handkerchief. “It’s killing me, man, sitting around on my arse like this. Gimme another drink.”

  “Forget about the drink. Meet Mr Du Toit. Ben, this is Julius Nqakula. The lawyer who took the first affidavits on Jonathan for Gordon.”

  The stranger glared at him aggressively.

  “Don’t bother about the state he’s in,” Stanley said, chuckling. “He only functions when he’s pissed. Nothing wrong with his head.” He deposited Julius on a chair, where he remained sprawled, his legs stretched out across the linoleum. Through half-closed lids he sat staring glumly at Ben while Stanley poured whisky for all three.

  “What’s he doing here?” asked Julius Nqakula after he’d gulped down half his glass in one go, not taking his eyes off Ben.

  “I brought him here on Gordon’s business,” Stanley said nonchalantly, settling his great body on a settee with ridiculously thin legs.

  “Gordon is dead. He belongs to us. What’s this mugu got to do with him?”

  Ben was vexed. He felt like walking out, but was restrained by a gesture from Stanley who looked smugly amused.

  “You may not think it, looking at him like this,” said Stanley, “but this rotter used to be one of the top lawyers in the townships, lanie. Last year, when they took all those kids to court after the riots, he was working day and night to save them. Hundreds of cases, I tell you. But then they gave him his banning orders, that was just after he got Gordon’s affidavits for him. So he had to give up his practice and all he’s doing nowadays is to get pissed on other people’s booze.”

  Julius Nqakula did not look very impressed.

  Stanley turned abruptly to him: “Listen,” he said, “Ben wants us to keep working on Gordon’s case.”

  “He’s white,” Julius snapped, still glaring at Ben, and moving one of his shoes in rhythmic jerks.

  “The SB raided his house because of Gordon.”

  “He’s still white.”

  “He can reach places we can’t.”

  “So what?”

  “And we can get into joints he can’t. So what do you say: we join forces?”

  “I say he’s white and I don’t trust him.”

  Ben had repressed his anger until now; but he refused to do so any longer. “I suppose you now expect me to say: ‘You’re black, I don’t trust you'?” he burst out, slamming his glass down on the low coffee table. “Don’t you think it’s time we got past this stupid stalemate?” He turned to Stanley: “I really don’t know how you can expect any help from him. Can’t you see they’ve broken his spirit?”

  To his amazement a slow smile moved across Julius Nqakula’s bony face. He emptied the rest of his glass into his mouth, made a gurgling sound in his throat, and wiped his lipswith his sleeve. “Come again,” he said, almost appreciatively. “See if anyone can break me!”

  “Why don’t you help us then?” said Ben. “For Gordon’s sake.”

  “Oh you White Liberals! “Julius said. “Fill up, Stanley.”

  An unreasonable, atavistic anger sprang to life inside Ben, as it had during his visit to the District Surgeon. “I’m not a bloody Liberal,"he said fiercely. “I’m an Afrikaner.”

  Stanley refilled Julius’s glass and his own, neat; they sat in silence, looking at Ben.

  At last Stanley asked: “Well, how’s it, Julius?”

  Julius grunted, smiling slowly, appreciatively. “Oh he’s all right,” he said. Then he moved into a more comfortable position in his chair, propped up on his elbows, his backside hanging over the edge of the seat. “What you aiming to do?” he asked.

  “The main thing is to dig up everything they’re trying to hide. Until we’ve got enough to reopen the case. We mustn’t stop before we’re sure we’ve got everything. So the guilty can be punished and the world can know what happened.”

  “You got a hope!” said Julius.

  “Are you going to help us or not?”

  Julius smiled lazily: “Where do we start?” he asked.

  “With your affidavits on Jonathan.”

  “No go. Those were confiscated when they caught Gordon.”

  “Didn’t you keep copies?”

  “I was raided too, man.”

  “Then we must find those people again and get them to make new statements.”

  “That nurse got such a fright she won’t ever put pen to paper again. And the Phetla chap ran away to Botswana.”

  “Well,” said Stanley jovially, “you got your job cut out. You just trace them and persuade them to make new statements.”

  “I’m under banning orders.”

  “You weren’t banned so you could sit on your backside.” Stanley got up. “Think it over while I take the lanie home. Before his missus gets the hell in.”

  “By the way,” said Julius, still reclining casually, “Johnny Fulani came to me yesterday.”

  “Who’s Johnny Fulani?” asked Ben.

  “One of the detainees whose statements were read at the inquest. Remember? When Archibald Tsabalala turned against them, they decided not to call the other three. State security. Now they’ve released Johnny Fulani.”

  “What did he say?”

  “What d’you expect? They moered him until he signed.”

  “Right. So you get another statement
from him.”

  “I already have one.”

  Ben smiled. “Good. Do you mind sending me a copy with Stanley? I’ll keep it safely.”

  “Suppose they raid you again?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve thought of that,” Ben said. “I made a hiding-place they won’t ever find.”

  Unfolding in segments, Julius rose from his chair and offered Ben his hand.

  “Now keep off my moonshine, Julius!” Stanley said, trying his best to look menacing.

  On their way back in the shaky old Dodge, Ben asked: “Why did you want me to meet Julius?”

  “Because we need him.”

  “Any other lawyer would have done as well.”

  Stanley laughed. “I know. But Julius got hit right under the belt by that banning. Going to pieces. Now we’ve given him something to do it will get him back on his two feet.” A carefree and contented laugh. “Lanie, you wait. I got a feeling you and I are going a long way together. And all along the way we’ll pick up people, until we get right to the other side. Then there’ll be such a lot of us they won’t be able to count us no more. An amountable majority.” For the rest of the way home he sat singing, drumming with his fingers on the roof to keep the beat.

  2

  Sunday 15 May. Back to Melanie. Inevitably, I suppose. I do need her for the investigation and she said she would help. At the same time I felt some trepidation. Impossible to think of her as no more than a helper. What then?

  An injustice to her to suggest that she threatens me. My middle-aged existence, my middle-class values. Teacher. Elder. ‘Respected member of society'. What is happening to me?

  On the other hand – or am I rationalising now? – she offers comfort. Restores my confidence. Encourages me. What exactly? The first time it happened by coincidence, utterly unpremeditated, in innocence. Would it have been better to leave it at that? Not to jeopardise the uniqueness of the experience. There are moments which, for one’s own sake, one shouldn’t ever try to repeat. Suddenly there is a pattern; there are expectations, possibilities, hopes. Needless to speculate. It is too late. I did go back.

  Why should I feel uneasy about it? Perhaps the circumstances. This weekend. Even now they think I’ve withdrawn into my study to prepare for tomorrow. “On a Sunday!” Susan protested.

  She’d been impossible ever since my return from Stanley on Thursday night. “You smell like a hut.” “You’ve been drinking again.” “Into what holes have you been crawling again?” Like in Krugersdorp years ago when I visited the parents of my pupils. She couldn’t stand it. Even worse this time. Soweto. In all fairness to her, though, it must have come as a shock. She’d honestly thought it was all over. Worried and concerned, and not necessarily about herself only. The visit by the SB nearly broke her spirit. Been to the doctor twice already. Nerves, migraine, sedatives. I must be more considerate. If only she’d make an effort to understand.

  To make things worse, Suzette and family also came over for the weekend.

  Still, things were reasonably under control till Saturday morning. Took Suzette’s little Hennie for a walk. Stepped intoevery puddle, played in mud like a little pig, talked non-stop. “You know, Grandpa, the wind’s got a cold too. I heard it sniffing in the night.”

  Then Suzette threw a tantrum because I’d allowed him to get so filthy. I’m an “undesirable influence", teaching the child bad manners etc. Lost my temper too. Told her she was the undesirable influence, going off on her trips, gallivanting and neglecting the poor boy. That made her furious. “Who are you to talk about going off all the time? Mum told me she hardly sees you at home any more.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Suzette.”

  “Are you trying to deny it? What about all this hobnobbing with blacks in townships? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I refuse to discuss my affairs with you if you use that tone of voice.”

  She was furious. A beautiful woman, the spitting image of her mother, especially when she’s angry. “Well, I’d like you to know that that’s what we’ve come for this weekend,” she said. “To have a proper heart-to-heart with you. Things just can’t go on like this. Chris is negotiating with the Provincial Council this very minute about a new project. Would you like to see them cancel it? These things are contagious, you know.”

  “You make it sound like an illness.”

  “Exactly. I’ve been wondering whether there’s something wrong with you. There’s never been such pally-pallying with blacks in our house before.”

  Chris was, as usual, much more reasonable. He was at least prepared to listen. I think he accepts that Gordon’s case can’t just be left like that, even though he may not approve of what I’m doing: “I respect your reasons, Dad. But the Party is in the process of preparing people for major changes. And if this business causes a new furore, as it’s bound to, it will put a new brake on things. The whole world is ready to jump at our throats, we can’t play into their hands. We Afrikaners are going through tough times right now and we should all stand together.”

  “You mean we should close our ranks round any sign of evil, the way a rugby team protects a man who’s lost his pants on the field?”

  Chris laughed. He hasn’t lost his sense of humour yet. Butthen he said: “We must put it right from the inside, Dad. We can’t throw it open to the eyes of the world.”

  “For how long have these things been going on now, Chris? And nothing has been put right yet.”

  “You mustn’t expect to see results too soon.”

  “I’m sorry, Chris. But these mills are grinding too slowly for me nowadays.”

  “You yourself will be crushed in the mill if you don’t watch out.”

  If Suzette hadn’t turned up at that moment and started interfering we might have come to some sort of understanding. I know he means well. But what with all the tension in the house since Thursday night, I couldn’t take it any more. And after lunch I drove off in the car.

  Even then I didn’t deliberately head for Westdene. I was just driving to allow my feelings to settle. The quiet Saturday afternoon streets. For the first time it shook me. The men and women in white on tennis courts. The bowls greens. The black nannies in uniform, pushing prams across lawns. The men with bare torsos washing their cars. The women in curlers watering flowerbeds. The groups of blacks lying or sitting on street-corners, chatting and laughing. The lazy stillness of the sun just before the cold sets in.

  And then I was back in the street running uphill; in front of the old house with the curved verandah over the red stoep. I drove past, turning at the top of the incline, and then down again. But a mile or so away I stopped to think it over. Why not? There was nothing wrong with it. Actually it was most desirable, if not imperative, to discuss the possibility of future action with her.

  At first sight I took him for a Coloured gardener, squatting on his haunches beside a flower bed, pulling out weeds. Soiled corduroy trousers, black beret sporting a guinea-fowl feather, khaki shirt, pipe in his mouth, and the filthiest pair of mud-caked shoes – worn without socks or laces – I’d ever seen. It was her father, old Professor Phil Bruwer.

  “No, sorry,” he grumbled when I spoke to him, “Melanie isn’t at home.”

  His wild white mane couldn’t have been combed in months. Small goatee stained with tobacco juice. The skin of his face dark and tanned like old leather, like an old discarded shoe; and two twinkling dark brown eyes half-disappearing below the unkempt eyebrows.

  “Then I suppose there’s no point in staying,” I said.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, still hunched over the bed.

  “Du Toit. Ben Du Toit. I met Melanie the other day.”

  “Yes, she spoke about you. Well, why don’t you wait a while? She may not be long, she went to the newspaper office to finish off something. Of course, one never knows with her, does one? Why don’t you give me a hand with the weeding? I was off to the Magaliesberg for a while, now my whole garden is in a m
ess. Melanie doesn’t know the difference between a plant and a weed.”

  “What plants are these?” I asked him, to keep the conversation going.

  He looked up in mock reproach. “What’s the world coming to? It’s herbs, can’t you see?” He started pointing them out to me: “Thyme, oregano, fennel, sage. Rosemary’s over there.” He got up to stretch his back. “But somehow they don’t taste right.”

  “They seem to be flourishing.”

  “Flourishing isn’t enough.” He started cleaning his pipe. “Something to do with the soil. For thyme you should go into the mountains of Southern France. Or Greece. Mycenae. It’s like vines, you see. Depends on whether it’s a southern or a northern slope, how steep it is, how scaly, all sorts of things. Next time I want to bring me a small bag of soil from the mountain of Zeus. Perhaps the Old Man’s holiness will do the trick.” He grinned, exposing his uneven, yellow-stained teeth, many of them mere stumps. “One thing I seem to discover as I grow older is that the more one gets involved in philosophy and stuff, in transcendental things, the more surely you’re forced back to the earth. We’ll all go back to the old chtonic gods yet. That’s the problem of people running after Abstractions. Started with Plato. Mind you, he’s misunderstood in a shocking way. Still, give me Socrates any time. We’re all living in the spell of the Abstract. Hitler, Apartheid, the Great American Dream, the lot.”

  “What about Jesus?” I asked, somewhat deliberately.

  “Misunderstood,” he said. “Et verbum caro facta est. We’re running after the verbum, forgetting about the flesh. ‘Our bodies which us to us at first convey’d'. Those Metaphysicals really had it by the short hairs. One’s got to keep one’s feet or hands on the ground, preferably all four of them.”

  I’m writing down haphazardly what I can recall of the running monologue he kept up as he pottered about in the garden, weeding and watering, raking leaves, digging for worms, straightening some plants and pruning dried-up leaves from others. An irrepressible warmth inspiring everything he said. “You know, those days when our people had to work like hell to gain a toehold on this land, it was a good life. But then this notion got into us that once we’d taken control we should start working out blueprints and systems for the future. Now look at the mess. It’s all System and no God. Sooner or later people start believing in their way of life as an absolute: immutable, fundamental, a precondition. Saw it with my own eyes in Germany in the Thirties. A whole nation running after the Idea, like Gadarene swine. Sieg heil, sieg heil. Keeps me awake at night. I mean, I left there in ‘thirty-eight because I couldn’t take it any longer. And now I see it happening in my own country, step by step. Terrifyingly predictable. This sickness of the Great Abstraction. We’ve got to come back to the physical, to flesh and bone and earth. Truth didn’t fall from Heaven in the shape of a word: it goes about bare-arsed. Or if we’ve got to talk in terms of words, then it’s the word of a bloody stammerer like Moses. Each one of us stuttering and stammering his bit of truth.”