A Dry White Season Page 21

  That restored my confidence. Not elation like before, that had been too superficial, too easy. But something more profound and solid. Call it faith, as she had.

  Later we went down the long passage to the junk-shop of the front room where we’d been the first time. Her father wasn’t there. Probably gone for a walk, she said, adding in a tone of reproach: “He refuses to take it easy. He just won’t believe he’s getting old.”

  “I must go now.”

  “Why don’t you stay?”

  “I’m sure you have other things to do.”

  “I’m going out tonight, but it’s still early. No need to go before eight or so.”

  Why should that have disturbed me so deeply? Of course a woman like her would go out on a Saturday night; of course she wouldn’t spend all her free time in that old house with her father. I doubt that it was something as straightforward and uncomplicated as jealousy: why should I be jealous? –I had no claim on her. Rather a painful acceptance of the obvious discovery that there were whole landscapes of her life inaccessible to me. However freely she’d confided in me about her life, however readily she’d answered all my questions, it had been no more than a narrow footpath on which I’d wandered through her wilderness. Was there any reason to be upset about that? Was there any hope of it ever being different?

  I, too, have my own life to lead without her, independent of her. Wife, house, children, work, responsibilities.

  Yes, I would have loved to stay. Like the previous time, I would have loved to sit with her until it became dark, until one could unburden more freely, until her presence would no longer be quite so unsettling: everything reduced to dusk and the purring of many cats. But I had to go away.

  I must be sensible. What binds us is the mutual devotion to a task we have undertaken: to bring the truth to light, to ensure that justice be done. Beyond that nothing is allowed us, nothing is even thinkable. And apart from what we are allowed to share for Gordon’s sake, neither has any claim on the other. Whatever part of my life falls outside that narrow scope, is exclusively mine; what is hers is hers. Why should I wish to know more?

  “I’m glad you came, Ben.”

  “I’ll come again.”

  “Of course.”

  I hesitated, hoping she might lean over and perhaps kiss me lightly as she’d kissed her father. That fullness of her mouth.

  But she probably was as unprepared as I was to risk it. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Melanie.” The music of her name, the blood in my ears. My God, I’m not a child any more.

  3

  Maintaining the daily routine was becoming more and more of an irritation; at the same time it offered a sense of reassurance and security, linking one day to the next, tidily, predictably. Getting up at half-past six to go jogging, usually with Johan. Making breakfast and taking Susan’s to her in bed. Off to school, and back at two. Lunch, a brief nap, then to school again for sport or other extramural work. Late in the afternoon a couple of hours spent on woodwork in the garage, a solitary walk, supper, withdrawing into the study afterwards. The daily timetable at school; the rotation of standards and subjects. Eight, nine, ten; eight, nine, ten. History, geography. The neat and solid facts, unassailable in black and white; nothing outside the prescribed syllabus was relevant. For years he’d been rebelling against the system, insisting that his pupils, especially the matrics, read more than had been set for them. Teaching them to ask questions, to challenge assertions. But now it had become much easier to resign himself to the given, as it liberated his thoughts for other things. He no longer felt the need to be so deeply involved in the work. It really happened by itself, carried onwards by its own momentum; all that was required of one was simply to be there, to execute the steps.

  In between classes there were the few free periods for marking or catching up with reading; intervals in the common room; conversations with colleagues. The eager support of the younglanguage teacher Viviers. Ben never gave away much beyond confirming that he was still ‘working on it', preferring to shrug off direct questions, pleased by the young man’s interest but embarrassed by his enthusiasm. He found Viviers too much of a young dog wagging his tail at every new idea.

  Some of the younger staff members were just the opposite and started avoiding him after the newspaper photograph. Most of his colleagues were content with a comment or two, a snide remark, a witticism. Only one – Carelse, Physical Education – found it such a roaring joke that he returned to it day after day, laughing loudly at his own crude comments. “They should put you on the jury of the Miss South Africa Competition.” “I say, Oom Ben, haven’t you had a visit from the Vice Squad yet?” There was no end to it. But he was without malice or deceit, and when he laughed it was as frank and open as an unzipped fly.

  Neither mockery nor resentment nor serious interest could really touch him. What happened at school was of so little concern to his life: his centre of gravity had moved elsewhere. Except, perhaps, as far as the pupils were concerned – the ones who came to him for advice and who, over many years, had used him as father confessor. Little ones bullied by prefects. Others struggling with certain subjects. Still others with very personal problems: How do you ask a girl to go steady? – Can’t you talk to my dad? He doesn’t want me to go camping this weekend. – How far can one go with a girl before it’s sinful? – What does one do to become an architect?

  Were there fewer of them lately, or was he imagining things? Once, coming into his classroom after interval, there was a copy of the notorious photograph pinned to the blackboard. But when he took it down, casually inquiring whether anyone would like it as a memento, the laughter was spontaneous and generous. If there were any undercurrent it certainly wasn’t serious yet.

  Outside school hours there was his other life, in which his home had become a coincidence and Susan merely an obstacle in the course of the current which churned and pursued its inevitable way.

  One morning a young black man turned up at the school. Ben was excited when the secretary told him about it during the interval. A messenger from Stanley? A new breakthrough? But it turned out the youth, Henry Maphuna, had come on entirely different business. Something very personal. He’d heard, he said, that Ben was helping people in trouble. And something had happened to his sister.

  As it was the near the end of the interval, Ben asked him to come round to his house in the afternoon. Arriving home at two o’clock, he found Henry already waiting.

  Susan: “One of your fans wanting to see you. ”

  A pleasant young fellow, thin, intelligent, polite, and quite sure of what he wanted. Not very well dressed for such a cool day. Shirt and shorts, bare feet.

  “Tell me about your sister,” said Ben.

  For the last three years the girl, Patience, had been working for a rich English couple in Lower Houghton. On the whole they’d been kind and considerate, but she’d soon discovered that whenever the lady was out the husband would find a pretext to be near her. Nothing serious: a smile, a few suggestive remarks perhaps, no more. But two months ago the wife had to go to hospital. While Patience was tidying up in the bedroom her employer made his appearance and started chatting her up; when she resisted his efforts to caress her, he knocked her down, locked the door and raped her. Afterwards he was suddenly overcome by remorse and offered her twenty rand to keep quiet. She was in such a state that all she could think of was to run home. Only the next day did she allow Henry to take her to the police station where she produced the twenty rand and laid a charge. From there she went to a doctor.

  Her employer was arrested and summonsed. A fortnight before the trial the man had driven to the Maphuna’s home in Alexandra and offered them a substantial amount to withdraw the charge. But Patience had refused to listen to his slobbering pleas. She’d been engaged to be married but after what had happened her fiancé had broken it off; the only satisfaction she could still hope for was for justice to be done.

  It had seemed a mere formality. But in c
ourt the employer told a wholly different story, about how he and his wife had had trouble with Patience from the beginning; about a constantstring of black boyfriends pestering her during working hours; on one occasion, he said, they’d even trapped her with a lover in their own bedroom. And while his wife had been in hospital things had gone from bad to worse, with Patience following him about the house and soliciting him, with the result that he’d been forced to sack her, paying her a fortnight’s notice money – the twenty rand produced in court. In an hysterical outburst she’d started tearing her own clothes, swearing she’d be revenged by accusing him of rape etc. Under oath his wife corroborated his evidence on Patience’s general behaviour. There were no other witnesses. The man was found not guilty and the regional magistrate severely reprimanded Patience.

  Now the family had heard that Ben was prepared to help the injured, and so Henry had come for help and redress.

  Ben was upset. Not only by the case as such but by the fact that Henry had chosen to come to him for help. He already had his hands full with Gordon and Jonathan – and suddenly everything he’d done so far appeared so inadequate anyway. Now there was this too.

  He could think of only one remedy. While Henry was waiting in the backyard Ben telephoned Dan Levinson and asked him to take over. Yes, of course he was prepared to pay for it.

  After Henry had left he tried to telephone Melanie at her office but the lines remained busy. That was reason enough to drive to town. It was a new Melanie he met this time, in the small cluttered office she shared with two others; telephones, telexes, piles of newspapers, people running in and out. A cool and crisp and very capable Melanie; direct and to the point in the hubbub surrounding her. Only for a few moments, isolated beside the coffee machine in the passage, did he recognise the warmth of the smile he’d known before.

  “I think you’ve done by far the best thing to refer it to Levinson,” she reassured him. “But I think it’s time we made an arrangement about money. You can’t go on paying for everything out of your own pocket.”

  “One more case won’t make so much difference.”

  Swinging back her hair in the gesture he remembered so well, she asked: “What makes you think Henry Maphuna will be the last to come to you for help? Now they know about you, Ben.”

  “How do they know?”

  She merely smiled, and said: “I’ll talk to the editor about funds. And don’t worry. We’ll keep it secret.”

  24 May. Stanley, earlier tonight. Hardly bothered to knock. When I looked up from my desk, he was standing there, blocking the doorway.

  “How’s it, lanie?”

  “Stanley! Any news?”

  “Well, depends. Tell you next week.”

  I looked at him quizzically.

  “I’m off on a trip, lanie. Botswana. Got some business there. Thought I’d just drop in and tell you, so you won’t get worried.”

  “What sort of business?”

  His boisterous laugh. “Leave it to me. You got your own troubles. So long.”

  “But where are you off to now? You haven’t even sat down yet.”

  “No time. I told you I just came to pay my respects.”

  He didn’t want me to go out with him. As suddenly as he’d appeared he was gone. For a brief minute my little study had been scintillating with extraordinary life: now, immediately afterwards, one could hardly believe it had happened.

  And even more than on the day I went to Melanie I was left with the burden of the unanswerable. In exactly the same way in which he’d entered into this room tonight and disappeared again, he’d come into my life; and one day, who knows, he’ll be gone just as suddenly. Where does he really come from? Where is he off to tonight? All I know about him is what he allows me to know. Nothing more, nothing less. A whole secret world surrounding him, of which I know next to nothing.

  Faith, she said. The jump in the dark.

  I must accept him on his own terms: that is all I have to go by.

  It was such a small report that Ben nearly missed it in the evening paper:

  Dr Suliman Hassiem, detained three months ago in terms of the Internal Security Act, was released by the Special Branch this morning, but immediately served with a banning order restricting him to the Johannesburg magisterial district.

  Dr Hassiem had been appointed to represent the Ngubene family at the autopsy on Mr Gordon Ngubene who died in custody in February, but as a result of his own detention he was unable to testify in the subsequent inquest.

  Ben had to restrain his impatience until the next day after school, when he had an appointment to discuss Henry Maphuna’s case with Dan Levinson. The lawyer gave him Dr Hassiem’s address. From the office he had to go home first, for his delayed lunch; and then back to school to give a hand with the coaching of the Under Fifteen rugby team. But just as he was preparing to leave the house the telephone rang. Linda. She had the habit of telephoning at odd times throughout the week, just for a chat.

  “How’s Father Christmas today?”

  “Busy as usual.”

  “What’s it this time? That fat new book on the Great Trek I saw on your desk last week?”

  “No, the poor thing is still lying untouched by human hand. I’ve got so many other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, well – I’m just on my way to rugby practice now. And then I’m going to see someone.” Linda was the only one he could unburden his heart to. “Remember that doctor who was to testify in Gordon’s inquest? The one who was detained. Well, they’ve let him out and I want to find out whether there’s anything new he can tell me.”

  “Do be careful, Daddy.”

  “I will. We’re making headway, you know. One of these days we’ll have all Gordon’s murderers lined up against a wall.”

  “Have you done anything about a new house for Emily? You said last time she would have to leave hers now that she’s a widow.”

  “Yes. But I’m holding that over to discuss with Grandpa when he’s here next week.”

  Some more small-talk, and then she rang off. But now that he’d talked to her he was in no mood for the rugby practice:there was so much of greater urgency to attend to. The strict timetable he’d obeyed for so many years was beginning to chafe him. And impulsively, almost impatiently, he drove to young Viviers’s flat near by and asked him to take his place in the practice. Too bad if Cloete was annoyed by the swop. Without wasting any more time he drove directly to the address Levinson had given him, heading south, out of the city, to the Asian township of Lenasia.

  How odd to think that for more than twenty years he’d been living in Johannesburg, yet it was only in recent months that he’d set foot in these other townships. Never before had it been necessary; it hadn’t even occurred to him. And now, all of a sudden, it was becoming part of a new routine.

  A little girl in a frilly white dress opened the door. Two thin plaits, red bows; large dark eyes in a small, prim face. Yes, she said, her father was at home, would he like to come in? She darted out, returning in a minute later with her father, hovering on the doorstep to watch them anxiously.

  Dr Hassiem was a tall, lean man in beige trousers and poloneck sweater; expressive hands. His face was very light-skinned, with delicate Oriental features and straight black hair falling across his forehead.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Doctor,” Ben said, ill at ease after he’d introduced himself. “But I saw in the paper that you’d been released.”

  One eyebrow flickered briefly; that was Hassiem’s only reaction.

  “I’m a friend of Gordon Ngubene’s.”

  Almost precipitate, but very polite, Dr Hassiem raised his hands: “The inquest is over, Mr Du Toit.”

  “Officially, yes. But I’m not so sure everything came to light that had to come out.”

  Unyielding, the doctor remained standing, pointedly neglecting to offer Ben a seat.

  “I know it may be painful to you, Doctor, but I must know what happened to Gordon.”


  “I’m sorry, I really can’t help you.”

  “You were present at the autopsy.”

  The doctor shrugged noncommittally.

  “Emily told me you felt Gordon may not have been strangled by the blanket he was hanging from.”

  “Really, Mr Du Toit—” Hurriedly, he walked over to the window, pulled the curtain aside and glanced out, a hunted look in his eyes. “I only came home yesterday. I’ve been detained for three months. I’m not allowed to come and go as I like.” With something cornered and helpless in his attitude he looked at the child standing on one leg in the doorway. “Go and play,Fatima.”

  Instead, she hurried to her father and grabbed one of his legs in both thin arms, peering round it, grimacing at Ben.

  “But don’t you realise, Doctor, if everybody can be silenced like this we’ll never find out what happened.”

  “I’m really very sorry.” Hassiem seemed to have made up his mind firmly. “But it would be better if you didn’t stay. Please forget that you ever came here.”

  “I’ll see to it that you are protected.”

  For the first time Hassiem smiled, but without losing his stern composure. “How can you protect me? How can anyone protect me?” Absently he pressed the child’s face against his knee. “How can I be sure you weren’t actually sent by them?”

  Ben looked round in dismay. “Why don’t you ask Emily?” he suggested feebly.

  The young physician made a move in the direction of the door, the girl still clinging to his leg like a leech. “I have nothing to say to you, Mr Du Toit.”

  Dejected, Ben turned round. In the doorway to the passage he stopped: “Tell me just one thing, Doctor,” he said. “Why did you sign the State Pathologist’s report on the autopsy if you drew up a report of your own as well?”

  Dr Hassiem was clearly caught unprepared. A sharp intake of breath. “What makes you think I signed Dr Jansen’s report? I never did.”