A Dry White Season Page 6

  Susan entered so quietly with the tray that he only became aware of her when she put it down on the desk. She’d had her bath and her body still suggested the luxury of nakedness and warm water. A loose floral housecoat. Her hair undone and brushed, a slightly unnatural blond hiding the first touches of grey.

  “Haven’t you finished marking?”

  “I can’t concentrate tonight.”

  “Are you coming to bed?”

  “In a while.”

  “What’s the matter, Ben?”

  “It’s this business of Gordon’s.”

  “Why do you take it to heart so much? You said yourself it was only a mistake.”

  “I don’t know. I’m just tired, I suppose. At this time of the night things don’t look the same.”

  “You’ll feel better once you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

  “I said I’d come in a while.”

  “It really has nothing to do with you, Ben. It will get sorted out, you know.”

  He wasn’t looking at her. He was gazing at the red pen, motionless and menacing on the unmarked script.

  “One always reads about this sort of thing,” he said absently. “One hears so many things. But it remains part of a totally different world really. One never expects it to happen to someone you actually know.”

  “It’s not as if you knew Gordon well. He was just a cleaner at your school.”

  “I know. But one can’t help wondering, can one? Where is he tonight while we’re talking here in this room? Where is he sleeping? Or isn’t he sleeping at all? Perhaps he’s standing in some office under a bare bulb, his feet on bricks and a weight tied to his balls.”

  “It’s not necessary to be obscene.”

  “I’m sorry. “He sighed.

  “Your imagination is running wild. Why don’t you rather come to bed with me?”

  He looked up quickly, his attention caught by something in her voice; aware of her warmth of body and bath, her scent. Behind the loose folds of the housecoat the subtle promise of her breasts and belly. It wasn’t often she conveyed it so openly.

  “I’ll be coming just now.”

  She was quiet for a while. Then, drawing the housecoat more tightly round her, she tied up her belt.

  “Don’t let your coffee get cold.”

  “No. Thank you, Susan.”

  After she’d gone out he could hear the gentle dripping of the gutters again. The small and intimate wet sounds of the departed rain.

  Tomorrow he would go to John Vorster Square himself, he thought. He would talk to them personally. In a way he owed it to Gordon. It was little enough. A brief conversation to correct a misunderstanding. For what else could it be but a regrettable, reparable mistake?

  5

  At the wrong end of Commissioner Street, leaving the centre behind you, where the city grows toothless and down-at-heel, with peeling, barely legible ads for Tiger Balm and Chinese preparations on the blank walls beyond gaping vacant lots and holes and broken bottles, the building appears oddly out of place: tall and severely rectilinear, concrete and glass, blue, massive; yet hollow and transparent enough to offer an unreal view of the cars travelling on the high fly-over of the MI beyond. Constables loitering on the pavement with deliberate idleness. Cypresses and aloes. A hospital atmosphere inside. Stern corridors; open doors revealing men writing at desks in small offices; shut doors; blank walls. At the back, in the parking basement, the blank lift without buttons or controls, shooting upwards to a predetermined floor the moment you enter. Television cameras following your movements. On the high floor the bulletproof glass cage, the thickset man in uniform watching you suspiciously while you write down the particulars required.

  “Just a minute.”

  An unduly long minute. Then you are invited to follow him, through the clanging iron gate which is carefully locked behind you, effectively severing all links with the world outside.

  “Colonel Viljoen. I’ve brought the gentleman.”

  Behind the table in the centre of the office, the middle-aged man pushing back his chair and getting up to greet you. “Come in, Mr Du Toit. How do you do?” Friendly ruddy face; grey crew-cut.

  “Meet Lieutenant Venter.” That’s the young well-built bloke with the dark curly hair at the window, paging through a magazine and smiling a boyish welcome. Safari suit. Large tanned hair legs. A comb protruding from the top of a pale blue stocking.

  Colonel Viljoen gestures towards the person beside the door: “Captain Stolz.” The man nods, unsmiling. Tall, lean, checkered sports jacket, olive green shirt and matching tie, grey flannels. Unlike his colleague he does not need the pretence of a magazine as he leans against the wall, playing with an orange which he throws up and catches, and throws up and catches monotonously; and every time it lands in his white hand he pauses momentarily to squeeze it briefly, voluptuously, his gaze unflinching on your face. He remains uncomfortably out of sight behind your back when you sit down on the chair the colonel has offered you. On the table you notice a small framed photograph of a woman with a pleasant, shapeless face, and two small blond boys with missing front teeth.

  “It seems you’re having problems.”

  “Not really, Colonel. I just wanted to come and see you to find out – to discuss this Gordon you’ve arrested. Gordon Ngubene.”

  The colonel looks at the piece of paper before him, carefully flattening it with his palm. “I see. Well, if there’s anything we can do—”

  “I thought I might be in a position to help you. I mean, in case there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “What makes you think there may have been a misunderstanding?”

  “Because I know Gordon well enough to assure you … You see, he just isn’t the sort of man to fall foul of the law. An honest, decent man. A churchgoing man.”

  “You’ll be surprised to know how many honest, decent churchgoing men we come across, Mr Du Toit.” The colonel leaned back comfortably, balancing on the back legs of his chair. “Still, I appreciate your willingness to help us. I can assure you that with the necessary co-operation on his part he’ll be back with his family very soon.”

  “Thank you, Colonel.” You would like to accept it implicitly, to acknowledge relief, yet you find it necessary to persist, in the urgent belief that you may be frank with this man in front of you. He is a family man like yourself, he has seen the good and bad of life, he may well be a few years older than yourself; it would come as no surprise to see him among the elders in church on a Sunday. “What is it you’re really after, Colonel? I must admit that I was quite dumbfounded by his arrest.”

  “A routine enquiry, Mr Du Toit. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we can’t leave a stone unturned in trying to clean up the townships.”

  “Of course. But if you could only tell me—”

  “And it’s not a pleasant task either, I assure you. We cannot raise a finger without the press screaming blue murder. Especially the English press. It’s so easy for them to criticise from outside, isn’t it? Whereas they’ll be the first to squeal if the Communists took over. I wish I were in a position to tell you about some of the things we’ve been uncovering since the riots started. Have you any idea of what will happen to the country unless we investigated every possible lead we get? We’ve got a duty, an obligation to all our people, Mr Du Toit. You have your job, we have ours.”

  “I appreciate it, Colonel.” There is the curious feeling, in such a situation, of being an accused yourself; uncomfortably, you become aware of sinister undertones to everything you say. “But from time to time one needs the assurance – and that’s what I’ve come for – that in your search for criminals you do not also, unwittingly, cause innocent people to suffer.”

  It is very quiet in the office. There are steel bars in front of the window. It hits you in the solar plexus. Suddenly you realise that the friendly chap with the curly hair and the safari suit hasn’t turned a page in his magazine since you arrived. And you start wondering, your neck itchi
ng, about the thin man in the checkered jacket behind your back. You cannot restrain yourself from turning to look. He is still standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, the orange moving up and down in a slow mechanical rhythm, his eyes cool and frank, as if he hasn’t looked away for a second. Strangely dark eyes for such a pale face. The thin white line of a scar on his cheek. And all of a sudden you know. You’d better memorize the name. Captain Stolz. His presence is not fortuitous. He has a role to play; and you will see him again. You know.

  “Mr Du Toit,” says Colonel Viljoen at the table. “While you’re here, would you mind if I asked you a few questions about Gordon Ngubene?”

  “I’d welcome it.”

  “For how long have you known him?”

  “Oh, years and years. Fifteen or sixteen, I think. And in all that time—”

  “What work did he do at your school?”

  “He was appointed as cleaner. But because he could read and write he also helped out in the stockroom and so on. Totally reliable. I remember once or twice when the Department accidentally overpaid him, he immediately brought back the rest.”

  The colonel has opened a file and picked up a yellow ballpoint pen, but apart from doodling on a blank page he isn’t writing down anything.

  “Have you ever met the other members of his family?”

  “His wife sometimes visited us. And his eldest son.”

  Why this sudden tension in your jaws when you utter the words? Why this feeling of divulging incriminating information–and suppressing other facts? Behind you, you know, the lanky officer is watching you with his unflinching, feverish eyes while the orange is being thrown and caught and gently pressed and thrown again.

  “You’re referring to Jonathan?”

  “Yes.” You cannot help adding, with a touch of malice: “The one who died some time ago.”

  “What do you know about Gordon’s activities since Jonathan’s death?”

  “Nothing. I never saw him again. He resigned his job at the school.”

  “Yet you feel you know him well enough to vouch for him?”

  “Yes. After so many years.”

  “Did he ever discuss Jonathan’s death with you?”

  What should you reply? What is he expecting you to say? After a moment’s hesitation you say, laconically: “No, never.”

  “Are you quite sure, Mr Du Toit? I mean, if you really knew him so well—?”

  “I don’t remember. I told you he was a religious man.” – Why the past tense, following Stanley’s example? – “I’m sure he would have learnt to resign himself to it in the end.”

  “You mean he wasn’t resigned in the beginning? What was he, Mr Du Toit? Angry? Rebellious?”

  “Colonel, if one of your children were to die so unexpectedly” – you indicate, with your head, the photograph on the table – “and if no one was prepared to tell you how it happened, wouldn’t you be upset too?”

  A sudden change of approach: “What attracted you to Gordon in the first place, Mr Du Toit?”

  “Nothing in particular, I’m sure.” Are you once again suppressing something of which you’re not even conscious? “We exchanged a few remarks from time to time. When he was short of money I sometimes lent him a rand or two.”

  “And you paid for Jonathan’s education?”

  “Yes. He was a promising pupil. I thought it would be better for him to go to school than to loiter on the streets.”

  “Not that it made much difference in the end, did it?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  There is something very sincere and confidential in the officer’s attitude as he shakes his head and says: “That’s what I fail to understand. Look at everything the Government’s doing for them – and all they can think of in return is to burn down and destroy whatever they can lay their hands on. In the end they’re the ones who suffer for it.”

  Half-heartedly, dejectedly, you shrug your shoulders.

  “No white child would behave like that,” he persists. “Don’t you agree, Mr Du Toit?”

  “I don’t know. It all depends, I suppose.” Another surge of resentment, stronger than before. “But if you were given the choice, Colonel: wouldn’t you rather be a white child in this country than a black one?”

  Is there the shadow of a movement behind your back? Once again you cannot resist the urge to turn your head to see Captain Stolz still watching you, immobile except for his slow and studied juggling act with the orange; as if he hasn’t even blinked in the interval. And when you turn back, there is an engaging smile on the face of the brawny young man with the Scope on his lap.

  “I think that more or less covers it,” says Colonel Viljoen, putting his pen down on the ruled page covered with meticulous doodles. “Thank you very much for your co-operation, Mr Du Toit.”

  You get up, frustrated and foolish, but hopeful in spite of everything. “May I take it, then, that Gordon will be released soon?”

  “As soon as we’re satisfied he’s innocent.” He rises to his feet and offers his hand, smiling. “I assure you we know what we’re doing, Mr Du Toit – and it’s for your own good too. To make sure you and your family can sleep peacefully at night.”

  He accompanies you to the door. Lieutenant Venter raises his hand in a cordial greeting; Captain Stolz nods, unsmiling.

  “May I ask you one last favour, Colonel?”

  “By all means.”

  “Gordon’s wife and children are very worried about him. It would make things easier for them if they could be allowed to bring him food and a change of clothing while he’s still here.”

  “He’s certainly fed well enough. But if they feel they’d like to bring him some clothes from time to time – ” He draws up his broad shoulders. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. I’ll rely on you then.”

  “Will you find your way out?”

  “I think so. Thanks. Good bye.”

  6

  Minor ripples of Ben’s preoccupation with Gordon were beginning to affect the members of his family, almost imperceptibly in the beginning.

  The two little blond girls of years ago had both grown up and left home by then. Suzette, always “her mother’s child", an effortless and charming achiever in music and ballet and the hundred and one other activities Susan had chosen for them, must have been about twenty-five or twenty-six at the time, married to an up-and-coming young Pretoria architect who was beginning to win major contracts from the Transvaal Provincial Administration for some of their more spectacular projects. After completing her B.A. in Pretoria she’d obtained a diploma in commercial art, spent two years working for an exclusively female advertising company, and then accepted a top editorial post with a newly-launched glossy interior decoration magazine. The work involved regular business trips, most of them abroad, which didn’t leave her much time for attending to the needs of the baby boy she’d produced in between her other activities. It annoyed and pained Ben, and it must have been roughly about that time, just after Suzette had returned from yet another trip to the U.S. and Brazil, that he spoke to her rather pointedly about the matter. As usual, she shrugged it off.

  “Don’t worry, Dad. Chris has got so many conferences and consultations and things of his own, he hardly notices whether I’m home or not. And there’s someone to look after the baby; he gets all the attention he needs.”

  “But you assumed certain responsibilities the day you got married, Suzette!”

  Smiling, she pulled a mocking face and ruffled his thinning hair: “You’re really an old stick-in-the-mud, Dad.”

  “Don’t underestimate your father,” Susan said, entering at that moment with their tea tray. “He’s developed an extramural interest of his own lately.”

  “What’s that?” Suzette asked, intrigued.

  “Champion for political detainees.” Susan’s voice was cool and hard: not deliberately sneering, but with a smooth edge acquired through many years.

  “Now y
ou’re exaggerating, Susan!” He reacted more sharply than one would have thought necessary. “I’m only concerned with Gordon. And you know very well why.”

  Suzette burst out laughing before he’d finished. “Are you trying to tell me you’re turning into James Bond in your old age? Or is it The Saint?”

  “I don’t think it’s very funny, Suzette.”

  “Oh but I do.” Another calculated ruffling of his hair. “The role doesn’t suit you, Dad. Drop it. Just be the sweet old square we’ve grown so fond of.”

  Linda was easier to manage. She’d always been “his” child, from the time when, as a baby, Susan had been too ill to attend to her. She’d grown into an attractive girl – about twenty-one at that stage – but less strikingly beautiful than her sister. More of an introvert; and, since puberty, when she’d survived a serious illness, deeply religious. A pleasant, well-adapted girl above all, an “uncomplicated” person. Holidays or weekends when she was home from university she often accompanied Ben when he went jogging in the morning, or on his late afternoon walks. In her second year at university she’d met Pieter Els, much older than she was and studying theology; soon afterwards she changed courses, abandoning the idea of teaching and turning to social work so that she would be better qualified to help Pieter one day. Ben never openly opposed the kind, somewhat colourless young man; yet Pieter’s presence made him feel more inhibited towards Linda as if he resented, in anticipation, the idea of losing her. Pieter was determined to become a missionary. During the first year or two after he’d completed his university course he worked among the Ndebele near Pretoria; but his real ideal was to spread the Gospel further afield in Africa or the Far East, saving souls in a world rapidly approaching its doom. It was not that Ben despised his idealism, but he did regard it as somewhat exaggerated, cringing at the idea of the inevitable suffering and deprivation it would cause his daughter.