A Dry White Season (12 page)

“It’s a terrible thing that happened,” said Ben awkwardly.

“Well, we knew it was going to happen, didn’t we?”

Ben was shocked by Stanley’s nonchalance. “How can you say that? I was hoping all the time—”

“You’re white.” As if that summarised everything. “Hope comes easy to you. You’re used to it.”

“Surely that’s got nothing to do with black or white!”

“Don’t be so sure.” For a moment his violent laugh filled the small room.

“When will he be buried?” asked Ben, deliberately changing the subject.

“Not before Sunday. We’re still waiting for the body. They said tomorrow or the day after.”

“Is there anything I can do? I’d like to help with the funeral arrangements. Anything.”

“It’s all done.”

“What about the cost? Funerals are expensive these days.”

“He had an insurance book. And he’s got many brothers.”

“I didn’t know he had any.”

“I’m his brother, man. We all are.” Once again, unexpected and uninvited, his great booming voice exploded with laughter which caused the walls to tremble.

“When did they break the news to Emily?” he asked in a bid to stop the bellowing.

“They never came.” Stanley turned to spit through the open door.

“What do you mean? Didn’t they send a message?”

“She heard it on the wireless like the rest of us.”

“What!”

“The lawyer phoned the next day to find out. The cops said they were sorry, they didn’t know where to contact her.”

In the heavy silence, suddenly realising that they were still standing, he made a half-hearted gesture towards one of the two easy chairs he’d taken over when Susan had bought a new suite for the lounge. “Do sit down.”

Stanley promptly lowered his heavy body into one of the floral chairs.

For a time they were silent. Then Ben got up again to fetch
his pipe from the desk. “I’m sorry I don’t have any cigarettes,” he apologised.

“That’s all right. I got some.”

After a while Ben asked: “Why did Emily send you? Is there something she’d like me to do?”

“Nothing much.” Stanley crossed his massive legs. One trouser leg was pulled up, revealing a red sock above the white shoe. “I had to come this way for a fare, so she asked me to drop in. Just to tell you not to worry.”

“My God, why should she be thinking about
me?”

“Search me.” He grinned and blew out a series of smoke circles.

“Stanley, how did you meet Gordon and his family? For how long have you been friends? How come you’re always there when they need help?”

A laugh. “I got a car, man. Don’t you know?”

“What difference does a car make?”

“All the diff in the world,
lanie.”
That name again, like a small fierce ball of clay from a clay-stick hitting one right between the eyes. Stanley changed into a more comfortable position. “If you got a taxi like me, you’re right there, man. All the time. I mean, here you get a bloke
pasa’
d by the tsotsis, so you pick him up and take him home, or you take him to Baragwanath Hospital. There you get one passed out from
atshitshi:
same thing. Or a chap who drank too much divorce in a beer-hall. Others looking for
phata-phata”
– illustrated by pushing his thumb through two fingers in the immemorial sign – “so you find them a
skarapafet.
A whore. See what I mean? You’re on the spot, man. You pick them up, you listen to their sob stories, you’re their bank when they need some
magageba”-
rubbing his fingers together-“all the time, I tell you. You got a taxi, you’re the first to know when the
gattes
are coming on a raid, so you can warn your pals. You know every blackjack, you know his price. You know where to find a place to sleep or a place to hide. You know the shebeens. Man needs a
stinka,
he comes straight to you.”

“A
stinka?”

Gleeful, perhaps not without disdain, Stanley stared at him, then laughed again. “A reference book, man. A
domboek.
A pass.”

“And you met Gordon long ago?”

“Too much. When Jonathan was just so high.” He held out his hand, a foot or two from the floor. Behind his resounding laugh, moving like shadows, were all the things he left unsaid.

“Are you a Xhosa too?”

“Jesus, what do you take me for?” Another bellow. “I’m a Zulu,
lanie.
Don’t you know? My father brought me from Zululand when I was a child.” Suddenly confidential, he leaned over and stubbed out his cigarette. “You listen to me,
lanie:
one of these days I’m taking my children back there. It’s no place for kids here in the city.”

“I wish I’d taken my own children away from here when they were small,” said Ben passionately. “They would have had a different sort of life then.”

“Why?” asked Stanley. “This is your place, isn’t it? It’s your city. You made it.”

Ben shook his head. For a long time he sat staring at his pipe-smoke in silence. “No, it’s not my place. Where I grew up”-he smiled briefly –” you know, I was fourteen years old before I put shoes on my feet. Except for church. You should have seen my soles, thick and hard from walking in the veld watching the sheep.”

“I looked after the cattle when I was small.” Stanley grinned, revealing his strong white teeth. “We used to have great fights with
kieries
down at the water.”

“We fought with clay-sticks.”

“And made clay oxen. And roasted tortoises.”

“And robbed birds’ nests and caught snakes.”

They both burst out laughing, without really knowing why. Something had changed, in a manner inconceivable only a few minutes earlier.

“Well, at least we both managed to survive in the city,” Stanley said at last.

“You probably succeeded better than I did.”

“You kidding?”

“I mean it,” said Ben. “You think I found it easy to adapt?”

Stanley’s sardonic grin stopped him. Concealing the sudden pang of embarrassment Ben said: “Would you like some coffee?”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, don’t bother. You stay here.” (Thinking:
Susan …)
“I won’t be long.” Without waiting he went out. The grass was soft and springy under his feet; it had been cut that afternoon and the green smell lay heavily on the night breeze. To his relief he heard Susan in the bathroom, safely out of the way.

When the kettle started boiling he had a moment of uncertainty. Should he offer Stanley one of the new cups Susan used for guests, or an old one? It was the first time in his life he had to entertain a black visitor. Annoyed by his own indecision he opened and shut the cupboard doors aimlessly. In the end, picking two old, unmatched cups and saucers no longer in use, he measured out the teaspoons of instant coffee and poured boiling water into the cups. He put milk and sugar on the tray and, almost guiltily, hurried out of the kitchen.

Stanley was standing in front of a bookshelf, his back turned to the door.

“So you’re a history man?”

“In a way, yes.” He put the tray on a corner of the desk. “Help yourself.”

“Ta.” Then, laughing, with what seemed to be deliberate provocation: “And what has all your history taught you?”

Ben shrugged.

“Fuck-all,” Stanley replied on his behalf, returning to his chair. “You want to know why? Because you
lanies
keep thinking history is made right here where you are and noplace else. Why don’t you come with me one day, I’ll show you what history really looks like. Bare-arsed history, stinking with life. Over at my place, in Sofasonke City.”

“I want to, Stanley,” Ben said gravely. “I must see Gordon before he’s buried.”

“No ways.”

“Don’t back out now. You’ve just said I should go. And I’ve got to see Gordon.”

“He won’t be a pretty sight. What with the post mortem and everything.”

“Please, Stanley!”

The big man stared at him intently for a moment, then leaned over to take one of the cups, adding four teaspoons of
sugar. “Thanks,” he said evasively, beginning to stir his coffee. Adding in a mocking voice: “You know, your wife didn’t even want to open the door for me.”

“Well, it was very late. She’s never seen you before. You must realise—”

“Don’t apologise, man.” Stanley laughed, spilling some of his coffee into the saucer. “You think
my
wife would have opened this time of the night?” He made a slurping sound as he tested the heat of his cup on his lips. “Except for the
gattes,
of course. The cops.”

“Surely you’re not bothered by the police?”

“Why not?” He laughed again. “Never a dull moment, take it from me. I know how to handle them. But that doesn’t mean they leave me in peace. All hours of the night, man. Sometimes for the pure hell of it. I’m not complaining, mind you. Actually” –a broad smile – “actually, every time I see them, I feel a great relief in my guts. Real gratitude, man. I mean, hell: it’s only because they’re so considerate that the lot of us, me, my wife, my kids, aren’t in jail.” He was silent for sometime, gazing through the open door as if he saw something amusing outside in the dark. At last he looked back at Ben. “Years ago, when I was still a youngster, it was touch and go. You know what it’s like when you got a widow for a mother, your father is dead, your sister lines with the
rawurawu,
the gangsters, and your brother – “ He took a big gulp. “That
bra
of mine was a real tsotsi, man. He was my hero, I tell you. I wanted to do everything Shorty and his gang did. But then they caught him. Zap, one time.”

“What for?”

“You name it. The works, left, right and centre. Robbery. Assault. Rape. Even murder. He was a
roerie guluva,
I tell you,
lanie.”

Ben avoided his eyes and stared into the night; but what he saw there, he felt, was different from what Stanley had imagined.

“And then?” he asked.

“Got the rope, what else?”

“You mean—?”

“Ja. Round his neck.”

“I’m sorry.”

Stanley guffawed. “What the hell for?” He removed the dark glasses from his forehead to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes. “What’s it to you?”

Ben leaned over to replace his cup on the tray.

“I went to see him, you know,” Stanley resumed, unexpectedly. “A week before he got the rope. Just to say good-bye and happy landings and so on. We had a good chat. Funny thing, man. You see, Shorty never was a talkative sort. But that day it was a proper spring-cleaning. More than twenty years ago, but I still remember it. Snot and tears. About life in jail. And being scared of dying. That tough
bra
of mine who’d never feared hell or high water. Told me about the way the condemns would sing before they were hanged. Non-stop all through the last week, day and night. Even on the very last morning as they went out to the gallows. Shitting in their pants. But singing.” Stanley suddenly appeared embarrassed by his own frankness.
“Ag,
fuck it,” he said. “Let bygones be bygones, man. Anyway, I went home to my mother to tell her about my talk with Shorty. She was standing there in the
mbawula,
in the goddam little shack we were living in those days, the whole place filled with smoke, and she coughing as she stood there making porridge. I can still see it as I sit here. The paraffin box covered with newsprint, and the primus, and the bucket standing on the floor, and a photo of our kraal’s chief on the wall. And the boxes and suitcases under the bed, high up on its bricks. She said: ‘Is it all right with Shorty?’ And I said: ‘He’s all right, Ma. He’s just fine.’ How could I tell her he was condemned for the next week?”

After that they didn’t speak for several minutes.

“Some more coffee?” Ben finally asked.

“No, thanks. I got to go.” Stanley got up.

“Will you let me know when Gordon’s body is released?”

“If you want to.”

“And then you’ll take me to Soweto?”

“I told you it’s no use, man. There were riots all over the place, you forgot? Don’t look for trouble. You’re out of it, so why don’t you stay out?”

“Don’t you understand I’ve got to go?”

“I warned you,
lanie”

“I’ll be all right. With you.”

For a long time Stanley stared fiercely into his eyes. Then, brusquely, he said: “All right then.”

That had been two nights ago. And now they were on their way. Soon after they’d passed the old Crown Mines, near the power station, Stanley turned off the main road and started picking his way through a maze of dusty tracks running through a wasteland of eroded mine-dumps. (“Keep your eyes open for the vans. They’re patrolling all the time.”)