A Dry White Season (20 page)

Much later, Melanie got up and took his glass from him.

“Like some more?”

He shook his head.

For an instant she remained close to him, so close he could smell the slight scent of her perfume. Then she turned and left the room with the glasses, her dress swinging round her legs, her bare feet soundless on the floor. And in her soundlessness and the quiet grace of her movement he found something so intensely sensual that he could feel his face grow hot, his throat tautening. An awareness of him and her alone in this half-dark house, and the silent lustre of the light, the wealth of books, the stealthy shadows of the cats; and beyond the walls of the double room with its grotesque elephant tusks, there was the
suggestion, a mere subconscious stirring, of other rooms and other dusks and darknesses, available emptiness, beds, softness, silence. A consciousness, above all, of her, this young woman Melanie, moving, invisible, somewhere through those darknesses, familiar and relaxed on her bare feet, attainable, touchable, overwhelming in her frank and unevasive woman-ness.

Almost terrified, he rose. And when she came back, he said: “I didn’t realise it was so late. I’d better go.”

Without saying a word she turned to lead him back to the front door, and opened it. On the stoep it was quite dark, the day’s warmth still slumbering in the stone; she didn’t turn on the light.

“Why did you invite me in?” he asked suddenly. “Why did you take me away from the courtroom?”

“You were much too alone,” she said, with no hint of sentimentality in her voice, a simple statement.

“Good-bye, Melanie.”

“You must let me know if you decide to do anything,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Think it over first. Don’t rush it. But if you do decide to follow up Gordon’s case, and if you need me for anything” – she looked at him in the dark –"I’ll be glad to help.”

“I’m still too confused.”

“I know. But I’ll be here if you need me.”

He did not answer. His face was burning in the half-hearted brush of the evening breeze. She stayed behind as he went to the car. There was an unreasonable, ridiculous urge in him to turn back and go into the house with her and close the door behind them, shutting out the world; but he knew it was impossible. She herself would send him back into the very world she’d delivered herself to. And without daring even to wave, he hurried through the rusty gate and got into his car. He switched on the ignition, drove a few yards uphill, turned into a driveway, and came back down the incline, past her house. He couldn’t see whether she was still standing there. But he knew she had to be somewhere in the dark.
“Where have you been? Why are you so late?” Susan asked, vexed and reproachful, as he came from the garage. “I was beginning to think something had happened to you. I was on the point of phoning the police. ”

“Why would something happen to me?” he asked, peeved.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“I just couldn’t come straight home, Susan.” He wanted to evade her, but she remained standing in the kitchen door, the light behind her. “The court gave its verdict this afternoon. ”

“I know. I heard on the news. ”

“Then you must understand. ”

She looked at him in sudden suspicion and revulsion: “You smell of liquor.”

“I’m sorry. “ He made no effort to explain.

Indignant, she stood aside to let him pass. But as he came into the kitchen she relented: “I knew you would be tired. I made you some
bobotie.”

Grateful and guilty, he looked at her. “You shouldn’t have taken the trouble.”

“Johan had to eat early, he went to the chess club. But I’ve kept ours.”

“Thanks, Susan.”

She was waiting in the dining room when he came from the bathroom, his hair damp, his mouth prickling with toothpaste. She had taken the silver out, and opened
Château Libertas,
and lit some candles.

“What’s all this for?” he asked.

“I knew the case would upset you, Ben. And I thought the two of us deserved a quiet evening together. ”

He sat down. Mechanically she offered him her hand for the evening prayer; then she dished up the minced meat, rice and vegetables in her brisk, efficient way. He felt like saying:
Really, Susan, I’m not hungry at all
. But he didn’t dare to; and for her sake he pretended to enjoy it, in spite of weariness lying like a heavy lump in his stomach, weighing him down.

She was talking brightly, eagerly, deliberately trying to humour him and make him relax; but with the opposite effect. Linda had telephoned and sent him her love; unfortunately she and Pieter wouldn’t be able to come over the next weekend, he
was working on a Bible-study course. Susan’s mother had also phoned, from the Cape. Father had to open some administrative building in Vanderbijlpark in a few weeks’ time and they would try to stay over. Ben resigned himself to the flow of her conversation, too tired to resist.

But she became aware of it, and stopped in the middle of a sentence to look at him sharply. “Ben, you’re not listening.”

He looked up, startled. “Pardon?” Then he sighed. “I’m sorry, Susan. I’m really flaked tonight.”

“I’m so glad it’s over now,” she said with sudden emotion, putting her hand on his. “You’ve had me worried lately. You mustn’t take these things to heart so much. Anyway, it’ll be better now.”

“Better?” he asked, surprised. “I thought you said you’d heard the news of the verdict? After everything that had come out in the inquest.”

“The magistrate had all the facts, Ben,” she said soothingly.

“I heard them too!” he said angrily. “And let me tell you—”

“You’re a layman like the rest of us,” she said patiently. “What do we know about the law?”

“What does the magistrate know about it?” he asked. “He’s not a jurist either. He’s just a civil servant.”

“He must know what he’s doing, he’s had years of experience.” With a steady smile: “Now come on, Ben, the case has run its course and now it’s over. Nobody can do anything about it.”

“They killed Gordon,” he said. “First they killed Jonathan, then him. How can they get away with it?”

“If they’d been guilty the court would have said so. I was just as shocked as you were when we heard about Gordon’s death, Ben. But it’s no use dwelling on it.” She pressed his hand more urgently. “It’s all over and done with now. You’re home again. Now you can settle down like before.” With a smile – trying to encourage him or herself?- she insisted: “Now finish your food and let’s go to bed. Once you’ve had a good sleep you’ll be your old self again.”

He didn’t answer. Absently he sat listening, as if he couldn’t understand what she was talking about; as if it were a different language.

6

On Sunday morning the photograph of Emily embracing Ben was splashed on the front page of an English newspaper with a banner headline,
The face of grief,
and a caption which briefly summarised the facts of the inquest (report on page two), referring to “Mrs Emily Ngubene, wife of the man who died in detention, comforted by a friend of the family, Mr Ben Du Toit".

It annoyed him, but he couldn’t care much. It was something of an embarrassment, such a public display in a newspaper; but the woman had been beside herself, she’d obviously acted without knowing what she was doing.

But Susan was upset. So much, in fact, that she didn’t want to go to church that morning.

“How can I sit there feeling everybody staring at us? What will people think of you?”

“Come on, Susan. I agree it was quite uncalled for to splash it like that, but what does it really matter? What else could I do?”

“If you’d kept out of it from the beginning you wouldn’t have brought this shame over us now. Do you realise what problems it may cause my father?”

“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Susan.”

But later in the day the telephone started ringing. A couple of amused, teasing friends who asked Susan whether Ben had “acquired a new fancy"; one or two – including young Viviers – who wanted to assure them of their sympathy and support. But the others, almost without exception, were negative, some openly hostile. The school principal was particularly abrasive in his comment: Did Ben appreciate that he was an employee of the Department of Education and that political action by teachers was severely frowned on?

“But Mr Cloete, what on earth has it got to do with politics? The woman lost her husband. She was shattered with grief.”

“A
black
woman, Du Toit,” Cloete said coolly.

He lost his temper: “I can’t see that it makes any difference.”

“Have you grown colour blind then?” Cloete was gasping for breath in his characteristic asthmatic way. “And then you say it’s not politics? What about the Immorality laws of the country?”

One of Ben’s colleagues among the church elders, Hartzenberg, telephoned shortly after the morning service: “I’m not surprised you weren’t in church this morning,” he said, apparently in a clumsy effort to jest. “Too ashamed to show your face, I suppose?”

What hurt more deeply, was Suzette’s call over lunch: “Good heavens, Dad, I always knew you were naive, but this is going too far. Embracing black women in public!”

“Suzette,” he retorted angrily, “if you had any sense of perspective—”

“Who’s talking about a sense of perspective?” she interrupted scathingly. “Did you spare one single thought for the repercussions this may have for your children?”

“I’ve always shown rather more consideration for my children than you have for yours, Suzette.” It sounded more vicious than he’d meant it to be; but he was getting sick and tired of the whole business.

“It wasn’t Suzette you were talking to like that, was it?” asked Susan, as he sat down at the table again.

“Yes, it was. I was expecting more commonsense from her.”

“Don’t you think there’s something wrong if the whole world seems to be out of step with you?” she asked sharply.

“Can’t you leave Dad alone?” Johan burst out unexpectedly. “For Heaven’s sake, what’s he done wrong? Suppose something had happened to him – wouldn’t you have been upset too?”

“I certainly wouldn’t have thrown myself into the garden boy’s arms!” she said icily.

“Now you’re exaggerating,” Ben reprimanded her.

“Who started it, I wonder?”

The telephone rang again. This time it was his sister Helena, married to an industrialist. More amused than anything else, even she couldn’t suppress a touch of venom: “Well I never! All these years you’ve been accusing me of seeking publicity whenever a photographer happened to recognise me at a reception or
something – now look at you!”

“I don’t think it’s funny, Helena.”

“I think it’s priceless. Except there must be easier ways of getting your picture in the papers.”

Even Linda offered a gentle reproach when she phoned in the early evening: “Daddy, I know you meant well, but surely it’s better to stay out of the newspapers if you’re really sincere about wanting to help people?”

“Sounds like one of Pieter’s arguments,” he said, unable to hide his chagrin. All day he’d been waiting for her to call, convinced that she, of all people, would understand.

Linda was silent for a moment. Then she admitted: “Actually, it
was
Pieter who pointed it out. But I agree with him.”

“Do you really think I specially arranged for the photographers to be present, Linda?”

“No, of course not!” In his mind he could see her blushing with indignation. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I didn’t mean to make it more difficult for you. But it has been a rather depressing day for me.”

“In what way?” Immediately all his concern was directed to her.

“Oh well, you know. All the other students … They didn’t exactly make it easier for me. And it’s useless to try and argue with them.”

One telephone call never came. Not that he’d expected it; it was unthinkable. And yet throughout that oppressive day she had been the one closest to him, as acutely present in his thoughts as she had been in the shadows and dull light of the old house in Westdene two nights before.

After Linda’s call he unplugged the telephone and went out for a walk. The streets were deserted and the peaceful evening brought more rest to his turbulent thoughts.

Susan was already in the bedroom when he came back; seated in front of her mirror in her night-dress, her face drawn and pale without make-up.

“You going to bed already?” he asked, unable to repress a feeling of guilt.

“Don’t you think I’ve had enough for one day?”

“Please try to understand,” he said, half-heartedly raising
his hands towards her, but allowing them to drop back.

“I’m tired of trying.”