A Dry White Season (30 page)

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.”

“I thought as much. But the report produced in court had both your signatures on it.”

“Impossible.”

Ben looked at him.

Dr Hassiem picked up the little girl, holding her on his hip. He came towards Ben. “Are you trying to bluff me?”

“No, it’s true.” Adding with sudden passion: “Dr Hassiem, I’ve got to know what happened to Gordon. And I know you can help me.”

“Sit down,” the doctor said abruptly. He briefly hugged the child, then persuaded her to go and play. For a while the two of them sat in silence in the quiet lounge. The clock on the wall went on ticking, unperturbed.

“What did you write in your report?” asked Ben.

“We didn’t differ much on the facts,” said Dr Hassiem. “After all, we were examining the same body at the same time. But there were differences in interpretation.”

“For example?”

“Well, I thought that if Gordon had really been hanged the marks on his throat would have been concentrated on the front.” He touched his larynx with the long slender fingers of one hand. “But in this case the bruises were more obvious on the sides.” Another gesture. He got up to fetch cigarettes from the mantlepiece; after a brief hesitation he glanced through the window again before returning to his chair and offering Ben the packet.

“No thanks. I prefer my pipe, if I may.”

“By all means.”

For a while it seemed as if Dr Hassiem wasn’t going to say anything more; perhaps he was regretting what he’d divulged already. But then he resumed:

“It was something else that really upset me. Perhaps it isn’t important.”

“What was it?” Ben demanded.

Perched on the very edge of his chair, Hassiem leaned forward. “You see, through a misunderstanding I arrived at the morgue too early for the autopsy. There wasn’t a soul around, except for a young attendant. When I told him I’d come for the autopsy he let me in. The body was lying on the table. Clothed in grey trousers and a red jersey.”

Ben made a gesture of surprise, but the doctor stopped him.

“There was something else,” he said. “The jersey was covered in tiny white threads. You know, the sort one finds on a towel. That set me thinking.”

“And then?” Ben asked, excited.

“I didn’t have time to examine anything properly. As a matter of fact, I’d hardly bent over the body when a police officer came to call me. Said I wasn’t allowed in the morgue under any circumstances before Dr Jansen arrived. He took me to an office where we had tea. About half an hour later Dr Jansen was brought in and the two of us went back to the morgue. This time the body was naked. I enquired about it, but no one knew anything about it. Afterwards I found the attendant in the passage and asked him what had happened. He said he’d been given instructions ‘to prepare the corpse', but he knew nothing about the clothes.”

“Did you put that in your report?”

“Of course. I found it most odd.” His nervousness returned; he got up. That’s all I can tell you, Mr Du Toit. I know absolutely nothing more.”

This time Ben meekly allowed the man to lead him to the front door.

“I may come back to you,” he said, “if I manage to find out more about this.”

Dr Hassiem smiled without saying yes or no.

Ben drove home in the dusty afternoon.

The next day’s evening paper reported briefly that Dr Suliman Hassiem and his family had been transported by the Security Police to a destination in the Northern Transvaal. His banning order had been amended by the minister to ensure that for the next five years he would not be allowed to leave the Pietersburg district. No reasons for the removal had been given.

27 May.
Couldn’t help being shocked when I opened the door to find him standing there. Stolz. Accompanied by another officer, middle-aged. Didn’t catch the name. Very friendly. But I find the man in friendly mood more terrifying than otherwise.

“Mr Du Toit, we’ve just brought back your stuff.” The journals and correspondence they’d confiscated a fortnight ago. “Will you sign for it, please?”

Must have been from pure relief that I said yes when he asked whether they could come in for a second. Susan, thank God, away at some meeting. Johan in his room, but the music turned up so loud he couldn’t possibly hear us.

They’d barely sat down in the study when he said, jokingly, that his throat was dry. So obviously I offered them coffee. And only when I came back into the study with the tray and noticed the book on the Great Trek lying in a different position it hit me: of course! they’d had a quick search of the room while I’d been out.

Strange, but that was what finally put me at ease. Thinking: Right, here I am, and there you are. Now we’re on our way. Feel free to search my house. You don’t know about the false bottom in my tools cupboard. No living soul knows. Nothing will ever be left lying around again.

Not an easy conversation. Asked me about the school, about Johan’s achievements, rugby, etc. Told me about his own son. Younger than Johan. Twelve or so. Would his son be proud of his dad? (Is mine proud of me?)

Then: “I hope you’re not mad at us about the other day, Mr Du Toit?”

What could I say?

Found another house crammed with ammunition and explosives in Soweto this morning, he said. Enough to blow up a whole block in the city centre. “People don’t seem to realise we’re right in the middle of a war already. They’re waiting for armies on the march, planes flying overhead, tanks, that sort of thing. They don’t realise how clever these Communists are. Take it from me, Mr Du Toit: if we were to lay off for one week this country would be right down the drain.”

“All right, I take it from you, Captain. I’m not arguing either. But what did Gordon have to do with it all? Would you still have had to fight this war of yours if your wheels hadn’t rolled over people like him to start with?”

Not a very pleasant expression in his dark eyes. I suppose I should learn to restrain myself. Something defiant in me these days. But I’ve smothered it for so many years!

They were already on their way out when he said, in that casual, lazy way of his: “Look, if you want to help people like Henry Maphuna it’s fine with us. A bit over-enthusiastic, if I may say so, but that’s for you to decide.” He looked at me in silence for a moment. “But in all sincerity, we don’t take kindly to remarks like the one you made recently about lining up all

Gordon’s murderers against a wall. You’re playing with fire, Mr Du Toit.”

Then, as easy-going as before, he offered me his hand. The thin line on his cheek. Who gave it to him? (And what happened to the man afterwards?)

Stood there half-paralysed after they’d gone. How did he know about Henry? How did he know about that line-up business?

Some leak from Levinson’s office? I’ll have to watch out. But that remark about Gordon – that was something I said to Linda.

Only one common denominator. The phone.

Thank God I didn’t get through to Melanie that day. They mustn’t find out about her.

4

30 May.
Have always “got on” with Susan’s parents, without much cordiality from either side. The feeling that they resent her marrying “below” her. The vast block of farms her grandparents acquired in the Eastern Transvaal. Her father the leading lawyer in Lydenburg. Loyal supporter of the Party. Opposed the Smuts government in the war. Even went underground for some time. Failed in the 1948 election but became M.P. in 1953 to live more or less happily ever after.

Has been threatening for a long time to retire (75 next November) but only, I suspect, in the hope of being begged to stay on and be rewarded with the position of Chief Whip or something similar. His only grudge in life this lack of “recognition” after havinggiven his all for God and country. The proverbial man with a great future behind him.

More sympathy for her mother. Beautiful woman in her time. But her spirit broken at an early age, wilting in her husband’s glamour; a meek shadow dragged along to Party rallies, the opening of Parliament, the inauguration of institutions for the aged, the blind, the maimed, or the mentally retarded, the opening of tunnels or boreholes. Wearing her perennial hat. Like the Queen Mother.

Admittedly, he has an imposing presence. Age has lent him dignity. Golden watch-chain across the bulge of his belly. White moustache and trimmed goatee. Silver hair. Black suit, even when he inspects his game farm. Somewhat too ruddy complexion owing to an increasing predilection for scotch. The bonhomie covering a will as hard as flint. The ruthless, unrelenting sense of Right and Wrong. Easy to see where Susan got her hangups. The almost sadistic righteousness with which he used to mete out corporal punishment to his daughters, even when they were eighteen or nineteen, and that for minor infringements like staying out after ten at night. The inexorable regularity of their household, determining even the Saturday night activities in the parental bedroom. Enough to scare her off for life. Like a young tree budding, then blighted by an untimely frost. Never quite candidly fruitful again.

They’ve been here since Saturday morning. Left today. Inauguration of a new industrial complex in Vanderbijlpark.

Yesterday afternoon the ladies withdrew in a very obvious manner, leaving me and Father-in-law rather ill-at-ease in the lounge. He refilled his glass. I sat fiddling with my pipe.

“Something I’d like to discuss with you, Ben.” He drew courage from a large gulp of scotch. “I first thought it would be better left alone, but Susan seems to think you’ll welcome a frank discussion.”