A Dry White Season (34 page)

“All the available evidence was placed before a competent magistrate who examined everything in depth and gave his finding.”

“What about the evidence that was deliberately kept from the court?”

“Well, now! Mr Du Toit, if you possess any information that may be of use to us I trust you won’t hesitate to discuss it with me.”

Ben looked at him, rigid on his straight-backed chair.

The Colonel leaned over more closely towards him, his tone darkening: “Because if there are facts you are deliberately hiding from us, Mr Du Toit – if you give us reason to believe that you may be involved in activities that may be dangerous both to yourself and to us – then I can foresee some problems.”

“Is that a threat, Colonel?” he asked, his jaws very tight.

Col Viljoen smiled. “Let’s call it a warning,” he said. “A friendly warning. You know, sometimes one does something with the best of intentions, but because you’re so deeply involved you may not realise all the implications.”

“You mean I’m being used by the Communists?” He foundit difficult to tone down the sarcasm.

“Why do you say that?”

“That’s what your men told one of my colleagues.”

Viljoen made a brief note on a sheet of ruled paper lying on the desk before him. From where he sat Ben couldn’t decipher it; but more than anything else that had happened during the interview it made his heart contract.

“So you really have nothing to tell me, Colonel?”

“I was looking forward to hearing something from
you,
Mr Du Toit.”

“Then I won’t waste your time any longer.”

Ben got up. When he came to the door the Colonel said quietly behind him: “I’m sure we’ll see each other again, Mr Du Toit.”

That night, when they were all asleep, except for Johan who was still studying in his room, three shots were fired from the street into Ben’s living-room. The TV screen was shattered, but fortunately there was no further damage. He reported it to the police, but the culprit was never found. The doctor had to be called to attend to Susan.

7

He was diffident about going to the press, even after discussing it with Melanie.

“I don’t think you have any choice left, Ben,” she said. “There was a time when you had to keep it as private as possible. You and Stanley and I, all three of us. But there’s a point of no return. If you keep it to yourself now they may try to silence you altogether. Your safety lies in making it known. Andif you really want to do something for Gordon you’ll just have to use the press.”

“And how long before they start using
me?”

“The final choice remains your own.”

“I’m sure your paper would love the scoop!” he said in a sudden gust of aggressiveness.

“No, Ben,” she said quietly. “I know I’m being a very bad journalist now but I don’t want it to break in my paper. Go to an Afrikaans paper. That’s the only place where it will really carry any weight. You know what the government thinks of the ‘English press'.”

Even at that point he still tried to postpone it by first making an appointment to see George Ahlers, the company director his sister Helena had married.

The office, the size of a ballroom, was on the top floor of an ultramodern building overlooking most of the city. Heavy armchairs, low glass table, mahogany desk with a writing surface in calfskin. Long boardroom table surrounded by fake-antique chairs; cut-glass water carafes and blotters in leather frames at every seat. Elephant’s-ear and Delicious Monster in large ceramic pots. The whole room dominated by the lordly presence of George Ahlers: large-limbed and athletic, well over six feet tall, in navy suit and pale blue shirt, a tie proclaiming dazzling good taste. He had a balding head with a fringe of longish grey hair over his ears. Ruddy face. Cigar and signet ring.

In his worn brown suit Ben felt like a poor relation coming to ask a favour – a feeling aggravated by George’s show of urbanity.

“Well, well, Ben, haven’t seen you in years. Have a seat. Cigar?”

“No thank you, George.”

“And how’s Susan?”

“She’s fine. I’ve come on business.”

“Really? Did you inherit a fortune or what?”

After he had explained the matter George’s joviality was visibly dampened. “Ben, you know I’d just love to help you. Frightful story. But what can I possibly do?”

“I thought big businessmen like you might have access to the government. So I wondered—”

“Your father-in-law is an M.P., isn’t he?”

“He’s already given me the cold shoulder. And I need someone with contacts right at the top.”

“It’s hopeless, Ben. You’re making a sad mistake if you seriously think big business in this country has an open door to the government. In an industrial country like the U.S. maybe. But not here. There’s a one-way street running from politics to business. Not the other way.” He blew out a small cloud of cigar smoke, relishing it. “Even supposing I can approach a Cabinet Minister – just for argument’s sake – what do you think will happen? In my position I’m dependent on permits, concessions, goodwill.” With perfect timing he tapped the ash from his cigar into a crystal ashtray. “Once I get involved in this sort of thing it’s tickets.” He changed into a more comfortable reclining position. “But tell me, when are you and Susan coming over to see us? We’ve got so much to talk about.”

6 October.
Today: Andries Lourens. One of the most pleasant people I’ve ever had dealings with. I went to him on Melanie’s advice, because of his paper’s outspoken progressiveness and his own reputation for fairness and clearheadedness. Not always popular with the establishment, but they pay attention to him. Even knowing all this in advance I was still pleasantly surprised by the man. Obviously up to his neck in work, a weekend edition on the point of going to press, but he instantly made time for me. Spent more than an hour together in the topsy-turvy office clearly meant for work, not comfort. Cigarette stubs all over the place. Bundles of cuttings and small typed or handwritten sheets hanging from metal clamps or washing-pegs on a board behind him.

When I told him what I was working on, handing him the summary I’d compiled last night, he showed deep and immediate interest. Lines between the eyes; much older, seen from close by like that, than one had expected. Sallow complexion. Perspiration on his forehead. Candidate for a coronary?

But just as I was beginning to feel hopeful he suddenly shook his head, moving his hand backwards through his black hair, looking up with his keen but tired eyes:

“Mr Du Toit… I can’t say it really comes as a shock to me. Do you know how much similar information we’ve had these last few months? Sometimes it seems as if the whole country has gone berserk.”

“It’s in your power to help put an end to it, Mr Lourens. You reach thousands of readers.”

“Do you know how many readers we’ve been losing lately? Our circulation figures—” He reached out towards a crammed wire-basket on the corner of his desk, but allowed his arm to drop back almost hopelessly. “Let me put it this way,” he said. “I know exactly how much injustice is happening all around us. But to make a drastic move at the wrong moment will simply have the opposite effect from the one we want. Our readers are already accusing the Afrikaans press of turning against them. We’ve got to take them with us, Mr Du Toit, not estrange them.”

“So –you’d rather not do anything about it?”

“Mr Du Toit.” His hand resting on my small pile of papers. “If I publish this story tomorrow I may just as well shut up shop the next day.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Can’t you see what’s happening in the country?” he asked wearily. “The beginnings of urban terrorism. Russia and Cuba on our borders. Even the U.S. ready to stab us in the back.”

“And so we must learn to live with this disgrace in our midst, just because it’s ours?”

“Not living with it by condoning it. But by learning to have more understanding. By awaiting a more opportune moment. And then to start putting it right from the inside, step by step.”

“And in the meantime the Gordon Ngubenes must go on dying one after the other?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Mr Du Toit. But you must realise” – how many times have I heard those words before?-“you must realise it’s fatal to plunge in right now. I mean, try to think about it objectively. What other party in this country is in a position to lead us peacefully into the future? I’m not suggesting for a moment that everything is as it should be inside the National Party. But it’s the only vehicle we have for achieving something. We cannot afford to put any more ammunition into the hands of our enemies.”

And much more in the same vein. All of it, I believe, with the sincerest of intentions. More and more I realise that my real problem is benevolence, Christianity, understanding, decency. Not open hostility: one can work out a strategy to counter that. But this thick, heavy porridge of good intentions on the part of people obstructing you ‘for your own good', trying to ‘protect you against yourself'.

“Please, Mr Du Toit,” he said in the end. “Do me one favour: don’t take that file to the English press. That will be a sure way to thwart your own cause and destroy yourself. It’s a kiss of death. I promise you, it’s for your own good. And I give you my word: as soon as the climate improves I shall personally come back to you.”

He didn’t go to Melanie’s paper. She herself was against it – in case anyone had seen Ben with her in the past. It would be too easy to put two and two together; and she desperately wanted to protect him.

The Sunday paper was not only willing but eager to publish the story. Front page. And most obliging, promising not to give any hint of their source. It would be signed by one of their senior reporters, as the result of “the paper’s own private investigation".

The report certainly caused a stir that Sunday. But not all the repercussions were predictable. Within days the Department of Justice instituted a claim for libel against the newspaper. An interdict was requested by the Commissioner of Police for the source of the information to be divulged; the reporter, Richard Harrison, received a summons, and when he refused to name his informant in court he was sentenced to a year’s imprisonment.

Ben, too, did not escape the immediate consequences. It was obvious that no one close to him had much doubt about his hand in the story. Already on the Monday morning a cutting of the report was stuck to his blackboard. Suzette telephoned. Two of his co-elders in church visited him to drop a hint that the time had come for him to resign from the church council. And the Rev Bester did not offer much more than token resistance when, later in the week, he did just that.

By the Wednesday his principal went so far as to summon him to his office: for once, it seemed, the matter was too serious to be dealt with in the common room. On his desk lay the front page of the previous Sunday’s paper. And without any preliminaries Cloete asked:

“I assume you are familiar with this?”

“Yes, I read it.”

“I didn’t ask whether you’d read it, Mr Du Toit. I want to know whether you had anything to do with it.”

“What makes you think so?”

Mr Cloete was in no mood for evasiveness. “According to my information it was you who spilled the story in the English press.”

“May I ask where you got your information?”

“How much did they pay you, I wonder?” Cloete panted in his asthmatic way. “Thirty silver pieces, Mr Du Toit?”

“That’s a disgusting thing to say!”

“To think that an Afrikaner should sell his soul like this!” Cloete went on, unable to restrain himself. “For a bit of money and some cheap publicity.”

“Mr Cloete, I don’t know what publicity you’re talking about. My name isn’t mentioned anywhere in the report. And as far as money is concerned, you’re being libellous.”

“You accuse me of being libellous?” For a moment Ben feared the principal would have an apoplexy. For several minutes Cloete sat wiping his perspiring face with a large white handkerchief. At last, in a smothered voice, he said: “I want you to regard this as a final warning, Mr Du Toit. The school cannot afford to keep political agitators on its staff.”

The same afternoon he found the parcel in his mailbox. Intrigued, he looked at it from all sides, for he hadn’t ordered anything and there was no birthday in the family in the near future. The postmark was too indistinct for him to decipher. The stamp was from Lesotho. Fortunately, just as he started opening it, he noticed a small length of wire protruding from the paper. And immediately he knew. He took the parcel to the police station. The next day they confirmed that it had been a bomb. No one was ever arrested in connection with it.

26 October.
Stanley, late this afternoon, for the first time in weeks. Don’t know how he manages to come and go unseen. Probably approaches through the yard of the back neighbours, scaling the fence. Not, I suppose, that it really matters.