A Dry White Season (37 page)

All day I waited anxiously. In the evening she telephoned. Hewas in the intensive care unit in hospital. Heart attack.

Late this afternoon I went to their house but it was deserted. Tonight she phoned again. He is no longer critical, but still very weak. Will probably have to spend several weeks in hospital.

“Shall I come over?” I asked.

“No, rather not.” A momentary return to the peaceful warmth we’d shared so briefly in the mountains: “Really, it’s better this way.”

I’m left with the disquieting, ridiculous thought: Is Phil Bruwer the latest victim of my leprosy?

But I dare not give way to a new depression. Whatever happens from now on I must remember that one night we were together on the mountain. It is the truth, however unreal it seems in retrospect. And for the sake of that memory, even though I can give no logical explanation for it, I must go on. Stanley was right, after all. We must endure. We must survive.

9

In late November Phil Bruwer was discharged from hospital. Ben drove him home, Melanie sitting in the back. The old man was shockingly frail and white, but nothing could quell his exuberant spirit.

“I decided not to die just now,” he said. “Realised I’m not quite ready for Heaven yet. Too many sordid habits I still have to conquer.” With some effort, and none of the carefree virtuosity of earlier days, he forced out a fart to illustrate his point. “I mean, suppose I blew out my last breath at the wrong end. St Peter may not approve if a jet-propelled angel came whizzing through his gates like that.”

Even with the anxiety about Bruwer’s health alleviated Benstill had his hands full. There was no decline in the stream of people coming to him for help. The work permits. The reference books. The trouble with police or urban authorities: married men refusing to live in single quarters among tsotsis and wanting to bring their families to town; children accused of arson and sabotage; women in despair when their townships were cleaned up systematically after the discovery of an ammunition dump. Once a pathetic old couple in well-worn Sunday clothes: a month ago their son of fifteen had been sent to Robben Island and now they had been informed of his death – a heart attack, according to the prison authorities; but how was it possible, they said, he’d always been a healthy boy. And they had been instructed to collect the body in Cape Town before next Wednesday, otherwise it would be buried by the government. But they had no money: the old man was ill and out of work; and the woman’s wages as a domestic servant, twenty rand per month, were not enough.

Most of the callers were referred to Stanley or to Dan Levinson; some of the trickier cases to Melanie. The old couple in search of their son’s body Ben also mentioned in a phone-call to his father-in-law. The latter immediately set to work and arranged for the body to be sent to Johannesburg by train at State expense. That, however, was the end of the matter: the “heart attack” was never cleared up, and apart from Melanie’s newspaper the press gave it no publicity.

Depressing as it was, his constant involvement in new problems helped to keep Ben going. While people still came to him for help at least there was something to keep him occupied – even though all this remained peripheral to what really mattered to him: the dogged search for new light on the deaths of Gordon and Jonathan. The information gathered in those months was less dramatic than some of the earlier discoveries. Still, he continued to add new bits to his store. And provided one didn’t expect too much, provided one didn’t try to think in terms of a destination yet, there was some sense in the slow progress. Ben kept hoping that Emily’s policeman, Johnson Seroke, would return, convinced as he was that the man held the key to the final important breakthrough. In the meantime he had to content himself by registering the sluggish motionwhich carried them forward step by step. Looking ahead, one tended to lose courage. But looking back it was impossible to deny the length of road already travelled.

Then, in the first week of December, came an unexpected reverse when it was reported that Dan Levinson had fled the country, crossing the border to Botswana (risking his life against well-nigh impossible odds, the newspapers claimed), and proceeding to London where he had been granted political asylum. There he embarked on a series of press interviews to explain how his position in South Africa had become intolerable and how his life had been threatened. He announced that he had brought a stack of files with him, from which he would compile a book to finally expose the iniquities of the Security Police. Photographs of him were plastered all over the newspapers, taken in night clubs or at sumptuous receptions, mostly in the company of starlets and the wives of publishers. He vehemently denied reports from South Africa that he had smuggled out thousands of rands of trust money, including the deposits of black clients. But several of the people referred to Levinson by Ben came back to him when the news broke, with complaints about exorbitant fees the lawyer had charged them – while Ben had already paid for their consultations himself, either out of his own pocket or with money supplied by Melanie’s newspaper fund.

The loss of so many original statements and documents shook Ben. Fortunately he had kept signed copies of almost everything in the secret compartment of his tools cupboard, which softened the blow. Even so he was shattered when he was first told about it by Stanley.

“My God,” he said. “How could he do that to us? I
trusted
him!”

Stanley, perhaps predictably, shook with laughter. “Come on, lanie, you got to admit it: he caught us for suckers. I thought he was a bloody shark right from the word go. But I never thought he was such a good actor too.” With relish he spread open the newspaper again to read aloud the full report of how, in a violent storm in the middle of the night, Levinson had crawled for miles on all fours through the minefields of a closely patrolled area before crossing the border to Botswana. “He’s amade man, I tell you. He’ll get enough mileage out of this to last him for years. And look at the two of us with our pants round our ankles. You know, I think it’s time we caught some shine too. Why don’t we follow him? Then we find ourselves two fancy blondes over there” – his hands described the appropriate curves – “and we live happily ever after. How about it, hey?”

“It’s not funny, Stanley.”

Stanley stared hard at him for a while. Then he said: “You slipping, lanie. What you need is a proper
stokvel.”

“What’s that?” Ben asked warily.

“You see? You don’t even know what it is. Why don’t you come with me this Friday, then we have a solid
stokvel
right through to Sunday night.” Noticing Ben’s uncomprehending look, Stanley explained, exploding again with mirth: “It’s a party, lanie. Not every which way’s party, but the sort where you dance non-stop till you pass out. And then we bring you round with
popla
and we push some meat down your throat and there you go again. Lanie, I promise you, by the time you get to Sunday night – if you survive so long – we just hang you out with the washing for a week, and then you’re a new man. Born again. That’s what you need.”

Grimacing stiffly, Ben asked: “And is that the only remedy you can offer?”

“Better than castor oil, lanie. You not laughing enough. That’s what you need, man. If a man can’t laugh to clean out his stomach, if you can’t tell the world to get fucked, then it’s tickets.” A resounding blow on Ben’s shoulders. “And I don’t want to see your balls crushed, man. We got a long way to go still.”

Ben managed a wry smile. “All right, Stanley,” he said. “I’ll stay with you.” A brief pause, then he said: “What else is there for me to do?”

His son-in-law, Suzette’s husband Chris, was not prepared to get involved himself, but through his influence in “inner circles” he arranged an interview with a Cabinet Minister for Ben. And on an afternoon early in December he drove to Pretoria.

A functional, panelled office in the Union Buildings. Cluttered desk. In one corner, below a colourful map of the country, a small table with a water carafe and an open Family Bible. The Minister was a jocular man with a bull-neck and large round shoulders, large hands, smooth hair, wearing steel-framed glasses with double lenses. For a few minutes they indulged in small-talk. The Minister enquired about his work and his family, commented on the vocation of a teacher, the promise of the younger generation, the sound character of the boys on the border, protecting the nation against the evils of Communism. Then, without any change of inflexion, he said :

“I believe there is something you would like to discuss with me, Mr Du Toit?”

Once again – how often had he done so already? how many more times to go? – Ben gave a resumé of Gordon’s story up to the day of his death.

“Every man has the democratic right to die,” said the Minister, smiling.

Ben looked at him in silence. “Do you really believe he committed suicide?” he asked tersely.

“It is standard practice among Communists to escape interrogation.”

“Mr Minister, Gordon Ngubene was murdered.” As briefly as he could he summarised the results of his enquiries.

There was no sign of the big man’s earlier jocularity as his eyes surveyed Ben in a cold stare. “Mr Du Toit, I hope you realise the seriousness of the allegations you’re making against people who have been performing a thankless but indispensable task under very difficult circumstances?”

“I knew Gordon,” he said, strained. “An ordinary, decent man who would never think of harming anyone. And when they killed his son—”

“The son, as far as I know, was shot with several other agitators in a violent demonstration.”

“Jonathan died in a cell after two months in detention. I have evidence that he had been seen in hospital in a serious condition shortly before his death.”

“Are you absolutely sure you’re not being manipulated by people with very dubious intentions, Mr Du Toit?”

Ben placed his hands on the arm-rests of his chair, preparing to get up. “Does that mean you are not willing to have the matter investigated?”

“Tell me,” said the Minister, “it was you who leaked the story to the English press some time ago, wasn’t it?”

He felt his face grow hot. “Yes,” he said, tight-lipped. “I had no option after our own newspapers turned me away.”

“With very good reason, I should imagine. They probably realised the harm it would do to the Party if something like that was shouted from the rooftops. Especially by people who hardly know what they’re talking about.”

“I was thinking of the country’s interests, not those of the Party, “said Ben.

“Do you really think you can separate the two, Mr Du Toit?”

Ben pushed himself up, but sank back again. “Mr Minister.” He was doing his utmost to control himself, but his voice was trembling. “Do you realise that if you send me away with empty hands today there will be no hope left of having the matter investigated officially?”

“Oh, I won’t send you away with empty hands,” said the Minister, with a smile that bared his teeth. “I shall ask the Security Police to go into the matter and to report back to me.”

10

26 December.
Miserable Christmas yesterday. Desolate ever since Melanie and her father left for the Cape a week ago. Cornered in a house filled with relatives. And even Linda was sulky, red-eyed because we’d kept her away from her Pieter over the festive days: it was her last Christmas at home, next year she’ll be married, so we selfishly wanted her for ourselves. Susan’sparents moved in several days ago. Suzette and Chris came over from Pretoria in the morning, followed by Helena and George just before dinner. For the first time in God knows how many years the whole family was assembled.

But I couldn’t shake off my glumness. Had been looking forward to taking my old moth-eaten Father Christmas outfit from the cupboard to entertain my grandson, but Suzette would have none of it:

“Good heavens, Dad, we’re not so old-fashioned any more. Hennie knows this Father Christmas stuff is all nonsense. We don’t believe in bringing up our children on lies.”

For the sake of Christmas I swallowed my annoyance. As it was, I had my hands full trying to control all the hidden tensions in the family. Helena, corsetted and bluntly streamlined, hair tinted and dress designed for a much younger figure by some Frenchman with an unpronounceable name – ever ready to make Susan cringe by hinting how much a poor teacher’s wife had to miss in life. Suzette bitching Linda for sulking about such a nondescript little man whom she insisted on calling His Holiness. George, a cigar stuck permanently to his mouth, irritating Chris by pretending to know better about everything. Susan, tense and nervous, nagging because Johan refused to give a hand with fetching and carrying. Father-in-law begrudging younger men like George and Chris their easy success, and stung by the lack of adequate reward for the years he’d fought and suffered for the Party. And all of them antagonistic towards me for “betraying” the family in some mysterious manner, turning me into the scapegoat for all their own resentments.

However, at last we were all squeezed in round the table (enlarged by adding a much lower tea-table from the stoep to one end), leaving preciously little elbow-space for eating. And one really needed space to do justice to Susan’s turkey and leg of lamb and topside, yellow rice with raisins, peas, sweet-potatoes with cinnamon, stewed fruit, sugarbeans, and the salads contributed by Louisa and Suzette (avocado, carrot, asparagus, cucumber, moulded in gelatine, like plastic wreaths at a funeral). In addition, there were two flower arrangements with “Japanese” lines threatening the territorial integrity of some plates; a cluster of candles sending small brass angelsspinning in a tinkling merry-go-round; and a rather odd assortment of wine glasses. (Susan: “Ben keeps on promising he’ll buy us a proper set, but you know what he’s like"; Helena, sweetly: “When George came back from his last overseas trip he brought us a whole crate of crystal glasses from Stockholm: he has the right contacts, of course.”)