A Dry White Season (26 page)

She shook her head. “No, that was the last one.”

“But Emily, why didn’t you tell me long ago?”

“If they hear about the letters they make it more bad for him.”

“But you could have told me after his death, when we went to court.”

“Then they take my letters away from me. I was afraid, Baas.”

“It might have made a difference.”

“No,” she said bluntly. “If I show it at the court they call that other man again and he say it is not Gordon’s writing.” She was breathing deeply. “I think you must give it back to me, Baas.”

“I promise you I’ll look after it, Emily. Nothing will happen to it. And it may still be very valuable to us, if we can find more evidence to go with it.” Urgently he leaned forward, pressing both hands on the table: “Emily, you
must
talk to Johnson Seroke. He helped you once, he brought you these letters. Perhaps he’ll be prepared to help us again. It’s for Gordon and Jonathan, Emily.”

“He didn’t want to talk to me. He just give me the letters.”

“Promise me you’ll at least speak to him.”

“I will speak to him, but he won’t listen. The people are too much afraid, Baas.”

“If they keep quiet because they are afraid, everything just gets worse. And then we’ll never be able to clear Gordon’s name.”

Almost shamelessly he repeated it, knowing it was the only way to get through to her. And gradually their conversation became less urgent, as they began to talk about Gordon; and about Jonathan too, but more about Gordon. What they could recall of him, little things he’d said or done. Obviously beginning to feel more at ease, she refilled his cup and they went on reminiscing about Gordon and Jonathan; and about the second son, Robert, who’d run away to Botswana.

“You shouldn’t worry about him too much,” Ben said. “At his age all boys tend to be difficult. My wife also has constant trouble with our son.”

It became very homely: two parents discussing their children. And the strangeness ebbed away. He was beginning to find it easier to communicate with Emily. At the same time Gordon reappeared in a different perspective, as if the focus of some inner lens had been adjusted. He felt involved in a different way, more immediate than before, more personal.

He was startled when the knock on the door came. But Emily said, without hesitation: “It’s Stanley,” and she went to open for him.

Immediately the whole room was filled with his boisterous presence as if the interior had become electrically charged; as if, all over the place, hidden forces were preparing themselves so that amazing things could start happening. Only the children slept through it all.

“So how’s it, Auntie Emily? You had a nice talk?” Without waiting for an answer he offered Ben his packet of
Lucky Strike:
“Like
a fuse?”

“No thanks,” Ben said, automatically reaching for his pipe but without taking it from his pocket.

“Tea?” asked Emily.

“Thanks, Auntie, that’s too strong for me. How about whisky?”

“You know I don’t keep drink in the house,” she said.

“Well, let’s line,” he said to Ben. “We can fill up at a shebeen.”

“I must be in my classroom early tomorrow morning, Stanley.”

Pulling up his sleeve, Stanley revealed his large gold watch: “Judge the
jampas,
man, it’s early times yet.”

“Not in the week,” Ben said politely.

“I see. The old puritan blood still running strong, hey?” Hislaughter caused the crockery on the sideboard to rattle. “All right, come along then. Someone at my place wants to see you.” He waved from the door: “Notch you, Auntie Emily.”

And suddenly they were outside, back in the night that had been going its way all the time he’d been inside, as if the hour spent in the small house had been a mere interlude between darker acts. They drove along the potholed streets, and across a railway line and an expanse of black open veld. In the distance Ben once saw red flames from the power station flickering through clouds of smoke. A few minutes later Stanley pulled up behind a house and led the way to the kitchen door.

This interior, too, was familiar to Ben: the gay linoleum and the display cabinet, the decorated plates, the birds of paradise on the tray, the settee and armchairs with multicoloured cushions.

The front door stood half-open. “What’s happened to him?” muttered Stanley, going out. A minute later he came back supporting a man who was trying, not very successfully, to zip up his pants. He looked fortyish, wearing a checkered shirt and green trousers, with a large ornamental buckle on his belt; his two-tone shoes were spattered with drops.

“Godalmighty!” said Stanley, not really angry. “I wish you’d stop it. On my bloody doorstep!”

“My bladder was bursting.”

“You’re boozing too much.”

“What else do you expect me to do?” the stranger said reproachfully, a dazed stare in his eyes, as he tried to wipe his face with a large coloured handkerchief. “It’s killing me, man, sitting around on my arse like this. Gimme another drink.”

“Forget about the drink. Meet Mr Du Toit. Ben, this is Julius Nqakula. The lawyer who took the first affidavits on Jonathan for Gordon.”

The stranger glared at him aggressively.

“Don’t bother about the state he’s in,” Stanley said, chuckling. “He only functions when he’s pissed. Nothing wrong with his head.” He deposited Julius on a chair, where he remained sprawled, his legs stretched out across the linoleum. Through half-closed lids he sat staring glumly at Ben while Stanley poured whisky for all three.

“What’s he doing here?” asked Julius Nqakula after he’d gulped down half his glass in one go, not taking his eyes off Ben.

“I brought him here on Gordon’s business,” Stanley said nonchalantly, settling his great body on a settee with ridiculously thin legs.

“Gordon is dead. He belongs to us. What’s this
mugu
got to do with him?”

Ben was vexed. He felt like walking out, but was restrained by a gesture from Stanley who looked smugly amused.

“You may not think it, looking at him like this,” said Stanley, “but this rotter used to be one of the top lawyers in the townships, lanie. Last year, when they took all those kids to court after the riots, he was working day and night to save them. Hundreds of cases, I tell you. But then they gave him his banning orders, that was just after he got Gordon’s affidavits for him. So he had to give up his practice and all he’s doing nowadays is to get pissed on other people’s booze.”

Julius Nqakula did not look very impressed.

Stanley turned abruptly to him: “Listen,” he said, “Ben wants us to keep working on Gordon’s case.”

“He’s white,” Julius snapped, still glaring at Ben, and moving one of his shoes in rhythmic jerks.

“The SB raided his house because of Gordon.”

“He’s still white.”

“He can reach places we can’t.”

“So what?”

“And we can get into joints he can’t. So what do you say: we join forces?”

“I say he’s white and I don’t trust him.”

Ben had repressed his anger until now; but he refused to do so any longer. “I suppose you now expect me to say: ‘You’re black, I don’t trust you'?” he burst out, slamming his glass down on the low coffee table. “Don’t you think it’s time we got past this stupid stalemate?” He turned to Stanley: “I really don’t know how you can expect any help from him. Can’t you see they’ve broken his spirit?”

To his amazement a slow smile moved across Julius Nqakula’s bony face. He emptied the rest of his glass into his mouth, made a gurgling sound in his throat, and wiped his lipswith his sleeve. “Come again,” he said, almost appreciatively. “See if anyone can break
me!”

“Why don’t you help us then?” said Ben. “For Gordon’s sake.”

“Oh you White Liberals! “Julius said. “Fill up, Stanley.”

An unreasonable, atavistic anger sprang to life inside Ben, as it had during his visit to the District Surgeon. “I’m not a bloody Liberal,"he said fiercely. “I’m an Afrikaner.”

Stanley refilled Julius’s glass and his own, neat; they sat in silence, looking at Ben.

At last Stanley asked: “Well, how’s it, Julius?”

Julius grunted, smiling slowly, appreciatively. “Oh he’s all right,” he said. Then he moved into a more comfortable position in his chair, propped up on his elbows, his backside hanging over the edge of the seat. “What you aiming to do?” he asked.

“The main thing is to dig up everything they’re trying to hide. Until we’ve got enough to reopen the case. We mustn’t stop before we’re sure we’ve got everything. So the guilty can be punished and the world can know what happened.”

“You got a hope!” said Julius.

“Are you going to help us or not?”

Julius smiled lazily: “Where do we start?” he asked.

“With your affidavits on Jonathan.”

“No go. Those were confiscated when they caught Gordon.”

“Didn’t you keep copies?”

“I was raided too, man.”

“Then we must find those people again and get them to make new statements.”

“That nurse got such a fright she won’t ever put pen to paper again. And the Phetla chap ran away to Botswana.”

“Well,” said Stanley jovially, “you got your job cut out. You just trace them and persuade them to make new statements.”

“I’m under banning orders.”

“You weren’t banned so you could sit on your backside.” Stanley got up. “Think it over while I take the lanie home. Before his missus gets the hell in.”

“By the way,” said Julius, still reclining casually, “Johnny Fulani came to me yesterday.”

“Who’s Johnny Fulani?” asked Ben.

“One of the detainees whose statements were read at the inquest. Remember? When Archibald Tsabalala turned against them, they decided not to call the other three. State security. Now they’ve released Johnny Fulani.”

“What did he say?”

“What d’you expect? They
moered
him until he signed.”

“Right. So you get another statement from him.”

“I already have one.”

Ben smiled. “Good. Do you mind sending me a copy with Stanley? I’ll keep it safely.”

“Suppose they raid you again?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve thought of that,” Ben said. “I made a hiding-place they won’t ever find.”

Unfolding in segments, Julius rose from his chair and offered Ben his hand.

“Now keep off my moonshine, Julius!” Stanley said, trying his best to look menacing.

On their way back in the shaky old Dodge, Ben asked: “Why did you want me to meet Julius?”

“Because we need him.”

“Any other lawyer would have done as well.”

Stanley laughed. “I know. But Julius got hit right under the belt by that banning. Going to pieces. Now we’ve given him something to do it will get him back on his two feet.” A carefree and contented laugh. “Lanie, you wait. I got a feeling you and I are going a long way together. And all along the way we’ll pick up people, until we get right to the other side. Then there’ll be such a lot of us they won’t be able to count us no more. An amountable majority.” For the rest of the way home he sat singing, drumming with his fingers on the roof to keep the beat.

2

Sunday 15 May.
Back to Melanie. Inevitably, I suppose. I do need her for the investigation and she said she would help. At the same time I felt some trepidation. Impossible to think of her as no more than a helper. What then?

An injustice to her to suggest that she threatens me. My middle-aged existence, my middle-class values. Teacher. Elder. ‘Respected member of society'. What is happening to me?

On the other hand – or am I rationalising now? – she offers comfort. Restores my confidence. Encourages me. What exactly? The first time it happened by coincidence, utterly unpremeditated, in innocence. Would it have been better to leave it at that? Not to jeopardise the uniqueness of the experience. There are moments which, for one’s own sake, one shouldn’t ever try to repeat. Suddenly there is a pattern; there are expectations, possibilities, hopes. Needless to speculate. It is too late. I did go back.

Why should I feel uneasy about it? Perhaps the circumstances. This weekend. Even now they think I’ve withdrawn into my study to prepare for tomorrow. “On a Sunday!” Susan protested.

She’d been impossible ever since my return from Stanley on Thursday night. “You smell like a hut.” “You’ve been drinking again.” “Into what holes have you been crawling again?” Like in Krugersdorp years ago when I visited the parents of my pupils. She couldn’t stand it. Even worse this time. Soweto. In all fairness to her, though, it must have come as a shock. She’d honestly thought it was all over. Worried and concerned, and not necessarily about herself only. The visit by the SB nearly broke her spirit. Been to the doctor twice already. Nerves, migraine, sedatives. I must be more considerate. If only she’d make an effort to understand.