When Time Fails (Silverman Saga Book 2) (18 page)

Steyn’s blond head nearly twisted off his little shoulders as it whipped around following the scream of the jet engines. The scream transformed into an ear-splitting shriek and the Silver Falcons climbed higher and higher, trailing streams of red, yellow, green, blue, black and white – the colours of the new South African flag. Steyn turned to his mother, his blue eyes glowing.

‘I’m going to fly just like that, one day, Ma. You’ll see. I’m going to be a Silver Falcon pilot, you’ll see.’

Thys laughed and ruffled the child’s hair. ‘I thought you were going to fly single engine propeller planes. That’s what you said just now when they were doing all that acrobatic stuff.’

‘Ach Pa, don’t.’ The child shrugged off his father’s hand. ‘I’m going to be a pilot and I will fly everything. You’ll see. I will. I’m going to be a pilot. I’m going to be a Silver Falcon pilot, and an acrobatic pilot, and a Mirage jet pilot and a helicopter pilot and... and everything. You’ll see.’

Annamari laughed. It had been an inspired suggestion by Thys to make up for the disappointment around De Wet’s selection – or non-selection – by taking in the Air Show. Steyn had been beside himself with excitement from the time Thys had suggested it.

Annamari felt desperately sorry for De Wet. It really wasn’t fair. If it hadn’t been for the fact they’d already made the appointment to see Mr Venter at his office about the next step in the land claim process, they would have cancelled their trip to Bloemfontein. Thys had said they should cancel, and reschedule with Mr Venter for another weekend, when De Wet would be playing. There was no rush to get the next set of papers ready for the land claim hearing. Mr Venter had said it could still take months, even years before the case actually came before the Land Claim Court which was swamped with claims and counter-claims. Most farmers, it seemed, were determined to fight the claims rather than simply agree to settle; or if they were prepared to hand over their farms to the claimants, they were objecting to the compensation they were being offered.

‘Frankly, Mr and Mrs van Zyl, land claims can take forever,’ Mr Venter had said when they handed over the case to him, the day he informed them that Stefan Smit aka Stephanus Strydom had been denied amnesty for the Steynspruit killings.

Mr Venter had travelled all the way to Steynspruit to bring them the news himself. He said it was the very least he could do. He also told them that Mr Buya and Mr Xlongwane had also had their amnesty applications – both of them – dismissed. So Stefan Smit was going to sit for the full twenty-five years of his sentence; and more good news was that he was also being charged with the murders of Wilhelmina and Sara Botha, as well as the rape of Sara Botha; and Mr Buya and Mr Xlongwane had turned State’s witness to try and avoid sitting in jail for even longer than the eighteen years they already had to serve for the Steynspruit murders.

‘From what I understand, the prosecution is trying to make the case that Wilhelmina Botha found out that her boyfriend, Stephanus Strydom, was messing with her daughter and was going to report him to the police. Apparently, the man had a thing for young girls. Turns out there were rape charges laid against him all over the country. You were fortunate you didn’t have a daughter when he worked for you,’ Mr Venter said.

Annamari blinked away the tears of shame and anger that threatened to overwhelm her.

‘Not that lucky, Mr Venter. That was the reason we fired him. He raped... he raped one of our workers, and her daughter – a beautiful little girl. But, well, you know how it was back then. The police wouldn’t investigate.’

Mr Venter nodded and the conversation turned to the land claim and their concerns that they had not heard anything since responding to the original letter. Mr Venter agreed to take up their case and said his first task would be to find out exactly who the claimants were.

‘That will help us to evaluate whether there is any merit in their claim,’ he said.

Then, about two weeks ago, he had called to say that he had some news for them and could they please come to his office the next time they were in Bloemfontein so they could discuss what strategy to adopt. As De Wet was likely to be playing in Free State’s home game at Goodyear Park against Gauteng the weekend after next, they had decided to travel through to Bloemfontein on the Friday, see Mr Venter, stay over at the Holiday Inn and go to the game on Saturday.

Annamari was overjoyed that she was finally going to see De Wet play for his province’s senior side. The tragic death of his cricket idol, Hansie Cronje in a light aircraft crash a few months before had shaken him badly. He’d contemplated giving up the game he adored even though everyone said he had enormous potential and it was only a matter of time before he got his senior provincial cap, and possibly even his Protea blazer.

‘It’s so unfair,’ he’d said when she phoned him to find out how he was taking the news. Annamari could hear the anguish and anger in his voice
.

‘Hansie never had a chance to redeem himself. He apologised and apologised and now he’s dead. And I bet those bastards who crucified him will all go to his funeral and sing his praises and say what a tragedy it is that he died so young. The bloody hypocrites.’

Annamari privately agreed with him but she warned him to hold his tongue, especially in cricketing circles, especially if cricket was to be his career.

‘I don’t think I want that, not anymore. I don’t want to be like those people. I think I’m just going to chuck it in and become a farmer. I mean, that’s why I’m at university, isn’t it?’ he’d said.

***

Annamari and Thys had watched the memorial service on television. It was held at Hansie’s – and De Wet’s – old high school, Grey College. Annamari scanned the crowd shoehorned into the school hall but she couldn’t spot De Wet, although she was certain he was there. Nothing would have kept her son away. She wept when she saw the South African national cricket team in their official Protea blazers standing together to pay tribute to their former captain.

‘They found it in their hearts to forgive him – but why did they have to wait until he was dead? Why can’t people forgive others for their mistakes before it’s too late,’ she sniffed.

Apparently, that gesture by Hansie’s old teammates had renewed De Wet’s determination to also play for South Africa one day.

‘I’m going to do it for Hansie,’ he said.

‘You have to be selected first,’ Thys cautioned him. Annamari glared at her husband. There was no question in her mind that De Wet would be selected sooner, rather than later. He had his father’s sporting genes, even if he wasn’t – thankfully – using them on the rugby field.

A few months later, De Wet phoned with the news Annamari had been waiting for. He’d received his first call up to the Free State team; he was over the moon and dancing on cloud nine. So was she.

But the day before De Wet’s debut on the hallowed turf at St George’s Park, Steyn developed a raging fever so Thys had travelled to Bloemfontein alone. Arno came down from Johannesburg and together, they had watched proudly as De Wet held his own against a ferocious Western Province attack, scoring a credible 43 runs. He then went on to take two spectacular catches. Annamari had managed to see the second one on their recently installed DSTV SuperSport channel – and heard the commentators rave about young De Wet van Zyl’s amazing potential.

De Wet had played three more games for Free State since then. He was well on his way to becoming a regular fixture in the team. Everyone said so. But last Tuesday, when the Free State team to play Gauteng was announced, De Wet’s name was not there. No reasons provided
.
Die Volksbla
d
newspaper speculated that it was because the Free State team was “too white”, and in terms of the South African Cricket Board’s new quota requirements, a few more “players of colour” had to be selected. So
,
Die Volksbla
d
’s editorial concluded, 20-year-old De Wet van Zyl, one of the Free State’s most promising cricketing sons, was being sacrificed on the altar of affirmative action. Annamari was livid, but Thys said he was sure the selectors were just playing around with different combinations of players and that De Wet would soon be recalled.

***

Eight-year-old Steyn was thrilled to discover that instead of having to sit, bored out of his mind, watching a cricket match, they were going to the Air Show instead.

However De Wet – like Arno who was flying down to Bloemfontein for the weekend – wouldn’t join them.

‘Even if I’m not selected to play for Free State, I’m going to support my team. It’s the right thing to do. It’s what Hansie would have done,’ De Wet said when Annamari phoned him to tell him of their change of plans.

Annamari held back her retort – that Hansie had been fiercely opposed to racial quotas in cricket; that he’d had furious arguments with the cricket administrators about it; and that there was strong speculation that that was what had driven him to get involved in match fixing in the first place. Well, that’s wha
t
Die Volksbla
d
had said. It also said several sources claimed Hansie had said that if the selectors and administrators cared more about the colour than the calibre of their players, and were more concerned with quotas than winning, then why should he care? And that, the newspaper said, was probably why he had cheated.

Thys said that was absolute nonsense. Thys said Hansie had cheated and lied because he was human, and people – even good people – can and do succumb to overwhelming temptation.

‘Don’t you agree,
liefi
e
?’

Annamari looked away and bit her lip.

The air conditioner wasn’t working again, but it didn’t matter. Despite the midday sun blazing out of an azure sky, the atmosphere in the old Corolla was frosty, freezing, frigid. Annamari shivered and wrapped her arms around her body.

‘Pleeeeze can I open the window, Ma,’ Steyn whined from the back seat. ‘I’m dying of heat. Pretty please!’

‘Your mother said no. It’s too windy with the windows open. Drink your juice. We’ll be home soon,’ Thys said, throwing an angry glance at Annamari.

If I live that long, Annamari thought, feeling Beauty’s icy blue eyes firing daggers into the back of her neck. She had really messed everything up this time. But it had been such a shock seeing them walking into the Spur Steak Ranch together last night. Okay, De Wet had been with them, but he might as well have been invisible.

Arno and Beauty had slipped into the bunk seat next to Steyn, who was valiantly drawing Silver Falcons and a variety of aircraft with the wax crayons provided by their friendly waiter.

Arno beamed at her.

‘Surprise! Look who we found at the cricket,’ he said.

Thys eased out of his seat and went around the table to shake Arno’s hand and peck Beauty on the cheek. De Wet slid into the booth next to Annamari, and kissed her. She barely noticed him.

‘Isn’t it great that we’re all together again?’ De Wet said.

Steyn whooped his agreement. Arno touched Beauty’s hand.

‘When I heard Divvie was playing, I had to come,’ Beauty said. ‘I’m so sorry he didn’t, but at least I got an expert to give me a crash course in the fine art of cricket. It’s a really crazy game, I much prefer rugby but ...’

‘Me too,’ Steyn said. ‘Cricket is for sissies.’

And they all laughed. Except Annamari.

‘Who told you De Wet was supposed to be playing today?’ she snapped before she could stop herself. Arno put his arm around Beauty’s shoulders. Thys stared at her, clearly surprised at her tone. Annamari’s heart plummeted.

‘I did, Ma. I suggested she come up to Bloem for the game and to be with all of us again. It’s been so long. And then tomorrow she can catch a ride with you to Steynspruit – she hasn’t been home for ages,’ Arno said.

‘What about you, son? Are you coming to Steynspruit too?’ Thys asked brightly, clearly determined to ease the tension around the table.

‘I wish I could. But Mr Silverman is expecting me in the office all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow morning at eight sharp.’

‘But it’s Sunday tomorrow,’ Thys objected.

‘Ja well, Sunday, Monday – there’s no difference to Mr Silverman. We have a huge proposal on Monday and there’s still a lot to do. Fortunately, he doesn’t work on Saturdays otherwise I’d probably be stuck in the office right now. Oh, I nearly forgot. He told me to tell you he sends his regards.’

Annamari pushed De Wet off the bench, slid across the faux leather seat and bolted to the door with its elaborate “Jills” sign in beaten copper. She shoved it open and hurtled through, relieved that the room was empty. She opened the cold tap in one of the basins, splashed water on her face, leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, willing her heart to stop hammering. Trying to blot out the picture of Arno and Beauty, virtually in each other’s laps, eyes locked, looking like they couldn’t wait to be alone and...

‘Are you okay, MaAnni? BabaThys sent me to check on you.’

Annamari’s eyes flew open. Beauty was staring at her, her expression unfathomable.

‘I’m fine. Go back to the table.’

‘BabaThys wants to know what you want to eat.’

Annamari’s stomach heaved. ‘Nothing. Anything. A salad.’

But Beauty still didn’t go. Instead, she stepped closer and put her hand on Annamari’s arm.

‘What’s wrong, MaAnni?’

‘Nothing. It’s been a long day.’

‘It’s because Arno and I are together, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. No. No! I don’t know. I didn’t know you were still ... still friends.’

Beauty smiled, a tight twitch of her generous lips. ‘We’ve always been friends, MaAnni. More than friends, really.’

Annamari shook her head violently. Her legs turned to jelly and she clung to the basin in desperation. ‘No. No. You can’t. Beauty ... no. You can’t.’

‘Can’t what? Be together? Why?’

Annamari shook her head. What could she say?

‘It’s because I’m black and Arno is white, isn’t it? I could never understand why you were always trying to keep us apart. It’s never made sense to me. You were always so kind to me. But now I understand.’

‘No, you don’t... you can’t...’

‘Arno said I was imagining it. He said you were just being protective of me, after Stefan Smit and everything, but it wasn’t that, was it? It wasn’t me you wanted to protect. It was Arno. That’s why you sent me off to Cape Town, wasn’t it? Because you wanted to keep me away from him. You don’t think I’m good enough for him, do you?’

‘No, no, don’t be ridiculous. Beauty, how can you think that? It’s just ...’ Annamari faltered.

Beauty blazed on: ‘Oh don’t. I’m not stupid. Look. Arno and I are together. Get used to it... I’ll tell BabaThys you want a salad platter.’

If the “Jill’s” door hadn’t been on one of those automatic pneumatic closing things, Beauty would have slammed it off its hinges, Annamari was certain. She had never seen the girl so angry, or so beautiful. Trembling, she splashed more water on her face and forced her legs to carry her back to the table. Thys glared at her and raised an eyebrow. She smiled brightly at him; she laughed at something Steyn said; she beamed at De Wet. She kept her eyes averted from Arno and Beauty – she couldn’t bear to look at them.

***

The heat in the car was making Annamari’s head pound. Steyn’s high-pitched imitation of the sounds of the various planes they had seen at the Air Show wasn’t helping. Nor was Beauty’s shrill laughter, which served only to encourage Steyn to shriek even louder. Thys wouldn’t look at her. He had barely spoken to her all day. Last night, they had gone back to the Holiday Inn after that awful, awful supper, their icy silence masked by Steyn’s chatter. They had climbed into bed and lay stiffly side by side, as Steyn snored quietly in the other bed.

Then Thys had murmured quietly: ‘I’ll pray for you, Annamari.’ But he hadn’t said anything to her since, not once, the whole morning, the whole trip.

Annamari leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She was exhausted. That dreadful encounter with Beauty in the Spur’s toilets had replayed in her mind all night. Over and over and over.

Now, it flickered across her closed lids. She opened her eyes and stared blindly out the window. Could she have handled it differently? What could she have said? What should she say? Should she tell Beauty the truth? Swear her to secrecy? She shuddered. No way. What if Beauty told Arno? What if Beauty told Thys? What if Beauty didn’t believe her and she and Arno ...

Annamari caught her breath. What if it wasn’t true? After all, what real proof did she have? The fact that Beauty’s eyes were blue? That was no proof at all. Not real proof. Her heart thumped. What if Arno and Beauty could be together? It would make Arno so happy. Anyone could see he was crazy about her. And she was crazy about him. They’d make a perfect couple. She – so clever and ambitious and hard working and kind and pretty and really quite wonderful. It really didn’t matter that she wasn’t white. It didn’t. And Arno – so handsome and clever and gentle and... there was no question about it, they were – they could be – a perfect couple. If only. She would love nothing more than to give them her heartfelt blessing. To dance at their wedding with wings on her feet. But only if she was sure, absolutely one hundred percent certain, that she was wrong.