A Dry White Season (8 page)

Within the four walls of his cramped study, that night. He hadn’t switched on the main light, contenting himself with the small stark circle of the reading lamp on his desk. Earlier in the evening there had been a summer storm over the city. Now the thunder had passed. A broken moon was shining through shredded clouds. From the gutters came the irregular drip-drip-dripping of water. But inside the room a hint of the pre-storm oppressiveness still lingered, huddled in the gloom, an almost physical dark presence.

For a while Ben tried to concentrate on the marking of the Standard Nines’ scripts, his jacket flung across a chair, his blue shirt unbuttoned, the right sleeve clasped by a shirt-garter. But now the red ballpoint pen lay discarded on the top paper as he sat staring at the bookshelves on the opposite wall. The placid books whose titles he could recall even though it was too dark to see. A slight movement in the gauze curtain covering the open steelframed window: caressing almost imperceptibly the conventional pattern of the burglar-proofing.

In this silence, in this defined small circle of white light, everything that had happened appeared unreal, if not wholly impossible. Stanley’s broad face shining with perspiration, the subterranean rumbling of his voice and his laughter, the eyes unmoved by the wide grin on his lips. His familiarity, the tone of mocking deprecation:
Is this your Boer? This the lanie
? Emily on the high stoep of the redbrick building. The blue headscarf, the full-length old-fashioned chintz dress, the black fringed shawl. A lifetime in the city hadn’t changed her. She still belonged among the hills of the Transkei. Would her eldest be sleeping more resignedly tonight? Or was he out with friends to smash windows, to set fire to schools, to blow up cars? All because of what had happened to his father. Gordon with his thin body,
the deep furrows beside his mouth, the dark flickering of his eyes, the shy smile. Yes, Baas. The hat in both hands, pressed against his chest.
I cannot stop before I know what happened to him and where they buried him. His body belongs to me
. And then last night.
You just start talking about him in the past tense.

Susan entered so quietly with the tray that he only became aware of her when she put it down on the desk. She’d had her bath and her body still suggested the luxury of nakedness and warm water. A loose floral housecoat. Her hair undone and brushed, a slightly unnatural blond hiding the first touches of grey.

“Haven’t you finished marking?”

“I can’t concentrate tonight.”

“Are you coming to bed?”

“In a while.”

“What’s the matter, Ben?”

“It’s this business of Gordon’s.”

“Why do you take it to heart so much? You said yourself it was only a mistake.”

“I don’t know. I’m just tired, I suppose. At this time of the night things don’t look the same.”

“You’ll feel better once you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

“I said I’d come in a while.”

“It really has nothing to do with you, Ben. It will get sorted out, you know.”

He wasn’t looking at her. He was gazing at the red pen, motionless and menacing on the unmarked script.

“One always reads about this sort of thing,” he said absently. “One hears so many things. But it remains part of a totally different world really. One never expects it to happen to someone you actually know.”

“It’s not as if you knew Gordon well. He was just a cleaner at your school.”

“I know. But one can’t help wondering, can one? Where is he tonight while we’re talking here in this room? Where is he sleeping? Or isn’t he sleeping at all? Perhaps he’s standing in some office under a bare bulb, his feet on bricks and a weight tied to his balls.”

“It’s not necessary to be obscene.”

“I’m sorry. “He sighed.

“Your imagination is running wild. Why don’t you rather come to bed with me?”

He looked up quickly, his attention caught by something in her voice; aware of her warmth of body and bath, her scent. Behind the loose folds of the housecoat the subtle promise of her breasts and belly. It wasn’t often she conveyed it so openly.

“I’ll be coming just now.”

She was quiet for a while. Then, drawing the housecoat more tightly round her, she tied up her belt.

“Don’t let your coffee get cold.”

“No. Thank you, Susan.”

After she’d gone out he could hear the gentle dripping of the gutters again. The small and intimate wet sounds of the departed rain.

Tomorrow he would go to John Vorster Square himself, he thought. He would talk to them personally. In a way he owed it to Gordon. It was little enough. A brief conversation to correct a misunderstanding. For what else could it be but a regrettable, reparable mistake?

5

At the wrong end of Commissioner Street, leaving the centre behind you, where the city grows toothless and down-at-heel, with peeling, barely legible ads for
Tiger Balm
and Chinese preparations on the blank walls beyond gaping vacant lots and holes and broken bottles, the building appears oddly out of place: tall and severely rectilinear, concrete and glass, blue, massive; yet hollow and transparent enough to offer an unreal view of the cars travelling on the high fly-over of the M
I
beyond.
Constables loitering on the pavement with deliberate idleness. Cypresses and aloes. A hospital atmosphere inside. Stern corridors; open doors revealing men writing at desks in small offices; shut doors; blank walls. At the back, in the parking basement, the blank lift without buttons or controls, shooting upwards to a predetermined floor the moment you enter. Television cameras following your movements. On the high floor the bulletproof glass cage, the thickset man in uniform watching you suspiciously while you write down the particulars required.

“Just a minute.”

An unduly long minute. Then you are invited to follow him, through the clanging iron gate which is carefully locked behind you, effectively severing all links with the world outside.

“Colonel Viljoen. I’ve brought the gentleman.”

Behind the table in the centre of the office, the middle-aged man pushing back his chair and getting up to greet you. “Come in, Mr Du Toit. How do you do?” Friendly ruddy face; grey crew-cut.

“Meet Lieutenant Venter.” That’s the young well-built bloke with the dark curly hair at the window, paging through a magazine and smiling a boyish welcome. Safari suit. Large tanned hair legs. A comb protruding from the top of a pale blue stocking.

Colonel Viljoen gestures towards the person beside the door: “Captain Stolz.” The man nods, unsmiling. Tall, lean, checkered sports jacket, olive green shirt and matching tie, grey flannels. Unlike his colleague he does not need the pretence of a magazine as he leans against the wall, playing with an orange which he throws up and catches, and throws up and catches monotonously; and every time it lands in his white hand he pauses momentarily to squeeze it briefly, voluptuously, his gaze unflinching on your face. He remains uncomfortably out of sight behind your back when you sit down on the chair the colonel has offered you. On the table you notice a small framed photograph of a woman with a pleasant, shapeless face, and two small blond boys with missing front teeth.

“It seems you’re having problems.”

“Not really, Colonel. I just wanted to come and see you to find out – to discuss this Gordon you’ve arrested. Gordon
Ngubene.”

The colonel looks at the piece of paper before him, carefully flattening it with his palm. “I see. Well, if there’s anything we can do—”

“I thought I might be in a position to help you. I mean, in case there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“What makes you think there may have been a misunderstanding?”

“Because I know Gordon well enough to assure you … You see, he just isn’t the sort of man to fall foul of the law. An honest, decent man. A churchgoing man.”

“You’ll be surprised to know how many honest, decent churchgoing men we come across, Mr Du Toit.” The colonel leaned back comfortably, balancing on the back legs of his chair. “Still, I appreciate your willingness to help us. I can assure you that with the necessary co-operation on his part he’ll be back with his family very soon.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” You would like to accept it implicitly, to acknowledge relief, yet you find it necessary to persist, in the urgent belief that you may be frank with this man in front of you. He is a family man like yourself, he has seen the good and bad of life, he may well be a few years older than yourself; it would come as no surprise to see him among the elders in church on a Sunday. “What is it you’re really after, Colonel? I must admit that I was quite dumbfounded by his arrest.”

“A routine enquiry, Mr Du Toit. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we can’t leave a stone unturned in trying to clean up the townships.”

“Of course. But if you could only tell me—”

“And it’s not a pleasant task either, I assure you. We cannot raise a finger without the press screaming blue murder. Especially the English press. It’s so easy for them to criticise from outside, isn’t it? Whereas they’ll be the first to squeal if the Communists took over. I wish I were in a position to tell you about some of the things we’ve been uncovering since the riots started. Have you any idea of what will happen to the country unless we investigated every possible lead we get? We’ve got a duty, an obligation to all our people, Mr Du Toit. You have your job, we have ours.”

“I appreciate it, Colonel.” There is the curious feeling, in such a situation, of being an accused yourself; uncomfortably, you become aware of sinister undertones to everything you say. “But from time to time one needs the assurance – and that’s what I’ve come for – that in your search for criminals you do not also, unwittingly, cause innocent people to suffer.”

It is very quiet in the office. There are steel bars in front of the window. It hits you in the solar plexus. Suddenly you realise that the friendly chap with the curly hair and the safari suit hasn’t turned a page in his magazine since you arrived. And you start wondering, your neck itching, about the thin man in the checkered jacket behind your back. You cannot restrain yourself from turning to look. He is still standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, the orange moving up and down in a slow mechanical rhythm, his eyes cool and frank, as if he hasn’t looked away for a second. Strangely dark eyes for such a pale face. The thin white line of a scar on his cheek. And all of a sudden you know. You’d better memorize the name. Captain Stolz. His presence is not fortuitous. He has a role to play; and you will see him again. You
know.

“Mr Du Toit,” says Colonel Viljoen at the table. “While you’re here, would you mind if I asked you a few questions about Gordon Ngubene?”

“I’d welcome it.”

“For how long have you known him?”

“Oh, years and years. Fifteen or sixteen, I think. And in all that time—”

“What work did he do at your school?”

“He was appointed as cleaner. But because he could read and write he also helped out in the stockroom and so on. Totally reliable. I remember once or twice when the Department accidentally overpaid him, he immediately brought back the rest.”

The colonel has opened a file and picked up a yellow ballpoint pen, but apart from doodling on a blank page he isn’t writing down anything.

“Have you ever met the other members of his family?”

“His wife sometimes visited us. And his eldest son.”

Why this sudden tension in your jaws when you utter the words? Why this feeling of divulging incriminating information
–and suppressing other facts? Behind you, you know, the lanky officer is watching you with his unflinching, feverish eyes while the orange is being thrown and caught and gently pressed and thrown again.

“You’re referring to Jonathan?”

“Yes.” You cannot help adding, with a touch of malice: “The one who died some time ago.”

“What do you know about Gordon’s activities since Jonathan’s death?”

“Nothing. I never saw him again. He resigned his job at the school.”

“Yet you feel you know him well enough to vouch for him?”

“Yes. After so many years.”

“Did he ever discuss Jonathan’s death with you?”

What should you reply? What is he expecting you to say? After a moment’s hesitation you say, laconically: “No, never.”

“Are you quite sure, Mr Du Toit? I mean, if you really knew him so well—?”

“I don’t remember. I told you he was a religious man.” – Why the past tense, following Stanley’s example? – “I’m sure he would have learnt to resign himself to it in the end.”

“You mean he wasn’t resigned in the beginning? What
was
he, Mr Du Toit? Angry? Rebellious?”

“Colonel, if one of your children were to die so unexpectedly” – you indicate, with your head, the photograph on the table – “and if no one was prepared to tell you how it happened, wouldn’t you be upset too?”