by Jon Zackon
“Not us,” said Jason. “The lawyer killed everything. He barely let us report the man’s death at all.”
I looked at the paragraph again. It read:
A man was found shot dead at the Miramar Café, off Durban’s Marine Parade, last night. Police, who have not released any names, said that a man had been arrested and charged in connection with the incident. He is due to appear in court today.
“Shit! This doesn’t even say it’s a murder charge,” I griped. “What a waste of time.”
I stormed back to the reporters’ room and went into Neal’s office, where he sat looking at his own page proof.
“No need to say anything,” he said, holding up a cautionary hand. “I can see for myself. It’s fucking disgraceful. How the fuck could it have been prejudicial to tell a bit of the truth? For example, that other customers never heard anything because of the firecrackers? Tell me that!”
He threw the page down theatrically.
“Sometimes I think I’m wasting my fucking time on this paper,” he said.
***
The next day I was called into Gordon Clare’s office. Although officially the news editor, he was now also the acting deputy editor. The previous incumbent had retired and Gordon was waiting to be appointed. He was the person who had hired me and I found there was much to admire about him. For one thing, his politics were seriously liberal. It was said that the government hated his editorials but feared an international outcry if they tried to silence him.
Ironically, the one person who acted as a brake on Gordon was the editor, Pritchard Soames. As yet I’d had no dealings with Soames and I doubt he’d even heard of me. But according to the other staffers he was a spoilt individual who had inherited a controlling interest in the paper. He was well-educated and clever and professed broadly liberal views. But he simultaneously did his utmost to keep the local business community happy.
The two stances were incompatible, which occasionally showed in an otherwise outgoing editorial policy. The best example of the dichotomy was on the question of giving the vote to South Africa’s disenfranchised black majority. There was no compromise on Gordon’s part. He wanted one man – and one woman – one vote. The pusillanimous Soames thought the country should proceed slowly, with a qualified franchise that would in effect give the vote to no more than ten per cent of Africans.
Soames was in charge, so his view prevailed. This left Gordon nervous as hell. How far to go? Who would get him first, the editor or the Nationalist Government? It must have worried him on a daily basis. I’d yet to see him smile.
“I understand you had a spot of bother last night,” he said as I sat down.
I explained what had happened.
“Daniel, one or two of the subs are a bit upset with the way you rounded on them. You surely know they have to listen to the lawyer? Why else would we employ him? The subs don’t even have the authority to argue with him. He’s there to protect the paper and that’s all there is to it.”
So there it was. On politics the man was a caged lion. On crime he was an uninterested tabby. Not really a criticism – just the way things were.
I trooped down the corridor to the subs’ room and apologised to the night editor, who was eating a sandwich and couldn’t have cared less.
Conrad, just back from holiday, came over to my desk to say hello. When he heard what had happened he shook his head in bewilderment at the amount of trouble I’d caused in one short week.
“Neal was even angrier than me and no one’s called him in and given him a bollocking,” I said.
“He didn’t shout at the subs,” replied Conrad.
“I really wonder if I’m cut out for this sort of life.”
“Probably not. Who is? But I’ll tell you what, we’re up for the American comedian, or entertainer, or whatever you want to call him. It’s quite a few weeks away, so are you in or out? We need to book.”
“Funny you should raise this. Steven Fall rang me and invited me round for tomorrow night. Little Miss Mystery will be there and maybe I’ll get a chance to ask her out. She can only say no, right?”
Chapter 9
THE FALL families lived close together in Morningside, a suburb of tree-lined streets and gardens with pools. The invitation was to Steven’s home, although when I rang the bell it was Ruth who came to the door.
“Hello. I suppose we have met, er … sort of,” I said stupidly.
“Of course, Daniel. At the jazz club. Come in.”
Her manner was borderline brusque. She certainly didn’t give the impression that she was pleased to see me. Distant rather than aloof, but it still left me convinced I was wasting my time.
Steven greeted me cheerfully and led me into the lounge, where he introduced me to everyone. Apart from the immediate families there were two other men present - Lola’s boyfriend Chuck and the girls’ uncle on their mother’s side, a Dr Ivan Leitener. He was a painfully shy individual who peered at me through horn-rimmed glasses, his head tilted slightly to one side. I’d have put him down as an academic, an egghead tucked away in an ivory tower, and was a little surprised to learn that he was a psychiatrist with a sizeable practice. I wondered whether he shouldn’t have had a more outgoing personality for such a career choice.
Ruth’s father, Sam, was an elderly, distinguished looking man. I’d been told he imported piece goods, although I wasn’t quite sure what that meant. He spoke precisely, with the merest hint of a cockney accent. Steven’s lawyer father, Simmy, the younger of the Fall brothers, was only ten when the family arrived from London, so he’d lost his accent. According to Steven, the brothers were always fighting, much to his amusement.
The wives in the Fall clan – Sam was married to Sophie and Simmy to Ruby – were ample in girth and groomed to the nines. Two competent, confident matriarchs in a resourceful, affluent family. The Falls, I guessed, were the sort of people used to fighting their own battles and winning. They exuded a genteel smugness. So what the hell was I doing among them? My world was edgy, anxious even. On the other hand, I always felt an outsider regardless of the company.
Another thought rose to the surface as I looked at the Falls in their beautifully kept little world – how seismically disturbing Ruth’s elopement must have been for them.
Ruby came into the room with a tray of chopped herring thickly spread on kichel, a type of wafer. “Does your mother keep strict kosher, Daniel?” she asked.
“Thank you,” I replied, helping myself to the herring before adding, “No. Never. It’s not her style.”
“Just as well. We don’t either, as I’m sure you’ll notice.”
I had to stop myself from expanding on my mother’s “style.” She was the meekest person I’d ever met. But if you listened carefully to her softly delivered words – which was something that no one, including my father, ever seemed to do – what you would have heard were the thoughts and ideas of a total subversive. A Fellow Traveller. Someone with friends in the party. Someone who would have been glad, if only she had it in her power, to enfranchise the country’s black majority, one and all, right there and then, just as Gordon Clare would have liked.
Asking about my mother was nothing more than an opening gambit and I feared the course the conversation might take. I just knew that Ruby and Sophie were about to launch an inquisition, demanding to know every root and branch in my family tree – and then no doubt cooing over our mutual tenth cousins.
In the nick of time, I was rescued by Sam. “What made you go into journalism?” he asked.
I thought for a moment before saying, “A mixture of things, I suppose. I was articled to a big law firm but hated it. All you study is case histories. I found it tedious. It seemed to have nothing to do with reality. Anyway, I got naught per cent in one exam.”
“That’s quite a feat, I should imagine. How did you manage it?”
“Oh, I read the question paper, scratched my head, then walked out of the exam room
after ten minutes. And out of law for good.”
“So becoming a journalist had nothing to do with the idealism of youth?”
“Well, yes it did. It still does. The newspapers in this country need to tell the truth and keep telling it. Verwoerd is a Nazi-loving thug – don’t you agree?”
“Well, not quite,” said Sam.
“Not quite?” interjected Simmy. “You don’t agree at all, Sam, do you? You voted for the Nationalists at the last election. Admit it.”
This set the brothers off. But as they began to raise their voices, Ruby, clearly an old hand at separating the combatants, cut in. “Come on boys, dinner’s served,” she said.
I was placed next to Ruth. But as I felt she was indifferent towards me I decided not to bother her with small talk. I’d only embarrass myself further.
An African woman servant brought in the starters – a fruitcup served in scooped out pineapple boats. This was followed by roast leg of lamb a la Marsala.
“It’s delicious,” I said.
“You can thank Simmy,” said Ruby. “He got up in the middle of the night to turn the joint over in the marinade.”
“I always do it,” said Simmy. “It’s my most important domestic function. I use a whole bottle of Marsala. Except for what I drink.”
Desert was a meringue pyramid smothered in cream and covered in strawberries. Afterwards we adjourned to the lounge for coffee and brandy.
“Daniel’s brought chocolates,” said Lola, handing the box around.
Sam, a Monte Christo clamped in the corner of his mouth, turned to me once again. “So how are you liking Durban, Daniel?”
“I love it. The only thing I don’t like is the humidity. But the beach is wonderful.”
“So you swim a lot?”
“Nearly every morning. Generally, I don’t have to get into work until four. So I can bake in the sun.”
“And the paper?”
“They’re treating me really well. The other day I interviewed Albert Luthuli. Only on the phone, of course, but you know …”
“And how did you find our Nobel laureate?”
“Brilliant. Quite extraordinary what a clear mind he has. He more or less ended up writing the whole story for me. He just said, ‘Take this down,’ and when I looked at the notes later I found I didn’t have to change a word.”
“Well, that’s his job,” said Sam in an attempt to dismiss the leader of the African National Congress.
“There you go,” said Simmy. “You don’t have a good word for anybody, Sam, do you? The truth is, Luthuli fights to keep a lid on all the hatred around us. Thank God he’s not a man of violence.”
“He can do nothing to stop all the crime his people commit,” said Sam.
“Not that again.”
“Yes, just that, Simmy. Did you know another business was broken into last night? Only a hundred yards from my warehouse. Every night there’s a serious crime in that area.”
“And what are the police doing about it?”
“They’re doing their best but it’s about numbers. They can’t stop every thief there is.”
“Perhaps not. But my practice had a case some months ago that showed how far the police are prepared to go these days.”
“Go on …”
“We defended this black youth who was caught inside a factory by two detectives. Our client was with an accomplice, who started climbing up a ladder to try to escape. But the ladder was on the outside of a chimney and there was no exit at the top. He was trapped. One of the detectives walked up to the ladder … listen to this … pointed his gun upwards, and shot the boy straight up the backside.”
I hadn’t been listening all that attentively, but mention of detectives alarmed me. Oh, no, I thought. No, no, no. It’s difficult to explain. Perhaps it had something to do with that violent flash of temper Koos had displayed in the car driving home from poker. Whatever the case, I had a sudden foreboding of where all this was going.
Simmy continued, “The bullet passed through his body, shattered his spine high up and killed him instantly.”
“Who was the detective? Do you know his name?”
“Of course, Sam. He had to give evidence in court. Sergeant Koos … er … van Blatter. That’s him, although I think his real name is Jacobus. His partner was the ex-Natal rugger player, Lieutenant Theo Oudenstad.”
It was like a physical blow. I’d seen it coming but couldn’t get out of the way. The huge meal didn’t help. I felt sick.
“Are you all right, Daniel?” asked Sophie.
“Yes, yes, thank you. I’m fine.”
Now everyone’s attention was centred on me.
Simmy said, “Do you know this detective … Van Blatter?”
Maybe it was Ruth’s presence, but I wasn’t keen to appear to be too disreputable. So I didn’t mention the poker game, but was able to fall back on the shooting on the veranda.
“You’ve probably heard about the guy shot in that café near the beach last week?” I said. “Well, I was sent to cover it and met those same two detectives at the scene.”
“How did you find them?”
“Charming and cooperative. Well, Koos van Blatter is charming – loads of charisma. His partner is affable, but a little taciturn at times.”
“So will this Koos be charged or even reprimanded?” asked Sam.
“Neither,” said Simmy. “The black boy was running away from the scene of a crime. So according to the law, however reprehensible you may think this particular law is, Van Blatter was perfectly entitled to stop him by whatever means. Even killing him.”
“Justifiable homicide,” I said.
“Exactly. If anything, he’ll be praised for catching a couple of thieves.”
“And your client?”
“Guilty. Ten years.”
Simmy sought out Dr Leitener, who was virtually in hiding in a corner of the room.
“What do you think, Ivan? Isn’t there something iffy about what this detective did, shooting somebody up the fundament? Is there some kind of psychopathology going on here?”
Leitener ran a hand over his chin to give himself a bit of time, then said, “Please don’t accuse me of fence sitting, Simmy, but I would hesitate to come to a conclusion on the basis of a single incident.”
“Yes, you are fence sitting, Ivan. What if the cop does do it again? What would you say then?”
“No, I won’t say anything here and now. It would be unfair. First let it happen.”
The conversation died. We’d finished our coffee and drinks. Steven wanted to organise a party to go to the jazz club but Ruth, who hadn’t said one more word to me since we’d met at the door, said she was too tired.
I went up to Leitener, ignoring all his stop signals, and said, “Dr Leitener, a week ago I had a story that would have benefited greatly from an expert psychiatric quote. I was wondering … would you mind if I phoned you next time it happens?”
“As long as you don’t name me,” he said. He fished about in his pocket and produced a business card.
“No, I don’t have to name you. I’ll use the phrase, ‘A leading Durban psychiatrist said …’ ”
This actually made him laugh, although I wasn’t sure why.
An hour later I was back in my flat, searching for a pack of Setlers. Eventually, I tumbled exhaustedly into bed, but couldn’t sleep. Thoughts about Ruth collided with concerns about Koos.
As I’d left the Falls’ house I’d told Steven it was clear Ruth wasn’t interested in me and that I hated wasting my time. But still, as I ran through the events of the evening, she bothered me. She had her mother’s clear, pale skin and her father’s fine features. And she had small, beautiful hands. She looked so damned vulnerable.
My thoughts returned to the vexed subject of Koos. It wasn’t just that he’d killed a suspect. That was bad enough, but it was something that happened in South Africa on a nightly basis. It was the way he�
��d done it. And did this mark him down as some kind of maniac? Why did Simmy ask Leitener those questions? Did he, Simmy, an experienced lawyer, think Koos was a maniac? I was lost for answers but fervently hoped that the unease I felt would prove unjustified.
***
I found sleep hard to come by. At seven o’clock, grateful that such an uncomfortable night was over, I got up, had some tea and toast and headed for the beach. Perhaps I could doze the morning away in the sun.
I threw my towel on the sand and fell on it. In front of me a shock of fair hair bobbed up and I found myself looking into a pair of blue-grey eyes. I winked – what else could I do? – and a face appeared.
“Hello, I’m Danny,” I said.
“Karen,” the face said, smiling.
“Enjoying your holiday, Karen?”
“It’s sad, Danny. This is my last day.”
Fifteen minutes later we left the beach together and headed for my flat. I giggled helplessly as we jogged through the streets.
Once inside the flat Karen shamelessly detached herself from her swimsuit.
We made love urgently and roughly. But it took me a long time and much effort.
I ran a finger over her body. “So that’s it, girl. The end. Now I have to get ready for work.”
I was lying – it was still early. But I hadn’t enjoyed our little encounter all that much. And I blamed Ruth. She was nothing to me and she showed no interest in me whatsoever. Yet my thoughts kept returning to her at crucial moments. I think I even felt a little guilty, as if I were betraying her.
“It was a very nice way to end my holiday. Thank you, Danny,” said Karen, leaning over to kiss me.
“Now you can go back to your husband in Jo’burg,” I said cheekily.
“That’s very clever of you. But not quite correct. Yes, I have a husband, but he’s gone into town to have a haircut and buy presents. We’re catching the train home at lunchtime.”
Chapter 10
CONRAD HAD a habit of starting conversations backwards. He walked up to my desk at the start of his shift and without even a “hello” asked, “Have you got a tennis racket?”
