A Dry White Season

by Andre Brink

  Unlike Suzette, she shared his concern over Gordon. Not that they had any really profound discussions about it – she was away in Pretoria most of the time and only came home for the occasional weekend, with or without the fiancé – but he felt encouraged by her sympathy. Above all, she was practical. What mattered to her was to make sure that Emily and her family did not suffer materially while Gordon was away; she made arrangements for food and clothing and rent. And, like Ben, but even more positively so, she was convinced that everything would be cleared up very soon.

  “After all, we know he didn’t do anything wrong,” she said when, during that first weekend after the arrest, she and Ben went for a stroll to the Zoo Lake. “And the police are bound to discover it very soon.”

  “I know.” In spite of himself he was feeling morose. “But sometimes unfortunate things do happen.”

  “They’re human, just like us, Daddy. Anybody can make a mistake.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “You’ll see: any day now they’ll let Gordon go. Then we can find him a good new job.”

  Her Pieter had a slightly different approach: “The first thing we must do after he’s released is to make him come over to the Dutch Reformed Church. Those, sects are just a breeding ground for all sorts of evil, misleading the poor trusting members. With a more solid foundation they won’t land in trouble so easily.”

  “I honestly don’t think the church has anything to do with their problems,” said Ben tartly. Followed by prolonged sucking on his burnt-out pipe.

  And then there was Johan, the son Ben had always wanted and who’d been born so unexpectedly at a time when they had really given up thinking of having more children. But while Ben was prepared to spoil the boy, Susan had always been unreasonably strict with him. – Now don’t be a sissy, boys don’t cry. You’re just as hopeless as your father. Come on, you’ve got to be tough. – A lively, healthy boy. A promising chess player. A good athlete. But tense. Like a young horse straining to go but not yet certain about which way to head for.

  On that Friday Ben and Johan were driving back home from athletic practice, Johan drumming his fingers on the glove box, accompanying some inaudible tune in his mind.

  “It’s been your best thousand metres I’ve seen yet,” said Ben warmly. “You were a good twenty metres ahead of that Kuhn boy. And only the other day he beat you.”

  “But I had a better time on Wednesday. One-point-seven better. Why didn’t you come to watch me then?”

  “I had business in town.”

  “What business?”

  “I went to see the Security Police.”

  “Really?” He looked at Ben. “What for?”

  “To find out about Gordon.”

  Johan looked intrigued. “Did they say anything about Jonathan?”

  “No. It doesn’t look good to me.”

  Johan was silent for a minute. “Hell,” he exclaimed suddenly. “It’s so strange to think about it, isn’t it? I mean: he used to work in our garden and everything. I rather liked him. He made me that steelwire-cart, d’you remember?”

  “And now they’ve got Gordon too.”

  “Did you manage to convince them?”

  “I don’t know. At least the Colonel was very understanding. He promised they’d let him go as soon as possible.”

  “Did you see Gordon?”

  “No, of course not. No one is allowed to see a detainee. Once they’ve got you – “ He stopped at an intersection, waiting in silence for the lights to change. Only after they had started up again he resumed: “Anyway, they’re allowing his family to bring him a change of clothes when they want to.” After a while he added: “If you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t mention to Mother that I’d been to see them. She may not like it.”

  With a conspiratorial smile Johan turned to him. “You bet I won’t.”

  7

  It was, in fact, the arrangement about the clothes that led to a new development in Gordon’s case.

  About ten days after Ben had sent a message to the family about Colonel Viljoen’s promise, a stranger brought news to Emily – and she promptly reported to Ben. The man, it turned out, had been detained at John Vorster Square for a few days on a suspected assault charge; when it proved to have been a case of mistaken identity he was released. But during his detention, he said, he’d seen Gordon briefly and had been shocked by his condition: he was unable to walk or speak properly, his face was discoloured and swollen, one ear was deaf, his right arm in a sling. Was there anything Ben could do about it?

  Without delay he telephoned the Special Branch and demanded to speak to Colonel Viljoen personally. The officer sounded very cordial to begin with, but grew more severe as Ben repeated what he’d been told. In the end he regained his heartiness: “Good heavens, Mr Du Toit! You don’t mean you’re serious about such a wild story? Look, there’s no way a man held on an ordinary criminal charge can communicate with one of our detainees. I can assure you Gordon Ngubene is in perfect health.” A slight but significant change of tone: “I do appreciate your interest in the case, Mr Du Toit, but you’re really not making things any easier for us. We have more than enough problems as it is and a bit of trust and goodwill will go a long way.”

  “I’m relieved by your assurances, Colonel. That’s why I phoned you. Now I can tell the family not to worry.”

  “We know what we’re doing.” For a moment the officer sounded almost paternal: “In your own interest, Mr Du Toit, don’t just believe any rumour you hear.”

  He would have been relieved to accept it at face value. But he kept on imagining Captain Stolz somewhere in the background while the Colonel was talking, his pale face expressionless, the thin scar on his cheek a deadly white on white; and although he tried his best to reassure Emily there was something restless and unhappy in his own mind.

  Barely a week later it suddenly came to a head when Emily and two of her children left another change of clothing for Gordon at the Square. When they arrived home and prepared to wash the old clothes returned to them, there was blood on the trousers. Closer examination revealed three broken teeth in the back pocket.

  With the trousers wrapped in a crumpled copy of The World Emily arrived at Ben’s house in Stanley Makhaya’s taxi. It was a difficult situation to handle, not only because of Emily’s state of near-hysteria, but also because the Du Toits had guests for dinner: a couple of Susan’s friends from the South African Broadcasting Corporation, the newly arrived young minister of their congregation, and a few of Ben’s colleagues, including his principal. They had just sat down for the first course when the knock came.

  “It’s for you,” Susan announced tersely, as she returned from the front door. Adding in a whisper: “For heaven’s sake try to get rid of them soon. I can’t wait with the main dish.”

  Stanley was less communicative than the previous time. In fact, he appeared almost aggressive, as if he were blaming Ben for what had happened; and there was a heavy smell of liquor on his breath.

  What was to be done at this time of the evening and with a weekend ahead? All Ben could suggest was to telephone the lawyer at his home; but it took two vain attempts before the third Levinson in the directory turned out to be the right one. And all the time Ben was conscious of Susan glaring at him in smouldering silence, while all conversation around the table stopped as the guests tried to follow what was going on. Understandably, Friday was not the best night of the week to discuss business with Dan Levinson. Why the hell couldn’t it wait until Monday, he shouted. But when Ben went outside to report to Emily she was adamant. By Monday, she insisted, Gordon might be dead.

  What about the black lawyer then, Ben asked Stanley, the one who’d helped Gordon with the affidavits?

  “No go,” said Stanley with a harsh laugh. “Julius Nqakula got his banning orders three days ago, man. First round knockout.”

  Grimly Ben returned to the telephone trying to avoid the guests’ eyes as he dialled again. This time Dan Le
vinson exploded: “My God, I’m not a fucking doctor who’s on standby all the time! What do these people expect of me?”

  “It’s not their fault,” said Ben miserably, embarrassed by the presence of his guests. “They’ve been forced into it. Don’t you see, it’s a matter of life or death, Mr Levinson.”

  “All right then. But Jesus Christ—!”

  “Mr Levinson, I can quite understand if you don’t want to be disturbed over the weekend. If you’d prefer to recommend another lawyer—”

  “Why? Don’t they have any bloody confidence in me? Show me another lawyer who’s done what I have done these last months to help clear up the Soweto mess. And now they want to drop me? That’s gratitude for you.”

  It took some time before Ben managed to edge in another word; in the end they did arrange to meet at his office the next morning. He wanted everybody who could be of assistance: Stanley, Emily, the man who’d told them about Gordon’s condition, any possible witnesses.

  Stanley had obviously not expected a positive response. With his great hands on his hips he stood waiting for Ben to report, while Emily sat crying quietly on the steps, her head pressed against the face-brick pillar; round the stoep light moths and gnats were swirling. “You mean he’s going to help us?” said Stanley. “You actually pulled it off?” An explosion of appreciative laughter. “You may be a lanie” – his red tongue caressed the syllables of the taunting tsotsi word –"but you’ve got it right here.” Theatrically, he slammed one of his huge fists against his barrel chest. “Shake! “And he offered Ben his hand.

  Ben hesitated, then took the hand. For a while Stanley stood pumping energetically: whether it was prompted by emotion or by too much drink was difficult to make out. He dropped Ben’s hand as suddenly as he’d taken it, and turned round to help Emily to her feet.

  “Come on, Auntie Emily. Tomorrow it’ll all be first-class again.”

  Ben remained outside until the big car had disappeared down the street in a great roar. Dogs were barking after it. With a heavy heart he went back to the dining room.

  Susan looked up, announcing with deadly restraint: “Your food is in the oven. I’m sure you didn’t expect us to wait.”

  “Of course not. Sorry chaps.” He sat down at the head of the table. “I’m not feeling hungry anyway.” As casually as possible he drank some wine from his glass, conscious of them all watching him in expectant silence.

  Susan: “So did you solve their problems? Or is it a secret?” Before he could reply she told the guests, with a small bitter smile, “Ben has developed a whole new set of priorities recently. I hope you’ll forgive him for it.”

  With a touch of irritation he replied, “I apologised, didn’t I?” He put down his glass and a few drops splashed over the edge staining the white tablecloth. He noticed Susan’s disapproving stare but ignored it. “A young boy died the other day. The least one can do is to try and prevent another death.”

  “Your wife told us about it,” said one of the teachers, Viviers (Afrikaans, Standards Six and Seven), an intense young man, fresh from university. “It’s high time someone started doing something about it. One can’t just sit back all the time. The whole system is crumbling around us and no one lifts a finger.”

  “What can one man do against a whole system?” asked one of Susan’s SABC friends good-naturedly.

  “Ben still likes to think of himself in the role of an old-world knight,” said Susan, smiling. “More Don Quixote than Lancelot though.”

  “Don’t be silly,"he said angrily. “It’s not a case of ‘one man against a whole system’ anyway. The system doesn’t concern me. I’m just making a few small practical arrangements.”

  “Like what?” asked the principal, Cloete, wearing his chronically dyspeptic, disapproving expression. Unceremoniously pushing back his chair he rose to refill his glass at the drinks cabinet: while everyone else was having wine, he stuck to his brandy and water. Slightly breathless, as usual, he came back.

  “I’ve arranged for a meeting with the lawyer tomorrow,” Ben said briefly. “We’ll try to get an interdict from the Supreme Court.”

  “Isn’t that dramatising things a bit too much?” asked the young minister, Dominee Bester, in a tone of good-natured reproach.

  “Not if you knew what’s happened.” Briefly, reluctantly, Ben told them the news. The trousers, the blood, the broken teeth.

  “We’re still at table,” said Susan, disapproving.

  “Well, you asked me.”

  “How can a system survive if it allows such things to happen?” said Viviers, visibly upset. Without asking permission he lit a cigarette, something Susan normally frowned on. “For heaven’s sake, can you imagine—”

  “I’m not talking about the system,” Ben repeated, more controlled than before. “I know we’re living in an emergency and that one has to make allowances. I’m also prepared to accept that the Security Police often knows more than we do. I’m not questioning that. I’m only concerned with a couple of people I happen to know personally. I won’t pretend that I knew Jonathan well. For all I know he may have been involved in illegal things. But even if that were so I still want to find out what happened and why it was allowed to happen. As far as Gordon is concerned, I can vouch for him. And quite a few of you also know him well enough.” He looked straight at the principal. “And if they start acting against a man like Gordon then it’s clear there must be something wrong. That is what I’m trying to prevent.”

  “Provided you keep the school out of it,” said Cloete sullenly. “We teachers must stay out of politics.”

  Like an aggressive young dog Viviers turned on him: “What about the Party meeting in the school hall three weeks ago? Wasn’t that politics?”

  “It was outside of school hours,” said Cloete, swallowing deeply from his amber glass. “It had nothing to do with the school.”

  “You personally introduced the minister.”

  “Mr Viviers!” Cloete seemed to inflate himself as he leaned forward on his two large soft hands. “With all due respect, you’re just a pipsqueak in politics. And what you know about school affairs—”

  “I just wanted to get some clarification.”

  While they sat glaring at one another Susan deftly changed the subject: “What I’d like to know is who’s going to pay for this? Not you, I hope?”

  “That’s beside the point,” said Ben wearily. “Why can’t I pay for it if I have to?”

  “Perhaps Dominee can take a collection,” one of the men from the SABC joked. They started laughing. And with that the danger was bypassed. In a few minutes the atmosphere was further improved by Susan’s exquisite sweets; and by the time the conversation came round to Gordon again the tension was relieved, the mood relaxed.

  “Perhaps it would be a good thing for the case to go to court, all things considered,” said the young minister. “Too much secrecy doesn’t do anyone any good. I’m sure the Security Police themselves would welcome it. I mean, it gives them a chance to state their side, doesn’t it? And when all is said and done there are two sides to every case.”

  “Not that there appears to be much doubt about this case,” retorted Viviers.

  “Who are we to judge?” asked Cloete, leaning back with a show of pleasure, his white napkin still spread across his belly, bearing traces of every dish served in the course of the meal. “Remember what the Bible says about the first stone? Not so, Dominee?”

  “True,” agreed the Rev Bester. “But don’t forget: Jesus didn’t hesitate to castigate the moneylenders either.”

  “Because He knew there was no malice in Himself,” Cloete reminded him, burping gently into his hand.

  Staring absently ahead of him Ben refilled his glass.

  “What about your guests?” Susan reminded him.

  “I’m sorry. I got lost in my own thoughts.”

  “Dare we offer a penny?” said Cloete, grinning.

  “Only God can fathom our hearts,” said the young minister
.

  “And what will be,” said the SABC producer who had spoken before, “will be.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m protesting against,” said Viviers angrily. “We’re much too eager to leave everything to God. Unless we start doing something on our own we’re in for an unholy explosion.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to you, Oom Ben,” he said.” Give them hell.”

  And suddenly they were all raising their glasses, beaming with benevolence and amusement, in a show of unity unpredictable barely a minute ago. Satisfied, her confidence restored, Susan escorted them to more comfortable seats in the lounge, for coffee and Van der Hum. And only an hour later, alone in their bedroom after everybody had left and the lights in the rest of the house had been turned off, did she unmask her deeper discontent in the mirror as she meticulously removed the makeup from her face.

  “You very nearly succeeded in wrecking the whole evening,” she said. “I hope you realise it.”

  “I’m sorry, Susan,” he said from the bed, taking off his shoes. “It turned out all right though.”

  She didn’t bother to reply as she leaned forward to daub cream on her cheeks. The gown hung loosely from her shoulders and in the mirror he could see the soft, elongated pears of her breasts. Without wanting it, he felt dull, weary desire stirring inside him. But he knew she would be unapproachable tonight.

  “What are you trying to do, Ben?” she asked unexpectedly, clearly determined not to leave it at that. She threw the bit of cottonwool into the basket beside her dresser, and reached for another. “What is it you really want? Tell me. I must know.”

  “Nothing.” He began to button up his striped pyjama jacket. “I told you already: I just tried to help them. From here the law will follow its own course.”

  “Do you realise what you’re letting yourself in for?”