A Dry White Season

by Andre Brink

  “But Mr Cloete, what on earth has it got to do with politics? The woman lost her husband. She was shattered with grief.”

  “A black woman, Du Toit,” Cloete said coolly.

  He lost his temper: “I can’t see that it makes any difference.”

  “Have you grown colour blind then?” Cloete was gasping for breath in his characteristic asthmatic way. “And then you say it’s not politics? What about the Immorality laws of the country?”

  One of Ben’s colleagues among the church elders, Hartzenberg, telephoned shortly after the morning service: “I’m not surprised you weren’t in church this morning,” he said, apparently in a clumsy effort to jest. “Too ashamed to show your face, I suppose?”

  What hurt more deeply, was Suzette’s call over lunch: “Good heavens, Dad, I always knew you were naive, but this is going too far. Embracing black women in public!”

  “Suzette,” he retorted angrily, “if you had any sense of perspective—”

  “Who’s talking about a sense of perspective?” she interrupted scathingly. “Did you spare one single thought for the repercussions this may have for your children?”

  “I’ve always shown rather more consideration for my children than you have for yours, Suzette.” It sounded more vicious than he’d meant it to be; but he was getting sick and tired of the whole business.

  “It wasn’t Suzette you were talking to like that, was it?” asked Susan, as he sat down at the table again.

  “Yes, it was. I was expecting more commonsense from her.”

  “Don’t you think there’s something wrong if the whole world seems to be out of step with you?” she asked sharply.

  “Can’t you leave Dad alone?” Johan burst out unexpectedly. “For Heaven’s sake, what’s he done wrong? Suppose something had happened to him – wouldn’t you have been upset too?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t have thrown myself into the garden boy’s arms!” she said icily.

  “Now you’re exaggerating,” Ben reprimanded her.

  “Who started it, I wonder?”

  The telephone rang again. This time it was his sister Helena, married to an industrialist. More amused than anything else, even she couldn’t suppress a touch of venom: “Well I never! All these years you’ve been accusing me of seeking publicity whenever a photographer happened to recognise me at a reception or something – now look at you!”

  “I don’t think it’s funny, Helena.”

  “I think it’s priceless. Except there must be easier ways of getting your picture in the papers.”

  Even Linda offered a gentle reproach when she phoned in the early evening: “Daddy, I know you meant well, but surely it’s better to stay out of the newspapers if you’re really sincere about wanting to help people?”

  “Sounds like one of Pieter’s arguments,” he said, unable to hide his chagrin. All day he’d been waiting for her to call, convinced that she, of all people, would understand.

  Linda was silent for a moment. Then she admitted: “Actually, it was Pieter who pointed it out. But I agree with him.”

  “Do you really think I specially arranged for the photographers to be present, Linda?”

  “No, of course not!” In his mind he could see her blushing with indignation. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I didn’t mean to make it more difficult for you. But it has been a rather depressing day for me.”

  “In what way?” Immediately all his concern was directed to her.

  “Oh well, you know. All the other students … They didn’t exactly make it easier for me. And it’s useless to try and argue with them.”

  One telephone call never came. Not that he’d expected it; it was unthinkable. And yet throughout that oppressive day she had been the one closest to him, as acutely present in his thoughts as she had been in the shadows and dull light of the old house in Westdene two nights before.

  After Linda’s call he unplugged the telephone and went out for a walk. The streets were deserted and the peaceful evening brought more rest to his turbulent thoughts.

  Susan was already in the bedroom when he came back; seated in front of her mirror in her night-dress, her face drawn and pale without make-up.

  “You going to bed already?” he asked, unable to repress a feeling of guilt.

  “Don’t you think I’ve had enough for one day?”

  “Please try to understand,” he said, half-heartedly raising his hands towards her, but allowing them to drop back.

  “I’m tired of trying.”

  “Why are you so unhappy?”

  She turned her head quickly, almost frightened, but regaining her composure in an instant. “You’ve never been able to make me happy, Ben,” she said, expressionless. “So please don’t flatter yourself by thinking you can make me unhappy either.”

  Amazed, he stared at her. Suddenly she turned her face away from him, pressing it against her hands, her shoulders shaking.

  He came to her and touched her awkwardly.

  She tensed. “Please leave me alone,” she said, her voice smothered. “I’m all right.”

  “Can’t we talk about it?”

  She shook her head and got up to go to the bathroom without looking at him, closing the door behind her. After a few aimless minutes he went out to his study where he tried to find relief, as so often in the past, by opening one of his books on chess and repeating on his faded, well-worn board the moves of one of the classical games from the past. But tonight it gave him no joy. He felt an intruder and an amateur in a game played by two dead masters, long ago. Disgruntled, he abandoned it and put the set away in a drawer. Then, in a conscious effort to regain control and to sort out the confusion in his mind, he started making notes: a brief, cryptic catalogue of all that had happened from the very beginning. It helped to see it set out so objectively on paper, as neat and inevitable as the pattern of veins on a leaf. This way it was easier to handle, to judge, to evaluate. But in the end everything was reduced to Melanie’s brief question:

  What now?

  For it was not over and done with as Susan had suggested. Now, after the newspaper, even less than before. Perhaps it had barely begun. If only he could be sure.

  At eleven o’clock, on an impulse, he got up and went to the garage, raised the tip-door and got into his car. Outside the house of the minister he nearly changed his mind as he noticed that all the windows, with the exception of only one, were dark. But he grimly overcame his own reluctance and knocked on the front door.

  It was quite a while before the Rev Bester opened, in a red dressing gown and slippers.

  “Oom Ben? My goodness, what brings you here at this time of the night?”

  He looked at the eager, narrow face before him. “Dominee, tonight I’m coming to you like Nicodemus. I’ve got to talk to you.”

  For a moment the Rev Bester seemed to hesitate before he stood aside. “Of course. Do come in.” There was the sound of a sigh in his voice.

  They went through to the study with its bare walls and parquet floor.

  “Can I offer you some coffee?”

  “No, thank you.” He took out his pipe. “I hope you don’t mind my smoking?”

  “Go ahead, by all means.”

  Now that he’d come he felt uncertain about how to broach the subject, where to start. And in the end it was the minister who suggested, in a “professional” tone of voice: “I take it you’ve come to talk about this business in the paper?”

  “Yes. You were in my house the night Emily came to ask for help, remember?”

  “Indeed, yes.”

  “So you’ll know this thing has been going on for some time.”

  “What’s the trouble, Oom Ben?”

  Ben pulled on his pipe. “It’s been a terrible thing right from the beginning, Dominee,” he said. “What gave me confidence was knowing it would go to court, it would come into the open. I felt sure the right verdict would be given. That was what I kept telling other people too: people less prepared than I to have faith in the
outcome of an inquest.”

  “Well?”

  “Why do you ask, Dominee? You know what happened.”

  “Everything was examined in depth by the court.”

  “But didn’t you read the papers, Dominee?” he asked. “Were you happy with what came to light there?”

  “Indeed not,” said the Reverend. “Only a few nights ago I told my wife this is a terrible shame the Lord has brought over us. But now the case is closed and justice has run its course.”

  “You call it justice?”

  “What else?”

  “I was there!“ he said in a rage. “I heard every word that was spoken. It was like Advocate De Villiers said—”

  “But Oom Ben, you know the way advocates have of exaggerating their arguments, it’s part of their work.”

  “Is it part of a magistrate’s work to pretend that the facts which have come to light don’t exist?”

  “Was it really facts, Oom Ben? How can we be sure? There is so much bad faith in the world, on all sides.”

  “I knew Gordon. And what they said about him – that he was plotting against the Government – is a downright lie.”

  “No one but God can really see what’s in our hearts, Oom Ben. Isn’t it presumptuous to pretend we can speak for someone else?”

  “Have you no faith in your fellow men, Dominee? Don’t you love your neighbour?”

  “Wait a minute,” said Mr Bester with great patience, used to dealing with recalcitrants. “Instead of criticising blindly, don’t you think we have reason to be proud of the judiciary we have? Suppose this had been Russia: what do you think would have happened then? Or one of the African states? I can assure you it would never have reached the courts at all.”

  “What’s the use of reaching a court when a handful of people have all the power to decide what is going to be said in that court and by whom? The one man they allowed to speak for himself, that young Archibald Tsabalala, didn’t he immediately deny everything they’d forced him to say in his statement? And the girl who spoke about her own torture—”

  “Don’t you realise it’s the oldest and easiest manoeuvre in the world to blame the police if you want to save your own skin?”

  “Did Archibald Tsabalala save his skin? It would have been much easier for him to stick to the statement they’d dictated to him. He might have left the court a free man instead of being taken back to his cell by the same man he’d accused of torturing him.”

  “Now look here, Oom Ben,” the young man said, this time with some irritation, “no one can deny that wrong and even evil deeds are committed in our society, as in all others. But if you start questioning your authorities you act against the Christian spirit. They are invested with the authority of God and far be it from us to doubt their decisions. Render unto Caesar what belongs to him.”

  “And if Caesar starts usurping what belongs to God? If he starts deciding on life and death, must I strengthen his hands for him?”

  “There is no evil that cannot be cured by prayer, Oom Ben. Don’t you think you and I should rather go down on our knees tonight and pray for our Government and for every man in a position of authority?”

  “I find it too easy, Dominee, to shrug off our own responsibilities by referring them to God.”

  “I’m not so sure that this isn’t sacrilege, Oom Ben. Don’t you trust Him with this business any more?”

  “It’s not a question of whether I trust Him or not, Dominee. He can manage without me. The question is whether there may be something He expects me to do. With my own two hands.”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s what I’ve come to you for, Dominee. What can I do? What must I do?”

  “I doubt whether there is anything you or I can do.”

  “Even if one sees injustice with one’s own eyes? Do you expect me to turn my head the other way?”

  “No. Everyone must make sure his own corner of the world is in order. That he is pure in his own heart. For the rest we must rely on His own assurance that the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.” He was getting into his stride. “There will be no end of trouble if every man tries to take the law into his own hands. God created order in the world, not chaos. He expects us to obey. Remember what Samuel said to Saul: To obey is better than sacrifice.”

  “I have a problem that cannot be solved by a text, Dominee,” Ben said, his voice strangled. “Help me!”

  “Let us pray,” said the young man, rising from his chair.

  For a moment Ben stared at him, uncomprehending, resentful; then he yielded. They knelt down. But he couldn’t close his eyes. While the minister was praying he kept staring straight at the wall; although he made an effort to listen, he couldn’t grasp the words in his thoughts, they were too smoothly predictable. He was in need of something else, something different.

  When they rose at last, the Rev Bester said, almost jovially: “Now what about that cup of coffee?”

  “No, I’d rather go home, Dominee.”

  “I hope you’ve found more light on the matter, Oom Ben.”

  “No,” he said. “No, I haven’t.”

  Startled, the young man stared at him. Ben almost felt sorry for him.

  “What do you want then?” asked the minister.

  “I want justice. Is that too much to ask?”

  “What do we know about justice if we move outside the will of God?”

  “What do we know about the will of God?” he threw back the question.

  “Oom Ben, Oom Ben.” The young man looked at him, pleading. “For Heaven’s sake don’t do anything rash. It’s bad enough as it is.”

  “Rash?” he asked. “I don’t know whether it’s rash. I simply don’t know anything any more.”

  “Please think it over, Oom Ben. Think of everything that is at stake.”

  “What I think, Dominee, is that once in one’s life, just once, one should have enough faith in something to risk everything for it.”

  “One can gain the world and still lose one’s soul.”

  Through the smoke his pipe had introduced into the small stuffy room he glared at the minister with burning eyes. “All I know,” he said, “is that it won’t be worthwhile having a soul left if I allow this injustice to stand.”

  They went down the bare passage to the front door.

  “What are you planning to do, Oom Ben?” asked the Rev Bester when they reached the cool air of the stoep.

  “I wish I could give you an answer. I wish I knew myself. All I know is that I must do something. Perhaps God will help me.” He went down the steps, slowly, his shoulders hunched. Turning back to the young man in the high rectangle of the doorway he said: “Pray for me, Dominee. I have a feeling that whatever happens from now on, there will be only a very narrow ridge between heaven and hell.”

  Then he went into the night.

  7

  For three hours he was kept waiting in the District Surgeon’s room by the thin girl with the peroxide hair. She’d been annoyed with him from the first minute, when she’d discovered that he had neglected to make an appointment; to make it worse, he’d refused to tell her what his business with Dr Herzog was, and he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in seeing any of the other surgeons available.

  “Dr Herzog has gone out for consultations. He may not be back for hours.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “He may not come in at all today.”

  “I’ll wait anyway.”

  “Even if he does come in he’s got so much to do on a Monday that he won’t have time to see you.”

  “I’ll take the chance.”

  He didn’t even seem conscious of her vexation. Passively he sat paging through the uninspiring secondhand copies of Time and Punch and Scope, pamphlets for expectant mothers,brochures on family planning and first aid and immunisation: from time to time he got up to stare through the window at the blank wall of the building opposite; but he never seemed to grow impatient. There was in his
manner something of a cat prepared to keep watch beside a mousehole for half a day without getting bored.

  Just before half-past twelve Dr Herzog appeared and, ignoring the waiting patients, exchanged a few whispered words with the thin receptionist; then he went through the door bearing his name in white on black. The girl followed him hurriedly; through the open door one could hear them conferring in low voices. For a moment Dr Herzog poked his head round the door to look at Ben. Then the door was closed and the girl returned to her desk in bitchy triumph.

  “Dr Herzog says he’s sorry but he won’t be able to see you today. If you’d care to make an appointment for Wednesday—”

  “It’s only for a few minutes.”

  Ignoring her indignant protests, he walked past her to the closed door, knocked, and went in without waiting for an invitation.

  Scowling, the District Surgeon looked up from his small desk littered with cards and papers. “Didn’t Miss Goosen tell you I was busy?” he asked in obvious ill-humour.

  “It’s urgent,” Ben said, offering his hand. “I’m Ben Du Toit.”

  Without getting up, Dr Herzog grudgingly took his hand. “What can I do for you? I really am snowed under today.”

  A bulky man with the physique of a butcher. Unkempt grey hair surrounding a bald pate. Fierce grey-black eyebrows; a pockmarked face covered with purple veins; tufts of hair in his ears and nostrils. The backs of his hands, resting on the papers before him, were hirsute, as were the forearms protruding from the short white sleeves of his safari jacket.

  “It’s in connection with Gordon Ngubene,” said Ben, sitting down, uninvited, on the straight chair in front of the desk.

  The burly man opposite him remained motionless. Even his face remained essentially unchanged: what happened was that his expression appeared to freeze, the way one’s face is supposed to grow rigid when, as the old superstition has it, the clock strikes six. Behind his eyes invisible shutters seemed to close.