A Dry White Season

by Andre Brink

  “I thought as much. But the report produced in court had both your signatures on it.”

  “Impossible.”

  Ben looked at him.

  Dr Hassiem picked up the little girl, holding her on his hip. He came towards Ben. “Are you trying to bluff me?”

  “No, it’s true.” Adding with sudden passion: “Dr Hassiem, I’ve got to know what happened to Gordon. And I know you can help me.”

  “Sit down,” the doctor said abruptly. He briefly hugged the child, then persuaded her to go and play. For a while the two of them sat in silence in the quiet lounge. The clock on the wall went on ticking, unperturbed.

  “What did you write in your report?” asked Ben.

  “We didn’t differ much on the facts,” said Dr Hassiem. “After all, we were examining the same body at the same time. But there were differences in interpretation.”

  “For example?”

  “Well, I thought that if Gordon had really been hanged the marks on his throat would have been concentrated on the front.” He touched his larynx with the long slender fingers of one hand. “But in this case the bruises were more obvious on the sides.” Another gesture. He got up to fetch cigarettes from the mantlepiece; after a brief hesitation he glanced through the window again before returning to his chair and offering Ben the packet.

  “No thanks. I prefer my pipe, if I may.”

  “By all means.”

  For a while it seemed as if Dr Hassiem wasn’t going to say anything more; perhaps he was regretting what he’d divulged already. But then he resumed:

  “It was something else that really upset me. Perhaps it isn’t important.”

  “What was it?” Ben demanded.

  Perched on the very edge of his chair, Hassiem leaned forward. “You see, through a misunderstanding I arrived at the morgue too early for the autopsy. There wasn’t a soul around, except for a young attendant. When I told him I’d come for the autopsy he let me in. The body was lying on the table. Clothed in grey trousers and a red jersey.”

  Ben made a gesture of surprise, but the doctor stopped him.

  “There was something else,” he said. “The jersey was covered in tiny white threads. You know, the sort one finds on a towel. That set me thinking.”

  “And then?” Ben asked, excited.

  “I didn’t have time to examine anything properly. As a matter of fact, I’d hardly bent over the body when a police officer came to call me. Said I wasn’t allowed in the morgue under any circumstances before Dr Jansen arrived. He took me to an office where we had tea. About half an hour later Dr Jansen was brought in and the two of us went back to the morgue. This time the body was naked. I enquired about it, but no one knew anything about it. Afterwards I found the attendant in the passage and asked him what had happened. He said he’d been given instructions ‘to prepare the corpse', but he knew nothing about the clothes.”

  “Did you put that in your report?”

  “Of course. I found it most odd.” His nervousness returned; he got up. That’s all I can tell you, Mr Du Toit. I know absolutely nothing more.”

  This time Ben meekly allowed the man to lead him to the front door.

  “I may come back to you,” he said, “if I manage to find out more about this.”

  Dr Hassiem smiled without saying yes or no.

  Ben drove home in the dusty afternoon.

  The next day’s evening paper reported briefly that Dr Suliman Hassiem and his family had been transported by the Security Police to a destination in the Northern Transvaal. His banning order had been amended by the minister to ensure that for the next five years he would not be allowed to leave the Pietersburg district. No reasons for the removal had been given.

  27 May. Couldn’t help being shocked when I opened the door to find him standing there. Stolz. Accompanied by another officer, middle-aged. Didn’t catch the name. Very friendly. But I find the man in friendly mood more terrifying than otherwise.

  “Mr Du Toit, we’ve just brought back your stuff.” The journals and correspondence they’d confiscated a fortnight ago. “Will you sign for it, please?”

  Must have been from pure relief that I said yes when he asked whether they could come in for a second. Susan, thank God, away at some meeting. Johan in his room, but the music turned up so loud he couldn’t possibly hear us.

  They’d barely sat down in the study when he said, jokingly, that his throat was dry. So obviously I offered them coffee. And only when I came back into the study with the tray and noticed the book on the Great Trek lying in a different position it hit me: of course! they’d had a quick search of the room while I’d been out.

  Strange, but that was what finally put me at ease. Thinking: Right, here I am, and there you are. Now we’re on our way. Feel free to search my house. You don’t know about the false bottom in my tools cupboard. No living soul knows. Nothing will ever be left lying around again.

  Not an easy conversation. Asked me about the school, about Johan’s achievements, rugby, etc. Told me about his own son. Younger than Johan. Twelve or so. Would his son be proud of his dad? (Is mine proud of me?)

  Then: “I hope you’re not mad at us about the other day, Mr Du Toit?”

  What could I say?

  Found another house crammed with ammunition and explosives in Soweto this morning, he said. Enough to blow up a whole block in the city centre. “People don’t seem to realise we’re right in the middle of a war already. They’re waiting for armies on the march, planes flying overhead, tanks, that sort of thing. They don’t realise how clever these Communists are. Take it from me, Mr Du Toit: if we were to lay off for one week this country would be right down the drain.”

  “All right, I take it from you, Captain. I’m not arguing either. But what did Gordon have to do with it all? Would you still have had to fight this war of yours if your wheels hadn’t rolled over people like him to start with?”

  Not a very pleasant expression in his dark eyes. I suppose I should learn to restrain myself. Something defiant in me these days. But I’ve smothered it for so many years!

  They were already on their way out when he said, in that casual, lazy way of his: “Look, if you want to help people like Henry Maphuna it’s fine with us. A bit over-enthusiastic, if I may say so, but that’s for you to decide.” He looked at me in silence for a moment. “But in all sincerity, we don’t take kindly to remarks like the one you made recently about lining up all

  Gordon’s murderers against a wall. You’re playing with fire, Mr Du Toit.”

  Then, as easy-going as before, he offered me his hand. The thin line on his cheek. Who gave it to him? (And what happened to the man afterwards?)

  Stood there half-paralysed after they’d gone. How did he know about Henry? How did he know about that line-up business?

  Some leak from Levinson’s office? I’ll have to watch out. But that remark about Gordon – that was something I said to Linda.

  Only one common denominator. The phone.

  Thank God I didn’t get through to Melanie that day. They mustn’t find out about her.

  4

  30 May. Have always “got on” with Susan’s parents, without much cordiality from either side. The feeling that they resent her marrying “below” her. The vast block of farms her grandparents acquired in the Eastern Transvaal. Her father the leading lawyer in Lydenburg. Loyal supporter of the Party. Opposed the Smuts government in the war. Even went underground for some time. Failed in the 1948 election but became M.P. in 1953 to live more or less happily ever after.

  Has been threatening for a long time to retire (75 next November) but only, I suspect, in the hope of being begged to stay on and be rewarded with the position of Chief Whip or something similar. His only grudge in life this lack of “recognition” after havinggiven his all for God and country. The proverbial man with a great future behind him.

  More sympathy for her mother. Beautiful woman in her time. But her spirit broken at an early age, wilting in her husband’s g
lamour; a meek shadow dragged along to Party rallies, the opening of Parliament, the inauguration of institutions for the aged, the blind, the maimed, or the mentally retarded, the opening of tunnels or boreholes. Wearing her perennial hat. Like the Queen Mother.

  Admittedly, he has an imposing presence. Age has lent him dignity. Golden watch-chain across the bulge of his belly. White moustache and trimmed goatee. Silver hair. Black suit, even when he inspects his game farm. Somewhat too ruddy complexion owing to an increasing predilection for scotch. The bonhomie covering a will as hard as flint. The ruthless, unrelenting sense of Right and Wrong. Easy to see where Susan got her hangups. The almost sadistic righteousness with which he used to mete out corporal punishment to his daughters, even when they were eighteen or nineteen, and that for minor infringements like staying out after ten at night. The inexorable regularity of their household, determining even the Saturday night activities in the parental bedroom. Enough to scare her off for life. Like a young tree budding, then blighted by an untimely frost. Never quite candidly fruitful again.

  They’ve been here since Saturday morning. Left today. Inauguration of a new industrial complex in Vanderbijlpark.

  Yesterday afternoon the ladies withdrew in a very obvious manner, leaving me and Father-in-law rather ill-at-ease in the lounge. He refilled his glass. I sat fiddling with my pipe.

  “Something I’d like to discuss with you, Ben.” He drew courage from a large gulp of scotch. “I first thought it would be better left alone, but Susan seems to think you’ll welcome a frank discussion.”

  “What’s it about?” I asked, suspicious of her role in the matter.

  “Well, you know, it’s that photograph in the paper the other day.”

  I looked at him in silence.

  “You see, well, how shall I put it?” Another gulp. “I supposeevery man has a right to his own opinion. But you know, a thing like that could become an embarrassment to someone in my position.”

  “Seems you’ll always have the poor with you,” I said.

  “It’s no joke, Ben. It is a grievous day when a man’s family comes between him and his duty to his fatherland.”

  “Are you blaming me for trying to help those people?”

  “No, no, of course not. I appreciate your concern for them. I’ve been doing the same thing all my life, sacrificing myself for my neighbours, be they black or white. But no member of our family has ever been seen in public with a kaffir woman before, Ben.”

  He went to refill his glass. Recognising the symptoms I tried to cut him short before he could warm up for a full-fledged speech.

  “I’m glad you mentioned it, Father. Because I’d like to discuss it with you.”

  “Yes, that’s what Susan told me.”

  “First, there’s the matter of Emily Ngubene’s house. Now that her husband has died she’s no longer entitled to a home of her own.”

  He seemed relieved that the matter turned out to be so simple.

  “Ben”-he made an expansive gesture, managing not to spill any whisky –"I promise you I’ll take it up.” Producing his little black notebook. “Just give me all the particulars. Soon as I’m back in the Cape next week—”

  Short and sweet. I decided to press on, profiting from his magnanimous mood.

  “Then there’s the matter of Gordon Ngubene himself.”

  He stiffened. “What about him? I thought the case was closed?”

  “I wish it was, Father. But the inquest didn’t clear up half of what happened.”

  “Oh really?” He shifted uncomfortably.

  I briefly brought him up to date, not only with the questions raised by the inquest but by the few facts I’d been able to uncover, insignificant as they were in themselves.

  “There’s nothing there that would stand up in a court oflaw,” he said almost smugly. He pulled out his pocket watch, studying it as if to calculate for how much longer I would be keeping him from his nap.

  “I know that only too well,” I said. “That’s why I wanted to discuss it with you. We have no final, irrefutable evidence. But we have enough to indicate that something serious is being covered up.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, Ben.”

  “I know what I’m talking about!” It came out more sharply than I’d intended. He started, and took another gulp of scotch.

  “All right, I’m listening,” he said, sighing. “Perhaps I can use my influence. But you’ll have to convince me first.”

  “If they really have nothing to hide,” I said, “why is the Special Branch going out of its way to intimidate me?”

  The very word seemed to sober him up instantly, startling him from his complacency. “What’s this about the Special Branch?”

  I told him about the raid on my house, the tapping of my telephone, Stolz’s straight warning.

  “Ben,” he said, suddenly sounding very formal. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather not have anything to do with this sort of thing.” He rose from the settee and aimed for the door.

  “So you’re also frightened of them?”

  “Don’t be stupid! Why should I be frightened of anyone?” He glared at me. “But one thing I can tell you: if the Special Branch is mixed up with it they must have good reason. And then I prefer to stay out of it.”

  I managed to intercept him at the door. “Does that mean you’re prepared to sit back and allow an injustice to be done?”

  “Injustice?” His face grew purple. “Where’s the injustice? I don’t see it.”

  “What happened to Jonathan Ngubene? And how did Gordon die? Why are they doing their best to hush it up?”

  “Ben, Ben, how can you side with the enemies of your people? Those who find in everything that happens ammunition to attack a freely elected government? Good heavens, man, at your age I expected something better from you. You’ve never been a hothead in your life.”

  “Isn’t that enough reason for you to listen to me now?”

  “Now come on.” He had regained his composure. “Don’t you know your own people then? We’ve always kept the commandments of the Lord. We’re Christians, aren’t we? Look, I’m not saying there aren’t some exceptions among us. But it’s ridiculous to start generalising about ‘injustice’ and so on.”

  “You’re not prepared to help me then?”

  “Ben, I told you.” He was shuffling his feet uneasily. “If you’d come to me with something clear-cut and beyond all doubt, I would have been the first to take it up. But a bunch of vague suspicions and insinuations and bad feelings won’t get you anywhere.” He sniffed, annoyed. “Injustice! If you want to talk about injustice, then look at what our people have suffered. How many of us were thrown in jail in the Forties just because this land was more important to us than to be drawn into England’s war-the same English who used to oppress us?”

  “We had a freely elected government then, too, didn’t we? Led by an Afrikaner.”

  “You call Smuts an Afrikaner?!”

  “Now you’re avoiding the issue,” I reminded him.

  “It’s you who started talking about injustice. You, a man who teaches history at school. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, man. Now that we have at long last come to power in our own land.”

  “Now we’re free to do to others what they used to do to us?”

  “What are you talking about, Ben?”

  “What would you do if you were a black man in this country today, Father?”

  “You amaze me,” he said contemptuously. “Don’t you realise what the government is doing for the blacks? One of these days the whole bloody lot of them will be free and independent in their own countries. And then you have the nerve to talk about injustice!” He put a trembling, paternal hand on my shoulder, skilfully manoeuvring me out of the way so he could slip past into the passage on his way to the bedroom. “You give it another good think, Ben,” he called back. “We’ve got nothing to be ashamed of before the eyes of the world, my boy.”

  Now I know it’s hopeless to
expect any help from him. Not because he is malicious or obtuse; not even because he is afraid. Simply because he is unable to consider, even for a moment, themerest possibility that I may be right. His benevolence, his dour Christianity, his firm belief in the rectitude of his people: these, tonight, are a much greater obstacle to me than any enemy who squarely opposes me.

  5

  It was a winter of fits and starts.

  Nothing came of Henry Maphuna’s complaint about the rape of his sister by her employer. Since the man had already been found innocent and discharged by the court there was no way of reopening the case. Dan Levinson suggested two alternatives: if the girl was prepared to testify that she had consented to intercourse a new charge could be laid under the Immorality Act; otherwise a civil action for damages could be brought. The family promptly dismissed the Immorality suggestion as it would bring disgrace upon Henry’s sister. And damages were irrelevant. What they required was to have her name cleared and the culprit brought to justice. The outcome was, perhaps, predictable; still, it came as a shock to Ben when the aged mother arrived at his home to ask for help. Two nights before, taking the law into his own hands, Henry had gone to the house of his sister’s ex-employer in Lower Houghton and bashed in the man’s skull. Now he was in custody on a murder charge.

  Back to Dan Levinson, smoothly groomed behind his imposing desk, radiating the virility one might associate with an ad for a sportsman’s deodorant. Once again the parade of lissome blondes with files or messages or cups of coffee.

  That was only one of the cases and causes Ben had to find time for. Melanie’s prediction had come true: during thosewinter months more and more strangers turned up on his doorstep to ask for help. People looking for jobs in the city and having trouble with reference books and official stamps. (Those magic words: Permitted to be in the prescribed area of Johannesburg in terms of section 10 (I) (b) of Act No 25 of 1945…) It was easy enough to refer them to Stanley; and those he couldn’t deal with personally were passed on to some fixer in the townships. There were others who had been evicted from their homes either because they’d fallen in arrears with the rent or because they had no permit to live in the area. Men prosecuted because they had brought their families from some distant homeland. An old widow whose sixteen year old son had been charged with “terrorism” when, sent to buy milk, he’d been arrested by police in search of youngsters who had set fire to a school elsewhere in Soweto an hour before. Countless others who reported that their fathers or brothers or sons had been “picked up” days or weeks or months before and were still being held incommunicado. Some, released without charge, returning with tales of assault and torture. A young couple, white man and coloured girl, who came to enquire whether Ben could arrange for them to get married. A venerable old father who complained that after he’d given his daughter away in marriage the man had refused to pay the lobola imposed by tribal custom. Some of the cases were shocking; others quite ludicrous. And in between the genuine supplicants there was a steady stream of chancers and common beggars.