I mentioned the SACP hit list Zan told Neels about. Without giving any hint that she had links to the Communist Party, Libby did say it sounded unlikely to her. Apparently Joe Slovo proclaimed last year that change will come through negotiation, not revolution. But Libby admitted that not all party members would necessarily agree with their leader. Frankly, it still worries me.
I decided to tell her about my suspicions about Neels and another woman. She was sympathetic. She confided that she and Dennis are having their problems too. I told her Daniel Havenga’s description of Stellenbosch as hanky-panky town: it’s full of forty-something women washed up on the shores of failed marriages. What’s so strange about Libby and me joining them? It was good to talk to her, to feel that I have an ally in this goddamned country.
July 25
I went into Stellenbosch with Zan this afternoon. It was a clear sunny day, the old buildings gleamed white, and the few leaves remaining on the oak trees along the sidewalks sparkled gold. We went to Oom Samie’s like we used to when she was a girl. That place is still full of the same old junk, it hasn’t changed. She bought a couple of useless knickknacks and some sticky toffee, I bought some spices and we had a cup of coffee.
We talked about the End Conscription Campaign. Zan said that 150 men have refused the call up so far. I told Zan about the friends of mine who dodged the draft during the Vietnam war and the articles I wrote for Life magazine about the student protest movements in the sixties. She was clearly surprised, and interested. But when I started to ask her about the Black Sash, she clammed up. And when I suggested I could join her on one of her ECC demos, she just shook her head. It bugged me.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the SACP hit list?” I asked her.
Zan looked down into her cup. “I wondered when you’d get around to that.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
Zan shrugged, still avoiding my eyes.
She didn’t trust me. I could understand that, given our past, but I felt, or hoped, that since she had come to stay at Hondehoek we had rebuilt our relationship. I felt like she was my ally, and boy do I need allies. I took a deep breath. “I want to apologize for something.”
Zan’s eyes flicked up.
“What happened with that creep Bernie Tunstall. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told Neels. I know you asked me not to, but I was furious and I wanted him to stop it. You were only fourteen, for Christ’s sake!”
Zan stared back into her coffee.
“Can you forgive me?”
Zan mumbled something.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, I can forget. That’s all I can do. Not forgive. Forget. It’s forgotten.” She looked at me, her eyes angry, confused, sad. “Don’t bring it back. Please.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. It’s just that you can trust me, you know.”
She smiled quickly, although I could see she wasn’t convinced.
“Can you at least tell me a little more about the list?”
“I told Pa all I know.”
“But does it really exist? I thought the SACP leadership is talking about peaceful revolution.”
“Oh, it exists, all right. The leaders say one thing for the international press and another for the comrades. There’s a list. Pa’s on it. So are you.”
“And you?”
Zan shook her head. “No.”
“Who told you?”
“Someone …” She hesitated. “Someone who is very fond of me.”
“A man?”
She nodded.
“That you met in London?”
She nodded again.
“And you trust him?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I trust him.” Her eyes met mine, warmer this time, more sympathetic. “It came as a shock to me too. A big shock. That, and Uncle Hennie’s death. I mean, in theory I know that the only way this regime is going to change is through violence, and that some people will die, people with the same color skin as me. I can accept that. But when it’s my father … That’s why I want to stay here for a bit. I need to sort all this out in my head.”
You mean you want to have a last visit with your father before your “comrades” assassinate him, I thought. But I didn’t say it. “When you get to London you’re not just going to study at the LSE are you?”
Zan shook her head.
We sat in silence for a while, watching the good burgers of Stellenbosch going about their errands. “Martha?”
“Yes?”
Zan gave me a nervous smile. “When I heard your name was on the list, it didn’t really bother me. But now it does: it bothers me a lot.”
I’ve enjoyed having Zan here, I’ll definitely miss her when she goes off to London. Perhaps she is right, it is best to forget. I still think it was the right thing to do to talk to Neels about Bernie Tunstall. I know she had told me about him in confidence, but how could I not have done something about it? He had, after all, seduced a fourteen-year-old girl. But it was that that marked the deterioration of our relationship. Bernie Tunstall was rich, well connected and smart enough to put up a convincing show of innocence. Penelope believed him rather than her daughter. Zan refused to make a statement to the police and then she was examined by a doctor who confirmed that she wasn’t a virgin. Penelope told the police that she thought Zan had been sleeping with boys, and Zan didn’t deny it. This made Neels even angrier. There was a custody battle for a year. Zan didn’t want to live with us, and Neels refused to let her go back to Penelope, so she spent the term-time at her boarding school and the vacations with her Uncle Hennie at his sheep farm in the Karoo. In the end she went back to Penelope. She still came to visit us occasionally, but she was always angry and surly, and her visits became increasingly awkward.
She swam fast, and I mean really fast. Then when she was seventeen and she beat the Olympic qualifying time, that was when she got really upset. Of course it wasn’t her fault she couldn’t go to the LA Olympics, it was just another consequence of apartheid and, as I told her, not the most important. She couldn’t swim in an international competition but at least she was treated like a human being in her own country, unlike 80 percent of the population. An obvious point, you would have thought, especially for a daughter of Cornelius van Zyl. But she didn’t accept it, she wouldn’t accept it. It was all the fault of the ignorant, narrow-minded Americans, of people like me. I was so angry. Of course I now realize that she was pushing me away, and this was the perfect way to do it. Well, she succeeded.
At about this time, no doubt egged on by Hennie and his family, she began to develop an interest in her Afrikaner heritage. Hennie always thought that Neels had betrayed his people, and he was anxious to take the opportunity to show Zan how a real God-fearing Afrikaner farming family lived. At first Neels was pleased. This country is split as much between English and Afrikaans speakers as between black and white. Zan was brought up entirely in the English-speaking education system. Neels is very proud of his Afrikaner ancestry, and I think what he regrets most about his skepticism about apartheid is the way it has forced him away from the language, the Church, the community and the rest of his family. He’s an outcast now among his own people. So when Zan started taking a serious interest in the language and reading van Wyk Louw and Malherbe for pleasure, he was thrilled. He was even more thrilled when she said she might go to an Afrikaans university. Of course he assumed she would try for a place at Stellenbosch, which is becoming more what the South Africans would call liberal, but I would call normal. But in the end Zan decided to apply to the new Rand Afrikaans University in Johannesburg to study history. Probably just to spite him.
We didn’t hear from her for nine months. Then she showed up at our door saying she had made a terrible mistake. She was shocked by the racists she had met at the university, and by the apartheid ideology that she was studying. The last straw was when she was out with a group of rugby-playing students who picked a fight one evening with an old black man, and left him b
roken and bleeding in the gutter. They all laughed about it. She wanted to get out.
Neels was relieved. She switched to the much more liberal English-speaking University of the Witwatersrand and became a changed woman, organizing demonstrations, writing articles in underground magazines, getting in trouble with the police. After university she stayed in Johannesburg, doing more or less the same thing, bumming around from temporary office job to temporary office job.
And now she’s going to London to do Christ-knows-what.
It occurred to me that there was a slight chance that the Laagerbond might be a secret anti-apartheid society. I told Zan about Havenga and Visser seeing Neels, but she has no idea what the Laagerbond is either. I think that was just wishful thinking on my part.
Neels has been in London for a couple of days now. It’s good to have him out of the house.
July 27
I’ve just had a visit from the security police. It hasn’t happened to me before. A polite young man came to the door in a coat and tie. When he saw Zan he said he wanted to talk to me in private. Doris made us cups of coffee and we sat and chatted about the garden. He likes the magnolias and the fynbos beds, and he wanted to know how old the oak tree by the front door is. Apparently Finneas and I are doing a good job.
He asked me how well I knew Libby Wiseman. When I told him quite well, he asked me whether I knew she was a member of the Communist Party. I professed shocked disbelief. I asked him whether she was banned, and he answered that she wasn’t but they were keeping a watchful eye on her. Then he said it wouldn’t be wise for a woman in my position to become too close to her.
“My position?” I said. “By ‘my position’ do you mean as the wife of a newspaper proprietor or a citizen of the United States.”
“Both,” the policeman replied. “We believe in the rule of law in this country, and we treat all citizens equally, whatever their nationality or marital status.”
I choked on my coffee as he said this. But I knew what he meant. He meant “watch out.”
Zan was anxious when he had gone. Naturally, she had assumed the policeman was here to talk about her. When I told her he hadn’t mentioned her she was relieved. She thought a moment and then asked me what he did want to talk to me about. I just smiled.
I started writing this with the smile still on my face. How exciting for my activities to be taken seriously enough for the security police to pay attention! But the more I think about it, the more worried I am becoming. I have never been visited before. That’s mostly because of the pact I made with Neels just after we got married, one I’ve stuck to for the past twenty years. I won’t get involved with “the struggle,” or “the cause.”
Neels always knew I would make my opinions known, but that was one of the reasons he married me. It didn’t take me long to get into trouble. It was just after we had gotten married and bought Hondehoek. Doris had been our maid for only a week. I was unfamiliar with the whole concept of domestic servants, especially those that wore uniforms, but Neels was adamant that we needed them to manage the house and garden. It turned out Doris and I hit it off straight away. On her third day I found her crying. Her brother had gotten into some kind of trouble with the police; he’d been found with some beer, and blacks were not allowed to drink alcohol then. She needed twenty rand to bail him out. She wasn’t asking me for the money, but I gave it to her, and she was embarrassingly grateful.
I was explaining this at a dinner party Neels and I had been invited to the following Saturday. The host was one of the most important businessmen in Cape Town, a pillar of the English-speaking community and a big advertiser. The hostess, who was a real Kaffir-basher, was shocked by my action. She said I was stupid to trust a maid, especially one I didn’t know, and I would be lucky to see that money again. In fact, Doris would probably disappear that very weekend. She implied that it was people like me that were responsible for the ill discipline and licentiousness among black South Africans.
I said that Doris looked trustworthy, and that even if she wasn’t, she and her brother could probably use the twenty rand better than I could. The hostess turned red; she didn’t like the fact that I was American and criticizing her country. They get so defensive.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “Your blacks are not like ours.”
“I don’t have any blacks. Neither do you,” I said.
She scowled. “Are you some kind of communist?”
“I would be happy to admit to being a communist if you’ll admit to being a Nazi,” I replied. Not exactly subtle.
Her jaw dropped. Then she turned to her husband. “Geoffrey! I won’t have this woman in my house. Can you see her out, please?”
Our husbands broke us up and we stayed at the table under a frosty truce until the coffee was served. Afterwards Neels gave me a lecture. He said it was quite simple: he couldn’t run his newspapers if I talked to people like that. He also said that it would compromise his position if I were seen with known radicals, black or white. I understood what he was saying. I had come totally to believe in his strategy for changing things. The work of the Mail and his other papers was too important for me to jeopardize for the sake of gestures which had no benefit beyond salving my conscience. Since then, I’ve pretty much stuck to the pact. I’ve been tempted over the years to help the cause; I’ve received tentative approaches from people, but I’ve always rebuffed them, and I’ve always explained why. Most people seem to understand. I guess I’ve thrown my energies into charities over the years: the literacy projects, the scholarships for black and colored students, and the clinics. I have made some small difference that way.
But now trouble has come looking for me. Is it really a result of my visit to Libby Wiseman, or is it Zan’s presence in our house? Perhaps it’s something to do with the Laagerbond. I assumed that I had Neels’s protection, but has he removed that now? I’m an American citizen. Doesn’t that make me untouchable? Or does it make me a spy?
I used to think violence and injustice happened to other people in this country. Perhaps they might happen to me.
I must be careful what I write in here.
11
The minor crises of the operation of a small airfield are unrelenting. The issue of the morning was body bags. Langthorpe didn’t have one, a fact that had somehow been missed during the last Civil Aviation Authority inspection. Jerry had belatedly realized that one was required: technically without it the airfield was unlicensed. When they had first bought the flying school Calder and Jerry would have taken a relaxed attitude towards the problem, but they had swiftly learned that you didn’t mess with the CAA over even the tiniest detail. Especially over the tiniest detail. If the CAA felt that it was unsafe to fly unless there was a body bag stowed away somewhere on the airfield, then Calder wouldn’t argue. So, where could he get a body bag in a hurry?
Calder’s eyes strayed to the window and the runway outside, where a Piper Warrior was making a heavy landing, and then strayed back to his computer. Curiosity got the better of him and he tapped on the Spreadfinex icon. The bond market had gapped down overnight. He had lost £29,000.
He leaned back and stared at the numbers. A cold wave seemed to wash over his body followed by a burning sensation in his cheeks. It wasn’t anger, it wasn’t frustration, it wasn’t even resignation, it was shame. That moment when he had paused and decided not to tell Tarek about his spread-betting had stuck in his mind. He was ashamed of it. And this was why. He knew that the US bond market had been balanced on a knife edge, pulled one way by those who feared global inflation and the other way by those who feared deflation. Over the last twenty-four hours, the fear of inflation had grown more powerful. Calder had completely failed to anticipate this. The reason was obvious: he had given the matter only passing consideration as his mind had been taken up with Todd and Kim and Benton Davis and Sandy and the day-to-day problems of running an airfield. Of course he had no idea which way the bond market was going to go.
He was asham
ed that he had kidded himself that he had.
He may as well have bet on the spin of a roulette wheel or the three-thirty at Goodwood. And only the previous morning he had been complaining to his sister about his father’s gambling.
He quickly clicked the mouse a few times to take his loss and close out his position. He stared at the screen a moment longer. Maybe he should terminate his account with Spreadfinex? Remove the temptation.
Maybe. Maybe not.
He picked up the phone to call Steve at Little Gransden Airfield to see where they got their body bags from, or indeed if they had a spare one to tide Langthorpe over until Calder could order one.
‘So, Alex, have you been speaking to the police?’
Cornelius was wearing his half-moon reading glasses as he held a menu in front of him, and his sharp blue eyes flicked upwards, fixing on Calder. They were in the restaurant of a smart country-house hotel a few miles from the hospital. Todd’s sister Caroline had flown over from San Diego, and she and Cornelius had spent the afternoon with his comatose son. Edwin had arrived late that afternoon. Cornelius had accepted Kim’s suggestion that they all have dinner together. It was a sombre gathering.
‘Of course,’ Calder replied. ‘Once they realized the Yak had been sabotaged, they had lots of questions.’
‘About?’
‘About the Yak, about the engine fire, about the crash landing,’ Calder said warily.
‘Did they ask about our family?’
Calder carefully put down his own menu. ‘If you mean, did I tell them that Todd had been trying to find out about your late wife’s death, the answer is yes, I did.’
There was silence around the table.
‘I would rather you hadn’t mentioned that,’ said Cornelius. ‘Those are private family matters.’
‘And the police are conducting an investigation into attempted murder,’ Calder said reasonably. ‘Which means they are quite likely to want to know about private family matters.’
See No Evil Page 12
