‘But surely they must know that already?’
‘It sounds to me as if Joss knows that Solly’s causing trouble.’
‘You say that exactly like a leader in the Zambesia News—certain agitators are causing trouble among the blacks.’
She spoke without heat—casually almost. As indifferent as he sounded.
Then Thomas said: ‘I can’t imagine Joss writing a letter without a good reason for it.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘I wouldn’t want to get mixed up with anything Solly has anything to do with.’
‘Well, perhaps someone ought to just see what’s going on?’
He did not reply to this. He had made a heap of white, glittering salt on the cloth and was stirring it with a match. At last he said: ‘Why don’t you ask Anton to find out?’
‘Anton won’t do anything political these days. He says he thinks his naturalization’s being held up because of his politics.’
Thomas shrugged. ‘If this was Poland, that would be the case.’
‘He goes to the office practically every day, and the man keeps saying: “Next month, next month”.’
Thomas shrugged again. There was irritation in it, as in all his movements these days. ‘I don’t understand the unwritten rules of this country. In Poland next month means in ten years or never. If you say that in this country next month means next month—then I can only say that…’ He frowned.
‘Say what?’
‘Perhaps Sergeant Tressell’s the price you have to pay for next month meaning next month.’
She felt shock—she had forgotten about Sergeant Tressell.
He was scowling and digging about in his pile of white salt with his match.
‘It means next year,’ she said.
‘And then you’ll be off to England.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Have you noticed, all the progressive people are slowly going? It’s like Poland before the war. Suddenly one morning you looked around and your friends had all gone. Only Sergeant Tressell was left.’
‘Why are you talking about Sergeant Tressell?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I tell you, I know this atmosphere. I had a letter from a friend—my rich aunt’s cousin, in Johannesburg. I know the smell. The Nationalists are going to get in, I can smell it.’
‘Oh, they can’t get in, we’d never get them out again, it would be too terrible!’
‘Then of course it can’t happen. Terrible things don’t happen.’
She put her hand on his sleeve, and felt the warm flesh of his arm coming through. He said: ‘Ah, Martha, I know how I must sound to you, believe me. But I feel as if I were under the sea, or dead—or something. I can’t say anything I want to say. I hate myself all the time.’
She looked at this healthy, strong man with the direct blue eyes: he sat with his fists clenched up, and she felt the muscle of his arm tight under her hand. ‘Why do you keep saying you hate yourself, what do you mean?’
He tried to smile at her, frowned, glanced quickly around the restaurant, with an irritable, absent look.
‘I’ve got to get back to the farm tonight. Michel telephoned to say there’s going to be an official visit from the police. Michel’s English is not good enough for the police, he says.’
Martha remembered the casual visits from the local police, on the farm. ‘But is it a special visit? Did they say there’s something wrong?’
‘I don’t know. How do I know?’
He went off, promising to telephone her after the police had been.
Martha tried in vain to find Solly. She left messages for him to ring her. She sent messages through Mr Matushi that ‘certain representatives wanted to meet Mr Zlentli’. Representatives of what, that was the question.
‘Communism,’ said Colin Black. ‘Whether you like it or not, that’s what you represent.’
‘But that’s nonsense,’ said Martha.
‘What people think you are, that’s the effect you have,’ said Colin.
‘Oh, nonsense, dear, you’re getting so reactionary these days!’ said Marjorie, smiling. She sat at the supper table’s head, a small child on either knee, and a baby in the pram. She was pregnant. Her stolid husband calmly ate his way through a large supper, praising or criticizing the dishes, while she said: ‘Yes dear, good’, or ‘Well, don’t eat it then, dear.’
‘If I didn’t think I’d some link with all that, there’d be no point in living,’ Marjorie went on. The child on her knee reached for some cake, and Marjorie pushed away her hand: ‘No, Jill, I said no more cake, it’s bad for your teeth. If I thought this life, if you can call it that, was everything, then…’
She sat smiling. She was a woman who could never let herself be angry, or say something sharp, without smiling. Now she was flushed, flustered, irritable—but she smiled.
‘I’ve got to get to a Civil Service meeting,’ said Colin, and left, having kissed his wife affectionately.
‘Goodbye, dear,’ she said warmly.
‘Well, what am I to say to Mr Zlentli—if it is Mr Zlentli?’ asked Martha.
‘Oh dear, I wish I wasn’t pregnant. I’d love to come with you.’
‘You’re welcome to it, believe me,’ said Martha.
‘Oh dear, don’t say that you’re losing interest too, Matty?’
Martha left: she had to go home to wait for a call from Thomas. When he rang, it was to say that the police had been and it was bad news. He would tell her when he came into town. No, it wouldn’t be in the next day or two, he had things to do.
He sounded—not like himself; Martha had been on the point of describing his voice, his manner, when she realized that, on the contrary, he sounded exactly like the Thomas of this year, of these last few months. He sounded utterly unlike the Thomas she had first known…the Thomas of the loft, as she put it to herself. She took her bicycle and went off to meet Mr Zlentli, heavy with worry about Thomas, and feeling that this business of seeing Mr Zlentli was ridiculous, badly prepared, and bound to come to no good.
And so it proved.
In the street parallel to Johnny’s in a minute house similar to his, where she, Martha, had often enough sold Watchdogs in the old days, three Africans were waiting for her. One was the young man she recognized from Johnny Lindsay’s—he had raised his hand like a boy in class to ask provocative questions. An older man, bearded, with a majestic, composed air, sat in the background and never opened his mouth, not once. At once Martha assumed this was Mr Zlentli and directed everything she said to him.
A third man, rather young, probably about twenty, brusquely welcomed her: he was going to be spokesman.
She had leaned her bicycle against the wall, and left it there.
‘Do you not lock your bicycle?’ said the spokesman, with affected concern. He was of a type like Solly’s, Martha decided: dramatic, self-conscious—childish, in short. His eyes were wide with pretended concern. Normally Martha would have enjoyed it—the young man playing his part with such relish. But instead she found herself irritated.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘But surely in such rough parts of the town, it is wise to lock your bicycle?’
Martha again said briefly, ‘No,’ with the intention of showing she had not come to waste her time. She looked at the majestic man who was smoking in silence, watching her. The question-asker sat by him, quietly. Although it was he who had—must have—given reports of Martha, and in fact had decided what was going to happen now, he looked quite unconcerned, as if nothing of this was to do with him. The lively, sarcastic young man now introduced himself as Mr Simon, and pushed a chair towards her. She sat. It was still warm from somebody’s body. Mr Simon’s? The chairs in the little room were several, and arranged in a rough circle, and by each were ash-trays full of stubs. Martha recognized the atmosphere of the political meeting. A door stood half-open into an inner room. Behind that door, Martha suddenly knew, sat, or stood, one, or two or more people, who had been at a meeting
when interrupted by Martha’s arrival. Among them, perhaps Mr Zlentli? Or even Solly? How was one to know?
And now she knew she ought not to be here, or at least not like this. She thought: Two or three years ago, if we met Africans, or they met us, we knew we could help each other. And now I haven’t the faintest idea what to say.
She said: ‘I expect you want to know why I am here?’
They did not reply. She was sitting, trying to think of the right words to use, when Mr Simon said something unexpected: ‘And how is our good friend Mrs Van?’
‘But I didn’t come here to discuss Mrs Van der Bylt,’ said Martha.
‘But there is no doubt she will be interested in the results of our discussions.’
Martha had no idea what to say. She had understood that Mrs Van was a villain of some kind, in these circles. Not just someone ‘misguided—a misguided paternalist’—but somebody assumed to be intriguing against them.
Martha looked towards Mr Zlentli—if it was Mr Zlentli—and hoped he would say something. After all, she thought, if he had not expected something from her coming, he would not be here at all. And he will probably have made his mind up by now—but his face said nothing, so she said to Mr Simon, looking at Mr Zlentli: ‘You’ve made a mistake; my visit has nothing to do with Mrs Van.’
‘But we are always to interested to meet our white sympathizers,’ said Mr Simon, drawling.
‘I am sure you are. Now, all I really have to say is this: if you want help of any kind, there are people who are prepared to help.’
This sounded lame: she thought that in a different atmosphere these same lame words might be the beginning of something really useful. So she sat, making herself smile, refusing to feel annoyed when Mr Simon said, immensely sarcastic: ‘And what kind of help could you possibly have in mind?’
‘That would depend, wouldn’t it? For instance, there are books we could order for you. Information—all kinds of things.’
Now Mr Zlentli glanced at the young man next to him and at Mr Simon. The three pairs of eyes communicated—but unintelligibly as far as Martha was concerned.
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Simon. ‘We will remember your kind offer.’
‘Also we know people who have contacts—for instance, if you have students who need training, we could help perhaps.’
‘Trained for what?’ said Mr Simon.
Martha could not help smiling—there was an unmistakable air of interest suddenly.
‘For instance, there might be scholarships to learn engineering—or medicine or teaching. Things like that. Through trade unions and that kind of body.’
They did not look at each other. The atmosphere announced that an opportunity had been missed, or an expectation failed. She knew she might just as well go.
She said: ‘When so few of your people are trained for anything at all, then surely it’s worth while even to get one or two some education.’ No response. ‘How does one know what help one can give without knowing each other?’
She did not expect an answer to this, and she got up. Mr Simon said: ‘Very many thanks, Mrs Hesse, we are grateful for the interest shown by certain white people in our affairs.’
Suddenly, without knowing she had been going to say this, she remarked: ‘Mr Solly Cohen—he’s not the only help there is, you know.’
And now at last, real response, a sudden agitation. Eyes met, and separated.
‘Solly Cohen?’ said Mr Simon quickly.
‘I understand you are friends of his.’
‘No, that’s not the truth, we have never heard of any Solly Cohen.’
‘Never have been in his organization,’ said the youth near Mr Zlentli—speaking carefully and just this once.
‘That is so, we have never been associated with Mr Solly Cohen at all,’ said Mr Simon.
‘Ah,’ said Martha. ‘Well, it’s a misunderstanding. It was understood that Mr Zlentli and Solly Cohen were working together. I am so sorry.’
‘This is too bad,’ said Mr Simon, putting on an air of fierce resentment. ‘And here is Mr Zlentli implicated as well!’
Martha looked at the mysterious man against the wall, who looked back at her. The large, controlled, serious face, with its trim beard, the straight, lively eyes—if they belonged to Mr Zlentli, then she was disposed to approve of Mr Zlentli. But while he allowed his face to look as if it nearly smiled, while his eyes showed he was not angry, that was his lieutenant’s function, he made no further sign, merely put his cigarette in his mouth, drew in smoke, and sent it out through flaring nostrils.
‘Look,’ said Martha, to the three men generally. ‘Let’s get this straight. I’m not here to spy on you.’ As she said this, it occurred to her that in a way she was. ‘I’m not here to find out anything—or to tell tales about you afterwards.’
‘Tell tales?’ said Mr Simon, with hostility. ‘How do you mean, tell tales?’
‘As far as we are concerned—we wish you luck, and if you need help, come and ask. If we can, we’ll help.’
With which she smiled all round and went down a short flight of cement steps on which a dog sat licking its fleas. Getting on her bicycle, she looked up to see Mr Simon watching her over the veranda wall.
‘And you must give our kindest regards to Mrs Van,’ said Mr Simon, with a social amiability as false, as ‘put on’, as enjoyably theatrical, as his hostility.
‘When I see her, I shall,’ said Martha. And she bicycled away, while the dog ran beside her, yapping at the back wheel, and Mr Simon shouted: ‘Come back here, sir, come back here at once!’
Chapter Two
It was a couple of days later. Again Martha sat in the Founders’ Street restaurant with Thomas. He had telephoned Martha to say there was something urgent he had to tell her. But Jasmine was there too, and there had been no chance for him and Martha to talk.
Jasmine was on a week’s visit to her parents, after over three years in Johannesburg. They had heard suddenly that she was married. A frightful family crisis!—and here she was, to take part in it.
‘You’d never believe the fuss,’ said Jasmine, smiling composedly, drinking tea. ‘You know how it is—when you’re working for the Party day and night, and you haven’t time for personal matters, you forget about how things are in ordinary life.’
It was early evening. Soon Thomas had to leave. On the telephone he had said: ‘If you can get an hour free, we can go to the park and talk.’ Now he sat with a plate of fried meat and chips in front of him, silent. It looked as if he were not listening to Jasmine. They were all waiting for Solly, who had promised to come. Jasmine had said to him: ‘I’m your cousin, for one thing, and for another I’m from the Party.’
‘And why should a dirty Trotskyist listen to the Party?’
‘It’s in your own interests. You’ll hear something to your advantage, as they say in the lawyers’ advertisements.’
‘It’s funny being back home,’ said Jasmine, staring around the bare restaurant which, as they looked at it with her eyes, became the ugly, sordid place it was. ‘When I think I spent years of my life in this dorp and I never took it seriously—’ she looked at Martha, remembered Martha’s situation and said: ‘When are you going to England, Matty?’
‘When Anton’s got his nationality and then we can get divorced.’
‘Luckily, getting divorced, there’s nothing to it these days.’
The sophistications of the big city had not changed Jasmine’s appearance at all. She was still a tiny, slender, dark girl, with black curls all over her head, and enormous dark brown eyes—the picture of a protected Jewish girl destined for a secure marriage. A great white wool sweater added to her delicate look. She was telling the story of her marriage.
It appeared that a year ago the police asked her to leave the Union of South Africa. She was not a national and they were getting rid, as Jasmine said, of any spare Reds. She investigated her status: it turned out she did not have one at all, was not even Zambesian. For reasons no sensi
ble person would be able to understand, although she had lived all her life in this country, she was not its national. The police suggested she might like to go back to Lithuania, where her parents came from.
There was nothing for it, she would have to marry a South African. The Party was able to help her. An ex-serviceman who had been wounded in such a way as to make marriage irrelevant to him said he was willing. ‘I said to him: “Are you sure, comrade, because you’ve got quite enough problems, it seems to me.” He said: “Help yourself to what’s left, comrade.”’
They married and had lunch together. ‘We had quite a few interests in common, it turned out, but he was off to organize a branch in Ramsdorp, so we kissed and said goodbye. We cried, too, wasn’t it ridiculous? We sat at the table and shed a few tears about life in general.’ Six months later came the divorce, on grounds of desertion. Jasmine had turned up at the Court, properly dressed, as she said, but she had not known women were supposed to wear hats for the purpose of being divorced. She had no hat. Five minutes before she was due to stand up and ‘speak up for myself, my lawyer said: “Where’s your hat?” So I got a duster from the cleaning woman and tied it over my head. Suddenly, there was my cousin Haimi. “What are you doing here?” he said. “I’m getting divorced,” I said.’ Here Jasmine rolled her eyes demurely, in the old way, which seemed to dissociate her for ever from anything even remotely irregular. ‘He said: “What have you got that filthy doek on your head for?” I said: “Well, whose fault is it, if you must make such silly laws?”—because he’s a lawyer you see. He borrowed a hat from a woman in the audience—so to speak. It was black straw—very smart. So I got divorced in the black straw and I handed it back to Haimi and said: “Thanks for all your trouble.” Then I suddenly understood I was out of touch with reality—this was my cousin Haimi. “Don’t tell my parents,” I said, but it was no good. There was a telegram that night. When I got home I said to them: “Keep your hair on, I only got married to give myself a South African nationality. He’s a good type,” I said, “and he was doing me a favour.” But my mother went to bed and cried all night, and said she would never forgive me, so then I said: “All right then, if that’s what you want—he was a filthy beast who made me pregnant and then when I had a miscarriage he deserted me and he beat me too. I divorced him for cruelty and I will carry the scars until I die.” Then my mother felt fine and kissed me and said she would always be my mother, and my pop gave me £100. And now everybody’s happy and for Pete’s sake, thank God I can go back to Johannesburg now, because how anyone can stick this dorp I really can’t imagine,’ said Jasmine, rolling her eyes again.
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