“To the bitter end, son”—it was a challenge dredged through a century and more since the British and the Boers had fought a vicious war, a sore still festering in the heart of the most unyielding in Afrikanerdom. It meant that JJ had become a detestable verraaier, and a turncoat was worse than a rooinek. There could be no turning back, no surrender; it was all-out war… again.
Andre saw in his wife’s eyes all of those things from the final conversation he’d had with his son, the final conversation he would ever have.
She turned her back on him, serene and composed, the familiar squeak of floorboards marking her passage as she sailed out of sight in the direction of the bedrooms. Andre heard the single knock and turn of Sonja’s handle, the door tapped lightly closed.
A moment later, he heard the handle, the light kiss of the door in its jamb, and the footsteps Andre knew so well disappeared into their bedroom. The door reported its brutal closure.
He sat at the kitchen table for what seemed hours while sporadic footfalls travelled lightly up and down the unseen corridor, the opening and closing of doors reporting their business.
His prison was silence, his mind caged by culture, by unyielding pressures inherited from a father who had reaped it from his father before him. Back through endless time, strength demonstrated, no pity for self or others expected or given.
Now the shame at facing deeds he’d called his obligations became phantoms leering at him, taunting from the shadows of his boyhood home.
The weight of being a man came down on his shoulders, smothering his wish for life out of him. Conflict. Nothing but conflict marked the memory of his adulthood as he sat, crushed under the immensity of circumstance.
Sonja didn’t say goodbye, but out of sight and in the gloom, Johanna said her farewells. She was leaving that instant for Cape Town. She would never come back. She’d said it and he knew it was true; Johanna never made an empty promise.
The car started in the driveway, and as the sound of the engine faded and died into the still of the night, Andre began to cry.
He had not cried since he was a boy, but now the emotional drought was broken, and the tears came like dollops of hot rain ahead of the thunder; first one and two, and then three-four-five. It was possible to count them at first, and then the storm burst and the heavens of his tears opened. He cried as he never thought he could.
When the tears were done, he went to his rifle safe.
Chapter 27
As Johanna arrived in Cape Town, JJ was preparing for their return to Carnarvon.
The call had come in well before sunrise. It was the Dominee and he was sobbing. JJ didn’t know that the Dominee could cry, but Gert had howled so hard that he could barely talk. He’d called from the scene. He’d been one of the first to witness it.
The sound of a shotgun carries a long way across a small town in the dead of night.
Andre was at the kitchen table when they found him. He had arranged the family around him; their pictures in frames like an amphitheatre of spectators come to watch him leave. Pictures from the early years, before the children came, before the first “oops…” when he and his Johanna had squinted as school sweethearts optimistically into the lens. And then the small family emerging in the story, concluding their triumph with JJ in graduation regalia, the first of the family so proudly university qualified.
Nobody knew where Johanna and Sonja were in those first horrific hours, while frantic stretches of time were spent searching and fretting the worst. So many police families had been extinguished by the gun.
Mother’s car was gone from the town, and as she avoided using a mobile phone, Sonja had been JJ’s only hope. He tried and re-tried her number. Terrifyingly, Sonja’s phone relentlessly went directly to voicemail without a ring, threatening the severest of possibilities.
He’d alternated the desperate and fruitless calls to Sonja with calls to Morgan. She was ready to fly back to be with him, but they’d decided there was little she could do so she would remain on call to support him.
It was well into the morning, a leisurely ten-hour pace from Carnarvon, when Sonja appeared at JJ’s door.
He grabbed and embraced her with wild relief that drove the air from her lungs.
He’d been crying, she saw it immediately.
“Where’s Ma?” he asked urgently.
“On the stairs.”
“Come inside… sit down,” he directed and flew out the door to fetch Mother.
When the women were both seated, he came and knelt in front of them; taking a hand from each, he held on firmly as he told them plainly what had happened.
They fell in unison into him and his arms swallowed them to his chest.
The clutch of embracing misery heaved together, agonized wails of tragedy ricocheting off the walls, overwhelming the room.
Martha came in and silently slipped back out. She already knew about Andre and had already cried for JJ’s pain for many minutes in JJ’s arms. She listened from the kitchen until the timing was right and then she made tea, hugged and cried with the women and quietly withdrew to her quarters, occasionally returning to see if there was anything that she could do.
By the end of the afternoon, JJ had begun to implement practical steps. He had a plane of his own but wanted to offer his mother more comfort and a faster transit, so he chartered a jet from a friend.
He called his doctor who made a house call and delivered sedatives.
In spite of the pharmaceutical assistance, none of the family slept.
Johanna disintegrated into blaming herself and JJ was forced to admonish her firmly. “Pa did this to himself, Ma. He has been driving you away for years. He loved us all, but he could not get over his fears and frustrations.”
Nothing helped.
It would take years for her to recover, if she ever could, and JJ knew it.
Sonja was in a worse condition. She was deathly silent, her eyes rheumy and far away in a different place and time.
After that last call with his father, JJ had wanted to call Marsha. The urge had been there, but he’d decided to let the situation play itself out and not trouble her unnecessarily with yet another embarrassing fiasco exploding in his community, perpetrated by his father.
But after Marsha had been called by Sussie to come to Dawie’s assistance, she’d called JJ.
It had been awkward. JJ had once again been put in a compromised position; compelled by deep cultural urges to mitigate the indefensible, yet revolted by his father and the old ways the man represented. With his worst suspicions of what his father had done to the boy realized, he’d told Marsha to spare no expense seeking medical assistance for Dawie and committed that he would support a legal case, even though it went against his own blood.
When Marsha had hung up, JJ had called Dawie’s number hoping the phone had been returned so that he may talk to the boy. Or, failing that, talk to whoever answered it in the police station. But it had gone directly to voicemail.
He’d called his father’s mobile, but after two rings it too had cut and gone to voicemail. He’d called the number again twenty minutes later and the same pattern played out; his father was screening.
He never did reach his father again.
Chapter 28
Marsha’s keynote speech in which she’d touched on the Kardashev scale and its Type 1, 2 and 3 Civilizations had prompted a vigorous debate in the town during the final days of school.
John Fiske, the new science teacher whose employment had been afforded by recent donations from the SKA fund, had found the notion of the Kardashev predictions utterly fascinating.
Informed by them, he’d delighted in contemplating the vast cosmic drama that may be unfolding in the heavens, and the drama’s radio emissions that might well rain down into the telescope dishes to be centred around the little town.
After Marsha’s address, John had spent a few minutes sharing his enthusiasm with her and she’d given him her personal email address.
H
e’d then taken the discussion points he’d gleaned from Marsha back into the classroom where it had quickly become a passionately fought debate among the kids that the long-time old-guard teachers and Dr. Louw watched with rising distress. John had kept a stream of information flowing to Marsha, detailing interesting points raised in discussions.
The debate had re-ignited the same rumblings and re-opened the schism in the community that the Dara incident had prompted many weeks before.
But, year-end exams were upon them and to the relief of Principal Louw, the debate was ended; forgotten, Louw hoped.
Then, to his fury, with the school year officially over, Dr. Louw discovered that John had gone over his head to secure permission directly from the educational governing authority to use school facilities to continue the discussion for anyone who wished to participate.
Louw was furious.
The next discussion group was scheduled for 10 a.m. Thursday, a public holiday. It was anticipated to last two hours.
Worse yet, the black devil’s mother, Marsha, had agreed to open discussions about the viability of achieving interstellar travel. The boy’s father, Al, had agreed to give a presentation on aliens and gods.
Andre’s funeral was set to begin at 3 p.m. that same day. It was a disgrace.
Dominee Gert had, for the record, officially lodged a complaint through Principal Louw’s authority to have the presentation cancelled on the grounds that it insulted the community by violating Andre’s legacy as a pious man.
“With all due respect, sir,” John countered, in heated debate with Deon Louw, “that is a non sequitur. It…”
“It’s a non-nothing,” the Principal snapped back. “Don’t come in here at this sensitive time for our community and throw around your big words.”
“It is not a big word. It simply means that the conclusion you’re making does not logically follow the reasons presented. We have planned a morning of discussions with preeminent scientists—world-renowned scientists—who, we are fortunate enough to have available. Under normal circumstances, we would not even get a reply from people of this calibre let alone their time; they’d never even come to Carnarvon. And there are dozens of people who have responded positively—many of them parents.”
“I don’t expect you can grasp this John, because you don’t come from a community,” Louw replied, his voice stinging with implied insult. “But this topic at this time is a slap in the face of a well-respected and deeply religious man who was a cornerstone of our Faith.”
“I am afraid that you are right, Doctor. I don’t grasp it. We will be finished a full three or more hours before the service begins. Hell—the late man’s own son and daughter are coming to our event. Evidently then, they find no insult in the two events occupying the same day when divided by lunch. Indeed, the holiday specifically commemorates reconciliation. It is the national Day of Reconciliation so that I think it is appropriate.”
The Principal snorted with mockery and disdain. “Reconciliation… We don’t need any reconciliation, we only need respect for our Faith.”
As John was about to respond, Dominee Gert barrelled into the Principal’s office. He was in an evil mood and glared lightning bolts at John. John nodded a cordial greeting, “Good morning, Dominee,” he said.
Gert did not reply, his mouth pencil thin.
“Well?” Dr. Louw asked of Gert.
“Daai f’-ken Kaptein,” Gert hissed through pinched lips, carefully indicating to the Principal that in John’s presence, now was not the time for details, “…hy skop vas… ek sal jou later sê.”
John knew next to no Afrikaans, but it was clear that the “Captain had been uncooperative”; John guessed he meant the Captain of the police. He shook his head in amazement that they’d take the situation that far.
The Principal glared at John. “So you remain unwilling to accommodate us… a whole community, and put aside your ungodly agenda for just this one day?”
“Sir, we are discussing interesting scientific topics—there is no intention to mention your God,” he responded evenly.
“Ahhhh… our God… it’s our God is it? Is God not enough?” Louw interrogated, dripping sarcasm, trying to draw the Dominee in, trying to goad John into an open confrontation.
“Well yes, sir—I’ve heard you say ‘our God’ often enough and I am merely providing you with respect and honour by saying that it is your God.” John welcomed a blowout for tactical reasons but felt no emotion for the contents of it. “And, if the whole community wants to be accommodated, they will simply vote with their feet and not attend.”
There was a moment of silence and the two men had a stare-down.
“That will be all then,” Dr. Deon Louw said curtly. “You can go.”
“Thank you, sir,” John said cheerily. “Dominee…” he nodded the greeting and left.
The two men stood in silence until they could no longer hear John Fiske’s footsteps disappearing to the convention room up the corridor.
“Onbeskof!” Deon spat. “If I could only fire him I’d do it on the spot.”
“Why don’t you?” Gert asked.
“Because he is forced on us. Forced from the education governors. It’s politics.” He shook his head, just a rapid dart of frustrated tension. “What happened with the Captain?” he asked the Dominee.
Dominee Gert van der Nest had taken his complaint to the police station. Had Andre still been alive, lowly Constable or not, the Dominee would have called him privately and he’d have followed the request without hesitation, delay or paperwork; none of this degrading begging for decency in the charge office.
And, Gert had noted, this arrogant pretender in the role of Police Station Commander had not even had the decency and respect for the Dominee’s standing to invite him and his gripe into his private office. Oh, no! He insisted on taking the complaint out in the public, open charge office where all the other coloured and black officers could hear the business.
Without Andre, the last of the old guard were now gone. And Gert felt the crushing weight of doom against his people and his culture beginning to squeeze the hope from him.
He’d asked the Police Captain very reasonably to accompany him back to the school to impress upon the new teacher that today was not the day for dissention. And the Captain had asked if he should go in his official capacity as a policeman.
Gert had not expected the question and dithered with it, undecided, his mind racing to weigh the implications if he committed either way to a reply.
“What is the difference,” he’d asked of the Captain.
The Captain had said that if he did it as a colleague of the dead man he could leave to the task immediately and without further ado. He would of course be happy to conduct the complaint in his uniform for whatever impression that might make.
But if he did it as a policeman, as an official demanding compliance, he’d explained, for that he would need a contravention of a law and an official charge to be laid.
Gert had been unable to come up with any specific ordinance or law that would be contravened if the symposium went ahead.
“How about trespass?”
It had been clear to Gert when the Captain suggested it that it had not been a genuine suggestion. Far from it; it had been highly disingenuous, and the Captain’s tone mocking, toying with him.
“I have already explained to you when I laid out the issue, Captain,” the Dominee had said with a bitter timbre to his voice, drawing himself up to his full height and authority, “that this is not a question of trespass because the teacher concerned has permission. It is a question of decency and respect for our culture.”
“So, there is no actual law being violated then, Dominee?”
The Dominee had clearly seen the ridicule in the man’s eyes.
“But you would like me to come with you and make the request? Because, you see Dominee, this is where I’m confused; is it a request on my official behalf as a policeman or a request on your behalf as
an ordinary member of the public?”
The police juniors had all been sneaking open smirks at the Dominee as he was being moved around like a pawn in chess, manoeuvred into a checkmate. And Gert had seen how they openly mocked him with their smug smiles without their commander saying a word against it.
It had been a call of “check” and whichever way Gert could have answered, he’d look like a fool.
“If you will not assist then I would like for you to make a statement to that effect, please.” Gert had tried to divert from the head-on defeat.
“A statement?” The Captain had grinned openly.
“Yes. A statement. I would like you to make a statement.” Gert’s voice had risen, becoming shrill.
“A statement saying?”
Gert knew he’d been outmanoeuvred. He’d been so goaded he’d blurted out his request, wanting to make a statement without thinking through quite what its thrust should be. But he was too deep in it now to back down—he’d needed to force the Captain to refuse to take the statement so that he could share the insolence of his refusal with the community.
“I insist on you making a statement, Captain. Kindly get your pen and write down what I say, so that it is on the record.”
“It is unusual for you to order me as an officer to make a statement, but I will consider it as a courtesy for you, sir, if you’ll please just tell me what aspects of our discussion you wish for me to record.”
There was a long pregnant silence. The only sound had been one of the policeman’s ballpoint pen skidding over the foolscap sheet on which he was pretending to write, but Gert knew he was just doodling.
The Dominee’s face had become swollen and red with indignation. He’d taken charge of his voice and delivered his final plea with force, as if from the pulpit;
“The man I am burying today, Captain, was a friend. He was a pillar of this community.” He’d halted, searching the Captain’s face for any shred of humanity. “His father… his father before him was this station’s commander. He was a policeman just like you. Do you have no respect for the uniform and what it stands for?”
A Trojan Affair Page 23