A Dry White Season

by Andre Brink

  The court was adjourned briefly so that the attendant at the police morgue could be called, but he was unable to recollect whether the body had been clothed or naked when delivered to him.

  The last witness called by Adv Louw was a police graphologist who identified the handwriting on the note found with the corpse as Gordon Ngubene’s. This was strongly contested by a specialist called by Adv De Villiers, who listed a long series of discrepancies between the handwriting on the note and that found in several of Mr Ngubene’s other papers. Mrs Emily Ngubene, wife of the deceased, also denied that it was her husband’s handwriting. Continuing her evidence, she said that Mr Ngubene had been “beaten and pushed around” on the occasion of his arrest on 18 January; that about ten days later a detainee released from John Vorster Square had brought her news of a serious assault on her husband; and that when she had delivered a change of clothing for her husband on 4 February she had discovered blood on the trousers returned to her, in addition to three broken teeth in the back pocket (before the court). She testified that in a conversation with the family doctor, Dr Suliman Hassiem, who had attended the autopsy, he had expressed serious doubt as to whether death had been caused by the strips of blanket as alleged earlier. Before she could pursue the matter, however, a strong objection against hearsay evidence was lodged by Adv Louw and sustained by the magistrate. Adv Louw also successfully opposed specialist evidence that the second signature on the State pathologist’s post mortem report could not have been that of Dr Hassiem. Evidence led by Adv De Villiers on allegations of torture or assault against Capt Stolz in several other cases, was rejected as unfounded and irrelevant.

  After further evidence of a more technical nature Adv De Villiers caused a commotion in court by calling as a witness a young girl, Grace Nkosi (18), to testify about her own detention at John Vorster Square. She had originally been arrested on 14 September last year, she said, and after being subjected to interrogation by several members of the Security Police (including Capt Stolz and Lieut Venter) over a considerable period, she had been taken back to Capt Stolz’s office on the morning of 3 March. Several accusations had been brought in against her and every time she’d denied them she had been beaten with a sjambok. After some time she had fallen on the floor, whereupon she had been kicked in the face and the stomach. When she spat blood she was ordered to lick it up from the floor. Then Capt Stolz threw a large white towel over her head and started twisting the ends round her neck in a manner she illustrated to the court. She tried to struggle, but lost consciousness. According to Miss Nkosi this was repeated several times. The last time she heard Capt Stolz saying: “Come on, meid, speak up. Or do you want to die like Gordon Ngubene?” Then she lost consciousness again. She came round in her cell and on 20 March she was released without a charge.

  In spite of lengthy attempts by Adv Louw to persuade her that she had either made it all up or had misheard the name “Gordon Ngubene” in a state of dizziness, Miss Nkosi insisted that she had told the truth.

  After the two counsel had concluded their arguments the court was adjourned until the afternoon for the verdict. Mr Klopper gave his finding in less than five minutes. Although it was impossible to account for all the injuries on the body, he said, no conclusive evidence had been offered to prove beyond doubt that members of the Security Police had been guilty of assault or of any other irregularity. There were indications that the deceased had become aggressive on more than one occasion and had to be restrained with a measure of force. There was sufficient evidence to conclude that death had been caused by a trauma following pressure applied to the neck, consistent with hanging. Consequently he found that Gordon Ngubene had committed suicide by hanging himself on the morning of 25 February and that on the available evidence his death could not be attributed to any act or omission amounting to a criminal offence on the part of any person.

  For the sake of formality the documents of the inquest were forwarded to the Attorney-General, but on 6 June he announced that no further steps would be instituted, for lack of a prima facie case against any person or persons.

  5

  She stood waiting for him on the steps outside the court building on the second or third afternoon of the inquest, after they had adjourned for the day: the petite dark-haired girl with the large black eyes he had absently noticed among the journalists before. It had occurred to him, when he’d seen her in court, that she looked startlingly young for such responsible work; surrounded by so many older, tougher, more cynical reporters her youth had struck him as almost vulnerable, an openness, a frankness, a freshness. But now, suddenly finding her directly in front of him and looking down into her small oval face, he was surprised to discover how much older she was than he’d thought. Certainly much closer to thirty than to eighteen or twenty. Delicate lines beside the eyes; deep and more definite lines of determination or pain on either side of her mouth. Still young enough to be his daughter, but mature and without illusions or callowness; an affirmation, unnerving in its force, of unflinching womanness.

  Ben was disgruntled, irritable, lost in thought when he came out. Not only because of what had happened in court but by something specific: he had become accustomed to the presence of a whole contingent of Security Police in the courtroom at every session, taking turns to stare at the spectators, singling them out one by one for scrutiny and forcing one to feel guilty even when there was no reason at all for it; but that afternoon, for the first time, Colonel Viljoen had also been there. And when the eyes of the greyish, benign, paternal officer had suddenly discovered Ben in the crowd, his expression had revealed something – surprise? disapproval? not even that: a mere suggestion of taking cognizance-that had disturbed Ben. So he hardly noticed the girl when he came outside and only became conscious of her when, standing right in his way, she said, in a deeper voice than one might have expected of her:

  “Mr Du Toit?”

  He looked at her in surprise as if expecting to find that she’d confused him with someone else.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Melanie Bruwer.”

  He stood waiting, defensive.

  “I understand you knew him?” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Gordon Ngubene.”

  “You’re from the newspaper,” he said.

  “Yes, I’m from the Mail. But I’m not asking on behalf of the paper.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” Ben said in the tone of quiet finality he might have employed talking to Linda or Suzette.

  He was surprised by her reaction. “I understand,” she said. “Pity, though. I would have liked to know more about him. He must have been a very special kind of man.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “The way he persisted in trying to dig up the truth about his son’s death.”

  “Any parent would have done the same.”

  “Why are you hedging?”

  “I’m not. He was a very ordinary person. Just like myself or anyone else. Don’t you see? That’s the whole point.”

  She smiled suddenly, affirming the fullness and generosity of her mouth. “That’s exactly what intrigues me,” she said. “There aren’t many ordinary people around nowadays.”

  “What do you mean?” He looked at her with a suggestion of suspicion, yet disarmed by her smile.

  “Just that very few people seem prepared to be simply human – and to take responsibility for it. Don’t you agree?”

  “I’m really no judge.” In a curious way she made him feel guilty. What, in the final analysis, had he done? Waited, procrastinated, made a few simple arrangements, that was all. Or was she mocking him?

  “How do you know about it anyway?” he asked cautiously. “I mean that I knew Gordon?”

  “Stanley told me.”

  “So you also know Stanley?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “He couldn’t have given you a very glowing report on me,” he said awkwardly.

  “Oh Stanley has quite a soft spot
for you, Mr Du Toit.” She looked him in the eyes. “But you said you’d rather not discuss it, so I won’t keep you. Good-bye.”

  He looked after her as she went down the broad steps. Below, she turned and waved briefly, a small green figure. He raised his hand, more to call her back than to say good-bye, but she had already gone. And as he went down the steps to the busy street, the image of her large frank eyes still in his mind, he was conscious of a sense of loss: as if he’d missed something which had been fleetingly and exquisitely possible, even though he couldn’t explain it to himself.

  She gave him no peace for the rest of the day, nor that night. What she’d said about Stanley; what she’d said about Gordon; about himself. Her narrow face with the dark eyes and vulnerable mouth.

  At lunchtime two days later, as he was having his tea and toast in a small crowded Greek café near the court, she suddenly turned up next to his small square table with the stained plastic cloth, and said:

  “Mind if I sit with you? There’s no other place.”

  Ben jumped up, knocking against the edge of the table and spilling some tea into the saucer.

  “Of course.” He pulled out a chair opposite his.

  “I won’t bother you if you’re not in a mood for conversation,” she said, her eyes mocking. “I can occupy myself.”

  “I don’t mind talking,” he said eagerly. “It went so well in court this morning.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “You were there, weren’t you?” He couldn’t supress his excitement. “What with Tsabalala turning against them and all that. Their whole case is beginning to collapse. De Villiers is making mincemeat of them.”

  She smiled slightly. “Do you really think it’s going to make any difference to the outcome?”

  “Of course. It’s as clear as anything De Villiers is strangling them in their own lies.”

  “I wish I could be so sure.”

  The waiter brought her a dirty menu covered in torn plastic, and she gave him her order.

  “Why are you so sceptical?” asked Ben after the waiter had gone.

  Her elbows propped up on the table, she put her chin on her cupped hands. “What are you going to do if it doesn’t work out?”

  “I haven’t even given it a thought.”

  “You scared?”

  “Of what?”

  “Not of anything in particular. Just scared.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand you at all.”

  Her insistent eyes refused to let him off. “I think you understand only too well, Mr Du Toit. You desperately want it to work out.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Yes, we do. But you want it for a different reason. Because you’re involved.”

  “So you’re just looking for a story for your paper after all?” he said slowly, in bitter disappointment.

  “No.” She was still looking at him, unmoved, unmoving. “I assured you of that the day before yesterday. I want to know for myself. I must.”

  “Must?”

  “Because I also manage to get involved all the time. I know I’m a journalist, I’m supposed to be objective and not to get drawn into things. But I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if it had been no more than that. It’s – well, sometimes one starts wondering about one’s own reasons. That’s why I thought you might help me.”

  “You don’t even know me, Melanie.”

  “No. But I’m prepared to take the risk.”

  “Is it really a risk?”

  “Don’t you think so?” There was something disarmingly playful in her grave tone of voice: “When one person unexpectedly finds himself on the edge of another – don’t you think that’s the most dangerous thing that can happen to anyone?”

  “It depends, I suppose,” he said quietly.

  “You don’t like straight answers, do you?” she said. “Whenever I ask you a question you say: ‘It depends’, or: ‘Perhaps’, or: ‘I don’t know what you mean’. I want to know why. Because I know you ‘re different.”

  “What makes you think I’m different?”

  “Stanley.”

  “Suppose he made a mistake?”

  “He’s seen too much of life to make that sort of mistake.”

  “Tell me more about him,” said Ben, relieved to find an escape.

  Melanie laughed. “He’s helped me an awful lot,” she said. “I’m not referring to newspaper stories only – that too, from time to time – but I mean finding my feet, especially in the beginning, when I first became a journalist. Don’t be fooled by his happy-go-lucky attitude. There’s much more to him.”

  “I presume his taxi is just a camouflage for other things?”

  “Of course. It makes it easier for him to come and go as he chooses. He probably smuggles grass, if not diamonds.” She smiled. “He’s something of a diamond himself, don’t you think? A big black rough uncut diamond. One thing I’ve discovered long ago: if you ever really need someone, a man you can trust with your life, it’s Stanley.”

  The waiter arrived with her sandwiches and tea.

  After he’d left, she deftly returned the conversation to Ben: “That’s why I decided I’d take the chance and talk to you.”

  He poured himself a second cup, without sugar, looking at her keenly. “You know,” he admitted, “I still can’t make up my mind about you. Whether I can really believe you or whether you’re just a much more astute journalist than I’d thought.”

  “Test me,” she said, unperturbed.

  “In spite of what you may think,” he blurted out, “there really is very little I can tell you about Gordon.”

  She shrugged lightly, munching her sandwich, a few small crumbs clinging to her lips. She flicked them off with her tongue, a swift, casual motion that moved him sensually.

  “That’s not the reason why I came to sit here.”

  “No, I know.” He smiled, some of his restraint gone, feeling like a schoolboy.

  “It shook me when I saw Archibald Tsabalala in the box this morning,” she said. “Standing there and saying right to their faces what they’d done to him. Knowing that in a few minutes he would be led out by the very same men who’d tortured him.” Her dark eyes turned to him in urgent confidence. “Still, in a sense I can understand it. All those Tsabalalas: perhaps they’re the only ones who can really afford to do it. They have nothing left to lose. Only their lives. And what remains of life when it’s been stripped bare like that? It can’t get worse. Perhaps it can only get better. Provided there are enough of them. How can a government win a war against an army of corpses?”

  He said nothing, sensing that she hadn’t finished.

  “But you,” she said after a while. “You have everything to lose. What about you?”

  “Don’t talk like that. Please. I haven’t done anything really.”

  Her eyes on his face, she slowly shook her head. The long dark hair stirred gently, heavily round her narrow face.

  “What are you really thinking, Melanie?”

  “It’s time to go back for the afternoon session,” she said. “Otherwise you may not get a seat.”

  For another moment he stared at her, then raised his hand to call the waiter. In spite of her protest, he paid for both. And then they went back through the crowded streets without speaking.

  On the last day of the inquest, immediately after the verdict, he came from the building dazed and weary, and stopped on the pavement. There was a large crowd outside, mainly black, shouting and raising their fists and singing freedom songs, while from behind him people emerged from the courtroom, flowing past him, some bumping into him. He was hardly conscious of it. It had all ended too abruptly. The verdict had been too blunt, he was still groping in his mind to grasp it. Consequently I find that Gordon Ngubene committed suicide by hanging himself on the morning of 25 February and that on the available evidence his death cannot be attributed to any act or omission amounting to a criminal offence on the part of any person.

 
; From the crowd two people broke away towards him, but he only noticed it when they touched him. Stanley, wearing his dark glasses and his irrepressible smile, although for once it looked more like a grimace. And leaning on his arm, a shapeless bundle, Emily.

  As they reached him her mouth was distorted. She tried to shape a word but failed; then she simply threw her arms round his neck and started sobbing on his chest. Her great weight caused him to stagger back and in order to keep his balance he put his arms round her. While a few press cameras flashed on the stairs she went on weeping, swaying against him, until Stanley took her back gently but resolutely.

  Like her, Ben was too overcome to speak.

  But Stanley was firmly in command. Placing a heavy hand on Ben’s shoulder, he said in his deep booming voice: “Don’t worry, lanie. We’re still alive, man.”

  Then they disappeared into the throng again.

  A moment later a small figure with long hair came to him, and took his arm.