“If you’ve had enough of that,” Rousseau said quietly, “we need people like you in South Africa. To help us hold the line here.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gat said. “I’m committed up there.”
Petra returned to the room, her skirt rustling. She started past Terreblanche for a chair opposite Gat. The young man reached out, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her beside him on the sofa. Rousseau smiled at Terreblanche’s possessiveness. “And lunch?” he asked.
“Almost,” Petra said. She smiled at her father and at Gat. Terreblanche took her hand and placed it in his lap. “Have you decided whether Lumumba is dead or alive?” she asked.
“He’s in a Katanga prison,” Terreblanche informed her.
“Is he?” The girl looked challengingly at Gat. “Or did someone throw him out of a fifth-story window. That’s what they do here.”
“The police do not throw anyone out of windows,” Rousseau said.
“But conspiracy suspects do land on the sidewalk outside police headquarters. Don’t they, Father?” Petra had mastered the art of asking subversive questions with an innocent, inquiring voice. “With their heads cracked open, brains and blood spilling out? Isn’t that true?”
“You’re being tiresome, Pet,” Rousseau admonished mildly. He turned to Gat. “As for your Mr. Lumumba, I think it’s rather unlikely he’s still alive.”
Gat sensed that Rousseau, the patient paterfamilias, had observed his share of African political suspects being tortured, had supervised African police affixing electrodes to suspects’ testicles, had heard the screams of men shot through with electricity. Glancing at the girl and her young swain, the two students, Gat understood that they had no real notion of what Rousseau’s job entailed.
“The Katanga authorities contend Lumumba’s in prison,” Terreblanche said. “Do you think they’ve eaten him? Roast liver of Lumumba?” He scoffed.
Rousseau allowed himself a tight smile.
“Are there cannibals in Katanga, Captain?” Petra asked.
Gat turned to the girl and winked conspiratorially. She was remarkably pretty when she was being provocative. “I’ve never knowingly supped with one.”
“You might have lost a leg if you had, eh?” Terreblanche gave another hearty laugh. “You must be glad to be down here where it’s civilized.”
“Yes,” said Gat. The girl was watching him. “Belgians can be very boring.” In her presence the men would make no mention of what Gat had told them. It was not a matter for a woman’s ears. “Belgium’s a small country,” Gat prattled on, kidding the girl. “Katanga is even worse: too small to be a country, too large to be a mining compound. Which is all it really is.”
“So now and then you have to get out,” Petra said. “Is that it?”
“Get out or go crazy,” Gat agreed.
“Do you think what happened in the Congo is likely to happen here?” the girl asked. Gat could not tell if she wanted his opinion or was simply tweaking her father and the boyfriend. But it did not matter because Margaret Rousseau appeared to call them to the table. As they rose, Petra persisted, “Do you think it will happen?”
Gat said, “Talk to me in twenty years.”
AS THEY sat down to a clear soup, Margaret Rousseau declared, “We do not talk politics at table. Certainly not on Sundays!”
They talked instead about family matters. Rousseau and Margaret were going the next day to Pretoria, the country’s administrative capital, for meetings he must attend. When they returned, they would drive Petra up to Wits and get her settled at varsity. While they were gone, she would spend the week in Stellenbosch with Rousseau’s sister.
“She’s going to help me set up my place,” Terreblanche explained. “I’ll be reading law there as soon as the school year starts.” He boasted once again about his university. “Stellenbosch turns out the best of South Africa’s men.”
“You aren’t going there, Petra?” Gat asked, teasing. “Doesn’t an intelligent young woman want to be where ‘the best of South Africa’s men’ are turned out?”
“Here, here!” exclaimed Rousseau.
“I’m not going to varsity to catch a husband,” Petra declared. “I may never marry.” This seemed to be news to Terreblanche. “I may join a convent.”
“You won’t be joining a convent going to Wits!” Rousseau remarked.
Gat and Petra looked at one another. Petra had never had a man, who was clearly no longer a boy, gaze at her with such intensity, with such a recognition that she herself was no longer a girl. Her body grew warm. She smiled at Gat as she turned toward Terreblanche. “I’m not going to do varsity studies in a tribal language,” she said, “as they do at Stellenbosch.”
“It is not a tribal language, Petra,” Terreblanche scolded. “It’s the language of the future in this country.”
“I’m going to study in a world language, Kobus. English. Aren’t we speaking English now? That’s the future.”
“I wanted Petra to go to Stellenbosch,” Rousseau explained to Gat. He spoke again as if Petra were a child for whom he answered. “But I’ve agreed she can try Wits for a semester. If it’s too liberal, she’ll—”
“Father, living in this century is too liberal for you!” Petra grinned at this impertinence and Rousseau laughed, wagging a warning finger at her.
“In this country it always turns to politics!” Margaret said.
After dessert they drank coffee. Rousseau turned to Gat and said, “The Congo offers an object lesson for us here in South Africa.” He made a confession. “Last year there was an unfortunate incident for us at a place called Sharpeville—”
“An unfortunate incident?” blurted Petra. “A massacre! One hundred Africans shot in the back.”
“Nowhere near one hundred!” insisted Terreblanche. “The press exaggerates everything.”
Rousseau held up his hands like a teacher calling for order. “They were burning their pass books,” he reminded his daughter. “That was illegal. They were playing with fire and got burnt.”
“That is a little harsh, darling,” Margaret said. “Captain Gautier will think we’re not far from the way we’re portrayed. Heartless monsters.”
“I could never think that,” Gat told her gallantly, “after that lovely lunch.”
Petra’s flashing eyes scolded Gat for being so obvious. To restore her estimate of him, he turned to her father. “What’s this treason trial I keep reading about?”
“Yes, explain that, Father,” challenged Petra. She smiled at Gat. “It’s lasted more than a year, you know.”
Rousseau rebuked his daughter with a glance. “African enemies of the state have been charged with conspiracy. Their aim is the violent overthrow of the government and the establishment of a Communist state.”
“They have links to the Soviet Union and Eastern Bloc countries,” Terreblanche blurted out excitedly.
“The defendants will be convicted,” Rousseau declared. “Unfortunately, we have a judge who is—” Rousseau paused to search for the right word.
“Unreliable,” said Petra. She looked at her father, then at Gat.
“His mind is tied up in legalisms,” said the colonel. “It is clearly in the interests of the country that these African nationalist leaders be put away. What’s at stake is the South African way of life. If these men are not dealt with, the terrorist threat will only grow. There are already acts of sabotage. How a judge cannot see that the way of life he enjoys could well be destroyed is something I cannot understand.”
“We Afrikaners are like the children of God in the wilderness of this continent,” Terreblanche added. Gat turned to the young man, wondering if he actually believed what he said. But he spoke with unpretentious conviction; Gat could not doubt him. “Some Europeans smile at that,” Terreblanche went on, “but we have a unique culture, language, and mission, perhaps divinely ordained, to rule this land and the people we found here.”
“In any case,” Rousseau continued, “these events—Sharpev
ille, the treason trial, the State of Emergency lifted last year—they’ve made it clear to enlightened, like-minded people that we have our work cut out for us. Our mission is to preserve white civilization in the years ahead. We’re determined to succeed.”
“I decreed that there would be no discussion of politics at table,” said Margaret Rousseau, “and as usual you have ignored my decree.”
IT WAS arranged that Kobus and Petra, who were off to meet friends, would give Gat a lift to the Table Mountain cable car. Before she set off, Petra went to the kitchen with her mother to thank Elsie for the meal. The servant stood washing dishes at the kitchen sink. “The dinner was a marvel, Elsie,” Petra told her. “Kobus certainly packs away your food when he’s here!”
“I don’t think that officer has eaten so well in months,” said Margaret. Elsie smiled, looking away from the two white women so as not to seem impudent. It was deemed unseemly for a kitchen servant to look her mistress in the face. “When you finish with the dishes, Elsie,” Margaret said, “you’re free to go home to your people. For four days. We won’t need you again until late Thursday.”
As the two women moved out of the large kitchen past the pantry, Margaret said, “You won’t need to get to Wits to meet men quite different from Kobus. The captain looks at you as if he hadn’t seen a woman in quite some time.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mother,” Petra replied. She knew exactly what her mother meant, but would not be caught admitting it. “I must seem like a child to him. That’s how Father and Kobus treat me.”
“I assure you he doesn’t consider you a child.”
“He seemed very nice to me.”
“Of course, he did!” said the mother. “They always seem ‘very nice’ when they gaze at you as if they might throw themselves at your feet. Men used to look at me that way. Sometimes I wish they still did.” Then she counseled, “A beautiful woman can have great power over men.”
“Mother, stop it. I’m not beautiful.”
“That’s for the men to decide. You’ll learn all about that at Wits.”
Petra smiled slyly at her mother. “Isn’t that why I’m going there?”
Margaret held her daughter’s hand. “I’m not trying to overprotect you,” she said. “But do be careful. I made mistakes. Don’t you make the same ones.”
The women parted. Petra moved along a hall to rejoin the men in the garden. Gat had used the small bathroom off the hall. Now he waited there for Petra to pass by. When she did, he moved out behind her. She stopped, turned. They looked at one another. “What will you study at Wits?” Gat asked.
Petra contemplated him, her eyes narrowing in challenge. “You were in there waiting for me.”
“Was I? Are you worth waiting for?”
“My mother says you gaze at me as if you hadn’t seen a young woman in a very long time.”
“I’ve never seen a woman like you.”
Petra grinned, then hid her mouth with her hand. “Oh, please!” she said. She rolled her eyes. “Kobus doesn’t even say things like that. You can’t be cornier than him!” They looked at one another. “How long has it been?”
“Too long.” He smiled, not giving a damn how corny he was.
They gazed at one another, both feeling on edge. Petra cocked her head. “What am I going to study at Wits? How to escape my background.”
Gat laughed, beguiled. “You do put it to your father.”
“Why not? Father doesn’t care what I think. I’m just a girl. He thinks women are for breeding. As if we were cows.”
“Does he expect you to breed with Kobus?”
“Can’t you tell?” They looked at one another and all the house seemed silent.
Gat gazed at her. “If you keep standing there, I’m going to kiss you.”
“Are you?”
He kissed her. She did not move. Electricity shot through both of them. Gat put his arms about her. She broke the kiss, backed away. They looked at one another, their lips burning. Gat took her arm, moved to kiss her again. She glanced toward the garden.
“Meet me somewhere,” Gat said.
They heard the door from the garden open.
He whispered, “Just tell me where.”
“Petra!” It was Terreblanche. “Let’s go!” His footsteps approached.
Gat released the girl’s arm. She moved off, talking, saying anything. “I really wanted to go abroad to study,” she prattled as if they’d been chatting. Gat put his hands behind his back. When she was several paces ahead of him, he shuffled after her. “Maybe America. University of California.”
“There you are,” said Terreblanche, appearing at the end of the hall. “We need to move!”
“I might as well have said the moon,” Petra continued, facing Gat and walking backward, ignoring her friend. “I suggested England. No! France. No! No!” She grinned and turned to face Terreblanche. “Captain Gautier was asking how I ended up at Wits. I’m explaining how I was at my Wits’ end.” Gat laughed. Petra giggled, slapped Terreblanche on the chest, and turned to Gat with a flirtatious smile. Terreblanche swept her off the floor as if she were property needful of guarding. “Let me down! Let me down!” she cried, hooting and kicking her legs, flirting with Gat while playfully slapping Terreblanche’s face. Terreblanche carried her out into the garden.
Outside the house Gat shook hands with the Rousseaus and thanked them for lunch. He climbed into the rear seat of Kobus’s 1955 Chevrolet convertible. As they moved off, Petra waved to her parents. Gat watched the girl: the curve of her neck, her small ear, her blonde hair blowing in the wind.
As the convertible neared Table Mountain, Petra turned to Gat. “I wish I were going to be here to act as your guide,” she remarked. “We want you to take back a good report to Katanga.”
“Here, here!” agreed Terreblanche. He understood she was only being polite.
Gat gazed at the girl. She smiled because of the wind and plopped an open palm on her head to stop her hair from blowing. Gat asked, “Where would you be tomorrow night if you weren’t going to Stellenbosch?”
“The Table Bay cruise is rather fun,” Terreblanche offered.
“There’s a new coffeehouse,” Petra said. “It’s called San Francisco. Modeled after the beatnik cafés everyone has heard about in California. I might be there. People read their poetry and play jazz.”
“Maybe I should go tonight,” Gat suggested to test her reaction.
“All entertainments in South Africa are closed on Sundays,” Terreblanche said.
“So that the population may contemplate religion.” Terreblanche rebuked this impudence with a light poke to Petra’s shoulder. The girl smiled flirtatiously at Gat.
As the convertible pulled up to the Table Mountain cable car station, Petra said, “I must ask you again, Captain: Do you think what happened in the Congo is likely to happen here?” Gat could not tell if she wanted his opinion or was merely tweaking the patriotic boyfriend.
“Why should it happen here?” asked Terreblanche. He seemed annoyed that Petra should ask such a question just at a time when Gat should be leaving. “We’re giving our blacks a system that works for them.”
“Do you think separate development will work, Captain?” Petra asked.
Gat watched the girl with a straight face, but with secret amusement. She was putting Terreblanche through his paces. Gat suspected that in this game the only victory came from saying nothing, for Petra played to annoy, not to win. Terreblanche folded his arms across his chest. “Do you think it will work, Captain?” Petra repeated.
Gat grinned at her, watching the lips he had kissed. If she wanted his answer to that question, she would have to find some way to see him again. “San Francisco Coffeehouse?” he asked. “That’s the place to be?” Their eyes locked.
The girl nodded. “On Kloof Street. Almost to the top.”
“Maybe I’ll look it over tomorrow night then,” he said.
“You might like it,” Petra told him.
<
br /> Gat left the car and shook hands with both of the young people, holding Petra’s longer than necessary. He stepped away and waved.
As he drove off, Kobus said, “Katanga must be tough duty. That guy really looks old.”
“How old do you think he is?” Petra asked, glancing back at Gat.
“At least thirty. Maybe older.”
GAT RODE the cable car to the top of Table Mountain. Happy to stretch his legs, needing to keep them in shape, he made a tour of the mountaintop, looking at the city, the bay, and a formation called Lion’s Head. He climbed toward a series of outcroppings designated, not surprisingly given the strangely Biblical anchorings of Afrikaner society, The Twelve Disciples. He thought about Petra Rousseau. Impudent young virgin! Kissing her. That had been pleasant. And, strangely, it excited him more than did spending the entire night with the actress.
He strolled down from the mountain, thinking about Petra. How could he see her again? Could he find the house? He did not even know the name of the street. In the Kobusmobile he should have been watching for street signs; instead he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
He boarded a bus, unmindful of its destination, and rode it out to Sea Point. He got off there and walked around. Hotels more in line with his budget fronted on the beach. He entered one and made a reservation for the next night. He took a bus back into the city, thinking that if he saw Petra again he must be on his good behavior. After all, he’d met her at church. That idea amused him. Moreover he had talked about military command as if he and his men were seeking the Holy Grail. Rousseau himself was not fooled, but she might have been. Thinking about her, he could still feel her kiss on his lips.
CHAPTER FOUR
CAPE TOWN
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 1961
The police driver arrived promptly for Colonel Rousseau and his wife. He carried the luggage set beside the front door to the trunk of the car. “Margaret!” Rousseau called, irritation in his voice. He hated to wait and had the forbidding air his police uniform bestowed on him. “I hope we don’t have to wait for you like this next week,” he told his daughter. Petra stood with him in the front hall in pedal pushers, a blouse, and sandals.
Love in the Time of Apartheid Page 5