Love in the Time of Apartheid

by Frederic Hunter

  “Are you going to have a baby with this man?” Hazel asked. The girls squealed and agreed that Hazel, whose parents were more lenient about her driving than were the Rousseaus, would fetch Petra at nine that evening.

  WITH MICHELS in tow, Gat moved into the Protea Hotel in Sea Point. The men bought bathing suits and swam in the ocean. Afterward lying on the sand on towels taken from the hotel, Michels asked, “You ever think of going to Canada? Or America? Mexico?”

  “Africa’s the only place I ever wanted to go,” said Gat. He gazed out at the surf, recalling how at thirteen he had determined that one day he would leave tiny, crowded, small-minded Belgium for enormous, underpopulated Africa. There a man could stretch himself to more than his full size and accomplish great things.

  Beside him Michels gaped at girls so intensely that Gat found it embarrassing. He hoped that his own eyes had not looked that way at Petra Rousseau. “How can I get to Canada?” Michels asked. “I’m dying here. Running out of money. I couldn’t borrow some from you, could I?”

  “Not if you’re going to Canada.”

  “You think I could find a job here?”

  “Be a miner. Mine owners always need good men.”

  “The next mine owner I meet I may shoot.”

  Back in their safari suits they walked into Green Point. When they came to a bookstore, Gat went inside to browse. Michels drifted off to find a bar. Gat was looking for books that might explain what was happening in Africa; he wanted analyses different from those he read in La Libre Belgique or De Standaard or was told by mine owners and Belgo-Katangese apologists. But works suggesting that change was blowing across the continent were not available in South Africa.

  Leaving the bookstore Gat searched for Michels only long enough to assert truthfully that he had done so. He walked to the foreshore and bought a sandwich and a beer at a place overlooking the ocean. He watched cranes loading ships, possibly for Canada, and assumed that Michels would turn up at the Protea Hotel during the night and beg to sleep on his floor. He took a bus up out of the city, located the San Francisco Coffeehouse on upper Kloof Street, examined wares in a bicycle shop, and browsed again in bookstores.

  He bought a novel about Algeria, found a park, and read. Now and then he wondered if he and the girl would actually meet. If they did, what would happen? Wouldn’t her meeting him signal— Maybe not. She was very young. And if that happened . . . Would he be taking advantage of her? He would not exploit her. He needed her to value him. Meeting him would risk her innocence, admiration, her trust. He would not betray her trust. Gat and Petra would value one another. They would form a bond if even for only one evening.

  When sunset reddened the sky, he went to the coffeehouse. Few people were there. Petra Rousseau was not one of them.

  PETRA SPENT the early afternoon wondering how she should dress for a meeting that might never take place. What would appeal to a man of Gat’s age? How old was he anyway? Maybe she should just dress like the schoolgirl she was, the almost varsity student. That was all she’d been yesterday and the man had kissed her, hadn’t he? In any case, Hazel would be dressed the way she always was, excessively casual. Hmm.

  As Petra stood in her closet, it suddenly occurred to her that it would be foolish to spend the day worrying about the appearance of her exterior if the captain, should he be at the coffeehouse, were to discover within ten minutes of conversation that she was a carefully dressed ninny, that her interior was an empty void. What if he asked her opinions of trends in Africa? What if he discovered that she could talk only about school and the fact that she had played Banquo in her class reading of MacBeth? He might find Hazel more interesting.

  Petra grabbed a school notebook and drove her parents’ Ford sedan to the library at the University of Cape Town. Settling down with encyclopedias and news magazines, she began to study current events—even taking notes!—so that her arsenal of manipulation would include an informed mind.

  She read impatiently, chewing her pencil’s eraser. She scanned colonial history. No, no! What about Lumumba? He was the one everyone talked about. She finally found material about the run-up to independence.

  Petra’s head soon swam with the unfamiliar names of parties and politicians. How would she keep them straight? She laughed aloud at the notion of rattling off the names of these politicians to Kobus. She wondered what the captain would do if she spouted them. She smiled at that idea.

  Petra remembered hearing talk about the Katanga secession and Lumumba’s problems. Many South Africans were happy about chaos in the Congo. It seemed to prove that Bantus could not rule themselves.

  She read that Lumumba’s government asked for United Nations assistance in ousting the Belgians’ neocolonial invasion and ending the secession. Although the UN sent troops and advisors, Lumumba found himself increasingly powerless. When the UN refused to help him deal militarily with Katanga, he sought Russian planes to ferry troops to Katanga.

  Petra wondered: Was Lumumba a Communist? Had he intended to allow Russians to use the Congo as a base to penetrate Central Africa? Her father thought so. As did the Americans. But did that make sense? Lumumba was an African nationalist, wasn’t he? Why would he want his country taken over by Russians?

  Petra read through her notes. If she were writing a varsity paper, she asked herself, what sort of conclusion would she offer? That Lumumba was a monkey, as Kobus claimed? Or a savage, as her father said? Perhaps Lumumba was a person of ambition—he was clearly that—caught in a colonial cage. Maybe he was even a man of intelligence stunted by lack of opportunities. How many Bantus, she wondered, were there like that in South Africa? She recalled Captain Gautier telling her father about Africans in business suits, professionals, greeting one another on Johannesburg streets. Were such people the ones enmeshed in the endless treason trial?

  Whatever his qualities, she realized, Lumumba had been impulsive and unwise. In the Cold War atmosphere—which he did not understand—he could not seek Russian aid without terrifying the Americans. They had their own race problems; most of their leaders probably considered Lumumba a cheeky black.

  Petra wondered what had happened to him. Was he languishing in a prison or army camp in Katanga? Might he be released? Or was he already dead?

  Driving home she thought: All this information! It was like cramming for a test. If Captain Gautier were at the coffeehouse, would she tell him she’d spent two hours stuffing her head with facts about the Congo? She burst out laughing. Not on her life! He might run away. She would do what she did with exams: she’d try to relax.

  BACK HOME, Petra snacked on what Elsie had not taken from the refrigerator. She bathed, using the soap and shampoo she smelled on her mother when her father had been away and returned home amorous. She brushed her teeth, buffed her nails, did her hair. She applied her makeup sparingly and so carefully that most men would think she used nothing but lipstick. She slid into a girdle, pulled on hose, and fastened them to garters. She donned a lightweight skirt that fell well below her knees. It was the skirt of a woman, for the school uniforms she had so long worn had to be three inches above the knees. She chose a blouse that understatedly emphasized her breasts and decided to complete the outfit with a navy blue beret and a light sweater to match.

  When Hazel arrived, she approved Petra’s choices with a low whistle. “He’ll have no idea how much thought you’ve given this,” she said.

  “Too studied?” Petra asked.

  Hazel sniffed the air, detecting the scent of the aphrodisiac soap, and smiled wickedly. “What do you want from this fellow anyway?”

  “I want a change from Kobus Terreblanche,” Petra declared. “I want an evening with a man who does not want to end up like my father.”

  “While there’s still time.”

  ONCE INSIDE the coffeehouse Gat ordered soup and coffee and thumbed through mimeographed chapbooks of the poets who read their work at the place. All in all, they reinforced Gat’s assumption that he did not understand poetry. He sa
id as much to the waitress who refilled his coffee; she turned out to be one of the poets. She promised him that poetry “connected better” when performed aloud. She also assured him that readings would start shortly. He went to the men’s room to relieve himself of the coffee he had drunk and returned to drink more. Musicians performed. Poets read their work.

  Gat sat where he could watch the patrons’ comings and goings. He saw a young woman who looked very much like Petra Rousseau. She entered with a friend. She wore a navy blue beret cocked over the side of her head. In an understated way she was deliciously gorgeous and she was definitely Petra. Gat felt suddenly shy, no older than Petra herself. He sat unable to move, his legs trembling. He wondered what he should do: Declare himself immediately? Play it casual for a time? Pretend not to notice she’d arrived? But what if another man got to her before he did?

  The girl with Petra, who looked more intelligent than beautiful, Gat thought, began to scan the room. For a moment he wished Michels were with him. He had not considered that Petra would bring a duenna. But, of course, she would not come alone. But obviously Michels was not the right companion for a woman of any intelligence.

  The girls were shown to a table against the wall. They sat and ordered. Gat watched them. If Petra caught sight of him, she gave no evidence of the fact. Nor did she glance about to see if he were there. She and her friend watched the musicians as if others in the room were of no interest to them. Gat made himself wait till their coffees were served. Then he crossed the room. “Hello, Petra,” he said when he reached their table. “As you see, I took your advice about coming here.”

  “Hello, Adriaan Gautier,” Petra said, feeling adult and very desirable. “This is my school chum Hazel. Hazel, this is—.”

  “Please, call me Gat. Everyone does.” As Hazel and Gat shook hands, she observed him carefully. “May I join you?” Gat asked.

  “Please do,” Petra replied.

  “I’ll just fetch my coffee.” Gat went off.

  Hazel cocked an eyebrow wickedly and nodded her approval. The girls giggled briefly, then suppressed their amusement lest Gat catch sight of it.

  Gat and the two young women drank coffee together. They listened to music and poetry and tried to make conversation that included them all. Gat was conscious that his companions considered him different from them. It was a stretch for them to feel his social equal. After all, he was almost aged. That might be exciting (for he had experience), but was more likely to prove boring (for he might pontificate or want flattery). Still, to be with an older man made the girls feel daring and sophisticated.

  Gat told them that he expected to be in the country another week. He thought he might buy a bike and pedal to Durban. “What should I see along the way?” he asked. They offered suggestions, some serious, others facetious. These latter caused the girls to snicker to each other.

  Hazel took cigarettes from her purse and offered them around. When Gat declined, so did Petra. Hazel smoked, inhaling into her mouth, but not into her lungs. Then she threw her head back in a gesture she’d seen actresses use and released the smoke above her head. Petra watched Gat for clues as to how she should behave. He carefully affected casualness. He hardly glanced at her. He watched the poets and musicians for he feared that looking at Petra would betray his needfulness. That would certainly scare her. When he smiled at her, he did it quickly for Petra’s friend examined him relentlessly with analytical eyes. He did not want the friend taking Petra to the ladies’ room to adjudge him a geek.

  “Petra says you disagreed with her father,” Hazel commented during a break in the music.

  “Did I?” Gat laughed. “Oops!” He did not remember challenging Rousseau. He made a roguish face. “That’s a no-no, I take it.”

  “Very few people contradict a police colonel in South Africa,” said Petra.

  “Is that why you’re here?” Gat asked.

  “Possibly.” She smiled. She and Gat regarded one another. He moved his knee against hers and she did not move hers away.

  “Petra’s here because her Stellenbosch plans changed,” Hazel said. The girls nudged one another and suppressed the urge to giggle.

  Gat bought cake that they all three shared. “What’s Katanga like?” asked Petra, ready to put her afternoon study to use. “What’s this secession all about?” Her mother contended that a man was happy to talk if you got him on his subject.

  Hazel asked, “Do you have a girlfriend there?”

  “Several dozen,” replied Gat.

  “Black or white?” persisted Hazel.

  “Some of both.”

  “Which do you like better?”

  “Depends on my mood,” Gat said. “If I’m in the mood for a companion who tells me how marvelous I am, how handsome, a woman who will oblige my every whim, then I seek out one of my black girlfriends.” Gat cocked an eyebrow. The girls glanced at one another and rolled their eyes. “But if I’m in the mood for an intellectual companion who lists everything that’s wrong with me—”

  “Then you’re looking for a white girl, aren’t you?” Hazel said.

  Petra slapped the back of her hand against Gat’s shoulder and pushed her knee against his.

  “Funny,” remarked Hazel. “When we want intellectual companionship, we always go to kaffir boys, don’t we, Petra?”

  “Intellectual companionship?” queried Petra. “I don’t go to anyone for that!”

  Suddenly Hazel asked, “Is there a future for white people in the Congo? Or in Katanga?”

  “No,” said Gat.

  “Which one?” asked Petra.

  “No,” said Gat.

  The girls watched him. The expressions in their privileged, innocent eyes had grown serious. “Is there a future for white people here?” Hazel asked.

  “What do you think?” Gat replied.

  But instead of exploring the matter further, they pushed the last piece of cake around the plate, the girls leaving it for the man, the adult leaving it for the children.

  “I think it’s terrible that we whites live so well on black labor!” Petra said.

  “But if we weren’t here,” observed Hazel, “they’d still be living in grass shacks and killing each other.” Petra took a look at Gat to see if he would attempt an answer. He said nothing. “Instead they’re living in tin shacks and dreaming of killing us. That’s what you think, isn’t it?” Hazel stared coolly at Gat, challenging the outsider. “You think they’re going to kill us all.” Gat said nothing. Petra pressed her knee more strongly against his. “Maybe not us,” said Hazel. “Our children.”

  “I don’t want to talk about killing,” Gat said.

  The girls excused themselves to go to the loo. Petra came back through the mist of cigarette smoke alone. She sat beside Gat and once again pushed her knee against his. “Hazel went home,” she said.

  “Good,” Gat said. Petra blushed and turned away. When she turned back, Gat looked at her a long moment, thinking how pretty she was. He thought, too, that she seemed more a woman without her chum, less a schoolgirl. “I’d been hoping all day that you’d be here,” he told her.

  “Have you? I don’t believe that.”

  “All right. Not all day. Just most of it.” He smiled at her and she lowered her eyes. He put his hand on her knee and pressed it against his own. He thought to himself, It’s been a long time since I wooed a girl so carefully.

  The musicians were playing again. Because of the noise, Petra leaned close to hear him. “Did your friend say that I look at a woman as if I hadn’t seen one in a very long time?”

  “She said you were too old for me. That you probably really do have both white and black girlfriends in Katanga and that I should go home with her.”

  “Why did you stay?”

  “Because this may be the one night of my life when I can escape people like—” She shrugged.

  “Thank you for staying,” Gat said. “You are very beautiful.”

  “And you are very corny.”

 
Gat stared at the musicians. His entire being was focused in the palm of his hand that held the girl’s knee.

  “Do you know why you kissed me yesterday?”

  Gat cocked his head and gazed at her. “Maybe you should tell me.”

  “You were competing with my father and Kobus. They presume to own me. So you shoplifted a kiss from them. It was men playing games.”

  “You mean I’d ’ve kissed Hazel if she’d been Petra Rousseau?”

  “It had nothing to do with me.”

  Still holding her knee, Gat placed his other hand on Petra’s shoulder and kissed her. They broke the kiss, looked at one another. “And my shoplifting now: that had nothing to do with you?”

  “Do you have a wife in Katanga?” Gat shook his head. “A girlfriend?”

  Gat shrugged. “I’m not a priest.”

  “Is she white or black?”

  Gat gazed at her, kissed her softly. “Does it matter?” Petra shook her head, realizing she need not worry about the differences between political parties. If there were to be talk of Katanga, it would be of this kind. “There’s a woman I used to see,” Gat said, “a secretary at Union Minière. She’s white. I saw her only because Katanga can be very boring.” The girl said nothing. They listened to music. Then Gat explained, “In Katanga all whites stick together. They sit around scorning the blacks because not being black is the only cement that holds them together. It’s a relief to be away from there.” Petra nodded. Gat said, “I look at you the way I do because— Well, you are beautiful. You’re young and fresh—”

  “Don’t—for God’s sake—say innocent!”

  “You are innocent—of all that Katanga poison. The hate and uncertainty and duplicity. The deceit.” They said nothing for a time. Then Gat asked, “Are you going to marry Kobus Terreblanche?”

  “No. My father thinks I’m going to. And so does he. But I’m not.”

  “Your mother knows this?”

  Petra nodded.

  “Well, we’ve got all that straight,” Gat said. “So . . . Are you going to marry me?”