Love in the Time of Apartheid

by Frederic Hunter

  “Thank you for abandoning me,” Petra said, angry at his male instinct about protecting a female, his adult’s instinct about protecting a child. “I really don’t want to be here. And if it’s too dangerous for me, why are you going?”

  “I root for this chap trying to escape the police.” Petra regarded him disdainfully. He took a mouthful of tea and gazed off across the veld, at the sun turning it a tawny color. “The police have all the power, all the weapons. Hard not to root for a man who’s trying to beat those odds.”

  “You think taking him to Lobatse cancels it with Lumumba?”

  “I’m not abandoning you,” he told her. “Have a day with your friend. You haven’t seen her in a long time. I’ll come back this evening. We’ll tell the Prinsloos I spent the day seeing about the woman at the hospital.”

  He did not tell her that he assumed it would go worse with him and the American if they were caught at the border and she were with them. Piet Rousseau would claim that they were kidnapping her, taking her out of her homeland against her will. If Gat had judged Rousseau correctly, Petra would not be permitted to give her own statement. Her father would give her statement for her.

  Experience had taught Gat that preparation was key to the success of any operation and he regarded the border crossing as an operation. He was unsure how Petra would act at a border post. In a situation of danger it was not beyond possibility that her self-possession might falter, that she would lose her self-control.

  “And what about tonight?” Petra asked. “You sleep out here again?” Gat shrugged. “And that’s fine with you?”

  “What else do you suggest?”

  “What about Australia? If we’re going to Australia, I’m coming with you to Lobatse.”

  “And if we’re not going to Australia?”

  “I want to know it right now.”

  Gat finished his tea and left the cup on the roof of the car. He reached inside the Ford for the safari suit tunic and his shaving kit. When he emerged, Petra was watching him, her expression as cold as ice. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he told her, “but I know what’s happening to you. You’re going to university to get a decent start in life.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child,” she said. “When I’m in your bed—”

  “Enough of that.” Gat tightly shook his head. “This man is an African. Maybe dangerous. You were upset when I gave an African a lift the other day.”

  “I understand you better now.”

  Gat put an expression of annoyance on his face. He said, “I have to piss and I have to shave.” He took the mug and started toward the house.

  AS THE women made them breakfast, Gat and Dannie stood at the back of the kitchen listening to the morning news, the Prinsloos’ one connection to a world beyond the veld. The newscaster did not report the murder the previous day of two terrorists near Vryburg, but he announced that Patrice Lumumba, the deposed premier of the strife-torn Congo, had escaped from his jail in the western part of the breakaway province of Katanga. Petra stopped making toast and looked at Gat. He stared back at her. Lumumba had escaped with two colleagues, the newscaster went on. He was being hunted throughout Katanga.

  “They’ve got that monkey on the run!” Dannie exclaimed. He stepped excitedly across the kitchen and slapped his wife’s bottom. “I hope they catch him,” he cried. “Chop him into little pieces and feed him to the crocs!”

  The situation remained confused, the newscaster said. Reports from East Bloc sources suggested that Lumumba was heading toward Kivu province in the eastern Congo. However, a United Nations observer, a Ghanaian, claimed that the escape of so valuable a prisoner was improbable; in all likelihood it was a cover-up in-the-making to hide the fact that Lumumba had already been executed. Moise Tshombe, president of Katanga, denied reports that Lumumba had been killed.

  Watching one another, neither Petra nor Gat moved during the report of this news.

  “What will happen, Captain?” asked Gillian. Then she added, “Petra, you’re falling behind with the toast.”

  “I expect we’ll know in a day or two,” Gat predicted.

  “If they’ve killed him,” Gillian asked, “what happens to the Congo?”

  “Chaos and confusion!” Dannie shouted exultantly. “And nothing could be better for us! Let those kaffir terrorists who want to run this country see what a balls-up blacks make when they try to run something! Am I right, Captain?”

  “My father’s sentiments, I’m sure,” declared Petra so that Gat did not have to answer.

  GAT WAS quiet as they drove away from the Prinsloo farm. Petra ventured, “You won’t be sorry you brought me along.”

  “You’re a woman who has to have her own way.”

  “Am I?” Petra smiled enigmatically. “You know why you’ve never married? Because the only women you’ve ever known were dishrags. You sleep with them, but they don’t interest you.”

  “What a miserable place to live,” Gat declared. “How much longer do you suppose that marriage will last?” Petra did not reply. “The sex with him must be great. I can’t imagine why else she’d stay.”

  “It is great,” Petra informed him. “I heard them at it for hours last night.” Then after a moment she added, “It made me miss you.”

  Gat watched the road for a long moment. Then he reached over to touch her shoulder.

  EVEN BEFORE they entered the hospital compound, all Gat’s senses were alert. He turned off the radio and glanced around them completely and into the rearview mirror. His tension put Petra on alert. “Police,” he said. She started to speak, but he put an index finger to his lips. She realized that the hospital courtyard was virtually silent despite the Africans waiting in it.

  “When we enter the cités in Elisabethville,” Gat whispered, “a hush always greets us. They’re usually noisy places, full of jabbering. But when we enter, looking for someone, even the radios grow hushed.” He nodded to her. She followed the direction of his nod and saw two uniformed Africans standing near the entry to the surgery. “They’re looking for our American,” Gat said.

  “Are we going in?” Petra asked. Gat nodded. He parked the car, got out, and started for the hospital office. Petra followed him. They spoke to an African receptionist about the woman they had brought to the hospital. Gat paid her medical fees. As an orderly took them across the courtyard, Petra felt the eyes of the Africans camped there shifting between them and the African policemen at the door of the surgery.

  In the ward where the woman lay recuperating in a bed, her husband and sisters surrounded her. Upon seeing Gat, the husband stood and bowed humbly to the two whites. “Dankie! Dankie, baas!” he said, his hand ready to grasp Gat’s as soon as Gat might offer his. Gat extended his hand. The African took it in both of his hands and, holding it, bowed again, addressing him in grateful Afrikaans.

  “The man says you saved his wife. And his baby’s life,” Petra explained.

  The injured woman reached up gratefully from the bed. Gat and Petra took her hands and spoke encouraging words to her. They shook hands with her sisters. As they returned across the courtyard, the receptionist intercepted them. He handed Gat an envelope and said, “Here is the receipt for your payment, baas. Thank you.”

  “I don’t need a receipt,” Gat said.

  “Take it, baas. Take it!” The man quickly moved away and Gat understood that the envelope contained a message.

  As they moved toward the car, a voice called out, “Excuse me! Just a minute, please!” A young police officer, white, hurried over to them. “Maybe you could give us some help,” he said. “We’re looking for a terrorist.”

  Gat and Petra stopped beside the car as the officer approached. He seemed not for some time to have beheld a young woman as pretty as Petra and hardly took his eyes off her. “How can we help?” Gat asked.

  “Have you seen this man?” The officer held out a photo to Petra. She studied it, shook her head, and passed it to Gat. Examining it, he recognized the Ame
rican as he might have appeared more than a decade earlier. Petra watched him for some evidence that this was the man who needed a ride to Lobatse.

  Gat shook his head. “What’s happening?” he asked, returning the photo.

  “The treason trial’s winding down in Joburg,” the officer explained. “Once the death sentences are handed down—”

  “There’ll be executions?” Petra asked with surprise.

  “We expect so,” the officer said, smiling at her. “We’re trying to protect you.”

  “Oh,” Petra replied quietly.

  “We assume these fellows will try to make some mischief once the verdicts come down. This is a big one. We know he’s in this area, trying to get across the border.” The officer smiled again at Petra. “Could you let authorities know if you see him?”

  “Of course, Officer,” she said, smiling shyly. “We’d be glad to help.”

  As they drove away from the hospital, Gat remarked, “I think our young officer was a lot more interested in winning a smile from you than in finding his terrorist.”

  Pleased at this observation, Petra slapped Gat’s arm. “Was that your American?”

  “An old photo. But the same fellow.”

  Once they left the town, Gat pulled onto the shoulder to open the envelope. He read the note and looked at Petra. “We could be in Joburg by nightfall,” he said. “Get a room in a good hotel. Enjoy ourselves in a way we haven’t for a while.”

  “Is that what you want?” He shrugged. “It’s not, is it?”

  “I don’t want you getting hurt. Or scared. Or arrested.”

  She watched him for a moment, then turned toward the empty veld that stretched uninterrupted by buildings or trees or rock outcroppings as far as the horizon. “I didn’t know they expected to execute these treason trial defendants.” She listened to the wind. “I haven’t paid much attention to the trial. Father says it’s a foregone conclusion they’re guilty. Do you think they are?”

  Gat gestured uncertainly.

  “I knew they’d convict them,” Petra said. “But not execute them.” She felt the sun growing hot on her skin and the dryness of the air. “If they catch this American, will they execute him?”

  Gat watched her growing up before his eyes. He said nothing.

  “What’s the note say?” she asked.

  “Three miles out of town on the left we’ll find some farm laborers’ dwellings,” Gat said. “We stop there to check our tires. One of them will need changing and we unload the spare tire.” They looked at one another. “That’s apparently a signal that we’re willing to take this man to Lobatse.” Petra again stared out across the veld, beginning to understand, with the news of probable executions, how it was that the Lumumba business haunted Gat. “Or we can be in a good hotel tonight in Joburg,” Gat said, “enjoying ourselves.”

  “Let’s go to Lobatse,” Petra said. “So we’ll enjoy ourselves even more tomorrow night.”

  Once they were moving again, Gat said, “You understand there are risks involved in doing this.” Petra nodded. “I can’t imagine that it serves any useful purpose for him to know that I’m a Belgian Army officer. I assume that would only make him nervous. Let’s say I’m a furniture manufacturer from Belgium looking at the possibility of siting a factory in South Africa.”

  “Who shall I be?” Petra wondered. She thought a moment while Gat scanned the roadside for the workers’ encampment. “I’ll be the Chamber of Commerce guide taking you around.” She paused for a moment. “Do I seem old enough for that?”

  THEY FOUND the farmworkers’ shacks standing off behind the growth of weeds beside the road and pulled off the pavement. A boy, perhaps seven, raced off to the shacks. Gat pretended not to notice his flight through the weeds. Under Petra’s supervision, Gat unloaded her belongings from the trunk of the car, placing them carefully on a blanket spread over the dust. He extracted the jack, tire iron, and spare tire and began work on the left rear wheel. Petra kept an eye on the road. As Gat was loosening lug bolts, he heard the rustle of vegetation. Someone approached behind him. Before Gat could look up, the person had set down two ancient suitcases and asked in American-accented English, “Who’s the young lady?”

  “A friend of mine,” Gat said. “You can trust her.” He looked carefully at the man whose endangered life might endanger their own lives. “I guess this tire isn’t as bald as I thought.” He started tightening the lug bolts he had just loosened.

  The American asked, “Mind if I put these cases in the trunk? Way in back.” Gat nodded his agreement and the man leaned into the trunk, stretching his body, to place the cases as far back as he could reach. He also returned the spare tire to its nest below the floor of the trunk. Gat placed the jack and tire iron beside them. “I’m grateful to you for doing this.” The man extended his hand.

  Gat shook it and began to replace Petra’s belongings into the trunk. She put some of them on the rear seat and went back to watching the road. When Gat finished, he wiped his hands on a rag lying in the trunk and passed it to the other man. Gat called to Petra, “We’re ready to go.” As she returned to the car, she and the man examined one another. “Let’s do this without names,” Gat suggested.

  “Good idea,” said the American.

  “This is Joan of Arc,” Gat said, introducing Petra.

  “Hello,” Petra said, amused by this game. “Call me Joanie Dark.”

  “I’m Marcus Garvey,” said the American. “Mister Garvey.” He started to offer his hand to Petra, then controlled the urge. She noticed his hand start forward and wondered if she had ever in her life shaken an African’s hand. “I guess it’s not a good idea for us to shake hands out here in the open air,” he said. He looked at Gat. “And you are?”

  “We’d name him after a famous Belgian—if we could think of one,” Petra teased. “Let’s call him Voltaire, shall we? He was a great crusader against tyranny, bigotry, and cruelty. Do you mind a French name?” She grinned at Gat, challenging him the way she did her father.

  “Hiya, Voltaire,” said Mr. Marcus Garvey.

  Gat suggested that Garvey sit in the rear seat. He agreed and, when they had all taken their places, said, “I’ll try not to muss any of your belongings, ma’am.”

  “Call me Joanie,” Petra said, turning toward him. She reached a hand back across the seat. “I guess we can shake hands now.” And they did.

  AS THEY moved off, Petra watched the workers’ shanties disappear. She turned to Garvey and asked, “Do people live in shacks like that in America?”

  “I’ve seen worse places over there,” said Garvey. “Though not many. Some whites in America live in shanties as bad as that.”

  “I thought everyone in America was rich,” Petra replied.

  “So did I when I went there,” Garvey said. “That’s why I went there!” He laughed deeply. “Americans had to be rich because they lived so close to God.” Petra suppressed a smile and glanced at Gat. Garvey snickered from the backseat. “You must understand that missionaries taught me what I knew about America.”

  “They sent you there?” Petra asked.

  “I was to train to become a minister of God for my people.” He laughed heartily. “The trouble is: Like Columbus, I discovered America. Learned that Americans do not really worship the God of the missionaries.”

  Petra asked what Americans worshipped.

  “A box,” Gat stated. “With an enormous glass eye in it. That box is their altar.”

  Petra raised a mischievous eyebrow at him. “Myself, I would not mind having the option of worshipping at that altar,” she said. “It shows that South Africa is still a Third World country that we do not have television.” She turned to Garvey. “Did you watch it a lot?”

  “Sometimes. After a long day. Its silliness makes you smile; its chatter rests your mind. You stretch out before it and quickly you are asleep.”

  Petra asked what else Americans worshipped.

  There were many other idols, Garvey informed her.
The main one was flat and green and hardly bigger than a man’s hand. There were special temples where these idols were housed and they were held in such reverence that everyone wished to have as many of them as possible. Printed on each one were the words, “In God We Trust,” but one did not have to be in America for long before he understood that it was these idols most of all in which people trusted.

  Gat glanced at Petra laughing. What a beauty, he thought. The fact that Garvey seemed to be playing comedian at a time when, in fleeing, he might be silent, tense, all his senses alert, revealed how unusual it was for him to flirt with an attractive white girl. For it was flirtation although Petra did not realize that.

  Petra watched Garvey’s expressive face, her arm crooked over the back of the seat. Gat checked on him in the rearview mirror, even adjusting its position the better to monitor the show. The performance piqued Gat’s curiosity as to who exactly was this man for whom he and Petra were undertaking considerable risks. He became more aware that earlier prudence might have been a wiser course than simply driving off across the veld toward Bechuanaland and the uncertainties that awaited all of them at the border. Gat wondered how long Garvey had lived in the States and how long he had been back in South Africa.

  Quite strangely, Garvey went on, Americans also worshipped books of rules: things to do, things not to do, how to hold a spoon, how to use a knife, how to influence people, how to get them to buy things they didn’t want, and how to make a woman happy in bed.

  The flirtation became very pronounced, Gat thought, when Garvey mentioned this last. Petra’s smile faded. She turned to face forward, watching the road ahead of them.

  Garvey went on, not realizing he had given offense. Americans, he said, also worshipped new cars and white teeth, the suppression of body odors, the chewing of gum, and baseball. Also apple pie, motherhood, and Old Glory. He did acknowledge that on Sundays, most Americans actually spent an hour worshipping the God of the missionaries. But you did not have to live long there to understand that “getting ahead”—which Americans also worshipped—did not happen if you spent most of your time with a Bible in your hand.