Love in the Time of Apartheid

by Frederic Hunter

  Gat’s head rang as he stumbled into the tank and fell among other suspects, all white. He rose quickly, stood to his full height, his feet planted solidly, and threw out his chest. The men appraised him for toughness, sized him up for weaknesses. Gat met their scrutiny with a steady stare of his own. He moved to a wall, stood against it, his head still ringing, and hoped that none of the men ever discovered that he was an army officer.

  “What’re you in for?” one of the men asked.

  “A Special Branch colonel caught me stealing from his house,” Gat replied. The men guffawed.

  Gat assumed he would remain in the tank until Rousseau arrived. Elsie had told Petra that the Rousseaus had already left Cape Town. So he might meet the colonel again within a matter of hours. How would that interrogation go? He would have seen the documents Gat carried. That meant that he would know that he and Petra were married. Gat wondered if that fact would work in his favor or serve as an affront to Rousseau. Probably the latter. More importantly, Rousseau was unlikely to forgive his helping Garvey across the border. The colonel would regard that as endangering all of South Africa. If he had been thinking like a soldier, Gat mused, instead of a bridegroom, dazzled by his wife, he would have realized they’d have been safer in Rhodesia than in trying to fly out of Johannesburg.

  He wondered if he would ever see Petra again. Probably not. Rousseau would put her on a plane to Cape Town and try to keep them apart forever. It depressed him to think that he would never again hold his wife. He realized that, when they faced one another, he must do whatever he could to make Rousseau think well of him.

  After what Gat judged to be only a couple of hours, the African warder opened the holding tank and pulled him out. He walked Gat along a corridor. He gave him directions by hitting him with a truncheon. He did not speak. He led Gat to a door, unlocked and opened it. Gat ducked as the warder sent a karate chop toward his head. The man smiled and whacked the truncheon hard across Gat’s back.

  Gat stumbled into a small interrogation room furnished with a table, several wooden chairs, and a one-way wall mirror through which he could be observed. The warder pointed at a chair with the truncheon and left, locking the door. Gat sat, rotating his back to ease the pain of the blow. Then he put his arms on the table and folded his hands in a posture that was dignified, patient, even suppliant. He assumed that Rousseau was on the other side of the mirror, watching him. He wanted to appear worthy and cooperative. He thought of words he might say when he and the colonel met.

  After a time, the interrogation room door opened. Gat looked up. Colonel Rousseau entered the room, followed by the enormous African. Gat stood as he would for a superior officer. He and Rousseau observed one another without speaking, the colonel tapping Gat’s passport lightly in his hands.

  “We meet again, Captain Gautier,” Rousseau finally said.

  “Indeed we do, sir,” Gat replied. He intended to show his father-in-law every possible respect.

  The colonel studied him and finally instructed, “Please sit.”

  “I’m standing out of respect for you, sir.”

  Rousseau, who was shorter than Gat, regarded him coolly.

  “Before we start,” Gat said, “may I say that when I went to your house for lunch, I didn’t know what love was. I know now.”

  Rousseau observed him scornfully. “Because of my daughter?”

  “Yes, sir. She and I were married this morning. So I hope that between us there’ll be—” Gat shrugged.

  The colonel laughed heartily, but without merriment in his eyes. “My friend,” he replied, “that is the most preposterous little speech I’ve ever heard.” He suggested strongly, “Please sit.”

  Gat remained standing. He gestured that he did so out of respect.

  “If you want my respect . . .” Rousseau began. “Then why don’t you tell me who you are?” Gat recited as facts information that Rousseau already knew: his name as Adriaan Gautier, his captaincy in the Belgian colonial Force Publique, his service in Katanga, his arrival in South Africa for a vacation. Rousseau listened impatiently, standing to his full height, still forced to look up to Gat.

  When Gat finished speaking, the colonel said quietly, “I asked you to sit down.” Gat understood now that Rousseau wanted to look down to assert dominance over him.

  When Gat did not move quickly, Rousseau nodded to the African. The warder swung his truncheon at Gat’s shoulder. It hit with such force that it knocked Gat off his feet. He found himself kneeling before Rousseau, blood throbbing in his brain with periodic flashes of red. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder.

  Rousseau again requested, “Please sit. You will be more comfortable in a chair.” As Gat struggled to find his footing, the African lifted him off the floor and tossed him into a chair.

  “Who are you?” Rousseau asked mildly. He was trying to be patient for Petra’s sake. He looked down at Gat. “Tell me, please, who you are.”

  Gat repeated that he was Adriaan Gautier. He crossed his legs to suggest that he felt at ease. And also to protect his groin.

  “You are trying my goodwill,” Rousseau said with the beginnings of impatience. “What we know of you is this: You are carrying a great many American dollars concealed in a money belt.”

  “I am a visitor, sir.”

  “You are traveling on a most suspicious passport and with a letter on parchment stationery that instructs simply, ‘Disappear.’ ”

  “I will explain—”

  Rousseau raised a hand to stop him. “You have corrupted the morals of a young woman, an action for which, I presume, you have a talent. But you have chosen the wrong young woman this time.”

  “We are married, sir.”

  “A soldier can dance away from a marriage without difficulty,” Rousseau observed. “Perhaps you already have experience at that.” Before Gat could reply, Rousseau continued, “You have stolen a car and you have helped a wanted terrorist escape to Bechuanaland. That last makes you an enemy of the state.”

  The warder made ready to use the truncheon again. Rousseau gestured restraint. “Now,” Rousseau repeated, “who are you and why are you in this country?”

  “I truly am Adriaan Gautier. I’m here because I needed to get out of Katanga.”

  “What had you done there that required you to leave?”

  Gat looked at Rousseau as if the question baffled him.

  Rousseau shouted, “Why? Why did you have to leave?”

  As explanation Gat offered, “I told you once before, sir, about the Katangese troops going on a rampage, massacring the Northern Baluba. The UN was going to investigate. I was told to leave Katanga so that I could not testify that politicians fomented the rampage.”

  “For this they gave you more than fifteen hundred-dollar bills?”

  “Twenty of them actually.”

  Rousseau said, “Tell me about Gabriel Michels.”

  Gat had not thought of Michels in several days. He had not anticipated the question and was uncertain how much to reveal.

  When Gat did not answer, Rousseau said, “I’m sure you know Lieutenant Michels. Tell me about him.”

  “There’s a man called Michels in the Force in Katanga. Is that the man you mean?”

  “When we picked him up, he was carrying a letter identical to the one we found in your possession. You must know him.”

  Gat shrugged. “We were both in Katanga. Not in the same unit. I’ve met him, that’s all.”

  “We know you were sent here together. For what reason?”

  “I didn’t know Michels was in South Africa.” This was an obvious lie. Both Gat and Rousseau recognized it as such. “Probably like me he needed rest and recuperation,” Gat said.

  Rousseau nodded to the African warder. The warder brought a blow of the truncheon down on Gat’s feet, bare inside canvas scuffs. Gat reeled with pain.

  “Michels is in our custody,” the colonel said. “He has acknowledged that you were both sent here to contact terrorists.
Tell me about him.”

  “Michels is not a man anyone would send on a secret mission,” Gat replied. “He frequents whorehouses and gets into knife fights, often with near fatal consequences.”

  Gat and Rousseau measured one another, for Gat had just shown the colonel that he had caught him in an interrogator’s lie. For this arrogance the colonel nodded again to the African. He brought the truncheon down on Gat’s arches. Gat clenched his teeth, trying not to scream.

  Rousseau walked about the small room, then turned back toward his subject. “When were you last in Brussels?” he asked.

  “It’s been some years, sir. Eight or ten.”

  “Your passport says it was issued in Brussels. Where you haven’t been for some years. It must be a forgery.”

  Gat explained that the passport was valid, issued by the Belgian Consulate in Elisabethville. The consul, he said, had wanted him out of Katanga during the Baluba investigation. It was an oversight that no departure stamp from Belgium appeared in the passport; the consulate was supposed to arrange that. “I suspect, sir, that you know how these things are arranged.”

  Rousseau nodded. “Invariably with false names. Your birth name?”

  Gat hesitated a moment. “Adriaan Gautier.”

  “You hesitated. In order to remember this name?”

  “I wondered if your friend here was going to hit me,” Gat replied.

  Rousseau nodded to the warder. Once again he brought the truncheon down across Gat’s feet.

  It took Gat several moments to absorb the blow. Then he asked, “Sir, why would I lie about my name?”

  “Why indeed? What is your name?”

  “Adriaan Gautier.”

  Rousseau signaled the warder. The man stepped into the blow he delivered to Gat’s shoulder. The shoulder stung with pain. Gat’s ears buzzed; his head momentarily swam out of consciousness. He clenched his teeth. Rousseau demanded, “The name you were given at birth.”

  “Adriaan Gautier.”

  Rousseau studied Gat, then opened a folder and withdrew a document. He laid it before Gat. “Among your things we found this certificate issued for a marriage done this morning in Lobatse. Because of it, I will do what I have never done. I will explain myself to a suspect.”

  Gat nodded.

  “My people arrived here more than three hundred years ago,” Rousseau said. “When they stepped onto these shores, they were empty of people. We did not steal this land from anyone. Ever since people have been trying to steal it from us. Sixty years ago we fought the British over this. We lost the war, but won the peace. We do not intend to lose again.”

  Gat wondered how this speech related to him. The truncheon kept him from inquiring.

  “You have come here to take what is ours. You will not do that. We will not allow you to exploit or compromise our natural resources—in this case our young women—and then cast them aside.”

  “Sir, I love your daughter.”

  Rousseau nodded to the African. The man raised his truncheon and brought it swiftly down across Gat’s shoulders. His body jolted forward. His head snapped and shook at the end of his neck. His stomach churned. He lunged for the table so that he did not slide to the floor. Rousseau watched him. At last Gat sat back in the chair and held himself with defiant erectness.

  Rousseau said, “You are carrying sufficient money to set up a terrorist operation. Our people were on the trail of a known terrorist, a man we very much hoped to arrest, and you snuck him across the border.”

  Rousseau nodded and once again the African hit Gat, this time across his toes. Despite himself, Gat cried out. Pain shot up through his legs and torso and into his head. His ears rang. His scalp prickled as the pain tried to leave his body.

  “You have committed crimes against the state,” Rousseau said.

  “Let me explain,” Gat said. “We decided to take a look at Vic Falls.” He related that he and Petra had spent the night with friends of hers called Prinsloo outside Vryberg. Petra had slept on a couch; he had spent the night in the car. “As we left Vryberg, we picked up the man on the road. He was hitchhiking.”

  Rousseau nodded. The African brought the truncheon down again on Gat’s feet, this time across his arches. Gat fainted, fell off his chair. The African picked him up, slapped his face, set him back on the chair. As Gat watched the colonel, moments of blackness obscured his vision. He saw Rousseau set a paper before him on the table. He frowned at it, trying to clear his vision. Finally he realized it was the receipt from the clinic with instructions on the back about where to pick up Garvey.

  “Don’t play with me,” Rousseau warned. “I was doing this when you were a child. I know when a man is lying.” Gat said nothing. “Who was he?”

  Gat told Rousseau the few details he knew about the man who had called himself Garvey. In doing this he felt no sense of betrayal because Garvey had understood he and Petra might be questioned. He had revealed little about himself. “I think he’d actually been to America,” Gat said. “He may have even had a business there. The rest of it I discounted.” The two men eyed one another. Gat said, “May I go now?”

  Rousseau nodded once again to the African. He hit Gat repeatedly with the truncheon. Gat again fell from the chair. The warder continued to hit him on the floor, especially his feet. At last he lifted him and set him back on the chair.

  Rousseau said, “Don’t think you are getting this treatment as my revenge for your having taken advantage of my daughter. Although I cannot forgive you for that.” He nodded again to the African warder. The man whacked Gat, knocking him off the chair, then pulling him back onto it. Rousseau withdrew the marriage certificate from the documents on the table. “We do not recognize Bechuanaland marriages in this country!” he remarked. He tore the document into small pieces and threw them into Gat’s face.

  A piece of paper wasn’t a marriage, Gat told himself. He said nothing.

  “I saw Petra before I came here,” Rousseau said. “She fell into my arms crying. She said over and over, ‘Father, I’ve got myself into a terrible mess. Help me get out of it! Get me out of it!’ ”

  Gat said nothing. He did not believe what Rousseau claimed about Petra.

  “Once she was away from you, she realized how little she knew about you. How likely it was that she was being used. As a cover for some kind of terrorist mischief. That is why this treatment. She does not even know your real name. Fortunately, she saw these things for herself.”

  Gat sat slumped in his chair, no longer hearing what the colonel said. All he wanted was that the warder not hit him again.

  “You may think me a hard man, Captain—if you are a captain. Even cruel,” Rousseau said. “But I am not. I could hold you incommunicado under indefinite detention. But you may actually have some feelings for my daughter—although she no longer has any for you. You will never see her again. But you will be released.”

  Rousseau moved to the door. He turned back to Gat. “Don’t ever see her again. Do you understand me?” He gave Gat a look of fury so intense that it crossed the room with the sound of ice cracking. Rousseau left the room with a nod to the African. Gat smelled the unmistakable odor of the black warder as he advanced on him. He lifted Gat off the chair. He pushed him against the wall, staring fiercely at him. Apprehensively Gat tried to slide to a corner to protect himself. But he could not; he could barely stand. As he sank to the floor, the warder came at him with such speed that Gat had no time to protect himself. The man delivered a sharp blow across Gat’s thighs. Then, to the small of his back. He hit him repeatedly. Over and over. Even after Gat lost consciousness, he still seemed to feel the blows raining down on him.

  WHEN MARGARET opened the door of the hotel room, her daughter stood on the threshold, a look of outrage on her face. “I married him, Mother!” Petra cried. “He’s my husband! Where have they taken him?” Margaret threw her arms about her daughter. Petra burst into tears. “This is my wedding day! What has Father done with him?”

  Margaret led
her into the room and listened to her rail against her parents, their overprotectiveness, their unwillingness to let her lead her own life. Again and again and at the top of her voice Petra demanded to know what had happened to Gat. When would she see him again? Were the police holding him? Why? Because her father had requested it? Her husband had committed no crime. Were the police questioning him? Were they beating him?

  When she grew exhausted from shouting, she embraced her mother. “I really do love him, Mum,” she said. “This has been the most wonderful week of my life. What will happen to him?”

  “Your father wants to protect you from a mistake.”

  “I’ve made no mistake!” Petra cried. She began once more to weep.

  “Then everything will be all right,” her mother assured her.

  “Will it? You know Father! He does what he wants.”

  Who better than she, Margaret thought, knew the truth of that? She held Petra to her, kissing her blonde hair and patting her shoulder. Because Piet wanted his daughter’s happiness—and his own—Margaret hoped that eventually he would do what led to those goals. He might, however, require powerful persuasion. One thing was certain. Shouting at Piet would accomplish nothing; it would only reinforce his righteous conviction that he was acting in Petra’s best interest. “Go lie down,” Margaret advised. “Getting married is an emotional time for everyone. When your father comes in, you can tell us about your wedding and your husband. With your father, you know, it’s best not to yell.”

  Petra allowed her mother to lead her across the room. She lay down on the bed. Margaret sat beside her quietly stroking her hair. As she drew closer to sleep, Margaret sang her the lullaby she had sung to her daughter when Petra was a child.

  WHEN GAT regained consciousness, he was lying on the floor of a cell. The air was moist, as thick as soup, and smelled of urine and bad food. The pressure of the air made his skin burn. His mouth was dry, his tongue a mere charred nub of flesh. A caged and naked light bulb stared down at him. His head and body throbbed with pain. His heart worked only with a struggle. He seemed to feel his blood moving so sluggishly as to cause an aching in his veins. When he moved his feet, he felt he would faint. Each toe seemed to cry out like a baby being tortured. He tried to inspect the cell and passed out.