Child of the River

by Irma Joubert

  But the Afrikaans newspapers paid hardly any attention to the Congress of the People. And when she and Braam went to the movies Saturday night, there was no news on the reel about the ANC conference.

  In July a bus boycott in Evaton resulted in serious tension and violence. Thousands of people gathered at the police station for protection, and thousands fled to other townships.

  “The situation in the country is worsening,” Pérsomi said to Mr. De Vos and De Wet Monday morning at their weekly meeting. “I’m worried. Where’s it all going to end?”

  “There’s no need to worry. These are just interim problems caused by a small group of Communist radicals. The majority are good, loyal natives who want to live in peace and go to work every day.”

  Mr. De Vos agreed. “The sooner the police arrest the ringleaders and troublemakers the sooner these riots will be suppressed. It’s the innocent women and children who suffer.” He cleared his throat. “Before we begin with routine matters, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  Pérsomi looked up quickly from the minutes book, where she had just written the date.

  Mr. De Vos ran his hand over his bald head. “I resigned from the town council on Friday evening,” he said gravely.

  “Oh?” said De Wet. Pérsomi wondered if he had feared something more serious, such as his retirement.

  “Yes,” said Mr. De Vos and began to fidget with his papers. “Things could . . . become difficult.”

  De Wet leaned back in his chair until it was balanced on two legs.

  “Difficult?” he asked.

  “Dr. Verwoerd’s policy of separate development is forcing town and city councils to develop separate residential and business premises,” he said.

  “Our township is well outside the town limits,” De Wet said.

  “But the Indians live in the heart of town,” Mr. De Vos said somberly.

  Pérsomi’s hand flew to her face. “Don’t tell me the council wants to relocate Mr. Ismail’s people?” She turned to face Mr. De Vos. “Is that what they want to do?”

  “They don’t have much choice. The law is the law,” he replied. “The council plans to create new amenities in an area about four miles out of town: a fully serviced residential area, a school, sport facilities, business premises—all the infrastructure will be ready before the people are asked to move.”

  “Four miles out of . . . It’s a no-man’s land! You can’t do it!” she cried. “Mr. Ismail is part of our community!”

  Mr. De Vos looked at her. “That’s why I resigned, Pérsomi.”

  “But why didn’t you stay and fight?” she asked.

  Mr. De Vos sighed. “This thing has come a long way,” he said. “It’s not something that suddenly came up on Friday night. The council is divided about the matter, but in the end apartheid is a legal requirement.”

  A helpless feeling gripped Pérsomi. “How do the majority of the councillors feel?” she asked.

  “The majority are in favor of cleaning up the Indian area. It’s in the center of town, on the main route. Whether we want to admit it or not, those stores are an eyesore. They’re run down and dirty, with unsavory characters lazing about on the verandas. It’s not the impression we want to leave with travelers to our town.”

  “Those are people you want to move!” Pérsomi said, leaning forward in her chair. “People who have lived there for generations. They’re taxpayers too. They pay their municipal levies and service fees and everything.”

  “Yes, Pérsomi,” said Mr. De Vos.

  “What are your feelings about it?” Pérsomi asked.

  “I think that’s his personal affair,” De Wet said. “The fact that he resigned—”

  “I asked Mr. De Vos.”

  Mr. De Vos held up both hands. “In principle I agree with you, Pérsomi,” he nodded. “I believe many people agree with you in their hearts, because we know the Ismails, as you rightly say. But with the bigger picture in mind, I think relocation is inevitable.”

  “What bigger picture?” she asked crossly.

  “The apartheid policy,” he replied without looking up.

  “There’s Grand Apartheid, which is the overarching objective of separate development, and there’s Petty Apartheid, of which this is an example, which doesn’t advance people, but cuts their throats,” she said firmly. “How can Mr. Ismail run a store on an empty plain four miles out of town? Who’s going to buy there? How must Yusuf Ismail’s sick patients get to him? Are they expected to travel four miles on foot in the scorching bushveld sun?”

  “I just wanted to tell you I resigned from the town council,” said Mr. De Vos, rearranging his papers. “Let’s continue with the agenda.”

  “And I believe—”

  “That’s enough, thank you,” Mr. De Vos said firmly. “De Wet, how are you getting on with the Grobbelaar case?”

  The countrywide riots in the townships dragged on. Women in black sashes and bright headscarves prevented passengers from getting on buses. A photo in Die Transvaler showed a woman throwing herself in front of a bus to stop it from leaving. The riots went on for weeks. In September a bus was burned, and bus services were terminated.

  “They’re marching again,” said De Wet at teatime and folded the newspaper. “I’m telling you, that’s how they keep fit.”

  “Goodness, De Wet,” Pérsomi said, annoyed, “these people walk miles every day to get to work.”

  By 1956 the negotiations to purchase the land earmarked for the new Indian development at Modderkuil had begun.

  One day in early March Mr. De Vos fell ill. He was bent double with pain. Old Dr. Louw and Lettie were both busy and the sister at the hospital didn’t know when they would be available.

  “Shall I ask Yusuf Ismail to come and take a look?” Pérsomi asked her father.

  “He’s an Indian!” Ms. Steyn protested.

  “Phone him,” De Wet said immediately. “I fear it could be a heart attack.”

  But it wasn’t a heart attack. It was cancer, the tests revealed when they came back a week later. Mr. De Vos was admitted to a hospital in Pretoria for surgery.

  De Wet and Pérsomi were alone at the office when a call came through a week later: Gerbrand had fallen from the roof of the school during recess. His arm was broken, and De Wet was needed at the hospital at once.

  “Go,” Pérsomi said. “Let me know how he is.”

  So it was that Pérsomi was the only lawyer in the office when Boelie walked in just after eleven, furious. “Where’s De Wet?” he raged.

  “At the hospital. Gerbrand broke his arm. And Mr. De Vos is—”

  “Yes, I know he’s in Pretoria,” said Boelie, pacing the room impatiently.

  “Come through, Boelie, Ms. Steyn will arrange for coffee,” said Pérsomi. She led the way to her office and took a deep breath before she faced him. “Sit down. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “No, I’ll stand. I’m too pissed off to sit,” he said. “And don’t be so bloody professional!”

  “Fine,” she said and sat down behind her desk. “Why are you so pissed off?”

  “Don’t swear,” he said.

  The years fell away between them.

  She gave a slow smile. “I won’t. I almost forgot,” she said. “Why are you so angry?”

  “Crazy coolie with his fancy car ran into my bull. Dead as a bloody doornail.” He sat down on the edge of the chair.

  “Your bull?”

  “The young bull I bought at the Rand Easter Show last year. Paid almost three thousand pounds for him, hasn’t even covered a single cow, and now . . .” He flew up again and paced the floor of her small office.

  “Boelie, steady now,” she said. “We’ll find a solution.”

  He took a deep breath and looked through the window. “What happened? To Gerbrand, I mean?”

  “Apparently the standard sixes were kicking a rugby ball during recess. It landed on the roof and Gerbrand clambered up the downpipe to fetch it.”

/>   “And the pipe broke?” he asked.

  “Yes, when he reached the second floor.”

  He sat back down. “He could have broken his neck,” he said.

  “Fortunately it was only his arm. Now tell me about the bull.”

  “Bloody Joburg—”

  “Boelie, stop swearing and tell me exactly what happened.”

  Surprised, he looked at her for a moment, then leaned back slightly in his chair. “Okay.”

  Ms. Steyn entered with coffee on a tray. “Thank you,” said Pérsomi and added three spoons of sugar and a dash of milk to Boelie’s cup. She drank hers black and bitter.

  “One of those rich Indians from Joburg in a fancy car knocked down my bull this morning and killed it,” said Boelie. He looked slightly calmer as he stirred his coffee. “Now he wants to hold me responsible for the damage to his new car.”

  “Okay,” said Pérsomi, taking out her notebook. “Where did the accident happen?”

  “On the gravel road, about half a mile after he’d turned off the tarred road.”

  “The road to Oom Dennis’s farm?”

  “That’s right. It goes past one of my paddocks.”

  “It’s a provincial road?” asked Pérsomi.

  “A district road, yes,” Boelie replied.

  “Why was your bull in the road?”

  “I don’t know! He must have broken through the fence or something. The question is, what was the Indian doing there—he had no business to be there!”

  “Forget about the fact that the driver was Indian, Boelie, it’s irrelevant,” she said calmly. “It’s a public road and anyone is free to use it. If your bull was in the middle of the road . . .”

  Boelie flew up from his chair. “He was next to the road, not in the bloody middle of the road!”

  “Boelie, sit!” she said. “We’re trying to reach a solution here, but if you don’t cooperate, we won’t get anywhere.”

  He crossed to the window again and looked out. “It’s not just the Indian who’s upset me. Or my bull,” he said.

  “What else is there?” she asked. She kept her voice calm, though her heart was pounding. His bulk filled her office, his dark eyes were . . . She curbed her thoughts.

  He turned to look at her. “You,” he said.

  She drew a sharp breath. “Then maybe you should wait until tomorrow and talk to De Wet,” she said.

  He was quiet for a moment, his dark eyes fixed on her. Then he shook his head slightly. “The bull was next to the road. I suspect the car came round the bend too fast, and hit the bull. Or the Indian might have got a fright and lost control of the car around the bend. The skid marks are visible right up to where the dead bull lies.”

  “And the car?” she asked.

  “The front is bashed in. The bright pink back end stands beside the road.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Apparently the driver, but not seriously. Someone took him to Yusuf Ismail, who took him to the police station and told him to lay a charge against me for damages!”

  “Yusuf said that?” she asked, surprised.

  “That weasel, yes! Just because the man is Indian and I’m white. He mustn’t think—”

  “Are you sure Yusuf took him, Boelie?”

  “Sergeant Jansen phoned me. He took down the complaint. Can you believe—”

  “Wait, Boelie, let’s think,” she interrupted. “You suffered the loss of your bull, let’s say it comes to three thousand pounds. The driver suffered damage to his car. What do you think the replacement value will be?”

  “I don’t have a clue. Two thousand pounds, at most, I suppose,” he said. “De Wet will know better.”

  “Fine, we’ll say two thousand for now. Your bull was beside the road, where he shouldn’t have been. Most likely the driver took the corner too fast on the gravel road, but it’s going to be hard to prove. He probably lost control of his car, killed your bull, and in the process damaged his car.”

  Suddenly she looked up. “Boelie, where’s the bull now?”

  “I told Linksom and the others to start cutting it up and carting it off. In this heat—”

  “Did you call the police out to the scene of the accident? Did they see the skid marks, see where the bull was hit?”

  “No,” he said, “but they have my word.”

  “Your word won’t stand up in court. I suggest you take them out to the scene. Personally, if possible, before rain or other traffic erases the evidence.”

  “What do you want to do, Pérsomi?” he asked.

  “Lay a charge against him immediately for damages. Do you still have the invoice for the bull?”

  “Everything, yes.”

  “Okay, then we’ll claim damages of four thousand pounds—the bull is a little older now, yes?”

  He gave a slight smile. “A bull doesn’t appreciate that much in value,” he said.

  “Well, we’ll risk it. Remember, he’s going to add his personal injuries and trauma to the amount he claims. Go to the police station, Boelie. Now.”

  When he was almost at the door, he turned. “How are you, Pers?” he asked.

  His question caught her off-guard. She was completely disarmed. She nodded slowly. “Fine, Boelie. And you?”

  “Fine,” he said. He didn’t leave, but lingered at the door.

  “Tell me about the kids.” She clung to the scrap of conversation between them.

  He turned to face her. “Nelius is three, a stocky little man. And Lientjie is eight months. The apple of her daddy’s eye.”

  “I’m glad, Boelie.”

  He returned to her desk and sat down. “Why did you end our relationship, Pérsomi?”

  Her mouth fell open. “I . . . I told you—”

  “Don’t come with that you’re-like-a-brother-to-me story again! Today I want the truth.”

  His face was dark, his eyes pitch black, pinning her down in the narrow boundaries of the truth.

  “I believed you were my brother.”

  “Your . . . brother? Are you crazy?”

  “Don’t speak to me like that, Boelie.”

  He was still on the attack. “How could you have believed that? Surely you didn’t think . . .” She saw him track her own logic. “My father? Heavens, Pérsomi!”

  “Why else would he have allowed us to stay on the farm, even after Gerbrand and Piet and Lewies had left? There were many other things, too, Boelie.” It sounded as if she were pleading, and she didn’t want to plead.

  He got up, placed his hat on his head. “And because you believed this nonsense, you . . . trampled on everything between us, on everything that might have been. Do you realize what you did?”

  She sat motionless, dismayed. She had no defense.

  At the door he turned. “When did you find out I’m not your brother?” he asked.

  “Shortly after your wedding.”

  Slowly he shook his head. Then he walked out and closed the door behind him. He didn’t say good-bye.

  On December 5, 1956, 156 leading activists were arrested. “It’s a hotbed of Communism,” said De Wet at lunchtime. “A good thing they’ve been arrested. It will probably turn into a treason trial.”

  That same afternoon, Ms. Steyn put a jug of water with ice cubes on a plastic cloth in the middle of the boardroom table. She put three water glasses on one side of the table and three on the other. The chairs faced each other. “Nothing good can come of this meeting,” she mumbled, glaring at Pérsomi.

  “Don’t forget the peppermints,” Pérsomi said and returned to her office.

  At exactly three o’clock Mr. Ismail, his eldest son, Abram Ismail, and his eldest grandson, Dr. Yusuf Ismail, arrived. Ms. Steyn’s back was stiff as she led the way to the boardroom. She didn’t offer them tea.

  The three lawyers shook hands all around, then sat down, facing them. Mr. Ismail had specifically asked for all three to be present.

  Mr. Ismail began to speak. They had come about the forced removals, he said.
They were due to be moved from the place where they had lived for nearly seventy years to a barren plot of land. There were a few things they wanted to discuss with the lawyers.

  “The mosque must stay where it is,” Mr. Ismail began. “It’s built on holy ground. No one can move it.”

  “Yes, we know. The mosque will stay,” Mr. De Vos agreed. “The law respects your religion. That’s what freedom of religion means in this country.”

  “But our homes will be four miles from our mosque?” Mr. Ismail shook his head. “How does that work, Mr. De Vos?”

  “It’s the law, Mr. Ismail,” said Mr. De Vos, fumbling with the pile of papers in front of him.

  “And what does the move entail?” asked Mr. Ismail.

  “The council will provide serviced plots. You may build your homes to suit your requirements, within municipal regulations, of course,” Mr. De Vos explained.

  “And our existing homes?” asked Mr. Ismail.

  “The council will give you market-related compensation for your homes.”

  “Mr. De Vos, look at our homes. They’re old. My father built the house I live in, and we simply added on. Do you really think, Mr. De Vos, that we’ll be able to build new houses with the money the council pays us?”

  There was no fault to his arguments, Pérsomi thought.

  “Yes, that is a problem,” Mr. De Vos admitted.

  “But it’s not our biggest problem,” Mr. Ismail said seriously. He looked at each of them in turn. “I want you, Mr. De Vos, to tell the council that we are willing to move to the new Indian area they are planning outside the town, but only on certain conditions.”

  “I am no longer a member of the council, Mr. Ismail. I resigned more than a year ago.”

  “I want you to go to them as my lawyer. I’ll pay you well.”

  Mr. De Vos began to shake his head. “Mr. Ismail—”

  “Listen to our proposal before you decide.”

  “Fine,” Mr. De Vos agreed reluctantly.

  Mr. Ismail unfolded a folio-sized page and laid it on the table. Pérsomi recognized Yusuf’s neat handwriting. She looked at him, but his eyes were fixed on Mr. De Vos.

  “We’ll move,” began Mr. Ismail, “but then we want full ownership. We want a school for our children of the same standard as the white schools, not a building with a concrete floor and a tin roof like the township schools. We want more than market value for our houses, or we won’t be able to build new homes.”