Gods and Soldiers

by Rob Spillman

  Gogo is going to talk to Zanele at the clinic, she says. I must take her there quickly.

  While her husband Zenzo is leaning over the two cots with the two identical faces in them, Zanele bends towards me and forgets about the plate of porridge in her arms now tipping, now spilling over the metal bed-frame, now she whispers to me that she, Gogo, she our very own Gogo, drowned her day-old infant in a bucket of water. Gogo, our very own Gogo. The memory weighs like a mountain.

  “You are too young to carry a mountain on your head,” Gogo says to Zanele.

  NIQ MHLONGO

  • South Africa •

  from DOG EAT DOG

  THE SWEET KWAITO music blaring from a white CITI Golf passing along De Korte Street helped to bring me back from my reminiscence. I looked at the time. It was ten minutes to six in the evening. The gliding amber of the sun was sloping down to usher in the evening.

  I searched the pockets of my jeans and took out the packet of Peter Stuyvesant that I had just bought at the supermarket and unsealed it. I lit a cigarette and inhaled the stress-relieving smoke.

  When I had finished I threw the butt into the road and took out my Walkman. I pressed the play button and began to listen to Bayete. The name of the song was Mbombela. I lifted my bottle of beer; it was almost half-empty.

  When I raised my eyes from the beer bottle, the police car had already stopped in front of me. I hadn’t heard them arrive because of the fat beats coming from my Walkman. I pulled the earphones off and let them dangle around my neck.

  At first I thought that they wanted some smokes, but then I realised that the police officers had caught me with an open beer. In two ticks both front car doors were flung open and I shrank like a child caught masturbating by its single mother as they moved hastily to accost me.

  “Evening, sir.”

  “Evening.”

  “How are you, sir?”

  “I’m alright.”

  “Enjoying yourself, hey?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you realise that what you’re doing is against the law?”

  “Excuse me? You mean relaxing under this tree?”

  “No. I’m talking about public drinking.”

  “I’m not drinking anything.”

  “The evidence is in your hand.”

  I looked at the bottle that I was still holding. I never expected policemen to be patrolling that quiet street. I thought that they would be attending to more serious crimes elsewhere. But there they were, spoiling the party that I was beginning to enjoy with my other self. Why can’t these people just leave a person to do his own thing? I asked myself. I moved my eyes away from the bottle and looked at the pimple-faced Indian police officer.

  “I’m just holding an open beer bottle that I was drinking when I was in the bar, sir. But I’m not drinking it now. And if that’s a crime I didn’t know.”

  “We stopped the car because we saw you drinking, my friend. Do you think we’re stupid?”

  Silence fell while I looked at his tall, white, moustached colleague, who was mercilessly chewing some gum. He staggered forward and I could tell from his bulging bloodshot eyes that he was already drunk. His face was also bright red, as if he had lain in the sun for too long, and the golden hair on his skull stood up like a scrubbing-brush.

  “Are you denying that we saw you drinking?” asked the red-faced officer.

  “It is just a misunderstanding, sir; I wasn’t drinking this beer.”

  “Ohh! You think you’re clever, né?” the red-faced officer asked contemptuously. He leaned forward and shook his large head slowly as if he was feeling sorry for me.

  “What is your name?”

  “Dingz.”

  “Are you a student?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where?”

  “Wits.”

  He studied my face for a while. When he started to talk again, his words were accompanied by the heavy smell of liquor and cigarettes.

  “OK. Listen, Dingz. We have been asked to patrol this area because lately there have been complaints about students who abuse alcohol. They drink and throw the empty bottles into the street and that’s not good for the environment. Look there!” he said pointing at some empty Coca-Cola cans on the other side of the road. “Is that not disgusting?”

  “So what does that have to do with me?”

  “You say you’re a student?”

  I nodded.

  “And you’re holding a beer?”

  “But I’m not one of those students you are looking for. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have to go.”

  I thought I had succeeded in talking myself out of trouble, but before I could even raise myself from the ground the red-faced officer asked me yet another question.

  “What are you doing at Wits?” he asked, sprinkling my face with saliva.

  “Law,” I lied. “Why?”

  I thought that maybe then they would leave me alone, but the white officer continued looking at me; he was sizing me up. Then the Indian officer started to lecture me in a patronising tone of voice.

  “I wonder if you’re aware that a student was arrested last week on a charge like this one. Fortunately he was not doing law.” He paused and gave me a sympathetic look. “I understand you guys studying law are not allowed to take a legal job if you have been convicted of a criminal offence. It would be bad for you if we take you in now.”

  I was realising the seriousness of my situation. I started to reflect on my future; all my efforts to get a place at varsity would prove futile if I was arrested now. Oh shit! Me and my drinking!

  The white officer was nodding along to everything his friend was saying. I remained silent, but they could see that they had managed to scare me. The white officer leaned closer to me.

  “Listen! Here is a deal, pal.” He lowered his tone to a confidential whisper. “Either you come with us now to spend three months in a prison cell, or face a one thousand rand fine . . .” He paused and looked at my reaction. I kept my cool. “Or we can sort this thing out right now, out of court, by reaching a gentlemen’s agreement.” A pause again. “Which means you can stop our mouths with only seventy rand, my friend.”

  The Indian officer was nodding to support what his colleague was saying as I debated with my other self about the best step to take. I had never been in jail before. I had only heard scanty rumours about the Big Fives, the Twenty-Sixes, Apollos and other prison gangs that sodomise and kill other inmates. But at that moment I was more worried about my family at home. What will they say if they learn that I was arrested for public drinking?

  There was a moment of silence between the two corrupt officers and myself. Then the red-faced officer bent over and grabbed my beer bottle and two of my grocery bags. He was mumbling something in Afrikaans. The other officer grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and picked up my other plastic bag with the sealed beers inside.

  “It seems my friend it is that time again, when you have the right to remain stupid and silent because everything that you say can be used against you in court.”

  “Whaa! I can’t believe how some people can be stupid. We gave you a chance my friend and you blew it. Boom!” said the Indian officer.

  They opened the rear door of the police car and pushed me inside with my grocery bags. The walkie-talkie inside the car started belching and cutting. The red-faced officer retrieved it and muttered something in Afrikaans as they got inside and started the engine.

  By then I realised that I had messed up my chances of buying myself out. I still had about one hundred and fifty rand that I had taken out at the ATM that afternoon. I knew that the officers would try everything to incriminate me. They are used to the system. They are also the ones who corrupt it. They know how it works and how to exploit it in their favour. Even if it means that I sleep in a cell just for one night for my disrespect, it would please them.

  The earphones that were lying on my shoulders were still blasting music. I groped inside my pocket in an attempt to
find the stop button on my Walkman. I was familiar with the buttons because I had owned my Walkman for the past four years, but suddenly I changed my mind about switching the music off. I opted just to rewind the tape. I found the button I was looking for and rewound the tape.

  The car hadn’t moved even five metres when I began to plead with them to stop. “I’m terribly sorry, officers. I don’t want to go to jail. I think I have eighty rand for you.”

  The red-faced officer smiled and stopped the car.

  “Now you talking sense.”

  Pleasant smiles broke quietly on their lips as I searched my pockets for my wallet. I unzipped it and handed them four twenty-rand banknotes, money that my mother sacrificed from her pension every month to help me through my cashless varsity life.

  The two officers looked at each other and took the cash. I groped inside my pocket again to reach the play and record buttons on my Walkman. Simultaneously, I pressed the two buttons down. Then very politely, in a friendly tone as if I was admitting my guilt, I asked them, “Are you sure that you’ll be fine with only eighty rand? I have a feeling that this is a very serious offence?”

  “You’re right. You can add more if you have it. But do not make the same mistake again next time. OK, my friend?” said the white officer.

  “I won’t.”

  I looked at the nametags on the pockets of their blue police shirts. “Sergeant Naicker and Sergeant Vilijoen, I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience that I’ve caused you. Because of my behaviour I will add twenty rand just to apologise.”

  I offered them another twenty-rand note. Sergeant Naicker took it. He smiled at me and said, “Ja. If it wasn’t for Sergeant Vilijoen we would have taken you in today.”

  “You’re a really lucky bastard, my friend. Do you know that? This is what we call being clever. Ask Sergeant Naicker here. We normally fine people two hundred rand for a case like this. We just thought that you are a poor student and decided to fine you less, my friend.”

  “Hmm! Are you sure a hundred is fine because I can add another twenty.”

  “Just give us another ten and disappear. One hundred and ten from a student who cares about his future is fine. The next time you’re in trouble you must call us or come straight to our police station along this road. You know the station, mos? Ask to speak to either Sergeant Vilijoen or Sergeant Naicker here and you’ll be safe.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  The engine was running and the right indicator light was flickering. I opened my rear door to leave.

  “Sorry we can’t drive you to our place. We are in a hurry for an emergency in Hillbrow. I’m sure you can manage.”

  I took my grocery bags out of the car and closed the door behind me. The car moved slowly to join the flow of traffic heading for the CBD. I stood on the pavement and began to wave goodbye. Then suddenly I signaled at them to stop the car, as if I had forgotten something inside. I put my grocery bags down and approached the driver’s side door, while they both looked at the back seat to see if there was something I had left there. I took my Walkman out of my pocket; the record and play buttons on it were still pressed down, and the red record light was flickering. I showed it to Sergeant Vilijoen.

  “What now?” he asked, perplexed.

  “Are you stupid? Can’t you see that our conversation is recorded on this cassette?”

  “Shit! You fucking bastard! You will pay for this.”

  “Hey! Mind your language, Sergeant Vilijoen! This thing is still recording.”

  “F-fuck!” swore Sergeant Naicker from the other side.

  “He’s only trying to scare us. There’s nothing there,” said Vilijoen to console his colleague.

  “Suit yourselves, I’ll see you in court then.”

  I turned my back and pretended I was leaving, but before I could go very far they called me back. “Hey you! Come here, you.”

  Within the blink of an eye the two officers were out of the car. I thought they were going to negotiate a deal with me, but that was not the case. Suddenly Naicker’s big hand was around my balls and I was standing on my toes with pain. Vilijoen grabbed the Walkman from my pocket. I tried to resist, but Vilijoen’s fist struck me across my mouth. I tasted blood. Naicker let go of my balls and I staggered and fell down. I lay still on the pavement pretending I had lost consciousness, but Vilijoen’s boot struck me in the ribs. A few minutes later I was handcuffed and bundled inside the car.

  “Never fuck with the police again, my boy,” warned Vilijoen as the car turned past Hillbrow Hospital.

  I didn’t have the nerve to utter even a single word. I looked at my grocery bags on the floor of the car next to my legs. The brick of butter that I had bought had melted and was almost flat. One of us must have stepped on it. The bottle of mayonnaise had been broken and there was the smell of it inside the car.

  At Esselen Street the car turned to the right in the direction of Berea. Ahead of us were about half a dozen police vans with flickering lights parked next to a tall block of flats. The handcuffs were very tight and I felt like the blood wasn’t circulating properly in my hands. I looked at the time on the dashboard. It was already twenty minutes past seven in the evening. I had missed my dinner at the Y.

  “These things are too tight, please loosen them,” I pleaded.

  “That serves you right, boy,” said Naicker as the car came to a standstill next to the other police vans.

  There were lots of people standing around. All eyes were on the block of flats. Policemen were all over the place with sniffer dogs. Naicker and Vilijoen got out of the car without saying a word to me, locked the doors and walked towards the entrance.

  After about an hour some policemen came down through the door with some guys who were handcuffed. Deep in my heart I was hoping that Naicker and Vilijoen were amongst them, but they weren’t. I sat there wondering what the guys might have done. They had probably been arrested for a much more serious offence than mine. I looked at my plastic bag again and spotted the Black Label. No more drinking, I told myself.

  At about ten minutes to ten, I spotted Vilijoen coming towards the car. He opened the driver’s door and sat inside. “Where do you stay?” he asked.

  “YMCA,” I answered.

  Without asking my permission he opened one of my Black Label dumpies. He drank about half of it without taking a break and gave a loud disgusting belch. “Do you want some?” he asked, as if he was going to give me the one that he was holding in his hand.

  I nodded, but all that I really wanted was for him to set my hands free. In a while I saw Naicker coming towards the car as well; he stopped in the middle of the road and lit a cigarette. Vilijoen put the bottle on the dashboard and searched his pockets. He took out some keys and unlocked my handcuffs. Naicker opened the front door and within seconds we were on our way back in the direction of Braamfontein. Vilijoen tossed a cold beer to me and twisted the bottle open. Naicker offered me a cigarette, but I found it too difficult to smoke with my swollen lips.

  At half past ten they dropped me at the entrance of the Y with my plastic bags. My ribs were still very painful. My front teeth were loose and my left eye was nearly shut. I had lost my Walkman, my beers and my money.

  NADINE GORDIMER

  • South Africa •

  A BENEFICIARY

  CACHES OF OLD papers are like graves; you shouldn’t open them.

  Her mother had been cremated. There was no marble stone incised “Laila de Morne, born, died, actress.”

  She had always lied about her age; her name, too—the name she used wasn’t her natal name, too ethnically limiting to suggest her uniqueness in a cast list. It wasn’t her married name, either. She had baptized herself, professionally. She was long divorced, although only in her late fifties, when a taxi hit her car and (as she would have delivered her last line) brought down the curtain on her career.

  Her daughter, Charlotte, had her father’s surname and was as close to him as a child can be, when subject to an ex-husba
nd’s conditions of access. As Charlotte grew up, she felt more compatible with him than with her mother, fond as she was of her mother’s—somehow—childishness. Perhaps acting was really a continuation of the make-believe games of childhood—fascinating, in a way. But. But what? Not a way Charlotte had wanted to follow—despite the fact that she was named after the character with which her mother had had an early success (Charlotte Corday, in Peter Weiss’s “Marat/Sade”), and despite the encouragement of drama and dance classes. Not a way she could follow, because of lack of talent: her mother’s unspoken interpretation, expressed in disappointment, if not reproach. Laila de Morne had not committed herself to any lover, had not gone so far as to marry again. There was no stepfather to confuse relations, loyalties; Charlie (as her father called her) could remark to him, “Why should she expect me to take after her?”

  Her father was a neurologist. They laughed together at any predestinatory prerogative of her mother’s, or the alternative paternal one—to be expected to become a doctor! Poking around in people’s brains? They nudged each other with more laughter at the daughter’s distaste.

  Her father helped arrange the memorial gathering, in place of a funeral service, sensitive as always to any need of his daughter’s. She certainly didn’t expect or want him to come along to his ex-wife’s apartment and sort the clothes, personal possessions to be kept or given away. A friend from the firm where she worked as an actuary agreed to help for a weekend. Unexpectedly, the young civil-rights lawyer with whom there had been a sensed mutual attraction, taken no further than dinner and a cinema date, also offered himself—perhaps a move toward the love affair that was coming anyway. The girls emptied the cupboards of clothes, the friend exclaiming over the elaborate range of styles women of that generation wore, how many personalities they could project—as if they had been able to choose, when now you belonged to the outfit of jeans and T-shirt. Oh, of course! Charlotte’s mother was a famous actress!