It took much less than one lunch hour for her to illuminate the mysteries of the application forms. We had to fill them in and hand them to my father, who had them in front of him when he saw the family. He always insisted on seeing the entire family. After looking them over and asking just a few questions, he placed either a tiny tick or an equally small cross in the bottom right-hand corner of each form. When they came back to us, we were to hand the top copy to the head of the family, telling him that we would soon be in touch and that the document would now be sent for processing. Then, after they had left, if my father had chosen to tick the page, we would write ‘Obviously white in appearance’ across the copy that went on to head office in Pretoria. If my father had made a cross, we wrote ‘Obviously coloured in appearance.’
‘What happens to them afterwards?’ I asked.
‘The obviously white in appearance ones can stay, the obviously coloured go to Brazil,’ Auntie Marjorie said.
‘Brazil?’
‘They’re all Portuguese there. They don’t care. One of them said to me that mulatto is their national colour.’
Not having heard the word ‘mulatto’ before, I had no idea what she was talking about. ‘It’s not bad to go to Brazil?’ I suggested.
‘Of course not. They like it there. They’ve got Rio de Janeiro there and the carnival and the statue of Christ and Sugar Loaf Mountain and the Amazon and everything.’
From then on I did exactly as Auntie Marjorie had told me. But I did more than that. I started studying the faces of each family that came past my desk. By midday on Thursday, I could anticipate my father’s judgment for each case. Some had walked through a hundred or more kilometres of veld and had their faces burnt brown by our fierce African sun, but their features were European. I could tell the difference with almost total accuracy between a skin burnt by a few days fleeing across the veld and one that was naturally brown. If there was any trace of African features, a broad, blunt nose, flaring nostrils, excessively frizzy hair or cheekbones that were too broad, his decision went against them.
I started keeping my own notes and comparing them to his decisions. By the end of Thursday, I had only made one mistake. Not only had I satisfied Auntie Marjorie with the way I filled in the forms, but I told myself that I had almost learnt to do the work of my father. I was confident that no trace of African features would slip past me. I noticed too the fairer palms of African hands that contrasted with their brown arms. I too would soon be able to do important work like my father.
sixteen
During the first week in my father’s office, I had found more than one person keen to impress me with inside knowledge of the office gossip. And in the Department of the Interior, office gossip was of an altogether different nature to most other gossip.
What better subject with which to impress a young newcomer than the inside story of activities regarding which you had been sworn to total secrecy. One of the men in passport control told me about the prostitutes that were smuggled onto ships and how one, a pregnant Zulu woman, had fallen asleep on board. When she awoke, they were under way, already in outer anchorage, a few kilometres off shore. They had to send out the pilot’s tug to bring her back. He said the seamen had wanted to keep her on board for the purpose of further entertainment, but she had screamed so that eventually they radioed the harbour master’s office.
At the time I wondered about the truth of the story. After all, there was a law against that sort of thing between whites and Zulus, so how could there be a Zulu prostitute for white sailors? They would have all been arrested, I thought.
No one tried harder to impress me or had better stories than Snake Wilson. He told me how German ships, carrying parts for our arms industry, waited in outer anchorage, over the horizon, until after dark. They would then slip quietly into port and offload at the Sandock Austral quay, which belonged to our national arms manufacturer. This would take place on many nights every year, while at the same time Germany’s diplomats at the United Nations voted for stricter sanctions against us.
Snake also told me about the Induna, a coaster that had sunk in the Mozambique Channel. He said it had not just sunk, but had exploded because it was packed with explosives bound for the terrorists in the north. Snake said that, while we were selling arms to Rhodesia, our only remaining ally in the world, we were also selling explosives to the terrorists who were undermining them. That told you something about the government, Snake said. They thought only about money. It just showed you that sooner or later genuine patriots, who had the interests of the white man at heart, would have to take over the country. And it better be before the government sold us out. At least, this was what Snake Wilson said.
It was all enough to shock me. From all I had heard in the occasional remarks of my father, Uncle Stefan and Oupa about the hypocrisy of the countries that criticised us, I could easily believe what Snake said about the Germans. But that our government was selling arms to the terrorists that were undermining the only other white government in Africa shook my entire view of life. And yet Snake should know. I made up my mind to ask my father at the first opportunity.
It was on the Friday of the first week in my father’s office that Snake came to visit him at home. My father had wanted him to come to dinner, but Mama had refused. ‘I will not serve food to that man,’ she said. ‘I don’t like him and I don’t trust him.’
So my father had him come round after dinner and they sat under the trees in the back garden, drinking beer and talking. Mama settled in the lounge to watch television. As long as she was there, I could sit on my parents’ bed with the window open and listen to the conversation between Snake and my father. They were seated on cane chairs in the light of a gas camping lamp. I was fairly sure that, with the light switched off in my parents’ bedroom, if I did not get too close to the window, they would not be able to see me.
They were talking about a man called Rocha who had recently arrived in Durban from Mozambique. I later heard that there had been no walking across the veld for him. He had come in his own private plane, a few hours before the Frelimo rebels took the airport. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter what he did for us in the old days,’ Snake was saying. ‘We can’t accept him now.’ He was leaning towards my father and gesticulating with both hands. Whenever Snake was involved in any discussion on what he considered to be a matter of policy, he was always certain that he was right.
‘He did give us good service then,’ I heard my father say.
‘Do you know what we paid him?’
‘I saw the figures.’
‘He wasn’t doing it for the white man in Africa. He was doing it for the money.’
I thought I heard my father sigh. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘And he will not be acceptable in our community.’
‘No.’
‘You agree?’
‘Of course I agree. We can’t allow him in.’
‘Why shouldn’t he go to Brazil anyway?’
‘He says there are leftists there who know about him. There are also family members of his own clients who died in Matola. They blame him for the deaths. He thinks he’ll be in danger. I’m inclined to agree.’
I was trying so hard to hear what they were saying that I was unaware that anyone had come in until the mattress moved. Annie had sat down next to me. ‘You’re eavesdropping again,’ she whispered happily. She knew she had me.
‘I’m just sitting here,’ I whispered back.
‘You’re not. You’re listening to Pa and Uncle Snake. I’m going to tell Mama.’
She started to rise, but I got hold of an arm. ‘Wait.’
‘Let go. I’ll call Mama if you don’t let me go.’ She paused for just a moment, then called, ‘Mama,’ but too softly for my mother to hear.
‘All right. What do you want?’
‘I’ll think about that. Just remember that you owe me.’
‘All right.’
‘Say that you owe me.’
‘I owe you.’
‘Good,’ she said, slipping off the bed. ‘Now you can go back to your eavesdropping.’
As soon as Annie had left, I turned my attention back to the conversation in the back garden. Snake was still talking. He seemed to do most of the talking when he was involved in any conversation. ‘You don’t have to be worried, Bernard,’ he said. ‘No one is slipping past us. Every one who is the slightest bit doubtful is being sent on to you.’
My father nodded without saying anything.
‘But what I really wanted to talk to you about—’
I had developed a special sense that was activated at times when Mama approached. Now, I became aware of her moving around somewhere in the kitchen or the passage outside the bedroom door. I had just enough time to slip out of the room when she appeared, carrying her knitting. ‘Nothing much on TV?’ I asked innocently.
‘Mostly American sitcoms tonight and they’re all the same.’
‘Is Mama going to bed?’
‘Yes, Chrissie, I think so.’
So that was the end of my eavesdropping on the conversation between my father and Snake. I went to the kitchen, from where I could see them, but the distance between us was too great for me to make out what they were saying. I watched for a while, but all I could make out was Snake’s vehement gesticulating and my father’s more restrained responses.
My curiosity about Snake Wilson was nowhere near satisfied. So I waited a few minutes after Mama had closed the bedroom door, then knocked softly. She had always been the one I turned to whenever I wanted clarification, especially about the sort of thing that I was told I was too young to know about. She had answered the few questions about girls I had dared put to her. She had explained our national politics in vague terms that I never fully understood. When I was a small child, she had described our fairly extended family relationships, who our relatives were and how they all fitted into the network of Vorsters, my father’s family, and the Kirsteins where she came from.
When she answered, I asked if she was in bed and I could come in. ‘Sure, come in, Chrissie.’ She was sitting up in bed, supported by a mound of pillows, reading a paperback novel with a picture on the cover of a young couple kissing. She smiled at me as I came in. It was always like that with Mama. She always seemed to be glad to see me, even if I had just done something unheard of that would embarrass her and my father in front of the neighbours, the school principal or even the dominee. ‘What is it, Chrissie?’ Her enquiring look already held the knowledge that something was bothering me.
I sat down on the end of the bed. ‘Why doesn’t Ma like Snake? And why does Pa?’
She looked at me in that loving way she had. ‘You always ask the difficult questions, don’t you?’
‘I want to understand.’
She took a deep breath before answering. ‘First of all, you shouldn’t call him Snake.’
‘Mama does.’
She shook her head. Clearly we were in the terrain of difficult questions she had often accused me of raising. ‘I know. I shouldn’t either.’ She put her book down. ‘I don’t think your father likes him. I think your father feels that he does his job well.’
‘To see that only the right people can come into our country?’
‘That sort of thing.’
‘But Mama doesn’t like him?’
‘No, I don’t.’ She sighed. ‘I might as well tell you. Once before, he came to visit your father and had dinner with us. He tried to persuade Pa that Auntie Marjorie at work—’
‘She’s a nice person.’
‘Of course, but he tried to say that she was a danger, a security risk. I think he said that it’s easy for the enemy to use her because she knows nothing. In his words, she is a fellow traveller. I think he also used the word puppet.’
‘She would not do anything bad,’ I said.
‘Naturally not. If everyone behaved like Snake Wilson, we’d be reporting each other all the time. After that visit I told your father that I would not serve him dinner again, not ever. That’s why they’re sitting outside.’
That satisfied me as far as Snake Wilson was concerned. The week spent in my father’s office had raised other questions. ‘Everyone says Pa’s work is very important. Do you think it is?’
‘Of course, Chrissie. The black people are not on our level, you know. Anyone can see it. We should be kind to them, but Pa’s right to say that we need to be protected. His work is very important.’
‘Should I do it too, when I’m big?’
She thought about it for perhaps a minute before answering. ‘No, I don’t think so. What is right for your father is perhaps not right for you. You must do what you have to do. You shouldn’t seek to copy your father.’
I went to bed a little disappointed. After a week in the office where my father decided who could and who could not become a South African, the idea of exercising that sort of power was appealing. And I had already learnt to do it. After just a week, I was nearly as good at spotting suspects as he was. Perhaps Mama was wrong, I thought.
That Saturday evening one of the girls from school had arranged a party at her home. Abraham and I went and we again played Postman’s Knock. This time Abraham stayed inside with Jill far too long. They only came out when one of the other boys started banging on the door. On the way home, walking through the quiet Red Hill streets, Abraham could talk about nothing else. ‘That Jill can kiss,’ he said. ‘I never knew a girl could kiss you like that. Somebody must have taught her. I think she’s had plenty of experience. Have you kissed her?’
‘Of course,’ I said, trying my nonchalant voice.
‘When?’ The disbelief was obvious.
‘Liesl had a party. You were sick.’
‘And you played Postman’s Knock?’
‘Of course.’
‘If you had kissed her like that, you would have said something.’
‘Well, I did and I said nothing.’
That kept Abraham quiet, but only for a few minutes. ‘I think if I could get her alone, she would do it,’ he said eventually.
‘Do what?’
‘It, the whole thing.’
‘Screw?’ I had heard the term a few times and had only the most general idea of the mechanics of the action itself.
‘Yes, I think she would.’
‘You’re crazy,’ I said. ‘She might tell her mother.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Abraham said.
That was where the conversation ended. I really did think he was acting in a crazy way and that he would not have the nerve to do anything about it.
It was about ten o’clock when I got to Abraham’s place on the Saturday morning before my last week of holiday. I went round to the kitchen door, which is what I always did, because Abraham’s mother was usually busy there. This time the door was closed and locked. I knocked and, when no one answered, I went round to the front and knocked again. It was never like this at Abraham’s place. If he and Uncle Stefan were out, which did not happen very often, Auntie Virginia was always there. I waited a while, then tried again at the back door. This time Uncle Stefan did open the door. He looked tired, his hair had not been combed and he was still wearing his pyjamas. ‘Good morning, Chrissie,’ he said, but without his usual smile.
‘Hullo, Uncle Stefan,’ I said. ‘Where’s Abraham?’
He squinted at me in the sunlight, having obviously just woken up. ‘He’s in Johannesburg with his mother.’
‘Oh.’ All my life I have not been good at handling unexpected situations. Abraham’s sudden absence was one of them. I looked at Uncle Stefan in puzzlement.
‘His mother’s taken him to a specialist there,’ Uncle Stefan explained.
‘Is he sick?’
Uncle Stefan looked at me for a long time before answering. ‘There seems to be something wrong with Abraham’s muscles. You may have noticed that he gets tired easily.’
‘Only sometimes. He’s not always like that.’
‘He wasn’t always like that, but he is now, Chrissie.’
It did not sound too serious to me. ‘The doctors can fix anything now,’ I explained to Uncle Stefan.
The expression on Uncle Stefan’s face changed slightly. His mouth seemed to stretch from side to side and his eyes crinkled up. ‘It doesn’t seem to be that simple.’
‘Do they say he won’t get better?’ I was struggling to understand.
‘I don’t know.’
There was only one alternative to not getting better. ‘Abraham’s not going to die.’ My voice sounded incredulous, but I said it as a statement. It was not something I could believe.
Suddenly Uncle Stefan was crying. In more recent years, it seems to have become acceptable for men to cry, but men in those days, especially Afrikaner men, did not cry. The very idea was beyond my ability to imagine. I stood looking at him in what was almost a state of shock. Finally, he spoke, his voice sounding hoarse and thick. ‘They’re going to be away until next Saturday. Come and visit Abraham then.’
I ran all the way home and found Michie helping Mama make crumpets in the kitchen. ‘Abraham’s very sick,’ I blurted out. ‘He might die.’
‘They don’t know that yet,’ Mama said. ‘The best specialist in the country will look at him on Monday.’
‘It’s awful,’ Michie said. ‘It’s not fair. Abraham never did anything bad in his life, except a few naughty things with Chrissie.’
It seemed that everyone knew about Abraham’s illness except me. And what did Michie mean, except a few naughty things with Chrissie? Was God punishing Abraham for his role in covering Auntie Fleur’s sons in clay or helping me to acquire my motorbike? If he was, what lay in store for me, the main protagonist?
Mama must have read the expression on my face. ‘It’s not because of anything you and Abraham did. It’s just something that happened.’
I went out the back door and sat down on the steps. Abraham so sick he could die? Dying was something old people did, not Abraham. I got on my bike and scooted down to North Coast Road, then pedalled up the long hill towards KwaMashu. I went to the place where Ruthie and I had sat in the sugar cane on our one date. Dropping the bicycle onto its side, I sat down on the grass and tried to absorb what I had just learnt. I remembered the way his hands had slipped on the rope while swinging in Oupa’s barn and wondered if his fall had been caused by the same thing. For the first time I remembered how he had looked in bed that night, older than his years and more tired than he should have been.
The Classifier Page 13