Kim touched his arm in sympathy. ‘She’s probably a bit groggy. She’ll be fine next time she sees you.’
Calder swallowed. ‘I’m not sure of that, Kim. I’m not at all sure.’
‘Here. Let’s get a cup of coffee.’
Calder looked down the corridor towards the café and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Kim, I’ve got to get out of here.’
He turned and stumbled out of the hospital.
20
August 12, 1988
Winter is really here now. They had storms while I was away. The vines in the fields are bare and the oaks have lost most of their leaves too. It’s noticeably colder and there are flashes of white snow on the peaks at the top of the valley. It’s quite a shock after the heat and humidity of America in mid-summer.
I saw George today for lunch. He’s still not getting anywhere finding a buyer for the Mail.
I asked him about Beatrice Pienaar. Evidently she graduated with a masters from Stellenbosch School of Journalism, where she did extremely well. Her professor suggested she work for Zyl News for a few months in Philadelphia. Her professor would be Daniel Havenga, I realized. She’s a bright woman, apparently; Neels will like that.
I told George my suspicion that Daniel is a member of the Broederbond. George said he wouldn’t be surprised, a lot of academics are. In fact, George suspects the ice-queen Beatrice of being a spy for the security police. I thought he was joking at first, but he was deadly serious. The newspaper editors believe that the government has been trying to infiltrate their newsrooms for years. The journalists play spot-the-spy in the office. It’s done half in jest, but there is a lot of suspicion about. When anyone is working on a scoop George makes sure that only three people know about it: himself, the journalist involved, and one other to add a sense of perspective. He fired a journalist a couple of months ago whom he suspected of leaking an investigation into corruption in defense procurement.
He hasn’t told Neels about his suspicions; relations between them are poor at the moment. I urged him to talk to Neels, but I doubt he will.
I asked George whether Beatrice had been in Cape Town at the end of last month, which was when Neels stayed out the whole night, although I didn’t tell George about that. Apparently she did spend a few days in the Cape Town office then. In fact, George said Beatrice is accompanying Neels when he flies back tomorrow. I am so angry.
August 13
I got a real scare when I went to pick up Caroline from school this afternoon. We were walking along the sidewalk when I saw him. Moolman. He was sitting in a blue car opposite the school entrance watching us. He must have realized I had spotted him, but he gave no indication of it. He was just staring at me. And Caroline.
I have to make sure he doesn’t touch her. If I do exactly as he says he won’t. I must let Neels know that I have given up all interest in the Laagerbond.
Neels is back. He arrived on the flight this morning and went straight into the office. Presumably he has Beatrice shacked up in some hotel on the Foreshore. I haven’t confronted him yet about her, but I will.
I wonder if she really is a spy. And if she is, is she “Impala,” the woman referred to in Daniel Havenga’s memo about Neels? She must be!
August 14
Neels didn’t get back here until nine last night. He looked exhausted. He poured himself a large brandy and sat by the fire. I joined him.
“I saw George Field yesterday,” I began.
“Oh, yes?” Neels replied without interest.
“He says that there have been spies on the Mail.”
“I know. We’ve had several conversations about it over the years. He sacked a journalist back in May.”
“Has he mentioned Beatrice Pienaar?”
“No he hasn’t.” Neels’s eyes flashed angrily. “Why should he?”
“He told me she seemed suspicious.”
“Well, she isn’t. Anyway, she’s working in Philadelphia, not here. And she was introduced by Daniel Havenga. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Who’s probably a member of the Broederbond.”
“Every Afrikaner of any importance is a member of the Broederbond. There are thousands of them.”
“Including you?”
“No!” Neels said. “I’ve told you. I’m not a member.”
“Have they ever asked you?”
“No. I’m sure they would have done if they thought I would say yes. But apart from anything else, the Mail has written dozens of articles over the years exposing their activities.”
“Is the Broederbond anything to do with the Laagerbond?” I asked.
Neels frowned. “I thought I told you not to concern yourself with that subject.”
I felt a surge of anger that I did my best to control. The fact that he had called me scum that night still hurt. The fact that we were sitting calmly discussing his mistress as if she were any other employee hurt more. But I had something important I wanted him to know. “You’re right. It’s forgotten.” He glanced at me sharply. I tried to smile. “Who you see is your business,” I said. “I don’t want to know anything about it.”
“Good,” he said. “We should be careful who we speak to, what we do. All of us. This country is getting more and more dangerous. I need to have a word with Zan, tell her she must stop going to whatever meetings she goes to while she’s staying with us. And you should be careful too.”
“Neels, listen to yourself,” I said. “Think of all the brave men and women you have supported over the years. People who have been to jail for what they believe in. How can you of all people have a problem with Zan going to an End Conscription meeting? Or with me, well, me …”
I had started a sentence I didn’t know how to finish. Neels noticed. “You what, Martha?” he said. “What have you done that I might have a problem with?”
“Nothing.” I thought of Libby Wiseman, of the police photographers at Thando’s funeral. And of Moolman. Especially of Moolman. “I told you, who you deal with is your affair.”
He wasn’t convinced. “Listen,” he said. “We’re in the endgame here, and it’s being played for high stakes. These days, you’re no longer immune, you know, none of us is. You could end up in jail or worse. Remember the promise you made to me just after we were married?”
That did it. Until then I was willing to pretend that Beatrice didn’t exist, that she didn’t matter, just for an evening. I slammed down my glass. “We both made promises when we got married, Neels. I’ll keep mine if you keep yours!” I stormed up to bed.
Neels came up much later. But we didn’t speak.
Eventually, Neels fell asleep. But as I lay in bed awake my thoughts drifted from Neels to him. In fact, I can’t get him out of my mind. I wonder when I will see him again. I can’t wait to hear from him.
Later…
We’ve just had a visitor. Penelope. And what a visit! It would have been funny if it wasn’t so sad.
She arrived at about three o’clock in the afternoon, with a driver, thank God. I was in the garden pruning the roses with Finneas. We like to do that together, compare strategies. When they bloom the rose garden looks gorgeous, and I think much of that is down to our pruning. The bok-makieries were whooping loudly to each other in the stinkwood tree.
Anyway, I saw a Jaguar roll up the drive and Penelope got out, tottered up to the front door in her ridiculous white heels and rang the bell. I walked up behind her and said hello. She almost jumped out of her skin. She was wearing tight bright yellow pants and a white frilly blouse. I haven’t seen her for five years at least. She’s gotten a lot heavier and she sags and her hair is dyed an orange color; it really didn’t go with the pants. I’ve seen photographs of her when she married Neels and she was stunning: a terrific figure and flashing eyes under long lashes. Even a few years ago you could see some vestiges of that beauty. But not now. Now she’s old, fat, and bitter.
“Hello, Penelope,” I said with what I hoped was a polite smile.
“I’v
e come to pick up my daughter.”
“I didn’t know she was expecting you?”
“She’s not. But I’ve come to take her back.”
“What do you mean?”
Penelope drew herself up to her full height. She’s not nearly as tall as me, but she was standing on the front doorstep and she was wearing heels, so she looked down on me. “I mean that you have taken my daughter, and I am taking her back. You’ve been keeping her here and forbidding her to come and see me. Well, I won’t have it.”
Her accent has always irritated me, the way she affects an upper-class British twang. I noticed a slight slur in her words for the first time, and there was a whiff of alcohol in the air. I wasn’t surprised.
“She’s twenty-four,” I said. “She can come and go as she pleases. You can’t take her and I can’t keep her.”
“You’ve stolen her from me, haven’t you? Just like you stole my husband and you stole my family newspapers.”
For a wicked moment I felt like admitting that I had stolen her husband, and I was sorry, and she could have him back now. She and Neels would have a whale of a time together.
“Speaking of the newspapers, I hear they’re up for sale. Is that right?”
“I believe so,” I said.
“Well, I hope Neels realizes that they are my family’s papers. If he sells them he should at least have the decency to give me what he gets for them.”
“I’ll pass that on,” I said. When Penelope gets going on the subject of the newspapers she can be very tiresome. I understand her anger to some extent. Soon after she and Neels got married, her father staked him to buy the ailing newspaper group that owned the Johannesburg Post and the Durban Age. A couple of years later he provided him with the funds to buy the Cape Daily Mail. It was a gift. As Neels tells it, he and Penelope’s father got on very well and the old man was quite happy to give the money to him, not invest it, nor insist that the shares were in Penelope’s name as well as Neels’s. He died in 1967, leaving Penelope a fortune in mining shares, by the way. Then, when she and Neels divorced in 1970, she argued that she deserved at least a 50 percent share in the newspapers. It all got ugly, and Neels spared me the details, but I know he kept ownership of Zyl News. It rankled, it obviously still rankles. She has no need of the money. I think what upsets her is the papers are a continuing reminder of her father’s love for Neels. Maybe once they’re sold she’ll calm down.
“Well, where is she?”
“I’ll see if I can find her.” I left Penelope on the doorstep – it may have been rude but there was no way I was going to let her into the house – and walked around to the back. Zan was powering up and down our swimming pool. It’s really too small for her, she spends most of her energy doing tumble turns, but she craves the exercise, and she swims every day no matter how cold it is. I told her her mother was out front. She grimaced.
“I can tell her you don’t want to see her if you like,” I said. “Or I can say you’re not here.”
She stood in the water, panting from her exertions. “I haven’t seen her since Christmas,” she said. “I just can’t bear it. She’s always drunk by midday.”
“Xanthe!” We both turned to see Penelope tottering over the lawn toward the pool. “Xanthe! My poor darling! I’ve come to fetch you.”
“Hello, Mom,” Zan said.
“You can stay with me, dear,” Penelope said as she got to the edge of the water. “You don’t have to stay with your father or Martha. We’ve got a wonderful pool, you know that.” She squatted down on her ample haunches. She was wobbling alarmingly. “You can come along with me now. I’ll send Jimmy over to bring your things later.”
“No, Mom,” Zan said. “I want to stay here.”
Penelope turned to me. “Can you leave us alone, please?” she demanded haughtily.
I began to withdraw when Zan stopped me. “Wait, Martha. There’s no need for you to go anywhere. I’m staying here.”
“But Xanthe,” Penelope cooed, “I miss you so much, dear.”
“Mom. Go home,” Zan said. “I’ll come and see you next week before I go to London.” With that she pulled her goggles down over her eyes and set off at a powerful crawl up the pool.
“Zan!” Penelope tottered after her, but Zan turned and Penelope ran back along the pool the other way. Zan was swimming faster than Penelope could move in her high heels. Penelope eventually figured this out and tottered around to the end of the pool. As Zan touched the edge, Penelope bent down to grab her wrist. I don’t know what Penelope was thinking of, but the result was inevitable. Zan tumbled, Penelope lost her balance and fell in with an enormous splash. It was the deep end, and she sank. Zan realized immediately what had happened, swam back and grabbed her mother, dragging her to the steps at the edge of the pool.
I somewhat reluctantly offered her my arm to drag her out. The poor woman was sobbing. Zan and I took her into the house, and Zan got her out of her wet things. There was then the problem of what to put her into, but I had the idea of digging out some of Neels’s old clothes. He’s a big man, but even his pants were tight around her waist, although his shirt came down to her knees. As quick as we decently could we packed her into her car, and her driver took her back to Constantia.
Poor Zan. Poor Penelope. But it was pretty funny.
Will he call me sometime? I wish we had made some kind of arrangement to see each other again. Discussed our relationship, such as it is. I don’t know whether he will want to see me again, and I can’t stand the thought that he won’t.
August 17
Neels flew off to London today to talk with his bankers about the Herald takeover. It’s been a really unpleasant few days. We didn’t mention Beatrice again, or the Laagerbond. In fact we have barely exchanged a word. But I made damn sure Beatrice isn’t going with him to London. She’s flying back to the States tomorrow.
And I’m going to Jo’burg tonight. Just for one night.
I’m beginning to lead a secret life; secret even from this diary. I find it strangely thrilling. It is difficult to edit my thoughts when writing this. I’m pretty sure no one has read the diary yet, but I can never guarantee that they won’t. It’s probably stupid to write it at all. But it has helped me get my life in some kind of perspective, and God knows it needed that. I’ve just reread the first page; it brings back how desperate I felt then. I still do feel that way a lot of the time. Things are bad, but there’s hope. There’s always hope.
And there’s Jo’burg tonight.
August 18
Jo’burg was wonderful. He was wonderful. Even though it was only one night, it was worth it.
We so nearly got caught. I saw Roger Temple, one of those smug guys who work for Anglo-American, get out of an elevator when we were getting into it. Fortunately he was wrapped up in conversation with the businessmen he was with. I’m amazed he didn’t recognize me, it’s only a couple of months since we sat opposite each other at the Jamesons. We were probably stupid to risk meeting there. But I’m so glad we did.
Will we see each other again? We didn’t talk about it. I wanted to ask him at the end, when we were saying goodbye. But that would just raise a whole new set of questions about the nature of our relationship, the impossibility of it all, the fact that the whole thing is mad, crazy, stupid and has no future. I didn’t want to think about all that. I just wanted to enjoy every moment with him.
Do I feel guilty? Let’s not ask that question either.
My heart is singing.
21
Calder could tell the woman sitting opposite was Cornelius van Zyl’s daughter. She was tall with his square jaw and his blue piercing eyes surrounded by crows’ feet. She also had his broad shoulders, but her body was lean and sinewy, angles rather than curves. She was wearing tight jeans and a light sweater, her blonde hair was cut short, revealing ears that were pierced with three sets of gold earrings. Calder calculated that she must be in her early forties, but apart from the wrinkles around her eyes, she loo
ked younger.
They were in a restaurant on the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, a large redeveloped area of wharves, shops, restaurants, yachts and fishing boats. The wharf in front of them was heaving with the tourists and citizens of Cape Town, almost all of them white, enjoying the late-autumn sun. A cacophony of music drifted in from the open windows as gospel singers, a saxophonist and a group of four electric guitarists wearing kilts launched a combined assault on the crowd. Behind it all were the glass and steel towers of the city centre, and behind them Table Mountain, a long high wall of grey, pale in the soft sunlight, supporting its mysterious plateau 3,000 feet above the city.
Calder had caught his first glimpse of it that morning, when he had looked up from his airline breakfast to see the great mountain silhouetted black in the gunmetal-blue dawn light, rising like an island out of a broad sea of white cloud which stretched out to the jagged profile of more mountains to the east. As the plane drew nearer he could see the cloud moving and swirling about the summit, like waves hitting a rocky shore. Now, seven hours later, it had all burned away to leave the sky bright blue and the mountain shimmering.
Still feeling muzzy from the broken sleep of his flight, Calder squinted at the menu, trying to decide between springbok pie and ostrich. In the end he went for the springbok. Zan chose pasta.
‘So you’re the only van Zyl to stay on in South Africa?’ Calder said.
‘That’s right,’ Zan replied. She had a much more distinctive South African accent than her siblings or her father. ‘I like it here, especially Cape Town. You have to admit, it’s a beautiful city.’
‘It certainly beats mid-winter in London,’ Calder agreed.
‘I know. I spent a year there and the long nights got me down. That, and the way everyone wore black; it’s the last thing you need in such a grey country. I was supposed to be studying at the LSE but I spent most of my time doing my bit for the struggle. I dropped out after the first year and went to Mozambique for a spell. It was all very exciting, but when we won and Mandela came to power I decided to come home. A free South Africa was what we had all been fighting for, after all.’
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