Just a Dead Man

by Margaret von Klemperer

  I went back into my studio, and decided to see if I could make a start on the mango painting. I leaned the apple one on the sofa where I could see it and clipped the new photograph to the corner of my easel. To my surprise, I slowly became utterly absorbed. Creative urges and moments of inspiration are all very well, but I have discovered over the years that the real issue is making a start. Once you are on the way … well, you are on the way. I may be one of the world’s great procrastinators, but at least I know it, and sometimes try to do something about it.

  I had expected the colours to be difficult: the mango skin ought be reasonably straightforward, but the flesh and the backdrop were quite similar, and needed to be contrasted by showing textures, the fruit glistening wet but with a hint of fibre, while the cloth would be matt, receding into the distance. And the skin tones for Daniel’s hand and wrist were not going to be simple either. I have seldom painted black people, having no wish to get entangled in debates about the representation of “the other”. I don’t have the energy for a discussion that seems to generate more heat than light, and anyway, I’m not quite sure what I think about it all. I reckoned, however, that painting one black left hand shouldn’t land me in philosophical hot water.

  I was engrossed, relishing the technical problems and the fact that they took my mind off other things. At least here I was in charge: the work would stand or fall by my efforts. No one else was involved or could take the blame if things went wrong. I was startled by the doorbell, the events of Monday flooding back.

  It was Verne and Chantal. I thanked them for coming, wondering if I was being silly calling for reinforcements just because an unknown man was coming to see me. Still, I reassured myself, he was the son of a murder victim, and he might well be antagonistic. I was the friend of the man accused of the killing.

  True to character, Chantal was forthright, asking me straight out why I was getting involved.

  “I’m worried about Dan. I think the cops have convinced themselves he’s guilty because he’s a foreigner and he was there, and I don’t get the feeling they’re doing much more investigating. Someone has to do something.”

  “Sure, but what on earth can you hope to find out? You’re not a detective. You’re a …” Chantal paused. “You’re a middle-aged white teacher and artist.”

  “So? Does that matter?” I decided to ignore the middle-aged bit. She was probably all of five years younger than me but starting the hare of when middle age begins would get us nowhere. She had raised a more pertinent issue: was my whiteness some kind of problem to her?

  “Well, quite honestly, I think it does make a difference. Don’t you think you’re going to antagonise the cops?”

  Verne, who had been prowling round the studio, spoke for the first time. “Leave it, Chantal. We’ve discussed this and agreed that Dan needs help. Laura and this Robin guy, you and me. We’ll work together on this one. It’s pointless for us to argue about it.”

  I looked helplessly at them. If what we were trying to do was going to founder on the rocks of race, poor old Dan would probably rot in jail. “Look, if you really believe I’m going to make it worse, I’ll back off. But I think you’re being ridiculous.”

  Chantal looked at me. She is a solid woman, barrel-shaped and plain but with a certain vitality. Those who know her better than I do say she is kind, and does a fantastic job with the abused women she helps. “Well, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” she said, “but I deal with the police all the time, and they often resent outsiders. And in a case like this, with a black victim and a black refugee accused, a white amateur barging in … I don’t know that it’ll help. But I’m sure you think you’re doing the right thing.”

  And at this inauspicious moment, the bell rang again. Mr Ndzoyiya.

  He was a stocky, youngish man, probably in his early thirties. He looked at the three of us when I let him in and introduced Verne and Chantal. Verne, who had been very quiet up until now, looked over to me and with a slight nod, stepped forward.

  “Mr Ndzoyiya, we’re very sorry for your loss. It must have been a great shock. But we all know Mr Moyo well, and we simply cannot believe he had anything to do with your father’s death. So if we can do something to help him, and at the same time bring your father’s killer to justice, we would like to.”

  Ndzoyiya listened, and looked round the room. His voice was very deep, with a slight hesitancy, and while his English was excellent, it was old fashioned and had he been older, I would have said he was mission-school educated. Maybe his schoolteacher father had influenced him.

  “Thank you. Of course my father’s passing has come as a terrible shock, to the whole family. But from what he told me about Mr Moyo when he came up from Durban and from what he said he would be doing in Pietermaritzburg, I must admit I was surprised when the police arrested this man. He had made contact with my father over the telephone, from Johannesburg, and my father told me he was interested in my great-grandfather’s stories. These are tales we have all grown up with. My father said Mr Moyo was polite and respectful, and wanted to find a way to remember those brave men. I can think of no reason why he would want to kill.”

  He looked up at us. While he had been speaking, he had been looking down at the floor. “This is hard for me, for all the family. Of course, we want to see my father’s killer brought to justice. But I would never want to see an innocent man punished.”

  We shuffled our feet, and I felt more than a little embarrassed. I asked Mr Ndzoyiya if he would like to walk to the spot where his father had been found, and he nodded. We headed out of the garden gate, Grumpy deeply indignant that we were setting off on his favourite walk without him. We made our way slowly up the hill, past the six houses, three on each side, that line the cul-de-sac. I caught a glimpse of Philippa as we passed her house. She was standing at her kitchen window, watching us.

  Mr Ndzoyiya and Verne led the way, talking quietly, while Chantal and I followed like two ill-assorted Chinese wives, four steps behind the men. We didn’t say much, but as I was running the events of Monday afternoon over in my mind, the elusive memory that had been lurking just out of reach suddenly became clear, and with such force that I gave a little gasp.

  “What’s wrong?” Chantal looked at me curiously. “You okay?”

  “Yes, fine. I just remembered something, that’s all. Not important.” We went on to the turning circle at the top of the road, and where the tar ended, took the path that led into the plantations, overgrown now in early autumn, the long grass on the verges studded with blackjacks, their dark, barbed seeds waiting like sharp sunbursts to snag on unwary arms and legs. Tattered plastic bags hung on the brambles, and a couple of broken polystyrene boxes that had once held burgers lay scattered on the ground, but once we had gone 50 metres, the litter diminished and the path opened out. Litterers can seldom be bothered to go far off the beaten track. As the trees, mostly gums and wattles, began, the path divided, and we followed the right-hand, slightly steeper route, bare red earth showing through fallen leaves. There had been little rain since the day of the murder, and it was dry underfoot. As we followed the curve, we saw remnants of blue-and-white police tape. Why hadn’t they cleared up after themselves? I had a horrible moment when I thought there might still be blood on the grass, but the short, heavy shower that had fallen just after the body had been removed had washed that away. I showed Mr Ndzoyiya the place, the grass still flattened where the body had lain and the police had tramped around it.

  He stood, looking down, while Verne, Chantal and I stood in a rather awkward row on the other side of the path. My mind was racing. I would need to speak to the police about what I had just remembered. Once I was sure it was a real memory.

  12

  AS WE STOOD THERE TRYING not to watch Mr Ndzoyiya staring at the ground, there was a soft, rustling noise in the earth-smelling leaf litter under the trees. Birds or small creatures of the forest feeding, hunting and going about their inscrutable business. If only they could talk, tell u
s what they had witnessed on Monday afternoon. In the distance, I could hear a police siren, far enough away not to intrude, and somewhere a dog barked: the sounds of urban life that we seldom stop long enough to hear. Verne dug into the softer earth at the edge of the path with the toe of his shoe while Chantal, always restless, made a faint clicking noise with her tongue against her teeth. Eventually, Mr Ndzoyiya straightened up with a sigh.

  “Thank you. Shall we go now?”

  We shuffled back into our two-by-two crocodile, but this time Verne and Chantal led the way while I walked with Mr Ndzoyiya.

  “The police tell me my father was not killed here. The killer brought his body here and left it under the trees. They say they don’t know why.”

  Well, that was news. Or, at least, the confirmation of what Adam Pillay had originally suggested.

  “It’s strange,” I said. “They don’t seem to have even tried to hide him. People use these paths: cyclists, walkers, joggers and people taking short cuts. He was always going to be found quickly.”

  My companion nodded, and stood politely aside to let me get to the garden gate and spin the combination. We filed back into the house, and I offered everyone a cup of tea. Mr Ndzoyiya accepted, but Verne said he had to get back to university. He and Chantal shook hands with Mr Ndzoyiya, and left.

  I made the tea, and carried the tray through to the studio.

  “You are a painter?” Mr Ndzoyiya asked, gesturing to my easel. With a jolt I realised that the hand beginning to take shape on the canvas was that of the man accused of murdering his father.

  “Yes. That’s how I met Daniel … Mr Moyo. You know, Mr Ndzoyiya, I can’t believe he had anything to do with this. I don’t know quite how to put this … but can I ask you? Did your father have any enemies? Could anyone possibly have wanted him dead? I suppose the police have asked you all of this, but I’m very worried about Mr Moyo. He’s a Zimbabwean refugee, and things haven’t been easy for him. And, of course, many foreigners have had very bad experiences in this country. Even at the hands of the police. And Mr Moyo’s only contact with your father had been on the phone, a request for information.”

  I felt uncomfortable: I had no idea what Mr Ndzoyiya’s feelings about foreigners, or anything else, were. But I ploughed on. “I feel I must try to help Daniel. If you have any idea who might have killed your father, who his enemies were, could you tell me?”

  Mr Ndzoyiya reached for his tea. Considering that the accused was a friend of mine, he seemed relaxed in my presence and, if not exactly friendly, certainly perfectly amiable. Looking down into the mug, he began to speak.

  “Mrs Marsh, my father believed deeply that the sacrifice his grandfather and others made for their masters in war should be recognised. Perhaps particularly in the First World War, which he felt was not the business of African people but where they went willingly, from a sense of duty. And that is, in itself, not a contentious opinion. But the way that recognition is given and by whom is, like so many things, not as readily resolved.

  “When Mr Moyo contacted my father, and told him, as I understand it, that he wanted to do some paintings about soldiers fighting for their colonisers, he was interested. He had many stories and felt he could share some of them, maybe give Mr Moyo some ideas. He did not believe memorials should be the property of governments, the kind that are officially opened with fanfares and expensive celebrations and then ignored. He felt they should be everywhere – in schoolbooks, in art, in everyday life.”

  “That seems a good idea,” I said. It was a feeble response, but I wanted to say something to keep Mr Ndzoyiya going as he seemed to have reached a natural pause.

  “Many of the people on the Mendi, including my great-grandfather, were from Pondoland, as I am. I know my father sometimes felt other people were trying to take over our memories, use them for their own ends. But I don’t really know if he had had any specific quarrel with anyone about it. Though I do remember …” Mr Ndzoyiya trailed off, and looked up at me. “Maybe these are things I should rather be telling the police.” He stood up and thanked me formally for the tea, and for taking time to show him where the body had been found.

  “Mr Ndzoyiya, look, I don’t want to interfere, but I do feel the police are targeting Daniel. If you know anything, or if you feel you could tell me anything, please won’t you? Or if you would rather not talk to me – and I quite understand – will you tell Inspector Pillay? But if you feel you can, will you tell me too?”

  He looked straight at me, for the first time. “Maybe I will. I believe what you have told me.” I scribbled my cellphone and landline numbers down, and gave them to him. He offered me his hand, and then he was gone.

  13

  I RECEIVED A TEXT MESSAGE from Robin just as I was climbing out of bed on Thursday, telling me to be at his office at eight sharp – early for my holiday timetable. I had just enough time to grab a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, and promise Grumpy a proper walk later. He subsided with a sigh, his whole being exuding offence as he mooched off to his kennel. I would phone Philippa, and we could walk together this afternoon. I was suddenly nervous about being alone in the plantations.

  Robin was waiting for me. He picked up a gown that was greening with age, and had a jagged tear in the hem. I wondered if I should offer to mend it, except that I don’t really do mending. But maybe I could swing it as part payment.

  “We can go down to the cells and see Daniel before he comes to court. He knows this will just be a remand, but I need to talk to him.”

  “Will he get bail?”

  “We’ll get him a bail hearing. I’ve spoken to the prosecutor, and she’s agreed to get that set down for next week.” I started to say something, but Robin interrupted. “No ways we can get it before then. I think she’s a bit concerned about the lack of evidence she’s seen so far, but we have to apply for bail in the Regional Court. If we get a date next week, we’ll be doing well.”

  A little nervously, I told Robin about Paul Ndzoyiya’s visit and that I had asked him if his father had enemies. I also told him what I had remembered as I walked down the road, and he suggested I should talk to Inspector Pillay about it.

  “He’ll be in court this morning. What you remember is pretty vague, but it might help. But keep in mind, Laura, that this is a murder case. Leave it to the police – don’t do anything stupid.”

  I actually thought that that was rather offensive, but said nothing. After all, Robin was helping Daniel, and if he thought I was a pest, well … so be it. Then, again, maybe I was?

  I don’t suppose – apart from the day I got divorced, over which my mind has drawn a comforting veil – I had ever set foot in a courtroom before. The divorce must have been in the High Court anyway; maybe marginally less unpleasant than the magistrates’ end of the process. There was a guard who eyed us with disfavour but let us in when Robin said we were going down to the holding cells to visit his client. The place smelt of stale urine with a curious metallic tang that made me think of railway stations but was probably no more than the odour of institutions. There was another smell that took me a moment longer to identify: dagga. Everything seemed to be covered in a layer of grime so ingrained that no cleaning could ever remove it: it had become part of the fabric of the building. As Robin led the way down to the cells, we passed a series of battered benches, the floor beneath them scuffed by thousands of waiting feet, and I felt myself cringing away from the people we passed, the walls and the whole experience.

  A policeman let us into a room and went off to fetch Daniel. There were hard plastic chairs, but I didn’t want to sit down. Coward that I am, I didn’t want to be there at all. To my surprise, Daniel looked calm when they brought him in. He was wearing clean jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and I realised guiltily that Chantal, practical and organised, must have brought him a change of clothes, something that had not even crossed my mind. I supposed she was used to dealing with people who found themselves at the mercy of the police, but even so, I should have th
ought of it.

  Daniel gave me a hug, and shook Robin’s hand. When I asked if he was okay, he nodded. Robin then sat him down and told him exactly what to expect, and said he reckoned the bail hearing would be set for next week. Dan nodded again. He told us Sergeant Dhlomo had been in yesterday to question him, had asked all kinds of questions about his life in Johannesburg and said that he was taking Dan’s car in for forensic examination. “Not that he’s going to find anything,” said Dan. Again I wondered why he had parked outside on Monday. But I didn’t want to ask.

  I told him about Paul Ndzoyiya’s visit, and what he knew of his father’s interaction with Dan. “That’s right. He told me on the phone he felt public memorials were not the answer, and would cost far too much. Rather spend the money on developing materials schoolkids could use. Stuff to tell them about the country’s history rather than more statues or memorial plaques that just get vandalised – and are anyway something inherited from the colonisers. He talked about the coloniser and the colonised quite a bit. I didn’t get the feeling he was involved in any kind of activity to promote one kind of memorial over another, but remember I never met him: just spoke to him a couple of times. Though he did say there were plans for a memorial statue, which he thought a bit pointless.”

  There didn’t seem to be much more that Dan could tell us, and Robin was on his feet, heading for the door. I still could not believe the Mendi connection and Phineas Ndzoyiya’s views on how to commemorate it could have had anything to do with his death. It simply made no sense, almost a hundred years after the event, to kill someone because of a dispute over statues or worksheets. But we were out of time.

  We left Daniel, and headed up to court. It was not imposing: just a grimly functional space where lawyers in gowns and other people with files in hand were milling about. I caught sight of Verne and Chantal sitting in what I supposed served as the public gallery and, touching Robin on the arm and pointing to where I was headed, I moved across the room to join them. On the way, I bumped into Inspector Pillay and Sergeant Dhlomo.