Tandia

by Bryce Courtenay

  Peekay left the brightly lit room. Several people were standing in the corridor. Peekay removed his hand from around Hymie's shoulder. 'I want them to see me walking out.' He gave a wry grin, 'After all, my feet are the only bits of me which don't feel broken.' They walked down the passage followed by Dutch, Jerome, and with Togger carrying Carmen's Elizabeth Jane.

  Daddy Kockle remained behind in the dressing room, seated on the rub-down table, shaking his head and clucking to himself. He glanced up into the mirror on the opposite wall, patting his snowy white hair. Only four of the twenty-four lights still shone around the perimeter. His face, blotched with the brown mercury discolouration on the mirror's surface, seemed to show every one of the sixty or more hard years of his life. He talked directly at the image in the mirror, the beginning of a smile on his face.

  'Nossah! That boy, he ain't licked yet. Right now he fixin' to come back and, when he do…Why he gon' whup that sonofabitch! Whup him so good, he gonna lay down for a week 'foh he gets up!'

  He picked up his clarinet, brought it to his mouth, and blew the sweet, clean opening notes to Crossing over Jordan to the Other Side.

  BOOK THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Colonel Bokkie Venter looked down at the transfer approval notice in front of him from Pretoria. It simply stated that the application by Detective Sergeant Jannie Teunis Geldenhuis for a transfer had been approved and mentioned at the same time that he had been promoted to the Special Branch in Pretoria with the new rank of lieutenant. He was to take up duties as soon as he could be released.

  Venter wasn't altogether pleased with the news. Police work is essentially about being a member of a team and Geldenhuis was by nature a secretive man who seldom asked the advice of his peers or, for that matter, showed more than cursory respect for his senior officers. It wasn't anything for which he could be reprimanded; it was just that the blond, blue-eyed policeman was too ambitious for his own good. SAT, the so-called Immorality Squad Geldenhuis ran, was deeply resented by the other divisions who accused him of headline-hunting and grand-standing.

  Venter couldn't put his finger on it. On paper Geldenhuis was an exemplary police officer, but there was something about his manner which made his fellow officers dislike him and suspect his motives. Venter could see controversy ahead and controversy was something he'd spent most of his working life trying to avoid.

  His appointment book showed that Lieutenant Geldenhuis was to see him at three that afternoon. He called his secretary to bring him the police officer's personal file. There'd been a lot of gossip about the nature of the young policeman's automobile accident and he wanted to bring himself up to date with the details.

  At three minutes to three Lieutenant Geldenhuis presented himself to Colonel Venter's secretary. It had taken five months for him to recover from his injuries and he'd been back at work barely a month. He'd used this time to study and to pass the police examinations which allowed him to rise above the rank of detective sergeant. He'd also made real progress in learning the Zulu language.

  Colonel Venter's secretary announced him on the phone and then, cradling the receiver, rose from her desk. 'The Colonel will see you now.'

  Geldenhuis followed her through a small secretarial office.

  She stood by the door of Venter's office to let him pass. 'Coffee?' she asked. Jannie Geldenhuis shook his head, declining. She closed the door behind him as he entered.

  'Ah, sit down please, Detective Sergeant.' Venter indicated a chair.

  'Thank you, sir.' Geldenhuis had been surprised at the call to see Venter; his senior officer had approved his request for a transfer and he knew of no reason why Venter would want to see him.

  Now Venter half rose in his chair and extended his hand. 'Congratulations, Geldenhuis, Lieutenant Geldenhuis, it seems your career continues to prosper.'

  Geldenhuis looked surprised, taking Venter's hand.

  'Thank you, sir. I confess it comes as a surprise. I mean, being away for so long sick.'

  'Better still, you've been promoted to the Special Branch in Pretoria,' Venter added.

  This time Geldenhuis was unable to conceal his delight. 'Thank you, sir. That's even better news. It's an unexpected honour.'

  Venter looked steadily at Geldenhuis for a few moments. 'I've looked at your file, Lieutenant. Your police career is commendable. It shows that in SAT you averaged two arrests a week policing the Immorality Act. It seems you have the best record in this area of any policeman in South Africa. I also note that during the period you were sick, recovering from your accident, that only six arrests were made in nearly five months. Tell me, Lieutenant, why do you think this is?'

  Geldenhuis sensed that there was a trap being set for him by his superior officer. 'I can't say, Colonel. I can only think that the officer who took over from me didn't utilize his contacts. This kind of work is very dependent on good information, on knowing your territory. The officer wasn't promoted from within my squad.'

  'Ah yes, contacts, you're right, a policeman needs access, lots of contacts.' Venter looked down and appeared to be looking through a file placed in front of him. 'How is your health? Are you fully recovered from your broken…?'

  'Pelvis, sir.'

  'Ja, pelvis. You know rumours are funny things, man. Something starts with a pelvis, a simple thing like a car accident when the driver is thrown upwards and the steering wheel snaps and breaks his pelvis. Before you know where you are, man, a word like "pelvis" turns into a word like "penis", a very similar word, don't you think, Lieutenant?'

  'Yes sir,' Geldenhuis answered, his heart suddenly beating fast.

  'And a thing like using your contacts, which, as you say is what every good policeman should do, turns into using your contacts in maybe an entirely different sort of way, hey?'

  Geldenhuis had never liked Venter, who was an old-fashioned cop, the type who played everything by the book: the hear-no-evil, see-no-evil, speak-no-evil type who was always covering his arse. Now he hated the bastard. He'd applied for a transfer to get himself the hell out of Natal. Too many cops hated him. The 'accident' rumours were getting out of hand. Only recently he'd heard that a Pinetown cop's wife, one of the nurses at Durban General who'd changed his dressings from time to time, had opened her big gob to her old man. The cop whose wife blabbed had made a comment back at the station. 'Perforated pelvis? That's a bladdy funny name for a prick with tooth marks on it!' The remark had spread gleefully to every station in Natal. Now this bastard was onto it as well; he was going to make him eat shit, maybe even rescind his promotion. Geldenhuis was permanently scarred. He could never undress in front of men again. And this bastard was now going to take it out on his career. He wondered what else was in hi!? file. If Venter had all the facts about the incident at Bluey Jay, it was enough to bury him ten times over. If he had the pictures Mama Tequila had shown him in Bayview Private Clinic he'd be out of the force before morning on a charge of miscegenation.

  He tried to clear his head, to think the thing out. Surely if they had the whole story they'd have acted before now? They wouldn't have waited until he was back on duty. Venter was an old-fashioned cop, he'd have asked him to resign, not to come back. He'd have done it on the quiet, told the world that Geldenhuis was permanently disabled. Geldenhuis immediately felt a little better. Knowing your man was everything; Venter was fishing.

  'Lieutenant, are you a member of the Broederbond?' Venter asked suddenly.

  'Do I have to answer that, sir?' Jesus, membership was secret, but it wasn't illegal any more.

  'You already have, Lieutenant.'

  'It's a personal matter, sir.'

  'Ja, sure, man, but sometimes personal matters and police matters, you know like the words pelvis and penis, they get mixed up.' Venter stood up and Geldenhuis was forced to his feet as well. 'I want you to hand over SAT to Detective Sergeant Williams and be out of Police Headquarters in a we
ek, you hear?'

  'Certainly, sir.'

  'You may go, Lieutenant Geldenhuis.' Geldenhuis replaced his cap, saluted and turned to leave.

  He couldn't believe it, Venter was letting him off the hook.

  Or was he? The file, what was in- his file for later use? Geldenhuis stopped. 'Thank you, sir. Excuse me, Colonel Venter, my record, are there to be any additions?' He knew it was important to hold Venter's eyes, to show him he wasn't scared.

  Venter laughed. 'Yes, of course, the fact that you used your sick leave to pass your senior police officers' exams and to learn an African language, very worthy of comment.

  You see, Geldenhuis, sometimes we've got friends we don't even know about ourselves, in Pretoria…and also other places.'

  Once he was well away from Venter's office, Jannie Geldenhuis closed his eyes tightly and shook his head fiercely as though trying to rid his mind of the interview he'd just been through. At one stage he'd been certain it was all over, finish and klaar! Venter had had him by the balls and was squeezing. Thank Christ the bastard was Broederbond or it would have been all over, for sure. Then he smiled to himself. Venter was still a weak shit. If it had been him he'd have worked it up until he had a person like himself begging for mercy. Didn't the silly bastard know that the first fucking principle of police work was to compromise the other side? If you had a person compromised you had the power. Power was everything. You never knew when you'd need someone. But one thing was for bladdy sure, sooner or later you always did!

  Then another thought occurred to Geldenhuis. Venter didn't think he was worth the trouble to compromise. Well the bastard was wrong again! He had a long fucking memory and the stupid bastard had let him off the hook. His career was intact. Special Branch was everything he wanted. He was made for it, designed by God for it! He'd show the prick what being a real policeman was all about.

  When Geldenhuis had received his commendation from the Minister for Justice, a little note, written on blank half-quarto size paper had been slipped behind the official letterhead. On it, printed in biro, were just the words: 'Call Pretoria 75-4631 6 pm. Saturday.' Nothing more, no signature, nothing.

  He didn't know how he knew, but somehow he just knew. He knew he was going to be invited to join the Broederbond. He had called the number the following Saturday, waiting until one minute to six before he gave the operator at the telephone exchange the long-distance number. The phone had rang three times before it was picked up by a voice speaking in Afrikaans. 'Naam?'

  'Geldenhuis.'

  'Christian names?'

  'Johannes, Teunis.'

  'Preferred name?'

  'Jannie…Jannie Geldenhuis.' He felt a little stupid, he was a police officer, a detective sergeant and he was answering blind into a phone to someone who was filling in a form.

  'Address…Home address and personal telephone number?'

  Jannie Geldenhuis gave the voice his home address and number. 'Who am I speaking to?' he asked, strangely afraid to sound over-aggressive. 'Occupation?'

  'Police officer. Look who…what is this?'

  'Rank?'

  'Detective Sergeant.'

  'Baie dankie, Speurder Sersant Geldenhuis,' the anonymous voice thanked him and hung up.

  Two weeks later he'd received a letter asking him to attend a meeting at the Hotel Edward on the esplanade. The letter asked him simply to come up to room seventy-one at half past two on 6 July and not to wear uniform.

  He'd knocked on the hotel door which was opened by a big man wearing a sports coat, white shirt and tartan tie. He appeared to be in his mid forties and his crew cut was already peppered with grey, though he looked fit and hard. Geldenhuis had seen him before, though he couldn't think where, but he knew immediately from the way he wore his civilian clothes that he was a police officer.

  'Kom binne asseblief, Speuder Sersant Geldenhuis,' the man invited, holding the door open for him.

  Geldenhuis entered the room to find two other men; one appeared to be in his mid fifties the other somewhat younger, perhaps a little over thirty. They were seated in a small lounge room leading onto a balcony which stood open so that you could see the yachts moored in the basin beyond.

  'My naam is Kolonel Klaasens,' the large man said; then indicating the man on his left, 'Meneer Steyn'; then the one on his right, 'Meneer Cogsweel.'

  Geldenhuis nodded his head and then stepped forward, shaking each of them by the hand. 'Sit, Geldenhuis,' Klaasens said brusquely, his police manner to a junior officer coming through unconsciously. The two other men hadn't risen when Jannie had extended his hand, instead taking it where they sat, though both gripped firmly in the Afrikaner manner, nodding their heads in reply to his greeting, saying nothing in return. Both were dressed in grey suits and didn't look like policemen. They were medium-sized men, Cogsweel the better dressed, his grey suit cut well, his collar neat and tie carefully knotted. He looked like a civil servant, while Steyn could have passed as a church elder or a bank manager. Neither were the sort of men you'd notice in a busy street scene.

  'Do you have any idea why you are here, Geldenhuis?' Klaasens asked.

  'No, sir.' Geldenhuis replied, not willing to suggest he thought they might be Broederbond. 'Oh? Then why did you come?'

  Geldenhuis grinned. 'I am a detective, Colonel. The note I received is not uncommon in my line of work.'

  'And you didn't connect it with the phone call you made two weeks ago to Pretoria?' Steyn, the older of the two men, asked.

  'Well, ja, I thought it was a possibility, the postmark was Pretoria.' Geldenhuis was having a bet each way; they'd think him a fool if he didn't admit this much.

  'And?' Steyn asked again.

  A look of impatience crossed Jannie Geldenhuis's face. 'Look! What is this? Would someone explain, please?'

  Klaasens laughed. 'The Minister is interested in you, Geldenhuis.' He indicated Cogsweel and Steyn. 'Our friends here are simply checking you out.'

  'For what, sir?' Geldenhuis asked, looking somewhat bemused.

  Cogsweel got up from his lounge chair. Standing, he was larger than he'd seemed, the top half of him not in proportion to his long legs. He wore a crew cut just beginning to turn grey. It was cut flat and gave his square-jawed face an almost rectangular look, the shape of a shoebox turned on its end. When he stood he was at least six foot tall. Cogsweel walked over to the window and, with his hands pushed into his jacket pockets, stood with his back to Geldenhuis, looking out over the yacht basin.

  He spoke Afrikaans well, but with the slight accent of an English-speaking South African. 'We are looking for patriots, true patriots, people who put their country first, selfless people who are not afraid to take risks. We have won the first battle and the Afrikaner is back in charge of his own country again. We are making the necessary changes, consolidating, repairing the damage done by the British.' He turned and faced Jannie Geldenhuis. 'Have you heard the expression, "damage control"?' Geldenhuis nodded. 'It's a military term.'

  'Ja, that is correct. And what we are talking about is war. War against all those people and factions who would undermine the Afrikaner nation. Damage control is the business of minimizing the effect our enemies have on the state.'

  Steyn now spoke, though he didn't rise from his chair. 'A people are only safe when they have eyes and ears everywhere: the eyes and ears of the true patriot, the man or woman dedicated to the purity of the nation's blood. The survival of our nation is dependent on keeping both the body and the spirit of the Afrikaner from being contaminated. For three hundred years we have kept our blood pure! We have kept our belief in God. We have not broken the covenant!' He smiled suddenly, aware that he might be coming on too strong. 'Look at your eyes! They're blue, you have white hair, blond. You are the direct result of our forefathers who kept the faith. Now it is our turn to hold the torch, to serve our country, the white Afrikaner nation.'

/>   Cogsweel seated himself again. 'You have shown yourself a man who is not afraid to take action, to become involved.'

  'I am a policeman, Mr Cogsweel. That's my job.'

  'Ja, but there are policemen and there are policemen. A patriot is someone who doesn't do it because it is a job, but because it is his duty to serve…'

  Die Vaderland!' Steyn said, interjecting. 'The Minister thinks you may be this sort of man, Detective Sergeant Geldenhuis.'

  Jannie Geldenhuis felt his heart racing. They were telling him everything he wanted to hear. He wasn't political. Not in the sense of being a Nationalist, though he supposed he was that when it was all boiled down. But he was obsessed with the purity of his Afrikaner blood. It was what drove him in the SAT Squad; and here it was again. He could sense the power in the room and the effect that that power might have on his career. Klaasens was Special Branch; he knew because he'd picked through the filing cabinet he kept in his mind; he was also the boxing coach for the Pretoria Police Boxing Club.

  'I am flattered, sir. I only hope I can justify the Minister's opinion.' Geldenhuis looked directly at Steyn, holding his eyes.

  'Will you join us?' Cogsweel asked, smiling.

  Geldenhuis was suddenly certain that the way he replied was critical to the outcome; if he asked whom he was joining he was in effect rejecting the ethos of the conversation which had just taken place. On the other hand, by not asking he might seem stupid, easily led.

  'Thank you, I am flattered by your invitation, but there is only one organization that truly inspires me, only one which I wish to be invited to join.'

  'And that is?' Cogsweel asked quietly, a small smile creasing the corners of his mouth. 'Why, the Broederbond, sir.'

  Cogsweel laughed, having anticipated the answer but gratified by the way Geldenhuis had neatly side-stepped the trap they'd set for him. 'Welcome to the Broederbond, Jannie Geldenhuis,' he said, standing, and offering the young policeman his hand.