It couldn’t have been very wrong because if it had been and she didn’t have the confirmation she needed, the story wouldn’t have effectively fallen into her lap – would it? Aviva Silverman had stood there and, cool as a fucking cucumber, had introduced her to her baby – her baby by her own brother, for fuck’s sake. How sick was that? Tracy braced herself for a feeling of outraged indignation to build up inside her. Outrage, indignation, horror – that’s what she needed to spur on her writing efforts, but it just wasn’t happening.
Tracy jumped as lightning split the sky outside the newsroom window – followed, moments later, by a huge crash of thunder that rumbled on and on. There was no rain, but a howling wind had come up fast and furious. Perhaps it would blow the storm away. She turned away from the window and focused on her monitor. A thought that she had forced to the back of her mind wriggled free again. She tried to block it out but it refused to go away: what if Aviva didn’t know that Arno van Zyl was her brother? What if Arno didn’t know that Aviva Silverman was his sister? Mafuta, of course, would insist that she confront them with that question and somehow, she’d have to find the courage to do it. She’d fully intended to do it when she saw them at Genesys, but her courage had failed her. However, it really didn’t matter whether they knew or not, did it? The fact remained that they were siblings and their marriage – if they were actually married – was illegal and their relationship incestuous. End of story.
Except. Except if they didn’t know, and she confronted them with the truth, it meant their relationship would be over. And it could—probably would—destroy them. Not that she cared – Aviva deserved to be brought down a peg or two, or three. She was as snooty as ever. Arno too. He’d always been a superior bastard, from the first time she’d bumped heads with him and he’d tried to convince her that Alan Silverman was a good man. Ha! That was a joke. Strange that he’d ended up with Alan Silverman’s daughter. Even stranger that Aviva had shacked up with a man who was her father’s double – bald head and beard notwithstanding.
Perhaps she should try and find a psychologist who would be prepared to comment on the brother-sister incest issue. It would give her story stronger legs. She wanted to write a more substantial article than the pseudo-psychological crap she’d once read in a women’s gossip magazine about girls wanting to marry their fathers and invariably choosing someone who reminded them of him. That was straight out of Psychology 101. Her first-year psychology course at Rhodes University had included a lecture about the Oedipus-Electra complex thing. She hadn’t bought into that claptrap for a minute. The last thing she desired was a man who resembled her own father in any way, shape or form. Maybe that’s why she was attracted to Yair: tall, athletic-looking, with dark, wavy hair and electric blue eyes; while her father was short, fat, bald and grey. And unlike her father, Yair was sensitive and generous and polite and funny and gentle and honest and... Tracy’s eyes filled and she sniffed.
And what about Mattie? Night after night, as she’d tossed and turned and reworked the story, Tracy kept seeing the sweet, trusting smile of the gorgeous little boy with his huge blue eyes and chubby little hands. She kept hearing the cute way he’d said ‘Hello Aunty Tracy’ and his excitement as he’d clutched his KitKat. A sensational story broadcasting his parents’ illicit relationship would destroy his future. Regardless of what happened to Aviva and Arno, little Mattie would always carry the stigma of being a child of incest. He didn’t deserve that. No child did. But there was no way she could protect him and still write the story. She’d tried, without success. The moment she used Aviva Silverman’s and Arno van Zyl’s names, Mattie would be identified, even if she didn’t name him. And if she didn’t name Aviva and Arno, there was no story.
And then another niggling doubt wormed its way from the furthest recesses of her mind to front and centre of her thoughts. Was there really any merit in this story? And if so, what? Wasn’t quality journalism supposed to be about serving the greater good? What greater good was being served by blasting the lid off Arno and Aviva’s incestuous relationship?
Tracy did as she always did when she was trying to understand an issue or make a decision: she compiled a list setting out the reasons why the story should be published:
Incest is illegal
Bible says incest is a sin
Society says incest is wrong
Children born of incestuous relationships are physically and/or mentally damaged
In public interest to disclose wrongdoing
Five good reasons. Five strong reasons. But. These reasons were too conventional, too comfortable, too safe. Maxine had always accused her of being argumentative for the sake of being argumentative. Tracy agreed – there was little she enjoyed more than being contrary and taking an opposing stance just to liven up a dull conversation. She went through her list and added commentary and counter-arguments:
Incest is illegal. True. But lots of illegal things go on in South Africa – things which hurt innocent and vulnerable people, things like corruption and rape and running red traffic lights. There are so many cruel, dishonest and dangerous things people do every day, and—even when they are discovered—the perpetrators not only remain unpunished and forgiven, but are often rewarded. President Jacob Zuma is at the top of that heap.
Bible says incest is a sin. Google search – incest and bible. OMW – Abraham and Sarah were half-siblings! Same father, different mothers – like Arno and Aviva. There are lots of other examples of incest too. No sign of any real condemnation. Biblical scholars twisting themselves in knots to explain the difference between incest in biblical times (Abraham, et al.) and incest now. Not very convincing.
Society says it’s wrong. Is this traditional/cultural ‘norm’ the only reason why consensual incest is still regarded with horror in South Africa – and most other countries? Societies change – Sociology 101. One hundred years ago in western countries, men were jailed for being gay. Gays are still arrested in many African countries. The South African constitution outlawed discrimination based on sexual orientation in the 1990s. Same-sex marriage is legal and socially accepted (mostly). The bible also calls homosexuality a sin (but not slavery!). So if some societies, including South Africa, can overcome their aversion to homosexuality despite biblical pronouncements to the contrary, and if most societies now outlaw slavery (which the bible says is okay), why not incest?
Children born of incestuous relationships are physically and/or mentally damaged. Google search – scientific consensus seems to be that the risk is minimal. If this is really a concern, why is incest between consenting adults not prohibited in countries like France, Belgium and Luxembourg? Why are half-siblings allowed to marry in Sweden? Mattie is totally adorable – looks and sounds pretty advanced for his age.
In public interest to disclose wrongdoing. This wrongdoing is illegal, but is it really wrong? Who am I to judge? During apartheid it was illegal to sleep with people of another race – but it wasn’t wrong! Is disclosing this wrongdoing in the public interest? What is the public benefit of lifting the lid on an ordinary couple living a private life? Are they an ordinary couple? No. But what about their constitutional right to privacy?
Chapter 30
Tracy
Tracy re-read her notes. There seemed to be more reasons not to write the story than to write it. So why was she so desperate to write it? What was it about this story that fascinated her? She had been horrified when she’d first suspected the truth about Arno and Aviva. Why? Was it because of a deep-seated, irrational, learned response to something out of her comfort zone? Wasn’t that pretty much the same reason that so many seemingly rational people hated Jews, and gays, and blacks? She’d worked hard to ensure that she was absolutely comfortable around LGBTs; and she’d learned to loathe all kinds of racism. In that respect, she wasn’t all that different to most people in Johannesburg’s comfortable, liberal northern suburbs where the DA—the political heir of the feisty Helen Suzman’s Progressive Party—remained unassailable
. Even Maxine and her friends, who’d grown up during apartheid, did their best to at least pretend to accept South Africa’s new non-discriminatory, liberal philosophy.
But, Tracy acknowledged, she’d never given much thought to incest. In her mind, incest—personified by Josef Fritzl—and sexual abuse were two sides of the same coin. Tracy remembered the visceral horror she’d felt when she’d heard about the Austrian man who’d kept his daughter locked up in the basement where he’d used her as his sex slave for twenty-four years, and fathered six children with her. Alan Silverman’s deeds too, had horrified her. Try as she might, she could find absolutely no similarity between Aviva and Arno on the one hand, and Fritzl and Alan Silverman on the other. So why, Tracy wondered, had her initial response to their relationship been positively Victorian, even medieval?
A massive lightning flash ripped the heavens apart and sheeting rain splashed onto her desk through the open window. She jumped up to close it, and a new, unwelcome thought pushed its way out of her subconscious. Was it possible that her excitement about the story had nothing to do with her highfalutin journalistic aspirations but rather because she knew an incest scandal would titillate the masses and send the twitterati into a self-righteous frenzy?
She sat down again and thought about it. Did she really want to be a scandal and sensation queen – she, Tracy Jacobs, who had always denigrated the writers of those trashy rags that emblazoned bizarre and lurid headlines on their covers and front pages, and who had never let the facts interfere with a good story? They had been purveying ‘fake news’ long before the term ‘fake news’ became part of the political lexicon. Hadn’t she always aspired to a higher standard of journalism – a journalism that served the greater good?
What greater good would she be serving by ‘outing’ Aviva and Arno? Weren’t there far more worthy candidates for naming and shaming? What about all those sexual predators – like her own news editor, or the many crooked, corrupt and downright evil people who impoverished the poor and downtrodden, and destroyed the environment and yet were feted and fawned over by a complicit media? She knew that if Arno and Aviva’s story came out, they would be crucified in the media, and with the tentacles of social media reaching into the farthest corners of the world, there would be no place for them to hide.
Tracy also grudgingly acknowledged that as much as she disliked Aviva, she had to admire her for overcoming her horrific upbringing and turning her life around. Despite everything, Aviva had what Tracy wanted: a gorgeous, happy baby with his uncle’s beautiful blue eyes, and a partner/husband who adored her. What would she achieve by destroying them all? Fifteen minutes of fame and absolutely no hope of ever regaining Yair’s friendship, let alone his love.
But what about that journalism award that she wanted so badly she could almost taste it? She needed it – it could spell the difference between employment and unemployment. And yet – did she really want to win an award for a story that she couldn’t be truly proud of? A story that, truth be told, she’d actually be ashamed of?
As hailstones the size of golf balls started pounding the newsroom windows, Tracy once again deleted what she had written. Then she deleted the recording of Annamari’s confession from her smartphone – and from the cloud. She drew in a deep breath and walked to Mafuta’s desk to tell him that her amazing scoop, which she’d been working on so diligently for weeks, was not going to pan out.
***
‘I knew it! I knew you were a fucking useless excuse for a journalist,’ Mafuta roared over the fury of the storm raging outside. ‘There never was any story, was there? You were just trying to suck up to Mr February because you haven’t been able to come up with a single decent story about your boyfriend...’
‘He’s not...’ Tracy muttered.
‘I know, I know. He’s not your boyfriend. Well that’s perfectly obvious. If he was, you’d be able to at least provide us with some information about his defence. I’d really like to know what his lawyers are going to try and dream up to get him off. Go and speak to them. Ask them what they’re going to do.’
‘I can’t do that!’
‘Of course you can’t. You’re not a journalist’s fucking backside, and I’ll tell the editor that when I inform him that the earth-shattering scoop you’ve been dangling in front of his nose isn’t even a fucking story. Come on, admit it. There never was a story, was there? It didn’t not pan out, it never was!’
Tracy bit her lip. She was not going to allow herself to be goaded into giving Mafuta the slightest indication of what the story had been about. It had been difficult enough to keep it from him, and the editor, while she had been working on it. All she’d told them was that it was connected to the Silvermans. They’d presumed it was about Tiffany’s murder and Tracy had been content to let them continue thinking so. Now, she was just grateful she had never said anything more, because Mafuta would have ridden roughshod over her objections and insisted that she hand over all her information, including the Annamari van Zyl recording. And then he would have given it to Dudu to write just as he’d done with her Peter Lepalake story.
‘Oh go away, Ms Jacobs. Just fuck off back to your desk – or better yet, get the fuck out of my newsroom. Take a photographer and go and find some storm damage.’
‘Storm damage? Where?’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake! Look outside. It’s fucking storming. There has to be storm damage somewhere. Go find it. And don’t come back until you do.’
‘But the hail will damage my car,’ Tracy wailed.
‘I don’t give a fuck. Now get out!’
***
Tracy tossed and turned in her bed. She had found a really heart-warming story of a homeless man who, while trying to shelter under a tree from the storm, had seen one of Johannesburg’s increasingly frequent flash floods sweeping a Mercedes Benz off a low-level bridge. He had rushed into the road to stop other cars from attempting to cross the bridge, raised the alarm and helped in the rescue of the Mercedes Benz driver and her three children. Mafuta had sneeringly congratulated her on the story, but his contemptuous reaction to her decision to drop the Aviva-Arno story still rankled. She pulled her pillow over her head, trying to block out his tirade, but it continued to reverberate in her mind. Useless excuse for a journalist; pathetic waste of newsroom space unable to come up with anything new or original; fucking incompetent...
And he was right. She’d gone along with the conventional wisdom that held that Yair Silverman was guilty – despite her belief that he wasn’t. She’d allowed Mafuta to bully her into writing articles that supported the commonly-held assumption that any man accused of abusing a woman was, by definition, guilty. It didn’t matter whether it was Donald Trump with his ‘grab ’em by the pussy’ recording, enabling his detractors to add ‘misogynistic scumbag’ to their arsenal of epithets when referring to the newly-elected United States president. It didn’t matter if it was Oscar Pistorius who shot his girlfriend in an act no-one except his lawyer and a high court judge believed could have been an accident (Tracy still wasn’t sure). It didn’t matter if it was Jacob Zuma, who—despite the fact that a court had actually found him not guilty of rape (although, Tracy thought, he probably was)—was still widely and consistently referred to as a rapist. And now it was Yair on the block for allegedly murdering his fiancée – and she, pathetic and useless, had timidly followed the herd, bleating the same tune from the same politically-correct hymn sheet.
Tracy threw off her duvet, walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. It was stiflingly hot. The earlier storm had done little to relieve the heat of the past few days – it had simply raised the humidity level in normally humidity-free Johannesburg.
Back in her room she switched on her bedside light and booted up her laptop. She re-read all the articles she had written about what was now routinely referred to as the ‘Yair Silverman murder’. Then she read the stories her colleagues had written. By the time she’d finished, the darkness outside her window had faded to a
hazy grey. And she was furious – with herself, and her colleagues.
The fact that the police had not arrested Yair immediately following Tiffany’s death had been attributed to police incompetence. His arrest on the charge of murder almost a year later was attributed to brilliant police detective work. But if Yair was found not guilty—or ‘got off’ as her colleagues would undoubtedly say—Tracy knew it would be attributed to shoddy police work, Yair’s ability to afford the best lawyers money could buy, and—depending on the presiding officer’s race and gender—the incompetence of an affirmative action judge or the prejudice of a privileged whitie judge.
Fuck Mafuta, she thought. He could bully her and berate her and try to force her to conform to his jaundiced, prejudiced view of the world, but she wouldn’t. Not anymore. She would prove to him—and to herself—that she did have what it took to be a good journalist. She would follow her instincts, for once, and find the answers to all the things that had been troubling her for so long, but which she had ignored in her quest to please Mafuta... and the editor. She would find out who really killed Tiffany. And in doing so, she would ensure Yair’s good name was restored – and that the police were blamed for the half-baked detective work that had led to Yair’s arrest in the first place, while allowing the real killer to go free. She would be the investigative journalist she aspired to be.
Just one problem. She had no idea where to start.
Chapter 31
Yair
Yair crouched down, his nose virtually touching the back of the boy-man crouching in front of him; to his right was another crouching man, his nose touching his knees; to his left, an old man whose groan didn’t disguise the creak of his arthritic knees as he assumed the crouching position. Yair hoped the old man, whom all the prisoners called Madala as a token of pitying respect, wouldn’t fall over again. That would just infuriate the warders who were trying to identify which of the hundreds of men crouched in the corridor before them were due in court within one hour.
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