The Crack

by Christopher Radmann

  Hektor-Jan could not bear to look. The sight of those firm white hands squeezing her dark flesh as her legs were stretched. The terrible teething sound as the cable-straps zithered closed then locked. They set his own teeth on edge and the breath rasped in his throat. For a full minute he stood there immobile and slowly became aware that his hand had reached out, was touching the boy on the shoulder, was heaving up and down as the boy’s chest and shoulders heaved up and down.

  Asseblief, he whispered through his dry mouth even as he heard the sound of the dogs. The two white men were getting ready.

  Were the syllables too soft. Was the Afrikaans word for please too frail for the freight it had to carry. Asseblief, sighed from his ashen lips and died almost before it was born.

  Still Hektor-Jan could not look at the naked woman stretched behind him. Still he could not move his gentle hand from the boy’s shoulder. Every emotion played itself out beneath the young man’s skin. His face contorted, fought, struggled and yielded to every emotion there could be. That Rapele loved this woman there was no doubt. That he would die for her was certain. That he could tear down the heavens to save her was obvious, that he could not utter a single, helpful word was his profound, acknowledged undoing.

  Hektor-Jan could not tell him that there were strict protocols in the South African Police Force concerning the fucking of suspects to elicit information. In careful accordance with the laws of the land, whites did not fuck blacks. This was the South Africa of Apartheid after all, of Separate Development, of Christian National Education, of the Pass Laws, of Manifest Destiny, of the Immorality Act and, very recently, of the Bantu Education Bill. However, they were not in Parliament. What went on in these cells, in this space, well, wragtig, no one knew what went on in these cells. Any political system, any belief system, is underpinned by a thousand million little private acts, secret gestures, implicit nuances that bring it to life. Yes, there were clear protocols concerning the fucking of suspects, but that did not stop suspects from being ceremoniously fucked within an inch of their lives. Besides, she was not a suspect. An accomplice, perhaps, but that was all.

  From the boy’s face, Hektor-Jan could tell that at least one of the dogs had lowered his trousers and that, in full view, his hunting snout was sniffing close. And from the fearful inhalations, the gasping acceleration of the woman’s breathing, she knew that the hunt for her cunt was on. And that she stood no chance. For she stood spreadeagled, her private spaces terribly exposed and she could only twist and try to turn to peer frantically behind her as the dog drew closer, actually knocked his cock like a little truncheon against her angled thigh. Little pig, little pig, let me come in. It was not a children’s rhyme, but the dog was crooning something. Hektor-Jan’s skin went cold.

  For then she could do nothing but stare at the boy, her lover, as the places that he had found so recently within her warm flesh were now suddenly explored, were rooted out by an unyielding rod of white iron.

  The pulse of all the boy’s tortured feelings shook Hektor-Jan’s hand that still rested on his shoulder. He felt the sickening squirm, he felt the almost synaptic shock of the woman’s gasp as the dog grasped her flanks and drove his ramrod will deep within her, the dreadful pain that shot across the tiny space from her to him, then right up Hektor-Jan’s arm like lightning.

  It was Hektor-Jan who seemed to crack. Stop, he shouted. Stop. And still he could not bring himself to look at the sweating dog or the lolling woman tied to the cold, steel bars. The other dog had to stop the first dog. Physically had to restrain him and pull him back so that, snorting, he came out of the woman panting with the effort to extract his pounding flesh. Stop, whispered Hektor-Jan.

  And his eyes searched the face of the boy. Do you not see, Hektor-Jan tried to say. Do you not see what will happen. How one will have his way, and how the other waits ready, standing to attention. With a penis so paraat. These dogs are privates. With their privates on public display. The blood drained from his head and he felt dizzy. And that will not be the end. It goes on. Do you not see that it will go on and on. They might do it again, both of them. They might decide that the short rubber truncheons are much more fun. They might call their friends, make it an office party. Do you not see. For God’s sake, you must see. Why will you not see. This is only the very beginning.

  In the downstairs cells beneath the town of Benoni, there was no sense of the soaking rain that fell that night or of the rumbling thunder or even of the brilliant display of lightning. But there were other storms.

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  The Cabinet has […] approved in principle the introduction of staturily controlled television service for South Africa, which will form an integral part of the Republic’s broad educational system as a whole and which will be based on a foundation designed to ensure that the Christian values of this country and the social structure of its various communities are respected.

  – Senator van der Spuy, Hansard, 27 April 1971, col. 5288

  The World again challenged the government. In its editorial on 25 February 1976, it declared that, ‘whether the South African government likes it or not, many urban African parents are bitterly opposed to their children being forced to learn in Afrikaans’. The newspaper dismissed ‘God-like decisions made by white officials – even Cabinet members – on matters of vital importance to blacks’ and rejected the old racist dictum that ‘whites know what is best for blacks’.

  – Sifiso Mxolisi Ndlovu, The Road to Democracy in South Africa: 1970–1980, Volume 2, Chapter 7

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  Doug has invited us around tonight to show off his TV, Janet said to Hektor-Jan as he peered at his plate of food. He seemed to be waiting for a signal prior to picking up his knife and fork. He transferred his gaze from his plate to her.

  Janet tried not to yawn. She had overslept and yet felt exhausted.

  Hektor-Jan, now at the end of his day, looked similarly spent.

  Janet had not awoken with the dawn chorus. Nor had the Hadedas split her fragile shell of sleep with their harsh cries. The storm had wheeled off into the night and the children had slept through. It was Alice’s warm cup of tea that trembled slightly in the saucer that had summoned Janet to consciousness. Her eyes seemed to creak open to discern vaguely Alice’s kindly face bent over her, exactly as she had hovered over her the previous night. But the air was washed clean. It was a new day, minted freshly by the storm. Why, Janet could barely recollect how she came to feel so stiff and why her limbs ached. Her throat was dry. She never slept on her back. She must have snored.

  And before she could move, before she could practise waking up as they had rehearsed waking up last night for Derek-Francis as citizens of Brigadoon, Hektor-Jan was home and holding her. Bending solicitously over her and lifting her partially out of her snug bed to hold her. He held her and held her. He rarely just held her. She felt his warmth through his shirt. She felt his hair beneath his shirt, springy and coiled, quite soft. And between them, their warmth yielded up the familiar scent of their bed, and Hektor-Jan’s sweat. And there was also another smell. On the cusp of his manly smell was the hint of other odours. Quite pungent they seemed, and complex: layers of smells which in her sleepy state she noticed, but barely knew that she had noticed. Certainly nothing to remember as she dressed and he showered vigorously, showered for ages but without singing, and then they were seated together. She sipped her second cup of tea whilst he sat and stared at the plate of food dished up from the oven by Alice. It was last night’s macaroni cheese with its decorative slices of tomato curling upwards in crisp despair, and the shredded beetroot salad seeped loud colour into the creamy, cheese-smeared worms that were spilled in such heaps on his plate. To be fair, it was not Alice’s finest hour. Janet had left her in charge during the rehearsal and the two-tone meal was quite startling. Cream and crimson. Hektor-Jan certainly appeared quite perplexed by his plate. Now he raised his knife and fork, then carefully lowered his knife. Certainly, the macaroni seemed already to have be
en stabbed quite enough. It seemed to have bled profusely whereas Janet knew, if she concentrated, that it was the lurid beetroot that was doing all the damage. Alice disappeared from the culinary crash site. The hoover started up far away in the main bedroom. That’s right – Alice was going to do the noisy jobs first so that the Baas could sleep uninterrupted. It was time that the children were up anyway. Hektor-Jan put down his fork. He said something but Janet was listening for the sound of scampering feet. Yes, no. It would not be long.

  Don’t expect us to get one, said Hektor-Jan and for a blank moment Janet watched him rise from the table and carry his plate to the sink. Is it a colour, or black and white, asked Hektor-Jan and as Janet was about to answer, realisation dawning on her face, he supplied the answer. It will be colour, of course; he shook his head. Only the best, only the very best for Meneer van Deventer. And with that he turned from his plate and came over to her. He held her face in his hands and kissed the top of her head. Janet closed her eyes as his warm hands held her face so firmly and the smack of his kiss was rooted on her scalp.

  Darling, she said as he disappeared off to bed. Then she heard him hugging the children. He attacked them in their rooms and their delighted squeals pierced the background thunder of the hoovering Alice. They would come to her soon enough. Pulling on bits and pieces of their uniforms, they would amble into the kitchen and find her staring at the loaded plate that squatted beside the sink, the macaroni now blood-red. Unable to bear the waste, Janet got up and reached for the tasty mayhem. It was still warm, hot. There was no Solomon that day – he had done his mid-week vanishing act and so there was no one else to eat the food. Janet waited for her children, chewing thoughtfully.

  Another day passed.

  That night, with Hektor-Jan full to bursting with a fried breakfast, and the children having eaten and fresh and clean in their pyjamas, they popped across to behold the television of the van Deventers. We can’t stay long, Janet had warned. Daddy must go to work and you have school tomorrow. And Pieter, we might need to practise your seven times table in the morning. I think you still don’t have the hang of it and Pieter rolled his eyes behind her back and she knew that he also stuck his tongue out at her. But they had arrived.

  Doug must have been waiting for he immediately threw open the door with a hearty laugh. Hektor-Jan and Pieter were greeted with great manly handshakes which left Pieter rubbing his crushed hand in surprise and grimacing. The girls each got a loud kiss which Sylvia made no secret of wiping away with the back of her hand and a slight gagging sound. Shhhhhhhh, Janet nudged her as they were led into the lounge to greet Noreen and the colour television, which stood in pride of place with all the furniture and Noreen facing in its direction.

  Noreen looked lovely, a picture of stately decorum, not a hair out of place. She beamed and hugged them gently and precisely, whilst Doug assumed a proprietorial position beside the magic box. Douglas is so excited, murmured Noreen and her gaze lingered on the children.

  Nesbitt? asked Sylvia and Noreen smiled and whispered as though imparting a secret. Outside, she said. Uncle Douglas, you know Uncle Douglas.

  And they turned where they stood and Doug van Deventer waved his hands and said Take a seat, grab a pew, come on, come on, make yourselves comfortable, just as he always did although this time he seemed even more energetic. He was almost hopping from one foot to the other. Noreen and Janet perched on the settee; Hektor-Jan was ushered to the fancy armchair which Pieter was sometimes allowed to make lean backwards by pulling a little lever. But not tonight. The children settled down on the floor, pulling their dressing gowns about them. And Doug beamed at them yet again and asked if they were ready. They all nodded furiously – though Hektor-Jan managed to sneak a glance at his watch. He could not stay for long.

  This, announced Doug even though they were no more than ten feet from him, this is a BarlowVision 200, Full-Spectrum Colour Televisual Domestic Appliance. He beamed at them as he touched it, his hands lingered on it and he stroked it. They stared back.

  TV, squealed Sylvia suddenly and clapped her hands.

  Janet smiled and reached down a restraining hand. Shhhhhhhhh, darling, she said, Uncle Doug –

  The On button is located to the right of the control panel, Doug continued undeterred. Are you ready.

  There was a round of nods. They were ready. Boy oh boy, were they ready.

  Yay, shrieked Sylvia and Shelley added another restraining hand to her sister’s shoulder. Outside there came the beagle volley of Nesbitt’s yipping. Noreen smiled thinly.

  I shall now proceed to fire her up. Doug was on a roll. His face was flushed as he performed for Janet and he tried to remember to include the others. Noreen, his own wife, Hektor-Jan, her husband. The children.

  Here goes, he said redundantly and theatrically as he thrust his bantam weight onto his tiptoes and reached an arm across to the large box rimmed with a faux-wooden panel. He pushed the button. Nothing happened. Then it began to snow. Then there came the sound of Americans, a drawling hiss out of which could be discerned the cries of Paw, and Hoss or Horse, and Li’l Joe.

  Yeeha, cried Sylvia and Pieter as a cactus-strewn landscape loomed out of the snow, and yielded to swathes of high chaparral. There were horses and neckerchiefs and sweating cowboys and ranch fences and spitting. For a moment Janet had to blink and look away before she was pulled back by the box into the slightly lurid world that gushed into the living room. It was indeed amazing. The colour that filled the room, the sound that overwhelmed them. The galloping horses, the chirping cowboys. A neighbour who needed help but whom no one wanted to help. The wise old Paw, a wrinkled patriarch with broad cheeks and bulging eyes. Janet thought how he would make a wonderful Toad of Toad Hall, and then felt strangely guilty that she was somehow missing the point. Even Hektor-Jan seemed impressed. The children stared open-mouthed, it was true to say. Luckily, there were no flies in the room. One did not expect to find flies in Noreen’s perfect home. And there were certainly no flies on Doug. He remained standing beside the television as though it somehow needed his presence in order to work properly, as though his touching it and peering round at it were strangely crucial to its successful functioning, this televisual domestic appliance. Janet knew that Doug was watching her too, was enjoying the television through her startled eyes and Janet tried not to glance at Noreen. But she had to. Noreen, Janet started, was staring at her, not the television. Their eyes met to the sound of thundering hooves and they smiled, as though indulgently, as their men and the children remained transfixed.

  Darling, Janet had to turn and whisper to Hektor-Jan. Darling. He responded, looked briefly at her but did not see her. Then he was back with the cowboys, the exuberant brotherhood filled with joshing and laughter. Darling, she said again and this time he saw her. She pointed to her watch. She did not want him to be cross when he suddenly realised what the time was. He was up in a flash.

  Doug, he said, Man, Doug. Then he said, Don’t worry, I’ll find my own way out, and he kissed his children who saw through him, peered around him, and he kissed Janet who saw only him, and then he was gone to the sound of more frantic yelping from Nesbitt the cocker spaniel.

  Doug finally left his position beside the television and moved to sit where Hektor-Jan had sat.

  Not bad, hey, he said to Janet and Janet nodded at him but kept her eyes on the television. She knew that dear old Doug continued to watch her watching, and also that Noreen was watching Doug watch her. She wished she could be a child again, a child scooped up into the world of chivalrous cowboys whose simple honour was pinned to their sweaty sleeves and who would honestly cross their hearts and hope to die in a matter of easy seconds. Outside, Nesbitt simply would not shut up. And the music swelled as the neighbour in the television wept with gratitude and the other townsfolk learned a lesson in philanthropy, and then the credits rolled and Janet said, Right, let us leave Uncle Doug and Auntie Noreen in peace.

  Predictably, the children kicked up a great fus
s. Pieter most of all, despite Janet’s warnings prior to their arrival, and that hardened her resolve. She prodded him sharply and then they were thanking their hosts for a lovely time.

  You must come again, said Doug ostensibly to the children, but actually to Janet. You must come again, and Doug pumped Pieter’s hand up and down and kissed Shelley and scooped up Sylvia into his arms. Noreen kissed Janet as Doug careered around the living room, making cowboy sounds as though he, too, had just been visiting the Ponderosa Ranch on Bonanza. Sylvia shrieked. She needed no encouragement. She was a shriek waiting to happen. Both Noreen and Janet put their hands to their ears and said Enough, Douglas, enough for goodness’ sake, please. And Noreen added, Let these poor people go home; the children have school tomorrow. And Doug finally lowered Sylvia and for a moment Janet thought that he might scoop her up, Janet herself, and go waltzing around the room with her in his arms and what would the children think and how could she ever face Noreen’s genteel dismay. But Doug just escorted them to the door as Noreen pulled the cushions straight in the living room and readjusted the furniture no doubt. But, as the children filed out past Uncle Doug, he did lay a cool hand on her arm and held her back.

  There was no playfulness in his eyes as he quickly murmured two short sentences. From the side of his mouth, the words came squeezed and compressed with a strange urgency and Janet kept walking against the tug of his hand and his voice. She kept walking and thanking Doug who broke his fierce gaze and quickly looked back over his shoulder into the house. He followed her out onto the patio and down the steps to the front gate. I mean it, he said. Think about it. Promise me you will think about it and Janet nodded and smiled and was pulled onto the pavement and across to their front drive by the children who – Shelley excepted – had started to whinny like horses and gallop.