Whitethorn

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Now it’s renal all of a sudden? What’s a renal, hey?’

  ‘Your kidneys. There may be something wrong with your kidneys. I’m not a doctor, of course, but you know how when you are on jankers doing the parade ground and you always piss your pants, maybe it isn’t your fault.’

  Pissy blushed deeply. ‘Ja, I don’t even know I’m doing it. What you trying to say, Voetsek?’

  ‘It could get you out of the army. It’s not like epilepsy, you’d keep your job in the mines.’

  ‘Say again, man? This renal thing could get me out? I could vamoose, fuck off?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m no doctor, but nobody deliberately pisses his pants, maybe there’s something wrong. It’s worth finding out, don’t you think?’

  Pissy sighed. ‘Ag, who’s going to believe me, man. I’ve already tried going to the medical officer so many times he won’t even see me anymore. The medical clerk tells me to bugger off. Sergeant Minnaar says next time I go on sick call it’s jankers for a whole week!’

  It was true, Pissy spent what little free time he had, when he wasn’t doing jankers or reporting to the guardhouse or undergoing some or other punishment, sitting waiting in the medical officer’s surgery looking miserable.

  ‘Ja, okay, I understand. Look, I’m prepared to go to Captain Mike Finger on your behalf. I’ll ask him to write a report to the doctor about your possible renal problem.

  They’ll give you a urine test.’

  ‘A what test?’

  ‘Test your piss.’

  He looked suddenly hopeful. ‘And if it is this renal business, I’m out of the army, hey?’

  I sighed. ‘Pissy, if you’re constantly leaking or pissing yourself then there’s definitely something wrong. It’s just a possibility they’ll send you home. Mind you, if you told them you are an epileptic that would definitely do it.’

  ‘No, no way, man. I’ve got a good job, and with the copper bonus I can leave at the end of the year with enough money to do what I’ve always wanted, man.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ I asked, more from politeness than out of curiosity.

  Pissy hesitated for a moment and then, to my surprise, he answered in a shy voice, ‘Ag, nothing, just to open a club in Jo’burg.’

  ‘A club? What sort of a club?’ I could hardly believe my ears. The idea of Pissy, who could barely tie his shoelaces, running any sort of a club seemed like an absurd idea.

  ‘Just a little private club,’ he answered. I could see he was at once reluctant to explain any further, then again perhaps not; sometimes we have a need to talk about things that should remain private, the human need to confess is deeply atavistic.

  ‘What, a nightclub?’ I guessed.

  ‘Ja, sort of. Only it’s for men. Drinking, meeting each other.’

  I looked at him incredulously. ‘You mean a club for, you know, queers?’

  He grinned. ‘Ja, there’s a big opening in the Jo’burg market, man. For Afrikaners, they not like you English, they don’t want people to know, they very private people, there’s a lot of shame to it, you understand.’

  What could I say? Pissy for the first time seemed to be openly confessing to being queer, although perhaps not quite; running a private club for Afrikaner homosexuals wouldn’t necessarily mean he was that way inclined himself. I’d met several homosexuals with Pirrou, some dancers, some not, but all of them highly articulate, intelligent and generally amusing guys. Then there was Graham Truby from Polliack’s, again quite different but essentially well-bred and articulate. Pissy Vermaak didn’t fit these stereotypes at all, and I couldn’t imagine him running any sort of establishment for the kind of men I’d met who were homosexuals. I could only conclude that homosexuals came in all social types, and that there must exist a morose and guilt-ridden Afrikaner version that needed to hide their guilt, but still needed somewhere to meet. Though, for the life of me, I couldn’t quite get my head around Pissy as the proprietor of any such establishment. ‘You may need a good lawyer from time to time, Pissy. Most of the police are Afrikaners and not likely to approve. Just remember, I’m your man,’ I joked.

  Pissy may have suddenly realised the implications of what he’d just confessed to me. ‘You won’t tell the guys in the hut, hey, Voetsek?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I chaffed. ‘Piet Kosterman could be your first signed-up member, those big Afrikaners who go in for homo-bashing, you just never know, do you?’ Then, seeing the look of concern on his face, I reassured him quickly. ‘We go way back, Pissy, your secret is safe with me,’ I lied.

  Completely out of the blue he’d presented me with an unexpected opportunity that my training as a lawyer was quick to seize upon. If I could get Pissy out of his army training, he might consider he owed me something in return, namely the confession of the plot to accuse Mattress of sexually abusing Pissy. Although I admit I was clutching at straws, I knew neither he nor Fonnie du Preez as children could have possibly been privy to the actual decision to murder the big Zulu. But he could tell me what additional lies they’d told Mevrou and Meneer Prinsloo, and so confirm Frikkie Botha’s written evidence that together they’d hatched a plot to accuse Mattress of sexually abusing Pissy which, in turn, had led to his brutal murder.

  The fact that I now knew Pissy harboured an ambition to open a club for homosexuals was an additionally powerful piece of emotional leverage. This was in 1956 when the benign and universally accepted word ‘gay’ had yet to be coined. ‘Queer’ and ‘queen’ were the only common colloquialisms available in the popular vernacular, and they were only a slight amelioration to the then dark and deep revulsion that existed among the general population for the word ‘homosexual’.

  If I was forced to do so, I knew I wouldn’t hesitate to use this new-found knowledge of his intention, unlikely as it seemed, to open a club for Afrikaner homosexuals to get Pissy to tell me the truth about Mattress. My hope was that it wouldn’t be necessary, or that, in addition, I might threaten to tell his mine management that he was an epileptic and shouldn’t be driving an ore train underground. Nannying Pissy Vermaak for a week hadn’t been much fun, but it might well be turning out to be a very fruitful exercise.

  At the time I didn’t know Captain Mike Finger as well as I later would and, in addition, I was going over the head of Sergeant Minnaar. But I had no doubt that Pissy had some sort of medical problem and I’d convinced myself that it ought to be looked into.

  One thing was for sure, one way or another, Pissy Vermaak wasn’t going to last the distance. I had to take the chance or he might disappear from my life once again. My instinct told me he would be an important witness in what had been formulating in my mind for a very long time, the re-opening of an enquiry into the murder of Mattress.

  Not that there had been much of an enquiry; Sergeant Van Niekerk had simply concluded that no sufficient evidence existed to prosecute anyone. He stated in the official police notes that the victim, Zulu Mattress Malokoane, had been murdered by a person or persons unknown. Mattress was simply another dead kaffir buried in the native location graveyard with neither headstone nor name, but the number PO 289, which stood for Polisie Ondersoek 289 (Police Investigation 289).

  In fairness, Sergeant Van Niekerk had done all he could at the time, and while he may have had his suspicions he hadn’t the means or, I now realised, the skill to mount a proper investigation. A murdered African didn’t merit the time of a detective sent from Pietersburg, or even a post-mortem examination. In all probability, Doctor Van Heerden would have signed the death certificate without examining the victim.

  Mike Finger listened as I explained Pissy’s problem to him, unofficially, after a late-afternoon lecture. ‘He’s not malingering, is he? Some recruits will go to extraordinary lengths to get out of their military training.’ He looked at me shrewdly. ‘Tom, it isn’t just that Rifleman Vermaak is creating problems for your platoon, is it?’

  ‘No, Sir, I admit he’s not popular. We’ve had our first two weekend passes cancelled b
ecause of him and we’d all love to see him gone, but I do believe there’s something medically wrong with him. He has an insatiable thirst as well, he can’t get enough water.’

  ‘Hmm, pissing your pants systematically could be a clever ploy, I’ve seen stranger attempts to avoid training. I’m not your commanding officer so I can’t officially interfere or send him to the medical officer, but I’ll talk to Captain Crawford. Is there anything else I should know about him?’

  I didn’t think there was any need to tell Mike Finger about Pissy’s effeminate nature or nightly sobbing sessions. ‘Well, he’s got two left feet, and he’s an incompetent soldier and always in trouble with the sergeant, he tries to go on sick call at every opportunity, so much so that Sergeant Minnaar has forbidden him to do so.’

  ‘But you don’t think it’s designed to get him out of the army, you think it’s something genuine?’

  ‘Yes, Sir, I do, Sir.’ Although I was suddenly beginning to experience some doubt. I thought back to The Boys Farm, where Pissy had used his epileptic fits to gain favour with Mevrou and avoid work, particularly on Sunday afternoons when we had to work in the vegetable gardens and orchards. He had also allowed Fonnie du Preez to sodomise him in order to obtain protection from the other kids. Now that I thought of it, the bastard was certainly capable of devising a ploy such as incontinence, regularly pissing in his pants for all of us to see, in an attempt to get out of the army.

  But, as it turned out, the medical officer sent a sample of Rifleman Vermaak’s urine to a lab in Salisbury, and a week later they confirmed that he was suffering from diabetes insipidus, and this diagnosis was sufficient to earn him a dismissal from his army training.

  Pissy was pathetic in his sycophantic gratitude, sobbing and mucoid as he thanked me over and over again for what I’d done for him. The commanding officer called me to his office to congratulate me for caring sufficiently for a comrade in arms to raise my concern with an officer. The incident also became one of the reasons why I got to know Mike Finger a lot better, so that we eventually became really good friends. I was once again receiving credit when none was due, my motives being far from altruistic, with kindness and sympathy playing no part whatsoever in my seeming concern for a fellow recruit.

  Pissy was placed in Bulawayo General Hospital for observation and further tests, and on the following weekend leave pass I called in to see him. He was obviously surprised and delighted to see me. ‘Voetsek!’ he shouted out as I entered the ward. This caused all the other male patients to look up, whereupon Pissy announced, ‘Hey, everyone! This is my best friend who saved my life!’

  I blushed. ‘I did no such thing,’ I protested.

  ‘Ja, man, definitely! If it wasn’t for him —’

  ‘Shut up, Kobus,’ I interrupted. ‘You’re a diabetic, it’s not life-threatening.’ This caused smiles from the other patients. ‘I didn’t bring you any sweets because I don’t think you’re allowed to have sugar,’ I apologised.

  ‘No, man, you wrong, what I got is not sugar diabetes. It’s called “insipidus”, and with this diabetes I can have chocolates and lots of things I like a lot,’ he said, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘It’s a nice day, can we go out and sit in the gardens? Hospital wards give me the creeps,’ I said quietly, hoping I might be able to get him on his own so that we could talk.

  ‘Ja, I can go anywhere I like in the grounds, I know a nice place.’ He rose from the bed and put on a hospital gown and slippers, and we left the ward.

  ‘Now, Pissy, you’ll be back underground soon and then it’s only until the end of the year, that’s six months and then you’re free to open your club.’ I admit it was a pretty crude attempt to cut the preliminary crap and get down to business.

  Pissy grabbed me by the wrist, speaking in a low voice. ‘You won’t tell anyone about that, promise me, Voetsek?’ He looked directly at me and attempted to grin. ‘It was all a big joke, you hear?’ he lied.

  ‘Why? It’s a bloody good idea,’ I said. ‘I know one or two people in Johannesburg who may be of some help to you.’

  ‘Really?’ he exclaimed, suddenly excited.

  ‘Ja, but if it’s only a joke . . .’

  Pissy was silent, and then he said quietly, ‘No, I lied, man. It’s a definite plan, we opening next year.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Ja, my partner and me. He’s someone who knows how to run front of house, a very respectable old man and a good Afrikaner. We also going to have these Turkish baths. You know what that is?’

  ‘Ja, I’ve read something about them, a steam room, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ja, sort of.’

  ‘And your partner knows how to run such a place?’ I asked.

  ‘No, me, man. I worked at one as a towel and laundry boy, you see, they don’t have kaffirs for that job. You can’t have kaffirs walking around in a steam room. The Afrikaners don’t like kaffirs to know their private business. It’s degrading for them to be naked in front of one. It was in Pretoria when I was sixteen and when I came out of the orphanage in Pietersburg. I worked there four whole years, I done all the jobs there were. I know the steam-room business backwards, man, also front of house and the bar and kitchens.’

  ‘There’s Turkish baths in Pretoria?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘Ja, in the front it’s quite respectable, anyone can go in, it’s a health club. At the back there is another big steam room and a big hot bath, this is the private one. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t know it was there. That’s where the money is. I’m telling you, Voetsek, there’s lots of us Afrikaners who, you know, are homos, but they don’t want people to know. They’ll come to the steam room and afterwards have a drink in the club and maybe eat something with all the respectable people, the professors from the university and foreigners from the embassies who use the saunas and steam rooms in the front.’

  ‘What, male homosexual partners?’

  He started to cackle, his face creased with amusement. ‘No, man, not partners. These people like to be alone, they feel safe on their own.’

  ‘Alone? But how . . . ?’

  ‘With all the steam everywhere you can’t see what’s going on and what’s going on, jong, is nobody’s business, because you can’t see the nose on your own face. There’s just naked bodies you can feel with your hands and it’s no problem to help yourself. Everyone is there for the same thing and afterwards, hey, it’s no name, no pack drill. Later, if they have a drink in the club they don’t even know each other, even if they want to. It’s called incognito. Do you know this word?’ I nodded and he continued. ‘I’m telling you, man, this incognito business makes a lot of money. In Jo’burg there’s already one, the Abdulla Club in Hillbrow, but all the English homos go there, there’s nothing for the Afrikaners who don’t like to mix.’ He paused and seemed to be thinking, then took a deep breath. ‘Hey, Voetsek, why don’t you be a partner in the business? It will be like old times.’

  I must say I was completely taken aback. Here I was thinking that I was the worldly one with all my Pirrou and La Pirouette training, but I simply had no idea. I was also deeply shocked that Pissy seemed to think that the term ‘old times’ somehow smoothed over what had happened at the big rock. ‘A silent partner?’

  ‘Ja, put in a bit of money, you’ll get it all back pronto, man.’

  ‘I have to go to England, to university, to take another law degree,’ I replied.

  ‘That’s okay, man, it won’t happen for another year, that’s when my partner retires from his job and we still have to find a place and build the steam rooms.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I lied, ‘but I must confess I have a problem.’

  ‘What problem? I know the business, man, you can’t lose.’

  ‘No, Pissy, it’s not that.’ I hesitated, then said, ‘How do I know you’ll be honest? When you have a partner you have to trust him. You know how you said it would be like old times? Well, that’s my problem, I haven’t forgotten what happened
that day at the big rock, and then to my friend Mattress.’

  ‘Mattress? You mean the kaffir that was murdered?’ Pissy looked down at the ground. ‘Ag, man, that was such a long time ago when we were just kids, you hear? In that place, you know yourself, it was everyone for himself.’ He glanced up at me and shrugged. ‘I was only trying to survive, man. What must I say? I’m sorry?’

  ‘No, don’t get me wrong, I don’t want an apology from you. You’re right, it was a long time ago and what’s done is done. What you and Fonnie du Preez did to me that day at the big rock is finish and klaar, we both know it happened to other kids as well, that stuff happens in institutions.’

  Pissy looked relieved. ‘So what is it you want?’

  ‘Information. I want to know the full story. I’m going to tell you what I know, and then you tell me the rest. If you do, then I’ll know I can trust you.’

  ‘Okay, man, ask away.’

  I told him about listening to him with Mevrou in the clinic while hiding in the hydrangea bushes outside the window, and how I knew he’d concocted the story of Mattress sexually abusing him. How Mevrou had believed him and her last words, or the last words I’d heard from her, were ‘that kaffir is already dead, you hear’. ‘Pissy, what happened when Mevrou took you to Meneer Prinsloo and they called Doctor Van Heerden to examine you?’

  My memory is pretty good but Pissy Vermaak’s was truly remarkable. In an earlier part I’ve already told you what he said transpired, right down to the funny bit when Doctor Van Heerden tried to take a snap of Pissy’s bruised anus using Meneer Prinsloo’s box brownie with Mevrou holding a torch. As Pissy recounted what happened I thought to myself what a brilliant student he would have been if he’d had a Miss Phillips in his life and been given the same opportunities I’d had.

  ‘Okay, after the doctor had gone, what happened then?’ I asked.

  Pissy explained how Frikkie Botha was called in. This time I had the notes I’d made from Frikkie’s painfully written evidence over more than five years, so I’d know if Pissy was lying. But again he recalled everything just the way Frikkie had written it down.