When Time Fails

by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

  The horror Annamari felt when Arno had broken his exciting news to her slithered like a python up from her bowels and squeezed the air out of her lungs.

  Chapter 27

  2000

  Annamari tripped over the widening crack on the stoep stairs as she hurried towards the house, her breath hanging in clouds in her wake. She pulled off her gloves and fumbled with the door knob. It was getting looser. There was so much that needed fixing. They had discussed it, she and Thys, over and over again but while the house remained more or less in one piece, it would just have to wait.

  Things were tough and anyway, she and Thys had agreed when they established Kibbutz Steynspruit that they would live on their kibbutz allowance, like all the other kibbutz members. The little the kibbutz could pay towards the rather complicated “rent-to-own” scheme they had set up in order to transfer ownership of the bulk of Steynspuit farm to Kibbutz Steynspruit was all they had available for extras, if you could call De Wet’s high school fees an extra. It didn’t help of course that this year Kibbutz Steynspruit was paying even less because they needed a new irrigation system, or the fact that last year’s wheat crop had also been far smaller than usual. Drought. And there was nothing they could do about the sagging international wheat price. Or that they had to pay for a high-powered lawyer for the TRC hearing – and might need to pay even more for a lawyer to fight the land claim. So, ja, money was very tight.

  Perhaps next year would be easier and they would finally be able to tile the stoep, and even paint the house a little because De Wet would be finished school – if he passed matric. And if he won a Sports Scholarship to Free State University. That would be a huge help. Fortunately, with Steyn now enrolled in the Kibbutz Steynspruit school with all his friends rather than at Driespruitfontein Laerskool like Arno and De Wet had been, they wouldn’t have to pay school fees for him for at least six more years. Perhaps even longer. Everyone knew that the quality of the education at Driespruitfontein Laerskool – and even the high school – was terrible and getting worse. It was so, so sad. She and Thys and Christo and ... and everyone, they had all learned to read and write in the whitewashed stone building. Her mother too. But now, it wasn’t the same. Even Thys was no longer confident it would come right. Annamari was a little concerned that having your mother as your teacher and your father as headmaster might not be the most appropriate situation for a bright child like Steyn. But Thys said it wasn’t all that different to home schooling – and more and more children, particularly white children, were being schooled at home by their parents nowadays.

  Annamari pushed the door open and bit her lip when she saw De Wet still ensconced on the couch.

  ‘Ma. It’s freezing,’ he complained without taking his eyes off the flickering television.

  Annamari dragged the door closed, marched quickly to the large TV set and switched it off.

  ‘Ma, no!’ De Wet protested.

  ‘You’re supposed to be studying,’ she said and poked at the embers in the grate, before adding another log from the pile next to the stone fireplace. ‘Anyway, watching this lynching only upsets you. If you want to study in the lounge, because it’s nice and warm in here, that’s fine. But not with the TV on.’

  ‘He was crying, Ma. Hansie was crying. Why are they doing this to him, Ma? After all he’s done for this country? Why are they tearing him apart like this?’

  ‘He lied, De Wet. He cheated. He took bribes and then he lied about it.’

  ‘But he never threw any games. He said so. He said he’d made a mistake. He’s sorry about it. You can see how sorry he is. Why won’t they just leave him alone?’

  ‘Because he’s the South African cricket captain and he used his position to cheat. And then he lied. For years and years...he betrayed his team, his country... even his family.’ She turned away and wiped some imaginary dust off the top of the TV, hoping De Wet wouldn’t notice her burning cheeks.

  ‘People make mistakes, Ma. That’s what Pa always says. He says when people make mistakes we shouldn’t judge them. We should forgive them. But they won’t forgive Hansie, will they?’

  ***

  ‘I wish that whole Hansie Cronje thing would just go away now. Enough is enough,’ Annamari said as she switched off the heater. She clambered into bed, snuggled up against Thys and rubbed her feet against his.

  ‘Hey!’ Thys yelped. ‘Your feet are like blocks of ice. I feel so sorry for him. It’s like they’re crucifying him – on public television. It’s so... I think it’s cruel to humiliate him like that.’

  ‘I don’t know. He has betrayed everyone. It’s not only that he cheated. He flipping lied about it. That’s the worst. That’s unforgiveable.’

  ‘He made a mistake, liefie. A big mistake, but he’s obviously sorry about it and who are we to judge him? Until we have been in his position, faced the temptations he faced... I don’t like what he did but now he has to live with himself knowing that he has messed up his entire life.’

  ‘And what about De Wet?’ Annamari demanded, propping herself up on one elbow and glaring down at her husband. ‘What about what he’s done to our son and the millions of other young boys who looked up to him, believed in him – wanted to be like him.’

  ‘Well, I suppose the good thing about all this is that De Wet – all of us really – we’ve all learned a valuable lesson.’

  ‘Really? And what lesson would that be? Not to cheat and take bribes?’

  ‘Ja, there’s that, of course. But think about it. Hansie has shown us that even great sports stars are human with human frailties, no matter how much we try to elevate them to the status of idols. We are all raised to believe that we should only worship the Lord and that only the Lord is infallible. But no, what do we do? We create human idols. And when they fall, when they make mistakes – because that’s what people do, we all make mistakes – we turn on them like a pack of dogs and tear them apart. Who are we to blame them when they don’t, or can’t, live up to our expectations? Are we, ourselves, blameless? I pray... I hope that those he has hurt find it in their hearts to forgive him; and that he learns to forgive himself.’

  ‘Well I don’t think cheats and liars deserve forgiveness,’ she said.

  She felt Thys’ eyes boring into hers before his arms reached out and pulled her down onto his broad chest.

  ‘Everyone deserves forgiveness, liefie. Everyone,’ he said, and kissed her.

  ***

  The next morning, at breakfast, Annamari held her tongue as Thys talked quietly to De Wet about the disgraced South African cricket captain.

  ‘You need to forgive Hansie, son. Otherwise, you will let your anger get in the way of the rest of your life. It will eat at you and possibly even prevent you from achieving your own dreams. Forgive him, De Wet, and then move on.’

  Annamari shook her head and turned away. She didn’t want to argue, not in front of De Wet. Anyway, there were more important things to worry about today than whether Hansie Cronje had really been tempted by the devil, as he had claimed, or whether he was just a good old-fashioned lying cheat.

  She gingerly fingered the envelope. It contained her life. Her future. Their future. Using Beauty’s formal, comprehensive instructions as a guide, she, Thys and Petrus had drafted a response to the land claim notice. They had stated that they would fight the claim; that they had proof of ownership of Steynspruit going back to before the Boer War. And they had outlined the whole Kibbutz Steynspruit scheme. According to Petrus, Beauty had said their objection letter was “fine”; so this morning, Annamari was going to take it to the post office in Driespruitfontein, register it and send it to the Free State and Northern Cape Regional Land Claims Commissioner.

  Then all they could do was wait. Wait and pray. Although she didn’t have too much faith in prayer. It didn’t seem to be working for her. Beauty was probably correct when she advised Petrus that they should hold off pumping any more money into Steynspruit until they had a better idea of just where the whole land claim t
hing was going.

  ‘She said we shouldn’t even consider putting in the new irrigation system but I don’t think we have a choice. The drought doesn’t look like it’s going to end,’ Petrus had said.

  The issue was going to be discussed at the kibbutz members’ meeting tomorrow, after the Sunday church service in the Kibbutz multipurpose hall. Annamari had no doubt they would vote overwhelmingly in favour of going ahead with the irrigation system, especially if Petrus advised them to. They simply could not, would not, believe that they could lose the farm.

  Annamari didn’t share their naive optimism. Just look at what was going on up there in Zimbabwe with land invasions and white farmers being driven at gunpoint from their homes. The land claim against Steynspruit was just a more sophisticated way for the government to take their home from them. But steal it, they would. Everyone knew that.

  Chapter 28

  2000

  Annamari sank down into the wicker armchair, pulled the old mohair rug around her shoulders, cupped her hands around her steaming mug of coffee and closed her eyes. But she could still see it, as vividly as ever: Ma in her favourite green dress, smiling, pouring milk into the coffee in two delicate white mugs, adding two spoons of sugar to one and three to the other and stirring both; carefully placing two buttermilk rusks on the white plate with the pink flowers around the rim, saying ‘Here, Annamari my child, eat these, drink this, it will make you feel better’, and knowing, knowing that if she opened her eyes Ma would not be there, and she would never feel better again. Ever.

  But she knew that if she kept her eyes closed, Ma’s smile would slowly transform into a wide open scream, and her flailing arms would knock over the mug, and liquid – shiny red liquid – would ooze over the table and spread a bloody stain across Ma’s frilly green chest and... Annamari’s eyes flew open. The sun was struggling to rise above the Maluti mountains turning the sky from black to a deep navy. She could just make out the silhouette of the poplars in the waning moonlight. She drew in a shaky breath. She couldn’t go. She shouldn’t go. But she had to. For Ma and Pa and Christo. And for Beauty. Because Beauty had asked her to. Because she hadn’t spoken to Beauty for weeks and weeks. Until last night. Going was the least she could do.

  ‘MaAnni, it’s Bontle... Beauty,’ she’d said when Annamari pressed the green button on her cell phone.

  ‘Beauty! How are you? Where are you? What time is your flight? I’ll fetch you at the airport and then we’ll go to the hearing.’

  But no, Beauty had changed her mind. She wasn’t coming to Bloemfontein. She just wanted to let Annamari know – her voice had faltered – the lawyers at the law clinic had told her that although their presence wasn’t strictly necessary at the hearing as they were represented by a lawyer, it was always better for them to be present. Just in case the Chairman wanted to ask them anything.

  ‘MaAnni, you have to go. You just have to. Please,’ Beauty begged.

  Shaking so badly she could barely hold the phone, Annamari had promised that she would. Not that she had any idea what she could do, or was supposed to do. But Beauty had asked her, and she owed Beauty so much. And Ma and Pa and Christo. And Thys and Arno and everyone. For once in her life, she was going to do the right thing. Even if it killed her.

  ***

  Annamari pulled down her skirt and marched into the hall alongside the red-brick Anglican Cathedral, her head held high. She wished Thys hadn’t come: who knew what that bastard would say this time? But she was so glad Thys had come: she would not get through this without him. He took her arm and she leaned into him briefly.

  Mr Venter was seated behind a long table on the far side of the hall with several other suited men and women. He rose and nodded a greeting. Then he walked over and shepherded them towards the five rows of chairs at the back.

  ‘You can watch the proceedings from here,’ he said.

  ‘Where are they? The accused?’ Thys asked as they settled into two chairs on the far right of the front row. Annamari couldn’t speak. Her stomach churned and her tongue felt as if it was glued to the top of her mouth. She hooked her left foot around her right ankle and reminded herself to keep her knees together.

  ‘They’re called applicants here,’ Mr Venter said. ‘I understand they are on their way from Bloemfontein Prison. They were transferred there from Pretoria Central yesterday. Correctional Services will bring them in and keep an eye on them. See that man there?’ Mr Venter indicated a tall black man seated at end of the long table. ‘That’s Thabo Khumalo. He’ll be leading the evidence – sort of what a prosecutor usually does. Two of the applicants – Buya and Xlongwane – are represented by Mr Yusif Naidoo over there.’ Mr Venter pointed to a large Indian man with a 1950’s Elvis Presley hairdo seated at a table on the left of the room. ‘And that woman, standing next to him, that’s Strydom’s lawyer.’

  Annamari stared at the elegant brunette who looked like she’d stepped straight out of that TV show, the one about that dof anorexic TV lawyer – Ally McBeal, that was her name. Except that this lawyer looked like she knew exactly what she was doing, all slim and trim in a tailored black suit that showed off her nice thin legs and pretty knees and could probably have paid for lunches for the entire Steynspruit School for a month, a year. Annamari would have happily bet the entire farm that that woman had never had to contend with the discomfort of a too-tight, scrunched up waistband cutting into her. How on earth could that slimy bastard afford a lawyer who looked like that? Mr Venter’s suit looked like he’d bought it at the Pep Store in Driespruitfontein. Thys never wore a suit. Not even today. He’d put on a tie, of course; but he had flatly refused to even wear a jacket, even though she had asked him to. Arno would probably have to buy one or two new ties for his new job...maybe she should look for some for him during the lunch break, seeing they were in Bloemfontein. Then she laughed silently at herself: what made her think Bloemfontein would have nicer ties than Johannesburg? She dragged her attention back to the lawyer.

  ‘... Jo – Joanne – van Niekerk,’ Mr Venter was still looking at Ally McBeal. ‘She’s ... ja, well, she’s ... well... ummm. Look, I’ll speak to you later. Looks like we’re about to begin.’

  Mr Venter lumbered back to his seat at the long table and Annamari’s heart dropped. Mr Venter actually sounded slightly awed by the woman. But he had assured them that he’d handled Amnesty hearings before. Annamari wished she’d thought to ask him exactly how many – and whether he had won. She half stood and pulled down her skirt which had crept up her thighs, then quickly sat down again, and clasped her hands together in her lap.

  ***

  ‘This is a hearing of the Amnesty Committee being held in Bloemfontein in terms of the Promotion of National Unity and Reconciliation Act, No 34 of 1995. I am chairing the panel – my name is Philemon Sedebe,’ said the short, dapper man in what even Annamari could see was a very expensive suit and glaringly white shirt seated at the centre of the long table.

  ‘Where’s Desmond Tutu?’ Annamari whispered. ‘I thought he was the chairman of this thing.’

  ‘I don’t think he goes to all the hearings – probably only the important ones,’ Thys whispered back.

  ‘But this is important. How can you say it isn’t?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I mean I think he probably only goes to the high profile hearings – in Cape Town or Jo’burg or something ... look, here come the prisoners.’

  Annamari swung around and saw three men – one white man who she instantly recognised as Stefan Smit, and two black men – being led into the hall by police officers.

  ‘Oh good, the applicants have arrived. We can begin,’ said Desmond Tutu’s replacement. Annamari couldn’t recall his name. She decided to call him Tutu-two – and giggled. Thys raised his eyebrows. Annamari shook her head and mouthed: ‘Tell you later.’

  ‘We have on the roll the amnesty applications of S Strydom, amnesty reference number AM9179/98; M T Buya, amnesty reference AM9863/98; and J Xlongwane, amnesty
reference AM9864/98. Who is being represented by whom?’ Tutu-two said.

  The Indian lawyer, all thick shiny black hair and flashy, toothy smile, introduced himself and then Ally McBeal – who Annamari was surprised to hear sounded just like the newsreader on Radio Sonder Grense with a thick Afrikaans accent – said she was representing Mr Strydom.

  Annamari bit her lip. He wasn’t Mr anything, she wanted to shout. He was just a bloody murderer. She shuddered when Mr Venter said he was representing the victims. Tutu-two asked whether any victims were present. Mr Venter pointed at her and Thys hauled her to her feet. She hadn’t thought of herself as a victim – the victims were dead, all dead. She glanced across at the accused – no, the applicants – and sat down hurriedly, yanking her skirt over her white, fat knees as Stefan Smit smirked knowingly at her. She felt her skirt zip pop open. She lifted her head and glared at the lying, murdering rapist. She vowed to her mother, her father, her brother ... and Beauty ... that she would do everything she could to make sure the bastard stayed behind bars where he belonged.

  Chapter 29

  2000

  Annamari smiled inwardly as Stefan Smit slid a nicotine-stained finger along the inside of his shirt collar, glared balefully at Mr Venter, and then stared at a spot on the floor.

  ‘Mr Chairman,’ Mr Venter said, ‘please instruct the applicant to answer my question.’

  Thys squeezed Annamari’s hand. She squeezed back. This was so much better. She really should apologise to Mr Venter later. For doubting him. Especially when Afrikaans Ally McBeal was presenting the case for her client. Mr Strydom, she insisted on called him. Annamari would never get used to that creep being referred to as “Mr Strydom” when he was nothing more than plain old Stefan Smit, rat, rapist, murderer. That wouldn’t change, no matter what this judicial travesty decided.