‘Jannie, please, I don’t want to argue with you, not now, I know your deepest feelings about the blacks. I’ve heard your discourse on that many times. I know your background and I know the argument that the communists want our country. Let’s not argue. I’m just so relieved that you’re alive.’
‘How’s Christian?’ he asked, changing tack, a subconscious talent he had developed in response to overtly emotional situations.
‘He’s with Ouma. He doesn’t really understand. He thinks you’ve just hurt your arm. I’ll bring him to see you tomorrow. He says he loves you… Jannie…’
‘Leave it, Renata,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ve heard the plea from the three of you now. I’ll think about it, all right?’
She looked at him as the tears welled up in her eyes. She hugged him, wetting his cheek again and feeling the prickles of his beard.
‘You’ll need to shave if you’re going to be on television,’ she said, her mood now more up-beat.
‘Renata, just leave me alone for a while. I need to think about what I’m going to say, and to compose a press release!’
As she stood up, she wondered whether this trauma had caused him to revert to his Afrikaner upbringing. There had been some positive signs in the last few years that he was overcoming his prejudices. She remembered that the night his father had died she found Jannie sitting in the study, sobbing uncontrollably. She had never seen him cry before, let alone with so much feeling and never had since. He had confessed to her that part of him had hated his father. She remembered sitting that night for over an hour, speaking to him occasionally, almost getting through the emotional barrier that he had created. As the tears flooded on to his dressing gown, she imagined them as rivers of emotion, dammed up through years of suppression. Up to his death, Jannie’s father had been a very dispassionate man who had never thanked anyone or told them that he loved them. There was no real reason for Jannie to care about him passing on. Yet here he was, grief stricken, not knowing how to deal with the death of someone who had never fully embraced him and in the end rejected him. She knew that he had never really dealt with the anger of the forced indoctrination, the beatings, humiliation and ultimately his father’s rejection of him. If he thought now that his father had been partly right about the blacks, the guilt at never having tried to reconcile with him might channel into an exaggerated response to the press.
Renata remembered when he had taken up the position at Groote Schuur Hospital how she had hoped that being in such a liberal institution might have affected his conservative, prejudiced values. Initially, his new friends seemed to have brought out a new side. She often overheard a debate that he and Mike McMahon had about apartheid and how it could be replaced with a democracy. However, it seemed that in the last few years, there had been some overriding influence, something beyond his upbringing, and he had regressed to a point where neither she nor his friends could help. Something or someone had taken hold of, and was controlling, his spirit. Now it seemed too much for him to overcome.
After Renata had gone, Jannie reflected on the events of the last twenty-four hours. The thoughts pressed in on how he had become immersed and embedded with the security services with a mind to preventing events like this. This is what they had promised him would never happen and why he had agreed to help BOSS by joining the scientific committee and answering only to the prime minister. When they had sought his cooperation, they had appealed to his Afrikaner background and upbringing as well as promising extra funding for his liver transplant programme.
As he thought about what to say to the press, he wondered whether his father had been right after all. Clearly, if blacks were capable of such an atrocity, they were incapable of rising above the tribal. He knew what his father would have said at a press conference like this; it would have been similar to what his handlers at BOSS had been saying to him since he joined. He had ignored them, too, despite the obvious attempt to appeal to his Afrikaner roots. Perhaps they were right as well.
Chapter 10
The Cape Times ran the headline ‘TRANSPLANT SURGEON QUERIES THE NEED FOR FORGIVENESS’ with the rest of Jannie’s press conference underneath. As Jannie picked up the paper that had been left on his bed, the door opened and Renata entered, closely followed by Digby and Chris. No one spoke; they all just looked at Jannie.
‘Look, I don’t expect you to understand. Just believe that this is not an aberration of a traumatically stressed mind. There is more involved than I care to tell any of you about at the moment. I know you wanted me to adopt the air of forgiveness, to heal the wounds, but I can’t. I’m the product of my upbringing and that all seems to conflict with what you’re telling me, so don’t look at me with that disapproving look.’
Renata noticed the set jaw, indicating that he was ready to verbally repulse alternative suggestions. She decided he was too in control to be in shock. Digby and Chris looked at each other.
‘Well, I suppose it was better than suggesting the blacks are intellectually bereft and incapable of running the country,’ said Digby, unable to control himself.
Jannie fixed Digby with a stare that Digby knew drew on the passions of previous generations of Afrikaners. It was his punctuation stare, a full stop, where his temper fired and no humour entered. It was a stare Digby felt that Jannie had learned from his father’s farm. Digby hated it, as he knew the blacks must have. It was contumely arrogance encompassed. Such a stare generated the ‘I’m in charge and challenge me further at your peril’ feeling.
Chris sensed the developing tension between his friends and interjected. ‘Digby, Renata and Jannie must have things to discuss…’ but before he could finish, Digby had turned and headed towards the door.
‘We’ll check on you later, Jannie,’ said Digby as he left without a backward glance.
Renata sat opposite and then took the Cape Times, folding it, before placing it neatly on the foot of the bed.
‘The transplant has been a success,’ she said. ‘Sibokwe is still in intensive care, but Susannah is pleased with his progress and said to tell you the cholangiogram is fine.’
Jannie looked at Renata, slowly comprehending the full message. Susannah was in charge; perhaps she had done the transplant. The thought shocked him. He had assumed Mike would have flown Professor O’Brien down from Johannesburg.
‘Did Susannah do the transplant?’ he asked, interrupting his own thoughts.
‘Yes, she had to. Professor O’Brien wasn’t available. It seems to have gone very well, Jannie. Susannah’s been on the news, although coverage of the transplant has been buried by news of the terrorist attack!’
Renata deliberately varied her structure in mid sentence. She noticed the look on Jannie’s face but also felt the welling emotion. Part of him was delighted that his transplant programme had survived, but he was also aggrieved that a woman was successfully performing it.
‘Susannah said she would be in to see you later today to give you an update.’
Renata knew she had submitted to Jannie’s thought control, and somewhere inside of her, something winced. It was a feeling she had never liked.
Jannie did not reply. He was thinking that if the cholangiogram was normal, Susannah had at least done the anastomosis well. The first hurdle of the liver transplant was successful. The next would be a biopsy to test for rejection of the liver. He hoped by that time he would be at least able to exert more control than he could now.
‘Jannie.’
Renata’s voice refocused his thoughts. He looked at her.
‘Jannie,’ she repeated as she often did when she was unsure that her question would provoke a verbal rapier thrust from him. ‘I know it was incredibly difficult for you after all you have been through with your family and the terrorist attack not to be more condemnatory. I understand that you couldn’t offer them forgiveness the way others have, but I’m so glad you didn’t condemn those who did.’
Jannie considered whether she would have the same feeling about what he said i
f she knew the whole truth.
‘I know it’s going to be difficult getting over this and adjusting to it, but I believe with a little help we can,’ said Renata.
‘It may not be that simple.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not sure you’d understand even if I explained,’ said Jannie, wondering if he could ever tell her or anyone about his involvement with BOSS.
‘Perhaps if you take the time to explain it to me I might surprise you.’ She looked at Jannie and, encouraged by no condemnatory comment from him, continued. ‘Why would there be more to an event like this that we don’t know and that you can’t tell me about?’
‘Renata, I have information that I can’t share with you. I’m sorry I spoke.’
The combination of the diminutive and condescending repulsed her, but she was fascinated that he indicated that he was privy to information that the rest of them were not. Tempted to walk out and say nothing further, she instead gathered herself and leant over and kissed him gently on the cheek, her sadness hard to hide.
‘I’ll see you later,’ she said.
Jannie watched as Renata walked out through the door, wiping tears from her eyes. He was watching her for a few seconds, wondering whether he could confide in her, and, if so, how much he should tell her, when Andre van der Walt, his handler from BOSS, walked into the room and stood menacingly at the foot of his bed.
Chapter 11
Christian watched his mother for a long time after she had finished telling him his father’s story. She appeared physically drained from having to relive some of the memories. So it was some time before she spoke, and when she did she took his hands in hers.
‘There’s much more that I can tell you in the next few days, but it’s probably enough for you to deal with at the moment.’
‘That must have been difficult for you to tell me, and I can understand now why you didn’t say anything before. But I also have to go to find out for myself what happened to my father.’
‘Yes, I’ve always known that, honey, but I’m afraid we’ve never known what caused your father’s death and whether that threat is still there and could involve you.’
‘But, Mum, there’s been a change of government now. They no longer have a white supremacist government, and, from what I’ve read, Mandela has been so forgiving that there’s now a less threatening atmosphere in South Africa.’
‘You’re right, but there are many unanswered questions about your father’s death. We knew eventually that he was involved with the security services, which may have included other governments and organisations. If you go, you’ll have to promise me that you will be careful, as no one knows really, what your father knew or what he was involved in and if it still has any relevance. Mandela’s charisma is waning. There’s a lawlessness that pervades the country, and the rule of law is not the capstone that it is in Australia or that it was once in South Africa. It’s a country that has become increasingly hostile to peoples of all colours.’
‘Mum, I know it’s not the same place that you lived in. I’ve also been reading about what has happened since Mandela came to power, the power vacuum, the rise of the communist youth league, corruption and violence, but I still need the answers to some of the questions about my father in order to move on.’
‘I know you want to go, but let’s try to get some sleep and I’ll tell you more about what happened in the morning. Don’t forget that tomorrow is your birthday, so let’s see what that brings,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek.
One of the cats landed on his bed and woke him. Opening his eyes, he saw a large birthday card on the foot of his bed. Smokey, his grey and white cat, which often slept at the foot of his bed, stretched and started purring. He pushed back the duvet and reached down for the card. Opening it, he saw ‘Happy Birthday, Honey’ in his mother’s handwriting. Then he saw that she had added an extra sentence, ‘Your real birthday present comes later.’ Christian smiled thinking that was so typical of his mother. Pulling on his dressing gown, he walked out into the kitchen where he could hear her making coffee.
‘Happy nineteenth birthday, favourite son,’ she greeted him as he walked in. ‘Birthday coffee?’
‘Thanks, that’d be great, and thanks for the great card,’ he said as he sat down at the table where they had discussed his father the night before. There were books and clippings on the table about his father which he had not seen before.
‘Yes, I know.’ Renata paused and smiled at him before continuing. ‘Last night was never going to be enough for you, and with your natural curiosity you’re always going to want the entire story. After breakfast, we can go through the rest of your father’s history. Then I want you to try to enjoy your birthday. I’ve booked a restaurant in the city tonight and invited your friends.’
‘Favourite Mum,’ Christian said as he walked towards her to give her a customary hug.
Citrus Restaurant in Hutt Street was a small café-style restaurant fashioned from one of the original blue stone villas, very much like the house in which they lived. Because it had such a casual atmosphere, it had become a favourite haunt for Christian and his friends. It was an easy choice then when his mother asked weeks previously where he wanted to hold his birthday celebrations. In addition to the atmosphere, the food was superb, with some great South Australian wines, which, on this occasion with his mother paying, they might get to try.
Most of his friends arrived at six thirty. In addition, they started to enjoy themselves immediately while they waited for Christian’s mother to arrive. Just before seven o’clock, Christian saw his mother coming in through the door and jumped to his feet, pulling up a chair for her. She did not come straight towards him as he expected, first disappearing behind the bar where he could see that she was, for a short time, talking to the restaurant manager. She then came striding towards him with a curious grin on her face.
‘Hi, Mum. Everything OK?’
‘Yes, honey, Why do you ask?’
‘You look like you’re up to something.’
‘You’re imagining things. This is just a regular birthday party,’ she said, with a twinkle in her eye suggesting otherwise.
Christian was about to introduce her to some other friends that she had not met when the waiter came out from behind the counter with a large cake and nineteen candles burning brightly. The cake was placed on the table between Renata and Christian. All his friends then took that as a signal to start singing ‘happy birthday’ followed by ‘why was he was born so beautiful?’ Christian could feel himself blush a little, as everyone in the restaurant turned to see whose birthday it was. As the last verse finished, Giles, one of his best friends, led three cheers, which was followed by more laughing and clapping.
As he recovered from the congratulations, his mother reached into her purse and pulled out a small box wrapped in birthday paper.
‘For you, honey. I think it’s what you’ve been wanting.’
Christian unwrapped the present, feeling its weight and wondering what it might be. Inside the paper was a small box and printed on the outside was the name GPS Explorer watch. It was perfect. He often went walking during the holidays in the Flinders Ranges with his group of friends. On one occasion, a few weeks earlier, they became disoriented and had to wait for one of the park rangers to find them and lead them out. While it only took six hours to find them, it had created great consternation among his friends and family. Now, with a GPS Explorer watch, that would never happen since it had the ability to track you wherever you were from a GPS satellite navigation system.
‘That’s fantastic, Mum. I’ve been admiring one of those for the last few weeks, but it was too expensive for me,’ he said as he clipped it on to his wrist.
‘Be careful,’ she said, winking at him. ‘Now I’ll always know where you are.’ His friends laughed.
‘And, honey, there’s something else.’
Christian’s friends turned to look at Renata as she took something out of he
r purse again.
‘As those of you who are close to us know,’ Renata paused and looked at all those at the table, ‘one of the hardest things that Christian and I have had to do as a family was to leave South Africa. There’s still much of Africa left in us, but we’ve built a new life here and you all have been a wonderful part of it. Most of you will also know the background of our migrating to Australia from South Africa and the tragedy that surrounded his father. There are many questions that he’s asked about his father that he needs to resolve, so this is his real birthday present.’
Quickly wiping the tears from her eyes, she handed Christian the envelope. He opened the clasp on the outside and pulled out Qantas airline tickets for a trip from Adelaide to Cape Town.
‘Thank you so much, Mum,’ he gasped as he reached across and gave her a big hug.
Christian stared at the airline tickets, understanding how difficult it must have been for his mother to buy them considering the concerns that she had about him returning to South Africa.
‘That was a fantastic night, Mum,’ he said as they walked towards the car.
‘Christian, slow down. My legs are not as long as yours.’
‘Sorry. I was dreaming about my trip to South Africa… Also, I can’t stop thinking about the blog site. I don’t believe that my father would knowingly be part of an organisation that terrorised and killed their own people.’
‘I don’t think he was. It was more related to the way that he was brought up in such a strict Afrikaner family. He was rejected by his father and needed to gain respect. I’m sure that what he got into was for the right reasons, and then he was compromised.’
‘Well, I hope that I can prove that he wasn’t involved in anything terrible, contrary to what they’re saying on the blog.’
‘Your father’s parents are dead, that you know, but Mike McMahon, your father’s anaesthetist and friend, is still there. We’ve kept in touch. I’ve talked to Mike and Sian and they’d be delighted to look after you.’
Does it Hurt to Die Page 6