Does it Hurt to Die

by Anderson, Paul G

Your friend

  Jannie

  Mike looked at Renata as she finished the letter. She seemed less disturbed than he expected. There was almost a sense of relief.

  ‘I thought that Jannie was thinking of leaving us these last six months. All the phone calls that abruptly stopped when I came into the room made me think it was another woman. I realise now that the calls must have been from his contact at BOSS.’

  ‘I know you won’t understand this, Ren, but in many ways another woman may have ultimately been easier to deal with than whatever he was involved in.’

  Renata sensed Mike’s disapproval of Jannie’s actions. Mike, who had argued passionately with many for compromise, tolerance and understanding, obviously felt betrayed by his friend. Not only did he have to now deal with the betrayal, she thought, but his friend had also charged him with the responsibility of dealing with the consequences of decisions Mike himself would never have countenanced.

  ‘Mike, you don’t have to worry. I’ll accept the responsibility for Jannie’s actions and the outcomes.’

  It was not the reaction Mike had expected. He looked at her, surprised at the resolve that now shaped her face and the greater relief that her husband had not been having an affair, overwhelming any concern that he might have betrayed his own beliefs. Renata, he could see, now had direction; with grief, there was no fear of betrayal. Mike could only surmise that the thought that had eaten at Renata most was a fear of betrayal. She had loved him even more than he had understood, and he was saddened that Jannie had never realised that. With her concern of infidelity removed, Renata was complete again, in many senses. Her self-esteem was intact, doubts rejected, control regained, and he thought she would have less trouble moving on than most.

  ‘Mike.’ Renata’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Mike,’ she repeated, not sure that she had his attention. ‘I’ll take Christian to Australia. I’ve been thinking about it, as they are advertising for a genetic pathologist and this just confirmed my thinking.’

  Mike started to protest but realised that Renata had taken centre stage and in an instant had decided her future. Mike knew it was important for her to be in control again; it was just surprising that Jannie’s letter, far from causing further anguish and dismay, had given her new direction. Jannie would have been surprised and possibly delighted, he thought.

  ‘Mike, I’ll make all the arrangements in the next couple of weeks, but I no longer want to stay here. Would it be all right if Christian and I move in with you and Sian for that time?’

  ‘Sian and I would be delighted. I’m going home for lunch after leaving here and we’ll come back and help you pack.’

  ‘Thank you, my wonderful friend.’

  Chapter 17

  The Qantas flight was only half full, and so Christian had been able to secure an exit seat to accommodate his long legs. The articles that Christian had read to try to prepare himself for the new South Africa had indicated simmering discontent and that poverty had sought refuge in organised crime. The initial euphoria of emancipation had been superseded by the need for housing for the black population. Ambitious plans to build a million new homes had not materialised, and there was frustration, protest and unrest. The ongoing personal violence had discouraged tourism, investment and foreign capital. The rise of the Communist Party, particularly through the African National Congress youth league, with its desire for the nationalisation of the mines, was frightening off foreign investors. Christian wondered what had happened to the rainbow nation that everyone had initially talked about after the new black government came to power.

  The watershed, from his reading, was three years post-Mandela. The trade union movement had been agitating for higher wages, complaining that there had been little by way of labour reform. Many of the white corporate structures had remained intact, with nominal blacks appointed as directors. In certain ways, this appeared positive, as it maintained employment, but it still left a perception that nothing much had changed, with the huge profits to be retained by essentially white multinationals. The underlying theme was that whites continued to make fortunes on the back of cheap black labour, with little changing in the minds of many blacks.

  Strikes had at first been short-lived, with negotiated settlements and little violence. However, the structure and discipline of the previous white police force had disappeared. While this had been significant in reducing torture and incarceration of blacks, organised criminals now took advantage of a less organised police force. Corporate structures appeared to accommodate personalities in unions as the most expedient way to ensure worker harmony, allowing corruption to flourish. Payoffs had become widespread. What a shame, thought Christian, for a nation so rich in resources, and after having such an enormous struggle to achieve democracy, that it may not realise its full potential as a nation.

  The Qantas staff busied themselves in preparation for take-off from Sydney. Christian was busy placing his books on the seat when a coloured man in a smart suit loaded his briefcase above his seat. Christian looked up and received a smile, noting the unusual blue eyes against his dark skin. The passenger excused himself and climbed over Christian’s legs to the window seat. As he sat down, Christian noticed that he had a copy of Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom, which he placed on the seat between them. Christian had read the book and been inspired by Mandela’s story, particularly his forgiveness of those who had treated him so badly for so long. He wondered if the stranger was enjoying it as much as he had and thought that it would at least give them something to talk about on the fourteen-hour flight.

  Once they reached their cruising altitude lunch was served, and Christian noticed that the stranger had almost finished Mandela’s book.

  ‘Hi, I’m Christian de Villiers. Are you enjoying Mandela’s book?’

  ‘Yes, immensely. Moreover, good morning to you. My name is Marais Viljoen. I’m a doctor in Sydney and am going back to South Africa after about twenty years to try to find out a little bit more about my roots.’

  ‘That’s a bit similar to me, then,’ replied Christian. ‘I’m hoping to find out what happened to my father.’

  ‘Did he disappear?’

  ‘No, he was killed before the change of government, and no one seems to understand why.’

  ‘That may be a bit more difficult to establish now that many of the records have been destroyed with the new government taking over,’ said Marais. ‘I have experienced similar difficulties trying to track down where I was born; all I know is that there were payments that used to come each month from a little town called Stellenbosch.’

  ‘That’s not much to go on,’ said Christian. ‘You don’t know any more than that?’

  ‘I know that my mother was coloured and probably a farm worker. And coming from that era, with my blue eyes and lighter hair, it would be reasonable to think that my father was white.’

  ‘Well, I can always check with my mother, who still has some contacts in South Africa. Her parents used to live in the Paarl region, which is close to Stellenbosch, so she might know of someone who can help.’

  ‘Anything that could contribute I’d be extremely grateful for,’ said Marais. ‘I do have some records, which come from the Malawi orphanage that I was sent to when I was two years old. I was evidently taken away from my mother and sent to an orphanage, which would receive money each month for my food and schooling. This came from Nedbank in Stellenbosch, so I thought that’s probably where I’d start. However, banks are so secretive that I’m not very hopeful that they’ll be able to help even if they still have the records. From my readings, there were many of us who came from South African farms. Many of the farmers had relations with the workers, and the progeny of those affairs were children who were an embarrassment to them and so were sent away to orphanages. Not only were they an embarrassment from the point of view of an affair, but it totally undermined the whole Afrikaner determination to keep the races separate.’

  ‘How did you get to be a doc
tor?’ asked Christian.

  ‘Quite a long story, really. The shortened version is that a South African missionary couple adopted me and we moved to Australia when I was five years of age. I grew up in Sydney and took their surname, as when I was adopted I was called Hannes Coloured. I’ve had a wonderful life thanks to them, but there’s always been this desire to find out where I came from and who I belonged to. South Africa has always fascinated me as a country of great contrasts, and while I watched with dismay over the years as the world reported some of the worst excesses of apartheid, I was encouraged when there was peaceful change and Mandela became president. At that time I was just finishing medicine and had hoped to work there, but now I’m not so certain that it would be safe or whether I could make a difference.’

  Christian thought that this journey was already beginning to be fascinating. ‘Is there anything else that you know about your family that might help in your search, and that I could tell my mother about to see whether she could help?’

  ‘I do. I have a small web between my large and second toe, which I was fascinated to read, was genetic, although I believe it can also skip generations. It’s not very common, only occurring in one in two thousand people. That may not be very helpful, but you never know, I might meet someone in Paarl who knows of a family with the trait. I thought that as a doctor I’d visit the local doctors to learn whether there are any such families as one of the starting points.’

  ‘You’ve done quite a bit of reading, I take it,’ said Christian, looking at Mandela’s books and the other articles on apartheid that Marais had taken out of his bag.

  ‘Yes, I have. In addition to reading Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom, I’ve read most of the analyses of the apartheid era. It’s interesting that during that time much was written about the country from those outside that was very critical, whereas internal criticisms were suppressed. Now that has changed considerably, and little is written from outside and much from inside the country. It is still difficult to understand what the future might bring. I believe there is no cohesive plan for its development and some individuals have emerged with hidden agendas.’

  ‘Do you think this is all just about a nation of people who have been deprived of the vote who now need to rebuild it in their own image?’ asked Christian.

  ‘That’s a good question. Quite possibly what you say is true. Take this Peter Jackson as one example; he’s a charismatic coloured South African, a mixture of black and Malay. The union movement has been very much a Jackson affair. He liaised with the clothing workers, united them and established his own power base so that it almost became a Peter Jackson union. After winning a negotiated settlement with a minimum wage for clothing workers, he then successfully sued a number of manufacturers for breach of the agreement. This, in turn, widened Jackson’s power base and provided the impetus and influence he required to achieve the ultimate goal of redistribution through nationalism. Jackson had realised that despite a growing power base, the problem lay with his colour. In order to expand his membership he needed to command allegiance from ninety-five per cent of the black population. Traditionally, the coloureds had been seen as Uncle Toms. They were a privileged class spawned by whites and cultivated by whites, through a fear of blacks, but with the same deprivation of social and human rights as blacks. So it’s been this combination of Zulus, Xhosas and coloureds that has been so difficult to unite, as each established their own identity following the demise of apartheid.’

  ‘So what you’re trying to say is that individuals are providing for themselves and the masses still have little,’ said Christian.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Marais, ‘and in addition the coloureds have lost their semi-privileged position that they had under apartheid but still have to deal with the hostility from the other two black groups. It may have been easier not to have dismantled apartheid in many ways.’

  ‘Wasn’t there some brief hope when Imabo Qwete, who emerged in the post-Mandela period as potential leader of his people, took charge?’

  ‘He had neither the charisma, nor, more importantly, the respect to be able to provide leadership, let alone forge any unity between the growing disparities amongst the population groups,’ Marais replied. ‘And now, with a crumbling infrastructure, there’s still endemic discontent preventing the country from reaching its potential as a rainbow nation.’

  Christian chatted on for what seemed to be ages, appreciating all of the information that Marais could convey in their time on board together. They only stopped when the hostesses brought out the blankets and pillows and turned down the lights. They both agreed that it would be good to keep in touch once they landed in Cape Town, and Christian reassured him that he would check with his mother for any information that may help. Marais explained that he was going to stop over in Johannesburg for a few days, and so would not be going on the flight that Christian was catching to Cape Town. Christian gave him Mike McMahon’s contact number in Cape Town, explaining that he was a friend of his mother’s and that that was where he would be staying.

  As he settled back and pulled the blanket over his shoulders, he remembered his mother had explained that sometimes you could see the tablecloth, or cloud, that covers Table Mountain as you flew into Cape Town. He hoped that he would be lucky and thought having such a great interaction with Marais was a good omen and the tablecloth would almost certainly be out for his arrival.

  He was awoken from his sleep by the announcement that they were half an hour out of Johannesburg and should prepare for landing. Marais had also awoken and wiped the sleep from his eyes. Christian looked past him; through the aircraft window, he could see the huge urban sprawl of townships, makeshift corrugated huts and the pall of wood smoke, which hung like a huge blanket as far as he could see.

  After the aircraft touched down, he made his way into the arrivals hall in Johannesburg. He was a little shocked initially when he was confronted by a sea of unfamiliar black and brown faces, each wanting to help in return for money. Each of the faces implored you to employ them, or give them money, which created a sense of guilt when you did not. There was also a sense of unease that this produced that Christian had not expected; the feeling that if you refused to give them anything they might take from you what you had.

  He had been well briefed by his mother before leaving, but nothing had really prepared him for this feeling. He decided that ignoring everyone was the best way of handling it. With eyes cast down, he headed in the direction of the domestic terminal, carefully holding on to his documents as he had been instructed. Making it past everyone and to the domestic counter, he started to relax a little.

  He was welcomed on board by the South African Airways hostess, who checked his ticket and said to him that she hoped he would enjoy his flight and the beautiful city of Cape Town. He settled back with the in-flight magazine, and not long after the captain made an announcement. ‘For those sitting on the left, you will be able to see Paarl, and shortly the town of Stellenbosch, with the vineyards and Simonsberg Mountain in the background. Our approach to Cape Town today is from the East. We’ll fly around Table Mountain this morning, since we’re five minutes ahead of schedule. We hope you enjoy the view!’

  Christian listened as those on board murmured approval in anticipation. The plane then banked slowly to the left, and Christian could see Table Mountain and Cape Point. The tablecloth/cloud was partly over the southernmost extremity of the mountain, giving the impression that it tumbled down into the ocean. Looking further down the wing, he could see the turmoil in the oceans meeting off Cape Point. He could also quite clearly see the cable car sailing up Table Mountain to the summit restaurant overlooking Cape Town. Christian momentarily looked away from the overwhelming beauty and wondered how he would feel stepping foot on land that held so much personal history.

  The pilot overrode his thoughts with another announcement. ‘You will see the tumultuous swirling of the oceans, a phenomenon generated by the meeting of warm and cold currents, whic
h also makes it a great place to fish. Make sure you take one of the tours to the point, but be careful of the baboons; they have sharp teeth and love tourists!’

  There was an appreciative murmur from most on the plane, and then Christian watched as the hostesses did their final checks and took up their landing positions. He listened to the landing instructions in both English and Afrikaans, and while he did not understand the Afrikaans, he knew he would have to if he lived here. As the wheels touched down, he experienced a strange sensation of returning to a familiar place. Clearly, it could not be something that he recognised, as he was only four years old when he left. Maybe it is true, he thought, that genes do have their own memory that can be passed from one generation to the next.

  He walked out through the forward door of the plane and was greeted by the warm African sun. He squinted against the brightness, wishing he had brought his sunglasses with him as he struggled to make out where he had to go. As everyone headed off in the direction of the terminal building, he just decided to follow someone in front of him. His mother had told him that Mike McMahon, his father’s friend, would be there to greet him. To make sure everyone recognised each other at the airport Mike had emailed a video clip of himself and family as well as Skyping him a few times. Christian thought he would have no difficulty recognising them. Mike was his father’s age, which would have made him about fifty, but he remembered from the video that he looked much younger and appeared quite athletic, with a full head of hair and intense green eyes.

  Making his way towards customs, Christian immediately recognised Mike standing behind the crowd barrier and waved. Mike was with his wife, Sian, whom he had also chatted to on Skype, and they both waved back at him. He stopped in front of one of the customs and immigration officers, trying to keep an eye on where Mike was as he fumbled for his passport. Finally retrieving it from his bag, he handed it to the customs officer, who looked at him, glanced at his passport, and then looked again at Christian before greeting him in Afrikaans. Christian smiled in return as he tried to return the Afrikaans greeting. The customs officer then took Christian’s passport and held it up looking at the photo and comparing it to Christian. He then glanced down to his computer screen.