The Mandela Plot

by Kenneth Bonert

  “This doesn’t sound like you, Ize!” says Arlene. Which is so true because normally if there’s any talk about emigration it comes from her, with Isaac calling her a defeatist and telling her never, never. But it’s not only his words that don’t sound like him, it’s the voice too. He sounds hoarse and so tired. Arlene says, “Why did you go to the pub, Ize? Is there something wrong? Did something happen?” His eyes are red—and suddenly I realise when they were like that last, and I know what he is going to say before he opens his mouth. “Something wrong?” he says. “Ja, there is. Very wrong.”

  Arlene puts her hand over her mouth. I see that she’s got it also, she’s clicked what has happened. “Oh no,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s oright,” says Isaac, looking away. “Oright.” But it’s really not.

  48

  I think we are the only whites here, but it doesn’t feel strange because all around us are the staff. There’s Winston Mathenjwa, and here’s Thomas Kgase. But looking at the other faces I’m not surprised to see that Dube and Orbert and Sammy and them are not around, hardly any of those younger guys have come, even though Isaac organised taxis and closed the Yard for the morning out of respect. The women start to sing a new song, their voices are so powerful, some of them leading and the rest coming after in a harmony that goes up and up like a huge ocean wave about to crash and all the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. We’re all standing on an open field of mostly dust except for the crosses and there’s a priest and a deep rectangle cut into the earth under the wide-open sky, hazy blue. In the distance I can see power lines and the rooftops of Orlando East in the township of Soweto. In close is the back of a small brick building with a poking roof, the Apostles’ First African Church. The singing stops and the pastor, who has on a white robe with a blue sash, says words in African. The mourners are wearing black, I see Gugu in a black dress shiny in the sun and Silas Mabuza’s wives—widows—are in the row next to her, with wide black hats, and the coffin sits on the ground in front of them. I look to my left. Isaac with his red eyes is at the end, Arlene is next to me, and Hugo is to my right. Now the men are lifting the coffin and lowering it into the hole with ropes. Victor is with them. The next part is like a Jewish funeral cos the men are getting ready to take turns with a shovel to throw the sand down onto the coffin. But Isaac takes off his jacket and hands it to Arlene and zips across and quickly grabs that shovel right out the hands of the first guy. He starts shoveling away like a machine. When other people tap him on the back for their turn he ignores them and keeps going and eventually they stop trying and it’s only him, working away, the sweat coming through his shirt, breathing hard, until that hole is filled up all the way. Arlene is crying now so I put my arm around her. Those church women have been singing all the time and now they go quiet and then start up with a new song that just about explodes out of their mouths, I swear. I feel it like claws inside my chest. I close my eyes for a few seconds and when I open them I see people turning.

  There’s a vehicle on the dry road, boiling up dust. Oh shit. It’s a Ford Cortina. I watch it pulling up by the church. Isaac has paid for a little reception there and there are trestle tables put out in front by the roasting spit, with cast-iron three-legged pots full of mielie pap. When we all walk over we find there’s a tall man by the tables and he’s lifted up the plastic cover over the meat and morogo greens, and he’s shoveling food to his mouth with his bare hand. Captain Bokkie Oberholzer. In the crisp blue uniform of the riot police with the square cap and the yellow marks of his rank on the shoulders. The people get all hesitant, seeing this cop, but Oberholzer comes up and shakes hands with the pastor and then he goes over to Victor and shakes with him and then some of the other family. He comes sauntering around and plants his tall self in front of my father and puts out his hand. Isaac only looks at him—just like that day at the Yard. Arlene breaks the tension by reaching across and shaking the hand instead. Meantime the rest of the people have moved past to the tables and are loading their paper plates.

  “Izzen this something, hey?” says Oberholzer, and he’s looking at me. Arlene takes Isaac’s arm and moves off with him quickly. Oberholzer turns his head to watch them go, saying, “A whole lamb on the spit killed fresh for this, I see. I don’t reckon there’s been such a lekker chow here in Orlando in ages. Hell, this is like better than we have. Your old man is really something, hey? Hey?”

  “Ja, Kaptein,” I say.

  “Ja, Kaptein,” he repeats, laughing at my pronunciation because I used the Afrikaans word. “So tense, hey. Such a tense young man. Hey, how you been, young Martin?” I can see Isaac behind, watching us from the table, his face getting red. Hugo starts to talk but Oberholzer holds up a hand without looking at him. To me he says, “I havun seen you in such a while. What the Americans call a coon’s age.” He chuckles. “They got some funny sayings those Americans, hey. You would be the one to know what I am talking about, hey.”

  I say, “Me?”

  “Having yourself a juicy American girlfriend like that.”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Oh really,” Oberholzer says. “I am in mistake then.” Behind him by the table I see Arlene has her hand on Isaac’s arm. He twitches it off. No—he’s coming back now, walking with his head down. It must show in my face cos Oberholzer looks behind. “Here comes the old man,” he says. “Wants to have a lekker gesels with me, a good old chat. That is nice, I will always have plenny to talk about with Isaac Helger.”

  Hugo says, “Captain—”

  Oberholzer swings his smile back onto Hugo and says with his voice all pleasant, “Shut your hole, fat man.” Hugo doesn’t say anything and Oberholzer turns to Isaac and says, “’Lo again, Mr. Helger!”

  “Can you please tell me why you here?”

  “Hell,” says Oberholzer, “that is jus the question I have for you. You in my world here. Do you have permissions on you to be here in a location?”

  Tiny eggs of sweat are coming through the rubbery skin of my father’s face. “Look,” he says. “Silas was a good, good man. We just paying respect here, that is all.”

  “Ja,” says Oberholzer, “is very touching. But you happen to be in a war zone. You standing on a battlefield.”

  “Ach come off it, man,” Hugo says.

  Oberholzer takes off his cap and grins past them. Arlene is walking up. She looks like she really doesn’t want to. She’s going to try get my father away again. Oberholzer says, “’Lo there, Mrs. Helger! How are you? How is your son doing there, up on the border, keeping us all safe in our beds. It is the real grensvegters, the real fighters like Marcus Helger, that I genuine take my hat off to.” And he waggles the cap in his hand.

  Arlene smiles with her lips thin. “Thank you. You know his name? My son.”

  Oberholzer says of course. “I know all the Helgers.” He looks at us all and it’s a stiff silence, his eyes going big, like he’s about to say something else but then he doesn’t, he just puts his cap back on.

  “Well, he’s fine,” Arlene says, “thank God for that. Just wish he would get more leave and come see us.”

  “Ja, war is blerry tough,” Oberholzer says. “You know it is only out of care for your security that I come by. It might look all nice-nice with all the food and the friendly folk but you are targets out here. Funerals brings terrorists like flies to shit. They give their little speeches and then the AK machine guns come out, takka-takka. Next thing it’s my arse in trouble cos a whole white family who should not be there got theyselves mowed down or even necklaced, burnt alive right here on a Wednesday morning.”

  “Oh, Captain,” Arlene says, “but this is not a danger here, surely.”

  Oberholzer clicks his long fingers. “Can happen like that, madam. In one split of second. Belee me.”

  “Ukay,” says Isaac. “You made your point. We only ganna stay another couple of minutes and we will be on our way.”

  “No,” says Oberholzer, “I really thi
nk your time is up. Your scrapboy is in the ground now, so that’s that.” And he looks at his watch and then he sucks through his nose and spits down a coin of green snot.

  Isaac looks at it and looks up and he says, “You know what, Captain? This is the funeral of Silas Mabuza, this is what this is. We don’t want any trouble. All I wanna do—no, Arlene, let me, I want to say it—all I wanted to do here is to bury a man in dignity this morning. That is it.”

  “Ja, ja,” Oberholzer says. “That is touching. I understand a hunned per cent. I tell you, I had a dog one time, fantastic dog. I remember when he died and we buried him out on the plot there, I was also very heartsore. We used to call him Kaffirtjie, you know, cos he had such black fur—”

  Isaac lunges and suddenly Arlene and Hugo are between him and Oberholzer, Isaac shouting, “Keep your mouth shut! Keep your bladdy mouth off him! I don’t care you got a uniform—”

  Oberholzer never stops smiling, I reckon he’s loving this, all calm as he says, “Listen, listen, listen. Let’s not all get out of hand now. We don’t need any Jewish tempers going off, ha ha. Listen. All seriousness, Mr. Isaac Helger. I also have sympathy because me too, I don’t believe it could have been a traffic accident either.”

  It goes quiet except someone gasps. Not Arlene, not Hugo—it’s me. Isaac is frowning and Oberholzer shoots me a wink, so fast I wonder if it really happened. Isaac is saying, “What’s that sposed to mean?”

  Oberholzer pretends like he doesn’t understand. “What’s what mean?”

  Isaac says, “What you just said, not a traffic accident.”

  “Da,” I say, “let’s just go, hey.”

  “It’s okay, Junior,” says Oberholzer. “I give a permission. You can stay for a minute more.” He turns to Isaac. “Well these are just my thoughts, you know, after looking at the file.”

  “What file? What are you saying?”

  “Da,” I say, “Da, let’s leave it.” Cos I’m panicking now, remembering what Gugu and Winston both told me. But Isaac is sweeping his arm at me, saying shush, and he repeats his question to Oberholzer, who says, “Maybe it’s not such a good idea to throw round suspicions. On those boys.”

  “Who’s this?” says Isaac.

  “You know. Sammy Nongalo. Dube Gumede. Orbert Vezi.”

  I look at Hugo in the silence and he has a hand over his eyes. Arlene’s mouth is open. Isaac says, “How do you know those names?”

  “Cos they in the file,” Oberholzer says. “They are communist infiltrators. They are ANC. Labour organisers.”

  “Like bladdy hell they are.”

  “Those boys of yours know all about brake lines. And what can be done. I’m surprised you haven’t heard any talk. When they want a union they stop at nothing, those kind of people. Anyway, have a nice day, hey.” He touches his cap. “Enjoy the rest of the funeral.”

  49

  Arlene insists on driving, says Isaac is too upset and had too much to drink, says they’ll go straight home where Isaac can rest. Meantime Hugo steers me to the Jag. “I haven’t heard from you, boyki. What’s going on? When are you going to call me about your card? Have you made your plans yet?”

  I get in the car in silence. Hugo wheezes his bulk behind the steering wheel and then bangs on it. “Did you see that? You see what just happened? This cop is mental! He’s got a vendetta. I was looking at the way he was looking at you. Like a bladdy hyena. This is not a game, hey Martin. You coming with me to my place right now and taking that green card.”

  “No,” I say, watching Arlene driving away with my father. “We need to go to the Yard.”

  “What for?”

  “In case they go there instead of home.”

  “So what if they do?”

  “Da might do something. I need to talk to him first, calm him down.”

  “Ja, bladdy good luck with that.”

  Hugo drives the long way back to Vrededorp, irritating me. It’s because he wants to work on me about America, sell me on the idea I need to leave this country like now. Well, he’s a salesman and that’s what they do. “You need to make the leap already, man,” he says. “Do it! Don’t wait. This Oberholzer is one crafty, dangery son of a whore, I’m telling you.”

  “You’ve said that already, Hugo. Five times. Ten.”

  “Truth can never be said enough.”

  I’m looking out the window, at a street with low industrial units and shopfronts. Avoiding the highway, we’ve come into town from South Joburg. I see dirty alleys and razor wire and cracked bricks. I see peeling paint and signs with addresses. “Wait a second,” I say. “This is Marshall Street?”

  “Ja, that’s right.”

  I stare at the next number. “Hey, Hugo, do us a favour?”

  “Whatzit?”

  “There’s a place I wanna have a quick look at, along here.”

  “Whatzit?”

  I tell him the number—not hard to remember, I looked it up in the yellow pages the day after Pats told me about it. Hugo slows down and pulls up opposite a low whitewashed building with garage doors that are rolled up. Inside I can see men moving around, wearing bright exercise clothes. I see one with a weight bar on his shoulders, going up and down. The bottom of a boxing ring is visible, the legs of fighters working in there, clashing and bouncing back. “Know something?” Hugo says. “Your daddy used to work around here when he started out, in panel-beating as apprentice.”

  “Ja?”

  “Oh ja. Funny how things go round.” He snorts. “So what, you wanna be a boxer like your brother was now? Get your brains nicely punched in.”

  “Hugo, have you ever heard of this place?”

  “This? No, boxing’s not for me, my boy. I’m one for the sport of kings. The ponies.” Then he says, “Dynamite, hey.” He’s reading the sign. It has a logo that’s bigger than the words, two sticks of dynamite inside a fist. I ask him if it rings a bell, the name. He shakes his head. “No. Why, should it?”

  “I spose not,” I say. “I just wanted to see it. I believe that Marcus maybe used to train here.”

  “I’m not sure,” Hugo says, “that I like the vibes round here, boyki.” He’s looking into the rearview. I turn around and see a man cutting across the street. He reaches the pavement on our side and comes towards us, a big white oke with a brush cut and a thick build, wearing a tracksuit and gold chains. “He looks like he wants a word,” Hugo says, his eyes on the mirror. “What is this place?”

  “Maybe you should ask around, Hugo,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’ll have friends who have heard of it.” That makes Hugo’s eyebrows shoot straight up. He drops the brake and drives smoothly away. The man watches us go, his hands on his hips.

  50

  At the Yard, Arlene is in her car out front. Hugo drops me and leaves, he’s got a meeting in Randburg. Arlene’s upset, says she just dropped Isaac off. “He insisted,” she says. “You know how your father is. You can’t talk to the man when he gets like this. He told me to go home. Do you want a lift? I’m stopping at the Pick n Pay first.” I shake my head, saying I’ll come home with Isaac. “You can change at home and I’ll take you to school,” she says. “Still have a few hours left.”

  “I want to try talk to him.”

  I find my father sitting on the stairs at the exit doors at the back, lacing on a pair of his high boots, the steel-toed ones. On the stair next to him is a welding glove and the shaft of a pinion, a heavy chunk of greasy steel. “What you doing here?” he says. “Go home, Martin. Go to school.”

  “Da,” I say, “you always taught me give yourself a cooling-off period. Remember that? Before you get too excited, too hitsik. You can’t take things back. And you’ve had a few drinks.”

  He looks up at me. “It’s fine, Martin. Go home. I’m just ganna sort this.”

  “How?”

  “The way it’s always been, when it has to be.”

  “Don’t be silly, Da. That Oberholzer he is full of propaganda. He hates us cos of . . . what you did to h
is father.”