by Gerda Pearce
“Well, we thought he was just another honky with a conscience. No real commitment, you know how it was.” The man looks at Nick, appraising him briefly. His mouth curls at the edge. “Ja, well, maybe it was a bit before your time, laaitie.” The curl becomes a short laugh, which degenerates to a cough. He taps the end of his cigarette. Ash falls limply off its end. “So I guess we gave him a hard time at first. We wouldn’t tell him things that were important, you know? But then we thought, why not test him? You know, see if he was working for the Afrikaners, or the cops, your lot.” The man looks at him again, assessing any reaction.
Nick suppresses an urge to smile.
Apparently satisfied, the man takes another pull at his cigarette, and continues. “Ja, so like, we told him stuff that was wrong, you know, just in case. But nothing ever came of it. So he seemed safe. And man, he was dedicated. Punctual, efficient. Ja, you know, he was smart.” Another puff of smoke. Another cough. Phlegm rattles his emaciated chest.
Again, Nick nods and is silent.
The man is more voluble now. “So, you know, we kind of learned to accept him, trust him even. Over time. And he seemed to care, to really give a shit, you know. I mean, he would be up all hours, working in the squatter camps, treating people.”
“Treating people?” Nick is intrigued.
The man’s turn to nod. “Ja, Simon set up a regular medical clinic in the township. Every Friday night, he’d be there. Paid for a lot of the medicines himself, and got donations here and there. But then, he could afford it, rich whitey like him.” The man stops, looks at Nick again.
Nick keeps his face impassive.
“The other students came and went, along for the experience. But it got quite organised. We all helped now and then. But it was mostly Simon, and Jay and Leila, of course.”
“Jay and Leila?”
The man’s eyes run over Nick, narrowing. Another cough shakes his pinched frame. Then he shakes his head. To Nick it seems as if he decides something.
“Ja,” he repeats, “Jay and Leila.” The man puts his cigarette out. He rubs his hands together, then reaches into his pocket to pull out a crushed pack of loose-leaf tobacco.
Nick watches as the man takes a red cigarette roller and a square of cigarette papers from the rusted table between them. He inserts the paper deftly into the roller then squashes some of the honey-coloured tobacco inside, snaps it shut, and rolls it once, twice, leaving only an edge of white paper showing. He brings it to his dry lips, licks the strip, and rolls it again. He unclamps the roller, pops out a taut roll of cigarette. The man puts it in his mouth, flicks a plastic yellow lighter and the cigarette ignites, burning unevenly until the man sucks at it. The whole of the circular tip glows and the man leans back in his chair, sighing as another grey stream leaves his nostrils and mouth.
“Ja, man, they did good work in the townships, those three. And it was Simon who fixed me, stitched this.” The man fingers a blanched line near his right ear. “Got it on a June sixteenth rally,” he says. The nicotine soothes his voice to an almost nostalgic tone.
They sit in silence for a while. A train whistles in the distance. A wind visits the verandah, chilling him. The man smokes, blowing silken rings into the darkness.
“So what happened?” asks Nick, when the minutes have ticked by.
“Ja, so we finally reckoned Simon was for real, you know. I mean, ja, he was a privileged white Jew-boy, but he seemed really genuine, you know? So he was one of us. And anyway, by then, he and Leila were a thing.”
“A thing?”
“Ja, a thing, man. An item.” The man looks pained at having to explain. “Lovers, man.”
“And Jay?”
“Ah, ja, Jay. Man, that was a weird relationship. He never liked Simon, you know. Made no secret of it to us. He would call him a dirty Jew, fucking honky, the whole lot. But only to us. I think in a way Jay respected Simon, his work, his knowledge. They certainly worked well together. But I know Jay never got to trust Simon.”
“Why not?”
“I think mostly ’cos of Leila. Jay used to warn her that it wouldn’t last. That Simon would dump her. Told her rich white Jews didn’t marry Christian Coloured girls.”
“And Leila? How did she take that?”
“Ag, she’d laugh at Jay. Tell him he was just jealous. Teasing him, you know. But she was quite obsessed with Simon. I mean besotted. Really a bit too much, you know, like not healthy. And she was a nice, smart girl, you know. Shame what happened.”
“What happened?”
The man snorts, a harsh sound full of mucus. He coughs again. “Jay was right, man. Right about Simon. Simon, you know… ag, man, the bastard. He betrayed us all.”
Only the scant wind moves across the verandah. Far away, a car’s horn, a shout, a siren. The man finishes his cigarette. Then he pulls out his roller again. Nick follows the ritual of rolling another one until the man shoves the new cigarette, gleaming with spittle, into his mouth. He jams his tobacco back in his pocket.
“Tell me,” says Nick, watching the end of the cigarette smoulder limply between the man’s lips, “what did Gold do to you?”
The man shifts in his seat. A sigh escapes with his smoke. “Ag, it was terrible. Terrible, man. What he did to them. To all of us. But especially to Leila.”
Nick waits.
“Your lot,” the man spits, “your lot. The police, man. Seems they got hold of Simon.” He sighs again. “I suppose we should have seen it coming. The man was visible, you know. Right there, in the townships. Stuck out a mile in his white skin. They would have known him. Known his politics. He was probably being watched. You know, a suspected dissident. Seems they got him one night. Leila went frantic. She knew, you know. Knew when he wasn’t home. She was convinced that’s what had happened, that it was them. All over the place, she was. Screaming, crying, begging us, begging Jay, to do something…” The man looks out into the night, searching for something he cannot see. “What could we do, man? What could we do? You know what it was like then?” He does not wait for an answer. “Jislaaik, I suppose I can’t blame the guy. God knows what they did to him.”
“To Gold?”
The man starts slightly, as if he had momentarily forgotten Nick’s presence. He scratches his scar. The hard tone returns. “Well, whatever, he must have told them all right. Everything. Ag, he’s been gone two, maybe three days at the most. The next thing we knew, we were raided. Arrested, all of us.”
“All of you? Jay and Leila as well?”
The man is derisive. “Ja, especially them, man. What do you think?” After a momentary reflection, he says, “Christ, those guys knew what they were doing.”
“What happened?” asks Nick, certain he knows the answer, or part of it. He waits with a heavy weariness for the inevitable.
The man spits out some tobacco. “The usual, man. You wouldn’t believe…” He stares sightlessly into the blackness. His cigarette dangles loosely in his hand. A while passes, and the man moves, tapping the ash off his cigarette and drawing on it again, sucking at it as if for breath. “Those boys knew how to get what they wanted. I got off lightly. It was worse for them. For Jay and Leila. Much worse. I saw Jay’s back, you know, afterwards. The guy will carry scars till he dies, man.” The man pauses. “We all will.”
“What about Leila?” Nicks steels himself for the man’s reply.
“Poor girl. Poor girl, hey. Fok knows what they did to her. She was waarlik beautiful, you know. Before. Ag, they didn’t let anything show. Nothing on the outside that you could see, you know. But if you knew her before… and then saw her after, after, you know, you could tell she was different. But that’s the thing, man. It’s what they do to you on the inside…” His voice trails off.
“Did you see Gold again after that?”
“Ag, no, man. Never saw him again. Just as well. I think I’d have wanted to kill him if I had. That’s if Jay hadn’t gotten to him first.”
Nick absorbs this. “What about Le
ila? Did she see him again?”
“I don’t think so, man. Simon just disappeared. Must’ve left Cape Town, I suppose.” The man exhales heavily and stays quiet for a long time.
Inside the house, someone turns on a radio, there is a clatter of crockery. Nick can hear the start of a news bulletin. “What happened to Leila and Jay after that?”
“I didn’t see a lot of them after that. And you know, our group was pretty much ruined after that. They had their eye on us. So things kind of folded, we went our separate ways. Jay and Leila stayed close, I think.” The man laughs, a short rasp. “Anyhow, they had futures, man. They had their studies to finish. Doctors, you know. At least, Jay definitely finished. Actually, I’m not sure now about Leila. Poor girl. I remember something about her quitting. Shame, man. So I guess Simon took her career from her too… I suppose I can’t blame the guy. I mean, they probably tortured him. Anybody would have folded, given what they do to you.”
Nick wonders if the man is talking about himself.
“But it’s hard to forgive him for Leila, hey. She really loved him, you know. Girl was a mess.” The man leans forward. “Jay told me she would never be able to have children after what they did to her.”
Something twists inside Nick’s chest. Again, they face the night in silence.
Finally, the man adds. “Jay stayed active, you know. In fact, he went to prison later. Couple of years, as I remember. I haven’t seen him since. I heard he married a white girl. Thought that was funny, you know, given his feelings.”
After a pause, Nick asks, “What was Leila’s surname?”
The man thinks for a bit. “Leila Koning, she was.”
“And Jay?”
“Kassan.”
The name shivers down Nick’s spine.
The man elaborates. “His full name was Mohammed Jay Kassan. I called him Jay. But almost everyone else called him Jonnie.”
52. VIVIENNE
Before them the Cape Flats extend till the mountain rises in the distance, unchanged for centuries. It has taken two days of travelling from the Eastern to the Western Cape, from the rainforest and grassland of the coast, through inland scrub with its thorn trees and deciduous bush, to the wide savannah and shrub. They drive the straight road into the city, squatter camps spilling from behind thick green bush. Viv stops to pick up Kayleigh from her friend’s house in Wynberg. Her youngest, full of energy and tales and non-stop chatter, changes the subdued energy in the car. By late afternoon, Viv pulls up outside her home, relieved to reach it before nightfall. The last rays of sun finger over the lawn, touching the house with an orange glow.
Kayleigh bounds out the car and she and Abbie, already arguing, slam into the house, traipse upstairs. Viv and Gin stop in the hall. The house has that peculiar bleached-out feel, having lost some of its vitality while unoccupied. She dumps her suitcase down with a sigh and while Gin fetches the rest of the luggage from the car, she rifles through the mail, places it to one side. Nothing urgent that cannot wait till morning. The light on the answer machine is blinking red. Seven messages. Viv switches it on. One from her mother, three from patients, two ring-offs. Gin returns, puts one case down on the tiled floor, takes the other towards the stairs. The last message starts to play. Nick’s voice is husky on the machine. Viv stands rooted, noticing that Gin too, has stopped on the bottom stair, listening. The sound of his voice slams into Viv’s every cell, and every cell is perfused with the memory of him. Please call him. A pause before clicking off as if perhaps there was something more he wished to say, but had changed his mind.
They are all tired and hungry and Viv orders takeaways. The girls open the boxes eagerly, spreading fish and chips onto plates. Viv opens a Chardonnay for herself and Gin. Her daughters tuck in to their food, but Viv can only pick at hers, and Gin, she notices, barely touches anything. Instead Gin cradles her wine glass, eyes fixed on the heavy curtains drawn against the night.
Kayleigh’s energy is infinite. Her time away from them is dissected in detail, her voice animated. Finally she pauses to eat, stuffing sloppy chips into her mouth.
Suddenly Gin appears to focus. She puts her wine glass down on the table and leans forward, addressing Kayleigh. “You look like your dad,” she says.
“You know my dad?” exclaims Kayleigh, her intrigue and delight evident.
“Kayleigh,” says Viv, “don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Her youngest chews hard, swallows, and takes a swig of Coke.
Gin sits back, as if bewildered by her own observation. “Yes,” she murmurs, “a long time ago.” Her eyes meet Viv’s across the table.
Viv smiles at her, raises her glass in mock salutation ever so slightly before she puts it to her lips. Jonnie.
“Oh my God!” shouts Kayleigh, “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you all.” Her eyes are wide with wonderment. “Dad’s new wife is pregnant!”
Viv and Gin look at each other. This time it is Gin who raises her glass, “Well,” she says to Kayleigh, “I think that deserves a toast, don’t you?”
Something has changed in Gin’s manner, thinks Viv as she lifts her wine. Indeed inside herself something feels different also. She puts her glass down with surprise. Guilt, she realises. There is no guilt. It’s over, it’s finally gone.
After supper, the girls go to their rooms, and Viv stacks the dishwasher before she and Gin move to the lounge. It is a mild night, but the lounge feels oddly cold. Gin takes the armchair at the window and tucks her legs beneath her.
Viv brings the bottle in and refills both their glasses before she slides onto the couch. She sighs with relief. “Long day, long journey. It’s good to be home.”
“Thanks for driving, Viv,” says Gin, “It was wonderful to see Michael again.”
“Yes, wasn’t it. But,” says Viv, thinking of Gabe, “well, all that. Just don’t know what to say, or do.”
“It may turn out to be good for Abbie,” manages Gin, understanding what she means. “It may make it easier.” She pauses. “It helped me, I think.”
Viv sips her wine. As yet, she cannot take it in. It is, after all, only an assumption. It will possibly simplify matters for Abbie. Her daughter may make some peace with Gabe’s death. For her, she does not know. Gabe is dead. She will never see him again, never hear his voice or his laugh again, never touch him again. She will live on, skin turning fragile, hair going grey. But Gabe will never age. In the end, she wonders wearily, does it matter how he died?
Inevitably, she thinks of Nick. Nick and his message, short and to the point. She had not heard his voice for so long, she had almost forgotten its effect on her, the controlled heat within its cadence. It must be the wine on a relatively empty stomach, tiredness after the journey, but the thought of Nick sends a sexual shiver through her. She gulps at her wine now. He had wrapped himself about her in this very room. She puts the glass down and takes out a cigarette.
Gin says, “You’re thinking of that Nick Retief now, aren’t you?”
Viv laughs with a mirth she does not feel. Gin knows her too well.
“Abbie said you’d been involved with him, but that you’d broken up,” continues Gin. “She said she felt responsible.”
Viv is astonished. “Abbie said that?” When, she wonders, had her daughter and Gin spoken about this? She shakes her head vehemently. “No, no, that’s not true.”
She starts to tell Gin about Nick. The wine lubricates her speech and it spills out. How it had evolved, what he is like, his good company, their walks, his house, the day in the sunroom, but before she can get to the real reason the relationship ended, before she can tell Gin about the files and what she learned that day in Nick’s office, the phone rings. Viv stops, drains her glass, and rises to get it.
Kayleigh yells, “I’ll get it.” Her daughter is already running down the stairs.
Viv sighs, sitting down again and looking at Gin, who shrugs in amusement.
Kayleigh’s muffled greeting can be heard then a pause before sh
e appears in the doorway. Disappointment flattens her voice, “It’s for you, Aunt Gin.”
Gin looks up in surprise, “Me? Who is it?”
“Dunno. Some man.” Kayleigh disappears back into the hall, can be heard labouring up the stairs.
Gin looks at Viv with raised eyebrows and stands, goes into the hall. Viv lights another cigarette, and pours herself another glass of wine. She is exhausted. She cannot make out Gin’s conversation, can only hear the monotone notes of her response.
A few minutes later, Gin reappears at the doorway.
“What?” asks Viv, stabbing out her newly-lit cigarette. “Who was that, Gin? What’s wrong?”
Gin turns her face to where Viv sits but Viv can see her focus is elsewhere. She talks into the space between them, each word emanating as if from an abyss inside her.
“Simon’s father is coming to Cape Town. He wants to see me. He says I need to know why Ellie died.”
53. VIVIENNE
She had never seen Gabe without his watch. Only at night would he unbuckle the thick tan strap, put it beside the bed. Once showered, on it would go again the following morning. He’d had to replace the strap once where it had weathered, the leather creasing and finally tearing where he fastened it on the second hole.
She had teased him about it being like the farmer’s axe, and he had looked at her nonplussed, and she’d had to explain.
“You know, the farmer’s axe, the one he’s had for forty years, but in that time the handle’s been replaced six times and the blade four…”
Gabe had rubbed the watchstrap thoughtfully as she spoke.
Viv rubs her thumb over it now, much as he had then. Of course it had stopped, so many years unwound, but as she winds it now, it starts to tick again, the gilt hands moving gracefully around the off-white face of it. The watch had absorbed his very essence, thinks Viv, so much so that she had only finally realised he was dead when Gin had given it to her.
She walks out of the bedroom. It is time to give it to Gabe’s daughter.