Closed Circle, page 17
“I'm coming," Yudel said.
Williamson was at his desk when Yudel entered the office, his shoulders drawn tensely together. “Good morning," Yudel said.
The section's senior functionary was in no mood for greetings or other pleasantries. “I would have thought that I might have been taken into your confidence. You said you wanted a few days in Durban with your wife." Yudel sat down tentatively, without being invited. He was looking for the words with which to answer, but Williamson was only getting into his stride. “I take the strongest exception to this. This sort of thing often has very wide repercussions."
“Sort of thing?"
“This jaunt of yours..." The older man's indignation held an element of injured dignity. “I take the strongest exception...I thought our relationship was good enough."
“I shouldn't have..." Yudel tried to frame an apology.
Deceiving Williamson was something he did not feel good about. But he did not believe that being deceived was Williamson's main objection.
“There is a clear departmental ruling, embodied in our administrative instructions that employees may not augment their incomes outside. It's a specific rule." Nor did Yudel believe that this was the cause of his boss's outrage. “There is a right way and a wrong way to do things, Yudel. I am the head of the section. I should have known..." Williamson was angry, even humiliated, but he was avoiding the real problem. “I have been in the department longer than you..." It was true. He had been employed by the Department of Prisons for thirty-five years while Yudel was a relative newcomer. “...and I have seen the repercussions this sort of thing can cause".
Yudel doubted that any departmental employee had ever been involved in anything of the sort before. He decided to get to the heart of the matter. “I believe that I've been the subject of security meetings."
“I don't know anything about that," Williamson said quickly. He lied badly, turning his head away and shaking it too vigorously in denial. “I don't believe there has been any such thing."
“Oh, there has," Yudel said.
“Obviously you know more about it than I do." Williamson shuffled a sheaf of papers on the desk in front of him. “In any case, if there are no grounds for that sort of investigation, my experience shows that it goes away on its own. If it does not go away, then there are obviously reasons for it."
“You are saying that if suspicions survive long enough they become facts."
“What I am saying is that, if there are no grounds for something like this, it goes away." Williamson's irritation was increasing. Yudel was in the wrong. He had no business confusing the matter in this way.
“Who reported me?" Yudel asked.
"A fact is a fact and who reported you is of no consequence."
“I apologize for lying to you," Yudel said. "It was inexcusable."
Williamson stared across the desk at Yudel, for a moment unable to find a direction from which to renew his attack. “The whole thing has become public knowledge in other sections... they get an unfair advantage...they try to take the credit..." Then he remembered that he still had an angle. “You saw a prisoner in Gert van Staden's section for private reasons."
“I counselled him against the foolishness of withholding evidence." The old psychologist thought about this. It had a certain usefulness, if he needed to defend his section against attacks from other sections. “Van Staden was on leave. I thought I'd help out."
His visit to Robin Du Plessis had been on a weekend and at this point Williamson should have been able to see the fabrication in Yudel's story, but in any government department it was bad to have something wrong in your section and good to have a cover for it. “I must say that I'm disappointed in you, Yudel," he ended lamely. “Have you filled in your fuel consumption graphs yet?"
“I'm working on them at the moment."
“I want them on my desk before lunch." He had found a safe area in which to assert himself.
Yudel went directly to Gert van Staden's office. His colleague was in the process of drawing a staff attendance graph. He grinned as Yudel came in. “Ja, Yudeltjie," he said, the diminutive indicating a vague endearment. “What have you been up to now?" Van Staden spoke Afrikaans to Yudel. He was younger, prematurely balding and the possessor of an astonishingly calm and even temperament.
“You tell me," Yudel suggested.
“I don't know." The grin was still on his face. “I hear the holy ones, Poena van der Merwe and them, are upset with you for something." Van der Merwe was the senior administrative officer in the transport section, an elder in the Dutch Reformed Church, a card-carrying member of the National Party which had run the country for thirty-six uninterrupted years and a patriot. A few months before he had tried to persuade the regional director that each day should commence with a prayer meeting, involving all staff members. When Brigadier De Beer had remained unconvinced of the necessity, he had drawn up a petition to present to him. He had given up the idea when only five signatures were realized. The five were all people who fell directly under his control and had thought it wise to comply with his wishes. “Also," Gert van Staden went on, “I hear you've been scratching in my salad."
“I just wanted to talk to Du Plessis and you were away splashing in the Indian Ocean, remember? "
“Clearly." He leant across the desk and spoke softly. “Agh, Yudeltjie. If you want something in my section, you can have it. But the way you've been acting lately is making some people uneasy."
“Listen, Gertjie," Yudel said, returning the endearment. “I don't think you reported my visit to Du Plessis to the old man."
Van Staden shook his head slowly and now he was not smiling. “A policeman by the name of Sydney Wheelwright, a colonel."
“I saw him. What is he, CID?"
“Special branch, little brother, special branch."
Yudel returned to his office to scribble aimlessly at the fuel consumption graphs while at the same time making telephone calls that had nothing to do with his activities in the department. First, he tried Dahlia's number and listened for a while to the sound that meant the telephone on the other end was ringing. There was no point to the call. Yudel knew it, but for all that he dialled again when it was not answered and listened to the sound a second time.
He phoned Rosa and apologized that he would not be able to fetch her and could she stay one more night? She sounded relieved at the question and yes she was able to stay another night. Irena would not mind.
He turned again to the graph. He had bought a set of coloured pencils especially for the purpose and the effect was not displeasing. Gert van Staden came in while he was busy. “You're an artist," he said admiringly. “May I borrow them for my graph when you're finished ?"
“See you bring them back," Yudel said.
“Old Williamson is going to like yours." Van Staden sounded a little envious.
He had just left with the coloured pencils when the phone rang again. “Hullo, Yudel." It was the voice of Brigadier De Beer.
“Yes, sir," Yudel said guardedly. He wondered just how far the whole thing had gone. There was also the promotion. By all accounts De Beer had supported him throughout.
“I've got a bit of a problem with the leave allocations." His voice sounded unusually hoarse and he had to interrupt himself once to cough. “I'd like you to come over and help me sort it out. I'm at home. I've got a bit of bronchitis. Come at lunch time. Tell Doctor Williamson you'll be late."
After he had hung up Yudel stood for a while at the window, looking down into the car park. Not only was there nothing wrong with the leave allocations, but in the past the brigadier had never showed the slightest interest in them. In the car park a black attendant was waving a car into an empty bay. A member of the uniformed staff came out of the building, jangling the keys of a vehicle in one hand. It was an entirely normal scene, one that he saw almost every day of his life, but now he no longer felt part of it. The events of the last week had contrived to alienate him from everything that was usual and trivial. In his own mind he had lost normality somewhere during the last seven days.
As he watched, Poena van der Merwe and his entourage of junior clerks came out of the building. They were carrying briefcases and were without doubt on their way to one of the prisons where they would conduct one of the mysterious exercises on which civil service administrative clerks spend their lives. They reached the car and van der Merwe opened the door on the driver's side. At that moment he turned and his eyes made contact with Yudel's. He said something and the others in the group followed the direction in which he was looking.
Yudel was careful to stand completely still. He made no attempt either to acknowledge or to avoid them in any way. The group at the car stared passively back at him for a few seconds, then van der Merwe broke the spell by getting into the driver's seat. The others followed immediately. As the car drove away Yudel could see the two in the back seat, their faces still turned towards him. The fascination of the free for the condemned, he thought, the living for the dying. The car turned into the street in front of the building and they were gone. And fuck you too, he thought, bringing his thinking to a more prosaic level.
Brigadier De Beer was sitting down to lunch on the glass-enclosed stoep at the back of his home. His wife of many years, a lean fussy woman, led Yudel through the house, asked if he would like lunch, accepted his refusal with a polite smile and disappeared into the kitchen to make coffee. The regional head of the department was wearing flannel pyjamas and a woollen dressing gown. “Sit down," he croaked, looking at Yudel inquisitively, even sympathetically and altogether without hostility.
Yudel sat down across the small table from him. “I agree that we need to clear up this leave business immediately," he said.
De Beer smiled weakly. He was an Afrikaner, a senior member of the country's dominant group and he possessed the confidence that went with his position. Most English-speaking civil servants were of a far more timid variety, never sure just how far they were entitled to question orders, never quite understanding the ground rules and always careful not to give offence. De Beer was not a man to waste words when something important was being discussed. “Yudel," he said, “I don't know what you were doing in Durban last week and I don't want to know. I just want to say that I don't believe you have terrorist connections."
“I didn't know anyone believed that," Yudel said innocently.
“I don't know what they believe, but two security meetings were held last week and you were the subject under discussion." He was speaking slowly, stopping to breathe between sentences. “The first was just the building security meeting, Poena van der Merwe and that bunch. The other, on Friday afternoon, was more serious. I had to attend and they had two security police officers present. The issues raised were your visit on a Sunday to a political prisoner who falls under Gert van Staden's jurisdiction and what you were doing in Durban and the kind of people you were meeting there. As far as the first is concerned I told them you were van Staden's senior and you went to see this Du Plessis with my blessing. As far as the second is concerned..."
Yudel interrupted him. “Thank you," he said, “for coming up for me that way. As far as the second..."
De Beer held up a hand. He turned his head to direct a cough away from the table. “As far as the second is concerned, I don't want to know about it." The brigadier's face was calm, but a little tired and he was looking straight into Yudel's eyes. “This regulation about civil servants not being allowed to add to their incomes, I know we all ignore it, but there are people who will not hesitate to use it against you, if they need to, and if they can't find any other stick to hit you with."
“Thanks again," Yudel said.
“We've known each other for what, five or six years..."
Mrs De Beer arrived with the coffee and her husband stopped speaking. Politics was a man's business. She poured two cups, asked Yudel if his wife was well and if they had enjoyed the few days in Durban and, oh, congratulations on your promotion. Yudel made all the required responses and Mrs De Beer returned to her kitchen. “We've known each other for some time," De Beer went on, “and I don't believe that you are a danger to anyone. Nobody has told me this, but your telephone is probably tapped at the moment. Your mail might be opened. I think you should be careful."
“I don't suppose I can ask who the security policemen at the meeting were."
“You can ask. I can't answer."
“I don't know what to say..."
“Say nothing. How's Rosa? She all right?"
“She's fine."
“Give her my regards."
It seemed to be a signal that the interview was at an end. Yudel got to his feet. “The only thing I'm sorry about is causing you embarrassment."
De Beer waved a hand in a way that suggested the only thing that caused him embarrassment was this kind of talk. “I told them at the security meeting that I felt I had been correct in promoting you. I still feel that way." Yudel edged towards the door. “One more thing, according to the grapevine you are going to be raided."
Yudel stopped. “You didn't hear when?"
“Tonight," De Beer said. “I can't guarantee it, but that is the story."
Yudel stayed late at his office, ostentatiously, flamboyantly late. At five o'clock, a bunch of papers in one hand, he fought his way down the corridor through the evening stampede as his col leagues threw down their daily chains to take themselves home to chains of a different variety. At the corridor's end he went up the stairs to the floor above where he coasted with the stream of liberated humanity, leafing vigorously through his documents as he was swept along. He went down a different flight of stairs and back to his office. On the way he elbowed past Poena van der Merwe, gruffly instructing him to “Excuse me." The purpose of his performance had been to display to all that, no matter what the rumours, he was still very much part of the department.
After five o'clock the building quickly subsided into the silence that pervades all government buildings the world over after hours. It only remained for Yudel to go home to await the raid. He put the incomplete leave roster into his briefcase, straightened his tie and ran an aimless set of fingers through his hair. It was going to be a long night.
He took the road that skirted he fountains area, noticing that the Afrikaner Revival Movement's signs had not been taken down. He parked his car in the garage and, once in the house, closed all the windows, made sure that the doors were locked and drew the curtains. At least Rosa was away. She would be expecting him to fetch her on the next day, or would she? Yudel wondered if she intended coming back at all. She was not a brave woman and she hated the thought of becoming a pariah in the community. It was fortunate that she had been born into a time and place in which discrimination against Jews was of an innocuous nature.
He tried Dahlia's number, but there was no reply. Christ, he thought, she knew about this sort of thing. She'd been through it. But tomorrow Rosa would probably be back and they would be sharing a bed. And Dahlia? Dahlia was a brief and meaningless incident in the past. And hers was a life filled with such meaningless incidents. He told himself that in his life she had no more substance than a shadow. He dialled her number again. Still there was no reply.
Yudel inspected the window latches a second time. If they were going to come in, he wanted them to do it through the front door. Outside, beyond the curtains, the city was sinking into deep twilight. Stopping at his study window, he could see the Union Buildings across the valley, the executive office of the government dark grey against a still bright northern sky. Down below in the Sunnyside shopping area, a few neon lights had come on as businesses peddled the wares of the evening. He could see part of an intersection and a short queue of cars, stopped by a traffic light.
I'll try her again, he thought. Don't be a fool, he told himself. Other men have one or two night stands. By all accounts it is a not an uncommon phenomenon. But I'll try her just once more.
Yudel left the window, but before he could reach the phone it rang. Perhaps it's her. In his anxiety to reach it he knocked the handpiece from its cradle, sending it crashing to the ground. He picked it up in both hands, trying to steady them that way, and pressed the instrument to his ear. “Gordon," he said. But the line was already dead. He thought about dialling Dahlia again, but if she was at home the man she was living with would probably be there too. He thought about unplugging the phone, but Rosa might call.
The phone rang again, the two bursts of ringing following each other in monotonous succession. On the twentieth ring he answered. "Gordon here." He heard the click as the caller hung up. They wanted to soften him up before the time came.
Jesus, Yudel thought, getting quickly to his feet. The purpose of such raids was to find things. He did not want to lose Blythe Stevens's file or his own erratic note-taking. The file was lying innocently in the centre of his desk for all the world to see. As Yudel picked it up there was a knock on the front door. It was a strong confident sound, the knock of someone who expected to have the door opened to him.
Yudel ran into the kitchen, found the plastic bags Rosa used for cakes, dropped the file into one, sealed it with the wire binder intended for the purpose and slipped that into a second bag to make doubly sure. The visitor knocked again, as forcefully as before, and Yudel started for the bathroom. He threw his parcel into the automatic washing-machine, stuffed a handful of clothing from the washing-basket in after it and turned open the tap to flood it. A moment later he was standing just inside the front door, trying to compose within himself the illusion of the suburban male at peace with the world and those in authority. He reached for the door handle as the person on the other side knocked again. Yudel waited for him to stop, then he turned the key and opened the door.
