Closed Circle, page 2
Yudel did not try to guess. He had many acquaintances in the academies, none whom he would have classified as friends.
"I've been assured that you are just the man for the job." He spoke in a hearty accepting manner that seemed to have as its purpose to show Yudel that he was trusted. Stevens was pressing himself back in his sprung chair by means of a denim-covered knee that stuck out above the surface of the desk. It was a practised posture, structured to look relaxed, bohemian and masculine. Yudel had little doubt that the impression created was often successful. The publisher was wearing a shirt that was open at the neck and a crinkled red neckerchief knotted at his throat. The clothing was as much a part of the careful production as the posture and the hearty tone of voice. "There's only one thing that my principals may find a problem, the fact that you work for the government." The eyebrows were raised again, suggesting that this was a difficulty Yudel needed to clear up. "That may be a problem." The doubt in his voice was deliberate. He looked at Yudel, waiting for a reply, and Yudel looked back at him curiously, without saying anything. Stevens's expression slowly changed to a frown. "You don't think it will be a problem then?"
"Mister Stevens . . . " Yudel started.
"Blythe. Please call me Blythe. And may I call you Yudel?" The question was followed by an expansive gesture of his hands that, in common with so much about the man, may have been practised before a mirror.
"By all means," Yudel said. "Blythe," he tried the name cautiously. He would have preferred Mister Stevens, but Blythe seemed to be unavoidable. "Blythe, I don't know what you want me to do. You didn't tell me much on the telephone..."
Stevens assumed his most doubtful expression. "Well, you know about the telephone..."
Yudel did know about the telephone. "I also don't know who your principals are."
"Ah." He got to his feet, crossed the small office in a few long strides and closed the door that led to the adjoining room. "As I said before, you can't be too careful."
Blythe Stevens was a tall man, almost a foot taller than Yudel's five and a half feet. He was broad in the shoulder and carried no excess weight. His face was strong, the cheekbones high and broad, the eyes deep-set and the chin square. Reinforced by the carefully chosen clothing and the practised gestures, Stevens's presence at a first meeting was impressive. He sat down again and rocked himself back into his original position, the denim-covered knee wedged against the desk as before. "My principals want to keep a very low profile, very low."
“Perhaps you should tell me what they want me to do."
“Ah." He looked speculatively at Yudel, perhaps doubting that he should confide in him at all, or at least trying to make Yudel realize that such a doubt was possible. "As I said before, it could be that your working for the government might be a problem." When Yudel again did not respond he went on. "You are no doubt aware that a number of radical leaders have suffered attacks of various kinds in recent years. I am talking about politically motivated assaults and murders, the so-called Argentine option." The eyes had narrowed and he was looking at Yudel searchingly, apparently trying to read his reaction. Again, the expression looked rehearsed. "Of course, we know who is responsible, but we must have proof."
For a moment Yudel's thoughts slipped away from Blythe Stevens and his careful posturing. He knew something of the world to which Stevens was referring, not very much, but enough to know that he would prefer to avoid it. Unbidden images returned momentarily to his mind, a bleeding unconscious priest in the dark highveld night, running for his life through burning maize lands. It was a world he would rather have left behind. "Finding proof is the responsibility of the CID," he found himself saying.
"Not in this case. In this case they're outranked." The cunning look was back, the eyebrows raised, waiting for Yudel's reaction. Eventually he found himself forced to continue. "We know that the security police are behind this. What we need is to be able to prove it."
Yudel did not want to hear this. He had experience of the security police and theirs was also a world he would rather have left behind. The memory of a woman struggling for breath in a dark cell was somewhere far in the back of his mind, as was the memory of the broken man in the cell next to hers.
"We have been led to believe that you have the talents that would be needed. We want you to get us the proof."
Yudel looked at the man seated on the other side of the desk.
His request had been put as if it were an ordinary thing to ask, something that would cause no special surprise. He was telling Yudel that he wanted him to find evidence with which to convict members of the security police on charges of murder and assault and, the way he had said it, it had seemed to be an entirely mundane matter.
Stevens misread Yudel's silence. "Of course, we're willing to pay. My principals have mentioned a figure of twenty-five thousand rands."
Yudel put the security police behind him. He thought about the twenty-five thousand. He had payments on his car, the house, the washing-machine and his wife, Rosa's trip to the Seychelles a year before. To a prison psychologist, earning two thousand a month, this was more than a year's salary. He had never before been offered money for his work on murders. In most cases his assistance to the CID had been of an informal and fairly haphazard nature. And he was, after all, a civil servant. In Yudel’s world, you did not pay employees of the state for doing their duty.
Money had always been a problem to Yudel. He had never managed it well, never earned very much of it and never anticipated possessing assets that amounted to much of it. Twenty-five thousand would solve a lot of problems, pay a lot of hire purchase agreements. It would also improve Rosa's disposition towards him. Compared to her many relatives, she and Yudel were poor. This was something that was never far from her mind. He knew that it was not so much that his earnings were lower than she would have liked, but that with his qualifications he could have done so well in private practice. Rosa had never understood his working for a government department. The money would solve problems of every sort.
"Of course, there'll be far more in it for you than just money. You'd be protecting people, very fine people..." Stevens was still talking, but Yudel was not enthusiastic about the new direction of the conversation.
"What would I have to do to get this money?"
"We want proof that will lead to public exposure. We don't expect convictions. Naturally, we'll only pay for results."
"Naturally," Yudel sighed. "What about expenses?"
"Oh yes, yes... " Stevens moved uncomfortably in his chair and tried to drop his voice still lower. "I'm sure we can arrange something."
Twenty-five thousand rands, Yudel was thinking.
"We have no doubt where you are going to find them. We have a comprehensive file that you can take with you if you decide to help us." He paused and gave Yudel his cunning look. "And to help yourself, of course."
Something about Stevens's sudden emphasis on the money drove Yudel's thoughts away from it and towards a more sober consideration of the task. "What happens if I discover that it's not the special branch who are behind it?"
Yudel could see by the look on Stevens's face that he had not even considered the possibility. “We're quite sure it's them."
“If I find proof that it is not the security police, do I still get the money?"
Stevens shrugged. “Well, I suppose you do. Of course." It was not said with a great deal of conviction. "But we are quite sure that it is them. The pattern is always the same. Someone of the Left is in trouble with the security police, then a few days later there is an attack. None of these crimes ever get solved. The whole thing is a conspiracy to stifle real opposition. They want to intimidate the people who want genuine radical change in this country. We know all about them." Stevens's voice had risen to a more normal pitch, some of the pretence had disappeared and he was getting into his stride. “One of our own staff members, Robin Du Plessis, has personal experience of the security police. Robin is right in your parish at this moment, Zonderwater prison, for refusing to give evidence in a trial involving one of our writers."
Yudel looked at Stevens. He was unsure about the man and afraid of the task, but the money... “You realize," he said, “that it is probably not just one person who is responsible."
Stevens nodded. He was looking closely at Yudel. “We are sure that it is a group," he said.
It was starting to get dark as Yudel left the publisher's office. The late afternoon traffic was flowing strongly, side streets and main arteries crowded with jostling manoeuvring cars, their headlights already on. He walked quickly along Jorissen street, Blythe Stevens's file under his arm, up the steep slope of the hill to the place below the civic theatre where his car was parked.
Never before, had he been paid for his work on a homicide. Where he had helped the CID, his bosses had seen it as nothing more than inter-departmental co-operation. Most often he had been led by his own interest. Twenty-five thousand rands. He allowed his mind to dwell on the money one last time, then he dismissed it from his thinking. If he was going to make any sort of decision on this, one that was not going to be completely foolish, he would have to leave the twenty-five thousand out of the reckoning.
Down the hill below and behind him was the Braamfontein business centre, a part of central Johannesburg. Many of its offices were occupied by businesses or organizations the function of which was communicating knowledge to other human beings. There were advertising houses, commercial artists, public relations companies, graphic designers, printers, typesetters, publishers of books and periodicals, film makers, little shops that made a business out of photo-copying, editing houses and a few small newspapers. Among these a surprising number were driven by political motives: liberal, socialist, trade union and religious; they ran small newspapers or information leaflets, published books and arranged seminars, all of which had the same purpose, to persuade the nation of Apartheid's evils.
Beyond the business centre, stretching right down the far side of the ridge to the edge of Parktown, was the largest liberal establishment of all, the University of the Witwatersrand – Wits to anyone who had anything to do with it. It was out of this section of South African Society, from among the people who worked in these organizations, that the victims would come. The editors, lecturers, writers, trade unionists who might one day go too far, upset some unspecified sensibility, cross an invisible threshold, cause an offence that could not be overlooked: they would come from places like this.
Yudel found his car, got into the driver's seat and sat quietly for a few minutes before he started for home.
Two
By the time Yudel reached home Rosa was in the kitchen, preparing to dish up the evening meal. As soon as she saw him, she smiled. This was not altogether usual. It was a moment before he remembered the reason for her apparent goodwill. His meeting with Blythe Stevens had replaced the evening's gathering in his mind. "I was afraid you might be late," she said.
Yudel returned her smile. “I'll wash and change my shirt."
“Give me a kiss first." She pouted her lips and half-closed her eyes. It was an expression that was intended to be seductive.
Yudel looked interestedly at her before kissing her briefly on the lips. Down the years he had always refused invitations to address learned gatherings. That he had finally accepted such an invitation had been entirely at Rosa's insistence. She had felt that if he would not make the money of which he was capable, he could at least allow himself a modest degree of celebrity.
“Mother's here," Rosa said. “She's coming with us tonight." Yudel looked enquiringly at his wife. The occasion had not seemed to warrant a family outing. “Irena and Hymie will meet us there. Dad can't make it though. He's in Cape Town buying the site for a factory."
“Rosa, I don't know if this is necessary . . . " he started to say.
“Nonsense. You must have something to eat before going."
Rosa's mother was in the living room, drinking whiskey out of a short broad glass. Like her daughter, she smiled at him as he came into the room, but unlike the undiluted enthusiasm on Rosa's face there was a sardonic element here. “The man of the moment," she said. She was small, lean, close to seventy and she reminded Yudel of an angry farmyard hen.
He could not decide whether or not he was being goaded. “How are you, Mom?" he asked.
“I'm well." She rose and received his kiss on her cheek. She stepped back and looked appraisingly at him. “You aren't a bit overweight, are you, Yudel?"
“Not so far as I know."
“It's probably that liquorice you're always eating."
“I like liquorice, but I'm not always eating it."
“You can substitute anything oral for it." Her expression had become serious and she was imparting the information as if this was something Yudel needed badly to know.
For the first ten years of his marriage Rosa's mother had asked Yudel's advice continually for what she regarded as her friends' problems. Unthinkingly, he had given it. And in the course of those years, as her reputation among her friends had grown, she had forgotten the source of her knowledge. She began substituting her own suggestions for Yudel's and lately she had been giving Yudel advice on what she considered his problems to be. “Anything oral," she said. “You could take up smoking for instance."
“I'll bear it in mind," he told her. He was backing towards the door. “I'd better get ready."
Dinner consisted of a vegetarian pie. Rosa had been reading books about vegetarianism lately and slowly (unobtrusively, she would have said) meat had been disappearing from their dishes. This was not something that bothered Yudel. He knew that new fashions in Rosa's cooking seldom lasted for more than a few weeks. Apart from which she had the skills necessary to disguise the absence of meat. He also knew that to discuss these things with her often served only to anger her. On a previous occasion she had decided to take all her recipes from a book recommended by a famous woman tennis player. When Yudel had remarked that the food did not taste bad, but it had done nothing for his backhand, Rosa had not spoken to him for two days.
She was eating quickly and looking happily at Yudel. “How many people do you think will be there?"
Yudel was thinking about making the sixty kilometre drive to Johannesburg a second time on the same day. He sighed. “Before midnight, I hope."
“How many people? I asked how many people?"
Yudel glanced at her. “Not many, I should think."
“I'm sure there will be plenty," Rosa said. She seemed a little offended.
“Definitely," her mother said, nodding determinedly at Yudel. “There'll definitely be a lot of people. Apart from those university people Rosa has seen to it that the whole family will be there."
Yudel looked from one of the women to the other, then gave the vegetarian pie his attention. If only they would not look at him, as if he was trying to sabotage their evening.
The meeting of the university Psychology Society was held in a lecture hall below ground level in a new concrete building. Rosa and her mother had been right. Close to three hundred people were crowded into a room intended for little more than half that number. Most of them were students, young people dressed in denim trousers, sweaters, unironed ankle-length dresses, sandals, boots, tennis shoes with or without socks, leather and canvas jackets, collarless shirts: arranged in every possible combination, often seeming to have been carefully selected to form a striking disunity with the other garments being worn. Scattered among the students were university faculty members, the men wearing shabby unkempt suits and the women dresses that might have been borrowed from the students. They were people who, like Yudel, gave little thought to appearance. All had found larger interests. Apart from the students and lecturers there were practising psychologists, journalists, lay men and women, and Rosa's relatives, seventeen of them.
Rosa was sitting in the front row and regretting the fact. She would have liked to be further back where she could observe the reactions of those in the audience. Occasionally she would glance down the row in which she was sitting, but that was less than satisfying. All she could see was her mother on one side and her sister, Irena, on the other and both were paying careful attention.
The chairman of the society, a fat fifty-year-old professor of psychology in a rumpled suit and faded bow tie, had introduced Yudel as “the famous criminologist," a description that had caused Rosa to blush with pleasure, her mother to nudge her in the ribs with her elbow and Irena to nod solemnly. Yudel had begun hesitantly, his hands folded tightly in front of him, but as he became more deeply involved in his subject his awareness of the audience receded, his hands unclasped and he gestured freely as he talked.
“The criminal world is a sub-culture," he started, “and this has to be borne in mind when rehabilitation attempts are made. Most often if you teach a career criminal to be a bricklayer you have not turned him into one. What you now have is a criminal who also has bricklaying skills.
“The true criminal is part of a separate group in rebellion against conventional society. Teaching him a skill in no way changes his essential view of life. It is this view that has to be challenged. Without that, the most enlightened prisons stand to produce more sophisticated and better trained criminals..."
At one point a thin blond man had interrupted him to tell him that this was so much clap-trap, that he had no facts or figures to support it and that Yudel's ideas flew in the face of civilized liberal thinking. When the chairman had been unable to make the man sit down Rosa had joined battle and asked him how many criminals he knew. A male student answered that he knew only the inmates of Italian One. The audience laughed, the blond man sat down and Yudel heard Rosa's mother whisper hoarsely, “Well done. The cheeky little devil."
But the blond man had raised the point that Yudel felt lay at the centre of liberal society's failure to understand the criminal. He spoke directly to him. “The premise that if you treat people well they will respond favourably and if you treat them badly they will respond aggressively is an over-simplification. If aggression is only a response to frustration and injustice, I'd like to know what it was the Jewish people did to Nazi Germany. I'd also like to know what injustices civil rights activists murdered in our own society had inflicted on their killers to provoke such aggression." He paused for no more than a moment before returning to his subject. “What I am suggesting is not that criminals should be refused study opportunities in prison or that they should not be taught skills, but that these alone have no rehabilitative effect..."
