Closed Circle, page 7
He had spent the last few hours talking first to a group of black trade unionists whose leader had died in a car crash some months before, then to professor of law who had been defamed in the anonymous pamphlet. He had asked the unionists if the crash had been an accident. “Some say so," had been the reply. The professor had told him that the information in the defamatory leaflet had been completely accurate, but selective. “There were no factual mistakes at all. I can think of only one organization that would have all that information. In fact, only one that would be interested in slandering me. But perhaps I don't need to tell you which one that is." He most clearly remembered the professor's parting remark, two wide-open innocent eyes sparkling with merriment. “It's an outrageous project you are tackling. You might come back if you find yourself in need of legal counsel."
With the floor carpeted and deep armchairs around the tables the coffee shop felt comfortable and looked expensive. Yudel ordered coffee. When it came he offered a twenty-five cent tip that the waiter, a dark brown man in a white jacket and trousers with a red stripe down the side, accepted with studied, condescending dignity. Never in all his life had Yudel felt confident about the amount to tip waiters. Ten per cent, Freek had told him. But the coffee had cost one rand and ten cents. He wondered what the waiter's reaction to an eleven cent tip would have been. He knew he would never have the courage to find out. Perhaps tipping worked on a sliding scale with more towards the bottom and less towards the top. He briefly considered having Freek explain it to him, but dismissed the idea. Freek would laugh.
The other customers in the shop were ordinary people, people whose primary motive force in life was to create lives for them selves that were well served by the modest trappings of suburban affluence. They were much less complicated than the people of the other world that existed next to theirs: the world of Blythe Stevens, Professor van Deventer, even Gys Muller...Whatever the lust for power in any activist, the troubled childhood that might turn a Blythe Stevens or a van Deventer against the society of his parents, whatever insecurities drove a Gys Muller: all of them, radical and reactionary, had the same discovery in common. They had found something larger than themselves. It was this that most of the customers in the coffee shop had probably never known.
Yudel could never wholly trust anyone for whom the pursuit of political goals formed the centre of life. In patients he had seen too much of the unconscious motives for apparently altruistic lives. Saintliness was an unreliable phenomenon. He was too aware of the twenty-five thousand to attribute any saintly motives to himself either.
He drank the coffee slowly and ordered a second cup. This time he left a tip of fifty cents. The waiter swept it smoothly off the tray, smiled and nodded. Yudel considered he might just have been taught something.
Blythe Stevens's house was surrounded by a high hedge, interrupted only by the gate at the bottom of the footpath and a motor gate, both equally high. To gain entrance a push button with an engraved plate bearing the word 'bell' was mounted in an indentation in the cement gatepost.
Yudel rang the bell and through a thinner part of the hedge he watched Stevens come down the steps of an old well-kept house. The Venetian blinds in the front of the house were drawn and Stephens had closed the door behind him. Glancing down the street Yudel could see only one other car. It was parked a block away and there was no one in it.
The gate opened and Stevens smiled at him. “Yudel," he said, his voice low, but its tone seeming to indicate that this was a real pleasure. The hint of suspicion and slyness were there as they had been when Yudel first met him. “Come in, quick." He gestured towards the front door with a sharp jerk of his head. Before closing the gate he looked up and down the road. “Let's get into the house." It was said with a last glance in the direction of the parked car, before he hurried across the lawn and up the steps with Yudel following.
The front door opened into a thinly furnished hall through which Stevens led him into a large living room. In the dim light entering through the cracks in the blinds Yudel could see that there was another person present. He was sitting alone on a long settee. As his eyes became accustomed to the light he recognized the man with the unhealthy-looking, puffy face who had confronted him after his talk to the Psychology Society. “Mister Yudel Gordon." Blythe Stevens waved an arm in a grand gesture towards the other man. "Ralph Du Plessis."
The discovery of a second Du Plessis among Stevens's friends was a surprise. Yudel tried not to let it show. Du Plessis got to his feet as if to shake hands. Despite the brief nature of his association with them Yudel was growing weary of the radical Left. Their hostile attitudes, seemingly exaggerated fears, the closed blinds, earnest faces, lowered voices and meaningful looks all appeared theatrical to him.
He imagined the way they intended conducting the interview. Without shaking Du Plessis's hand he selected an armchair and sat down. The others followed, a little hesitantly. “Well, now we all know each other..." Blythe Stevens said, his voice hearty and again pitched too low. It was a device that Yudel was beginning to recognize.
“Have you got the money ?" Yudel asked.
The question caused a certain discomfort among the other two. “At least you 're true to type," Ralph Du Plessis said.
“Have you or haven't you?"
Blythe Stevens swayed forward in his chair. A brown envelope had appeared in one of his hands. “Let's keep the aggro to a minimum. We have the money. When do you intend going to Durban?" He was making no effort to hand the envelope to Yudel, tapping it lightly against one knee.
Yudel held out a hand. “The day after tomorrow, Wednesday." The hand that held the envelope hesitated before moving in Yudel's direction. It was obviously no easy matter for him to hand it over, but Yudel's hand was outstretched and waiting. With an effort Stevens overcame his problem and parted with the money.
Tearing the end off the envelope, Yudel took out the twenty rand notes inside. He counted them one by one, placing them in a pile on the arm of the chair. There were forty, the amount he had asked for as expense money. He shuffled them into a neat pile and slipped them into the inside pocket of his jacket.
“You are not to bank that money or deposit it anywhere. You are to keep it in cash until you use it." Ralph Du Plessis's face was pale and waxen, even in the semi-darkness of the room.
“Where does it come from?"
“What..."
“The money? Where does the money come from?"
“I don't know that we . . . "
But Stevens interrupted him. “The West German churches." Yudel must have looked unconvinced because after a moment Stevens continued. “In Germany the state churches are financed from the country’s taxes. As a result they are very wealthy, wealthier than religious organizations anywhere else. And they are very gen erous. The liberation movement inside our country is largely funded by the West German churches."
“Liberation of what?" Yudel asked.
“Of the country, of you and me, liberation from oppression..."
“I see," Yudel said untruthfully. He felt no need to be liberated from anything, excepting occasionally the members of Rosa's family, and he doubted that the German churches were going to be of much help in that area. “These criminals I'm looking for..." Yudel was speaking to Du Plessis. “What did you people do to them? How did you antagonize them?"
“We?" A small smile of disbelief appeared on his face. “How did we antagonize them?"
“At the meeting last week I kept being told that aggression is only caused by frustration. What did you do to these poor people? How did you drive them to their crimes?" Yudel knew that when he left them he would wonder about his own behaviour and probably find no answer. He always understood the motives of others better than he did his own. His puzzlement was not strong enough to stop him though. “What are the closed blinds and the locked gate for?"
The attention of the two men turned from the causes of aggression to their security arrangements. “The blinds are to shield us against listening devices outside. The closed gates are to prevent the wrong people knocking on the door unexpectedly."
“I wouldn't put much faith in either," Yudel said. “It would be more to the point if you” – he was looking at Du Plessis – “didn't question me about this project in public."
“All right. That was a mistake." Du Plessis looked resentful. “I admit it."
“Jesus, Yudel," Blythe Stevens interrupted. “Ralph and I have been through this..." Yudel looked at him in silence for a moment and Stevens used the opportunity to try to divert him. “Have you started your investigation?" The expansive rugged appearance that had suffered under Yudel's onslaught was struggling to reappear.
“I've seen a few people." He listed the names, ending with van Deventer.
“Van Deventer?" Du Plessis asked, looking at Stevens for confirmation.
“He's not one of us," Stevens explained. “He's a government man."
“Do you mean that it doesn't matter if he is attacked?"
Ralph Du Plessis was no longer able to contain himself. “What we mean is that you are not being paid to investigate crimes against government supporters."
Stevens tried again to assume control of the meeting. “Look, Yudel, what's the point of that? The crime was committed in the public eye. Everyone knows who was guilty."
Yudel told them about the crossbow bolt that had been fired into the professor's study. “You people think there is an organization behind all this..."
“We know it." Ralph Du Plessis spoke with the combined certainties of being young and politically convinced.
Yudel was not interested in his convictions. “I saw Robin Du Plessis. Are you related?"
“In Zonderwater?"
“Yes. He wouldn't say anything to me."
“You didn't tell me..." Ralph Du Plessis was speaking to Stevens. “I thought we agreed...I told you Robin doesn't want to be part of this."
Stevens raised both hands, a man appealing for peace. “Yes, I'm sorry. Yudel, I should have told you. He's Ralph's brother."
“So why doesn't he want to co-operate? "
“Just leave him alone. You don't know these people."
Yudel wondered uncertainly what it was they thought they knew that he did not and who "these people" were. “Do you also work on the student newspaper?" he asked Du Plessis.
"That's right."
“And are you also a former student? "
Du Plessis glanced at Stevens, as if to confirm that his ears were not deceiving him. “Yes. Is this important?"
“I'll tell you what is important," Yudel said. “What it is that the victims of these crimes had in common."
“They are opposed to the government." Du Plessis's answer came quickly and emphatically, but not more so than any of his other answers.
“A lot of people are opposed to the government, but never suffer attacks of this sort. And you say that Professor van Deventer is not opposed to the government."
“What are you talking about, Yudel?" Blythe Stevens shrugged. “I don't follow."
“I want to know why these people were chosen and not either of you gentlemen for example." Neither responded. “Is there any chance that they all, or at least many of them, belonged to the same organization ?"
“None at all," Stevens said.
“Could there be an underground movement of which many of them were members?" Yudel looked for any sign that he was probing the right area. All he saw was puzzlement: a puzzlement that was coloured by exasperation in Du Plessis's case and weariness in Stevens's. Whether or not there was anything linking the victims, as he looked at the faces of the two men at least one point seemed certain, they knew nothing of it.
Yudel took the off-ramp that led into the Fountains picnic area and on to an old main road that wound itself round a large traffic island and through the row of hills that formed Pretoria's southern boundary. It was early evening and a few cars from the outlying suburbs were coming down the hill into town for the evening's entertainment. On the left a thin screen of trees grew along the railway line and on the right the University of South Africa building, a kilometre long and seeming to overhang the road, looked to be an extension of the hill that supported it. He slowed the car where the road curved towards the station and turned right, up the steep incline towards his home in Muckleneuk.
As he made the turn his eyes picked out a sign on a light cardboard poster. He passed it before he was able to read it, but the small swastika in the lower right-hand corner had alerted him. Stopping the car on the dirt shoulder of the road, he walked back the twenty or thirty paces to where the poster was hanging. Against the background of a South African flag, waving in the wind, bold black lettering exhorted the nation to "Let the land of the fathers for their children remain." In small lettering next to the swastika the Afrikaner Revival Movement took credit for its existence.
Nothing could be more natural than that the fathers of any tribe would want to see their piece of earth pass into the hands of their children. It was hard to reconcile these entirely normal sentiments with Gys Muller's hysterical, sentimental oratory.
The message on the poster was a warning to all Gys Muller's people. It was also a warning to the many who had been dispossessed, who because of the military defeats suffered by their forefathers were no longer masters of the earth on which they had been born and where they would die. There was to be no part of this earth for their children.
“Mother has gone home," Rosa said. “She said she felt in the way." All the lights in the house were on and Rosa was sitting in the lounge smoking.
Yudel had seen fear in Rosa before. He saw it in her now and he knew what was causing it. “They aren't going to come here," he said. “Please don't worry about it." She looked at him without speaking, the only response coming from her eyes. “They have no reason to come." The ash-tray on the floor next to her contained more than its usual quota of cigarette ends. She must have been sitting there for some time.
“I'm sorry, Yudel," she said at last. “I hate myself now." He had not seen the guilt as being hers and he could find no way to frame an answer. She shook her head and when she spoke again her voice had an uneven, almost crackling quality. “I'm such a coward."
Yudel drew a chair up next to hers and took her hand. He wanted to suggest that he drop the investigation and they go away for the rest of his week of leave. But before he could start she spoke. “I know you have to do it. I've been sitting here thinking about it all day." She waved a hand towards the ashtray. “I suppose you can see that." Yudel was strangely troubled by Rosa's new humility. It was altogether unlike her usual lack of consideration and insufferable self-assurance. “I know you have to do these things. At least it's better than having other women. You don't have other women, do you, Yudel?"
“No," Yudel said, “I don't have other women." As a general rule this was true and as a matter of absolute truth it was not far off.
“I know you don't," she said, “and I appreciate it. It's terrible for women whose husbands have other women."
Yudel patted her hand softly. “Did you want to talk about unfaithfulness in marriage?" he asked.
“No, not really. I didn't want to talk about that at all."
“Oh, I thought you might."
But Rosa was too involved with what she was trying to say to acknowledge his pointless attempt at teasing her. “No. No." Suddenly the hand that was holding the cigarette shook violently. She had to steady it with her free hand while inhaling. “That other time I was so frightened. You remember, when those people came."
Rosa never gave them their name, but Yudel knew who she was talking about and he remembered the incident well. It had been the briefest of contacts and there had never been any real threat to her, but the barely conscious fear she shared with all South Africans at the gentlest hint of security police power and ruthlessness had been more than she had been able to bear. “You don't have to be afraid," he said. “They know we are not political people."
“But this case...the ones that are attacked...most of them..." Rosa was having difficulty putting her fears into words.
Yudel tried to help. “Many of the victims have been security police clients and you are worried about who might be responsible. Is that right?"
“Do you think they might be?"
“These things are not being planned by the special branch or any other branch of the police. I assure you of that."
“Are you absolutely sure, Yudel?"
“Absolutely. Freek says so."
“I’m glad. He should know. He knows all those things.” She blinked slowly and the tight band around her brain seemed to loosen a little.
“All the same, why don’t you go to Irena for a few days?”
“I did last time, didn’t I?”
“That doesn’t matter. Do it again. I think you should.”
“Perhaps I’ll go on the weekend.”
“Or sooner. You could go sooner.” He rose, still holding her hand. “Why not come to bed now? I have a few things to do. I’ll be along in a moment.”
"You won't be long?"
"Not long at all."
He led her down the passage to the bedroom, then went around the house, putting out unnecessary lights. Finally, he made his way to the study and, with the glass doors and curtains open wide to let in the gentle warmth of a premature spring, he took out the clippings he had not yet studied. They concerned attacks that had taken place in the pleasant sub-tropical city of Durban. It was a lazy holiday place where the climate itself seemed to militate against anything as vigorous as violence. For half an hour he read with the complete concentration that shut him off from all but the most intrusive sounds and that allowed him to absorb almost all the information in what he was reading.
By the time he had finished he had absorbed the superficial outline of the killing of Ray Baker. He had seen photographs of his beautiful lndian widow and his suffering, tormented eighty-year-old mother who, according to one of the reports, had spent the years since her son's death searching for the killer. He had learnt about the attempts to kill Lionel Bensch, an artist who had once been a restricted person. He had read about Fellows Ngcube, the attorney who had been shot through the front door of his home. He had also read about Morris Subramoney, a man who had the audacity to organize a swimming league that had no racial restrictions and how the screams of a neighbour had saved his life.
