Closed Circle, page 8
Durban, Yudel thought, I'll go the day after tomorrow and stay till the weekend. I'll see Baker's widow, Bensch and the others. He was still telling himself what he was going to do in Durban, his mind no longer completely alert, his thoughts drifting, when a sound from the air and the wall above him drove all else away. The brief quivering in the air, followed by the crack of steel against brick, superimposed over the duller blow of force meeting force, threw him from his chair to the floor.
Yudel rolled onto his back as a piece of plaster cracked away from the wall and fell to the carpet. In the far corner, just below the ceiling, dully reflecting the half-light from his desk lamp, he could see the steel shaft of the crossbow bolt.
He started to his feet in a movement that would have taken him into the open doorway, but resisted the impulse and turned instead in a crouching run towards the door leading into the hall. He found Rosa standing next to her chair in the lounge, her eyes rigid and the crumpled remains of a cigarette between her fingers. "Sit down," Yudel heard himself say, his voice higher in pitch and hoarser than usual. "Sit down on the chair." He reached her before she had moved and dragged her down. "Stay there. Don't move." He could hear the panic in his voice, but he had no way of controlling it.
He was at the front door before the intention had formed properly in his mind. He ran across the lawn and stopped in the deep shadow at the side of the house. From the road beyond the hedge he heard the sound of a car accelerating. For a moment he could see it in outline against a streetlight, largely obscured by the hedge, a dark shape moving quickly away from him without lights.
He passed carefully among his wife's rose bushes. Even under these conditions a part of his mind warned him about Rosa's probable displeasure if he flattened some of the bushes. He went through the small side gate in the hedge and stopped on the pavement. Now the street was quiet. The car was gone and nothing moved on the street or under the jacarandas down either side. Looking back in the direction of his study, he saw the open doors, his chair lying on its side and Blythe Stevens's file open on the desk.
Rosa, Yudel thought, remembering her shocked immobility where he had placed her on a lounge chair. He hurried back, again picking his way among the roses for the second time, then trotting across the lawn. The sight of her at the hall telephone stopped him in the open door. She had her back towards him and was holding the handset in one hand and trying to dial with the other. Her hands were shaking so badly that, while Yudel watched, she had to stop twice and begin again. Eventually, she dialled the number successfully and waited for the reply, holding the handset with both hands to steady it. “Irena," Yudel heard her say, “please come. Come and get me. There's been a terrible thing..."
Eight
After breakfast Yudel made a call to confirm the booking of his flight. Then he sat down to wait for Freek. He had given the domestic leave for the time that he would be away and the house was altogether quiet.
The last thing Rosa had said before leaving with Irena on the night before was, “I'm not good at this sort of thing, Yudel. You married the wrong kind of woman." She had been careful not to look at him while speaking. Then she had fled down the drive to Irena's waiting car without looking back.
Irena seemed to have enjoyed the drama. Before going she had come close to Yudel and murmured, “I'll look after this end. You go and do what you have to."
Yudel wondered idly if he might ever have to live without Rosa. She had been a part of his life for so long that suddenly home without her left him with the feeling that all was not as it should be.
The feeling ended with Freek's knock on the door. Yudel let him in and took him through to the study, watching him get up on the chair to get a good look at the bolt. “It hit very high," Freek said. “Let's go outside."
Yudel followed him into the garden and pointed to the corner where the road frontage met his neighbour's fence near the small side gate in the hedge. “It must have been fired from the pavement over there."
Freek looked doubtful. “It may have come from a lot closer than that." Together they walked to the corner Yudel had indicated, turned and looked back at the study. "You can't see it from here." Halfway back to the window Freek squatted down on his haunches. “I can just see it," he said, "but this is a hell of an uncomfortable position from which to fire a crossbow." He took another five paces forward and crouched again. “This is about it, Yudel." Freek was no more than fifteen steps from the glass doors of the study.
“Here?" Somehow it was worse that they had come so close to the house.
“It looks like it."
“Politically they're ignorant," Yudel said. Freek looked curiously at him. “You said they aren't operating in a favourable climate. They haven't realized that."
Freek had come to expect remarks of that sort from Yudel. He ignored it.
“Where were you?"
"Sitting at the desk with the doors open."
“Having the doors open was perhaps not the smartest thing.” Freek went back inside, with Yudel following, and looked at the bolt again. His usual exuberance was gone. “This is a warning. From that range they could have bisected the space between your ears beautifully if they had chosen to. This was just a demonstration of what they could have done." Freek looked straight at Yudel. “You don't want to make a statement to the local boys ? "
“No."
“I can 't do much if it's unofficial."
“And I don't want to attract attention."
Freek looked at him from beneath raised eyebrows. “I would say you already have."
They looked thoughtfully at each other for a moment. There was no denying Freek's logic. “I don't want my career affected. If it's reported it will become public knowledge and there are plenty of people who will wonder why I am becoming a target."
“And you're still going on with this?" Yudel was looking for the words in which to frame his reply when Freek continued, “Of course you are. And it's not for the money. And it's not for justice. It's a compulsion." Yudel shrugged. “All right. I just want to tell you for the last time that these crimes are not now and never have been planned from the top floor of John Vorster Square."
“Okay," Yudel said, "but there are problems." He told Freek about the pamphlet defaming the law professor and the amount of detail it contained. He also told him about the assailants at the Attic, how there were both black and white men and how so many of these incidents followed trouble with the security police. “This only means that one or two, perhaps a few more are involved. It might not even mean that."
“Okay," Yudel said.
“Another thing: obviously the word is out by now. They might come looking for you seriously next time."
“I can't see it."
“You can't see what?"
“Me, with a bullet in me. I can't see it."
“Boetie." Freek shook his head. The word meant 'little brother' and the tone was exasperated. “What about a crossbow bolt? Can you see that?" When Yudel did not answer, he changed the direction of his attack. "So, where's Rosa?"
“I sent her to Irena for a few days." Freek was observing him sceptically and Yudel looked out of the window to avoid his friend's eyes. “Actually, she left after it happened." He turned his head to study Freek's earnest face. “Why don't they ever find the people responsible?"
Freek was not enjoying the conversation. His face was set hard, but controlled, and his eyes were without their usual warmth. “It's not because they're involved. It's because they lack enthusiasm. If a part of you secretly agrees with the motive for a crime it becomes a little hard to get enthusiastic about finding the criminal." It was said almost with irritation, as if it was self-evident and Yudel should not have needed to ask the question. “You don't want a file opened. So be it. I'll get prints taken. If there are any, we can compare them to those of the crowd that shot at Eglin's place and that mob that blew up the PFP offices. I'll have them checked unofficially." The cases to which Freek referred were minor ones and neither he nor Yudel expected to find a connection. “Don't hope for anything," Freek added.
“I won't."
“In the meantime, see you keep your windows closed at night. Keep your curtains drawn so that no one can see in. Make sure you know who's outside before rushing out and don't let anyone sleep in direct line of fire from a window. Call me, if there’s a real problem."
“Is all this necessary?"
“I don't know, Yudel. Do you?" Freek was not joking, nor was he trying to frighten Yudel. He was suggesting what he saw to be a simple necessity.
Yudel remembered the other matter he wanted to clear up. “What happened with the tonsils?"
“They're coming out this afternoon."
“Ear, nose and throat specialist?"
Freek nodded, but there was now nothing amusing in the matter. He tilted his head in the direction of the crossbow bolt. “I'm surprised by how fast they reacted."
The building where the Reverend Markus Mbelo had his office was just a few years old and provided premises for black organizations only. No law or town ordinance prevented white businesses from occupying offices in the building, but no businessman would ruin his business for the sake of his address. The lobby was littered with used cigarette packets, transparent containers that had once been filled with potato crisps, plastic cold drink bottles that had been emptied of their colourful and artificial contents and grease-proof sorghum beer cartons that gave the ground floor a heavy sour smell.
Mbelo's office was on the fifth floor and Yudel went up in a crowded lift that stopped at each landing. The building made an impression of crowded corridors, people standing in groups talking or just waiting with endless African patience, leaning against a wall or squatting on their haunches.
The fifth floor was even more crowded than the others, dozens of women thronging the open doorway of a family planning clinic. A sign on a wall near the door extolled the virtues of the loop in ten languages, English and Afrikaans among them. The office next to the clinic had an engraved sign announcing that it belonged to the Black Christian Fellowship. Yudel knocked and entered a small office where a woman was seated at a cheap pine desk and typing a letter on an electric typewriter. She kept him waiting while she finished the paragraph on which she was working, then looked up without smiling. “Yes?" The face was expressionless, the eyes studiously bored.
“I would like to see Reverend Mbelo," he told her.
“Have you got an appointment?" It was said with the same deliberate boredom that held within it revenge for hundreds of small humiliations suffered at white hands.
“No, I don’t have an appointment."
“The reverend won't see you unless you have got an appointment."
“Please tell him I'm here and let him decide."
“Name?" She pushed a sheet of paper across the desk towards him. Yudel took it and wrote, Yudel Gordon, the Attic.
The woman took the paper, read what he had written and looked quizzically at him, clearly not understanding the relevance of the last two words. Leaning heavily on the desk, she pushed herself to her feet and went into the adjacent office. In less than a minute she was back. “You can go in," she said resentfully.
Markus Mbelo remained seated at his desk when Yudel entered. He pointed Yudel to a chair and attempted a smile that was not entirely successful. He was broad in both shoulders and head. His face was heavily pockmarked. “Mister Yudel Gordon of the Attic?" His voice and face both reflected his puzzlement. “The Attic has been gone for a long time." Mbelo addressed Yudel in Afrikaans. It was a rare ability among black political activists. According to the common perception of that group Afrikaans was the language of the oppressor and English, because there were so many competing African languages and because overseas supporters could understand it, was the medium of the revolution. The exceptions were those, scattered widely throughout the black resistance, who had been educated within the Dutch Reformed Church. “The Attic has been gone for a very long time. I haven't heard it mentioned in years."
“Reverend Mbelo," Yudel said, reaching out and shaking his hand. "I don't come from the Attic. I'm writing an article on its history." Yudel lied easily when he felt the lie had a valid purpose.
“It was a short history."
“I know, I have heard you were a member of the fellowship and you might be able to help."
The smile had not left Mbelo's face, but it was not a convincing expression. He looked less than enthusiastic at the idea of helping Yudel in any way. “What do you want to know?" he asked.
Yudel felt sure that if he wanted to spend any time in this man's company he would have to interest him quickly. "I believe the people of the Attic suffered some harassment."
The false smile was still in position and the man's expression had not changed in any obvious way, but in his eyes Yudel believed he could see the beginnings of interest. To people like Mbelo the suffering of the oppressed and the persecution of their champions were subjects that could not be exhausted. “Harassment? Oh yes, there was harassment."
“I'd like very much to know about that," Yudel said. “I wonder if you can spare five minutes."
The intentness in Yudel's manner and the urgency in his voice when talking about something important to him had often persuaded people who had been reluctant to be questioned. And now, it was clear that he was at least a source of interest to Mbelo. “You want to know about harassment? The security police were the main culprits. Once they came and took away all the typewriters. I don't remember if they ever brought them back..."
“Why did they take the typewriters?"
“Probably to compare the letters to those used on some document. I don't really know that much about it. If Bernie Miller was still here..."
“He's the man who ran the Attic?"
“He ran the Attic and he ran all the way to Canada." Mbelo pressed a button on his intercom system. "Bring us two cups of coffee," he said into the device. “There is a man who knows more about the Attic than I do. He was more deeply involved, Reverend Dladla of the Presbyterian church. I don't know where he is now, but he was a regular at the Attic. The Presbyterians will know."
“And the Attic's aims?" Yudel was disappointed by what the preacher was telling him, but years of experience had taught him that sometimes all you needed to do was keep the other person talking. If the information you needed was somewhere in his memory it was going to come out in his conversation sooner or later.
“The Attic's aims?" Mbelo's habit of repeating a question as if it surprised him seemed designed to put the questioner on the defensive. “The aims were..." He paused to allow a measure of contempt to show itself. “...to employ the Reformed tradition to bring all South Africa's people together." The smile had never left his face but now it had a sneering quality. “Some of us thought it was just another trap to keep the black man down. I think I have some of the literature." He pulled open a drawer of his desk and began searching through it. “A piece of paper called the RACC declaration."
“Rack?"
“R.A.C.C. Reformed Action Christian Conference." He pulled a thin black and white booklet from the drawer and waved it at Yudel. “The RACC declaration," he said. “Take it away if you want to."
The sullen receptionist came in carrying a tray with the two cups of coffee Mbelo had ordered. Yudel rose as she crossed the room and put the tray down on the desk. Mbelo glanced at her, then at Yudel, watching him wait for her to leave before he sat down again.
“I'll read this," Yudel said, slipping the booklet into an inside pocket. “The Attic was on an old mine property, I believe."
“There's a map on the back cover of the booklet. It was a big old house. Bernie lived there. He had a study in a little basement at the back of the house. He called it the Hole. I don't know who else lived there. They had a library and a room for meetings." He had indicated the coffee to Yudel with a wave of his hand and had taken a cup himself. “I went a few times. I was not deeply involved. I only heard the stories about the security police..."
“And Miller fled to Canada ?"
“When it gets too hot the white activist finds a cooler place."
A fair number of black ones too, Yudel thought. He had almost said it out loud, but his internal censor suppressed the remark. “Miller was one of those? "
“He used to wear pretty clothes. He liked boots. One night he was attacked there. They tried to stab him. He pushed the knife hand away and got a deep gash across one of his beautiful leather boots. I recall that it was a most upsetting injury." Mbelo seemed to enjoy recounting the incident.
Yudel recognized it as one in the file. “Three of them and they were wearing masks? "
“You know about it?"
“Just the broad outline."
“I think they knew he was alone that night. On many nights there were a lot of people, but on this night there was just him. They were wearing black masks and gloves. They hit him and tried to stab him."
“Do you remember anything else about it?"
Mbelo thought for a moment. “I remember one other thing. Bernie said he could hear by their voices that one of them was black and two were white." This was not what Yudel wanted to hear. He knew that he needed to hear it, but he would rather that Mbelo had something else to tell him.
Memory was awakening in Mbelo. “I remember that as they were leaving one of the Attic people who was just arriving and did not know about the attack saw them without their masks. There was a lot of excitement, Bernie telling everyone what he was going to do and so on, because this man said he recognized one of them." He recounted the incident as if it was of little consequence and nothing could be done about it. “I soon stopped attending the meetings. There was no point in trying to liberate the country by means of the Reformed tradition."
