Roots of Outrage
‘And the blacks will?’
‘For God’s sake, Patti, they do.’
‘So there’s no hope?’
‘The hope is civilization. Gradualism.’
‘And what are these normal standards of civilization?’
‘Various alternatives. A reasonable level of education is obviously one. Income is another alternative. Or property – a man who owns his own house is smart enough to have the vote. Age is another one: when a man reaches say, forty –’
‘Forty, huh? You’re twenty, you have the vote and you’re judging the maturity of a man of forty. What white arrogance –’
He groaned. ‘You’re looking for a fight, aren’t you?’
‘Me? Never.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Patti. I love you.’
‘I love you too, big boy, so what’s that got to do with democracy? Except we’re not allowed to love each other.’
He said slowly, leaning forward: ‘Patti, I loathe apartheid. Apartheid must go, immediately. But surely that doesn’t mean we must reduce this country to chaos. Do you honestly believe that the ANC – or the blacks – can be relied upon – tomorrow – to run South Africa? With its vast civil service – its health, and railways, and airports and its judiciary and police force and its navy and its agricultural departments and its mines and industries and forests and game reserves and its economy – the whole works. Do you?’
She said angrily: ‘Obviously we’ll have to train a new black civil service –’
‘But they wouldn’t – they’d fire the whites and put their pals in office. That’s why we need gradualism. For God’s sake, apartheid must go, we agree on that, but I’m asking you whether, if apartheid was overthrown tomorrow, you honestly think that the blacks could successfully take over the administration of this country?’ He shook his head. ‘It would be a shambles.’
‘Anything,’ she said, ‘would be better than apartheid. Like anything would have been better than the Nazis in Germany. And you, sir –’ she placed her fingertip on his nose – ‘are a racist in your secret heart.’
But what the fuck were they going to do about each other? About the real world.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘This is the real world. We’ll do nothing, until we’re caught and sent to jail.’ She added: ‘Or until you leave me.’
Oh, bullshit. ‘So that only leaves one alternative: leave South Africa.’
‘I’m not leaving South Africa, Luke.’
He sighed angrily. ‘So that only leaves jail. And when we come out, what happens? Get caught again?’
‘True. So? So there’s only one thing to do.’
‘And that is?’
She said solemnly: ‘Capitalize and get married.’
He wondered if he had heard aright.
She smiled. ‘We get married in Swaziland in a blaze of publicity. You set it up through Drum and we’ll get other newspapers involved. “Young White Lawyer Defiantly Marries Indian Wench.” We drive back into South Africa to set up our happy home, we get arrested the first night and thrown in jail. Outcry. A black eye for South Africa.’
He groaned. ‘Be serious, for God’s sake. We go and live somewhere else. In England. In Swaziland.’
She smiled at him. Tenderly. ‘Thank you, Luke. And I love you too. But darling? This is my country of birth and I’m going to stay and see it through.’
‘See what through? Our jail terms? The bloodbath?’
‘I’m going to see those bastards in jail. A Nuremberg trial. Crimes against humanity.’
He took both her hands. ‘We can’t wait for that. We have no alternative but to leave the country.’
She sighed. ‘Yes we have. And that is to quit.’ She looked at him. ‘Split up. Before we’re caught. And never see each other again.’
He stared at her. ‘You don’t want that, so don’t say it. Ask yourself what you do want. And how you can achieve it.’
‘I want,’ she said, ‘a hell of a lot more than most women. I don’t just want a nice home and a nice husband with a nice job and nice children – I want justice for all. Freedom. Legal freedom – instead of legal bondage. And how do we achieve that? By getting rid of this Afrikaner government.’
‘You’re preaching to the converted.’
‘Yes, but you’re not prepared to fight for it. I am.’
Oh Jesus. He said grimly: ‘You’re right, I’m not prepared to fight for it – because you can’t win, because they’ve got all the big battalions. All the laws. But I’m prepared to work for it –’
‘By leaving the country?’
‘By writing about it. Creating a fuss, raising public awareness, international public awareness –’
‘From outside the country.’
‘Jesus Christ, I only want to leave so that I can live with you! As we can’t do that here we’ve got to do the best we can from outside. You can’t fight if you’re in jail, Patti.’ He glared at her. ‘Tell me how you’re going to fight, Patti.’
She said grimly. ‘Ask no questions and you’ll get no lies.’
Oh Jesus, words like that frightened him. ‘For Christ’s sake! Tell me what you’re doing! So I can evaluate it!’
‘Evaluate it? And if you don’t approve?’ she said grimly. ‘What you don’t know you can’t be forced to tell Colonel Krombrink next time he pulls you in.’
‘For God’s sake! Do you think I’d betray you?’
‘I think our cops can make anybody betray anybody. Unless you throw yourself out of one of their upper windows.’
He paced across the room. ‘Patti – I can’t live like this, tell me what you’re doing. So that maybe I can … help you. Protect you.’
‘Help me?’ She smiled fondly ‘You weren’t meant to be a fighter, Luke. You’re a great guy, and I love you to bits, and you’re an adventurer, but you’re not a warrior, you’re a worrier – that’s why you’re such a good writer. You’re a wordsmith – that’s what nature intended you to be, and that’s wonderful.’
He was stung. Not a fighter? He sat down and took her hands. ‘But you are a fighter?’
‘Yep.’ Then she closed her eyes. ‘Darling, I’m doing nothing.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
She snorted softly. ‘Too bad. Nor would Colonel Krombrink.’
He glared at her. Too bad, huh? He stood up angrily. ‘Okay. That’s it. You don’t trust me. And I don’t trust you not to land us in the shit. So neither of us trusts the other. And we can’t live inside the country, and you refuse to leave. So you don’t love me enough. So there’s no future in this relationship. So? So I’m off. I’m getting out of your hair.’
She looked up at him. ‘On the contrary,’ she said quietly, ‘I love you with all my heart.’
‘But not enough to run away with me!’
‘I’m not a runner. I’m a stayer.’
He glared at her. ‘Goodbye, Patti. It’s been great. I really mean that.’
Her eyes were moist. She said: ‘Next weekend I’ll be here.’
It was a long week.
‘I love you,’ he said.
‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘But as you say, there’s no future in it. So let’s just have fun. Fun-fucking, that’s all we’re really good for, Mr Mahoney. So, tell me a fantasy.’
He wondered if he’d heard that right. ‘A fantasy?’
She smiled in the dark. ‘A sexual fantasy. Everybody has them, so tell me yours.’
He was astonished. ‘You are my sexual fantasy.’
‘I can’t be, because you’ve got me. But you can have a fantasy involving me. Wouldn’t that be fun? Exciting?’
‘Involving you?’
She smiled. ‘For example wouldn’t you like to fuck two girls at the same time – me and another girl?’
It shocked him. And it was wildly erotic.
She grinned. ‘Poor baby, do I shock you?’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
She smiled. ‘Because for all your maturity you’re a well-brought-up Anglo-Saxon who believes in love and marriage and being faithful.’
‘And you don’t?’
‘Oh I do, I’m well-brought-up too. But I’m an Indian girl in South Africa so I’m not allowed to have love and marriage with you. I’m not allowed by law to be jealous about you. So I’m making myself bulletproof. So, tell me your fantasies.’
‘I wish we could stop talking about apartheid.’
‘So do I – oh don’t I just. I wish apartheid wasn’t there, to be talked about, but it is. So, I can’t be jealous.’
‘Are you unfaithful to me?’ It made his heart squeeze to think about it.
She smiled. ‘Ask no questions, you’ll get no lies, Mahoney.’
Oh God, not that one again. ‘For God’s sake. Don’t you care if I’m being unfaithful to you?’
‘Oh yes I care. But there’s nothing I can do about it, I can’t compete with another woman, I can’t move in with you and make myself indispensable, I can’t throw a tantrum outside your door or scratch the other woman’s eyes out. So although I care like hell, it’s impractical to have sleepless nights over it. So, I’m busy making my heart unbreakable.’ She was silent a moment. ‘Are you? Unfaithful to me?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said grimly, ‘I’m not.’
She smiled in the dark.
‘I didn’t think you were. You’re too honest to be much good at cheating – unless you didn’t care about me.’ She sighed. ‘And, I’m not being unfaithful to you either. Which, in the circumstances, is dumb, Mahoney – for both of us.’ She sat up and swept back her long black hair. ‘Dumb! Because … Oh – I’m so sick of talking about it! But dumb it is! So shall we please stop? And think about something practical.’ She added: ‘Like sexual fantasies?’
‘Sexual fantasies are practical?’
‘More practical than “us”.’ She snorted. ‘And the other good thing about fantasies – so I’ve read – is that when you fulfil your partner’s fantasy, you’ll find –’ she fluttered her eyelids – ‘that they’re eternally grateful to you.’
He didn’t know what to make of this. But it was wildly erotic. ‘Where did you read that?’
‘In some wicked magazine smuggled into this country. Or was it Freud himself? So, what’s your fantasy?’ She waved a hand. ‘Is it leather? Is it boots? Is it plastic raincoats? Two girls? Tell me.’
‘Are you trying to make me eternally grateful?’
She looked at him with big liquid eyes. ‘To stop taking each other so bloody seriously!’ She glared, then strode to the bathroom. She ran the tap.
Mahoney followed her. He slipped his arms around her and cupped her breasts. He whispered: ‘I love you.’
She hung her head, so her long black locks swirled in the water.
‘And I love you. And that’s the bloody problem – I’m not allowed to love you.’ Then she threw back her head, so her hair flew, and looked at him in the mirror. ‘So the answer is to brutalize it.’
He stared at her in the mirror. ‘Brutalize it?’
‘So we stop taking each other so bloody seriously! So we just treat it as fun. Because there’s no other way to treat it!’
He didn’t want to hear. ‘And how’re you going to brutalize it?’
She looked at him in the mirror. ‘And you’re going to be eternally grateful.’ She closed her lovely eyes and turned and slipped her arms round his neck and held him tight. She took a deep breath. Then, as if she’d resolved to be happy, or suddenly saw the funny side of it, she giggled. ‘Gloria Naidoo, that’s who we’ll start with. Don’t all you guys drool over Gloria?’
He was astonished. ‘But she’s a lesbian.’
‘A bi-sexual, darling. Maybe more lezzie than bi, but bi she is.’
He grappled with all this. ‘And have you and Gloria …?’
She leant back in his arms. ‘Ever got it together? But of course, darling!’ She made big beautiful eyes. ‘What do you expect two good-looking Indian girls to do in sunny South Africa where all they’re allowed is nice Indian boys?’ Then she dropped her head and giggled. ‘The look on your face.’ Then she kissed him hard on the mouth. ‘Can we please stop taking life so seriously? And I refuse to talk about it any more … !’
But they had to take life very seriously indeed. Because the next week the police raided Buck’s farm, and all hell broke loose.
16
The editor slammed down the telephone. ‘The cops have found the ANC’s headquarters on a farm in Rivonia called Lilliesleaf – grab a photographer and get your ass out there!’ The name Lilliesleaf didn’t mean anything to Mahoney but the sketch map the editor thrust at him sure did. Christ, it must be right next door to Buck’s Farm! It wasn’t until he saw the policemen guarding the gate that he realized Lilliesleaf was Buck’s Farm … Christ … His hand was shaking as he held out his press card to the policeman. The ANC’s headquarters … And he’d been screwing himself flat in the middle of it.
He drove up the track towards the main house. Over there, amongst the trees, was the cottage, two police cars parked outside it. His mind was racing – God, had he left anything there that would identify him? Was there anything of Patti’s? Oh God, he had to get to a telephone and warn her. His heart was knocking. He crested the rise, and there was the main house. It was swarming. A dozen police vehicles, policemen everywhere, police dogs. Cars from the newspapers. He got out and walked shakily over to the group of pressmen, his face ashen. ‘What’s the story?’
‘We’re going to be briefed in a moment.’
‘ANC headquarters … ? Anybody arrested?’
‘Lots. They’ve all been whisked off to town. In irons.’
The terrible question: ‘Any women?’
Then Colonel Krombrink walked towards them, a malicious smile on his weathered face. ‘Ah, so Drum has arrived an’ we can begin our little tour. How are you, Mr Mahoney?’
Mahoney felt white with fear. ‘Fine thanks, Colonel.’
‘Did you bring a photographer? Good. We want your black readers to realize the police aren’t asleep, hey, man. An’ we want them to realize what the penalty for treason is – death, hey, man. Will you make sure they understand that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. So first I’ll read to you the official police press release, then you can take your nice photographs.’ He produced some sheets of paper and began to read in his heavy South African accent:
‘On the afternoon of Wednesday 23 July 1963, the South African Police, as the result of intensive undercover investigations, conducted a raid on Lilliesleaf Farm in the Rivonia area on the fringes of Johannesburg. A hundred and ten policemen were deployed. The first party of them arrived at the farmhouse inside two panel vans, one a bakery truck, the other a laundry van. The house was stormed. Inside we arrested nine leading members of the banned African National Congress gathered around a table studying a mass of documents which cursory examination proved to be plans for military-style insurrection and sabotage within South Africa. In different rooms were found two telex machines, two powerful two-way radios capable of reaching anywhere in the world, a photocopy machine, numerous cameras and film-development equipment, filing cabinets full of documents pertaining to the ANC and the Communist Party and other subversive matters, and a large quantity of arms, ammunition, land mines, grenades and explosives, all of Russian origin. The police believe that this raid has exposed the headquarters of the ANC and the Communist Party. Investigations continue and it is expected that a large number of other persons will now be traced who will be able to assist the police in their enquiries.’
He folded up the paper with a little smile. ‘Any questions, gentlemen, before you are taken over the house?’
Andy Murphy of the Star said: ‘Who is the owner of the farm?’
‘The registered owner is a certain white person whose name we cannot divulge at this time, but clearly somebody sympathetic to the ANC and SACP, who bought it on their behalf.’
‘What are the names of the people arrested?’
‘When their identities have been definitely established, a list will be released to the press.’ He looked at Mahoney. ‘How about a question from Drum? On behalf of all those black readers.’
Mahoney’s ears felt blocked. All he could think of was Patti, all he wanted to do was get the hell out of here, grab her and run like hell. His mind fumbled: ‘How big … a breakthrough against the ANC have you made today – do you think you’ve smashed them?’
‘Thank you for that question.’ He looked at the expectant pressmen. ‘Today is a triumph for the forces of law and order over the forces of darkness, hey! We believe we have smashed them, yes. Of course all the documents must be evaluated, but we believe we’re going to finish them off and mop up the rest with the information we’ve got today.’
Mop up the rest … Oh God, he had to get to a telephone.
The tour of the house seemed to take an eternity. A nightmare. They crowded through the rambling house, the photographers’ bulbs flashing, Colonel Krombrink like a showman, showing them the dining room where the men were arrested in flagrante delicto. They saw the office with its two-way radios, its filing cabinets, telexes, rooms with a dozen unmade beds, the kitchen with meals still in preparation, the fingerprint experts everywhere dusting for evidence, and outside on the back verandah the weapons neatly laid out in rows, the hand grenades, the landmines, the explosives, the ammunition, all neatly labelled for the public prosecutor. ‘That alone will hang ’em …’
Oh God, how much did Patti know about this? He just wanted to get the hell out of here.
But he was the last to leave. As the pressmen hurried back to their cars, Colonel Krombrink called: ‘Meneer Mahoney?’
Mahoney turned, his heart knocking. The colonel took his elbow and led him aside. He appeared to be thinking, then he said: ‘Are you feeling all right, Mr Mahoney? You’re very pale, hey, man.’
Mahoney’s pulse tripped. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Very pale, man,’ the good colonel said, ‘like you’re sick to your stomach. Or jus’ seen a ghost, hey, man. Anyway …’ He paced beside him pensively, down the verandah. ‘Mr Mahoney, you asked if we’ve smashed the ANC today, an’ yes we have, because we’ve chopped the head off the snake, hey? Quote that – the head off the snake. An’ now we’re going to get the rest of the snake out of its hole. Easy, man. Quote that too. Okay?’
Why was the man repeating this if it wasn’t a threat?
‘Okay.’
They came to some wicker armchairs. The colonel waved to one and sat down. Mahoney slowly sat down on the edge.
Krombrink said: ‘But, Got, man, it’s the eggs that snake laid that we’ve also got to find, before they hatch. An’ those eggs are buried, but not in the snake’s hole, hey? An’ sometimes they’re not so easy to find, hey?’
Mahoney knew what was coming, and he felt sick. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, I can imagine …’
Colonel Krombrink snorted. ‘Imagine? Don’t you know?’
Mahoney felt his guts turn over. ‘Know what?’
‘Got, man, Mr Mahoney, newspapermen are supposed to use facts, hey? Tell the people the facts, not so?’
Oh God, the facts … ‘Yes.’
‘Jus’ like the judge wants. Facts, that’s what he wants to hear. An’ that’s what the police have to give him, not so?’
Mahoney’s nerves were stretched, as the colonel intended them to be. ‘Yes, that’s so.’
‘Yes …’ The colonel sat back pensively and looked at the ceiling; then, as if a sudden thought had struck him, he continued: ‘But, of course, newspapermen do use their imagination, hey, to get a good story. And so do policemen, to outsmart criminals, get information … So?’ He looked at Mahoney. ‘So you an’ I have a lot in common, really. We both work with facts, but we both have to use our imagination. An’ we both got to keep our ears open to get those facts. An’ another thing, hey – we both work a lot with kaffirs, don’ we? You write for them, and most of my customers are kaffirs, who’re trying to ruin the country.’
He knows, he knows, and he wants to use me …
‘Not so?’ the colonel said.
Mahoney nodded, sick in his guts. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And,’ the colonel said, as another thought struck him, ‘we’re both involved in the law, hey? Your father’s a lawyer an’ you’re working on a law degree, I believe?’ He spread his hands reasonably. ‘We both know what the law is – about accomplices, for example. About accessories before, during, or after the fact?’
Mahoney’s ears were ringing. ‘Sure.’
Colonel Krombrink nodded absently. Letting the silence hang. Then, as if heaving himself out of a reverie, he sat up: ‘So we’ve got a lot in common, Mr Mahoney. So – why don’t we cooperate, hey, man?’
Mahoney had known it was coming but it was like a blow to his guts. He heard himself say: ‘Cooperate how?’
The colonel said earnestly: ‘Of course, being an honest South African citizen, an’ an educated man, an’ a responsible newspaperman, you would always cooperate with the police? I mean –’ he waved a hand – ‘if you knew your neighbour had murdered his wife, you’d report it to the police, wouldn’t you? That’s your civic duty, hey man. Isn’t it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Yes. Any crime.’ The colonel waved his hand. ‘And so I feel confident that you’ll cooperate with us now.’
Oh Jesus, Jesus … ‘Over what?’ He tried to sound puzzled.
The colonel sat back. ‘Well,’ he said, man to man, ‘it’s about those bladdy eggs that bladdy snake’s laid, hey? The problem is, this snake doesn’t lay its eggs in one place, hey, like a nice ordinary viper or mamba. It lays them all over the show. An’ those eggs aren’t all the same colour, hey man. No, Got, they’re not all black, they’re also white and different shades of brown, man. Which makes looking for them quite a job, hey?’
Mahoney looked at him, his heart knocking. The colonel put his fingertips together. ‘Well, you work with kaffirs, Mr Mahoney, and you must hear a lot of talk, hey man. A lot of …’ he waved a hand, ‘stories. Information, about crime. Tip-offs. And –’ he stared with big reasonable eyes – ‘I’m sure that as a responsible citizen you will pass on such information to the police. Not so?’ He paused, then leant forward. ‘In fact, we’re relying on you to do that?’ He smiled.
Jesus, Mahoney feared and hated the bastard. He nodded. ‘Of course.’
The good colonel nodded. ‘Of course. Because anybody who didn’t do that might be described as an accomplice, hey man …’ He let that hang. ‘But you must also hear a lot of talk about this and that, which aren’t actual crimes, hey man? Rumours, even. Like who’s come back to town, maybe. Who knows who.’ He shrugged. ‘Who thinks what.’ He looked at Mahoney, then gave a wolfish smile. ‘And, of course, we want you to pass on all that too.’
Colonel Krombrink’s eyes had suddenly taken on a naked menace. And Mahoney wanted to shout, in anger and self-hate. Anger that this bastard was threatening him, bullying him into becoming an informer, self-hate that what he felt was gratitude, like he was meant to feel. Anger that he was being softened up by fear. Self-hate that he was so easily frightened – for Christ’s sake, if they knew he’d been using the cottage they’d have arrested him on sight! Self-hate that he felt prepared to agree to almost anything to save his skin.
‘Colonel Krombrink, you can rely on me to report any crime, as any responsible journalist would do. But no journalist is allowed to disclose the source of information …’
The colonel slapped his knees and stood up.
‘And, of course, as a journalist, you know all about the law, which enables the police to detain any person for ninety days now, until they’re satisfied he’s given all the information at his disposal? But, hell, man –’ he slapped Mahoney on the shoulder – ‘forget about depressing things like that on such a successful day! Mr Mahoney?’ The colonel took him warmly by the hand. ‘You’re busy, an’ so am I. So will you now excuse me, hey?’