Does it Hurt to Die (20 page)

‘
If I go back then you’ll never see me again.’

Jannie looked at her as she stood toe to toe with him, and realised there were too many things for him to deal with at one time.

‘Come with me, but don’t ask any questions.’

He reached out and took her hand hurrying along the path to where he had last seen his father. His father had moved on, and, in the distance, he could see he had reached the workers’ huts, the female worker still by his side.

The workers’ huts were small whitewashed buildings without running water or electricity. There were ten of them opening out on to a common square. In many, even from the distance they were at, Renata could see the glow of candles and kerosene lamps. The common square was lit with a single spotlight, which had been installed by his father. On the dimly lit square, Renata could see two of the workers facing each other. One of the workers had a long knife, which was being thrust at the other worker, each strike glinting menacingly in the moonlight.

Renata felt Jannie’s hand urging her to stop. They watched as Hannes Marais made it to the edge of the square. He approached the two men out of the darkness, staying directly behind the man brandishing the knife. He then reached down and picked up a large rock from next to one of the workers’ buildings. With a single movement, he smashed the rock on
to the head of the attacker. The knife flew out of his hand just before he dropped to the ground and lay there lifeless. Hannes de Villiers then turned and headed back the way that he had come, stopping briefly to replace the rock next to one of the workers’ huts for future use.

A crowd of coloured workers quickly gathered around the lifeless man. Some were on the ground trying to shake some life into him, and several of the women were crying. Renata noticed someone trying to stem the bleeding from the smashed skull with his bare hands. They then all stood back as Jannie and Renata approached, the fearful look in their eyes suggesting they expected more violence. Jannie quickly knelt next to the man’s head. Renata watched while he looked at the wound more closely, with blood streaming from a head wound so deep that part of the brain extruded on
to the ground. He felt the neck for a carotid pulse.

‘
There’s no pulse,’ he said, towards Renata, but without looking at her.

‘
I think hy is dood,’ he said, in a mixture of English and Afrikaans, looking at one of the workers who stood in a circle around the body.

More women started to cry when they heard Jannie say that he thought the man was dead. Children also started to come out of some of the small houses, attracted by the decuman noise now coming from the square. One of the children, much fairer than the others, was now standing bare-foot next to the dead worker. Renata noticed the strange malformation of one of the toes and, remembering that Jannie had once said that his father had some kind of malformed foot, wondered if this was Jannie’s father’s rumoured love child. When she looked up from the ground to the child’s face, she noticed he also had unusual eyes. Most coloured children had brown or green eyes, but these boy
’s were light blue. As she tried to process that information, one of the women started sobbing over the lifeless worker.

‘
Why don’t you try heart massage, Jannie?’

Jannie looked at her. His glance suggested that this was a question that he did not intend to answer; surely, she could see he was dead.

Renata ignored the warning implicit in Jannie’s look and stepped over the outstretched body and felt for a pulse herself. Not finding one she then went to strike the body with her fist over the heart, but Jannie grabbed her wrist.

‘
Stay out of this, Renata,’ he threatened. The other workers stepped back concerned that there was going to be more violence.

‘
Let go of my wrist. You’re hurting me, Jannie!’

‘
Not until you’re rational!’

‘
Don’t tell me to be rational when someone’s lying there who might be helped. I thought that’s why you wanted to be a doctor. Why don’t you start compressing his chest?’

Still holding her wrist, Jannie pulled her sharply towards him, stepping back as he did so. Without his shadow obscuring the body, Renata could see the fractured skull, its cerebral contents haemorrhaging on
to the dry, dusty path. In the moonlight, she could see his pupils, fixed and dilated. Resuscitation was useless in those who had died from a massive brain injury.

Jannie looked at her and slowly released his grip. He said nothing further to her but continued in Afrikaans, addressing those who were gathered, asking who the worker was. It was a scene that was all too familiar to him from his childhood.

As the other workers talked amongst themselves, apologies, she knew, would have no meaning in this setting. Jannie turned his back on the gathering crowd and took Renata by the hand to head back to the house. She pulled her hand from his and said, ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

‘
You wouldn’t understand.’

‘
Don’t be so bloody patronising. Despite the belief of many South African men, women are capable of forming opinions and making decisions.’

Jannie turned and looked at her
. ‘Like the decision to resuscitate someone who is brain dead?’

‘
Jannie, if you want to have a relationship with me, then you can only do so if you’re willing to treat me as an equal. I had no idea that he was dead until I could see beyond your shadow.’

‘
I’ll tell you on the way back to Cape Town,’ he replied.

They walked the rest of the way back towards the house without talking. When they arrived, they entered through the back door, and Renata noticed immediately the party mood had returned, couples were dancing and the talk was animated again. Their return was hardly noticed, but she could detect a loathing in Jannie that she suspected partly for being perceived as a nebbish son, a feeling that she knew he needed to confront.

‘I need to see my father,’ he said, releasing her hand. ‘Please wait here for me.’

Renata watched him go, confused as to whether again to follow him; but she decided that whatever was between Jannie and his father she would have to observe discreetly from a distance. At the far end of the room, Hannes de Villiers was engaged in laughter with several other neighbours as one of them poured him a stiff whisky. Renata could see that he was describing vividly how he had used the rock to smash the worker’s head, to the amusement of the other Afrikaner farmers. She watched as Jannie approached the circle and stood directly opposite his father. For a second his father continued talking and ignored Jannie’s presence.

‘You killed another one,’ said Jannie, half shouting in anger at his father.

Hannes de Villiers turned slowly and glared at him, embarrassed by his son’s breach of protocol in front of their friends. He then broke away from the group taking Jannie forcefully by the arm and directing him towards the back door. Renata hurried to the back window to see where they had gone. Outside the back door, Hannes de Villiers stood inches from Jannie holding him by his shirt front.

‘There is no difference,’ he spat at Jannie. ‘One vermin from another. A Kaffir is the lowest form of life; they live like vermin, they eat like vermin, and they breed like vermin. When they fight, they don’t stop until one dies. I just stopped the one that was going to kill the other. That’s no crime—that’s protecting the interests of others, of which you were one when you lived here.’

Renata watched as he folded his arms and threatened his son to reply. Jannie stepped back from his father, breaking his grip on his shirt as he did so.

‘People are not vermin. It’s circumstances that make people different. It’s inferior circumstances that we whites create and enforce.’

‘
Don’t you blaspheme in my house, you ungrateful bastard. God has determined that there will be black and white, black because they have the stain of sin. They’re the sons and daughters of Cain, and the Bible says they have to serve as slaves to atone. Don’t you come with that liberal English propaganda that your English girlfriend lives and breathes, not in this house.’

Renata could feel herself trembling. She felt certain that Hannes de Villiers was going to strike Jannie.

‘What do you think will happen to your precious country if these vermin take over? Do you think they will protect your precious rights?’

Stabbing his finger in Jannie’s chest, he advanced a step closer, blocking out the light from the lounge and forcing Jannie into the corner of the small lean-to shed. His voice grew louder so that Renata could still hear every word of his rant.

‘You know what sickens me about you, you ungrateful bastard? It’s your holier-than-thou attitude. I control this place as we, the Afrikaner, control the country. You go to school and talk to your clever friends while I control the vermin so you can do what you want to do. And all that you and your clever friends do is plan to give it back to them. You think you have all the answers; the answers you have will destroy all the decent hard-working people in this country. You will inherit nothing, nothing.’

Renata moved from the window and walked through the back door where she could again see the confrontation continuing in the shed. Jannie had stepped back from his father, his fist by his side. She thought he was almost certainly going to hit his father, when he stepped back and said
, ‘What kind of country is it that is controlled by those who murder? A good, holy, Christian one? Is that what you think you have created as a legacy for the Afrikaner?’

‘
Ye is a Kaffirboetie. You are no son of mine; get your communist arse off my land.’

Shocked that Hannes de Villiers had called Jannie a Kaffir lover, Renata hurried to try to get between them. A step away from them both she saw Jannie hit his father hard beneath the chin. Hannes de Villiers stumbled back into the hanging pots, grabbing drunkenly at them as he fell; missing all of them for support, he stumbled and then fell on the ground. The noise of the crashing pots brought his mother rushing from the kitchen. Jannie walked quickly past, not saying a word.

‘Come, Renata, we’re going,’ he said as he took her by the hand and walked back inside.

‘
But what about everybody here, your friends, and your parents’ friends?’

‘
We’ll round up those who came with us. My father has asked me to leave the house. I’m not coming back here, Renata.’

‘
I’ll tell Paul and the others,’ she said, understanding the enormity of what he was telling her.

On the way back to Cape Town, there was initially deadly silence; so different to the joy and happiness and vitality that had been the trip to the farm. Finally, Renata was unable to bear the silence any longer.

‘You were going to tell me something, Jannie.’

Jannie could feel the five sets of eyes watching and waiting to see whether and how he would respond. He did not take his eyes off the road.

‘The coloured worker you saw dead. My father killed him. That’s the second one this year. He hit him on the head with a rock. That’s how he always does it. The rock is usually hidden along the pathway for just that purpose. It’s premeditated. Afterwards the workers are paid off with extra wine for a month to dispose of the body.’

‘
But what about the police?’ said Renata.

‘
We’re the police,’ answered Jannie. ‘The Afrikaner has needed power to survive, but now the survival is corrupted by the power. The basic driving instinct is segregation. The tenet is that the black man is inferior, born with an inferiority that is supported with supposed biblical passages. Those who have power get there by ascribing to those principles. They enforce them in the belief that it is necessary for the survival of the Afrikaner. The whole system has become corrupt, and I no longer want to be a part of it, at least not a part that requires tacitly accepting the death of a coloured worker as a mercy killing!’

No one responded and there was a surreal quietness in the car. After fifteen minutes, Jannie pulled over alongside a row of old pine trees. He wound the window down and allowed the cool night air to circulate around them all.

Addressing no one in particular, he said, ‘I can no longer be a part of that. I can no longer condone our inhumanity if I’m to eventually take a pledge to treat those very people we mistreat.’

Renata looked at everyone in the car; no one knew what to say. They all felt the same but knew that Jannie’s experience was one that they would not be able to fully understand. Jannie waited a few minutes, and when no one spoke, started the car and drove back to Cape Town in silence.

Emotionally drained from retelling his mother’s story, Christian looked at Isabella and Marais and said, ‘That evidently was the last time my father saw his father.’

‘
That’s so typical of those times, I believe,’ said Marais. ‘No wonder it was difficult for your father.’

Isabella was also shocked but, regaining her composure, tried to lift the mood somewhat
. ‘Well, the new owners look like they really care for the place, so maybe we can take away lots of happier memories for you.’

They returned to the house, and Christian was about to knock when the door opened. Standing in the doorway was a woman much younger than he would have expected. She was probably in her early forties dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and, to his surprise, greeted him in English. Christian quickly explained who he was and introduced Isabella and Marais.

Gloria du Toit invited them all in for coffee. Christian sat and took in the kitchen, wondering how much it had changed since his father’s time. He could see the polished floor his mother had talked about and the back door leading out to the path where his father had followed his grandfather.

Gloria interrupted his thoughts with coffee and explained that she and her husband, Gerhard, had brought the farm from Christian’s grandmother shortly after his grandfather had died.

‘We haven’t changed much at all since your grandfather and grandmother lived here, just a little bit of painting here and there. The timing of your arrival is interesting because we had two men here almost a week ago; from a department we had heard very little about, internal affairs, but who said that they had permission to look for articles of historic interest. They thought that your grandfather may have stored them on the farm somewhere.’

‘
Did they find anything?’ said Christian, raising his eyebrows and looking at Isabella and Marais.

‘
I’m not sure, but they went through everything in the shed and then looked underneath the house, saying they might have to come back once they checked their records. The interesting thing was that they had broad Afrikaans accents, but I couldn’t quite place where they were from, probably the Bloemfontein area. We’ve been meaning to phone the department to try to find out a bit more information on what they were looking for.’

As they finished their coffee, Christian made a gesture to take the cups to the sink. Gloria motioned to him to leave them where they were, and shortly after he sat down again, the maid came and collected all their dishes. He thought that some things had changed little in twenty years, although now at least there was no feeling of suppression. They thanked Gloria for the coffee and asked her if she would mind if they looked around.

‘No, not at all—I’ll come with you and show you the changes we’ve made that Gerhard and I are particularly proud of.’

As they headed for the door Marais, who had been very quiet since Christian related the story of his father’s twenty-first, turned to Gloria and asked
, ‘Were there any records there when you took over?’

‘
Only farm records, which detailed the crops and plantings and some financial records.’

‘
Would you mind if I had a look at those records?’

‘
No, by all means have a look, but I think if there’d been anything of historic importance, those people who were here last week would’ve found something; they seemed to be very thorough,’ said Gloria.

‘
You two go on, and I’ll catch you up once I’ve had a look through the shed’s office,’ said Marais.

Isabella, Gloria and Christian continued the walk down to where the workers’ houses were. Gloria explained that they were a work in progress and that when they had taken over, many of the workers had left and the buildings had become uninhabitable. They had been replastered and painted, and, as Christian and Isabella approached, they could see the workers’ houses had glass windows and plastered walls. They had also been painted white and looked fresh and clean.

Around all the houses were small gardens, with rows of petunias and anemones providing vibrant splashes of colour. Children ran round in the common courtyard, and Gloria explained that these were pre-schoolers and that one of the mothers taught them in a small hall that they had constructed. As she talked to some of the mothers who came out to greet them, she told them who Christian was and asked if any of them knew his grandfather. After a brief discussion in Afrikaans, she told Christian that none of them did, as none of them had been living on the farm for longer than ten years.

As Christian looked around Isabella asked him what he was feeling
. ‘I don’t know, but there is a sense of part of me in this place. That’s the best that I can explain it.’

He remembered his mother’s story and how it must have been in this courtyard somewhere that the worker was killed. As he studied the ground where he imagined the worker may have lain, Marais ambled down the path to join them.

‘Did you find anything interesting in the office, Marais?’

‘
No, there were some financial records but no history of any regular payments.’

‘
Well, I guess that was to be expected, but it’s still disappointing. Perhaps if you talk to some of the mothers here they might be able to give you a lead or two,’ suggested Isabella.

Gloria spoke to one of the mothers as Marais sat down on one of the little bankies and took off his shoes. He then showed his toes to one of the mothers. Christian could see the small web between the first and second toe that Marais had described on the plane. He watched as all the mothers shook their head in turn. Despite the animated chatter, he could sense Marais’ disappointment.

They thanked the mothers and walked back along the lane to the old farmhouse. Part way along the track, Gerhard, Gloria’s husband, joined them and greeted them enthusiastically in English. After introductions and explanations, he went on very quickly to inform Christian that by the time they had taken over the farm from his grandmother, it had been very run down. After his grandfather had died, his grandmother seemed to lose interest and was very happy to sell the farm.

‘
We had taken it over shortly after the change of white government, and it had initially been hard to attract farm workers, as many had migrated to the cities expecting changes and new accommodation from a black government. It had taken a few years for them to come to the understanding that a black government was not a panacea for all of South Africa’s problems. Many had become disillusioned with what they thought democracy would bring and had gradually drifted back to their old jobs on the farms. We had improved the workers’ accommodation and so when they returned; it was to better conditions than the cities offered.’

‘
Quite a change from my grandfather’s time then,’ said Christian.

‘
That’s right,’ said Gerhard. ‘No longer is the farmer the dictator/employer. We now have a workers’ committee, which deals with any problems on the farm. Amongst the workers, we’ve promoted and instituted savings programmes as well as establishing a preschool for the children.’

‘
Maybe your father would’ve stayed on the farm if he’d known that this was going to be a development in the future,’ said Isabella, looking at Christian.

‘
I think he’d have been astounded if he could’ve overcome his prejudices, as improving the conditions and making life more enjoyable for the workers has had a hugely positive impact on productivity; the grape harvest was successfully finished on time for the last six years,’ said Gerhard.

‘
But you’re an Afrikaner,’ said Christian, amazed. ‘How did you overcome all those years of indoctrination that my mother told me about?’

Gerhard turned towards Gloria and smiled
. ‘She convinced me that integration could be successful if you treated the workers more like human beings than slaves.’

‘
It took some doing, I can tell you,’ said Gloria.

‘
Well, I can see that that works, and works well,’ said Christian. ‘Perhaps this is where, ironically, the rainbow nation begins.’

Once back at the farm house Christian thanked Gloria and Gerhard for allowing them to have a look around as Isabella and Marais both said goodbye.

‘Any time,’ said Gerhard. ‘You would be most welcome to come back. Drive safely, and Totsiens.’

‘
Goodbye,’ shouted Christian through the window of the BMW as they turned towards the gate at the end of the driveway.

They drove back down the long
, winding and dusty road slightly reflecting on what they had seen. Christian was about to turn on to the freeway back to Cape Town when he remembered Marais in the back.

‘
It’s a shame that you didn’t find anything in the shed or office,’ said Christian.

‘
There were many documents, and some financial records that detailed payments, but all the financial transactions were in Afrikaans and with Standard Bank and there was no consistent payments to any orphanage. So no further ahead, I think.’ After a pause, he said, ‘Would you mind dropping me back in Stellenbosch, as some of the workers were going to ask around to see if anyone knew of anyone else with a foot defect like mine. I gave them an address at the Lanzerac; where we had lunch, and I’ll stay there for a few days and perhaps explore some of the vineyards.’

Christian took the left turn back into Stellenbosch and dropped Marais back at the Lanzerac hotel.

‘Thank you very much for taking me with you, Christian,’ said Marais as he closed the car door.

‘
OK, let’s all meet up in a few days in Cape Town,’ said Christian.

He waved out the window as he turned towards Cape Town, remembering Mike and Sian’s instructions to be back before dark. As they drove Isabella chatted about the day and how it was another small piece of a jigsaw that he now had about his father.

‘Strange, don’t you think, that there were two men there looking for something?’

‘
Historical societies do that all the time, Christian.’

‘
But Gloria said they were from a government department.’

Isabella looked at him, sighed and said by way of diversion
, ‘So, are you still taking me out tomorrow night having spent a day with me?’

‘
Of course. Do you still want to go with me?’ Christian replied, taking his eyes off the road briefly to judge her reaction. He saw that she raised her eyebrows in a slightly mocking way, her grin suggesting that his company had been delightful.

Christian smiled at the endorsement and reached down to flick on the headlights as they approached Cape Town. As he did so he noticed in the rear vision mirror a car that he had thought had been following them all the way from Stellenbosch. It was a white Toyota in which he could just make out two people. He chose not to say anything to Isabella in case she thought he was being a paranoid Australian. However, the thought did run through his mind that, while there were many Toyotas in South Africa, it was curious that so many were painted white. Perhaps it was some kind of strange throwback car metaphor from apartheid days.

As they drove into Isabella’s, Nadine came out to greet them. ‘So, did you two have fun?’ she said as they both got out of the car.

‘
Great fun, Mum, he even paid for lunch again,’ she said, throwing back her head before smiling in Christian’s direction.

‘
Nothing quite like a man with money to impress my daughter,’ said Nadine as she put her arm around her daughter and walked up the stairs.

‘
I hear we’re also going to see you tomorrow, Christian?’

‘
Yes, we’re going out to dinner.’

‘
Well, make sure this daughter of mine pays her way.’

Christian said goodbye, and as he drove out of a driveway Isabella stood on the stoep and blew him a kiss, which he had a strong feeling was going to interfere with his sleep patterns again. On leaving the driveway, he immediately turned left and headed towards Mike and Sian’s, about twenty minutes away. Rounding the corner into their street, he pressed the remote to the gate as he got within range. As the gate closed behind him, he again noticed a white car drive past, but as it was getting dark, he could not be certain that it was the Toyota he had seen on the way back from Stellenbosch. It did leave him with an uneasy feeling. Perhaps this is what South Africa did to you, he thought. The constant need to be aware about personal violence creates paranoia.

Mike and Sian were sitting in the main room and demanded a full debrief. They had kept supper for him, Ruby having cooked roast beef and delicious garlic gravy to go with it. As he sat at the table, Mike looked at him again with a mischievous grin and said, ‘So tell me, which had the greater impact, your grandfather’s farm or a day with Isabella?’

‘
It would serve you right if he told you nothing,’ said Sian, acting as Christian’s wingman.

‘
They were both important in their own ways,’ said Christian. ‘Seeing where my father grew up made me feel a little closer to him and the memory a bit more real, and, of course, having someone like Isabella there just enhanced the view.’