When Time Fails (Silverman Saga Book 2) (22 page)

The tall, skinny young woman, with unnaturally red, curly hair turned back from examining the family portrait on the wall above the fireplace. Annamari shifted uncomfortably on the couch. She wished Thys would come home. He was far more comfortable talking to the media than she was.

‘You are a good-looking family,’ the woman said. ‘How long ago was this taken?’

‘I don’t know. About ten – no, more than that – fourteen years ago. We had it taken for our twentieth wedding anniversary.’

‘So who’s who?’

Annamari got up and walked over to the fireplace.

‘That’s me and Thys, obviously. Then that’s Arno, our oldest son – he lives in Johannesburg; that’s De Wet; and the little one there, that’s Steyn. He’s writing matric this year.’

The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘De Wet? De Wet van Zyl, the New Zealand cricketer? He’s your son?’

Annamari stared at her in surprise. ‘Of course. But you knew that. Why else would you want to speak to us?’

The woman shook her head. She looked embarrassed. ‘No, that’s not why... but now that I’m here, yes, I’d like to ask you about De Wet as well. I’m not a sports writer – I actually know very little about cricket – but I am curious. What’s it like having your son play for New Zealand – especially when New Zealand is playing against South Africa?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Annamari said, confused. ‘If you didn’t come here to talk about De Wet, why did you come? Is it about Beauty?’

‘What’s beauty?’

Annamari stared at the journalist who looked as confused as she felt. ‘Not what – who.Bontle Maseko... you know? We’ve always called her Beauty.
’

She sighed with relief as Thys came through the French doors. He held out his hand to the journalist.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Thys van Zyl. De Wet’s father. And you are...?’

‘Tracy Jacobs
.
Daily Expres
s
in Johannesburg. But I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding, Mr van Zyl, Mrs van Zyl. I didn’t contact you to talk about De Wet, although I think it’s a fantastic story and everything. And Bontle Maseko – you mean that incredible woman who has just been appointed to the Western Cape bench? What has she got to do with you?’

Thys looked at Annamari and frowned. ‘Beauty – Bontle, grew up on Steynspruit. But now I’m confused.’ He turned back to the journalist. ‘What do you want? You told my wife on the phone that you wanted to speak to us about De Wet and now you say...’

‘No,’ the journalist said. ‘I never said that. When I spoke to you, Mrs van Zyl, I simply asked if it would it be okay if I came out to your farm to speak to you about a story I was working on.’

Annamari remembered that she hadn’t really paid much attention when the journalist phoned. Lots of journalists phoned, especially since the New Zealand squad for the South African tour had been announced. She’d been making bread and the timer was buzzing – if she hadn’t got the loaf out of the oven it would have burned – and it was so hot in the kitchen, even with the back door open. So when the journalist asked if she could come out to Steynspruit the next day, she had agreed without further thought.

She and Thys were so proud the media was taking such an interest in De Wet. He had worked really hard, and had had to be so patient while he waited to qualify to represent his new country. But she had always known that his talent would see him through, and she’d been right. The moment he got his New Zealand citizenship, the New Zealand selectors hadn’t hesitated to draft him into the Black Caps squad. And they hadn’t been disappointed. De Wet was doing brilliantly; even the South African media praised him. There was none of that nasty undercurrent as there was with Kevin Pietersen, who was now playing for England. But perhaps that was because De Wet was very tactful about why he had gone to New Zealand in the first place. When asked, he always said it was because he had been given an opportunity to learn more about milk farming in one of the world’s top milk producing countries – and the rest had just happened
.

‘So if you didn’t want to speak to us about De Wet, or Beauty – it’s still strange for us to think of her as Justice Bontle Maseko – what do you want?’ Thys asked.

The journalist fished in her handbag and withdrew a tatty-looking shorthand notebook. ‘I’m working on a backgrounder about Alan Silverman.’

Annamari bit back her gasp and looked at Thys. Thys looked at her, then glared at the journalist. Neither of them said anything. The silence lengthened.

‘Did you know him? I came down to Driespruitfontein because I found out that this was his home town. That he went to school there.’ The journalist looked at them anxiously.

Still they said nothing.

‘Anyway, I was in the Wimpy eating breakfast and I met this old woman...’ She stopped and flipped some pages in her notebook. ‘Yes, here it is. Estie Viljoen. She said she hadn’t really known him or his family – just that they owned the General Dealer store. I got the impression she hadn’t liked them very much.’ She looked at them expectantly. Annamari looked away. Thys was silent.

The journalist rushed on: ‘Yes, well, she said you were very close to Alan Silverman and would know all about him. Anyway, she gave me your phone number. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding, but I honestly didn’t intend to mislead you.’

Annamari clenched her hands. She swallowed hard. She felt nauseous. Why on earth hadn’t she questioned this journalist more closely before letting her loose in their home?

‘It’s okay,’ Thys said. ‘But I don’t know how much we’ll be able to help you. We went to school together. That was a long time ago. I hadn’t spoken to Alan since...well, probably since school. I was living in Bloemfontein when he went overseas and I hadn’t seen or spoken to him after he returned, so I really can’t tell you much about him.’

‘Oh, that’s fine. I really wanted to try and find out what he was like as a boy, a young man. You know – to try and see if there was anything, you know, that would have ... that could explain... that could help us understand him, the man he became...’ Her voice faltered under Thys’ piercing gaze.

Annamari’s heart lifted. Thys would never indulge in gossip, which was obviously what this horrible journalist was after. Thys would throw her out... and then she’d be able to breathe again.

‘Listen here,’ Thys said. ‘I know what the newspapers said about Alan. I find it very hard to believe. But the poor man is dead... he died months ago. Don’t you think it’s time to let him rest in peace?’

‘I just want to get to the truth. What he did...’

‘That was never proved,’ Thys hissed.

‘Ja, well, everyone thinks he was guilty. What do you think?’ the journalist asked. ‘Is there anything you can think of, what you knew about him that would have, or could explain the way... well, what happened to him?’

‘No. Of course not,’ Thys said, sharply.

The journalist flushed. Annamari almost felt sorry for her. She knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of a Thys glare.

‘Look,’ Thys went on in a more conciliatory tone. ‘I’m sure you are only doing your job. But all I can tell you is that the Alan Silverman I read about in the newspapers was not the same Alan Silverman who
I grew up with. Wait here. I’ve got something to
show you.’

‘Did you know Alan Silverman too?’ the journalist asked as Thys left the room.

Annamari swallowed. ‘Not really. Not as well as Thys,’ she muttered
.

The journalist got up and walked over to the family portrait. ‘I never realised Arno van Zyl was your son,’ she said, staring intently at the photograph. ‘You must have been very young when he was born.’

Annamari almost choked. ‘Yes. We were. Thys and me. Very young.’

‘I met Arno during the inquest – you know – the one into Brenda Silverman’s death. And I saw him a couple of times after that, at the Silverman house. Yair Silverman – Alan and Brenda’s son – we’re sort of friends and that’s ... oh, Mr van Zyl, what’s that?’

Thys returned and handed the journalist a Driespruitfontein Hoërskool magazine. ‘This should give you some idea of the kind of boy Alan was. See? He was the best cross country runner in the province, back then. He was extremely clever too, and generous and kind about it. He helped us – Annamari and me – with our maths. I would never have passed matric if it hadn’t been for him.’

Annamari felt her face burn as the journalist turned back to her. ‘Oh, but you told me you didn’t know him.’

‘I... he helped me with my maths. But we weren’t friends, not like him and Thys.’

The journalist stared at her and then flipped through the magazine, pausing when she came to the cross country team photograph. Annamari found herself holding her breath, and praying that the journalist would leave – just get up and go.

‘I have to ask,’ the journalist said, pulling at one of her red curls, ‘were you related to Alan Silverman? I mean, you weren’t cousins or something, were you?’

Annamari forced herself to stand up, although her legs felt like rubber. She picked up the empty mugs and headed towards the kitchen as Thys barked a short laugh.

‘No, that’s ridiculous,’ he said, reaching over to remove the magazine from the journalist’s hands. ‘He was Jewish. As far as I know, he had no family other than his parents and his brother.
’

Annamari gently placed the mugs into the sink and drew in a deep breath. This was terrible. She was certain the journalist was going to say something about Arno... and Alan. She had obviously noticed. What if she asked Thys about it? She hurried back to the lounge, and sank back onto the couch, determined to head the journalist off if she did actually ask the unthinkable.

Thys was still singing Alan’s praises. ‘Did you know his brother was killed on the border in the war? I think that had a huge effect on him, although he didn’t speak about it much. I know they were very close...’

‘So you don’t believe Alan Silverman was ... you know. You read the stories,’ the journalist interrupted.

‘No! I don’t know. I just find it hard to believe. Alan was no angel – but he was no different from any other boy. And you know what they say about he who is without sin casting the first stone? I don’t know if the stories about Alan are true. However, it is not for us to judge but to find the strength and courage to forgive.’

Annamari blinked hard and turned away as the journalist looked towards the family portrait. Annamari held her breath.

‘I know you have come a long way and I’m sorry we can’t tell you more,’ Thys continued. ‘But perhaps your trip need not be totally wasted. I think we may be able to give you a good news story. Different. Not what you came for. But good.’

Annamari looked at Thys in surprise. He winked at her. What was he up to now?

The journalist turned away from the portrait. ‘Sounds interesting. What’s it about?’

‘Do you know what a kibbutz is?’

The journalist nodded. ‘Of course. I’m Jewish and I went to Israel on a school trip way back when. We stayed on a few kibbutzim.’

‘Well, Steynspruit is a kibbutz. I believe it provides a solution to the land issue in our country. Come. Let me show you.’

The journalist looked intrigued. She followed Thys out of the French doors and Annamari heard Thys starting to explain how the whole Kibbutz Steynspruit idea had come about as they walked away in the direction of the kibbutz office.

She wondered if Petrus would be there. The old man still tried to put in a few hours on most days. But Busi, the new kibbutz manager should impress her. Actually Busi wasn’t that new. She had taken over from Petrus when he retired years ago and she was doing a great job. She was voted back into the position every year at the kibbutz annual general meeting. There had been a couple of attempts to unseat her – some of the male kibbutz members were unhappy at having a woman at the helm. But with her degree in accounting – made possible thanks to the Kibbutz Steynspruit Scholarship Fund which had been set up to pay for the tertiary education of the top Kibbutz Steynspruit School matriculants – coupled with her cool head and her passionate attachment to Steynspruit, she was the ideal person for the job.

Annamari leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes. She hoped the kibbutz tour and story would divert the journalist. What on earth had possessed Thys to show her the school magazine? The similarity became even more apparent when one saw the photograph of Alan in the Driespruitfontein Hoërskool magazine and the photograph of Arno in the family portrait. She prayed the journalist wouldn’t ask Thys about it.

***

The article about Steynspruit Kibbutz was published in th
e
Weekend Expres
s
a few weeks later. Tracy – the journalist – had phoned to tell them when it would appear and to thank them for all their assistance.

‘My editor was really excited about it. And when I told him that Judge Bontle Maseko and De Wet van Zyl were both products of Kibbutz Steynspruit, well... that was it. He’s going to give me a good spread. So thanks again,’ she said, and promised to send them a clipping as soon as she could because th
e
Weekend Expres
s
wasn’t sold in Driespruitfontein – or even in Bethlehem.

It was a lovely article. Tracy had taken a wonderful photograph of Petrus in the kibbutz office with the caption: Mr Petrus Maseko (73), first Kibbutz Steynspruit manager and grandfather of Ms Justice Bontle Maseko who grew up on the Kibbutz. Mr Maseko still keeps an eye on the daily workings of the farm. She had photographed the kibbutz members’ houses and the Kibbutz Steynspruit school which – she wrote – continued to produce excellent results under the guidance of principal Thys van Zyl.

‘I’m really glad she made quite an issue of how bad and disruptive the land claim has been for the kibbutz,’ Thys said. ‘I was hoping she would get the message. It’s crazy that this whole thing is still going on after all these years.’

Dominee van Zyl snorted. ‘And pigs will fly if you think this little article is going to make the slightest bit of difference. They want the farm and they’re going to get it. This whole kibbutz thing has been a complete waste of time, a fiasco from day one. But would you listen to me? Of course not. You knew better.’ And the old man bent his head over his plate and continued mutilating his slice of the leg of lamb that Annamari had prepared for their Sunday lunch.

‘No!’ Annamari mouthed at her husband who was preparing to argue with his father. She shook her head. ‘No,’ she mouthed again. There was no point. They had been having the same argument for years. Dominee van Zyl was even more virulently opposed to the kibbutz than the Viljoens, and he wasn’t shy to share his views. Indeed, he had become even more outspoken and obnoxious with every passing year. Annamari dreaded the increasingly infrequent visits from th
e
domine
e
and Thys’ mother. She managed to limit their duty visits to Thys’ parents in Kroonstad to Easter.

As usual, this visit had started in strained good humour which wore thinner and thinner as the weekend progressed. The tension reached breaking point after Thys refused to take his parents to church in Driespruitfontein and th
e
domine
e
refused to join the kibbutz members at their little service, especially now that she and Thys never went anymore. Thys said the new pastor made him feel uncomfortable.

Anyway, Thys had to drive Steyn to Bethlehem so that he could put in more flying hours, even if it was ‘the Sabbath’. So th
e
domine
e
and Thys’ mother prayed together in their room, emerging later in a swath of indignant self-righteousness
.

Annamari prayed that the tension would hold steady at least until lunch was finished. Then, hopefully, th
e
domine
e
would go off for his nap, and with any luck, would decide he wanted supper in his room. Then tomorrow, the hired car would come and whisk them away to wherever they were going this time – the South Coast probably – for a few weeks before going back to Kroonstad where Thys’ mother still clung to her position as Chairlady of the Women’s Committee, despite the fact that th
e
domine
e
had retired years ago. Annamari wondered what her mother-in-law would have done had the curren
t
dominee’
s
wife shown the slightest interest in the Women’s Committee.

‘She told me she had a real job and had no time for the Women’s Committee,’ Ma van Zyl had sniffed. ‘As if running the Women’s Committee isn’t a real job that requires a delicate but strong, firm hand.’ Annamari had nodded sympathetically.

‘So Steyn,’ th
e
domine
e
boomed, after shovelling his lamb to the side of his plate and setting down his knife and fork with a clatter, ‘what are you going to do now that you have finished matric – and your parents have given away your birthright.’

‘They haven’t given it away, Oupa..
.
ein
a
,’ Steyn began, but Annamari’s kick under the table stopped him from embarking on the same fruitless argument Thys had continued with his parents for more than twenty years. ‘I’m going to be a pilot. An airline pilot one day even if I’ll never be a fighter pilot.’

‘I thought you’d have grown out of that silly little boy fantasy dream by now,’ Dominee van Zyl growled. ‘Flying aeroplanes is no life for a good Christian boy – never gives you the opportunity to settle down, raise a family. Dangerous too. Look at that Air France plane that crashed into the Atlantic last year...’

‘Actually, Oupa, it was in 2009. But they only found the black boxes last year. And apparently that showed that the crash was the result of a series of unfortunate incidents and mistakes,’ Steyn said.

‘That’s what they say,’ th
e
domine
e
said darkly. ‘Don’t believe a word of it. Those big aeroplanes are dangerous. Flying is dangerous, and I strongly suggest that you give up the idea...’

Annamari got up from the table and hurried to the kitchen before she burst out laughing – although she really didn’t find the conversation very funny; telling Steyn not to fly was like telling him not to breathe. But she was worried about it too. Oh, not so much about the flying part of things – although she too would be happier if her baby son opted for something on solid ground. No, she was worried about what Steyn would do now that his rejection by the South African Air Force was official. He had sent off his application months before the closing date, and they had heard nothing for ages. And then the letter had come – the standard letter of regret and rejection. His failed application to the South African Airways Cadet Pilot Development Programme hadn’t come as much of a surprise either
.
Die Volksbla
d
had published an article which stated that white males were not being accepted onto the programme – only a few white females. Most of the places were for ‘African’ – black – males and females; coloureds and Indians were also being accepted. But Steyn had insisted that he should at least try. When the rejection letter arrived, Steyn had simply shrugged
.

‘It’s okay, Ma,’ he’d said. ‘I had hoped that maybe... but that’s the way it is and like Pa says, we just have to make another plan.’

She prayed whatever that plan was, it wouldn’t mean that she would lose another of her sons to affirmative action. But she knew, deep down, that that prayer would also go unanswered too.

***

Annamari carried the steaming hot malva pudding and custard into the dining room just as th
e
domine
e
switched his attention to the thankfully absent Arno and the fact that he still wasn’t married. This was another perennial bone of contention between Thys and his father. Annamari sighed. She wondered, briefly, what th
e
domine
e
would have said if Arno and Beauty...

‘Pa, when Arno finds the right girl, he will get married. And if he chooses not to marry, that will be fine too. It is his life and he must do what makes him happy. We cannot dictate how he must live his life,’ Thys said.

‘I don’t understand it. He’s not getting any younger, you know. And the Jewboy company pays him well if the fancy cars he drives are anything to go by. Although, come to think of it – does he still have a job now that the Jewboy is dead? He’s not queer, is he?’

Annamari didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry as Thys threw his hands in the air and walked out the room. But she had to admit she was worried too. About Arno’s job. But more about his happiness. She wondered if he would ever find a nice girl, a suitable girl; one who could give him the uncomplicated, deep love he deserved.