The Crack Page 5

  For a long time Janet stood there and waited. For what, she had no idea.

  When the front door slammed and he stood in front of the house, he paused. His limbs still sang with the warmth of his children. Slowly, his skin cooled. His breathing settled. His children were the three-stroke motor which propelled his life. They and their thin, anxious mother. His own internal dynamo, flesh of his flesh, heart of his heart. He strode to his Ford Cortina, the little family car, and hefted his body inside. It was a snug fit. Then he inserted the key and turned it. The car roared. Briefly, he felt as though he spoke with the throat of the car, that its roar was his roar. God knows, he spent enough time tuning it, trying to squeeze every last bit of power out of it. He reached under the seat and drew out a secret bottle. Glancing left and right, to the shrubbery and to the lawn, he took a long slug of witblits – white lightning. He opened his mouth and again the little car roared. He had to roar for he knew that neither great goodness nor great wickedness could be achieved by a man devoid of courage. He needed courage. One did not work for the South African Police Force in 1975 – now 1976 – without courage. Without conviction. The witblits traced his soul with a finger of fire. He shook at the thought of the night. At the great darkness to come. Ja, sekerheid. Hy het krag nodig. He needed certainty – and courage. For Janet and Shelley and Pieter and Sylvia he was greatly in need of courage. His hands trembled. He tried to stop them. Then he closed his mouth. Then he was gone.

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  The Soweto Uprising, 1976

  Since February of 1976, anger had been mounting over the regime’s enforcement of Afrikaans as a medium of instruction – an anger very rapidly directed against the whole system of ‘Bantu Education’. First introduced in 1955, Bantu Education was designed not merely to place every possible obstacle in the way of the intellectual development of black Africans, but consciously to create an enslaved proletariat exploitable as cheap labour.

  – Weizmann Hamilton writing in Inqaba Ya Basebenzi (Fortress of the Revolution)

  My application was successful, and I was assigned to Riot Unit 6, with its headquarters in Bedford Avenue, Benoni. This unit was one of the first specifically focused on combating riots, and we began to practise new methods and techniques, using new equipment.

  Our activities weren’t limited to riot control. We were also involved in the combat of urban terror, the penetration of buildings and diving operations, and we provided support to the Security Branch and the Murder and Robbery Unit. Over the next few years, my specialised training at Verdrag and Maleoskop near Groblersdal included dealing with counter-insurgence and urban terror.

  – Johan Marais, Time Bomb: A Policeman’s True Story

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  Not knowing when the dawn would come, she opened every door of her father’s house. And so it came to pass: the action that would settle itself into solid habit. In the dark hours of the early morning when Hektor-Jan was on night shift, Janet would wander through the house making sure that each door was open, that her children were safe and breathing peacefully. In those summer months she would open the back door too. Open up the house to the deep scents of the garden and the last peals of the ringing crickets. And she would wander the house like a ghost, remembering her childhood.

  She had grown up in that house. It was her father’s and mother’s house, designed and built by them all those years ago. She had arrived in that house as a baby, and here she was, bringing forth more babies into the world. The bedroom where Pieter snuffled in his sleep had been her bedroom as a child. The bedroom where Hektor-Jan made babies on her, indeed with her, had been the very bedroom in which she herself was conceived by a twinkle in her father’s eye, as he used to say.

  His eyes twinkled less these days. He had given up the family home to the next generation, and to help out his only child who had married a policeman, an Afrikaner policeman, who brought new expressions and blunt thoughts to his house, but not much money. Yes, to give him his due, Hektor-Jan (strange name) did bring forth beautiful children. That Frederick Ward could not deny. And so Frederick Ward had given his thin daughter a surer footing, if being made a mother three times over could be called having a more certain foothold on life. His tiny Nettie became Mrs Janet Snyman and she swelled with life, with Shelley then Pieter then little Sylvia. And now her belly was beginning to bulge with another one and Janet knew that her father had happily made space by moving into the retirement home on the outskirts of Benoni, into one of the largest set of retirement complexes in the southern hemisphere, it was believed.

  Her mother was less retiring.

  At first it was rather funny. The onset of Old Timers’ Disease. Do all old people get Old Timers’? Sylvia asked her grandmother as only Sylvia could ask. At that stage Janet’s mother was able to laugh brightly and scoop Sylvia into her lap. That was only a year ago, or maybe two years ago.

  Then Janet watched and her father watched as the little bird of a woman they knew and loved flew away into folds of wrinkled skin and into twisted plots of tangled undergrowth. The sudden penchant for fresh tissues. The children watched in awe as Granny teased a tissue from its box like a wizened magician and then, with a flourish, ate it right in front of them. Do it again! yelled Pieter. Do it again, Gran! And she did. As though partaking of the finest cucumber sandwich, Mrs Amelia – never Millie, only Amelia – Ward lifted another tissue from its lunchbox and ate it. All the while, the children said, she chatted about her life as a lecturer in English Lit. and part-time dance teacher before the Art Writers got her hands and she had to stop. Pieter would not stop laughing. Do it again, Gran. Do it again! And he watched the tissue slowly vanish, until it left a ragged white rim around her lips. As though she was foaming at the mouth. Pieter laughed and laughed.

  But it was not so funny when she called him over to her and asked him to escort her around the garden. Hand in hand they strolled across the lawn towards the pool. And then she had stopped and adjusted her dress and had performed a little twirl before him. Beside the wild spray of pampas grass in the far corner of the garden, the razor-sharp pampas grass that hid the giant compost heap, Pieter’s dear old granny had tried to kiss him. She had clasped him to her and then had pursed her lips and opened wide her mouth.

  I thought she was going to eat me, Pieter said tearfully, trying not to accuse his granny of being the wolf. Her tongue came out and so did her teeth and she tried to suck my lips and lick them and her teeth sucked back into her face and made a gross sound and I screamed and Granny asked haven’t you got any balls young man.

  Then it was the fixation with peeling carrots.

  Then Amelia Ward tried to seduce Solomon the gardener when Janet was at the shops and the kids were at school. Alice said that Solomon asked her what was going on as he was almost dragged inside on the pretext of opening a jammed wardrobe door. Then Amelia Ward made her move and Solomon had to scream for Alice as the old Madam grabbed and would not let him go and Solomon and Alice and Janet swore that they could tell no one, but it was time that her mother received specialised care. Her father knew that, of course. He had been trying to avoid it. He wept the first time they left his dear Amelia in her room in Arendts Care Home situated close to the top of the town along the Atlas Road. Janet was left to hug her father – and to remind him to remove any tissues from her mother’s reach whilst Amelia Ward – née Amis MA – danced around her single-room cell, waltzing in a sprightly fashion to the grand symphonies of an imaginary orchestra. Or tartly lectured the somnolent inhabitants of the communal lounge on the finer points of Keats’s odes or the lesser-known novels of Henry James.

  Janet thought about her neat, trim mother as she wandered through the dawn. The horizon flushed above the neat suburb. There was birdsong and there would be – yes, there it was, she winced – the raucous call of the pair of Hadedas that flew past every morning en route to the Bunny Park, the huge park that lay on the other side of the road, opposite their house. Bring me the sunrise in a cup, Janet thought with l
onging as she returned to the kitchen – and the kettle boiled and she set up the teapot and the light outside grew bright and bold. She stirred in clouds of milk and a shower of sugar, enough to take the edge off the rough tea, making it soft and smooth.

  Then she sat back, alone in the lightening kitchen. One hand held her teacup poised beneath her throat whilst her free hand came to rest on her belly. Her thoughts turned to Alice’s welcome return. It would be so good to see her after her fortnight’s leave. The children would be overjoyed too. It would be like having Granny back, fit and well. Someone always there, to talk to and to listen. Her lovely Alice – bring me Alice with the sunrise –

  She admired Alice. Always so cheerful. Always so happy. Singing as she worked. As she polished the wooden floors of the house on Mondays, did the windows on Tuesdays, washed and ironed the bed linen on Wednesdays, beat all the rugs on Thursdays and had her picnic parties with the other maids under the willow tree during Friday lunchtimes. Always neatly presented in her pink or blue or yellow maid’s outfit: the dress, apron and doek all in soothing gingham. Her lovely curves accentuated by the neat pattern, her polished face beautiful above the pastel shades. The children loved her too. Alice! Alice! Alice! They would follow her like a tangle of puppies showing her things and telling her all sorts of childish nonsense, which she never minded. Her demure laughter like the sound of Africa. Full of health and vitality. Fresh and alive. Yes, she had such a soft spot for Alice. Right now, she could do with Alice bustling helpfully in the kitchen, singing. She really could.

  Janet put the teacup to her lips but the tea was already finished. She poured herself another cup, but it was cold and not very nice.

  Janet set to work on supper.

  She had promised Hektor-Jan that, after his first night ship, she would make him his favourite supper. Boerewors with pap and sous: thick, jutting sausages with a maize-meal mash and a sauce made from onions, garlic and tomato. And a big bowl of Angel Delight, the instant dessert – banana flavoured.

  As she cooked, she wondered what sort of night he had had. She hoped it was a quiet one. More of a desk job now, Hektor-Jan had said, perhaps more pen-pushing than running around after the criminal element. Janet never tried to peel back the plastic wrapping around that phrase. Unlike the coil of boerewors that she had just liberated from its shop packaging, she did not want to let thoughts of the criminal element loose in her home. And neither did Hektor-Jan.

  Janet made the maize-meal pap as the tomato and onion sauce bubbled gently. Checking the kitchen clock, Janet heated the large frying pan and finally looped in the boerewors. There was a stinging hiss which quickly settled into a merry sizzle and Janet placed a large plate in the warming drawer. She set the table and jumped as her three children appeared in the doorway, drawn from their dreams by the smell and sounds of cooking.

  I told you, said Shelley.

  So what, said Pieter, I don’t care.

  We thought you were Alice, little Sylvia stumbled into the kitchen. Pieter and me said it’s Alice but Shelley was right. It’s only you.

  Of course it’s me, just me, Janet scooped her up and pressed her face into her youngest’s sleepy curls. The scent of a tiny blonde girl, just woken up.

  Pieter threw himself at the table and chairs. What’s for breakfast? he said. What are you cooking for breakfast?

  Janet started to point out that it was his father’s special breakfast, but then, laughing at his sullen face, she threw the rest of the boerewors into the pan that hissed and spat afresh. Let’s all eat supper with Dad, she said and Pieter looked at Shelley and Shelley smiled.

  When it was all ready, Hektor-Jan arrived home on perfect cue to a little family gathered in his honour.

  And his favourite supper was waiting for him and they were all going to eat it for breakfast just as the previous night they had breakfasted together in this topsy-turvy new routine.

  Hektor-Jan went to wash his face and hands, and to store his gun.

  How was it, Janet asked as he feasted.

  The children had tucked into their unusual breakfasts and were silently chewing their way along the steaming brown snakes of boerewors, attacking them and eating them right back into their lairs of fluffy white pap. Hektor-Jan shook his head. His mouth was full and he never talked work in front of the children. Then he smiled and gave the thumbs up.

  And did you all have a good night, he asked once he had swallowed his last mouthful of supper at 6.45 a.m.

  He had parked the car in its usual spot, returned the bottle to its hiding place deep beneath the seat, took a big breath and then marched into his father-in-law’s house. And as he took more and deeper breaths, there came the cries of his children and the soft smile of their mother. He was home. Safe and sound. He breakfasted on his favourite food. Food from his youth. Food from his innocent past. It was good. And the children still tousled from sleep were beautiful. Then he escaped to the bathroom. In the shower, as the hot and powerful water jetted down on him, he thought about what a baptism of fire that first night had been. The water drilled into his scalp and almost burned him, but it needed to be that way. The bathroom door was closed and the shower door was closed. The white towel lay waiting, its folds ready to receive him. The water beat down and he felt out the scrubbing brush and the block of soap with his powerful, stubby fingers. And then he began to scrub. First those very fingers that held the brush and the soap. There was no blood, no trace of short wiry hair under his nails, but he made sure. There was no blood that had sprayed up onto his arms or his face, but he scrubbed and scrubbed. Even across his eyes and mouth, he sent the scrubbing brush scouring deep red stripes to make absolutely certain. By the precious heat of the water and by the brush, he was washed from his sins. By the balm of Lifebuoy soap he was sure to gain victory over his devils, sure to cleanse his conscience and to deliver unto himself a sense of forgiveness. In the shower, he was made righteous, if not holy. United with water. But he knew the truth. Unless he ate the flesh of the sons of men and drank their blood, so to say, he would have no life in him. He would have no job to sustain him and to feed his tiny children. He stood without moving. For a long time the water beat down on him and the steam rose like hot, moist incense into his nostrils. The memory of his superior officers shouting at him to do it, do it, fokken do it, slowly softened. The thoughts of the small blond major making an example of one of the suspects, showing him how it was done, steadily dissipated. He steam-cleaned his mind. And when the shuddering stopped, he switched off the water and opened the door.

  The towel was soft and white.

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  I once visited the cemetery where the sixty-nine victims of the Sharpeville massacre are buried. They died when police members fired into a crowd of black protestors on 21 March 1960. For some reason I have always been fascinated by this incident. One epitaph reads: ‘Here lies my son killed by police dogs’. I was shocked by the realisation that policemen could be such hated figures. In general, however, there was not much time to mull over things. The police were the enemy and we suffered the consequences.

  On one occasion, an inexperienced young officer reacted to a radio report that six armed black men had robbed a shop in Ratanda, a dodgy township near Heidelberg. He had a description of the robbers and set out to search for them by himself in a government vehicle. We found the car a few blocks from the shop, parked across an alley filled with rubble. The doors were open and the policeman lay in a pool of blood next to the car – he had been shot and killed with his own service pistol. It was only when we turned him around that we saw how badly he had been assaulted.

  – Johan Marais, Time Bomb: A Policeman’s True Story

  Bedtime Story

  But why is a bar of soap more slippery than truth, Mama?

  Thula wena, child. Your father was in prison and needed to wash himself.

  Was he dirty, Mama? Was he covered in soap when he slipped?

  Thula wena, child. The facts are hard like concrete walls.
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  Mama, those walls, those facts, must have been hard to crack his skull like that?

  Thula wena, child. Be quiet, my child. That is another story.

  – Richard Venter

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  No Alice. There must be some delay.

  Friday came and went without the return of Alice. It was a busy day for Janet.

  Once Hektor-Jan had finally emerged from the bathroom, she had made the kids brush their teeth and then it was out into the garden with them. Go and play, she had said. Leave your father to sleep in peace. And she had happily piled the dirty dishes and frying pan, all the utensils made sticky with fat and maize meal and sous into the sink, as Alice surely would be back later that day. She had checked that the children were quietly messing around at the bottom of the garden. They were hunting for stag beetles and Christmas beetles and songololos apparently, and then she had run a deep bath. She needed a deep bath. Was it only last night that she had stood naked in the garden, her skin soaking up the night, stained by the night.