A Dry White Season by André Brink Read Free Book Online

the townships, and begged him to sound out his contacts for news of Jonathan. For Stanley had contacts on both sides of the fence, among the blackjacks as well as in the deeper recesses of the underworld. Whatever you needed to find out in Soweto, said Gordon, Stanley Makhaya was the one man who could help you.
Except this once, it seemed, for even Stanley was stumped. The police had picked up so many people on that particular day that it might take a week or more to obtain a list of names.
Early the next morning Gordon and Emily set out in Stanley’s great white Dodge, his etembalami, to Baragwanathhospital. There was a crowd of other people on the same mission and they had to wait until three in the afternoon before a white-uniformed assistant was available to lead them to a cool green room where metal drawers were opened in the walls. The bodies of children, mostly. Some in torn and dusty clothes, others naked; some mutilated, others whole and seemingly unharmed, as if asleep, until one noticed the neat dark bullet-hole in the temple or chest and the small crust of dried blood clinging to it. Some wore tickets tied to a neck or a wrist, an elbow or a big toe, bearing a scrawled name; most were still nameless. But Jonathan was not among them.
Back to the police. There were no telephones working in Soweto in those days; the bus services had been suspended and for the time being there were no trains either. Once again they had to call on Stanley Makhaya’s taxi to take them, however hazardous the journey, to John Vorster Square. A full day’s waiting yielded nothing. The men on duty were working under pressure and it was understandable that they were crusty and brusque when approached for information on detainees.
After two more days had passed without any news of Jonathan, Gordon came to Ben for help. (No one had been surprised that he hadn’t turned up at his work lately. There was such widespread intimidation of black workers in the townships that very few risked going into the city to their jobs.)
Ben tried his best to cheer him up: “He’s probably gone into hiding with some friends. If anything serious had happened I’m quite sure you would have heard by now.”
Gordon refused to be persuaded. “You must talk to them, Baas. If I ask, they just send me away. But if you ask they will give you an answer.”
Ben thought it wise to approach a lawyer, one whose name had been prominent in the newspapers recently in connection with scores of youngsters brought to court in the wake of the riots.
A secretary answered the telephone. Mr Levinson, she regretted to say, was busy. Would Ben be prepared to make an appointment for three days later? He insisted that the matter was urgent. All he needed was five minutes to explain it to the lawyer on the telephone.
Levinson sounded irritable, but consented to take down a few particulars. A few hours later his secretary phoned to tell Ben that the police hadn’t been able to give any information but the matter was being attended to. And it was still receiving their attention when Ben arrived at Levinson’s office three days later.
“But it’s ridiculous!” he protested. “Surely they should know the names of their own detainees.”
Levinson shrugged. “You don’t know them as well as I do, MrCoetzee.”
“Du Toit.”
“Oh yes.” He pushed a silver cigarette case across his enormous cluttered desk. “Smoke?”
“No thanks.”
Ben waited impatiently while the lawyer lit his own cigarette and exhaled the smoke with a show of civilised relish. A tall, athletic, tanned man, his smooth black hair slick with oil, long sideburns, neatly trimmed moustache, Clark Gable redivivus. Large well-groomed hands, two solid, golden rings; tiger-eye cuff-links. He was working in his shirtsleeves, but the wide crimson tie and crisp striped shirt lent formality to the studied nonchalance of his bearing. It was a difficult interview, interrupted constantly: by the telephone, the