A Dry White Season by André Brink Read Free Book Online Page A

well-modulated voice of a secretary on the intercom, or an array of assistants – all of them young, blond, lithe, competent, with the poise of entrants for a beauty competition – coming and going with files, rustling papers, or confidentially whispered messages. But in the end Ben managed to arrange for Levinson to follow up his telephone appeals to the police with a written demand for specific information.
“Now don’t you worry” – with a hearty gesture reminiscent of a soccer team manager offering his confident prognosis for the coming Saturday – “we’ll give them hell. By the way, do we have your address for the account? I presume you’ll be responsible for the costs? Unless” – he checked his notes – “unless this Ngubene chap has money of his own?”
“No, I’ll look after it.”
“Right. I’ll be in touch then, MrCoetzee.”
“Du Toit.”
“Of course.” He took Ben’s hand in a firm conspiratorialgrip, pumping it like a mother bird feeding its young. “See you soon. ‘Bye.”
A week later, after another telephone call, there was a letter from John Vorster Square: their query, it stated, had been referred to the Commissioner of Police. After another week had passed without further reaction, Levinson addressed a letter directly to the Commissioner. This time they received a prompt reply, advising them to take up the matter with the officer in charge at John Vorster Square.
There was no reply to their next letter; but when Levinson made yet another sarcastic phone call to the Square, an unidentified officer at the other end curtly informed him that they had no knowledge whatsoever of any Jonathan Ngubene.
Even then Gordon didn’t give up hope. So many youngsters had fled the country to find asylum in Swaziland or Botswana that Jonathan might well be among them. It would be in keeping with his behaviour of recent months. They just had to be patient, there would be a letter soon. In the meantime they had four other children to look after.
But the uncertainty, the anxiety, the suspicion persisted. And they were hardly surprised when, about a month after Jonathan’s disappearance, the young black nurse arrived at their home.
She’d been trying for nearly a week to find them, she said. She was helping out in the black section at the General Hospital. Ten days ago a black boy of about seventeen or eighteen had been admitted to a private ward. His condition seemed to be serious. His head swathed in bandages. His belly bloated. Sometimes one could hear him moaning or screaming. But none of the ordinary staff had been allowed near him and they’d posted policemen at his door. Once she’d heard the name “Ngubene". And then she’d learned from Stanley – yes, she knew him, didn’t everybody know him? – that Gordon and Emily were looking for their son. That was why she’d come.
They didn’t sleep at all that night. The next morning they went to the hospital where an impatient matron denied that there had ever been anyone by the name of Ngubene in her wards; nor had there been any police on guard duty. Would they please go away now, her time was valuable.
Back to Ben; back to Dan Levinson.
The hospital superintendent: “It’s preposterous. I would have known if there had been such a case in my hospital, wouldn’t I? You people are always raking up trouble.”
Two days later they received another visit from the young nurse. She’d just been sacked by the hospital, she told them. No one had given her any reason for it. Only a few days ago she’d been commended for her conscientiousness; now, all of a sudden, her services weren’t required any more. However, she assured them that the black boy was no longer there. The previous evening she’d slipped round the building and climbed up the waterpipes to peep through a fanlight, but the bed had been empty.
Two more letters by Dan Levinson to the police failed to elicit even an acknowledgement of receipt.
Perhaps, Gordon grimly insisted,