Long Lies the Shadow (24 page)

She knew where Simon was going, and felt furious. She hated him for anticipating her need. Like a wounded animal, she needed refuge. So he headed for all that was left of their home together, her home with Simon. It would not be there anymore, she knew, but she had to see that for herself, stand outside, and watch the shadows of others as they passed behind lit and curtained windows. Accept its loss, and move on. She would have to do the same with Gabe, but too soon then, she thought. Too much was tearing at her heart to think of Gabe. One loss at a time, and slowly.

Three roads led into the hollow of Grahamstown. The east was the least attractive. This was the way he approached, the day’s heat rising off the tarmac. The land stretched thirsty all around, shrubby bush
alternating
with plastic packets, pollution of a world too worn to care. Simon pulled the car over, in a haze of dust and gravel, at the turnoff to the farm, the commune Michael, Viv, and Gabe had shared. Gabe’s home.

They sat awhile, engine running, darkness silting up the horizon, as if the sun had sunk into the town itself, and the night was burying it. Black soil on a coffin. She stared down the gravel road, perilous to suspensions, down towards the farm with its crude plumbing and cranky lights. Shook her head. No, she had no need to see it again. Her brother was not there.

Slowly they rode instead the winding Raglan Road into the town. She saw it all with new eyes, hating the Casspirs, the army tanks, which sat
there – still, ominous, silent. Hated them for what and whom they
represented
. Especially then. Since Gabe. They passed the long stretch of tin huts that at some point melded seamlessly with the poorer parts of town, differences that at night would be hidden, if not for the lighting. The shantytown had candles, the town electricity. They could have turned right at the first traffic lights, taken the dip and up again that would have led them to the Grand Hotel, but she wanted to see the length of High Street, and that tall cathedral spire hold sway above the trees and lights. When he reached the square, he turned left, then left again. The corner-shop was lit. It was early still, barely seven.

Then, the little road so easily missed, and turning right into a courtyard of cobbles, he stopped. She wanted to weep.

They sat in silence.

The sky was fully black with night when Simon drove her up and out the town again, through the campus still busy and bright, up the steep incline past the residences, the lesser-travelled road up to the Motel. Nothing had changed in this town at all. It was to Gin both a solace and a curse. In that moment, she realised that she was where she was meant to be. For whatever reasons her brother had so brutally taken himself from a life he found too painful to endure, she knew that. Knew it as Simon checked them in to the Motel, as he put his arm around her shoulders, leading her, tired and stumbling, down the long and
low-slung
corridor, with its faded red carpet and gold patterned wallpaper; knew that everything was as it should be. Knew it as he unlocked the door to their room, as they stood together at the window, watched the simmering lights of the town below. As so many years before.

They would make love again. And there was not enough each of the other to satiate. They would sleep till sunlight reached them through the open window. The morning still crisp with dew, breakfast over, the revival of coffee and sleep complete. This then, thought Gin, was her brother’s final gift to her. He who could no longer live, his death had brought Simon back to her.

Just then, with hope replacing pain, he took her hands in his.

“Gin,” he said, “you know this – we – can’t be. Nothing’s changed.”

She stared at him, uncomprehendingly. Gabe was dead. Everything had changed.

Why, she wanted to ask. Did it matter so much to him what people thought? What religion she was? Would people stare at her, point at her, note her Christian name?

“Gin,” he said again, and she thought she heard a sound inside her own chest.

He was silent for a long while, and she also, not wanting to hear it, knowing she could not stand it.

“I’m engaged to be married. She’s… Jewish. My parents are very happy.”

And you, Simon? Are you happy?

That sound again. Her heart, she realised. Breaking.

Coffee grains litter the counter.

“What do you mean?” asks Gin, her voice a whisper. She swallows hard.

They all stare at Michael. He moves across the kitchen floor, takes the spoon from Viv, pulls out a kitchen chair and makes her sit at the table with Abbie and Gin. He switches off the kettle and pours water into the cafetière, stirs it, puts the lid on. He takes four mugs from the cupboard behind them, puts them on the table. Then he scoops the spilled grains off the marbled surface, dusts them into the bin. He sits down in the chair across from Gin.

Gin looks at him. “What do you mean? Didn’t Gabe write it?” she asks again. She remembers the letter, its distinctive backward slant of words to her. She shakes her head in confusion.

Michael puts his hand over hers. “No, no, I’m sorry Gin. I didn’t mean he didn’t write it. I meant he didn’t write it just before he died. I meant it wasn’t – it couldn’t have been – his suicide note.”

He pushes the plunger down.

Gin watches the grains compress against the side of the hot glass. She shakes her head again, trying to clear her head. “I still don’t understand.”

Michael pours steaming coffee into a mug painted with pink roses and passes it to her. Then he pours one for Viv, one for Abbie, in white mugs edged with gold. Finally, one for himself, spoons two sugars into the black heat of it. He sips at it gingerly. “Gin, Gabe wrote this – he showed it to me – he wrote this on the farm, the day before he left, to say goodbye, before he went AWOL.”

The kitchen window, open to the day’s oppressive heat, bangs shut suddenly. They all jump. Viv exhales. Abbie giggles nervously.

Michael rises to shut it, hooking its silvered catch to the white wooden frame.

AWOL. Absent without leave
. Gin remembers how the expression had reverberated around her brain. Gabe had fled the Army, left before his stint was up. And the innocuous-sounding phrase had taken on a meaning that was both sinister and frightening in its
consequences
. It had meant her brother was a hunted man.

A bright flash illuminates the room. Gin starts in her chair. Viv gives a small cry, puts her hand to her throat. The heat has brought an evening thunderstorm. Rain starts to pelt down, its drops hard on the jutting kitchen roof. Viv takes a gulp of coffee. A snarl of thunder makes Gin jump again.

“He meant you to have the letter, to explain why he had left,” continues Michael.

She had not been able to drink sherry since.

“He gave it to me, to give to you,” Michael is saying, “only…”

“But…” Gin stammers, interrupting, “but then I still don’t understand. Why did I only get it after… after…?” She looks at him helplessly.

“I meant to give it to you. Gabe put it in his rucksack, his army togs, left them with me. And then, you know, he left that evening. And the next morning, it was barely dawn… they came.”

Michael stops, looks at Viv, who sits hunched, her arms drawn across her chest. She and Abbie have stayed silent, listening,
absorbing
. Abbie puts an arm around her mother. Viv does not move.

“And they took it, they took the bag and all his stuff at the farm, and they left, and then, of course, when I remembered the letter afterward, it was too late. And they got him so soon after that, I never thought to ask about it. You know, by then, he was in prison, and a goodbye letter didn’t seem to matter anymore.” Michael’s words stumble over themselves and his voice is high with emotion, guilt.

“It’s okay, Mikey,” says Gin, and her voice is calm. Thoughts whir in her brain. The tone of the letter, the words, had never seemed right to her. The promises he’d asked of her. The promise he had made:
Bye, Gin. I’ll see you again
. She’d thought it cruel, ironic. Now it made sense; he had written it earlier. Then it strikes her.

“But Michael, if they had it, if the military police had it from the farm already, why on earth, how on earth… did I get this letter as a suicide note?”

Michael is nodding at her words. They stare at each other, a grim realisation forming simultaneously.

Michael is the one to try to form the words. “Do you think this means that… that maybe Gabe didn’t –”.

The storm is almost directly overhead now.

Gin shivers violently.

“Dear God.” It is Viv’s voice that rings out clearly above the storm, “They killed him.”

The man’s bitter tone bites through the night air. “
Ja
, I’ll tell you about Simon Gold.”

Nick sits back in the wooden chair and waits. The verandah is dark, illuminated only by a window of the house. The lights of Cape Town shine beyond the wide curve of black that is the bay. He knows the mountain rises above that, but it is invisible, inked into oneness with the night. The man’s features are blurred in dimness, but Nick can still make out a brow that has known difficulties, irises like wet soil that have known hopelessness, a face that has been pitted with despair.

“At first, man, you know, when he first came along to our
meetings
…” The man pauses, his forehead furrowing. He draws on a
self-rolled
cigarette, inhales, and then lets out a long greyed exhalation. The smoke shrinks and recoils, as if burned by the night.

Nick nods encouragement.

“Well, we thought he was just another honky with a conscience. No real commitment, you know how it was.” The man looks at Nick, appraising him briefly. His mouth curls at the edge. “
Ja
, well, maybe it was a bit before your time,
laaitie
.” The curl becomes a short laugh, which degenerates to a cough. He taps the end of his cigarette. Ash falls limply off its end. “So I guess we gave him a hard time at first. We wouldn’t tell him things that were important, you know? But then we thought, why not test him? You know, see if he was working for the Afrikaners, or the cops, your lot.” The man looks at him again, assessing any reaction.

Nick suppresses an urge to smile.

Apparently satisfied, the man takes another pull at his cigarette, and continues. “
Ja
, so like, we told him stuff that was wrong, you know, just in case. But nothing ever came of it. So he seemed safe. And man, he was dedicated. Punctual, efficient.
Ja
, you know, he was smart.” Another puff of smoke. Another cough. Phlegm rattles his emaciated chest.

Again, Nick nods and is silent.

The man is more voluble now. “So, you know, we kind of learned to accept him, trust him even. Over time. And he seemed to care, to really give a shit, you know. I mean, he would be up all hours, working in the squatter camps, treating people.”

“Treating people?” Nick is intrigued.

The man’s turn to nod. “
Ja
, Simon set up a regular medical clinic in the township. Every Friday night, he’d be there. Paid for a lot of the medicines himself, and got donations here and there. But then, he could afford it, rich whitey like him.” The man stops, looks at Nick again.

Nick keeps his face impassive.

“The other students came and went, along for the experience. But it got quite organised. We all helped now and then. But it was mostly Simon, and Jay and Leila, of course.”

“Jay and Leila?”

The man’s eyes run over Nick, narrowing. Another cough shakes his pinched frame. Then he shakes his head. To Nick it seems as if he decides something.

“
Ja
,” he repeats, “Jay and Leila.” The man puts his cigarette out. He rubs his hands together, then reaches into his pocket to pull out a crushed pack of loose-leaf tobacco.

Nick watches as the man takes a red cigarette roller and a square of cigarette papers from the rusted table between them. He inserts the paper deftly into the roller then squashes some of the honey-coloured
tobacco inside, snaps it shut, and rolls it once, twice, leaving only an edge of white paper showing. He brings it to his dry lips, licks the strip, and rolls it again. He unclamps the roller, pops out a taut roll of cigarette. The man puts it in his mouth, flicks a plastic yellow lighter and the cigarette ignites, burning unevenly until the man sucks at it. The whole of the circular tip glows and the man leans back in his chair, sighing as another grey stream leaves his nostrils and mouth.

“
Ja
, man, they did good work in the townships, those three. And it was Simon who fixed me, stitched this.” The man fingers a blanched line near his right ear. “Got it on a June sixteenth rally,” he says. The nicotine soothes his voice to an almost nostalgic tone.

They sit in silence for a while. A train whistles in the distance. A wind visits the verandah, chilling him. The man smokes, blowing silken rings into the darkness.

“So what happened?” asks Nick, when the minutes have ticked by.

“
Ja
, so we finally reckoned Simon was for real, you know. I mean, ja, he was a privileged white Jew-boy, but he seemed really genuine, you know? So he was one of us. And anyway, by then, he and Leila were a thing.”

“A thing?”

“
Ja
, a thing, man. An item.” The man looks pained at having to explain. “Lovers, man.”

“And Jay?”

“Ah,
ja
, Jay. Man, that was a weird relationship. He never liked Simon, you know. Made no secret of it to us. He would call him a dirty Jew, fucking honky, the whole lot. But only to us. I think in a way Jay respected Simon, his work, his knowledge. They certainly worked well together. But I know Jay never got to trust Simon.”

“Why not?”

“I think mostly ’cos of Leila. Jay used to warn her that it wouldn’t
last. That Simon would dump her. Told her rich white Jews didn’t marry Christian Coloured girls.”

“And Leila? How did she take that?”

“
Ag
, she’d laugh at Jay. Tell him he was just jealous. Teasing him, you know. But she was quite obsessed with Simon. I mean besotted. Really a bit too much, you know, like not healthy. And she was a nice, smart girl, you know. Shame what happened.”

“What happened?”

The man snorts, a harsh sound full of mucus. He coughs again. “Jay was right, man. Right about Simon. Simon, you know…
ag
, man, the bastard. He betrayed us all.”

Only the scant wind moves across the verandah. Far away, a car’s horn, a shout, a siren. The man finishes his cigarette. Then he pulls out his roller again. Nick follows the ritual of rolling another one until the man shoves the new cigarette, gleaming with spittle, into his mouth. He jams his tobacco back in his pocket.

“Tell me,” says Nick, watching the end of the cigarette smoulder limply between the man’s lips, “what did Gold do to you?”

The man shifts in his seat. A sigh escapes with his smoke. “
Ag
, it was terrible. Terrible, man. What he did to them. To all of us. But especially to Leila.”

Nick waits.

“Your lot,” the man spits, “your lot. The police, man. Seems they got hold of Simon.” He sighs again. “I suppose we should have seen it coming. The man was visible, you know. Right there, in the townships. Stuck out a mile in his white skin. They would have known him. Known his politics. He was probably being watched. You know, a suspected dissident. Seems they got him one night. Leila went frantic. She knew, you know. Knew when he wasn’t home. She was convinced that’s what had happened, that it was them. All over the place, she was. Screaming, crying, begging us, begging Jay, to do something…” The man looks out into the night, searching for
something he cannot see. “What could we do, man? What could we do? You know what it was like then?” He does not wait for an answer. “
Jislaaik
, I suppose I can’t blame the guy. God knows what they did to him.”

“To Gold?”

The man starts slightly, as if he had momentarily forgotten Nick’s presence. He scratches his scar. The hard tone returns. “Well,
whatever
, he must have told them all right. Everything.
Ag
, he’s been gone two, maybe three days at the most. The next thing we knew, we were raided. Arrested, all of us.”

“All of you? Jay and Leila as well?”

The man is derisive. “
Ja
, especially them, man. What do you think?” After a momentary reflection, he says, “Christ, those guys knew what they were doing.”

“What happened?” asks Nick, certain he knows the answer, or part of it. He waits with a heavy weariness for the inevitable.

The man spits out some tobacco. “The usual, man. You wouldn’t believe…” He stares sightlessly into the blackness. His cigarette dangles loosely in his hand. A while passes, and the man moves, tapping the ash off his cigarette and drawing on it again, sucking at it as if for breath. “Those boys knew how to get what they wanted. I got off lightly. It was worse for them. For Jay and Leila. Much worse. I saw Jay’s back, you know, afterwards. The guy will carry scars till he dies, man.” The man pauses. “We all will.”

“What about Leila?” Nicks steels himself for the man’s reply.

“Poor girl. Poor girl, hey.
Fok
knows what they did to her. She was
waarlik
beautiful, you know. Before.
Ag
, they didn’t let anything show. Nothing on the outside that you could see, you know. But if you knew her before… and then saw her after, after, you know, you could tell she was different. But that’s the thing, man. It’s what they do to you on the inside…” His voice trails off.

“Did you see Gold again after that?”

“
Ag
, no, man. Never saw him again. Just as well. I think I’d have wanted to kill him if I had. That’s if Jay hadn’t gotten to him first.”

Nick absorbs this. “What about Leila? Did she see him again?”

“I don’t think so, man. Simon just disappeared. Must’ve left Cape Town, I suppose.” The man exhales heavily and stays quiet for a long time.

Inside the house, someone turns on a radio, there is a clatter of crockery. Nick can hear the start of a news bulletin. “What
happened
to Leila and Jay after that?”

“I didn’t see a lot of them after that. And you know, our group was pretty much ruined after that. They had their eye on us. So things kind of folded, we went our separate ways. Jay and Leila stayed close, I think.” The man laughs, a short rasp. “Anyhow, they had futures, man. They had their studies to finish. Doctors, you know. At least, Jay definitely finished. Actually, I’m not sure now about Leila. Poor girl. I remember something about her quitting. Shame, man. So I guess Simon took her career from her too… I suppose I can’t blame the guy. I mean, they probably tortured him. Anybody would have folded, given what they do to you.”

Nick wonders if the man is talking about himself.

“But it’s hard to forgive him for Leila, hey. She really loved him, you know. Girl was a mess.” The man leans forward. “Jay told me she would never be able to have children after what they did to her.”

Something twists inside Nick’s chest. Again, they face the night in silence.

Finally, the man adds. “Jay stayed active, you know. In fact, he went to prison later. Couple of years, as I remember. I haven’t seen him since. I heard he married a white girl. Thought that was funny, you know, given his feelings.”

After a pause, Nick asks, “What was Leila’s surname?”

The man thinks for a bit. “Leila Koning, she was.”

“And Jay?”

“Kassan.”

The name shivers down Nick’s spine.

The man elaborates. “His full name was Mohammed Jay Kassan. I called him Jay. But almost everyone else called him Jonnie.”