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‘Cricket?’ the boss said.
‘I swear, if he were white he’d be a Springbok cricketer. No bowler can get him out. Even if he uses a baseball bat.’
‘Baseball?’ The boss looked up at the ceiling for a moment. ‘Now there’s an angle: “Apartheid Foils Brilliant Sportsman.” If he’s as good as you say we could blow it up into a big story, make the government look silly. Now, how do we test him?’
Mahoney said: ‘Take him to a private cricket pitch. Like Wits University, they’d turn a blind eye for a few hours. Get their best bowlers to turn out. I guarantee he’ll knock ’em for six. Invite some sportswriters from the dailies to watch.’
‘Then?’
‘Then,’ Mahoney said, ‘you invite some baseball league people along. Give Justin a baseball bat, let their best pitchers have a go at him. Invite the American Chamber of Commerce, maybe. Maybe Justin’ll get a scholarship to some Yank university.’
The editor nodded pensively at the ceiling. ‘Now this bears thinking about. I’ll invite him to drop round, tell him to write me a piece, take it from there.’ Then he tossed a second letter on the desk. ‘And, you’ve got one other friend, Luke – nice letter from Patti Gandhi thanking us for your “excellent, witty, and sympathetic story” about her trial.’
The room resounded to ribald remarks about bearing the Immorality Act in mind when he crawled on his hands and knees to thank her for her nice thank-you letter. Then Willy Thembu said: ‘Why doesn’t Luke do a full-length feature on her, her whole history, a sort of “Day in the Death of an Indian Beauty under Apartheid”? Hey – why doesn’t he talk her into screwing a few top-cops, and then we blow the story?’
‘Hey, how about that …’
The boss grinned. ‘But we’d be sued – and Miss Gandhi would go to jail.’
‘But so would the politicians and the top-cops!’ Butch Molofo said happily. ‘The Afrikaner establishment would have egg all over their faces! We’d make a sort of Mata Hari out of her – a love-nest spy. I bet that girl would go for it, she’s a trouble-maker. And I bet she’s in the thick of the ANC’s underground – I bet she knows what this guy Nelson Mandela’s up to …’
But the boss shook his head. ‘We’re trouble-shooters, not troublemakers, and we don’t make ourselves accomplices to crime. Anyway, Miss Gandhi’s been over-written lately.’ (Mahoney was very disappointed.) ‘But what we should do is start building a profile on this guy Nelson Mandela – to be ready for the day he does something dramatic. Luke – you start on that, between other stories. Start in the newspaper cuttings; look up every reference to him and his wife, Winnie. And you’re a law student – maybe it’s time you wrote us a nice piece on that ridiculous Treason Trial that Mandela was involved in. “What is treason in this land of ours?” Reminding us how the cops broke up the Congress of the people at Kliptown when the Freedom Charter was formed, arrested thousands, put a hundred and fifty-six on trial for treason, how five years later there were only thirty-one accused left because the government had withdrawn charges against the rest due to lack of any real evidence of treason. Explain to us what treason now means in our poor benighted country under our new draconian legislation. Can do?’
‘Can do,’ Luke said. ‘I’ll get my father to check me on the law.’
‘Good.’ The boss looked around the table. ‘So what else is happening out there?’
Fred Kalanga took his feet off the desk to pour himself another shot of brandy. ‘Talking about Nelson Mandela, I’ve heard a bit of talk in the shebeens that we’re going to start seeing a few bangs from him soon. Something about the ANC changing its policy of non-violence.’
There were some cheers. The boss said: ‘Doesn’t surprise me – the ANC has got to resort to violence sometime soon if it’s going to retain credibility with the blacks. But Drum doesn’t publish rumours …’
Two weeks later Justin Nkomo came to work for Drum, on probation. Mahoney was delighted to see him again but he soon concluded that Justin was not going to fit in: he was too serious and bookish. Sure, he drank, but not enough. He wrote good prose, but not flip enough. He wanted to enjoy life but he was not flash enough for Soweto. Sure, he loved women but he was not hip enough. ‘Our intellectual’ they called him at Drum.
It was a month after his arrival that Drum staged their debut of Our Black Springbok. Justin had been sufficiently tested at nets to convince the publisher he was on to a winner of a story. Now he persuaded the Witwatersrand University first cricket team to turn out, and the first baseball team, he invited the sportswriters of the daily newspapers to come along, and several members of the British and United States consulates in the hopes that Justin might be offered a scholarship.
‘I hope to God he doesn’t let us down after all this.’
Mahoney was worried too – this had been his idea. Please God … he prayed as Justin walked out onto the university cricket pitch.
It was not, of course, to be a cricket match: it was an exhibition, and a wager. The publisher had offered five hundred rands to the university cricket club if Justin failed to score a century. And what an exhibition of slugging it was! The university team were astounded – and so were the sportswriters.
‘They did not know what hit them,’ the Star reported. ‘There at the crease stood this gangly young black man, holding his bat like a caveman’s club, smashing the university’s best bowlers to all corners of the field as if swatting flies. Having reached his century in record time – thus winning the wager for his sponsor, Drum – the batsman, armed now with a baseball bat, repeated the same phenomenon against the best pitchers of the university’s baseball club. The man is a genius with a bat: he has little style but who needs that with an eye and brawn like his? It would be foolish to tamper with such unorthodox brilliance. If there were no apartheid in this sports-mad land of ours he would, without a doubt, be a Springbok cricketer in a year or two, if not immediately. There is every chance that if he and Drum play their cards right, this man Justin Nkomo will be offered a sports scholarship to an overseas university. Indeed, the United States cultural attaché, watching wide-eyed, told me that he was certain that an American university would snap him up. South Africa will be the loser. What a sporting tragedy …’
Three months later Justin Nkomo accepted a scholarship to the University of Miami. Many years were to pass before he returned.
10 (#ulink_684ea91a-d4d8-51c0-80b3-be5c0e450f71)
In those days Mahoney shared a big, seedy, four-bedroom apartment with three other bachelors: Shortarse Longbottom, a tall, thin, mournful young reporter on the Star, Hugo Wessels, known as Huge Vessel because of his capacity for beer, who was a young reporter on an Afrikaans newspaper, and Splinter Woodcock, a law student who was justifiably pleased with his genital endowments. The apartment was on the top floor of an old apartment block in Hillbrow, on the edge of downtown Johannesburg, one of the most densely populated areas of the world. By day the area teemed with blacks, employees of the shops and restaurants and cheap hotels, and servants who worked in the cheap apartments, but at night they all disappeared back to the townships beyond the horizon.
Most of the apartment blocks had servants’ rooms on the very top but ‘locations in the sky’ were discouraged under apartheid. There were servants’ rooms on Mahoney’s rooftop and it was a term of the lease that they should not be occupied, but Mahoney had purloined a key and he went up there to work when the partying got too hectic downstairs. They called the apartment The Parsonage because there was a substantial turnover of young ladies at breakfast all weekend. The parties were fine with Mahoney, because he had most mornings free, but the weekend was an important time for him to study, at least during daylight, though it was great to know the party was going strong downstairs whenever he was ready to join it.
The Parsonage piss-ups began on Friday afternoons in the staff canteen of the Star, where the junior reporters of Johannesburg’s various newspapers gathered to solve the problems of the world and flirt with the female junior reporters, including Gloria Naidoo, who wrote for the fashion page, and Wendy Chiang, who wrote for the book page, and Innocentia Molo, who wrote for the Sowetan. This multi-racial gathering was not illegal, but to adjourn together across the road to the Press Bar of the Elizabeth Hotel was illegal because of the Group Areas Act and the Liquor Act. Miss Chiang, Miss Naidoo and Miss Molo were not allowed to darken its white doors, so the party usually graduated back to The Parsonage. And this, strictly speaking, wasn’t illegal either: people of different races were not actually forbidden to meet in private homes provided there was no question of contravention of the Immorality Act, the Prohibition of Mixed Marriages Act, the Prohibition of Political Interference Act, the Influx of Unwanted Persons Act, the Criminal Law Amendment Act, which authorized a policeman to detain you for twelve days without trial, the Suppression of Communism Act, the Seditious Publications Act … It wasn’t actually illegal – not yet – but Sergeant van Rensburg and his squad were very optimistically suspicious about The Parsonage. Out there in Soweto there was murder going on, but there was Sergeant van Rensburg cruising Hillbrow trying to get evidence of the English press contravening the Immorality Act with Miss Chiang, Miss Naidoo and Miss Molo. As it happened, neither Shortarse, Huge, Splinter nor Mahoney were screwing Gloria – who had the reputation of preferring ladies – Wendy or Innocentia, though not for want of trying. The three women usually left The Parsonage together in Wendy’s car – she did not drink – to go home over the horizon where they belonged, but they took great delight in reeling out of the building blowing kisses up to the boys in the hope that Sergeant van Rensburg was watching through his binoculars.
It was on one of these Friday piss-ups, the week after Justin Nkomo left for America, that Gloria Naidoo said to Mahoney: ‘You remember Patti Gandhi?’
‘How could any man forget?’
‘Well she’s a friend of mine, and she’d like to talk to you – she likes the sympathetic way you wrote up her trial. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind her calling you? She’ll use a public phone in case her line’s being tapped. I gave her the number of the Star canteen, she’ll phone here next Friday in case your number is being tapped too. Okay?’
Was it okay?
‘Of course I remember you,’ he said when she telephoned. ‘And I thought you were very clever. You should be a lawyer.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere. So, I have a business proposition to put to you.’
Flattery would get him everywhere?
‘Is this a story?’
‘That’s your business, isn’t it? There are no other grounds upon which we can legally meet, are there?’
‘Where do you suggest?’
‘Well, there’s no bar we can legally meet in. Not even a park bench, like they do in the movies. So would you come to my shop? Where my workers will ensure the bed temperature remains normal?’
Perish the thought … !
Gandhi Emporium was in the Indian quarter in Diagonal Street. The streets were teeming with people and traffic at five o’clock, blacks hurrying home from work to the locations. The shop was closing up as Mahoney walked in. An Indian salesgirl led him through to the workshop, where a dozen black tailors were shutting down their sewing machines. They entered the office beyond. Patti Gandhi was descending a staircase, her hand extended. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She wore a lime-green silk dress that flared over her breasts revealing a breathtaking cleavage.
‘Thank you for coming!’
As she got a beer for him from the refrigerator Mahoney said: ‘You won’t remember me, but we come from the same home-town, Umtata.’
‘Yes, I know, though I don’t believe we met. Your father was my father’s lawyer.’ She smiled. ‘And I’ve checked you out.’ (Checked him out?) ‘By the way, we needn’t worry about Sergeant van Rensburg,’ she continued matter-of-factly. ‘He’s not gunning for me anymore: I neutralized him.’
Neutralized him? ‘How?’
She sat down on the sofa opposite him with a glass of wine and crossed her legs elegantly. ‘I screwed him.’
Mahoney tried not to show his amazement. Exactly as Willy Thembu had suggested in jest. His heart was knocking in hope. She smiled. ‘That’s off the record, for the moment. Do I shock you?’
He was blushing. ‘No …’
‘Liar,’ she said, smiling.
‘I mean, why shouldn’t you sleep with whoever you like?’
‘But I didn’t like. I did it for two reasons. One, to get him off my back. Two, for the future. You never know in this country when it’s going to be necessary to have a few cops on your side.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Not only did he contravene the Immorality Act, he’s also a married man.’
Why was she telling him this? ‘I see. You’re right.’
‘Sure I’m right. This is a wrong country. I don’t care what I’ve got to do to get a few levers. So look at this.’
She got up and went to a wall-safe. She took out a large envelope. She pulled out a photograph. Mahoney stared at it. It showed a couple naked on a bed, having sexual intercourse. The woman was Patti Gandhi. And the man was unquestionably Sergeant van Rensburg.
‘Who took this photograph?’ And why was she showing it to him?
‘Gloria Naidoo. In my apartment upstairs.’ She explained, with a wisp of a smile: ‘The day after I was acquitted, who should come here but Sergeant van Rensburg? Ostensibly to warn me officially that Vice Squad were watching me. Then he got fresh and said that he could put in a good word for me. I thought fast. I said I was having my period, could he come back in two days. I set it up with Gloria, she’s a photographer. We bored a hole through the spare bedroom wall. When Sergeant van Rensburg came round for his illegal goodies Gloria photographed the terrible deed. But the photos didn’t come out well enough because of the light – I didn’t look like an Indian. So we set it up again for two days later, and that’s the result. When the good sergeant came round again, I showed him that photo and told him to get off my back, or else.’ She took back the photograph and slipped it into the envelope.
Why was she telling him this?
‘You’re wondering why I’m telling you this.’ She folded her arms. ‘Well, a few nights later I was raided by the Security Police. With a warrant to search for seditious material. My apartment was swarming with detectives, led by a certain Major Kotze. They ransacked the place, but found nothing – I’m not fool enough to keep seditious material at home. And I’m sure they weren’t looking for those photographs because they were even looking down spines of books. And why would Sergeant van Rensburg confide in Special Branch? No, they were looking for a connection with the ANC. Anyway, I was quite calm and I answered all Major Kotze’s questions very sweetly – I even offered him a drink. Which he declined at the time. But when the boys departed empty-handed, Major Kotze stayed behind to ask a few more questions and I got the distinct impression it was because I was wearing a rather revealing sari. And I thought: Hullo, maybe this trick can work twice. And sure enough, with the minimum of provocation, he made a heavy pass at me. Again saying he could put in a good word for me.’ She smiled widely. ‘Again I stalled him for a couple of days. Two days later Major Kotze was back again, boots and all. And so was Gloria, in the next room, with her camera.’ She grinned widely. ‘And the results are in this envelope.’
Mahoney had to command his hand not to reach out for those results.
Patti grinned: ‘There’s no reason for you to see them now – I only showed you the first one to convince you of the truth of my story. You’ll see them later, if you agree to my proposition.’ She smiled. ‘And it’s not an illegal proposition, Mr Mahoney. “Blackmail” would be a most inappropriate word to describe legitimate self-defence against the injustice of apartheid. Though I admit that if the entire South African police force wants to expose themselves to blackmail I’ll arrange it.’
It broke his heart to think about it, a beautiful woman like this! A brutal, shocking, wildly erotic thought.
‘I understand.’
She said quietly: ‘No, you don’t understand, Mr Mahoney. You’re white. You have all the normal privileges of a civilized Western country. I do not. You may sympathise, but you do not really understand what it is to be non-white in this country.’
‘Okay, you’re right, Miss Gandhi.’
‘Patti,’ she said. ‘Please.’
‘Patti. And I’m Luke.’
‘Wow, first-name terms already, we’re getting on like a house on fire and you’ve only seen me in one pornographic photo.’ She smiled widely. ‘I’m not really domineering, you know. I’m as soft as butter when I’m treated right. All I want out of life is justice. A good society. And cops to catch crooks. Is that too much for a citizen to ask?’
‘No.’
‘Ah, but it is, in this country. In fact it’s against the law.’
‘That’s true.’
‘So what are you going to do about it, Luke? Are you going to write courageous stuff?’
He knew now he was undergoing some kind of test. ‘I do my best – for a junior reporter.’
‘You do very well indeed. I’ve read a lot of your work, including your articles about whaling.’
The quickest way to a writer’s heart. ‘Thank you.’
‘But if whaling is so horrific – so cruel, as you so vividly described it – why did you keep on going to the Ice?’
‘For the money.’
‘Ah, yes, the money … Well, I can’t promise you any money out of the proposition I’ve got for you, but on the other hand you could make a killing, if things go wrong.’
‘Go wrong?’
‘If the police start persecuting me again. Because in this envelope are not only the photographs but two affidavits testifying as to how they were taken. I intend to put them into a bank safety deposit box with the story of how they came about – a well-written story, for publication in the event of my being seriously arrested.’
‘Arrested for what?’
‘For a serious matter, like “furthering the illegal objectives of the ANC”. I want to be able to tell the authorities that if they persist in their persecution of me I will be releasing a highly embarrassing story. This envelope – ’ she picked it up – ‘is my insurance, Luke. Not blackmail – because it would be to the public benefit that everybody be informed that the custodians of the law are breaking the law.’
God, yes, it would be a story. Though he wasn’t so sure it wouldn’t be blackmail – but to hell with that for now.
‘You would be performing a public service, Luke. And showing up the cruelty of apartheid. And the ridiculousness of it.’
‘Yes. Except I doubt it would pull down this government.’
‘No, but it would rock the police. “Senior BOSS officer in Immorality Act love nest with ANC member”.’ She smiled. ‘It would let the cat loose amongst the BOSS pigeons: how many security secrets would Major Kotze have told the ANC through me?’
Mahoney was bemused. Almost exactly what Willy Thembu had suggested. ‘But do you intend to … see this Major Kotze again?’
‘Oh, yes.’
It shocked him. A beautiful woman like this.
She said: ‘This is too good an opportunity to pass up. The job must be done properly. The scandal must be about a love nest, not about a one-night stand. And I might even get some secrets.’
Jesus. BOSS secrets in a love nest? This story was getting better and better. He said: ‘Are you also a member of the Communist Party?’
Patti smiled widely. ‘I’m not going to make any unwise confessions in my story, Luke. The only crime I’m confessing to is contravening the Immorality Act with Sergeant van Rensburg and Major Kotze. Plus whoever of the BOSS hierarchy come my way. Of course, you must write that I was a member of the ANC before it was banned and that’s how I came to be raided by Kotze – and ended up in bed with him.’ She added: ‘Of course, this could be an on-going story, with more BOSS victims. But you haven’t agreed to write it yet. Will you, Luke?’
Would he? Any journalist would give his eyeteeth for the story! ‘Oh, I’ll write it.’
‘You realize you may never publish it? It’ll only happen on my instructions and that’ll mean I’m in big trouble.’
‘Yes.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘But you must realize that you’re taking a chance on this. I might be raided by the police and if they find the story – then you will be in big trouble.’
She shook her head. ‘If your house is raided they’ll find nothing to do with me. Because you’re not going to work on this at home. You’ll do so in a nice secure place. I won’t tell you where yet. And each time you finish a page, it’ll disappear.’
‘I see. Does your attorney know about this?’
‘Not yet.’ She smiled over the rim of her wine glass. Oh, she was beautiful. ‘Any questions, Luke? Aren’t you going to ask me why I’ve asked you to do this job?’
He grinned. ‘I hoped it was because of my big blue eyes.’
‘Oh, yes, those too.’ (That made his heart turn over.) ‘Because,’ she said, ‘you’re a very good writer, Luke. I read your stories in Drum every month. And I loved your articles on whaling in the Star, your descriptions of the horror of the hunt – how the mother whale tried to take her harpooned calf under her fin!’ Her eyes were suddenly glistening. ‘It made me cry.’
He’d made her cry? And she made him want to cry, thinking of those fucking hairyback policemen rumbling all over her. He heard himself say: ‘But there’re better journalists than me, Patti.’
‘If I phoned up the editor of the Star and told him I had a story for his ears only, would he have come along personally to see me?’
