See No Evil

8

July 11, 1988

Went to a board meeting of the Project today, the Guguletu Literacy Project. Nimrod drove me: I don’t like driving there by myself since the riots of a couple of years ago. In fact, we’ve only gone back to holding the board meetings in the township in the last few months; until recently the place was a no-go area for whites. Guguletu doesn’t exist in the mind of white South Africa. It isn’t even on the map, despite the fact that a couple of hundred thousand people must live there. It’s a sprawling warren of single-room shacks made of wood and corrugated iron, each one crammed with people taking up every inch of floor space to sleep on. For some reason the dominant color seems to be pistachio green. But the township is teeming with life: children running around everywhere, chickens scratching about, even the odd cow, which still retains its importance as a symbol of wealth. There are smells of cooking and of filth, sounds of chatter, children’s laughter and everywhere the beat of “location music,” the same stuff that Finneas picks out on his harmonica at home.

Miriam Masote founded the Project ten years ago to try to teach adults to read and write. Her father has been in jail on Robben Island for nearly thirty years now. Her view is that when enough black South Africans can read they will develop a voice that the rest of the world will have to hear. I hope she is right. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of inhabitants of the township who can now read thanks to her. She does an amazing amount with very little money. That’s where I can help, not just by giving them some of our money, but by raising funds from the States. Mom does a good job with the churches in Minnesota.

Libby Wiseman was on excellent form. That woman is a hoot. God knows, you need a sense of humor in a place like Guguletu. She is pretty outspoken about the regime, and I think she’s been arrested a couple of times, but she seems to have avoided a banning order somehow. She gets very upset about greedy capitalists in South Africa, without ever actually mentioning Neels by name. Perhaps she’s a communist? I wonder if there are any of the SACP left in South Africa, or whether they are all in jail or in exile. She and I get on well, though: she’s one of the few South African women who I can call a friend. I can’t imagine her putting Neels and me on any execution list, although presumably that’s decided by the leaders in exile.

After the meeting she asked me back to her house for a drink, but I said no. I just feel like curling myself up into a ball and hiding away at Hondehoek.

I’ve been thinking about Neels a lot these past couple of days, thinking about when we first met. It was the moment that defined my life. It was the late sixties, I was a year out of graduate school and I was fired up about all the injustices of the world, foremost among them apartheid. I’d written a couple of successful freelance articles for Life magazine on student protest movements, and I planned to try to sell them an article on the press and apartheid in South Africa. I had a friend whose father was the Time correspondent and I managed to arrange to stay with him in Johannesburg. He helped me get interviews with some of the editors and owners of the South African newspapers.

With the exception of a couple of the Afrikaners whose support for apartheid was clear, all the newspaper men I met were blind, blind to what was going on in their country. Their political outlook as far as I was concerned was “See no evil.” And then I met Neels.

I flew to Cape Town for the meeting, which was at the Cape Daily Mail’s offices. I was curious, but not hopeful. I knew of the Mail’s reputation for uncovering scandals, but then Neels had an Afrikaans last name, and by that stage I had low expectations of newspaper owners.

He attracted me the moment I saw him. He had power over women. He had it then, when he was in his late thirties, and he still has it now even though he is over fifty. It was, or is, a kind of strength, strength that can protect rather than threaten, a self-assurance that falls short of vanity. Broad shoulders, square jaw and those piercing, honest eyes. I was smitten.

He wasn’t, or not at first. Oh, he paid attention to me, men did in those days. He explained how he, an Afrikaner, came to be the owner of the second largest English-speaking newspaper group in South Africa. He told me about his father’s little paper in Oudtshoorn. How he was one of five children, how he got a scholarship to the University of Stellenbosch and with his father’s encouragement a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford. How he met Penelope there, and how she had forced him to focus on what he always knew to be the case: the injustice of apartheid. They were married. Her family were English-speakers, wealthy investors in gold mines with a mansion in Parktown in Johannesburg, and suspicious of the Afrikaner from the Karoo. But they soon warmed to Cornelius, and her father funded him to buy a bankrupt newspaper group that included the Durban Age, the Johannesburg Post and the Week in Business. He turned all three papers around and a couple of years later bought the Cape Daily Mail. He was just thirty at the time.

He answered my questions with passion and in detail. His view was that the most effective opposition to apartheid was the press, in particular the English-language press. His role as owner was the guardian of that voice of opposition and sanity.

I came back at him. How could the press in a country like South Africa ever be truly free? And if it wasn’t, if his journalists were locked up for telling the truth, wasn’t he merely supporting the system by working within it?

Neels told me I was suffering from the same lack of understanding as all the English-speaking liberals. This was the fourth time I had been told this, and I just lost it. I was fed up of being patronized by white Nazi racists. I railed on. Then I suddenly noticed that Neels was trying to suppress a smile. Not only that, but he was interested in me. Not as a twenty-something blonde with long legs, but as a woman. As a person. This angered me more, but also disconcerted me and so I shut up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Let me tell you what I did mean.” He fixed me with those piercing blue eyes of his. “The fatal flaw of the apartheid regime, what will ultimately bring about its downfall, is its certainty that it’s morally right.”

“How can apartheid ever be morally right?” I interrupted.

“It’s a twisted morality, backed by a twisted understanding of Christianity. But if the regime is to continue to believe that it is legitimate it needs to maintain some semblance of justice, of right and wrong. There has to be an independent judiciary, a parliament where opposition is allowed to speak, and a free press.”

“But that’s incompatible with a government that’s elected by a small minority of the country, that locks people up and tortures them without trial!”

“Precisely. As time goes on that incompatibility will become more and more apparent until the majority of the National Party can’t hide from it anymore. Then they will hand over power. Voluntarily.”

“So you’re just playing a part in the charade of a fair government?”

“No, not at all. It’s Afrikaners like me who will bring this regime to a peaceful end. It might take ten years, it might take fifty years, but it will happen. Independent judges, critical politicians, a free press, lawyers who believe in justice, doctors who tell the truth about the injuries they treat. In time we will be able to show our countrymen that they cannot support apartheid and still think of themselves as moral human beings. Blowing up a railway station won’t tell them that, quite the reverse. And I don’t want to see my country go up in flames in a bloody revolution.”

I was silenced. Neels smiled at me. “How long are you in South Africa?”

“A week.”

“Well, why don’t you spend that week in the Mail’s offices? You can write an article or two on America for us. And you’ll get a better idea of how the press in South Africa really works.”

So I stayed a week. Then extended it for another week. Then a month. He persuaded me. And we fell in love. There was his wife — but I don’t want to think about that now.

I am glad I have written about when we met. It’s brought back to me not just the ideals which we shared then, but how much I loved him. Still do love him.

Which makes it all so much more painful when he betrays me.

July 12

Neels is back from Philadelphia, although it’s only for a few days; he’ll be going back there on Friday. Which makes me wonder, why does he spend the weekend there and not here? As usual these days he went straight into the office from the airport and didn’t get back here until nine at night. He looks exhausted. He’s been very distracted these last few weeks. I assumed that it was to do with our marriage or with Hennie’s death, but thinking about what Benton told me perhaps there’s something else. I decided to find out.

I asked him if I could pour him a drink. He glanced at me quickly, checking for signs of sarcasm I suppose. Not seeing any he gave me a weary smile. “Yes, please,” he said.

I poured him a brandy and Coke and myself a glass of wine, and we sat down by the fire. The scent of the blue-gum firewood hung in the air.

“Is the Herald deal not going well?” I asked.

Neels checked again for signs of gloating, but he could see my concern was genuine.

He sighed. “No. I thought we had it in the bag. But it looks as if I can’t raise the money they’re asking. The junk-bond markets are still tough. The crash last October has scared everyone; they all think I’m too big a risk.”

“Do you have to use these junk bonds?” I said. “They always sounded pretty awful to me. Can’t you just borrow money from a bank?”

Neels shook his head. “The bankers are just as scared as the bond investors.”

“Never mind,” I said. “There will be other opportunities.”

“I’m not so sure Zyl News will be around to see other opportunities, liefie.”

This is the first time Neels has admitted what Benton hinted to me: that Zyl News is so overstretched it’s on the point of bankruptcy. It’s also the first time we’ve spoken about the company since he told me he’s planning to close the Cape Daily Mail. Before, in the old days of our marriage, we talked about the business all the time. Discussing what was going on with the newspapers was his way of unwinding, and I was always interested. He is an astute businessman and I like to hear about his exploits.

“Could you sell the US papers and keep the South African ones?” I asked.

Neels glanced at me quickly, his eyes betraying a flash of irritation. But he considered the question. “It’s a bad time to sell anything in the States. Everything’s on hold, no one’s making any plans. No. I’ve got to figure out a way of funding the Herald deal. That’s all there is to it.”

For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him. Then I remembered the night he hadn’t come home.

I drank my wine. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, an international media mogul like you.” This time, Neels didn’t have to look for the sarcasm.

July 14

I’m sitting here, at the picnic place halfway up the Hondekop, shaking as I write this. I have got to be so careful how and where I write in this diary. At least up here I won’t be disturbed and I want to get down as much of this as I can before I forget it. There’s no point in worrying about what I write in here now — with that list in the back, the book is dynamite if anyone finds it.

Down in the valley, in the house, our house, is Neels. What’s he thinking? I have no idea what’s in his mind. I was absolutely right when I wrote at the beginning of this diary that I had lost him. He’s betrayed everything, his beliefs, me. I don’t know who he is anymore.

And I’m afraid of this new Neels.

He said he wanted to spend the morning working from home, which struck me as a little odd, given how he likes to escape to the office whenever he can these days. I was getting ready to drive Caroline into Stellenbosch. Neels bought a new compact-disc player last month and the result, which we should have anticipated, is that Caroline wants to buy a whole bunch of new compact discs to replicate her record collection, such as it is. As will Todd, no doubt, when he gets home. Anyway, just as we were leaving, Daniel Havenga drove up with another man, a neat little fellow with a limp. Daniel was his usual cheery self, and was telling his companion how wonderful our garden was, when Neels appeared. It was clear that the visit had been arranged, although I knew nothing about it. This wasn’t necessarily surprising since Neels and I say precious little to each other these days, although he had mumbled something about working from home this morning. Daniel introduced his friend as Andries Visser and Neels took them off to the study.

My curiosity was aroused. All our dealings with Daniel have been social, but this was business. Visser was wearing a gray suit and he was carrying one of those slim black businessman briefcases. He looked like a man about to enter an important meeting rather than someone dropping in on a friend in the country.

So, I told Caroline I just wanted to finish something off in the garden, and I strolled around the side of the house. Neels’s study is by the slave bell, and I rooted around in the tulip beds there to try to catch their conversation. The window, which he usually likes to keep open unless it is very cold, was shut. I could hear murmuring inside, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying, especially since the bok-makieries decided to take that moment to start yelling to each other.

I was desperate to find out what it was they were discussing. I even considered standing outside the room with my ear to the door, but that would have been too obvious. I went around to the front of the house, where Daniel’s Renault was parked. I looked inside. The car was a mess, wine-gum wrappers all over the place and a load of books slung on the back seat with Daniel’s raincoat. The books were university textbooks on media and journalism. I wondered if there was anything in the trunk. I glanced around. No sign of Caroline or Doris or Finneas or anyone else. I quickly opened it up and peeked in. Inside was a mess of plastic bags, some boots and a small bag of rose fertilizer. I snapped the trunk shut.

I had a last look into the car through the rear window, and caught a glimpse of brown leather poking out from under the coat. Another quick look around to see if anyone was watching and I checked the car door. Unlocked. I opened it. Pushed back the coat to reveal a battered brown briefcase. Opened the briefcase.

Like the car, it was a mess, full of loose crinkled papers, some of which bore the University of Stellenbosch crest. In the back was a plastic folder with a thick sheaf of papers. I glanced at the top sheet. It was a survey of the British newspaper market. I was about to shove it back in the briefcase, when I noticed the words “Zyl News.”

I flicked through the report. Lots of figures, lots of analysis of the media markets in South Africa, Europe and the US.

Behind that was a two-page memo. It was headed “Cornelius van Zyl.”

I hesitated. I had no idea how long the meeting with Neels would take. But curiosity overcame caution and I read on. It was in Afrikaans, of course, which was a blow, but not an insurmountable one. I made an effort to learn the language once I realized I was in South Africa for the long haul, and I can read an Afrikaans newspaper quite comfortably. With a little care and imagination I could work out the gist of most of the memo.

It was addressed to A. Visser and F. Steenkamp from D. Havenga. As its title suggested, it was about Neels. And this is what it said — this is a paraphrasing rather than a translation, and from memory.

I think that’s the gist of it. There was some other stuff I couldn’t quite understand.

I leafed through the folder. A selection of press cuttings about Neels and then a single sheet of paper: a list of members, of this mysterious Laagerbond, presumably. I counted them; there were twenty-four. Daniel Havenga was there, and Andries Visser and a Frederick Steenkamp. I recognized some of the other names: generals and politicians, very senior politicians; another professor.

I didn’t know what the hell this Laagerbond was, but it had an extremely select membership. The list was dynamite. I couldn’t simply take it, because it would be missed. I considered briefly removing it and copying it down, but I thought it would be safer to sit in the car. That way, if the worst came to the worst and the meeting finished, I might have time to close up the briefcase and invent some story. So I rushed inside and grabbed a pen and this diary, and copied the names down in the back.

I had just about finished when Caroline interrupted me. I’m afraid I snapped at her, poor girl, and she ran off, but it scared me and I decided to put everything back in the briefcase, which I replaced under the raincoat on the back seat.

Then I set off up here and took the diary with me.

So what the hell is going on? Who are Impala and Eland and what is the Laagerbond? And why are they approaching Neels?