It was the last time we really lived together. He came back to Johannesburg and eventually we were divorced and he would disappear for months and turn up again. There was a rumour that he had slipped out of the country illegally and got in again. I didn’t know whom he spent his time with, though I had heard through our old Indian friend Solly that he had associated himself for a while with people who wanted to organize a new underground white revolutionary group.
Then the telephone rang at eleven o’clock at night and he said, ‘Liz? That you Liz? When the papers come out — d’you get the morning paper? There may be something big… Don’t forget.’
Nobody knows this. Nobody at all. I didn’t even tell the lawyers. I have never told Graham. It’s all that’s left of Max and me; all there is still between us. That voice, wild and quiet, over the telephone.
The water covers everything, soon no bubbles rise.
There were possibilities, but under what stone? Under what stone?
Max’s bomb, described in court as being made of a tin filled with a mixture of sulphur, saltpetre and charcoal, was found before it exploded and he was arrested within twenty-four hours. Others were more or less successful and it all began again, and worse than it had ever been before: raids, arrests, detention without trial. The white people who were kind to their pets and servants were shocked at bombs and bloodshed, just as they had been shocked, in 1960, when the police fired on the men, women and children outside the Sharpeville pass office. They can’t stand the sight of blood; and again gave, to those who have no vote, the humane advice that the decent way to bring about change is by constitutional means. The liberal-minded whites whose protests, petitions and outspokenness have achieved nothing remarked the inefficiency of the terrorists and the wasteful senselessness of their attempts. You cannot hope to unseat the great alabaster backside with a tin-pot bomb. Why risk your life? The madness of the brave is the wisdom of life. I didn’t understand, till then. Madness, God, yes, it was; but why should the brave ones among us be forced to be mad?
Some fled the country, some were held solitary in their cells and, refusing to speak, were kept on their feet under interrogation until they collapsed. Some did speak. Max was tried and sentenced to five years imprisonment but he was called as a State witness after serving fifteen months, and he spoke. He was beaten when he was first arrested, that we know, but what else he was confronted with later, what else they showed him in himself, we do not know — but he spoke. He spoke of Solly and Eve King and the man who was arrested with him, he spoke of William Xaba and other friends with whom we had lived and worked for years.
He is dead now. He didn’t die for them — the people, but perhaps he did more than that. In his attempts to love he lost even his self-respect, in betrayal. He risked everything for them and lost everything. He gave his life in every way there is; and going down to the bed of the sea is the last.
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
There’s not much point in spending a long time with the old lady, my grandmother. As her memory’s so bad, it doesn’t make any difference whether you stay half an hour or two hours; so long as she sees you. She looks up from her indifference, which is the past, and in the daze of the present she finds a face — that’s about all. I made a cup of coffee to wake myself up and then drove across the suburbs to the Home. It was intermission at the matinees; children thronged the cinema entrances pushing each other about and eating ice cream in the sun. At a main intersection a down-at-heel white family hawked hanks of coloured spun sugar along the line of cars. People ran about on tennis courts I passed, and clustered on the bowling greens. The empty red beer cartons were thick on every open space. If I were dumped back in it from eternity I should know at once that it was Saturday afternoon. It was in people’s faces, the pleasure of the weekend, like the sweets clutched in children’s hands.
The Home is an old house whose original iron-roofed colonial-Victorian has been knocked out and added on to. The entrance has steel and glass doors and tropical plants under concealed lighting, but on the first-floor landing there is a black wooden bear of the kind once designed to hold umbrellas in the crooks of his arms, and there are other ornately carved survivals of the objects with which the new-rich, from Europe, of seventy years ago announced the change of status from successful gold prospector to mining magnate. There is even a stained-glass window with the petals of cough-drop coloured, art nouveau irises outlined in thick lead.
I’ve always felt that the place has a more human feel than any modern building designed as an institution, but when my grandmother first went there and was still able to care, she complained that it was ugly and old-fashioned. She loves plastics — artificial flowers, ‘simulated’ silk, synthetic marble, fake leather. There was no sense of the day of the week, inside; the same warm air, faintly lit with methylated spirits, that comes back to me each visit as something I forget entirely in-between. No seasons, either. Spring or winter, it feels the same. The corridors are covered with something that deadens footfalls and you pass the wide-open doors of wards where not all the patients are in bed, or old, either — it is a home for the chronically sick as well as the aged. I’ve got to know some of the shapes even before I recognize the faces — because of the particular position which a malady will force someone to adopt in bed or chair. Among the very small white-haired old ladies, the dying diabetic, taking so long to die, was still there, humped on her side, smoking. She has the reckless drinker’s face that diabetics sometimes have, and looks as if she had once been good-looking — like a finished whore. But the distinguishing marks of social caste are often distorted by illness; the Home is not cheap and it is unlikely that she belongs to anything other than the respectable middle class. The monster with the enormous belly was sitting on a chair with her legs splayed out, like a dead frog swollen on a pond. I have never known what is the matter with her.
Outside my grandmother’s little room a bouquet stood in a vase on the floor. Anemones, freesias and snowdrops, exactly like mine.
I opened the door softly and stood a moment. She was sitting in a chair with a mouth drawn in lipstick on her face, and her hair, that she had always kept short and tinted and curled, pulled back into a skimpy knot. They dress her every day and they had even put on her triple pearl choker and huge button earrings. Her eyes flew open and in the light that came from behind me I saw terror expand her face and the red-drawn outline fall agape.
‘Who is that!’ she called out in horror.
‘Don’t be silly, now, it’s Elisabeth, your grandchild —’ The nurse came across the room between us, but I said, ‘Let her see me properly,’ and came over beside her where the light from the window was on me, and kissed her, and said, ‘Here I am, I didn’t want to miss your birthday.’ She took the kiss and then drew back, still alarmed, and looked at me, searching. ‘It’s Elisabeth, isn’t it, Elisabeth my darling —’ and though the Afrikaans nurse burst in with assurances and cheerful laughter, took no notice. She motioned me to her and kissed me again. Then her hand went up to her mouth and pressed it and she said angrily, to the air, ‘Why haven’t I got my teeth in, if Elisabeth is here. Where are my teeth?’
‘Well, your gums was sore this morning, grannie, don’t you remember? You didn’t want to put it in. Wait, I’ll bring it, I first want to put some of that stuff on —’