The New Collected Short Stories Read online

  ‘You should stand for Parliament,’ a friend told him. ‘The country needs men who believe in the South African way of life, and aren’t willing to give in to a bunch of ignorant foreigners, most of whom have never even visited the country.’

  To begin with, Stoffel didn’t take such suggestions seriously. But then the National Party’s Chairman flew to Cape Town especially to see him.

  ‘The Political Committee were hoping you would allow your name to go forward as a prospective candidate at the next general election,’ he told Stoffel.

  Stoffel promised he would consider the idea, but explained that he would need to speak to his wife and fellow board members at the bank before he could come to a decision. To his surprise, they all encouraged him to take up the offer. ‘After all, you are a national figure, universally popular, and no one can be in any doubt about your attitude to apartheid.’ A week later, Stoffel phoned the National Party Chairman to say that he would be honoured to stand as a candidate.

  When he was selected to fight the safe seat of Noordhoek, he ended his speech to the adoption committee with the words, ‘I’ll go to my grave knowing apartheid must be right, for blacks as well as for whites.’ He received a standing ovation.

  That all changed on 18 August 1989.

  Stoffel left the bank a few minutes early that evening, because he was due to address a meeting at his local town hall. The election was now only weeks away, and the opinion polls were indicating that he was certain to become the Member for the Noordhoek constituency.

  As he stepped out of the lift he bumped into Martinus de Jong, the bank’s General Manager. ‘Another half-day, Stoffel?’ he asked with a grin.

  ‘Hardly. I’m off to address a meeting in the constituency, Martinus.’

  ‘Quite right, old fellow,’ de Jong replied. ‘And don’t leave them in any doubt that no one can afford to waste their vote this time – that is, if they don’t want this country to end up being run by the blacks. By the way,’ he added, ‘we don’t need assisted places for blacks at universities either. If we allow a bunch of students in England to dictate the bank’s policy, we’ll end up with some black wanting my job.’

  ‘Yes, I read the memo from London. They’re acting like a herd of ostriches. Must dash, Martinus, or I’ll be late for my meeting.’

  ‘Yes, sorry to have held you up, old fellow.’

  Stoffel checked his watch and ran down the ramp to the carpark. When he joined the traffic in Rhodes Street, it quickly became clear that he had not managed to avoid the bumper-to-bumper exodus of people heading out of town for the weekend.

  Once he had passed the city limits, he moved quickly into top gear. It was only fifteen miles to Noordhoek, although the terrain was steep and the road winding. But as Stoffel knew every inch of the journey, he was usually parked outside his front door in under half an hour.

  He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. With luck, he would still be home with enough time to shower and change before he had to head off for the meeting.

  As he swung south onto the road which would take him up into the hills, Stoffel pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator, nipping in and out to overtake slow-moving lorries and cars that weren’t as familiar with the road as he was. He scowled as he shot past a black driver who was struggling up the hill in a clapped-out old van that shouldn’t have been allowed on the road.

  Stoffel accelerated round the next bend to see a lorry ahead of him. He knew there was a long, straight section of road before he would encounter another bend, so he had easily enough time to overtake. He put his foot down and pulled out to overtake, surprised to discover how fast the lorry was travelling.

  When he was about a hundred yards from the next bend, a car appeared around the corner. Stoffel had to make an instant decision. Should he slam his foot on the brake, or on the accelerator? He pressed his foot hard down until the accelerator was touching the floor, assuming the other fellow would surely brake. He eased ahead of the lorry, and the moment he had overtaken it, he swung in as quickly as he could, but still he couldn’t avoid clipping the mudguard of the oncoming car. For an instant he saw the terrified eyes of the other driver, who had slammed on his brakes, but the steep gradient didn’t help him. Stoffel’s car rammed into the safety barrier before bouncing back onto the other side of the road, eventually coming to a halt in a clump of trees.

  That was the last thing he remembered, before he regained consciousness five weeks later.

  Stoffel looked up to find Inga standing at his bedside. When she saw his eyes open, she grasped his hand and then rushed out of the room to call for a doctor.

  The next time he woke they were both standing by his bedside, but it was another week before the surgeon was able to tell him what had happened following the crash.

  Stoffel listened in horrified silence when he learned that the other driver had died of head injuries soon after arriving at the hospital.

  ‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ was all Inga said.

  ‘You certainly are,’ said the surgeon, ‘because only moments after the other driver died, your heart also stopped beating. It was just your luck that a suitable donor was in the next operating theatre.’

  ‘Not the driver of the other car?’ said Stoffel.

  The surgeon nodded.

  ‘But . . . wasn’t he black?’ asked Stoffel in disbelief.

  ‘Yes, he was,’ confirmed the surgeon. ‘And it may come as a surprise to you, Mr van den Berg, that your body doesn’t realise that. Just be thankful that his wife agreed to the transplant. If I recall her words’ – he paused – ‘she said, “I can’t see the point in both of them dying.” Thanks to her, we were able to save your life, Mr van den Berg.’ He hesitated and pursed his lips, then said quietly, ‘But I’m sorry to have to tell you that your other internal injuries were so severe that despite the success of the heart transplant, the prognosis is not at all good.’

  Stoffel didn’t speak for some time, but eventually asked, ‘How long do I have?’

  ‘Three, possibly four years,’ replied the surgeon. ‘But only if you take it easy.’

  Stoffel fell into a deep sleep.

  It was another six weeks before Stoffel left the hospital, and even then Inga insisted on a long period of convalescence. Several friends came to visit him at home, including Martinus de Jong, who assured him that his job at the bank would be waiting for him just as soon as he had fully recovered.

  ‘I shall not be returning to the bank,’ Stoffel said quietly. ‘You will be receiving my resignation in the next few days.’

  ‘But why?’ asked de Jong. ‘I can assure you . . .’ Stoffel waved his hand. ‘It’s kind of you, Martinus, but I have other plans.’

  The moment the doctor said Stoffel could leave the house, he asked Inga to drive him to Crossroads, so he could visit the widow of the man he had killed.

  The tall, fair-haired white couple walked among the shacks of Crossroads, watched by sullen, resigned eyes. When they reached the little hovel where they had been told the driver’s wife lived, they stopped.

  Stoffel would have knocked on the door if there had been one. He peered through the gap and into the darkness to see a young woman with a baby in her arms, cowering in the far corner.

  ‘My name is Stoffel van den Berg,’ he told her. ‘I have come to say how sorry I am to have been the cause of your husband’s death.’

  ‘Thank you, master,’ she replied. ‘No need to visit me.’

  As there wasn’t anything to sit on, Stoffel lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs.

  ‘I also wanted to thank you for giving me the chance to live.’

  ‘Thank you, master.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you and your child would like to come and live with us?’

  ‘No, thank you, master.’

  ‘Is there nothing I can do?’ asked Stoffel helplessly.

  ‘Nothing, thank you, master.’

  Stoffe