Nadine Gordimer - Burger's Daughter

— Kleintjie, you are not an easy problem… — he grinned at her sweetly — ay? It’s not just a matter of who will help…you know that…I don’t have to tell you…the best will in the world—

— I’m prepared to try. I ask you because no one could ever doubt you — I mean, I can’t do you any harm.—

— Look — but you mustn’t overestimate what I am…my position. I don’t just whisper in the Prime Minister’s ear…and if I did, if I could…he is a man of principle, nobody…not his enemies deny that. If you mean what you say — you look as if you always mean what you say?—

— I want to go out.—

— Believe me, I understand — don’t question it, good god, I’ve been away, lived abroad myself. It’s necessary, it tells you where your home is, it convinces you — you’ll see.—

— I hope I’ll get a chance to. — They laughed, the tempo quickened between them, in spite of him.

— You’ll see — I hope. What we are doing here may frighten the world, but what is bold and marvellous is always a little terrible to some. Your father had the same reaction to his ideas, nè…? Of course — we who are most diametrically opposed understand each other best! If things had been different — well… If your father had lived longer, I think he would have overcome his despair — you see, I think his living as a Communist was an expression of despair. He didn’t believe his people could solve the problem of their historical situation. So he turned to the notion of the historically immutable solution…yes, he didn’t trust us: his own people; himself…that’s how I see it. But if he had lived a bit longer — I honestly believe a man of his quality — a great man—

Brandt Vermeulen placed the pause for their mutual consideration.

— a man like Lionel Burger, he would have had to have been prepared to acknowledge a discovery: we’ve gone further… I’m convinced. I’ve often thought — I’ve wanted to talk to you about this, but I didn’t really know you. The dynamic of the Afrikaner — it is not expended, as the social dynamic is in Europe and possibly even America. It’s taken many forms since the era of crude conquest, many. Your father’s was one. I hear someone’s writing a book about him… I’ve often thought I’m the one to…I’d like to develop this idea of his having been deflected from his destiny, and why.—

She kept the considering face of one who respects a scholarly approach. Of course, sentiment was too shallow an emotion for someone of her background.

— It’s terrible…he died much too soon. But in another sense (he found a way to phrase it without sounding callous) you see, it’s not long enough ago. You follow? Though to you — He held a deep breath, leaning forward.

— Another life. — She didn’t explain; she was putting the context of her father aside from herself, or in a way so direct Brandt Vermeulen couldn’t credit it, made the demand for this: I want to know somewhere else.

— Oh yes…one doesn’t live in the past — the present is too exciting — well, I mean, alarming, but still! — he did not need to spell out Angola, Moçambique, Rhodesia, Namibia, the border wars their country was fighting, in which he and she might not be on the same side — And that’s what makes the whole thing — his hand circled her attention, her face, existence, in the air with the gesture of his red ball-point singling out paragraphs of newsprint. — You simply want to go away? On a holiday?—

— People do every day.—

— On a holiday.—

— Yes.—

— Like anyone else—

He punctuated with nods and smiles, as if she were a little girl giving the right answers.

— If you are just like anyone else…just supposing one were to manage some sort of representations on your behalf, just suppose — where to begin — it’s quite a thing to expect you to be regarded like anyone else?—

— I realize that.—

— You do. — Fingernails very clean, from swimming; he felt with them along the grainy line that crevassed the rosy cushion of his chin. — You do.—

She did not shy away.

He protected himself, for the time being, flattering himself by including her in the bond of not taking oneself too seriously, suddenly flippant. — You’ll have to be satisfied with a jar of Mina’s pickled pumpkin — I don’t know what I can do, if anything — if anything—

— Whatever you offer.—

— It’s not what I offer — it’s what’ll be asked, my girl? — He laughed, they laughed, his hand steadied her shoulder.

No doubt she was reinvestigated, if that was what was meant. At least Brandt Vermeulen got as far as getting his close friend at the Ministry of the Interior to consent to considering an investigation, instead of dismissing the whole possibility out-of-hand. That was an achievement in itself; she gathered it had been accomplished, on subsequent visits to his secluded and charming house whose existence one would not have dreamt of when one knew only the way to court and to prison. He was always apparently pleased to see her; or maintained, in his way, a tradition of hospitality that would be upheld whatever the circumstances. — Nothing encouraging to tell you — I must say at the outset — you’ll have to be patience on a monument! — (They continued to speak in Afrikaans together, but the tag came in English.) They never discussed anything over the telephone, each for his own reasons observing the cautions of their country. She came in March and April to hear this advice in his presence; it was possible, even likely, that somewhere in the room — behind one of the pictures in his collection, or in the great jars of ‘arrangements’ his garden provided — was another arrangement that recorded the conversation as part of the investigation. She would have expected this; out of fairness to him, to safeguard his position. Not only did he use her name often, she also used his, calling him Brandt, naming easily and openly, for any monitoring presence, the power she was addressing herself to. He told her the amusing story of how he had come to acquire the plastic torso with the anatomical novelties — as he termed them, again resorting to English — and he returned again and again to the subject of her father’s biography. She told him about the young man who was writing it, or at least going about collecting material for it, and what the approach was. They agreed the result wasn’t likely to be up to much; an Englishman — Brandt Vermeulen summed up — how could an Englishman expect to fathom Lionel Burger. She never remembered to bring her swimming-costume, although late in April it was still warm enough on one occasion for her (let in at the front door and led to the garden by Mina) to find him in the pool, throwing a ball to a tiny excited black boy paddling around in an old tyre-tube. — Ag, no — you haven’t seen my little kaffertjie yet? — Come out to greet her, he spoke affectionately, the child splashing and shouting too much to overhear. It was his Mina’s grandson, spending the school holidays pampered in the yard.

Only in May did the other meaning in his remark — It’s what’ll be asked, my girl? — become operative.

— Of course, I imagine the last thing you’ll feel like is getting together with the whole clutch of exiles. In London and so on. — Brandt Vermeulen pulled a respectfully bored face? — The old crowd.—

Rosa Burger smiled slowly; merely tolerantly, he decided, and he went on. — No, of course not. A holiday. That’s what I’ve assured… — And then he looked at her for a moment not to be gone back on. She said nothing but the corners of her soft mouth were compressed and her chin jutted as she took the compact steadily. — Good. And while we’re about it — maybe the papers overseas will sniff you out.—