“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 believe that the time has come for the Laagerbond to approach Cornelius van Zyl. As I have been saying for a while he is becoming increasingly disillusioned with the ANC and the threat of a violent revolution. As we expected, the death of his brother has had a significant impact. For most of his adult life van Zyl has focused on what he perceives as the need to undermine the apartheid state without thinking through the consequences that this will have for the Afrikaner nation. Now he realizes what the future holds for his people if the ANC get their way. These doubts are beginning to affect his actions. In particular his decision to close the Cape Daily Mail has far-reaching political consequences that van Zyl is fully aware of despite his insistence that it is economically motivated.
Impala confirms this. She says that van Zyl’s disillusionment runs deep. His relationship with his wife has deteriorated to the point where they barely speak. She confirms my impression that van Zyl’s Afrikaner heritage is very important to him and that he feels he has neglected it over the last thirty years. He is not, and never will be, a supporter of apartheid, but he can be recruited as a supporter of the Afrikaner nation... (There was some other stuff about Impala but my Afrikaans wasn’t quite up to deciphering it.)
All this is confirmed by Eland.
Van Zyl is in a unique position. He is the only Afrikaner who has influence on the world’s media. He is a well-respected businessman and newspaper owner who has support in the United States as well as here. He is also a man of honor, and in the role we envisage for him in Operation Drommedaris I would prefer a man motivated by honor and history than one purely in it for the money.
As we have discussed before, there were many reasons why Muldergate was a disaster and very few, if any, apply now. But I firmly believe that Cornelius van Zyl is of a much higher caliber than any of the individuals that were backed then.
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.