Too Late the Phalarope

  FICTION

  A NOVEL OF TERROR AND REMORSE BY

  THE AUTHOR OF

  CRY, THE BELOVED COUNTRY

  After violating his country’s ironclad law governing relationships between the races, a young white South African police lieutenant must struggle alone against the censure of an inflexible society, his family, and himself.

  “A great and enduring novel, written in exquisitely balanced prose.”

  — CHICAGO SUN-TIMES

  ALAN PATON was one of South Africa’s best known writers. Horn in Pietermaritzburg, Natal, South Africa, in 1903, he was the founder and for twelve years the national chairman of the South African Liberal Party. His works of fiction include the highly acclaimed Cry, the Beloved Country as well as Tales from a Troubled Land and Ah, But Your Land Is Beautiful. He died in 1992.

  Cover design by Timothy Hsu

  Cover illustration by Todd Leonardo

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  Books by Alan Paton

  Cry, the Beloved Country

  Ah, But Your Land Is Beautiful

  Too Late the Phalarope

  South Africa in Transition

  Tales from a Troubled Land

  Sponono

  South African Tragedy

  For You Departed

  Apartheid and the Archbishop

  Knocking on the Door

  Towards the Mountain

  Journey Continued

  SCRIBNER PAPERBACK FICTION

  SIMON & SCHUSTER INC.

  ROCKEFELLER CENTER

  1230 AVENUE OF THE AMERICAS

  NEW YORK, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES, AND INCIDENTS EITHER ARE PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TOACTUAL EVENTS OR LOCALES OR PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

  COPYRIGHT © 1953 ALAN PATON

  COPYRIGHT RENEWED © 1981 ALAN PATON

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED,

  INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION

  IN WHOLE OR IN PART IN ANY FORM.

  FIRST SCRIBNER PAPERBACK FICTION EDITION 1995

  SCRIBNER PAPERBACK FICTION AND DESIGN ARE TRADEMARKS OF MACMILLAN LIBRARY REFERENCE USA, INC., USED UNDER LICENSE BY SIMON & SCHUSTER, THE PUBLISHER OF THIS WORK.

  DESIGNED BY IRVING PERKINS ASSOCIATES

  MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  9 10 8

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG-IN-PUBLICATION DATA PATON, ALAN.

  TOO LATE THE PHALAROPE / ALAN PATON.—1 ST SCRIBNER PAPERBACK

  FICTION ED.

  P. CM.

  1. MAN-WOMAN RELATIONSHIPS—SOUTH AFRICA—FICTION.

  2. SOUTH AFRICA—RACE RELATIONS—FICTION. I. TITLE.

  PR9369.3.P37T66 1995

  823—DC20 95-42231 CIP

  ISBN-13: 978-0-684-81895-5

  ISBN-10: 0-684-81895-7

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4516-7687-7 (eBook)

  Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Chapter XXXIX

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Too Late the Phalarope

  PERHAPS I COULD HAVE SAVED HIM, with only a word, two words, out of my mouth. Perhaps I could have saved us all. But I never spoke them.

  Strange it is that one could run crying to the house of a man that one loved, to save him from danger, and that he could say to one, have I not told you not to come to this house? And strange it is that one should withdraw silent and shamed.

  For he spoke hard and bitter words to me, and shut the door of his soul on me, and I withdrew. But I should have hammered on it, I should have broken it down with my naked hands, I should have cried out there not ceasing, for behind it was a man in danger, the bravest and gentlest of them all. So I who came to save was made a supplicant; and because of the power he had over me, I held, in the strange words of the English, I held my peace.

  Yet I should have cried out my knowledge at him, it might have saved him, it might have saved us all. Then may the Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon me, that I held the peace that was no peace at all.

  And why did I not speak? For I was old and he was young, he was always a boy to me; but it was he that had the power.

  I knew him from the day he was born, for I was his father’s sister, and lived with them all in the house; and he and his father both had the power over me. His father was a giant of a man, and the boy grew as tall and broad as he; but the boy Pieter had something of the woman in him, and the father none at all until it was too late.

  The boy was gentle and eager to please, tender to women and children, even the black children on the farm. He was always reading books, but his father read only the One, and the newspapers. There were strange things in the boy’s mind that none of us knew or understood.

  I remember once he was reading some English book in the house, and outside our neighbours’ boys were shooting at three tins on a stump. His father was restless, and at last he said to the boy, is that the way to treat your friends? Or are you afraid to shoot? The boy got up and went out, and my brother got up too, stiffly because of his leg, and went to the window to watch. Then the boy took the gun from one of the neighbours’ boys, and fired three times at the tins, and shot them all down from the stump. Then he called all his friends, and they went off to some other place and pleasure. My brother came back from the window with the heavy face that forbade one to speak to him; one could not know if he were proud or pleased or angry. For the truth was he had fathered a strange son, who had all his father’s will and strength, and could outride and outshoot them all, yet had all the gentleness of a girl, and strange unusual thoughts in his mind, and a passion for books and learning, and a passion for the flowers of veld and kloof, so that he would bring them into the house and hold them in his hands, as though there were some deep meaning that he was finding in them. Had he been one or the other, I think his father would have understood him better, but he was both. And when you despised the one, the other would shoot three tins from the stump; and when you approved the one, the other would sit like a girl with a flower.

  He was always two men. The one was the soldier of the war, with all the English ribbons that his father hated; the lieutenant in the police, second only to the captain; the great rugby player, hero of thousands of boys and men. The other was the dark and silen
t man, hiding from all men his secret knowledge of himself, with that hardness and coldness that made men afraid of him, afraid even to speak to him. Yet I should have spoken, God forgive me that I did not speak, when I should have cried out not ceasing. For the secret knowledge came to me, and could have been used for his salvation, before it came to that other who used it for his destruction.

  And I write it all down here, the story of our destruction. And if I write it with fear, then it is not so great a fear, I being myself destroyed. And if I write it down, maybe it will cease to trouble my mind. And if I write it down, people may know that he was two men, and that one was brave and gentle; and they may know, when they judge and condemn, that this one struggled with himself in darkness and alone, calling on his God and on the Lord Jesus Christ to have mercy on him. Therefore when the other Pieter van Vlaanderen did not entreat, this one entreated; and when the other did not repent, this one repented; and because the other did not entreat nor repent, he was destroyed, and because there is no such magic, this one, the brave and gentle, was destroyed with him.

  I did not observe all these events. Yet because I am apart, being disfigured, and not like other women, yet because in my heart I am like any other woman, and because I am apart, so living apart and watching I have learned to know the meaning of unnoticed things, of a pulse that beats suddenly, and a glance that moves from here to there because it wishes to rest on some quite other place. And later, much was shown to me, not only by others, but in the things, lonely and terrible, that he wrote in his secret book, and when he was in prison. And God forgive me that I do not always understand His ways. Small strength, small weakness, that I understand; but why a man should have great strength and great weakness I do not understand. For the first calls him to honour, and the second to dishonour; and the first to fame, and the second to destruction. Yet it comes to me that it is not the judgment of God but that of men which is a stranger to compassion; for the Lord said, go thou and sin no more. And this may anger some, but I am beyond anger and loss, being, as the world sees it, myself destroyed.

  Ah, he was like his mother, tender and gentle. For though I loved her son, perhaps beyond all wisdom, yet she never denied me, nor did it ever cause a word between us, not even the word that is buried deep and never spoken. If ever a woman was all love, it was she, all love and care. Her smile was the smile of love and care, tender yet always anxious, most of all when she smiled at her son. The black moods and the coldness, the gentleness and the tenderness, the shooting and the riding and the books, the strange authority, she pondered them all in her heart, waiting the day that never came, when the hidden turbulence would die down, and the boy be whole and at peace. And my brother, if he pondered them, did so with the anger of a man cheated with a son, who was like a demon with a horse, and like a pale girl with a flower.

  All these things I will write down, yet it is not only that they trouble my mind; nor is it only that I may show that though one neither entreated nor repented, the other did both entreat and repent; nor is it only that men may have more knowledge of compassion. For I also remember the voice that came to John in Patmos, saying, what thou seest, write it in a book, and though I do not dare to claim a knowledge of this voice, yet do I dare to claim a knowledge of some voice. Therefore I put aside my fears, and am obedient.

  THE LIEUTENANT WAS IN PRETORIUS STREET, in the shadow of the tall gum trees, when he heard the sound of bare feet running. Pretorius Street is the street that goes to the black people’s location; there are no lights there because there are no lights in any streets in Venterspan. The only lights at all, except those in the houses, are in van Onselen Street, the tarred road that goes north through the grass country to Johannesburg, and south to Natal and Zululand, and these lights came from Abraham Kaplan’s hotel, The Royal, and Matthew Kaplan’s store, The Southern Transvaal Trading Company, and Labuschagne’s Service Station.

  When he heard the sound of the running he drew back into the shadow of the gums and the girl ran past him, so close that he could have touched her. Her breath came with a kind of moaning, but she was hardly past him when she stopped running, though he could still hear the sound of her breathing. Then he heard her moving also into the shadows of the trees, and brushing against the weeds of the vacant ground. Then he knew she had lain down, and was trying to control her gasping.

  He waited till her pursuer was abreast of him, then he suddenly moved out and caught him by the arm. The man tried to escape from him, but he let him struggle in silence. Neither spoke a word, they stood there locked, one calm, powerful, hardly moving, the other in terror. Then the captive stopped struggling, and stood with his chin on his breast, not resting on it, but thrust into it with all the force of fear and desperation. The lieutenant put his free hand round the man’s jaws, and as quietly as he had stopped and held him, he got his fingers under the chin. He forced the head up slowly, and knew by the feel of the skin that the man was only a boy.

  The boy’s eyes were tight closed, and the face was tight too, as though he would shut out any likeness of himself, or any fear. But the lieutenant knew that he was in fear, and took away his hand.

  — Who are you, he asked in Afrikaans.

  But the boy dropped his head again, and made no answer. The lieutenant lifted the head once more, so that it was turned up to his own, but the eyes would not open. Then he knew who it was.

  — Who are you, he asked in English.

  The boy’s face loosened, and there was a frightened and urgent appeal in it.

  — Dick.

  — Yes.

  — Open your eyes.

  The boy opened his eyes.

  — Dick, do you know me?

  — No.

  — Take your time.

  The boy looked at him again, and the lieutenant took away his hand. Then the terror came back to the boy’s face, and he dropped his head.

  — Do you know me?

  — Yes, lieutenant.

  — What were you doing?

  The boy made no answer, so the lieutenant spoke to him in a tone of authority.

  — Answer me.

  — I was walking along van Onselen Street …

  Then he would not go on.

  — Yes.

  — I saw someone running …

  — Yes.

  — He looked as though he had done something.

  — Done something?

  — Yes.

  — What?

  — You know, stolen or something.

  — So you chased him?

  — Yes.

  The lieutenant released his hold on the boy’s arm, and leant back against the tree. He took out his pipe and matches, and the boy looked round with apprehension.

  — You’d rather I didn’t smoke, Dick?

  But the boy did not answer. The lieutenant stood away from the tree.

  — Come with me, Dick.

  — Where to, lieutenant?

  — To my house.

  But the boy did not move.

  — All right, go on by yourself. Tell Mrs. van Vlaanderen I told you to come. Tell her I wanted to talk to you about rugby football.

  He looked at his watch.

  — Say I told you to come at eight-thirty.

  — Yes, lieutenant.

  When the boy had gone, the lieutenant walked on a few paces, and called out quietly to the girl.

  — You can come out now, he said.

  So the girl came out and stood before him submissively.

  — Who are you?

  — Stephanie, baas.

  And the lieutenant said, I did not recognize you, Stephanie.

  For Stephanie was well-known to the police and the courts. She was twenty-three, or twenty-five perhaps, and her father and her mother were unknown, and there was a good deal of lightness in her colour. But she lived in the black people’s location with the old woman Esther, who was said to be more than a hundred years old. Some said that Esther was a child when our white people first came trekking
into the grass country, and it was true that she herself told of it, but I think it was only an old woman’s vanity. Stephanie looked after her, and kept her alive by brewing and selling liquor, which is against the law, and brought her often into the courts. She was a strange creature, this girl Stephanie, with a secret embarrassed smile that was the mark of her strangeness. She took her sentences smiling and frowning, and would go smiling and frowning out of the court to the prison, and would come out from the prison smiling and frowning, and make more liquor, and go back smiling and frowning to the court. She had a child whose father was unknown, and she kept it at some place in the reserve, in Maduna’s country. And she had a queer look of innocence also, though she was no stranger to those things which are supposed to put an end to innocence.

  — Why did you run, Stephanie?

  — I do not want trouble, she said.

  — What did he do?

  — Baas, he asked me my name.

  And you must know that in our country one does not go into a darkened street, and ask a black girl for her name.

  — Who was it, Stephanie?

  — I know, she said.

  — You know?

  — I know well, she said.

  — What will you do?

  — What should I do, she said.

  — You know who I am?

  — Baas, I know well.

  The lieutenant stood there and considered it.

  — This would bring great trouble for the man, he said.

  — Yes, baas.

  — You know his mother?

  — I know her well.

  — It would kill her.

  She made a noise of assent and sympathy, but he knew he was talking of things outside her world, for she had been often enough to prison and no one had died of it.

  — I can believe it, she said obediently.

  — Go home, then, Stephanie.

  — Good night, baas.

  So there she went, with knowledge to destroy a man. He thought he had perhaps been foolish. Perhaps he should have ordered her to keep her mouth shut, or he would make trouble for her. But the truth is that it was not in him to do such a thing.