XXII

November becomes December. One unpleasant day, I suddenly feel an urge to find my wedding ring. It had been months since I put it away somewhere. I suddenly start to panic. I have the strangest compulsive feeling that if I do not find and put my wedding ring on my finger immediately, all will be lost. I spend half an hour rummaging through everything, dozens of boxes. Finally I find it and place it on my finger for few moments. We had designed our rings together, and had them made especially for us. They are unique and 100% original. I feel a bit silly at this strange urge, and put the ring away safely. Without thinking further on it, I immediately log on to the internet and the response to my rejection of the divorce arrives by e-mail: She tells me:

Go away. You have ruined my life. I hate you. I wish I had never met you. I don’t know where you get half of this crap from. You are psychotic. You are the only one to blame for the breakdown of the marriage, you already had your three warnings. You brought this on yourself.

Three warnings? Goodness, how many times has she lied to me and broken countless promises that have ended up costing me years of my life?

But its so easy to slip back into blaming her. That is what he wants. That is what he has been trying to do all along. But the ring? It seems more than coincidence that I had the urge to be reminded of how happy we both were when planning our wedding rings together. She still cannot know about the murder. Each day I had gone over all the details again and again. Racking my brain for some clue to his innocence. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. She most likely will never love me again for what I have said, and yet, I feel I did the right thing. I may be wrong. I may end up looking like a fool. But I would rather look like a fool than foolishly ignore what every fibre in my body is telling me: My father-in-law has murdered at least three people.

You brought this on yourself.

Perhaps this is the clue that she understands the situation? It is what I told him when I turned him in. Its what his father had told him when the uncle had turned him in for the tax. Is this a reminder that she actually found truth in that comment. I had emailed it to him, not her. Yet here she was repeating it back to me. At least I am consoled that she can only repeat what he said. And he just repeats what I said. And I had repeated what her grandfather had said. Dizzy.

I had been thinking and meditating on the issue for weeks, almost all day, certainly every day. I had talked about it to many people. The longer I explain in calm and detail, the more people believe me. However, the ordinary people need much more convincing than the lawyers and sheriffs and such. I am truly impressed by the level of professional ethic displayed by many South Africans in positions of authority. Even in the short time I was in New Zealand the positive changes in the attitude of most South Africans is heart-warming. I had always had a cynical opinion of such people in the past. It was a cynical past.

But that was then, the legacy of the old South Africa was not only apartheid. That was just one wicked branch of the corrupt tree. Oppression was universal. If the military and police had been commanded with their own human rights at heart, they would not have been oppressive. And most of the oppressors had left South Africa since the African National Congress took over government. Had he been running from what he had done in the army and police? He was a medic, in an oppressive state renowned for its biological weapons and blatant unashmed cruelty.

If he had murdered his father, it would have been done at a distance, either poison or anthrax or some more common biological weapon. I return to www.google.com and search for topics relating to death from an enlarged heart. There are many.

I need more. I think and ponder all the past five years. What other deaths had happened in the family? With a chill that leaves me in tears for another two days, I remember this conversation while mentioning the inheritance she was supposed to have recieved from him in New Zealand :

I had been thinking to myself at the time, surely there are other members in the family who are involved in the inheritance, who may have a say in where it is? So I say to her: “What became of old Auntie Anne?” She had also lived on or near Charles’ property.

Her answer: “Oh. She just died.”

“When?”

“Oh, Whenever… whatever… people just die.”

That makes four now. At least. In the floods of tears that leave me bed-ridden for two days, I wonder to myself: Why had I not realised then? But the answer is simple. We don’t want to make these realisations. We would always rather think positive and enjoy the good things in life. It easy to just avoid the shit. Ignore it. Don’t think too much. And her sister or some near relative had died recently too? God. How many has he killed? No wonder he could do in his own parents without feeling, without anyone noticing. No wonder there was never a photo of the grandparents in New Zealand or Durban. No wonder they were never even mentioned.

The only photo of their direct family on display was of him and her, together. At the wedding.

In fact the only members of her family, her flesh and blood family, that were at the wedding, were him and her. I question my family. He had not spoken to anyone at the whole wedding from my family. Only his next door neighbours were invited by him. Not one of his four brothers, two sisters, or any of their family or her cousins had even been invited. Except the grandparents who could not make it. She was allowed to invite them, because it was just a gesture. She knew they could not come. He tried to tell her not to invite them anyway. Tried just a little bit of spite. But she gave them their invites. We designed and printed them all ourselves.

I find an old photo of him in his red beret in the boxes. The photo is a profile. It looks like half of his face may be burned or scrunched up. The side not facing the camera. But you can just see it still. He does not look in good shape, either way.

My uncle bullied me a bit because he had a hot iron held to his head in the army.

Blame the little uncle. Blame the one who can’t fight back. The same way I had been blaming her for our problems. Instead of confronting him. We are all cowards. I cannot even hate him anymore. But I have to put things right. I at least have to try. He was a medic. He went in with the right idea. To help heal people. She used to have a nurses outfit as a child, she told me. I’m a psychologist. We are all healers.

Somewhere the medic had become the killer. The apartheid South African Defence force was notorious for its dirty tricks. It must be normal to become callous to death when you see it everyday. When you have to pack your buddies into body bags. I had known more than one army medic. None of them were whole on the inside. Who patches up the medic, when his soul becomes crippled?

My birthday comes and goes without her. I always hated birthdays. They just always somehow suck. She knew this. But now, the pain just makes me more certain that the right thing must be done, that there is no way I can just “put it all behind me” like everyone is saying. No way. No chance. No No No!

I had told her earlier, somewhere in the midst of her silent rejection, that I never go numb. With me, its only love and war. And this, is still love. And it can still cut a whole lot deeper.