STRIKE PDF by Richard Rive

# STRIKE ## By Richard Rive **TWENTY-SEVENTH MAY.** Stay at home call by Action Council on eve of South African Republic. Pan African Congress in united front abroad backs demonstrations. Mandela's appeal. Coloreds, Indians back African action. Two men sweating at a duplicating machine. "Get crac...

# STRIKE ## By Richard Rive **TWENTY-SEVENTH MAY.** Stay at home call by Action Council on eve of South African Republic. Pan African Congress in united front abroad backs demonstrations. Mandela's appeal. Coloreds, Indians back African action. Two men sweating at a duplicating machine. "Get cracking! Pamphlets for Bernie." "Bernie's pamphlets coming up. What about Athlone?" "Athlone ready. Ten thousand coming up." "We need three extra workers at Athlone." "And one in Claremont. Jim's been arrested." "When they pick him up?" "Last night. Cops caught him putting up strike notices." "Where's he now?" "Claremont Police Station. Mervyn's trying for bail." "Hope he gets it." "Athlone coming up. Fifteen thousand for Cape Town Central." "Hell, that'll take some counting." "Gotta have it ready by tonight." "New shift working in Cape Town?" "No. Same five, plus eight students." "Hope all this is not for nothing. Think they'll come out?" "Who?" "The workers." "They should. But the colored workers are a problem." "Africans dependable?" "They should be after the last time." "You know, of course, P.A.C. will come out against us." "I don't think that's any problem." "Could be serious. They have strong support in the Cape." "Not quite our problem at the moment. We have fifteen thousand pamphlets to count." "Right. Let's get stuck into Cape Town Central." "Okay." There is something about Upper Long Street that is different from the lower half. It is clean and dirty, modern and old-fashioned, plastic and enamel, with just a touch of crinoline and sedan chair. It is moral and immoral. Its shops are respectable, its lanes notorious. It contains bank managers and clerks, whores and pimps. Mosques and churches. Englishmen, Afrikaners, coloreds, Moslems, Africans, Jews, gentiles, Germans, Greeks, Italians. It is South African and un-South African. The lower half is sophisticated and pretentious, the upper half vulgar and unpretentious. Boston Cloete and Lennie Damons turned into it from Wale Street. "We're nearing the bookshop now. It's not far to go. Only two blocks further," Boston said. "I hope so. Do you think he'll have it ready?" "Who?" "Katzen." "I suppose so. I don't know the man." "Apparently he's a strong sympathizer, that's why he's helping to distribute pamphlets." "Who's supposed to drop them?" "Joel." "This looks like the shop." Boston spoke with a slightly affected accent that made people look at him twice in conversation and wonder where he came from; it offended at first until one became used to it. His face was dark brown, with heavy bushy eyebrows and a firm jaw. His hair was black and wavy. In Durban he could pass for an Indian, only his accent gave him away. He was soberly dressed except for a brown suede jacket that he hoped gave him a Bohemian touch. Just sufficient to indicate that he wrote short stories. He was in his late twenties, and just starting to put on weight. He paused outside a dimly lit secondhand bookshop and compared the number on the door with that on the back of an envelope he took from his pocket. "Yeah, seems like it," Lennie agreed, peering over his shoulder. Lennie was as taciturn as Boston was voluble. He became cynical when aroused. Very dark in complexion, he was often embarrassed when mistaken for African. He didn't like being mistaken for African. His face was round and the skin smooth and healthy. He was an artist, fairly successful, but his portly shape belied the myth of a starving painter. His clothes were neat, but somewhat loud in contrast to his cautious personality. Many thought him arrogant, and he did nothing to counteract his reputation. "Well, let's go in!" Boston said. The bookshop was empty except for a bespectacled attendant sitting at a desk in the far corner and a University student leafing through Teach Yourself Calculus. It was darker inside after the brilliant glare of Long Street, and it took Boston some time to get accustomed to the light. The University student nodded to the attendant and left. Lennie wandered over to the Africana section. "May I help you?" "Well, yes," Boston began hesitantly. "Are you Mr. Katzen?" "Yes?" "I'm Cloete. Boston Cloete. I'm supposed to pick up a parcel left for me." "Oh, yes. It's at the back of the shop. Is that the parcel Joel left?" "That's it." "I'll get it for you. Won't be a minute." He disappeared into a back room. "So?" Lennie asked, raising his eyebrows. "He seems all right. Wonder if he knows Joel." "He must." "Or about the strike pamphlets." "Possibly." "Seems a sympathizer. There are few whites nowadays prepared to help." "I guess so." Mr. Katzen reappeared with a brown paper parcel tied with string. "Here we are. Thanks." "Thanks very much, Mr. Katzen," Boston said, putting it into his empty satchel. "Haven't I met you before?" the book dealer inquired. He seemed the talkative type. Boston felt he had to get away. He was still suspicious and self-conscious about most whites. "I don't think so." "Are you by any means a writer?" "Well, yes. I try to." "That's it. I remember your name. I read some of your stuff." "Yes?" "I cannot recollect where, but I remember the name distinctly. Boston Cloete. I liked your stories very much." Boston felt embarrassed. He found compliments gratifying but was never quite sure how to accept them. Lennie watched patiently. "This is Len Damons." "Oh, yes, the artist." "Yes, the artist," Lennie repeated. They shook hands and an uncomfortable pause followed. "Well, thanks again, Mr. Katzen, we must be off." "Good luck. And I hope everything works out all right." They left the dark interior for the bustle and brilliant sunshine outside. It was one of those bright Saturday mornings. "Wonder if he can be trusted," Boston said. "Wonder!" Lennie replied. Vast patrols next week in peninsula. Police chief's reassurance. Peninsula is prepared for possible strike. Undeclared state of emergency begins. The people demand a national convention. He found his own relations hardest to convince. Bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. Arguing, canvassing, discussing. "But what do you want us to do?" "Stay at home during the strike." "It's easy for you to say so. But what about us?" "We must learn to take risks." "Yes, but I have a wife and kids!" "There are wives and kids all over South Africa." "But this looks like every man for himself. I must look after my own children." "I wonder if your children will agree with you one day." "My wife's all right. Mary understands. I can keep the kids from school for the strike. But Joe and I must work." "And if you turn up and find all your colleagues stayed at home?" "Then I come back." "But you would have gone." "Look, it's too big a sacrifice to expect from a family man." "There are plenty of family men all over South Africa who are prepared to sacrifice." "That might very well be, but the fact remains that if I don't report for work they might kick me out." "So?" "So where does a colored man find another job?" "Where did you find the one you have now?" "Will you politicians get me another?" "Don't be silly." "My kids will starve." "So that their kids might eat one day." "I'm not thinking of one day. I'm thinking of my children. Not in ten years' time or next year, but next month." "I'm thinking of ten years' time." "All very well for you to speak so, but I must consider my position." "Think it over, but think fast. There isn't much time." "I don't think there's anything to think over." "Well, try at any rate." Long Street was crowded with office workers, last-minute shoppers, women with babies, tramps, newspaper vendors, slick urban types, won't-works, bums. Boston and Lennie made their way toward the central area, edging and dodging between people. The noon gun boomed from Signal Hill. Boston adjusted his wrist watch. "Must get to Castle Stationers before twelve-thirty," Lennie said. "Why on earth?" "I want to buy some drawing paper." "Can't it wait?" "No. I have to paint over the weekend." "Hell. Must you go now?" "It won't take a minute." "We must get these pamphlets to Alec by one-thirty." "We'll make it. There are plenty of buses." "They're usually crowded at peak hour." "We'll manage." They weaved their way through the crowd. Boston stopped to buy a *Times*. "What does it say?" "The country's jittery. The whole damn South Africa's jittery." "Strike fever?" "What a way to welcome their new Republic." Boston accelerated his pace. "You helping to distribute leaflets tonight?" "No." "Why the hell not?" Boston turned on him. "I'm a painter, not a pseudo-politician." "We're all in on this." "Are? I've not been invited." "That's not funny at all." "Didn't intend it as such." "Must you go through life as a cynic?" "If you prefer it that way." "Oh go to hell!" Boston always felt annoyed at Lennie when the conversation reached that stage. It had happened often before. He knew it was useless to continue in the same strain. He would start arguing, and the more excited he became, the more cynically Lennie would react. Finally it would sink to the level of personalities. He walked on moodily, refusing to continue the conversation. "Cigarette?" Lennie asked. "Peace offering?" "Come off it." "No, thanks." "Oh, well. Artists of the world unite." "Your world is so small." "I love it." "Comfortable, isn't it!" Boston sneered. "Very. But it doesn't cramp my style." "But then your style is extremely limited, isn't it?" "Terribly so. Confined to posterity." "What price arrogance!" They continued their silent walk. Long Street was becoming less crowded. Bus queues stretched along the pavement. "So?" Boston began, "meaning to paint masterpieces over the weekend?" "One can but try." "Except that one may succeed." "That would be a pity. How is your novel getting on? Your answer to Dreiser? The Great South African Tragedy?" "No time for writing these days. Too busy helping to organize a strike." "How noble!" "Yes, it's terribly hard work not being selfish." "Behold I take upon my shoulders all the burdens of South Africa." "Drop dead!" "You started it." "Did I?" They continued without saying a word till they reached Castle Stationers. "I'll wait outside," Boston said. "All right." "Now don't stay a helluva time." Boston leaned against a lamp post and lit a cigarette. The newspaper was full of strike news. He scanned the headlines. HUGE GAS EXPLOSION AT COALBROOK. HIGH HEELS PREVENT CITY MAYOR'S HIKE. THOUSANDS ARRESTED IN MASS POLICE RAIDS. They're jittery, he thought, damn jittery. He hoped that Lennie wouldn't be long. There was Alec to meet at one-thirty. Cape Town is ready to cope with strike. Every hope Republic will have peaceful birth. We, the people, are granite. Durban coloreds on the march. Transvaal coloreds up in arms. Two men, one a young University student, dropping leaflets in letter boxes. Eleven-thirty P.M. in District Six. "You take the next block. Be careful." "Right. How many pamphlets are left?" "Quite a few still in the car." "I'll take the first ten houses. No dogs, I hope." "Take my torch, but don't use it unless it's really necessary." "This is sure risky." "I know. Have a cigarette before you go." "Thanks." "First time you do it?" "Yes." "You'll learn." "I suppose so." "We still have six blocks to do." "What's 'e time now?" "Twenty-five to twelve." "Looks like a police van!" "Don't move. Keep still. No, it's okay." "Oh, well. We breathe again." "We must be careful. They're picking up too many of us." "I hear they picked up Bill and Marjory last night." "Yes, but Marjory's out. Bill's still in." "Believe they went to a house and the owner phoned the police." "Bloody swine!" "In either case, it's better not to knock. Just slip the leaflet under the door or in the letter box." "Then run." "Not really, unless it's necessary." "Okay. I'll tackle this row." "Meet you at the car. I'll take the next block." "All in order." "See you later." Boston finished his cigarette and stubbed it out impatiently against the lamp post. Damn, it was time Lennie came. He tried to do the crossword, 12 across. Discovered -a stout domestic penny. He gave it up. He glanced at his watch. Twelve-twenty and get to Alec by one-thirty. There was no use standing around. He might as well find Lennie inside and shake him up. He spotted him patiently standing at the crowded stationery counter while whites were being served first. His face was, as usual, impassive. Like an African Dan mask. One never knew what Lennie thought or felt unless he spoke. Boston tried to catch his eye, but Lennie stared stolidly ahead of him. Oh, well. Boston walked over to the bookshelves. His eyes ran over the titles. *Plays Pleasant*, *Pursuit of Love*, *The Floating Chinaman*. He removed the last-named from the shelf. What a giddy title. This is a book one must not read. Emphatically not. He replaced it. Somehow he had a strong feeling that he was being watched. He looked around self-consciously. The shop was crowded, and no one looked as if they had time to pay any attention to him. There were so many books one must not read. Sex. Detection. Space fiction. Somehow he could not shake off the feeling of being watched. But then he always felt self-conscious about his presence in a crowd. Lennie still waiting to be served, and Alec to meet at one-thirty. He removed *Modern American Short Stories* from the shelf. Hemingway, Katherine Porter, Erskine Caldwell. He glanced at the introduction. The Americans have a genius for the short story… "May I help you?" He looked up at the rather down-at-heel shop assistant in the pink smock. "May I help you?" "No, thanks. It's quite all right," he said, somewhat confused, "I'm waiting for someone. Just waiting." He half smiled at her. "Are you sure?" He detected a slight suspicion in her voice. "Yes, quite sure. Why?" "I only asked. Sorry." She turned around and walked away hurriedly. Boston didn't like it. He wished to God Lennie would get done. Should he have come in? Should he have waited outside? Why the hell should he? He walked over to the stationery counter. One can't even look at books in a shop without attracting attention. He wished Lennie would finish so that they could get the hell out of the place. Meet Alec at one-thirty. It was now twelve-thirty. Christ, was it a crime for a colored man to read books in South Africa? Couldn't one even remove books from a shelf? "Excuse me!" Was every nonwhite a potential thief, pimp, liar? "Excuse me!" The manager stared down at him. Weak blue eyes peering through strong lenses, in contrast to his huge size. The assistant fidgeted at his side. "Yes?" "Miss Smart claims she saw you putting a book into your satchel." The assistant nodded agreement. "Of all the bloody cheek!" "Please control your language. Do you mind?" "Mind what?" "Opening your satchel." "Yes, I do mind. I mind very much!" "May I ask what you have in there?" "Encyclopaedia Britannica and Van Riebeeck's Journals." "I'm not asking for your sarcasm." "And I'm not asking for your cheek!" "Will you please open your satchel?" "I'm waiting for a friend!" "That's not my business." "Neither are the contents of my satchel!" "Very well. If you insist on being difficult I shall have to call the police." Boston felt strong resentment, humiliation. Had he been a white man they would have taken him to the privacy of the manager's office. A crowd collected. Must he be subjected to all this? They could call the whole bloody police force. He would not open his satchel. "What's up?" Lennie inquired anxiously as he came over. "I'm accused of stealing books." "Hell! So?" "So they've gone to fetch the cops." "That's bad!" "What are we going to do?" "We stay right here!" "That could be nasty!" "Well, I'm not a bloody thief!" The crowd increased in size. The manager bustled his way through, leading a police sergeant and an ordinary constable. "What's your name?" the sergeant demanded. "Cloete. Boston Cloete." "Age?" "Twenty-seven years." "Address?" "Is that necessary?" "Address?" "Eight Church Street, Crawford." "Where do you work?" "I'm a writer." "A what?" "A writer!" The crowd giggled. The sergeant noted down the details in his book. "Well, then. Open your bag!" Boston reluctantly started undoing the straps. The constable grabbed it from him and removed the brown paper parcel. He handed it to the sergeant. "What's in here?" "The Communist Manifesto, which I wrapped up before I stole it from the children's section." The Sergeant glared at him, then commenced undoing the string. He removed a pamphlet and read it slowly. His eyes hardened. "Oh, I see," he said, "I'll give you Communist Manifesto! Come along with me!"