The Forgiven Page #4

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For 40 years,

I've been in the wilderness.

Now, it's finally come to pass.

There was this one

neutralization

and I was standing there

on this stoep

covered in kaffir brain,

and blood, and sh*t.

My old head was throbbing

like babelaas...

and after the killings,

we set a fire.

And I could hear this voice

inside my head

as clear as you're

hearing me now,

telling me I had no dreams,

no passion, no hope.

"What is life without

them things?" it asked me.

"I have passion, I have dreams."

I remember shouting back.

And all the boys were there,

Francois, Hansie,

all the Hacksaw boys,

they were watching me

through the flames.

The whole time that voice,

"What dreams, what dreams?"

I had dreams!

I had dreams once, I did.

But you f***ing people,

you stole them from me.

How... How old...

were you when you

joined the AWB?

What the f*** is that

got to do with anything?

How old?

Seventeen.

And what has it got

you, Mr. Blomfeld,

33 years of hate?

F*** you.

It's too much for you, isn't it?

The Commission?

That's plain enough.

I didn't come here

to discuss The Commission.

You can't forgive

the likes of me.

Breaking your faith,

isn't it, eh?

I have watched the light

of life flicker out and die

behind the eyes of so many

I have done.

That is cock-stiffening,

I can tell you.

I have ministered to the dying,

and I'm no stranger to death.

First, when the knife goes in,

they just don't believe it.

They are in shock.

Then is coming acceptance.

Oh, yeah.

They are grateful, aren't they?

Sometimes I feel I can almost

hear them whispering,

"Thank you,

thank you."

So don't you come in here

and pontificate,

you self-righteous doff.

TRC has broken you inside,

made the sham of your faith.

I'm right, aren't I?

You can't forgive the beasts

that you confront every day.

That cancer is eating you alive.

You are so finished, boy.

Don't you call me "boy"

again, Blomfeld.

Or what?

Under your mask...

you're riddled

with self-loathing.

Easier to...

to be angry at the world

than to be angry at yourself.

I understand.

When they arrested you,

you had this on you.

You hung onto it

for 40 years.

Why?

Visit's over.

What happened?

And don't hide behind

Aristotle, or Plato, or Milton.

You're right,

you're right.

I have to stare in the mirror

at myself every day,

and so do you.

And you're not... you're not...

you're not a fallen angel

and I'm not God.

We're both just men.

One question...

what do you know

about this Operation Hacksaw?

I said, visit's over, kaffir.

You are locked inside

two prisons, Blomfeld.

One is made of concrete

and barbed wire.

The other one

is worse

because it's there in your head.

"The mind in its own place,

and in itself,

can make a heaven of hell,

or a hell of heaven."

That's Milton.

So, if you're going to read him,

don't cherry-pick.

You must read him properly.

What the f*** is that?

That is your way out of prison.

That could be a way out

of your personal hell.

Come out, Blomfeld.

Come out.

Don't stay there.

God is waiting for you.

Come out.

He quoted Milton at me.

I lost my temper.

But he knows about Hacksaw,

and whatever Hacksaw is,

it is linked to the death

of Mpho Morobe.

Blomfeld.

I'm thinking I go get me a beer

when the shift is done.

Maybe a sweet piece

of hundred-rand ass.

Come on, bru,

what the f*** is it between

you and that kaffir?

Thinking you can sell out

and save your neck

like the other braks?

What the kaffir gets

from me is medicine

I choose to give him,

you f***ing poes.

And understand this,

nobody uses the word

informer about me.

F*** off, Francois.

I find it impossible to believe,

President de Klerk,

that the involvement

of at least one cabinet minister

and two police commissioners,

in human rights violations

represents

nothing more than aberrations

by mavericks,

but many state-sponsored

killings

have been known to happen

and the state has brought

no senior ministers to justice.

What are you up to,

you f***ing kaffir?

Ha! No way,

my weaselly little kaffir.

No way is that sh*t

going to work.

Hello, Father.

Aunty got very sick.

Now I don't know what to do.

What is antimony, father?

Antimony, some such thing,

doctors said.

It's a poison, I'm afraid,

it's a poison.

You must not give up.

What can you do?

One man alone.

I have a lead.

I'm hopeful about it.

So, please,

don't give up hope

and we will not give up on you.

I did wrong.

You made a little mistake,

a little one.

Sorry, Your Grace,

there is nothing I can do,

really.

If your name isn't on here,

you don't go in,

no matter who you are.

This is crazy.

Get me the governor.

Governor, it's imperative

that I see Mr. Blomfeld.

Your Grace,

I have been overruled

by the Department

of Correctional Services

and there is simply nothing

I can do about it.

I see.

Good day, Your Grace.

Good day.

Wasted journey, huh?

No,

I got to see you.

Good day.

Howard, we need to contact

the Department of Correctional

Services immediately.

I'm sorry to be the

bearer of bad news, Arch.

Inkatha have issued a statement

to the press.

It says that

the commission's findings

are failing

to investigate impartially,

that we're ANC stooges.

What?

On what grounds?

That there is

no rational connection

between evidence given

and conclusions we draw.

Don't they realize the damage

they are doing?

To all of us!

To... To... To their own...

people.

Excuse me. Can I

have you attention. Please?

There has been a bomb threat

against the commission

and I'm afraid

the police have told us

we have to cancel

today's session.

I'll get back to you

as soon as I can, all right?

Alex, the Archbishop

would love a word.

Please go gently on him.

I've never seen him so down.

I'll get back to you soonest.

Bish?

Bomb threat?

Good God. What's next?

What next?

What next?

Inkatha has made

a public attack

on the integrity

of President Mandela himself.

That's all we need.

Tribalism.

Bish,

this whole enterprise

is in danger of collapsing,

isn't it?

I don't know, Alex.

You tell me.

I just don't know.

My God,

why are you silent to me?

Show me a sign, please?

Mpilo.

Oh, my darling.

Remember that time,

the kids wanted

to play on this beach

but it was whites only?

Uh, they wanted to swim so badly

but the look on their faces,

I was so angry.

Yes, and humiliated.

I felt that way

the other day at Pollsmoor.

I see,

Pollsmoor.

Reminded me

of when I was a small boy,

walking to school

with my father,

crossing that white area,

watching my father's face

as he had to show

his pass to police

and them yelling at him

and call him names.

And he endured it all

for my sake.

I just... I just...

I just stood there.

I couldn't take away

his humiliation.

I... I failed him.

Leah, I failed him.

Maybe that lost soul

in Pollsmoor

is right.

Maybe I'm just...

an... an... an old fraud...

delusional, and...

and...

unworthy.

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