but in my humble opinion, he was scared of losing what he had,” Stephan said.
The brothers broke off the burglar bars covering the window with a spade and pulled Daniel out from the mess. His diabetes, uncontrolled, had sent him into a coma, and he had lain, unmoving, on the floor for days. They took him to the hospital, where the doctor dictated that he could no longer live on his own. Willy and Stephan cleaned out his apartment, trashing his epic collection of junk, including his meticulously kept case folder on his assault. My sudden and impossible-to-predict appearance in Daniel’s life only confirmed his great conviction: that this crap was truly precious, no matter what anyone said, and that someday, somebody was going to come looking for the valuable pile of papers underneath the perfectly good cracked hamper full of totally fine used coffee filters.
“You threw it away like it was nothing,” he hissed at Stephan and Willy, who tried to explain that there was just so much, and how could they have possibly known?
A year before our meeting, Daniel was placed in the old-age home, which garnished 92 percent of its inhabitants’ pensions, no matter the amount. That left Daniel with 300 rand, then a bit less than $30, a month. He couldn’t afford new clothing or even, some months, toothpaste. The stepbrothers, themselves supporting families on salaries and pensions that were hardly generous, tried to bring him soap and socks, but that was all they could manage.
“His health seriously deteriorated after that beating,” Willy said.
“I don’t know how,” Stephan said, shrugging, “but Daniel never became bitter.”
It was pitch black outside and I still had a long drive back home. “Do you think Daniel’s case and the other case from that day were related?” I asked.
“Well, he’s the missing link that nobody speaks of,” Willy answered. “We also wonder why nobody has drawn a link with the Amy MacBiehl case.”
While Daniel was in the hospital, the Amy Biehl story had dominated the news. The media knew a good story, and Daniel was not that story. Daniel, a working-class white South African citizen employed by the National Party government, was “a nobody,” as Stephan said.
“Plus, she died,” Willy added thoughtfully.
“It was not through their efforts that he didn’t die,” Stephan said. “They wanted him to die.”
Daniel and I said goodbye and walked to my car. “You really must get in touch with YOU Magazine,” he said as he shuffled to the passenger side. “YOU Magazine can do an article on me.”
“Eish, man, why does she want to get in touch with YOU Magazine!” Willy said from the doorway. “She’s writing the story herself.”
As I pulled up at the old-age home a few minutes later, Daniel turned to me.
“Give this to Patricia de Lille,” he said, handing me a few pieces of paper covered in tight, tidy handwriting. De Lille was the current mayor of Cape Town and a member of the center-right Democratic Alliance, the ANC’s official opposition. The DA was favored by whites and well-off people of color, among others. But back in the 1980s and 1990s, de Lille, who is colored, had been a high-ranking member of the PAC.
“I don’t know Patricia de Lille,” I said. “I made a bunch of interview requests but she won’t speak to me.” Her office had told me that she simply had no time, ever, to see me and, presumably, discuss her radical past.
Daniel opened the car door and shakily stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Now don’t drive away until you see I am in there,” he ordered. “Don’t leave me standing here on the street at night.”
I watched him make his way through the rain, now falling in a light and steady drizzle, illuminated by a streetlamp and a strobe by the gate. He buzzed, waited nervously, and then pushed his way in. He continued on unsteadily to the glass door, never looking back, and finally disappeared inside, fading into the lobby.
I did a U-turn, back past the Shoprite and over the little bridge and onto the highway, bound for Sea Point. For forty minutes, the highway was bathed in darkness, punctuated only by tiny lamps in the secluded settlements along the way. I let out a sigh of relief when I hit Century City, that monstrous mall lit like Vegas. I could see the city in the distance now.
I curved down off the exit ramp where the highway ended, and drove past African Mama tourist restaurant, where in the