Intimacies(24)

I could not tell what the former president was feeling, whether he had accepted or even understood the lawyer’s somewhat technical and certainly counterintuitive advice, the Court appeared at first and even second glance as a venue designed for narrative persuasion. The former president gave no indication either way, and after a moment, the lawyer continued. There followed another highly technical discussion, the content of which was obscure at best and as the minutes stretched onward, I began to lose track of what was actually under discussion.

This was not aided by the fact that interpretation can be profoundly disorienting, you can be so caught up in the minutiae of the act, in trying to maintain utmost fidelity to the words being spoken first by the subject and then by yourself, that you do not necessarily apprehend the sense of the sentences themselves: you literally do not know what you are saying. Language loses its meaning. This was happening to me now, in the conference room. I was absorbed by the task at hand, of decoding the legalese in which the content of the discussion was encased, so securely that nothing seemed to penetrate and nothing escaped. And yet—as I stared down at the pad of paper in front of me, covered in shorthand—something did seep out. I saw the words I had been saying, for nearly twenty minutes now, cross-border raid, mass grave, armed youth.

I reached for the glass of water. One of the junior associates was speaking now—a solid wall of language that barreled toward me as I drank all the water in the glass, poured another, and then drank that. I set the glass down, I had lost my place, I looked down at the notepad again, as if I would find a clue there. The associate came to an abrupt stop, the former president turned to look at me. Is everything okay, the associate asked sharply. I just need a moment, I said. Could we go back—the associate answered impatiently, Yes, yes, of course. How far? He exchanged glances with Kees, who was watching me, one arm folded over the other. He had been silent the entire time, now he suddenly spoke. Let’s take a break. Five minutes? And the others immediately rose to their feet as if they too had only been waiting for an excuse to pause.

To my surprise, the former president also rose and headed out of the room with the others, he seemed entirely at liberty. I watched him go. I remained seated, although I could have used some air, perhaps even more than the others. The room was nearly empty when I realized that Kees was still in the room, he alone had stayed behind. He approached and stood before me. I know you came here on short notice and I’m grateful, he said. I nodded, I was wary, his tone was indeterminate, stubbornly ambiguous, it was true that his manner was familiar, but there was no concrete sign of recognition in his manner or in any of the words he said. I might have asked him any number of questions or even brought up the issue myself, but the situation was far from neutral. Kees was in a position of considerable power, all it would take was one complaint and my contract would be, if not terminated, then surely not extended.

He likes you, Kees said suddenly. It’s almost as if he finds your presence soothing. I tried not to flinch, I was aware that Kees was observing me closely. Various words flashed into my mind again—perpetrator, ride-through, ethnic cleansing. But that’s not the only reason why it’s useful for us to have you here, Kees continued. He folded his arms and stared at the floor. Your reaction helps us understand what the emotional effect of the evidence and the testimony is likely to be. To some extent we are too inured. He gestured to the papers spread across the table with one hand. Even as we must concern ourselves with technicalities, it is important to remember the emotional component. Your response is a good reminder of how volatile the feelings around a case like this are.

He pronounced the word feelings with light but definite contempt. Kees looked at me. You know, he continued, and now there was a faint smile on his lips, you look very familiar, have we met? I was silent as he came closer. He sat down on the edge of the conference table, his legs angled toward me, his body mere inches away. I wondered how many times he had performed these exact moves, the effect was at once brazen and impersonal. I was increasingly certain that he did not remember me, and that he had made the same approach to many hundreds of women, Have we met? I heard a noise outside in the corridor and turned to look, voices approached and then faded again, it was only some people walking by.

But it had been enough, Kees abruptly rose to his feet and walked back to the other side of the conference table. His manner had changed, he flipped through his papers with a frown. I was about to get up when he looked across the table and suddenly said, Do you see much of Adriaan? There was nothing particular in the words themselves or the way he pronounced them, although perhaps the casual manner was overdone. But even before I looked up I knew I would find some small sliver of malice in his gaze, and when our eyes met it was there, it must have always been there. At that moment, the others filed in and before I could respond, Kees snapped his head back down to his papers. He made a sound of mild irritation, then looked up and said sharply, Come in, please. We’re running behind. Let’s not waste any more time.

The former president sat down beside me. He nodded to me and I nodded back. The former president sighed, then rubbed his face with one hand. He turned to me and asked in his calm and euphonious French, Are you okay with all this? He gestured to the table, perhaps to the room at large, his eyes fell on my legal pad and the words scribbled on its pages, words that he couldn’t possibly have made out given their script and shorthand, but whose contents he knew all too well. He winced, as if embarrassed, and then made an oddly pleading gesture with his hands. It’s a lot, I know. It looks much worse than it really is, the language has no nuance. He frowned, his eyes still on the legal pad. One word—perpetrator—for such a range of acts, performed for such a range of reasons.