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<text id=91TT1733>
<title>
Aug. 05, 1991: Apartheid, He Wrote
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1991
Aug. 05, 1991 Was It Worth It?
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
BOOKS, Page 58
Apartheid, He Wrote
</hdr><body>
<p>In his mystery series about a white South African detective and
his Zulu partner, James McClure digs up the truth about a racially
divided society
</p>
<p>By William A. Henry III
</p>
<p> The development of series characters in fiction is almost
always a triumph of commerce over art. No matter how interesting
a character is, there is usually one right story about him or
her, and a good writer finds it the first time. Shakespeare got
just one play each out of Hamlet and Macbeth, and it is hard to
imagine what remained for a sequel--or prequel.
</p>
<p> Readers, however, have an all but boundless appetite for
revisiting accustomed pleasures. That is nowhere more true than
in the mystery, whose audiences manifest, by their choice of
genre, a taste for restoring established order. Victorians so
yearned to watch Sherlock Holmes perform his tricks again and
again that after Sir Arthur Conan Doyle killed him out of
boredom, he gave in and resurrected the great detective. Dame
Agatha Christie had the same murderous impulse toward Hercule
Poirot, but slyly tucked the manuscript away until her demise.
To this day, the first thing publishers ask is whether a mystery
can become a series, a literary annuity.
</p>
<p> The mystery-by-installment plan can, however, record
almost journalistically a sequence of social change. Maj Sjowall
and Per Wahloo reflected, in their Martin Beck series, the
decay of the socialist dream in Sweden; Joseph Hansen provided
a time line on gay life in the U.S. in his Dave Brandstetter
series. No current mystery writer has better exploited this
potential--or better served readers with riveting storytelling
and acutely observed human nature--than James McClure in his
eight novels about two South African policemen. The cheerily
crass Boer, Tromp Kramer, and his wily "kaffir" partner, Mickey
Zondi, were introduced in The Steam Pig, published in 1971.
Their teamwork, affectionate but circumscribed, full of macho
blarney and teasing but also tinged with racial irony, subtly
evoked the quirky diplomacy of a society where whites insist on
ruling but all parties know that cannot happen without black
help. The six succeeding novels brought the relationship into
the mid-1980s and showed each man becoming gradually more
sophisticated about the other's world, as in life the barriers
have slowly fallen between South Africa's ruling elite and its
black majority.
</p>
<p> In his latest novel, The Song Dog (Mysterious Press; 274
pages; $17.95), McClure goes back to the beginning--or,
rather, before the beginning. The Song Dog concerns the cases
that brought Kramer and Zondi together: two private vendettas,
one black and one white, that are misunderstood as political
terrorism. The action is set in 1962, mostly during the week
when Nelson Mandela was taken into custody. That arrest, and its
long-term deforming consequences for South African society,
plays an oblique but significant role in the narrative--especially in the distant fate foretold for the team in the
novel's final paragraphs. Despite the deep optimism inherent in
depicting their relationship, McClure ends in glints of gloom.
He implies that no such bond can survive forever the fire storm
of that nation's rage.
</p>
<p> Part of what makes any fiction fun is the inversion of
expectations. Kramer, the ruling white, is the team's
iconoclast, full of scorn for procedure and authority. He is
expedient, intemperate, womanizing and often drunk. Zondi, the
oppressed black who for reasons of race earns a modest fraction
of his partner's pay, is a convent-educated conformist. By the
chronological end of the series he is a dutiful husband,
attentive father and slightly stodgy bourgeois citizen. Each is
responding to his social position: white Kramer can afford the
luxury of defiance, but black Zondi cannot.
</p>
<p> The series' second great theme, along with race, has been
sex. McClure plainly believes that any society so rigidly
ordered is also deeply repressed--and is therefore quite
wanton in the back rooms. Nearly all the crimes investigated by
the team have involved passion or jealousy, and the solutions
have often depended on the ability of one partner to look with
an outsider's jaundiced eye on the habits and mores of the
other's culture. That technique is evident in The Song Dog, the
title of which refers to a tribal folkloric figure who speaks
in Delphic riddles. Once Kramer formally meets Zondi, halfway
through the book--after assuming he is a Bantu hoodlum, not
an undercover cop--they quickly form a bond. Kramer is not a
white of great racial sensitivity, or Zondi a black of great
deference. But they respect each other because they keep
reaching the same conclusions--while reflecting cultural
differences by getting there through divergent, if equally
plausible, chains of reasoning.
</p>
<p> The third big theme is snooping. Just as South Africa's
government engages in constant surveillance, so, in McClure's
vision, do its citizens spy on one another, usually out of
jealousy or greed. The consequences are often fatal. This
peeping and prying is a focus of The Steam Pig and of two other
memorable entries: The Caterpillar Cop and The Gooseberry Fool.
Fittingly, Zondi and Kramer meet in The Song Dog after
surreptitiously trailing each other, each in search of clues to
his own case.
</p>
<p> McClure writes rich, vigorous prose, full of snarky humor
but never in a way that undercuts the deadly drive of the
narrative. And he is as sadly witty about individuals as about
their troubled nation. Here is Kramer in The Song Dog, surveying
the wares at a rundown country store: "On the crowded shelf of
cigarettes and pipe tobacco, he saw, for the first time in
years, the little cotton bags of shag his father had smoked to
excess, so crude it came complete with tobacco stalks. Good
stuff, that shag: it had given the old bastard the long,
lingering, thoroughly horrible death he'd deserved." Nothing
more is said about that father-son relationship--and nothing
is needed. That is characteristic of the eight novels as a
whole: they are an unsentimental journey to the heart of a
problem.
</p>
</body></article>
</text>