‘You certainly are,’ said the surgeon, ‘because only moments after the other driver died, your heart also stopped beating. It was just your luck that a suitable donor was in the next operating theatre.’
‘Not the driver of the other car?’ said Stoffel.
The surgeon nodded.
‘But … wasn’t he black?’ asked Stoffel in disbelief.
Yes, he was,’ confirmed the surgeon. ‘And it may come as a surprise to you, Mr van den Berg, that your body doesn’t realise that. Just be thankful that his wife agreed to the transplant. If I recall her words’ - he paused - ‘she said, “I can’t see the point in both of them dying.” Thanks to her, we were able to save your life, Mr van den Berg.’ He hesitated and pursed his lips, then said quietly, ‘But I’m sorry to have to tell you that your other internal injuries were so severe that despite the success of the heart transplant, the prognosis is not at all good.’
Stoffel didn’t speak for some time, but eventually asked, ‘How long do I have?’
‘Three, possibly four years,’ replied the surgeon. ‘But only if you take it easy.’
Stoffel fell into a deep sleep.
It was another six weeks before Stoffel left the hospital, and even then Inga insisted on a long period of convalescence. Several friends came to visit him at home, including Martinus de Jong, who assured him that his job at the bank would be waiting for him just as soon as he had fully recovered.
‘I shall not be returning to the bank,’ Stoffel said quietly. ‘You will be receiving my resignation in the next few days.’
‘But why?’ asked de Jong. ‘I can assure you …’ Stoffel waved his hand. ‘It’s kind of you, Martinus, but I have other plans.’
The moment the doctor said Stoffel could leave the house, he asked Inga to drive him to Crossroads, so he could visit the widow of the man he had killed.
The tall, fair-haired white couple walked among the shacks of Crossroads, watched by sullen, resigned eyes. When they reached the little hovel where they had been told the driver’s wife lived, they stopped.
Stoffel would have knocked on the door if there had been one. He peered through the gap and into the darkness to see a young woman with a baby in her arms, cowering in the far corner.
‘My name is Stoffel van den Berg,’ he told her. ‘I have come to say how sorry I am to have been the cause of your husband’s death.’
‘Thank you, master,’ she replied. ‘No need to visit me.’
As there wasn’t anything to sit on, Stoffel lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs.
‘I also wanted to thank you for giving me the chance to live.’
‘Thank you, master.’
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you and your child would like to come and live with us?’
‘No, thank you, master.’
‘Is there nothing I can do?’ asked Stoffel helplessly.
‘Nothing, thank you, master.’
Stoffel rose from his place, aware that his presence seemed to disturb her. He and Inga walked back through the township in silence, and did not speak again until they had reached their car.
‘I’ve been so blind,’ he said as Inga drove him home.
‘Not just you,’ his wife admitted, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘But what can we do about it?’
‘I know what I must do.’
Inga listened as her husband described how he intended to spend the rest of his life.
The next morning Stoffel called in at the bank, and with the help of Martinus de Jong worked out how much he could afford to spend over the next three years.
‘Have you told Inga that you want to cash in your life insurance?’