Kruger's Alp Page 6

  Blanchaille gripped the edge of the pulpit. His words no longer seemed to carry through the church. He tapped the microphone. Dead. The bastards had cut his mike. He peered at Mary Muldoon, the red cherries on her hat pulsed in the gloom. The rest of the parishioners stared back at him sullenly. ‘It was at this time that I composed my letter to The Cross,’ Blanchaille yelled. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of it? In it I said that if the people in the camps prayed for anything they should pray for the bulldozer. Enough of these smooth and resonant phrases, of plump churchmen talking of people living in a manner consonant with human dignity. Disease kills but so does charity, more slowly but just as surely. Flatten the camps, that is freedom! Release their inhabitants to a decent beggary, let them wander the countryside pleading for alms, calling on us to remember what we have done to them!’

  It was his last sermon. After that the siege began.

  And Makapan’s second and general objection?

  ‘You don’t understand our role in history. We are not simply crude racialists of the sort you think – may I say perhaps even hope – that we are. We don’t hate, despise, spit upon black people, not any longer. We recognise our failings. We reach out to embrace them.’ He reached out his big, dusty hands towards Blanchaille’s neck, he flexed the knuckles with the sound of distant rifle fire. ‘You want to condemn us, but the prisoner has left the dock. The old charges against white South Africans have no force anywhere. Everywhere there is change. We are changing.’

  Blanchaille shook his head. ‘We are ruined. It’s too late to change. It is time we left, got out.’

  ‘Got out? But Father Blanchaille we have nowhere to go.’

  ‘There are numbers of places – abroad.’

  ‘Lies.’

  ‘And stories of people who have disappeared.’

  ‘Filthy slanders.’

  ‘There is even talk of the formation of a government in exile.’

  Makapan’s hands descended on his shoulders. ‘No more. Only your dog-collar protects you. There is no other place, no better place this side of the grave, than our country here. I will die for that belief.’

  The thumbs, kneading his throat now, suggested that he would kill for that belief too. But Blanchaille was past caring. ‘That is quite probable, Mr Makapan.’

  Then in my dream I saw Blanchaille open the window and fix his eye on the figure in white; long white flowing robes like a nun, and a nursing sister’s head-dress. Try as she might to hide herself behind the others she could not evade his eyes. This was his former black housekeeper, Joyce Nkwenzi. She had served Blanchaille’s predecessor, the muscular Father Rischa, long and loyally, but she’d lasted with Blanchaille only until trouble struck and then left him, abruptly one evening.

  Father Rischa had been popular. He had also been extremely fit. He’d left Blanchaille in possession of a house, empty but for a couple of pieces of very bad Rhodesian copperware and a larder full of inedible food: bean sprouts, soya-based products, nuts, grains, seaweed and porridge. It turned out he’d spent a lot of time organising footraces and sponsored walks and testing country runs along the rutted veld tracks from Uncle Vigo’s Roadhouse to the African location several miles away.

  ‘At first we looked at Rischa a little skew, if you know what I mean. We could hardly help it. When he was appointed here he seemed to spend hours in his tiny blue running shorts, his big thigh muscles sticking out, pounding up and down the sanitary lanes behind the houses. Thick black hair he had, and well oiled, the way they wear it, you know? He got a few stares in passing I can tell you, at least to begin with, but he was a good sport.’

  The brick salesman’s hands were big, square and yellow and he had a habit of knocking them together when speaking, perhaps developed over years of handling the samples stacked on his back seat, knocking off the brick dust. He evidently expected Blanchaille to be something of a good sport . . . ‘When he left, he preached a sermon saying that he was happy to be going to the townships because he was going to search for those Africans who hadn’t been ruined yet by the white man’s diet of Coca-Cola and white bread and he was going to turn them into runners, he said. Look at the Kenyans, he said. Look at the Ethiopians. Aren’t they excellent long-distance men? Well is there any reason why our tough boys in the bush shouldn’t do just as well? He was going to organise camps for training them right there in the bush.’

  ‘Why not? The bush is full of camps, Mr Makapan.’

  ‘He was a fighter, was Father Rischa. He stuck up for his country.’

  ‘And the camps are full of starving people.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me about the camps. I’ve done the weekly run like everyone else. The milk run, the medicine run. We know all about the camps.’

  And then I saw the embattled priest, Blanchaille, glaring at the demonstrators at the bottom of his garden and he raised his hand pointing at the black woman: ‘God sees you, Joyce Nkwenzi! You cannot hide.’

  At the garden fence, Maureen and Duggie Kreta rattled their big banner. ‘Shame! Leave her alone!’

  ‘God sees you have deserted his minister!’ roared Blanchaille. ‘He will send you to hell, Joyce Nkwenzi.’

  The girl’s nerve broke and she threw herself down on her knees lifting clasped hands beseechingly towards her accuser in the window.

  ‘There you will fry, faithless servant, like a fish in boiling oil – forever!’

  With a shriek Joyce pitched forward on her face in the dust.

  Blanchaille returned to his chair.

  It was nearly midnight when Lynch arrived, slipping by the pickets at the gate with ease. Blanchaille embraced him, weeping a little. Lynch produced a flask and two glasses. ‘Brandy. Stop that flood or you’ll water the booze.’

  ‘I’m leaving,’ said Blanchaille.

  ‘Not a moment too soon,’ said Lynch. ‘You’ve heard about Ferreira? Well, now they want you.’ He took from his pocket a note typed on a sheet of cheap paper. He read out: ‘Tell B. to get going. They’re gunning for him.’

  ‘Who sent that?’

  ‘Van Vuuren.’

  ‘Why should Van Vuuren care? He works for the Regime.’

  ‘Don’t see him that way. He’s kept faith.’

  Lynch wore a black coat and an old black beret. Blanchaille recognised the beret. He’d worn it when he’d taken his altar boys on a tour of the Air Force base near the school. The reasons for this odd Gallic touch had soon become clear.

  On the windy airstrip, all those years before, he had made a speech: ‘Every lad should get a view of his country’s armaments. My beret is applicable since what we’re going to look at is the new French jet. The French have supported our Government for many years. The Air Force is very proud of their new plane. It’s a form of confidence building, they say. Between ourselves I suspect this display of weapons is similar to the impulse that makes some men expose themselves to little girls in public parks.’ They trailed round behind him inspecting the sleek fighter. ‘It is called a Mirage. Wonderfully appropriate,’ Lynch said. ‘It replaces the Sabre, which is obsolete. Not swords into ploughshares, you understand? But Sabres into Mirages . . .’

  Blanchaille tried to remember how long it was since he’d last seen Lynch. Ten years? The black hair beneath the beret was peppered with grey and the face thinner, the chin more pointed, but for the rest he was the same, the beautifully flared nostrils, the prominent jug ears, the hard bright green eyes. ‘I live alone now, since Brother Zacharias died of the cheap wine,’ he said. ‘The university encroaches, it swallows up more and more ground each day and you know that Blashford has sold my entire parish to the university? He says the money will be used to establish a new seminary somewhere in the country for black priests. He was advised by his banker to sell my church. Our old church. Has it ever occurred to you, Theodore, that the banks are at the forefront of innovation here? Remember how the banks introduced the new scheme for appointing black managers in their township branches? There was a lot of opposition
to it from the white managers but head office decreed and head office was looking further ahead than the people here. Well you know how a little later the Church discovered its mission to the townships, the Church reaffirmed its historic role in Africa, acting, once again, on instructions from head office. In this case, Rome. It is interesting to see from where the power flows. It would be fascinating to talk more of this, but we can’t. Ferreira is dead and you are suspected of being a connection in the case.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘He telephoned you. That’s enough.’

  ‘He was raving. He talked of the City of God.’

  Lynch laughed and poured himself more brandy. ‘Not God. It was a bad line, Blanchie. You had a lot of interference. What he said was not God but gold!’

  ‘You’re well informed.’

  ‘I’ve heard the tapes, a friend of mine obliged.’

  ‘Who killed him?’

  Lynch shook his head. ‘There are two possibilities which the police are following up. There was something painted in the room where he was found, scrawled low down on the wall. Three letters: ASK followed by what might have been part of a B, or perhaps the number 3. The obvious organisations spring to mind. The Azanian Strike Kommando No. 3, the hit squad, I believe connected with the Azanian Liberation Front. The choice of the word Kommando being a deliberate gibe, a taking in vain of the name of the mobile fighting unit venerated by the Boers.’

  ‘Well, it makes a kind of sense, I suppose. Tony was in the Government.’

  ‘Not exactly. He was a Civil Servant. And besides, if you’re going to assassinate someone why pick on an accountant?’

  ‘Well, who then?’

  ‘There is another lot, home based, with the same initials – the Afrika Straf Kaffir Brigade. Both are mysterious outfits–the Strike Kommando claims to have infiltrated the country to carry out executions of enemies of the people. The Straf Kaffir Brigade is a group of right-wing maniacs who claim to protect the white man’s way of life, motherhood and freedom – whether all of those, or you take your pick, I don’t know. Despite their name it is not actually blacks they’re after, it’s white men who they believe are destroying the soul of the Afrikaner. The Regime, needless to say, denies the existence of both groups. The Brigade has claimed responsibility for shooting up the houses of liberal lawyers, painting swastikas on the houses of selected targets like the local rabbi, which incensed him no end as it turned out he is a fervent supporter of the Regime. They go about generally making a nuisance of themselves.’

  ‘I remember seeing the name,’ Blanchaille said. ‘Didn’t they release syphilis-infected mice in several of these new casinos these entrepreneurs are opening in all the Bantu homelands, in the hopes of spreading the pox among white gamblers?’

  ‘The same. They are demented. But why should even a bunch of madmen who ostensibly at least support the Regime, assassinate one of its officials? Equally, why should the Azanian lot murder Ferreira? He was no big noise, no minister, no target. It seems to me that the question we ought to ask is not which of these groups carried out the killing but why they should bother to remove a remote financial official who spent his time locked away with the ledgers poring over the figures?’

  Blanchaille knew the old priest had to some extent at least answered his own questions. He suspected, as anyone would who knew Ferreira, that the answer lay in those figures.

  ‘Do you believe in these organisations?’

  ‘Believe? Of course I do! Whether they exist or not is another question. But certainly I believe, just as I believe in the Kruger millions.’

  ‘And the city of gold?’

  ‘Naturally. It is a question of faith which I cling to with Augustinian ferocity. May God help you with your unbelief, poor Blanchie. Sadly I do not have time to explain my allusion.’ He walked to the window and beckoned Blanchaille. ‘Those lights over there – the flashing red and yellow neon, do you see? That’s the Airport Palace Hotel. Ask to see the manager when you arrive. He’ll handle things. Leave here as soon as you can.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Certainly. The very instant your watchers settle down for the night.’

  ‘But I’m not ready – not right now, anyway.’

  ‘What? Not ready? Your sainted mother gave you your wonderful French passport. Your dead friend has supplied you with funds. Your bags are packed, I take it?’

  Blanchaille nodded and pointed to the three tartan suitcases.

  ‘What more do you want?’

  He thought hard. ‘I have no air ticket.’

  Lynch tapped his nose and winked. ‘Faith, my son.’ He drained his brandy and rose. ‘It will be taken care of. Now I’m on my way.’

  ‘But you haven’t said yet who you think killed Ferreira. Straf Kaffir Brigade, or Azanian Strike Kommando?’

  Lynch regarded him unblinkingly. What he said next made Blanchaille’s head spin: ‘Or both?’ he said.

  Blanchaille went over to his chair, the same blue plastic garden chair on which he must have sat many a night and on which he was sitting when I first saw him in my dream.

  ‘I am as much in the dark as you are,’ Lynch said with a complete lack of sincerity. ‘Now I must go. I’m not long for this world.’

  ‘So you’ve said,’ Blanchaille remarked sceptically.

  ‘Can’t be said often enough. Only this time I say it in hope. This time before the shades come down I see a gleam of something that may be –’

  ‘Light?’ Blanchaille put in helpfully.

  ‘Gold!’ said Lynch, ‘and the deliriously exciting perception that history, or what passes for such in this dust-bin, may just be about to repeat itself. Remember, Theodore, red and yellow neon, Airport Palace – don’t delay.’ And with a grin the little priest stepped out into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 3

  Now in my dream I saw Blanchaille set off early in one of those typical highveld dawns, a sky of light blue plated steel arcing overhead. He wore old grey flannels and a white cotton jacket, grunting beneath the weight of his three bulky tartan suitcases well strapped, belted around their fat middles in thick-tongued fraying leather. He slipped quietly out of the house and set off down the dirt road. But Joyce, who was sleeping rolled in a blanket by the embers of the night fire, had sharp ears and shouted after him. This woke Makapan who was dozing behind the wheel of his motor car. Both came running after Blanchaille: ‘What’s this? Where are you going?’

  ‘Somewhere where you won’t be able to bother me.’

  ‘But are you going for good?’

  ‘For good.’

  ‘You’re running away then?’ There was a jeering note in Makapan’s voice. His eyelashes were crusted with sleep.

  Blanchaille nodded. ‘As fast as I can.’

  Joyce said; ‘Father won’t get very far, those cases are too heavy. He’ll have to walk slowly.’

  ‘I expected you to stand and fight at least,’ said Makapan.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Joyce asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  Joyce became rather excited. Grasping one of the heavy suitcases Blanchaille held she tried to help him, half hobbling and half running alongside him. ‘Are you going overseas?’

  Blanchaille nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

  Makapan lumbered up. ‘That’s nonsense, man. You’re starting to talk politics again. We’re not that badly off. We’re not finished. Even the Americans think there’s life in us yet. I saw only yesterday in the paper how their Secretary for State for Political Affairs came all this way to tell us that it will come right in the end, that we’re getting better all the time, that we will give political rights to other groups when the time is right, that we will be saved. There is no threat, not outside nor in, that our armed forces cannot handle. Even at the time of the Total Onslaught we hold our own. I assure you myself, and I am a captain in the Signals Corps. You do your military duty – even if it does sometimes harm your career prospects. My fight with you is religious, not politic
al . . .’

  Blanchaille understood this qualification.

  In the time of the Total Onslaught of course everyone was in the armed services. For many years a quarter of a million young men capable of bearing arms were on active service or on reserve or in training. All immigrants were called up. However, the Regime decided this base was not sufficient and announced a plan to push this figure to one million men, by drafting individuals, old and young, who for various reasons had been overlooked in the years of the huge defence build-up. In a total white population of little over five million, this force represented a great army, at least on paper, able surely to withstand the Total Onslaught. However, it was also a considerable drain on the available workforce. The army had an insatiable appetite for more men because even the best strategic planners could not predict where the attack would come from next. The chief problem lay in guarding the borders which were thousands of miles long and growing longer all the time. There were, besides the national borders, the borders around the new Homelands, the former reserves in the rural areas which the Government declared independent and sovereign, and guaranteed that sovereignty by fencing them off. New countries meant new borders. New borders meant new fences. Entire battalions spent their period of military service banging in fence poles. Of course the Total Onslaught might also show itself from within, and as a result the huge black townships had to be encircled with wire and the resettlement camps fortified with foot patrols and armoured cars. Then there were Government buildings, the railheads, the power stations, the factories. Since these were frequently the targets of incendiary bombs and limpet mines, they required the strictest protection and the young men on active training might spend months on end sweating in desolate railway sidings or freezing by night outside the oil refineries waiting for something to happen. It seldom did, but then Total Onslaught required total preparedness.