Kruger's Alp (28 page)

‘I don't believe you're shepherds at all. I've got a feeling for these things and I think you're policemen.'

And Swanepoel replied: ‘If you're talking about what we were, you may have a point. But if we were all judged by what used to be then who would not be damned? Weren't you Kipsel the Traitor, once? The only thing that matters is what we are now.'

‘And we're shepherds now,' said Dekker.

‘Oh yes?' exlaimed Kipsel. ‘In that case where are your sheep?'

‘You are our sheep,' came the reply.

Blanchaille stepped in to prevent further embarrassment and told the shepherds that they were eager to continue their journey. Then
the shepherd Arlow said to the shepherd Hattingh, ‘Look, since these guys are on the right road wouldn't it be an idea to give them an indication of their destination?' And Hattingh agreed, so they stopped at a typical mountain hostelry, perched on a promontory and called the Berghaus Grappe d'Or with a wonderful view of the mountains, where there was a telescope, as is the custom in such places. And here, after the insertion of one franc, they were invited to ‘lay an eye against the glass'.

What they saw differed considerably. Blanchaille said he could see what he thought was a big house surrounded by a wall and it reminded him of a hospital, or perhaps a school. Kipsel said he could see no wall at all, but he made out a gate, a garden and many tall trees and a tall building ‘like a skinny palace'. Then their time ran out.

Would the shepherds give them more precise directions?

‘Keep on the way you're going and you can't miss it,' said Arlow.

‘Look out for Gabriel,' Swanepoel advised.

‘Our Gabriel?' Blanchaille was astonished.

‘Ain't no bloody angel, that's for sure,' said Hattingh.

And the shepherd Dekker said nothing at all, just laid a finger alongside his nose, and winked.

CHAPTER 21

On that hot, never-ending Sunday beneath the Tree of Heaven, among the wreckage of Father Lynch's church, while the baleful yellow earth-moving machines baked in the heat, I slept again and dreamed of the two travellers, gipsy spirits one would have liked to have said, carefree, happy voyagers – except that they looked in fact like two increasingly tired, dirty, bearded and hungry men (a two-legged pear and his lightly furred friend), trudging through the Swiss mountains towards they knew not what – some great house or palace, or castle, château, hotel, hospital which they had glimpsed, or thought they had glimpsed through the telescope of Berghaus Grappe d'Or; some retirement home, or refuge, or whatever it is where white South Africans must one day fetch up, if they are to fetch up anywhere. What is the old joke? When good South Africans die they go to the big location in the sky. When bad South Africans die they go into government.

I saw how, as the climb grew steeper, the road winds back on itself to lessen the upward slog and gives a clear view behind and below. It was then that they saw another traveller straggling behind them in a queer sideways crab-like shuffle. Imagine their astonishment as he drew closer and they recognised Looksmart Dladla, last heard of in exile in Philadelphia.

Their old friend was smartly turned out in a dark blue suit and shining black shoes, quite unsuitable for the rough road he followed and he stopped every so often and knocked his forehead with his fist as if it were a door and he wished to be let in, or at least attract the attention of whoever was inside. He gave no sign of surprise, or of recognition, but Kipsel, all his old fears and guilt returning, had become terrified and had quite unashamedly hidden behind Blanchaille.

‘Looksmart! What, you here? Hello, it's me, Blanchie!'

The black man peered. There was no surprise, no anger, not even a quickening of interest, merely a blank cursory inspection. ‘I do not remember.'

‘You must remember the old days.'

‘Why?' Looksmart asked.

Kipsel, now bolder, stepped forward: ‘Well, you remember me.'

Looksmart stared at him. Perhaps his eyes narrowed fractionally. But then his head was continually cocked to one side and he appeared to suffer from a facial tic.

Blanchaille seized his hand. ‘For God's sake, Looksmart – it's Blanchie. How are you? I thought you were in Philadelphia.'

There was a slow nod of the head. ‘Yes. I was in Philadelphia.' He spoke very slowly, as if searching for the words, rounding them up like wild ponies from the canyons inside his head. He spoke thickly, clumsily, with little whistles and splutters. It seemed there was something vaguely familiar about the two men who had stopped him, especially the one with the fish face, the thick lips and the agitated manner. He hadn't time now. He took a red handkerchief from his breast pocket, bent and polished his black shoes. Then he straightened. ‘Goodbye,' he said. ‘People are waiting for my news.'

What happened to Looksmart before and after his flight to America has been the stuff of wild rumour, legend and conflicting stories. But it was given to me in my dream to see the truth.

Looksmart escaped to New York on a ticket acquired by his brother Gabriel (as was his passport, US visa, and a pocket full of money), a step ahead of the police and unbeknown to himself, in the company of the famous Piatikus Lenski, the defence lawyer. This flight was ever afterwards regarded as having been
planned.
People marvelled at its audacity and gave credit for its brilliant execution to Gabriel Dladla. Gabriel Dladla, everyone agreed, was an absolute marvel. On the one hand he was a priest and so forbidden to take part in politics. On the other hand he was known to be openly sympathetic to the Azanian Liberation Front. Yet he continued a free man. In fact his political sympathies and connections, far from endangering Gabriel, increasingly won him admiration and respect. It was whispered in some quarters that if ever, and it was a big if, the Government were to attempt some form of dialogue with its sworn enemies in the Azanian Liberation Front, then Dladla might be the man to talk to, and through; there was widespread agreement that Dladla was the sort of man with whom one could ‘deal'. Of course the official view was that there was absolutely no question of dialogue, or of dealing with the ALF and its murderous terrorist wing, the Azanian Strike Kommando No. 3. Even so, people felt obscurely comforted by the knowledge that if, and it was an enormous if (everybody always stressed this), the need should ever arise and the Regime should wish to talk to the Front, Gabriel was
the man. The Regime were careful to discourage any such speculation. Bubé himself had given the official response, when, in the course of a particularly strident political meeting, he had responded to the repeated jibe of ‘Yes – but what
if
?', with the remark that people could believe what they liked and the Regime could not stop people believing in fairy stories – but, speaking for himself,
IF
was a dangerous country which he did not visit. Everyone knew what he meant.

The famous defence lawyer, Piatikus Lenski, was equally unaware of Looksmart's presence – but the two were forever afterwards associated in the public mind. Thus do haphazard conjunctions become established as historical facts in the story of our country. Lenski had made his reputation in the trials of such notables as the saintly pacifist leader, Oscar Amandla and the martyr, Joyce Naidoo. Lenski's reputation stretched from the great show trials of the anti-pass laws demonstrators of the early years to the increasingly frequent hanging trials of black guerrillas which more and more occupied the courts as time went on. Piatikus Lenski defended his clients with passion and brilliance. He invariably lost the case but this never affected his reputation as a formidable opponent of the Regime. He was, as he himself said, if one was to judge by results, a complete failure. He never accused the judiciary of any bias. The judges, Lenski had said, were quite objective in their interpretation of the law but since the Regime was thoroughly perverted, corrupt lawgivers and objective judges made an unbeatable combination. He was a short, curly haired, vain little man with dark eyes and a high querulous voice which drove court officials to distraction and struck fear into the witnesses for the State. Nothing scared Lenski. When the prosecution scored a point he would turn to his junior and in his high, carrying tones exclaim: ‘Now
that
was well done. But do we care?' He'd been terrorised by the usual methods applied to public opponents of the Regime. His house had been shot at, his children threatened, his wife abused – and he had yielded to none of it. Instead he gave an interview to the papers explaining how these efforts ensured that he would never falter in his appreciation of the lengths the Regime was prepared to go in order to get its way. Finally, Piatikus was placed under house arrest for ‘associating with known terrorists and violent opponents of the State'. The Government thus found in his connection with his clients an unanswerable logical reason for banning him. And in so doing they had at last done really well, and even Lenski had to admit it, and did, by showing that yes, finally, they had made him care, for
when the police arrived with the signed order of his banning at his gracious residence in the northern suburbs, Piatikus had fled.

On board the Pan Am flight to New York, Looksmart knew nothing of his illustrious travelling companion. He'd never flown before, he had got into conversation with the passengers, he was rather drunk, and the recent beating he had received had left him in a disturbed and agitated frame of mind. Besides, Lenski travelled first class, behind a beard and dark glasses, and his presence on the plane only came to light when they arrived at Kennedy Airport and the press thronged the concourse. Lenski left the airport immediately after the press conference for a secret destination in Colorado where he went to work on his memoir of the most celebrated of his deceased clients. Called
The Last Days of Oscar Amandla
, it was to become a minor classic. The American press, and through them the wider world, concluded that this eminent lawyer and the black activist must have escaped together. That was the impression Piatikus never chose to correct and Looksmart was never asked to do so. Not that it mattered for he was so incoherent with his rasping voice and the terrible roaring in his right ear since the cell beatings that he would have been unable to convince them otherwise.

Looksmart had left the country abruptly. His brother had collected him and taken him to the airport in a great big black Chrysler. Looksmart had tried to get some information: ‘How –' he began.

‘How did I get you the passport? These things can be done, my dear Looksmart. Of course your visa only gives you three months. You'll have to think of something else by then.'

‘Yes, but how –' Looksmart tried again. His tongue sat wooden in his mouth, sluggish, thick and unable to respond to signals from his brain. ‘But . . . how?' It wasn't quite what he had wanted to say, but it would have to do.

Gabriel said, ‘How what? How did I do it? Please, give your brother some credit.'

‘How?' asked Looksmart again.

‘Forget it,' snapped Gabriel. ‘Better you don't know.'

Here Looksmart wept. He didn't mean to weep but it had become an uncontrollable response after weeks of interrogation. Anyone raising their voice to him got that response from the tear ducts. There was a furnace in his right ear and a subterranean rumble which reminded him of the rockfalls on the gold mines which from time to time shook the city and set the cups complaining on the shelves and windows shivering in their panes.

He paused at the barrier at the airport and waved. Gabriel raised an encouraging thumb. Looksmart squared his shoulders and shuffled through fully expecting to be stopped and turned back but feeling in the face of Gabriel's efforts that he ought at least go through the motions, if only to please his brother.

Gabriel had this gift of making people want to please him. He had a honeyed charm, a lightness, a fleet delicate mind, he was little, gracious, winning, not at all dark but golden. There had always been this contrast with his brother ever since their days in Lynch's garden when he called them his greyhounds, his porcelain slave boys, his unlikely pages. Gabriel was deft and surefooted, Looksmart was heavy, solid mahogany, his lips pink and full as inflatables, a lump beside Gabriel's vaulting allure. Gabriel forged ahead effortlessly in the seminary towards ordination and a brilliant career while Looksmart stumbled and floundered in a bog of black theology, making passionate speeches about ‘The first Kaffir Christ', and burning his Bible on the seminary steps as the white man's bank book, and thereafter departing in a kind of glory.

‘My vocation,' Gabriel sweetly told friends, ‘is the priesthood. Looksmart's is prison.'

Indeed it was. Looksmart proceeded there by the usual route: demonstrations, marches, plots, arrests and bannings and all the blood-warming activities which opponents of the Regime practised in the hope that somehow, someday, they might have some effect. At last grey and despondent he went underground and dreamed of bombs.

When Kipsel's bombs went off he would have been a prime suspect had he not had a cast-iron alibi. He was already in prison at the time, in the cells of the Central Police Station being beaten with a length of hosepipe by a blond young man called Captain Breek, that very same Arrie Breek who was later to become so close to wresting the world middleweight boxing crown from the American Ernie Smarf in their memorable encounter in the amazing amphitheatre hewn from solid rock in a newly independent black homeland cum casino, run by the Syrian entrepreneur Assad, before a ferocious crowd of 75,000. As Breek later told the papers, his heart had never been in his police work and this may explain why the young man with his great blond cows-lick and the open fresh looks of a serious young accountant should have so forgotten himself during the interrogation of Looksmart that he seized the prisoner's head and banged it repeatedly against the wall, a method as clumsy as it was inadvisable, since it broke the cardinal rule of
police interrogation which is never to leave discernible marks on a live victim and on a dead one only such marks, bruises, lesions, or breakages as would accord with the kinds of fatal injuries the coroner could reasonably expect to find on a dead prisoner who has fallen from a high window, or down a steep flight of stairs, or has hanged himself in his cell.

This Breek was to go on to become a famous entrepreneur and promoter himself, with his own casino and his own homeland and his own international pro-am golf tournament.

Looksmart had been stretched to his limits by Captain Breek. There had been electric shocks to his testicles and when this failed, the current was passed from his nape to his coccyx to render him more pliable. Then he was taken swimming. In this procedure his head was dunked in a bucket of water for a period determined by the swimmer who could obtain release before he drowned by tapping the floor with his foot thereby indicating that he wished to talk.

His lungs burning, Looksmart tapped. Breek hauled him out. Looksmart took a few, deliberately deep breaths while Breek waited impatiently. ‘I forget the question,' Looksmart confessed. It was true, although even if he could have recalled it he couldn't have answered. He did not know what Breek wanted, but then neither did the policeman. He kept demanding that Looksmart tell him all he knew. He swore that he would get at the truth. But what he wanted to know, and what he imagined the truth to be, he never made clear and Looksmart found it impossible to guess. Looksmart's tears mingled unnoticed with the water streaming from his nose and ears. Angrily Breek seized his hair and plunged his head back into the pail. Looksmart prepared to die. He would not tap. He waited for unconsciousness. He welcomed death. Deliberately he thrust his head further into the pail. His chest felt as if it were collapsing, he felt the terrible burning pressure grow. He could hear his heart firing away crazily. Just another few seconds, another few moments and he would open his mouth and suck water into his lungs. He would cheat Breek. He would die in front of his eyes. Breek realised almost too late what was going on. Furiously he yanked Looksmart's head from the pail and in his rage began banging it against the wall until Looksmart passed out.