Master of the Game (12 page)

“Now.”

“I can pay you only—” She thought of a figure and added to
it. “One pound two shillings eleven pence a month, with board and lodging.”

“That will be fine,” Margaret said gratefully.

Salomon van der Merwe seldom appeared now on the streets of Klipdrift. More and more often, his customers found a Closed sign on the front door of his store at all hours of the day. After a while, they took their business elsewhere.

But Salomon van der Merwe still went to church every Sunday. He went not to pray, but to demand of God that He right this terrible iniquity that had been heaped upon the shoulders of his obedient servant. The other parishioners had always looked up to Salomon van der Merwe with the respect due a wealthy and powerful man, but now he could feel the stares and whispers behind his back. The family that occupied the pew next to him moved to another pew. He was a pariah. What broke his spirit completely was the minister’s thundering sermon artfully combining Exodus and Ezekiel and Leviticus. “I, the Lord thy God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children. Wherefor, O harlot, hear the word of the Lord. Because thy filthiness was poured out, and thy nakedness discovered through thy whoredoms with thy lovers… And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying, ‘Do not prostitute thy daughter, to cause her to be a whore; lest the land fall to whoredom and the land become full of wickedness.…’”

Van der Merwe never set foot in church again after that Sunday.

As Salomon van der Merwe’s business deteriorated, Jamie McGregor’s prospered. The expense of mining for diamonds increased as the digging got deeper, and miners with working claims found they were unable to afford the elaborate equipment needed. The word quickly spread that Jamie McGregor would provide financing in exchange for a share in the mines, and in time Jamie bought out his partners. He invested in real estate and businesses and gold. He was meticulously honest in
his dealings, and as his reputation spread, more people came to him to do business.

There were two banks in town, and when one of them failed because of inept management, Jamie bought it, putting in his own people and keeping his name out of the transaction.

Everything Jamie touched seemed to prosper. He was successful and wealthy beyond his boyhood dreams, but it meant little to him. He measured his successes only by Salomon van der Merwe’s failures. His revenge had still only begun.

From time to time, Jamie passed Margaret on the street. He took no notice of her.

Jamie had no idea what those chance encounters did to Margaret. The sight of him took her breath away, and she had to stop until she regained control of herself. She still loved him, completely and utterly. Nothing could ever change that. He had used her body to punish her father, but Margaret knew that that could be a double-edged sword. Soon she would have Jamie’s baby, and when he saw that baby, his own flesh and blood, he would marry her and give his child a name. Margaret would become Mrs. Jamie McGregor, and she asked nothing more from life. At night before Margaret went to sleep, she would touch her swollen belly and whisper, “Our son.” It was probably foolish to think she could influence its sex, but she did not want to overlook any possibility. Every man wanted a son.

As her womb swelled, Margaret became more frightened. She wished she had someone to talk to. But the women of the town did not speak to her. Their religion taught them punishment, not forgiveness. She was alone, surrounded by strangers, and she wept in the night for herself and for her unborn baby.

Jamie McGregor had bought a two-story building in the heart of Klipdrift, and he used it as headquarters for his growing enterprises. One day, Harry McMillan, Jamie’s chief accountant, had a talk with him.

“We’re combining your companies,” he told Jamie, “and we need a corporate name. Do you have any suggestions?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Jamie thought about it. In his mind he kept hearing the sound
of long-ago echoes piercing the sea
mis
on the diamond field in the Namib Desert, and he knew there was only one name he wanted. He summoned the accountant. “We’re going to call the new company Kruger-Brent. Kruger-Brent Limited.”

Alvin Cory, Jamie’s bank manager, stopped in to visit him. “It’s about Mr. van der Merwe’s loans,” he said. “He’s fallen very far behind. In the past he’s been a good risk, but his situation has drastically changed, Mr. McGregor. I think we should call in his loans.”

“No.”

Cory looked at Jamie in surprise. “He came in this morning trying to borrow more money to—”

“Give it to him. Give him everything he wants.”

The manager got to his feet. “Whatever you say, Mr. McGregor. I’ll tell him that you—”

“Tell him nothing. Just give him the money.”

Every morning Margaret arose at five o’clock to bake large loaves of wonderful-smelling bread and sourdough biscuits, and when the boarders trooped into the dining room for breakfast, she served them porridge and ham and eggs, buckwheat cakes, sweet rolls and pots of steaming coffee and
naartje
. The majority of the guests at the boardinghouse were prospectors on their way to and from their claims. They would stop off in Klipdrift long enough to have their diamonds appraised, have a bath, get drunk and visit one of the town’s brothels—usually in that order. They were for the most part rough, illiterate adventurers.

There was an unwritten law in Klipdrift that nice women were not to be molested. If a man wanted sex, he went to a whore. Margaret van der Merwe, however, was a challenge, for she fit into neither category. Nice girls who were single did not get pregnant, and the theory went that since Margaret had fallen once, she was probably eager to bed everyone else. All they had to do was ask. They did.

Some of the prospectors were open and blatant; others were leering and furtive. Margaret handled them all with quiet dignity.
But one night as Mrs. Owens was preparing for bed, she heard screams coming from Margaret’s room at the back of the house. The landlady flung the door open and rushed in. One of the guests, a drunken prospector, had ripped off Margaret’s nightgown and had her pinned down on the bed.

Mrs. Owens was on him like a tiger. She picked up a flatiron and began hitting him with it. She was half the size of the prospector, but it made no difference. Filled with an overpowering rage, she knocked the prospector unconscious and dragged him into the hallway and out to the street. Then she turned and hurried back to Margaret’s room. Margaret was wiping the blood off her lips from where the man had bitten her. Her hands were trembling.

“Are you all right, Maggie?”

“Yes. I—thank you, Mrs. Owens.”

Unbidden tears sprang into Margaret’s eyes. In a town where few people even spoke to her, here was someone who had shown kindness.

Mrs. Owens studied Margaret’s swollen belly and thought,
The poor dreamer. Jamie McGregor will never marry her
.

The time of confinement was drawing close. Margaret tired easily now, and bending down and getting up again was an effort. Her only joy was when she felt her baby stir inside her. She and her son were completely alone in the world, and she talked to him hour after hour, telling him all the wonderful things that life had in store for him.

Late one evening, shortly after supper, a young black boy appeared at the boardinghouse and handed Margaret a sealed letter.

“I’m to wait for an answer,” the boy told her.

Margaret read the letter, then read it again, very slowly. “Yes,” she said. “The answer is yes.”

The following Friday, promptly at noon, Margaret arrived in front of Madam Agnes’s bordello. A sign on the front door read Closed. Margaret rapped tentatively on the door, ignoring the
startled glances of the passers-by. She wondered if she had made a mistake by coming here. It had been a difficult decision, and she had accepted only out of a terrible loneliness. The letter had read:

Dear Miss van der Merwe:

It’s none of my business, but my girls and me have been discussing your unfortunate and unfair situation, and we think it’s a damned shame. We would like to help you and your baby. If it would not embarrass you, we would be honored to have you come to lunch. Would Friday at noon be convenient?

Respectfully yours,

Madam Agnes

P.S
. We would be very discreet.

Margaret was debating whether to leave, when the door was opened by Madam Agnes.

She took Margaret’s arm and said, “Come in, dearie. Let’s get you out of this damned heat.”

She led her into the parlor, furnished with Victorian red-plush couches and chairs and tables. The room had been decorated with ribbons and streamers and—from God knows where—brightly colored balloons. Crudely lettered cardboard signs hanging from the ceiling read:
WELCOME BABY
…
IT’S GOING TO BE A BOY
…
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
.

In the parlor were eight of Madam Agnes’s girls, in a variety of sizes, ages and colors. They had all dressed for the occasion under Madam Agnes’s tutelage. They wore conservative afternoon gowns and no makeup.
They look
, Margaret thought in wonder,
more respectable than most of the wives in this town
.

Margaret stared at the roomful of prostitutes, not quite knowing what to do. Some of the faces were familiar. Margaret had waited on them when she worked in her father’s store. Some of the girls were young and quite beautiful. A few were older and fleshy, with obviously dyed hair. But they all had one thing in common—they
cared
. They were friendly and warm and kind, and they wanted to make her happy.

They hovered around Margaret self-consciously, afraid of
saying or doing the wrong thing. No matter what the townspeople said, they knew this was a lady, and they were aware of the difference between Margaret and themselves. They were honored that she had come to them, and they were determined not to let anything spoil this party for her.

“We fixed you a nice lunch, honey,” Madam Agnes said. “I hope you’re hungry.”

They led her into the dining room, where a table had been festively set, with a bottle of champagne at Margaret’s place. As they walked through the hallway, Margaret glanced toward the stairs that led to the bedrooms on the second floor. She knew Jamie visited here, and she wondered which of the girls he chose. All of them, perhaps. And she studied them again and wondered what it was they had for Jamie that she did not.

The luncheon turned out to be a banquet. It began with a delicious cold soup and salad, followed by fresh carp. After that came mutton and duck with potatoes and vegetables. There was a tipsy cake and cheese and fruit and coffee. Margaret found herself eating heartily and enjoying herself immensely. She was seated at the head of the table, Madam Agnes on her right, and Maggie, a lovely blond girl who could have been no more than sixteen, on her left. In the beginning the conversation was stilted. The girls had dozens of amusing, bawdy stories to tell, but they were not the kind they felt Margaret should hear. And so they talked about the weather and about how Klipdrift was growing, and about the future of South Africa. They were knowledgeable about politics and the economy and diamonds because they got their information firsthand from experts.

Once, the pretty blonde, Maggie, said, “Jamie’s just found a new diamond field at—” And as the room went suddenly silent and she realized her gaffe, she added nervously, “That’s my
Uncle
Jamie. He’s—he’s married to my aunt.”

Margaret was surprised by the sudden wave of jealousy that swept through her. Madam Agnes hastily changed the subject.

When the luncheon was finished, Madam Agnes rose and said, “This way, honey.”

Margaret and the girls followed her into a second parlor which
Margaret had not seen before. It was filled with dozens of gifts, all of them beautifully wrapped. Margaret could not believe her eyes.

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Open them,” Madam Agnes told Margaret.

There was a rocking cradle, handmade bootees, sacques, embroidered bonnets, a long, embroidered cashmere cloak. There were French-kid button shoes, a child’s silver cup, gold-lined, and a comb and brush with solid sterling-silver handles. There were solid-gold baby bib pins with beaded edges, a celluloid baby rattle and rubber teething ring and a rocking horse painted dapple gray. There were toy soldiers, brightly colored wooden blocks and the most beautiful thing of all: a long, white christening dress.

It was like Christmas. It was beyond anything Margaret had ever expected. All the bottled-up loneliness and unhappiness of the past months exploded in her, and she burst into sobs.

Madam Agnes put her arms around her and said to the other girls, “Get out.”

They quietly left the room. Madam Agnes led Margaret to a couch and sat there holding her until the sobs subsided.

“I—I’m so sorry,” Margaret stammered. “I—I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s all right, honey. This room has seen a lot of problems come and go. And you know what I’ve learned? Somehow, in the end everything always gets sorted out. You and your baby are gonna be just fine.”

“Thank you,” Margaret whispered. She gestured toward the piles of presents. “I can never thank you and your friends enough for—”

Madam Agnes squeezed Margaret’s hand. “Don’t. You don’t have no idea how much fun the girls and me had gettin’ all this together. We don’t get a chance to do this kind of thing very often. When one of
us
gets pregnant, it’s a fuckin’ tragedy.” Her hands flew to her mouth and she said, “Oh! Excuse me!”

Margaret smiled. “I just want you to know that this has been one of the nicest days of my life.”

“We’re real honored that you came to visit us, honey. As far as I’m concerned, you’re worth all the women in this town put together. Those damned bitches! I could kill them for the way they’re behavin’ to you. And if you don’t mind my sayin’ so, Jamie McGregor is a damned fool.” She rose to her feet. “Men! It would be a wonderful world if we could live without the bastards. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Who knows?”