Christopher Hope - Kruger's Alp

But Joyce had now actually wrested one of Blanchaille’s cases from him and was carrying it down the road. She took no notice of Makapan.

And so I saw how Blanchaille and the woman went on together. And in my dream I heard Joyce question Blanchaille, saying: ‘Mr Makapan is a good man, but he is thick. He is thick in his head. He said Joyce must come to his side. If Joyce comes to his side then Father Rischa will come back and we will be happy again. Every night I sleep out in the cold waiting. I am tired of waiting. Why is Father going overseas?’

‘I believe I will find a better place there.’

‘And who told you of the better place?’

‘It is written in a book.’

‘Ah,’ Joyce seemed pleased. ‘In the book of the Lord?’

‘No, it is in the book of the President.’

‘Of the President Bubé?’

‘No, of another President, of old President Kruger.’

‘Has he also been overseas?’

‘Yes. He was the only President who had been overseas until President Bubé went.’

‘I have heard something of him. And the words in this book — are they true?’

Blanchaille hesitated. ‘I cannot say if they are true, indeed it is said by some that this book does not exist. But if they are not true, these words, then they are interesting.’

‘And what do they speak of, these promises in the book?’

‘It is written that there is a place for hopeless souls who are tired of too much wandering. Good souls, African souls, who seek rest will find it in this special place.’

Joyce seized his elbow with such a powerful grip that he gasped. ‘And what else?’

‘There all people will be equal, there will be no segregation, no pass laws, no black and white skins, no separate lavatories, no servants’ quarters, no resettlement camps. In that place friends who have disappeared will be found again and even some we thought were dead will greet us. There will be no police stations, no torture, no barbed wire, no guns, no soldiers and no bombs.’

‘And in this place,’ Joyce yipped excitedly catching the spirit of his peroration, and relying no doubt on her Bible reading, ‘will we wear white clothes and golden crowns?’

‘White clothes, certainly,’ Blanchaille replied with all the conviction he could muster, ‘but I cannot say about the crowns.’

‘Yes. Golden crowns!’ Joyce insisted with an expectant smile as if she were feeding clues to a not very bright child. She tapped her head. ‘But not for wearing, maybe.’

At last he understood her. ‘You mean coins. Golden coins! Krugerrands?’

Joyce nodded, satisfied to hear the words. ‘That is what I remember of that old President, golden coins,’ and she skipped before him like a child down the dirt road, despite the heavy suitcase she carried. ‘Come on then. Let’s go, my Father.’

My Father? Her temerity enraged him. First she had attached herself to Father Rischa, the sprinting Syrian, entranced by his popularity, then she left Blanchaille for his lack of it; she went over to the Parish Consensus Committee and now without a blink she had deserted them and returned to her original master in the mistaken belief that after all perhaps he offered the better deal. Look how she skipped ahead of him! Why she even lifted the suitcase onto her head in the way women carry water from the well and with it wonderfully balanced there she danced and jigged! It would do no good to talk to her of the difficulties of leaving without permission, without a ticket or passport. This was scarcely the time for discussion. But there were other ways perhaps. He had no intention of leaving before paying a few last calls, to Bishop Blashford in particular, perhaps to Gabriel. Ecclesiastical authority might do to Joyce what he could not. A momentary access of charity afflicted him at this point and he thought that he might have misjudged her, that perhaps she was a poor weak creature, easily swayed; but commonsense reasserted itself to tell him that this was nonsense, she was a ferocious woman determined on escape and mere legal detail would not deter her; that she had no permission or papers was no obstacle, for while she was with him, he was her permission, her passport, and her ticket. Her heavy body shook under her white skirt and blouse. Her head-dress was beautifully ironed. She endeavoured to look like a nun of the old sort, from the days before nuns began dressing like traffic wardens. If ever the situation changed and revolutionary firing squads roamed the streets executing their enemies, Joyce would be there, praying as the bodies hit the ground: ‘He let me down, but forgive him, if you can.’

And now I saw in my dream how the road which Blanchaille and Joyce followed took them past a great township on the edge of the city. Perhaps this was the township in which Blanchaille’s friend Miranda had died, but if so he gave no indication of it. And outside this township, beside the usual scrolls of barbed wire so ornate they took on the look of some lean and spiky sculpture, the priest and his housekeeper saw police vans and Saracen armoured cars crowded in at the gates and armed policemen in positions on the roofs of the houses and in trees and on any high vantage point, training their guns on the township.

And then I saw a short, stocky man with a sub-machine gun under his arm step forward and introduce himself to the two travellers as Colonel Schlagter. This Schlagter was a burly capable-looking man, but that he was under some strain was clearly apparent from the tight grip he kept on the black machine gun, jabbing it at them and demanding to know their business.

‘We are on a journey,’ Blanchaille explained, indicating the suitcases.

Schlagter jerked his thumb at Joyce. ‘Does this girl have a permit to be here? No one is allowed without a permit. Why is she outside? Why is she not inside with the others?’

‘She’s with me. She’s my servant,’ Blanchaille explained.

‘O.K., in that case she can help you.’ Schlagter turned to Joyce. ‘I hope you got strong arms, my girl. There’s lots of work for you here. Now both of you listen to me. This is the position. I’m commandeering you in terms of the State of Emergency, which gives me the right under the regulations to commandeer any civilians who in the opinion of the military commander or senior police officer on the scene may contribute to the safety of the State.’

‘But what has happened? There’s been trouble here, hasn’t there?’ Blanchaille demanded. ‘I thought the townships were peaceful.’

Now this was a telling point because one of the proudest boasts of the Regime at that time was of the peace to be found in the townships. Full-page advertisements appeared in international newspapers: they showed happy scenes, a group of children playing soccer; a roomful of smiling women taking sewing lessons; a crowded beer hall full of happy customers, and over the photographs the headline: YOU ARE LOOKING AT A RIOT IN A SOUTH AFRICAN TOWNSHIP. Trudy Yssel’s Department of Communications ran this campaign with great success.

‘The townships are peaceful. Don’t you bother about that,’ Schlagter snapped. ‘Come along with me please.’

He led them into the township where before the huge and fortified police station a bleak sight met their eyes. In the dust there lay scores of people, very still, with just an edge of clothing, a corner of a dress, the tip of a headscarf lifting in the gentle breeze which carried on it the unmistakable heavy smell of meat and blood. Joyce put down the suitcase and drew close to Blanchaille, seizing his wrist in her terrible grip.

‘Where have you brought Joyce? I believed in Father and where has he brought me?’

‘We must do as he says,’ Blanchaille whispered.