Christopher Hope - Kruger's Alp

It was Isobel who remained loving and true even when he fell so deeply into these reveries that he forgot who he was or where he lived and spent the winter nights in the streets crouched over the iron gratings from which the hot wind blew, like any other bum. And of course it was Isobel who, when the invitation came to present himself at the Barclay Hotel where ‘he would hear something to his advantage’ encouraged him to go at once.

‘You’ve heard of the wandering Jew, well you’re the wandering African. Finding ways to go home.’

Isobel was a dreamer. And a bit of a dope. But she loved him. And though there are some who say that Looksmart would have learnt more of the genius of America in her arms than in all his researches into Benjamin Franklin, they forget how far gone he already was when he met her.

Looksmart’s head had been repeatedly knocked against the wall by Captain Arrie Breek, who today imports famous crooners and entire Las Vegas girlie line-ups to perform in his Mountainbowl Auditorium, and arranges pro-am golf tournaments at his Palace in the Veld, with million dollar prizes, and his part in the little matter of Looksmart’s head should not be forgotten. When you twirl a glass of water, the glass moves but the water stays still; unfortunately, when the head is struck and moves violently this rotation means the brain tries to move with it, with calamitous results for concentration, pronunciation, locomotion.

Looksmart crossed Rittenhouse Square in brilliant sunshine and went up to a suite on the tenth floor where he met a certain Mr Carstens and his friend, Estelle. Mr Carstens said he was an American with plenty of available capital. Estelle was a friend of his from Looksmart’s country. Carstens wore a vivid green and orange shirt. Estelle was dark, authoritative, and her features were chiselled, determined and pert.

Now again, there are those who say Looksmart should have known the score. He should have spotted who Carstens was. And anyone who had looked at a newspaper in the months past would have identified Estelle as Trudy Yssel. But Looksmart did not know the score and he did not read newspapers, not when he had the mountainous literature of the American Revolution to consume.

‘Mr Dladla,’ said Estelle, ‘we are here with a revolutionary plan.’

‘Mr Dladla,’ said Mr Carstens, ‘you may or may not know that there is in our country a new dispensation. A New Order. Changes are occurring.’

‘Mr Dladla,’ said Estelle, ‘I have here a letter of introduction from your brother, Gabriel. He is one terrific guy. And a friend.’

Again, there are those who charge that Looksmart should have known Carstens was a phoney, that his accent was ridiculous, and, anyway the shirt he wore with its mango sun floating above some palms should have been a dead give-away. But Looksmart had long passed beyond the petty day-to-day treacheries of the Regime. He was out of all that. He had entered a new world.

And they overlooked the letter from Gabriel.

Dear Looksmart,

This is to introduce you to a couple of friends of mine, useful contacts and deep down, I believe, supporters of the cause. They have proposals to put to you which I genuinely believe can promote our struggle for liberation. I urge you to listen carefully to what they have to say and to act quickly.

Remember me in your prayers.

Your brother in Christ, Gabriel Dladla.

‘We represent a force so radical we cannot reveal ourselves,’ said Carstens, ‘so secret it speaks only through its appointed agents. The Regime wouldn’t tolerate our liberal aspirations or pragmatism. The Americans will not believe them. We have a problem. We wish to invest in several of the communications media in this town to promote our message. A couple of radio stations, a closed-circuit TV station and a news magazine.’

‘What can I do for you?’ asked Looksmart.

‘Scepticism, cynicism, downright suspicion of our intentions is what we have to combat. If we are to buy into these businesses, our enemies would cry foul. But if you were to bid, or to allow us to bid for you —’

‘You want me to buy some radio stations?’

‘We will do the actual buying,’ said Carstens.

‘We will do the actual paying,’ said Estelle. ‘But you’ll be the owner.’

Looksmart stared at them, wonderingly. This they misinterpreted.

‘Of course, we would make it worth your while. I understand you are a student of history here. We believe you wander the streets. Sleep rough.’

‘I’m a student of revolution,’ said Looksmart proudly.

‘Aren’t we all?’ said Carstens politely.

‘Don’t want money,’ said Looksmart.

‘That’s up to you. Maybe you want something else. You just tell us and we’ll see if we can help.’ Estelle smiled sweetly.

‘Do you know anyone in the Regime?’ Looksmart demanded. ‘Do you know President Bubé?’

After some hesitation Carstens said he had met the President, briefly, on one of his foreign tours, he thought.

‘O.K.’ said Looksmart. ‘Now this is what I want.’

In the darkness on the mountainside Blanchaille and Kipsel heard him waving what he had got, his slip of paper, his dream. ‘Here it is! Here it is! Pennsylvania here I come!’ The little torch was switched on, the light pale on the paper.

‘You fool,’ said Blanchaille. ‘You idiot!’ Blanchaille yelled. ‘You’ll never do it. Our country is already torn into independent kingdoms, homelands, reserves, group areas, Bantustans, casinostans, tribal trust lands and all you’re proposing to do is to fucking well found another!’

‘Mine will be different!’ Looksmart’s voice cracked and trembled. At Blanchaille’s raised voice he could feel the tears beginning to start. ‘We’ll have no racial separation, no servants, no gold mines, no Calvinists, no faction fights. In my country the Boer will lie down with the Bantu.’

‘Numbskull!’ Blanchaille shrieked. ‘They’re all different. All these places. That’s why there are so many of them. Everybody who is different has got to have one. The one thing we have got in abundance is difference. Difference is hate. Difference is death. I spit on your difference.’ And he did, spitting noisily into the night. ‘You’ve been gypped, by your brother, by the Regime, by yourself.’

They heard the scrabble of paper as Looksmart returned the precious document to his pocket. ‘You can’t scare me,’ he replied through his sobs, ‘I will continue. Oah yes, right on to the end of the road, as the song says. I will enter Uncle Paul’s place and lay my case for a new republic before the lost souls. And they will hear Looksmart, and return with me to our homelands leaving you behind, Blanchie, like the last bit of porridge clinging to the pot.’

Here I truly believe Blanchaille would have leapt at Looksmart and killed him if Kipsel hadn’t pulled him off. The two friends turned to their path again and by starlight continued on up the mountain, soon leaving the sobbing, crippled, cracked visionary far behind.

So I saw in my dream how they arrived by night at the high stone wall and the big iron gates and read by moonlight the name of the place:

BAD KRUGER

On each of the gateposts crouched enormous stone lions, much weathered; rain, snow and wind having smoothed away their eyes and blunted their paws; their crumbling manes were full of shadows. And I saw in my dream how priest and acolyte, or detective and aide, dish and spoon, fisherman and fish, call them what you will, pushed at a big iron gate which opened easily on well-oiled hinges and closed behind them soundlessly. Without any idea of the sort of place they had entered but too tired to stand any longer, they lay down on the grass and slept.