Текст книги "Kruger's Alp"

Автор книги: Christopher Hope

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

‘To begin with he found that some of the monies listed in departmental spending had actually been channelled elsewhere, they appeared to him to have gone to Minister Gus Kuiker. It disturbed him. He went to Sidleman, the Government Accountant, and reported his discovery. Sidleman hit the roof. He was another Government man. He didn’t understand why the official figures did not reflect the truth. Apparently he asked Ferreira if he was suggesting that elected officials were setting up secret funds of public money. Ferreira replied that he wasn’t suggesting anything of the sort, but he wanted to know why the figures didn’t add up. Sidleman went to the President who promised a full investigation. In the meantime he told Sidleman to call off Ferreira and to stop his enquiries. But that was impossible. He had to follow where the figures led. There was no stopping Ferreira. Everywhere he looked he uncovered further mysteries. Not only did he find, as he went through the files of the various Government departments, that there was money leaving the country for unexplained reasons, there were also funds reaching Government coffers which he couldn’t account for. The figures led him abroad. To South America, Bermuda, France. He was shown houses on the Italian Riviera, farmhouses in the South of France and learnt they belonged to Gus Kuiker and Trudy Yssel. The Department of Communications was waging a foreign war against secret funds. He travelled on, to Rome, Washington and then Switzerland. Everywhere he went he heard the most astonishing stories. He heard of wild nights in Montevideo, week-long sex parties in Las Vegas, of private jets for American politicians and free holidays for British editors. He learnt about dummy companies set up in Bermuda and Panama which were used to buy up or buy off political commentators; he found deals as bizarre as the plan to arrange a tour of Japan by our rugby players in exchange for a tour of the casino nightclubs by Japanese sumo wrestlers and for the tour to be extensively covered by a Taiwanese news agency which would circulate the story as evidence of our racial tolerance; in Switzerland he found companies set up to translate South African currency into American dollars, apparently an expensive business, and he found that this accounted for some of the millions he had detected draining out of our foreign reserves; in Switzerland too he came across disturbing rumours of deals between important men of the Regime and the whole raft of currency manipulators, he learnt of promises not kept, of secret deals, secret accounts, gold sales and Russian contacts. Perhaps he unearthed the true story of Popov. By the time he got to London he was shattered. He got in touch with Zandrotti. Perhaps he needed to talk to a friend. He got drunk, he probably told Roberto more than he’d intended. Of course Zandrotti got it in one. Ferreira still didn’t realise the full implications of his discoveries but Zandrotti did. I think with that wild, anarchic mind of his he probably got it in a flash, saw the horrible black farce it was. Ferreira was overwhelmed by the tragedy. But Zandrotti saw the joke.’

‘And Zandrotti went home – to find out for himself?’ Kipsel asked. ‘He couldn’t believe it.’

Blanchaille looked surprised. ‘Oh no, he went home because he refused to believe it. I remember how he was in Balthazar Buildings after he’d been caught by the police. Zandrotti was broken, he’d lived his whole life in the belief that the Regime was genuinely, thoroughly, consistently and impressively, let’s face it, evil. He grew up in that belief, he’d suffered for it, he’d gone to jail for it, he’d lived in exile for it. It was, when you think about it, a very high expectation. He had a worthwhile enemy. You can imagine what it did to him when Ferreira told him he was dealing with a bunch of crooks. He hadn’t been a hero. He’d been a fool. He was not going to have that. My guess is that he booked his flight home and then saw Magdalena.’

‘Who shopped him, of course,’ Kipsel snapped.

Blanchaille understood the anger of his friend; how the business of Magdalena’s betrayal still hurt.

‘My feeling – guess – is that was just what he wanted. Heaven knows what came pouring out between bursts of the litany in the bar where Ferreira told Zandrotti his story. Some clue, perhaps, which gave Magdalena’s double game away. And Zandrotti used her.’

‘It makes a change,’ said Kipsel.

‘Ferreira believed in figures. He also believed in the integrity of the Regime. Mad it might be, but honest. Negative, but sincere. Narrow, but forthright. The Regime had set its face against blacks, Communists, Jews, Catholics, against compromise, liberalisation, democracy. This might be narrow, foolish even, but it was a question of principles. And he could admire people with principles, who would die for those principles. As for himself, well somebody had to do the sums, as he liked to say. He had kept the faith. Now he found the Regime dealing with the Russians through Popov and Himmelfarber —’

‘And Himmelfarber’s nephew, left in Moscow on deposit,’ Kipsel reminded him gloomily. ‘Blanchie, this gets blacker.’

‘And Himmelfarber was supposed to be an enemy. But gold as we know is more important than principles. The Regime had dealt with Moscow when they moved bullion dealings from London to Zurich. In Switzerland he’d heard rumours that some big man in the Regime had cleaned up on the move. Then he discovered money going to the Israelis! Now the orthodox teaching was that at least half of the Regime was of the unshakable opinion that Hitler got a bad press and was really a sensitive, patriotic house painter at heart who became Chancellor and was looking for nothing more than sweetness and light and that any stories to the contrary were products of commy, pinko Jews, who wished to destroy the white man’s way of life, his religious beliefs, and to sleep with his daughters – and yet here was the Government supporting whole teams of Israelis and concealing them in the countryside. Israelis who wore baseball caps the wrong way round and disturbed the peace of the countryside, cost a fortune to police and protect and then desecrated the Calvinist Sabbath by drinking and whoring in sleepy country towns. Most important of all, he’d been taught that the President was the father of his country and its stay and protection in times of trouble, that he would lead the nation in the flight to the beaches when, and if, by some horrible catastrophe, the savages prevailed and the last white tribe in Africa faced extinction. Then, with his back to the sea, the President would hand round the poison to the kids and begin shooting the women before the enemy troops arrived. That’s what he believed, and then blow me down, he goes out and finds that the old fox has been salting money away for years in a Swiss account against just such a contingency, against that rainy day which might carry him off to Bolivia or Paraguay.’

‘Then he goes back to his books and finds he isn’t looking at figures, he’s reading a horror novel,’ Kipsel broke in. ‘He finds not one financial nightmare but three or four. There are the funds creamed off the various Government departments and sent abroad secretly for Kuiker and Yssel’s Department of Communications to fight its propaganda war. There is the money Bubé has been collecting in his secret accounts against a rainy day.’

‘And there are the funds entering the country which presumably baffle the hell out of him until he interviews the brokers Kranz, Lundquist and Skellum. And his last and most cherished belief collapses. He finds out about the Manus Virginis with their strategic charity, how the Ring collaborates with them in tactical investments in the future of the Regime.’

Kipsel sighed. ‘Poor Tony. Finding that the Church was in it too will have hurt more than anything.’

‘Yes, but not for the reasons you think. What crucified Ferriera when he discovered the links between the Regime, the Ring and the Hand, with the Nuncio Agnelli acting as flyhalf, was that the Church really was powerful after all. Tony had never accepted Lynch’s theories about the structure of power. He rejected the Church as played-out, ineffectual, unimportant. And he was wrong. Everywhere he looked he found a policy of outright deception. There was the Church going around the country issuing statements about embracing its black brethren in Christ. There was Bishop Blashford publicly deploring the shipment of human populations to the transit camps and relegation of entire tribes to desolate “homelands”, and defying the Regime to arrest him. There were the charitable bodies shipping in dried milk and penicillin and designing new churches in the beehive style and attacking the Regime for being in league with the devil and preaching that the programme of separate freedom for ethnic groups was a crime against humanity, an economic nonsense and a sin against the Holy Spirit. While this was going on, here was the Regime whose followers took an oath of loyalty to Calvin before they slept and believed the Pope feasted on baby meat and sucked the marrow from the bones of orphans, meeting with certain Italian Societies, and here were its loyal followers in that most secret of societies, the Ring, those ultra-Calvinists, sitting round a table with a bunch of genuine opera-loving flesh and blood holy Romans, fresh from the Vatican, representing the Manus Virginis and discussing share portfolios. One by one, every belief he held had been destroyed. Lynch had been right. And if Lynch had been right about the deceptions, he was right about all the other things too – including the missing Kruger millions, right about the house on the hill. It was in this despairing state that he phoned me.’

Kipsel was very pale. ‘I didn’t know he phoned you.’

‘Just before he died. I was one of the last people to speak to him.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That I should get out. That he had found the City of God, or Gold. The line was bad. He was slightly hysterical, said he was planning a trip himself. He sent me money. Next thing I knew he was dead.’

‘And here you are?’

‘And here we are.’

Kipsel swore bitterly, then scrambled to his feet and picked up his stick and rucksack. ‘Let’s get on. I don’t want to know any more. Tony “the Pug” Sidelsky! The whole thing’s a horrid cheap little pantomime. Do you think it’s much further?’

‘I hope not, I hope not,’ said Blanchaille fervently. ‘I’ve had about as much as I can take. All my prayers are that God preserve me from any more of my itinerant, wandering, bemused, addle-brained countrymen, from policemen, rugby players, patriots, accountants, priests and presidents.’

‘Amen,’ said Kipsel.

CHAPTER 23

And so I saw in my dream how they hurried on their way, anxious to arrive somewhere, anywhere, elsewhere, the pear and the fish, strange partners.

Fearful imaginings crowded in on Blanchaille and left him weak and uncertain of his true direction, characteristic phobias, indigenous phantoms, familiar demons arose from the catalogues every South African recites before sleep and loves to recall with horror. Black men hunted with huge home-made knives beaten out of oil drums or made from railway steel ripped from the sleepers, flattened by a maniac, hammered, honed to a scalpel’s edge, metal machetes called pangas, slicing the air; he remembered white boys, so huge, so long and lanky they reminded him of giraffes, against whom he had played rugby, boys with strangely dark complexions and moustaches, surely men, and not that white! They raced down the rugby fields towards you with that stiff-legged giraffe gait, their hooves wrenching the turf. These monsters were surely never the babies which loyal white mothers had had for Bubé? No, these boy giants were born with full moustaches – wearing rugby boots. Their call-up papers were delivered to the maternity wing, they leapt from their cradles, kissed their new mothers goodbye and went off to defend their country’s borders against the Total Onslaught. Thus the dreams of misplaced, wandering white Africans, each with his own compendium of horrors, stories of tokoloshes, green and black mambas, murdered nuns. Each has his favourite, but most fearful for Blanchaille was the memory of a crop of graves he had watched growing in the camps. Growing and growing. If there was a symbol that scared him, it was not the gun nor the knife nor the snake – but the spade. In the camps he had learnt to dig. He had stood in the big trench grave and thrown red sand up onto the parapet, mounting higher and higher. He had felt he was digging in for a great war. What he now feared most as he slogged along an obscure Swiss track towards an improbable destination was not ambush or betrayal, but arrival. In the old story, the Regime was regarded by its opponents as utterly evil, by its supporters as divinely good. Everyone dwelt among absolutes and was happy. Now it seemed that the Regime was no better or worse than two dozen other shabby little dictatorships north of the border. He stole a glance at Kipsel, a tousle of curls falling over the shallow brow, the fish lips making their silent, pouting little o’s. Had it occurred to him that if the hell he had left behind wasn’t as bad as they had believed or hoped – then might not the place to which they travelled be no better than anyone might imagine?

What do you do when you find that the world you imagined to be bad, decently evil and have judged this so by observation and report and legend, fact and figure, is none of these, but is instead flat, dull, ordinary and very much like anywhere else? You have believed in its evil, trusted in it, you have been convinced by friend and enemy alike of its horror, have had it whispered to you in the cradle, written on the bodies of men in the cells, the message is one which has reassured the condemned as they are led to the gallows and made for an enemy worth fighting against – but, what if everything turns around suddenly, turns upside down and becomes in truth, banal? When it reveals to you that thing which you can least bear? That it is, in reality, very ordinary? Well, what you do is to keep climbing, and to dream, and to come in your dream, as Kipsel and Blanchaille did now, to the crossroads.

And into my dream there now steps a strange figure, his perfect teeth flashing like a sword. The teeth are noticeable for they are all that can be seen behind the African mask he wears, a wooden mask with black lines incised on the cheek bones and a fuzz of hair made from sacking falling down almost to the eyes and where the ears should be.

The travellers stared at this strange figure. Their road was little more than a track. The tree-line was ending. The pines that had been climbing steadily beside them had grown thin and feeble and were now tottering to a halt. It was from behind one of these ailing trees that there stepped the figure in the mask and unsheathed its smile. The lake below was lost in a distant blue haze and might have been the sky. It might have been that the whole world turned suddenly on its head.

The creature before them was dressed in tribal finery of an African chief, though of which tribe neither of them could say, but certainly he looked very regal, war-like and confident, and most bizarre on that green mountainside. He was planted squarely on the spot where the roads divided. There was, it occurred to Blanchaille, something vaguely familiar about his costume though he couldn’t put his finger on it.

‘We’re looking for the road to Uncle Paul’s place,’ said Kipsel politely. ‘Perhaps you can direct us?’

Blanchaille examined this strange tribal creature. He wore a kind of cap of fur with the arms and tail dangling round his head, a monkey pelt across his shoulders, he carried a short stabbing spear and a cowhide shield. Beneath it all he wore a black morning suit and highly polished shoes.

‘How would you describe the place you’re looking for?’ the stranger asked.

‘A place of rest,’ said Blanchaille.

‘A holiday home,’ said Kipsel.

‘Retirement village, old-age home, hospice,’ said Blanchaille.

‘A home-from-home, hide-out, colony, camp,’ said Kipsel.

The figure nodded. ‘Follow me.’

And he led them along the road which turned to the right and passed along the shoulder of the mountain. The sun was setting and a small chill wind was blowing. They followed him in silence and so compelling was his presence that they covered considerable ground before they realised the road had levelled out and was beginning to descend.

‘Wait,’ said Blanchaille. ‘This can’t be right.’

‘I’m doing you a favour,’ said their guide. ‘Don’t argue. Keep moving. Don’t look back.’

‘But we’re going down,’ said Blanchaille. ‘We’re not supposed to be going down.’

‘Where does this road lead?’ Blanchaille asked.

The stranger stopped. He turned and confronted them and very slowly removed his tribal mask.

‘Gabriel!’ Kispel said.

‘I tried to help. It’s the least I can do for old friends. I want to help you.’

‘Where does this road lead?’ Blanchaille asked again.

‘To Geneva, the airport and home.’

‘But that’s the way we’ve come,’ Kipsel said.

‘Of course it is. I asked what you wanted and you said home, hotel, hospice, guest house, retirement village. That’s what you’re wanting and this is the road that leads to it. This is the only road that leads to it.’

‘That wasn’t the home we had in mind.’ Blanchaille objected.

‘It’s the only home you have. There is nothing where you are going. Believe me, trust me.’

Despite himself Blanchaille laughed.

Gabriel became angry. ‘Yes, laugh! Maybe you won’t get another chance. The joke’s over. Come home with me. Face up to reality – or go on and fall off the edge of the world.’

‘If you want to help someone, what about your brother? He’s still wandering about here. He’s got a piece of paper in his hand that he believes will give him the title to some fabulous strip of land where he’ll be king and everyone will be equal and live happily ever after. Why not take him home?’ Blanchaille asked.

‘My brother is in a real sense quite unreachable,’ said Gabriel. ‘My brother’s on another plane. He imagines himself as a great explorer. He thinks he can reverse history. He believes he can set out with his piece of paper and imagines he will discover the New World. Like he’s Columbus in reverse. Or Van Riebeeck going the other way to rediscover the Cape of Good Hope. He plans to reopen the Garden of Eden, which he thinks has just been closed for repairs.’

‘We saw the guarantor of his dream of Eden being led down the mountain in chains,’ said Blanchaille.

Gabriel shrugged. ‘Correction. You’ve seen Bubé in chains. What Looksmart sees is another matter.’

‘You sent Looksmart to Philadelphia.’

‘Another correction. I didn’t send him to Philadelphia. He took up with some girl and landed there. All I did was to get him on the plane to America, one step ahead of the police.’

‘So you warned him the police were coming?’

‘Of course.’

‘And who warned you?’

Gabriel shrugged.

‘You don’t deny it then?’

‘Why should I?’

Kipsel who had been listening to this exchange in bewilderment now broke in. ‘What are you saying, Gabriel? That it was you who talked to the police?’

‘How else do you think I got him out? Sometimes, it’s necessary to talk, to deal.’

‘But the police hurt your brother,’ said Kipsel. ‘They nearly killed him.’

For the first time Gabriel showed signs of impatience. ‘Jesus you guys are so tiresome. I’ve tried to help you before, Blanchie. I got you into Pennyheaven. To do that I talked to Blashford. But then I’ve talked to the Afrika Straf Kaffir Brigade and to the Liberation Front, in my time. But you guys won’t have it, will you? I’m the only one who understood it wasn’t enough to hear what Lynch taught us. We have to act on it! I am brave enough, desperate enough to do what’s necessary, because we plan to win.’

‘So do the other side.’

‘Naturally this gives us something in common. So we talk to each other. It’s a complex balance.’

‘Gabriel. What are you saying?’ Kipsel was aghast. ‘People are dead. Mickey, Ferreira, Van Vuuren – friends!’

‘Van Vuuren was no friend. Besides he brought it on himself. If you want to blame somebody, blame the Regime. You can’t send policemen snooping around the Azanian Front. If the Regime wants to talk they know the way of getting through to us.’

‘But he wasn’t with the Regime. He was one of you!’ Blanchaille cried. ‘Kaiser Zulu sent for him. Van Vuuren came because the ALF called him in.’

‘That’s his story,’ said Gabriel. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if you guys have understood a damn thing.’

He left them then, striding away rapidly into the gathering dark.

Then Blanchaille remembered where he’d seen the tribal dress before. ‘In Balthazar Buildings there was a portrait of Bubé hanging on the wall. He wore ceremonial tribal finery, the skins, the spear, the shield. He wore it to visit the tribes of which he was honorary chief. Gabriel was wearing the same get-up.’

‘As a kind of disguise,’ Kipsel suggested, ever naïve.

‘No. Not a disguise. It shows Gabriel is presidential material.’

Kipsel said he wished he could identify the tribe from which it came.

Blanchaille said it didn’t matter. ‘They probably have a big box of fancy dress tribal finery, or a props cupboard and drag out some vaguely appropriate costume when a ceremonial visit crops up. Something that makes you look vaguely chieftain-like and impressive.’

‘The only thing that worries me is that Bubé, of course, wore it when he made these visits to some wretched tribe who were about to be dumped in the middle of nowhere.’

‘God, how he must have terrified them!’ said Kipsel. ‘Imagine Bubé stepping out of the presidential limousine in that get-up. Imagine what the God-forsaken tribe felt when they saw him. It must have been like getting a sign, the arrival of the messenger of doom,’ said Kipsel.

‘Remember the shepherds warned us about Gabriel,’ Blanchaille pointed out. ‘They said he was no angel.’

‘I still say they weren’t shepherds,’ Kipsel insisted.

‘Please Ronnie, is this the time to argue about shepherds?’

Kipsel agreed it was not perhaps the time.

And I saw in my dream how the two friends began the long haul, retracing their steps back to the crossroads as darkness fell.