Vultures in the Wind

by Peter Rimmer

  “I want to speak to Mister Todd.” He found the number in the phone book, the number of Security Life’s head office.

  “Who is speaking?’

  “Luke Mbeki.”

  ‘Who?” asked the white receptionist, who had never before been given the surname of a black man. They were either Philemon or Fred or Mary, names a white person could understand.

  “Luke Mbeki. Mister Todd is a friend of my father.”

  “I’ll put you through to his secretary.” The whole discussion was repeated with the same degree of impatience at a black man wasting a white woman’s time. Only when he mentioned the scholarship did he receive any attention, and then the woman asked briskly for his name and the address where she could send an application form.

  “I would like to speak to Mister Todd.” Ever since leaving Port St Johns, Luke had been brushed off by white people, and he knew that only a personal interview would give him any kind of chance.

  “I’m sorry: Mister Todd does not speak to applicants until the forms have been completed and processed.”

  “Do you have a telegraphic address?”

  “Of course. Seclife, Johannesburg.”

  “Thank you, miss.” Luke put down the phone. He had had an idea.

  The following day, the secretary in her ivory tower was told personally by David Todd that Mr Mbeki was going to phone and that he was to be put through immediately. Luke’s call had done its work.

  Two years later when Matthew was moving into his flat in Rosebank, Luke was on a boat to Durban harbour at the start of his journey to London. He found it best to keep mostly to his cabin for three weeks, the cabin staff bringing him food. He walked the decks late at night and very early in the morning. The ship was a white man’s ship, and there was no place for a black man in the dining room, let alone in the bar. Luke felt more lonely than be had ever felt in his life.

  Despite his bursary and a generous allowance from the Todd Memorial Trust, Luke found the London School of Economics no better for a black man than the ship, or South Africa for that matter – except for the staff many of whom leaned towards the doctrines of Marx and Lenin.

  The message from Moscow was to befriend the natives from the colonies. Soviet Russia had seen the British were on a wrong premise and they were going to exploit the mistake to their own advantage. After two years at the crammer in downtown Johannesburg, Luke was at last receiving a proper education. Some of the staff went out of their way to assist him, and were willing to make a friend out of the tall black man from the richest country in sub-Saharan Africa.

  Matthew had no further significant dealings with the chairman of the board until he had finished his apprenticeship, after completing six months in each of the various departments. Luke was then beginning his third year BCom and they were both twenty-two years old. Matthew still claimed to be three years older than he actually was, and most of his friends were in their middle or late twenties. He was earning a reasonable salary, although Lucky Kuchinski and Archie Fletcher-Wood were earning considerably more.

  These two were by now Matthew’s most intimate friends. Lucky was in the business of selling cars, which he did with great success, and was also a womaniser second to none. Archie, the oldest of the trio by two years, was working as a salesman for an American drug company. The Americans paid well and demanded a high standard of work, income being largely derived from profit-incentive bonuses. There were no sinecures in the American drug companies in 1954. Reward was in direct proportion to results, and Matthew envied his friends’ ability to increase their income by hard and accurate work. The term ‘yuppie’ was not then in vogue, but Archie and Lucky would undoubtedly have fallen into this category. Matthew quietly resolved that their lifestyle was one he was determined to share – and quickly.

  Once again Matthew had asked for an interview with his godfather, but in his telephone conversation making the appointment he had made it clear that it was a staff member wishing to see the Chief Executive Officer. David Todd prided himself on his claim that he was available to the cleaner boy.

  “This is a lot of rubbish,” said David Todd, waving aside Matthew’s long pondered memorandum that had preceded his visit by twenty four hours. “Lot of damned rubbish. The insurance industry has been around much longer than you or I and every company runs on departmental lines. A marine man leaves fire insurance to the fire department.”

  “Why?” asked Matthew.

  “Because that is what they are trained to do.”

  “But I have been trained in both departments,” Matthew pointed out. “A client or broker can quite easily ask me about Protection and Indemnity insurance for the crew of the ship or Loss of Profits Insurance following a fire in the oil refinery. The ship and crew bring the crude oil, and the refinery turns it into petrol, diesel and a host of other by-products. They belong to one company, and in the company insurance problems are dealt with by one man.”

  “What the hell has that to do with throwing out all my departments? You can’t get a fireman to handle the public liability risk. You can’t have one man handling one client.”

  “Why not? I can do it.”

  “Sit down, Matthew,” David ordered.

  “If we let one man handle Caltex, he would control the account. He could move the business to another company.”

  “Not if we changed the account executives every three years. Like the advertising agents. The bank manager gets changed regularly for security reasons. Imagine a client being able to talk to one man about all the aspects of his insurance, instead of being transferred from one department to the next.”

  “The brokers work in departments,” David pointed out firmly.

  “They are also wrong.”

  “Oh, so you think you know better than the brokers as well.”

  “There is more paper chasing more paper between our departments, their departments and the bemused clients than in any other industry. We even use an insurance language that our clients don’t understand. They give us the wrong loss of profit figures as our gross profit is not the one they see in their profit and loss accounts. There are gaps left in the covers by the departments, double indemnified by two lots of them, ours and the brokers. You can place certain consequential loss risks in the Fire, Marine or Loss of Profits department, and the client only finds out when his claim is refused for being uninsured. Fallen between three stools.”

  “How old are you Matthew?”

  “Twenty-five, sir.”

  “You are twenty-two.”

  “My records in the company show twenty-five.”

  “I know that,” David Todd informed him. “I also know your father did not sell life insurance.”

  “My father would not have sold life insurance in a fit. I needed a job. There was no one in this damn world that cared a stuff about Matthew Gray.”

  “Don’t swear in this office.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “You are a maverick like your father. I like mavericks, but not in my office, not in my business. There is a system. Not everyone is bright enough to absorb all the classes of business. They have to work to a system.”

  “Insurance isn’t such a big subject,” argued Matthew. “Not nearly as large as law or accountancy. A reasonably intelligent man can be trained proficiently in five years. If we cut the mystique and cut the inefficiency, we could reduce our rates by thirty per cent and still make the same percentage profit to premium income. We would end up with half the business in this country just by being efficient, just by translating the insurance language into Anglo-Saxon English.”

  “It could never be done.”

  “Let me try,” Matthew urged him.

  “Not in this company. We would be reduced to chaos in a month.”

  “Then I must offer my resignation.”

  “Seeing that you want to destroy my short-term insurance company, I should think that a very good thing,” replied David, leaning back in his chair. “And when you have put it in writing
, come round to the house for dinner. Rule 17 in Security Life is that I never entertain staff under the rank of branch manager. I’ll put in a word at Price Forbes. They may send you to London to have a look at Lloyd’s. They’re the best training ground for brokers in the country. You can look up Luke Mbeki.”

  “Luke?”

  “You remember Luke?”

  “Of course: I’ve spent years looking for Luke.”

  “Why didn’t you ask your godfather?”

  The one thing Matthew had liked about Security Fire and Accident was having his own office where he could work without interruption from his fellow workers. Price Forbes thought differently and put everyone below the contact managers in rows in communal offices where a single telephone conversation could be heard by everyone, and firing paper clips from rubber bands was an antidote for boredom. If they had not promised him a boat trip to England with six months’ training at Lloyd’s, he would have left the insurance business and taken up Lucky Kuchinski’s suggestion that he sell motor cars.

  Cars were something of a mania with Matthew and as he had quickly worked out the success ratio with dating to the type of motorcar used in his endless quest to satisfy his sex drive. When he was not totally concentrating, Matthew thought of women both in general and in particular. As half the staff in the Price Forbes general office were women, mostly young women, and there were no partitions, the best of his five minute concentrations were broken by the stab in his groin caused by the flash of a leg or a firm breast pushed into a deliberately too small sweater. Both Lucky and Archie were far more successful with women and Matthew put it down to their motor cars. He was taller than either of them by ten centimetres; he no longer had a spot on his face, and had so far never been the whole way with a woman. It had to be the cars.

  Lucky Kuchinski was a Pole with a cleft in his chin that rivalled that of Kirk Douglas, an English accent that was better than any Frenchman’s, and an idiosyncrasy of leaping into the driving seat of his convertible Chevrolet without opening the door. He also had a smile that was equally as irresistible to prospective car owners as it was to young girls.

  Archie had a smart car and experience, and knew which type of woman went for Archibald Fletcher-Wood, ex-manager for Central African Airways at Mongu, Barotseland, and which ones did not. Accordingly, unlike Matthew, he wasted very little of his time on the wrong type and, though he did not boast or even mention his conquests, Matthew by the change in the young ladies’ way of looking at Archie was convinced he was bedding two ‘newbies’ a month. He believed in spreading the happiness.

  Archie rented a cottage not far from Lucky’s showroom, but it was a long way from many of the girls’ more permanent beds, and Archie most often entertained at home where the lighting, the music and the drinks were best suited to the willing seduction of the right young girls. Matthew envied many things about Archie, but most of all his charm. “You mustn’t rush these things, young man,” Archie would explain. “Give them good nosh and soft lights, and talk them into it. Make it look like a big future. Make them feel very comfortable.”

  Matthew had not long turned twenty-two, a fact of which both his friends were quite well aware, despite his claim of being three years older, when Archie and Lucky held a private meeting in the cottage. The subject was Matthew Gray.

  “We can’t let him go to England a virgin. Whatever will they think of the macho South African? Definitely not.”

  “We’ll have to talk to Sandy,” said Lucky. He was relaxing on the big, wide, specially-made-for-Archie couch with a large Bells and soda. It was his third. “He must never suspect that we provided her.”

  “Just telling Sandy that Matthew’s a virgin will send her hormones dancing in the rafters. There are very few virgins left in Johannesburg. The more the Dutchman brings in his morality rules, the more it happens underground. Wonderful place, the big Johannesburg. Will you talk to Sandy?”

  Sandy de Freitas had been through a swift learning curve with men, starting at seventeen when she thought she was in love, and fell pregnant. The young man was the son of a rich industrialist who paid for the abortion and turned Sandy sour for the rest of her life. From then on, she believed not a word any man whispered into her ear and she was determined to make as many men as possible regret her abortion and the destruction of her dreams. The abortion had been a mess and she had only been saved by a D&C in a top clinic to stop the bleeding. Sandy was sure she would never have children.

  By the time Archie explained his problem, she was twenty-five and her looks had peaked. She was magnificent, with an alabaster skin and genuine firm, hard, smooth breasts that turned up. She had firm, hard, smooth, bottom cheeks that turned men crazy when they felt the tucks, and a smooth, long back that was meant to be kissed all over. She had given Archie her enigmatic smile and accepted another Bells and soda. The cocktail bar was quiet and sophisticated, and no one could overhear their conversation.

  “Sandy, why don’t you and I…” Archie began, wishing to settle Matthew’s fate one way or the other, Sandy was also unpredictable.

  “You know I never go back, Archie. Anyway, you are not rich enough. The man in my life at the moment is MD of a car manufacturer and has promised me a car.”

  “He’s promised that car to a lot of girls. What does his wife have today? Married men are a very poor bed.”

  Archie leaned forward and smiled. “Actually, I know just the chap you may be interested in,” he murmured. “A friend of mine; just can’t make him out. Nearly my age; fine brain, terrific personality. The girls at his office all fancy him. But this chap’s hard to get; you know I believe he’s still a virgin! Completely unattached.”

  Sandy fell for the bait immediately. “You must be joking?” she exclaimed. “Tell me more.”

  Archie reeled in the slack. “Goes by the name of Matthew Gray. One of the tallest men in town, and a physique to fill it. He’s in insurance and, believe me, this chap is going right through to the top. Talk about dynamic! It’s unbelievable that no girl’s got hold of him yet; I suspect he’s a very hard nut to crack. Seems to take morality very seriously.”

  Sandy was stimulated by the challenge. “I’d like to meet this Matthew Gray,” she exclaimed animatedly. “Do you think?…”

  Archie was staring over her shoulder, affecting surprise. “Why, look at that!” he gestured. “Matthew himself.”

  “You’re a devil, Archibald, a little devil… Wow, he must be two metres tall.”

  “One hundred and ninety eight centimetres. Matthew this is Sandy de Freitas. You probably know each other from parties.”

  Half an hour later, Archie withdrew and wondered when he reached the parking lot, whether either he or Sandy knew what they wanted from life. He felt slightly miffed, shrugged to himself and drove home. For the first time in months, Archie felt lonely, and put through a call to his long-standing girlfriend in Bulawayo. They had known each other from his days in Mongu, from when he came out of the bush to bustling Bulawayo in Southern Rhodesia, which everyone else would have called a dump. They spent half an hour on the phone.

  That morning, Archie had been offered the job of area manager, a big career leap. There was a stipulation. Area managers had to be married. It was the American rule.

  Archie spent the weekend thinking of his problem and on Sunday afternoon drew out a large piece of white paper and wrote down on the left-hand side, very neatly, the prerequisites of a wife, from sex to cooking to irritating habits. There were nineteen terms, and he gauged each item on the scale of one to ten. Then he wrote the names of five girls he was dating, including the lady from Bulawayo, across the top of the list and set to work. Archie pondered a long time, checking and rechecking before finally adding up the columns. The lady from Bulawayo came second by two points, a lady who had been waiting to marry Archie for five years.

  “Will being engaged be enough to get me the job?” he asked on the Monday morning. On the Monday evening, he proposed, was accepted and on Tuesday became
an area manager with a good chance of further promotion in the company.

  Matthew had returned to Sandy’s flat on the Friday where she had fed him a thick garlic steak and red wine. In every room of the flat, including the loo, she had burnt joss sticks. She had turned down the dinner-out invitation, wanting to play her game on home ground.

  By Monday morning, she knew Matthew was totally infatuated. She was going to do to Matthew Gray what had been done to her at the age of seventeen. She was going to build him up to the highest peak, and then toss him off the mountain.

  It was all too easy. As far as women were concerned, Matthew was considerably experienced in the abstract, but was a complete greenhorn in the concrete. Sandy had no trouble whatsoever in seducing Matthew and making him her slave. Then she withdrew. She became inaccessible.

  One night, in desperation, Matthew went round to her flat after work and determined to stay there until she returned. But Sandy was two steps ahead of him. When the following morning dawned, she had still not returned home, and Matthew had to spend the night slumped on her doorstep.

  He tried to phone her time and again, but there never was a reply. He left urgent notes in her post box. Finally, just as Sandy suspected he might be ready to give up, she phoned him at work and accepted a date with feigned eagerness. Then she simply failed to show up.

  It was a game that kept her amused for a month and sent Matthew kicking doors and getting drunk for a week. He took leave, heart-sick leave.

  Finally, not even the boat trip from Cape Town could turn his mind from the screaming pain of rejection. Sandy had made herself even with men far more deeply than she could ever have hoped. She had made Matthew grow up. She had hurt his feelings. She had made him violently jealous. She had also made the biggest mistake of her life by not marrying a man with the same innocence she had once possessed.

  While Matthew began his rise in life, fuelled by a determination to be rich enough for the likes of Sandy de Freitas, the “but you haven’t any money” ringing in his ears, Sandy began her decline. Blinded by her own hatred, she had missed her own boat.