Vultures in the Wind

by Peter Rimmer

  Three more strides took him back to the window. When the Selous Scout kicked open the door and threw a grenade into the lounge, Luke was on the roof lying flat next to the water tank. He could see the Hunter and Vampire jets circling the city. It was a long night for Luke Mbeki.

  Only with the dawn did the Rhodesians withdraw, the aircraft cover being replaced twice during the night. When Luke climbed back into his flat, he found their double bed had been punctured by gunfire. The framed picture of Chelsea stood on the bedside table untouched. Luke began to shake and then he cried. If she had not run away, they would both have been killed, Chelsea and his son. The war of liberation had come right into his bedroom.

  Outside the city, the guerrilla training camp had been devastated. Nearer to Luke the house of Joshua Nkomo had been destroyed, only Luke’s call allowing the big man to be pushed through the bathroom window at the back as the Rhodesians came in the front.

  Three days later Luke caught an aircraft for Moscow and was met at the airport by Hector Fortescue-Smythe who had spent six months in hospital while the doctors repaired his face and fitted an artificial hand to the stump of his arm. Luke shook his left hand.

  “Congratulations,” said Hector, “You were luckier than me. I have a meeting set up with the Russian air force tomorrow. Never again will those clapped-out old Hunters have control of the air.”

  “And the South African defence force? They have Mirage jets.”

  “Still out of date.”

  “But we don’t have any pilots,” protested Luke.

  “But the Cubans do. Some of the best in the world. You and I are going to make sure the liberation armies have control of the air. Armscor’s Achilles heel is aircraft, despite help from the Israelis. They have a gun in development, a field gun that can fire forty-five kilometres and knock out your front door. But no aircraft. We must convince our communist friends to give the Cubans state-of the-art combat aircraft and send them to Angola. Otherwise there is a chance we may lose. The United Nations is shouting from the top of the building in New York at Smith’s blatant aggression, blatant transgression of international borders. But we still need aircraft… And I have some good news for you, Luke. Chelsea is in Lisbon. She called the boy John. He was one years old in September. Congratulations. You have a Portuguese son by the name of John de La Cruz. It’s a crazy world.”

  Luke looked at the man for a moment and shook his head again. Hector could see none of the irony of what he was saying.

  “Was it painful, Hector?”

  “All the time. Still is. Makes me hate a lot better. I’m going to kill that bitch Helena and her father… You can fly from here to Lisbon when we are finished. I made the arrangements. Oh, and your friend Matthew Gray. He’s in Port St Johns. We dropped a large consignment of arms down the coast. Quite a coincidence. Been there for years, living like a hippie. Big-shot Gray living like a hippie! Makes you laugh, doesn’t it? Our friend Ben Munroe did a better job than he ever imagined.”

  Des Donelly met Bishop Porterstone at a fund-raising event for the anti-apartheid movement, and was impressed by the cleric’s sincerity. As an Irishman, he knew what it was like to have been ruled by outsiders, and his sympathy was firmly in the court of the oppressed blacks living under the jackboot of a racist government that did not allow them to vote, live where they liked, or even go to bed with whom they wished, if the cause of the urge to procreate was white, semi-white, Indian or Chinese.

  There were laws which stopped them joining a union, eating in a white restaurant, bathing in the sea or getting into a bus. And if they wished to leave the country with a passport, there was no guarantee that a black man would be allowed to return to the country of his birth. As for starting a business in a white area, it was better to kill a fellow black, the chances of receiving the immediate attention of the police being far less. The way Bishop Porterstone put it, Des had never heard of such repression since Adolf Hitler. Fortunately he had not heard of Joseph Stalin’s agricultural programme that had slaughtered millions more than Adolf, or he may not have been so quick to join his talents to a movement that was said to have communist backing. Des Donelly’s career had reached its peak in the early seventies when he measured up in the top ten rock stars in the world. His name was still a household word but his new records were not selling, and no one wished to send him on tour to hear the shouts and screams of an adoring public. Des Donelly needed applause more than drugs or booze. His addiction was fame. The bishop had used him to draw a crowd and the idea seeped into his craving that just possibly the bishop could be used to draw the crowds for Des Donelly. In England there were dozens of bands and artists who had made a little fame for themselves, and all of them would give more than their talent to appear on a live stage with Des Donelly under the glare of the TV cameras and with a pre-publicity that would match the best of Elton John.

  It took Andrew Porterstone less than five minutes to work out what the rock star was after but he did not care. The idea suited his purpose. The idea was superb. A concert at the Royal Albert Hall, hosted by Des Donelly, with the cream of English and American talent who felt strongly for the cause would attract the television cameras and imagination of the world. It would make all the on-going demonstrations in Trafalgar Square of so little consequence and, best of all, it would raise funds for the cause that was always in need of money.

  A grand, anti-apartheid concert would take off the proverbial rafters. Big black names in the USA would find it impossible to keep away and all of them would give their time and talent free of charge. They would make a record of the concert. They would sell a million copies to the people who hated racism. It was a truly wonderful idea.

  Ben Munroe received a phone call from the bishop at eleven o’clock at night, as the bishop had no idea what time it was in Washington DC. He listened carefully to the laconic bishop.

  “You’ve got Des Donelly!”

  “He came up with the idea.”

  “He’s big over here.”

  “Can you get us the publicity, and two or three big black names?”

  “If you had gone into business, Andrew, you would have made a fortune.”

  “When are you doing another piece on that man Gray?”

  “Tomorrow morning if I could find him.”

  “You do this one for me and I’ll give you his address,” promised the bishop.

  The black car returned to Port St Johns two months after Peace turned one year’s old, when Hector was back in London organising the biggest rock concert in the history of music. It was exactly a year since Hector had lost his right hand and his face the ability to smile. The plastic surgery had been good but left his face static, as if he was wearing a mask.

  Lorna was at the end of the beach by the rocks, the autumn sun playing gently on the bare bottom of her daughter which stuck out of a hole in the sand next to the tail of their dog. They had dug a deep hole and there was not much left of either of them above the ground. Lorna was as content as any mother in the flush of youth could be. Her figure was back to perfection, and she was sure that another child would soon be on its way, the boy they both wanted.

  There was a slight berg wind bringing in warm air from the interior and the sea was rolling in from a kilometre out to sea, where behind the first rollers a small sailing yacht was beating up against the wind. It was late in the afternoon and time for her to pick up the child and return to their hut to cook the evening meal. She wrapped a piece of material around her waist and called the dog, causing another spray of sand to come out of the hole.

  Her hair was almost bleached white by the sun and the surf, the constant play of sun on salt water. Her body, like that of her daughter, was brown as a hazel nut and just as smooth. She picked Peace out of the hole that was filling up with water and put the child on her hip, a wide, comfortable hip that gave Peace a gentle ride back across the length of the beach. The cross-bred, fifty-seven-variety small dog followed behind, occasionally breaking off to chase the sandp
ipers and the black-backed gulls that were feeding off the flotsam washed in from the sea, a mix of oysters, mussels and red bait. The sea was rich and beautiful.

  When she reached the path up to their hut, she stopped for a rest, putting Peace down on the sand to crawl away with the scampering dog. A spent wave washed the child and dog, making Peace shriek with delight. The black car was still parked in the open space next to the Vuya restaurant, but there was no one inside or near the vehicle. The car left a false note in the air, mixing the warm, salty breeze with a tinge of unease.

  She walked down to Peace, seeing that a bigger wave was on its way, picked her up and walked back to the path that led up through the wild banana trees to the hut on its flat piece of land cut into the hill, the big rondavel open in the front, gaping out across the sea and surrounded by the wild banana. As she walked, she could hear birds searching the trumpet flowers for nectar, singing as they worked. There were flashes of colour as the sunbirds moved from tree to tree above the girl’s head. At the top of the patch, where it reached the front of the hut, she stopped to catch her breath and enjoy the view of beach down below and the vastness of the sea.

  From inside the rondavel, she heard the voice of a man, and checked herself from turning to go inside the house and see how Mark was getting along with his painting. He had learnt so much in a year that it would not be long before the tourists were buying his paintings.

  “Matt, you’ve got to understand! There can be criminal proceedings, and now we’ve found out we must report it to the police. You set up the deal with Smythe-Wilberforce, so I had to come and see you. You can’t have expected to hide away down here forever. Millions have been channelled out by the investment manager and he insists it was on the instructions of Hector, with your full knowledge. You did give them carte blanche on investing policyholders’ funds.

  “I didn’t know Hector was still a communist. Where have the funds gone?”

  “We think to the SA communist party and the ANC. Don t you see? Both the parties are banned. I’ll end up in bloody jail. I’m joint CEO.”

  “Sit down Archie. We’ve had a lot worse than this in our time.”

  “Thank God you said ‘we’,” returned Archie, sitting down heavily. “Now I feel a lot better. When are you coming back? Teddie says we can form another pyramid company and sell it our shares. Then we issue more shares to you to give you control. Back where we were.”

  “I can offer the colony special. Strong as hell. Carel van Tonder makes it when he’s not smuggling dagga. You can have a smoke if that will calm you down?’

  “I don t smoke,” replied Archie missing the point in his agitation. “What are we going to do?”

  “Personally, I would do nothing. Make the money a donation to charity. Tiny Rowland of Lonrho has been giving money to the liberation movements for years. A bit of insurance. After all, you are in the insurance business.”

  “When are you coming back to Johannesburg?” Archie asked insistently.

  “I’m not.”

  “But you must.”

  “I gave up the musts in my life when I gave away my money… What do you think of my painting? Not in the class of what we walked out of the Congo, but not bad for a beginner. Lorna’s teaching me. She’ll be back from the beach, and then you can meet her and see why there’s no way I’m leaving Port St Johns.”

  Archie looked up to see a woman silhouetted against the rays of the setting sun, her profile stark against the sun. She had a child resting on her hip and a small inquisitive dog at her feet.

  “Lorna, this is an old friend. Archie Fletcher-Wood. Ignore the suit. Underneath he’s the same as us.”

  “Why did he call you ‘Matt’?”

  “Let’s all have a good drink of Carel’s special outside in the last of the sun,” suggested her husband. “It’s been a beautiful day. You’ll stay the night with us, Archie? Not the most luxurious hotel, but the food’s good and we’ll put a mat on the floor. Then you can tell my wife what I did before I walked up the coast to Port St Johns. I have nothing to hide or be ashamed of. But I want it clear that Mark/Matt came home and is staying home, and if Luke Mbeki had any sense he’d do the same. Poor old Luke and poor old Chelsea. Her kid must be the same age as Peace.”

  Two weeks later, a second black car was parked in the open space next to the Vuya restaurant. The colony was already abuzz with the story of Matthew Gray, a story which the man they called Mark neither confirmed nor denied. Now the world was coming back to Second Beach, Port St Johns, and their reclusion and safety was being disturbed.

  A man had emerged from the car and seemed to know where he was going. He walked across the end of the beach and took the path up to the hut on the hill. It was another beautiful day, balmy with the warm berg-wind and the sea was gentle as a lamb, the colony’s fishing boat having gone out early in the morning to try for mussel-crackers, copper steenbras and seventy-fours.

  “Good morning, Teddie. Have you come to buy one of my paintings?”

  “Not really, Matt. It’s good to see you.”

  “Your mother told you how to find the way?”

  “She did, as a matter of fact. Archie is in England, talking to Smythe- Wilberforce. They were horrified to hear what was being done to our investments. Hector said he knew nothing about any such arrangement and, if any of the staff were doing anything wrong, the police should put them in jail. The legal brains have pushed aside Hector’s posturing and agreed to disinvest… You really think we should give the ANC a donation every year? You forget, Matt, that I was fighting the communists in Angola. They’re all tarred with the same brush; they want power, not justice. And their kind of power will be a lot more oppressive than ours. The KGB have been instructing the MPLA in Luanda exactly how to go about their business… I like the painting. How much do you want for it?”

  “You can have it as a present and hang it on the wall so you won’t forget me. Do you know which was your grandfather’s house? Come outside and we can just see the green roof at the other end of the beach. Looks better from a very long distance. What can I do for you, Teddie? I presume you have not driven so far to buy a painting.”

  “I want you to see sense and stop this nonsense. There’s a real world out there, and you were part of it. A big part of it.”

  “I question which world is real. This one was made by the gods,” replied Matt, staring out towards the sea.

  “Is the water problem as bad as they say? A casino holiday resort will make a lot of money.”

  “The gods must have felt a swift shot of pain!… Yes, water is a problem. Ask your mother. Maybe there isn’t another paradise like this for me, but I know enough of your real world to know it will only last for a while and then be destroyed. The black government here is despotic. What is new? Africa was run by despots for all its history. A few years of white rule hasn’t changed that. Just given them some new ideas. No, I would not put my money, if I had any, into Port St Johns. The salt river’s too silted and no way is there enough drinking water. You staying for lunch?”

  “Thought I would buy you a beer in the restaurant I passed. Does it make any money?”

  “No. You can ask the owner. How can anyone make money out of a restaurant in the middle of nowhere? None of us have any money. No, he likes the place. Some people prefer the quieter life, so please don’t buy the restaurant. Why is it everything you look at has a dollar sign on top? Lorna’s out visiting. We’ll drink alone. She keeps laughing at the idea of my being a big tycoon. She thinks it’s all very funny.”

  “She doesn’t like the idea of wealth?” queried Teddie.

  “She never mentions it.”

  “Maybe when the children are older. A little girl and another one on the way?”

  “Are you married, Teddie?”

  “Never had time.”

  “That was my problem. That and a lot of money-grabbing women.”

  “You know who’s living with Archie?” Teddie asked, changing his tone.
/>   “He didn’t say.”

  “Sunny Tupper that was.”

  “Stop stirring, Teddie; it doesn’t suit you. Stay the day with us. The night. You’ll see what I mean.”

  “I don’t have the time; I’m seeing the paramount chief and the mayor. They find our investment a lot more interesting than you do.”

  “Water, Teddie. I’m not giving you a bum steer. You can’t run what you want to do without a massive amount of water. Don’t let them con you. They’re pretty good at fleecing white men with bright ideas. Stick to what you know. The insurance business. I believe the company has grown very well.”

  “You won’t come back?”

  “What do any of you need from me?” asked Matt, dismissing the question as if it were ridiculous.

  “May we ask your opinion?”

  “Anytime. But here. And please, all of you, come down in an old bakkie and old clothes. You stick out like a pork chop in a synagogue.”

  “Dress casual.” Teddie gave a forced laugh.

  “You got it, Teddie Botha. You got it. You don’t want the painting, do you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good. At least there’s some part of me you don’t want.”

  The fishing boat landed long after Teddie Botha had gone tearing up the dirt road to Umtata to invest his money the best way he thought fit. The sun was slipping into the sea, making the water shimmer with the rays of the setting sun, shooting its colour at the heavens. A small moon was visible in the sky and the wind had dropped to nothing. Soon they were all coming down to the shore, some to help beach the boat and some to wonder at the catch gleaming in the sun as it was tossed, fish by fish, to the wet sand. Matthew Gray strode down the path to the beach, woken from his reverie by the noise of excitement. When he reached the boat with its old outboard motor serviced meticulously by Carel van Tonder, three fires were already being lit above the high-tide mark, just down from the Vuya restaurant that would buy enough fish to refuel the boat. The beach was filling up with everyone from the colony and the black village. For the first time that year, there was enough fish for everyone, and if it was not eaten fresh it would go off in the morning sun. When Matt looked into the boat, his arm around Lorna who was holding an excited Peace, there were still some on the bottom.