Vultures in the Wind

by Peter Rimmer

  “So you did keep me waiting.” It was spoken happily, as if they were old friends sharing a joke.

  “I was painting. And, if you’re going to stay, I suggest you lighten up a little, or it will be my pleasure to box your ears.” Matt was finding it a little difficult to keep his patience. They walked across the beach in silence, Matt carrying the surprisingly heavy suitcase and his distant cousin following five paces behind, swinging the shooting stick.

  At the bottom of the path up to his rondavel, Matt put down the case.

  “What the hell have you got in here?”

  “Best of the family heirlooms. Damned if I’d let inland revenue have everything. They’re for you to take your pick. Sort of an olive branch in adversity. Why do you live in the back of beyond when you have so much money?”

  “The money is in a charitable trust.”

  “But you can control the trust.”

  “How do you know?” demanded Matt.

  “I made it my business. Desperate people search every avenue and you, Gray, are the family’s last hope.”

  “Why don’t you sell the castle for the death-duty valuation?”

  “No one wants to buy. Living in a house full of ogling tourists isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, old chap.”

  “Then give it to the tax man.”

  “After all those years of history? Over my dead body! This is obviously going to be more difficult than I imagined. You’d better give me the suitcase to carry, old chap.”

  The entire wall space of the big rondavel was covered with paintings, only the bookshelves Matt had carved into the rock face being spared the riot of colour and movement that spread around the home. Charles Farquhar, Earl of Lothianmore, took Lorna’s hand in silence and kissed it correctly, but kept his eyes on the walls of the thatched room, as sunlight poured in through the big windows from three sides. He had put down the heavy suitcase, but still carried his shooting stick as he went from canvas to canvas. The soft blue eyes lost their lazy humour and showed intense interest and understanding. He stopped at the large unfinished painting on the first easel, and then at the second easel, floral and foliage in pastel with lighter colours that Lorna had worked on for a month.

  “This one’s yours and that one’s his.” It was a statement, and the eyes were now full of excitement. “Both have the third dimension and you taught him how to paint, Missus Gray. I pronounce you both to be great painters, and I thank the day that rude journalist wrote such a slanted article about your husband.”

  “You know something about painting?” Lorna was finding it difficult not to laugh.

  “Oh yes. I studied fine arts at Edinburgh and visited every gallery in England before I was fifteen. Kind of a hobby. Well, more of an obsession… How do you sell your art?” he asked, turning to Matt.

  “I don’t. I give it away. Lorna sells to the tourists. What we live off”

  “Amazing. Quite amazing. Do you mind if I take off my jacket?”

  “In this heat you’d be quite mad not to,” laughed Lorna. “Matt’s the talented one, not me. His mother was an artist.”

  “My ancestors had a strange habit of marrying artists, Gray. Where you get it from, probably. Genes are strange carriers of disease and genius. You have to be born to anything, Gray.”

  “Please call me Matt” He was being sarcastic.

  “You may think I’m patronising, but I’m not… I have lived a life cut off from people, except when I went to varsity. I want to become an art critic, you see. Or an art dealer. I could sell these paintings in Edinburgh for a lot of money.”

  “Before we get too carried away, there’s some leftover fish from yesterday that shouldn’t have gone off, and Raleen baked this morning and left us some bread. . . Matt, for goodness’ sake, lend the young earl some clothes. He looks quite ridiculous. And keep out of the sun, Charles, except in the early morning and late afternoon. You can have the mattress on the other side of the room from Sophia.”

  “She lives here?”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “That goddess. I have arrived in heaven.” Matthew Gray shook his head and then he began to laugh.

  Whilst Charles Farquhar was changing into a pair of Matthew’s shorts and exposing the knobbiest knees Lorna had ever seen, a thousand kilometres away in Johannesburg the manager of Everard Read gallery was facing a dilemma. The third exhibition of paintings by Bernard Strover was taking place, and the man from London to whom Matthew had sold the old Dutch masters in another life had bought eleven of the paintings. The money paid in pounds sterling, pleased Bernard Strover, as it circumvented South African exchange control and, when he sold the pounds on the black market, they would be worth double the official commercial rand rate of exchange.

  Bernard Strover’s financial background had been invaluable and, coupled with his knowledge of modern paintings, was making him a pleasant income to supplement his substantial salary as an investment consultant for Teddie Botha. On his visits to Port St Johns to evaluate the casino and recreation complex, still envisaged for Second Beach when the political climate was more favourable, he had found the unsigned paintings in the restaurant, the mayor’s office, and one of the best in the butcher’s, all of which he had purchased for a few rand and shipped to Johannesburg. Here he signed them with his own name to give them authenticity and himself the fillip of fame that came with being an artist.

  Bernard had a predilection for female artists of the young and hippie variety, and liked to live the Bohemian life during the weekends down by the Vaal River, away from the pressures of big business and Teddie Botha, a man who considered a day was created for work and nothing else, grudgingly granting six hours’ sleep every night as a necessary evil.

  The first exhibition had been to impress his artist friends but, when the canvases sold out in three hours at an average price of nine hundred rand, Bernard became an instant celebrity in the world of art. For the second exhibition, the paintings having been tracked down with careful dedication to those who had received Matt’s gifts, the gallery had doubled the price, and for the third they had invited the man from London.

  Bernard Strover, dressed in arty gear that would have greatly surprised Teddie Botha, was attending his own exhibition, surrounded by arty young girls, when the painting sent by Lorna from Port St Johns arrived from the picture framer. It was the largest and best canvas Matt had painted and was welcomed by the manager and the man from London, until both of them noted the signature in the bottom right-hand corner. Bernard Strover went cold all over. The painting belonged like a brother to the Bernard Strover exhibition.

  The gallery was full and, as the unwitting staff of the gallery hung what they knew was a Bernard Strover without looking in the bottom corner, a crowd gathered around the painting of Hope. All but two of the remaining paintings carried red stars. The man from London caught sight of Bernard Strover looking at the painting of Hope, and knew that something was wrong.

  “Better take that one back into your office,” he said but, before anyone was able to do anything about it, one of Bernard’s young girls asked the question.

  “Who is Matthew Gray?”

  “Where did this one come from?” the Englishman asked the gallery attendant.

  “Port St Johns. Special delivery. We had to have it framed.”

  “Who’s the painter, Mister Strover? You or Matthew Gray?” They looked at each other without speaking for a moment.

  “I’ve never painted a picture in my life,” Bernard eventually admitted, having the intelligence to know that, when caught, the truth is usually easier to explain.

  “Then you had better go down to Port St Johns and come back with a document saying Matthew Gray gave you permission to sign his paintings,” said the gallery manager. “Otherwise the fraud squad will put you in jail. Furthermore, I require a statement in writing protecting this gallery which exhibited your work in good faith. And while you are in Port St Johns, please ask Mister Gray if he wishes to exhibit with Everar
d Read. I am very curious as to why he signed this one painting and not the others. Most artists have an ego bigger than a house.”

  “Maybe he thought this was the only one worth signing,” suggested the man from London. “He sold me paintings once. I think I will come with you, Mister Strover. Together we can save your neck.”

  The man from London had also read the deluge of unfavourable press reports directed at Matthew Gray.

  When the contrite Bernard Strover stated his case, Matthew listened carefully, while the man from London continued to circle the rondavel accompanied by a not-so-pale Charles Farquhar, who was by now looking a little less like a ghost from the highlands. Sophia was watching them closely, though still determined not to have anything to do with another man in her life.

  “I am flattered to hear that the paintings sold so well,” said Matt. “Lorna was worried about a pair of shoes for our daughter. The simple answer is for you to carry on signing the paintings, subject to two conditions. First you convince my old company that Second Beach, Port St Johns, is not the place for a casino and, if my wife wishes formally to educate our daughter, you undertake to pay the fees. That way we all get what we want.

  “And one more thing. The Englishman you brought with you once did me a favour. He is honest. Any paintings he wants, he can have for nothing, provided they carry the name Bernard Strover. The one you brought with you, I will paint over my signature. That way I can live in peace, you can play artist with the young ladies, and Ben Munroe hears nothing. And if you would be kind enough to take back another young man in your car, you would be doing us all a favour. And if he asks you to buy a castle, take him seriously.

  “Now, gentlemen, if you would be so kind, I have work to do. My wife will show you the local restaurant. My old friend from London can discuss the shipment with Lorna. There are three hours’ light left in the day, and every one of them is precious when I feel in this mood.”

  For Matthew, a brief glance back into his previous life was enough. He was content as he was, and wished for nothing to disturb his tranquillity. He was briefly surprised when Sophia agreed to go with them, and then he was left alone. Even the dog had gone, yapping happily down the path to the beach.

  But the spell had been broken. Despite the intense wish to disappear into the world of his painting, no such thing would happen. He had a feeling of heaviness in the pit of his stomach. His mind was drifting far away to other days and other places. For the first time since walking up the beach from Cape Town, he felt the need to get drunk. Whatever he produced in life, there was always someone ready to take it away. Even his painting.

  The Vuya restaurant nestled among the milkwood trees. The building was low-thatched and spacious, and the tables set generously apart from each other. At the back, the wild banana trees rustled in the breeze and the long stoep was set with tables.

  The owner, who was his friend, had given up a career in the circus as a catcher on the high wire, and any money that was made from the spasmodic throngs of tourists was lost to the colony, who used the restaurant as a side-walk cafe that overlooked the beach instead of the street. The owner’s rationale was that artists and drifters attracted the paying customers, but the truth was something else. Profit was not the motive, survival and lifestyle being the prerogative. The food was superb, the beer cold and served with fresh cooked mussels from the sea, and the minstrel boy sang during the evenings for his supper and the pleasure of trying out his songs.

  Surprised at the double-damask dinner napkins, the pure white table cloths, the exotic flower arrangements and the smell of French cooking in the back of beyond. the man from London became expansive and asked everyone to join him for lunch. His second surprise was when the minstrel boy, Raleen and Black Martin eagerly took up the over-generous offer and, before he knew it, three tables had been joined together, as the word drifted out to the colony. When he looked up from studying the menu, he found himself host to a round dozen for lunch. His third and happiest surprise was to realise, on converting the price into pounds, that the Dorchester would charge more for one lunch than the Vuya for twelve.

  By the second serving of chilled white wine, it was obvious that the party would last for some time, so he sent a message to the Cape Hermes Hotel at First Beach to reserve him a room for the night. Then he settled back to enjoy himself and remember his youth, while the minstrel boy sang and Lorna went up to fetch Matt from the rondavel. A singsong shook the rafters and food kept arriving from the kitchen.

  Charles Farquhar performed every trick he knew to gain the attention of Sophia, but to no avail. Belted earls figured for nothing in her life and his title made not the slightest impression. Tales of his own days at Edinburgh University made her cry, and she then drifted off into a world of her own, oblivious to Charles or the joy that had taken over the restaurant. Some of the boy’s words made her cry again; Matt, singing badly in a deep, tuneless bass, failed to erase the tears, and with each small glass of wine her sadness grew.

  The dancing began after the food, with the kitchen staff joining the guests. The man from London wrote out a cheque in sterling instead of in rand, which cost him four times more than was necessary, but by then he did not care, giving a flourish to his signature that was going to give his bank manager, an old friend, a good smile on a bleak winter’s morning in London.

  The luncheon finished long after the sun went down, and when Bernard Strover drove them to First Beach, erratically but safely, Charles was in the car. During the days when he played centre for his school first fifteen, Charles had always been able to see the gap, and he had seen one as large as a house that suited his purpose. He had tried selling the castle to a happily drunk Bernard Strover and bequeathed the problem to the office of the inland revenue. No one wanted to buy his castle but, having a one-track mind, his problem was Sophia rather than the old pile of stones left him by his ancestors.

  By the time they reached the Cape Hermes Hotel, he had convinced Bernard to set him up with a camper, a lift to Johannesburg to buy the camper, and a small salary of three hundred rand every month. In exchange, Charles would save Bernard the trouble of chasing up the Gray paintings that Matt gave away at a whim. Charles would follow each painting’s progress from the easel until it rested in the Everard Read gallery in Sandton.

  “He is my cousin, old chap, and I am the earl with or without a bloody castle.” Bernard, being the epitome of a snob, knew that an old kombi camper and three hundred rand a month to employ an earl was worth every cent. The name dropping that would follow would earn him great respect from some of the Inanda set who produced as much manure from their mouths as they did from their horses.

  The next day, when the fumes from the party had receded, Matt was delighted to find his cousin had departed. Life in the rondavel returned to normal; Sophia moved into the tiny cottage with Raleen, and together they set up a small bakery making exotic breads and sweet cakes and all the lovely things that make people fat.

  Matt and Lorna sat alone in the cool evening air, looking out across the sweep of the sea, holding hands and talking of their day. Peace and the dog were fast asleep in the rondavel as the lap of the waves mixed with the calling gulls and the sweet scent of blossom drifted down from the trees.

  “It’s frightening to be so happy.” said Lorna.

  “No, it’s wonderful” After a long pause, Matt took his pipe from his mouth. “Material things they can always take away, but they can never take away your soul.”

  Ten days later, Matt was striding along the road to First Beach, his backpack ready for the supplies he would buy. The day was nicely overcast for the seven kilometre walk to the shops. The pipe in his mouth was cold and his feet were bare, his only clothing being a pair of shorts designed by Lorna from an old black curtain. The backpack rested easily on his sinewy back, tanned to mahogany by the sun. Doves sang from the hills and the sea breeze was fresh.

  When the kombi stopped and the apparition of a driver offered him a lift, even though
they were travelling in opposite directions, Matt smiled, creasing the deep crow’s feet around his soft blue eyes, took his pipe from his mouth and made a gesture to the scenery that made it clear he was happy to walk. The man inside the driver’s cab wore a green felt hat with a feather on one side, and when he got out to pursue an unwanted conversation he carried a shooting stick which he tapped on the tarmac to gain the attention of Matt, who was by now ten metres further down the road.

  “I say, old chap. Don’t you recognise your cousin?” Matt stopped, inwardly groaning, and turned to look back. Charles Farquhar was dressed in a caftan, there was a green silk scarf around his neck which matched the hat, and sandals on his feet. The kombi was painted with weird, arty symbols in all the colours of the rainbow.

  “Is Sophia at home?”

  “She doesn’t stay with us anymore.”

  “Still in the colony?”

  “Still in the colony.”

  “Wonderful news. Toodle-loo, then. . . Sure you don’t want a lift?”

  “Quite certain, thank you, Charles.”

  “Toodle-loo old chap.”

  The minstrel boy saw the apparition outside the Vuya and recognised the shooting stick. “Come to stay with us?” he called.

  “Have you seen Sophia, old chap?”

  “Down on the beach.”

  “Wonderful news.”

  Carel van Tonder, in his new job of Mr Fixit, heard the tuneless whistling and looked up from the old engine that still kept the colony’s fishing boat out to sea. It was beached above the high water mark. Having realised that Raleen and the minstrel boy were an item, he had turned his attention to Sophia, with even less success. On the other side of the boat, Black Martin was gutting fish. Under a tree some metres away, Lorna and Raleen were deep in one of their long conversations.

  The sea had risen with the overcast conditions and the swells could not be surfed. Scattered groups of tourists were walking the long beach and Sophia was the only one swimming in the warm water, her long black hair streaming down her smooth back, the perfect oval of her face accentuated by the wet hair. Charles stopped in mid-beach, caught by the perfection of her face and body.