Noel White lifted his empty beer glass and showed it to me, the meaning obvious. I shook my head. He grinned a little sheepishly.
It was not till later, after the game, when Jannie invited us home for a drink, that we learned what he’d said to Hans Meyerhof. Everyone was too worked up to go home, and Jannie’s wife, Anna, had already gone to bed, so we had plenty of time to talk. He stood facing us as we sat on his porch, having a nightcap.
‘We went into Hans’s office and he locked the door. I dunno why, but then he said, “Jannie, you vant to borrow some money? How much you vant?”
‘“No, man, I’m okay,” I said. “It’s not that.”
‘“Ve all frens here, Jannie. You tell me I fix?” he said. Had no idea.
‘“Hans,” I said, “this poker game, you’re cheating us. You and the two guys from over the border.”
‘He holds up his hand so, in front of his face and shakes his head. “No, no! You talk crazy, Jannie. Zey gut, zey know zis game poker, very gut player. That’s all vot happens.”
‘“Hans, don’t bullshit me, man,” I said. “The cards are focking marked!”
‘“Hey, Jannie, what you say? Mark cards? No vay!”’
Jannie looked at us, then said, ‘“Hans, the focking game is up. We know about the red glasses, man, and the green marks!”’
He shook his head. ‘The foxy bastard is no fool. “Vot you say, ze glasses? I don’t understand?” he says to me.
‘“The eye glasses, spectacles, brille, those Belgian buggers can see green marks on the back of the cards.”’ Jannie laughed. ‘Hans throws up his hands, “I am schwachsinniger [an imbecile]! Always zey are saying ve must use the card zey bring from Congo.”’
Jannie Coetzee looked over at me. ‘For a moment there, I thought he had me, man. Then I remembered how you’d asked the guy at the Club sports shop if he sold playing cards to Hans Meyerhof and what make they were.’ Jannie grinned. ‘You remember what he said?’
‘Yes, of course, Jannie. He said Hans Meyerhof bought them himself and they always had to be Bicycle brand from America. He gets them specially sent in. He said he’d sold him ten packs three weeks ago.’
‘Ja, dead right, then remember he said he might have a couple of decks left he could let us have? But you said, no, you wanted another brand.’ Jannie took a mouthful of brandy. ‘Heere, man, thank God I remembered all this in time and of course the brand Hans used in our game tonight was Bicycle.’ Jannie swirled his brandy thoughtfully before he went on. ‘Now he’s beginning to sweat, his sakdoek is already wet from mopping his brow.’
‘“Zose cards I buy from Club shop, zey for anusser game not the vun in ze recreation hut,” Hans says to me. So I take a big chance. “Hans,” I say, “tonight we used Bicycle and we checked, they don’t sell them in Katanga, not anywhere in the Belgian Congo.” I’m telling a lie, how would I know what cards they sold in the Congo; but hey, man, what can he say?’
‘Good one, Jannie,’ Noel called out. ‘All over Red Rover! So what’d he do next, mate?’
‘He asks me what I want. So I say to him, “Simple.” I take a clean deck from my pocket. “We want to play with our own clean deck.”’
This was greeted with a roar of appreciative laughter. ‘Well done, boyo,’ Russell Howell called.
Jannie, enjoying himself, continued. ‘“Jawohl!” Hans says to me. “Ve go back now, ve can change za card, no problem.”
‘“No, that’s not all, Hans. I want your two Congo boys to play to lose. That is, until we decide we’ve got enough money back to repay us for what we lost in the past.”’ Jannie shrugged. ‘I got to say, man, he doesn’t panic, he just says, “So, tell me also, you can keep quiet the Bicycle card?”’
‘“You mean about cheating all this time? Marking the cards? Ja, that’s the deal, only two other things. The two guys hand over the glasses and the Bicycle deck we used before as evidence, in case you try to verneuk ons [cheat us] again.”
‘“No, no, ve vill not have zem come again, zese Congo.” He’s shaking his head like his neck is on a spring. I point at him and say, “Hans, if you or your Nazi friends ever try anything like this again, I want you to understand, the union boys will escort your whole focking committee underground for a tour, and I’m sorry to say there’ll be a blasting accident – twenty dead Germans.”
‘“How much you vant ve lose?” he then asks me.
‘“Six thousand pounds.”
‘He throws up his hands. “No! Zat is too much!”
‘“Too bad, Hans. Six grand, man, not a penny less, you hear?” I tell him.
‘“But zen, Jannie, you keep everything quiet, ja?”
‘“You have my word, Hans. Ek is n regte Boer [I am a true Boer], I tell him.”’
All the diamond drillers nodded their heads, their expressions serious. I would later learn that to an Afrikaner, this is akin to a blood oath, although the original meaning of Boer, and the literal translation, is ‘farmer’.
Curiously, once we started to play with the new pack, I began to get the best cards I’d seen since that long night in Moose Jaw at the end of my scuffing tour. In fact, these cards were even better. In no time at all, I was up three hundred pounds and I hadn’t had to show my hand once.
However, even without Lady Luck’s smile, it soon became obvious that I was several pegs above my opposition, including the so-called cardsharps from the Congo. At three hundred pounds, with no losses to regain from previous games, it was time to get out and give one of the other players a chance to win back what he’d lost to the guys from the Congo.
I leaned towards Jannie while Colonel Comb Over was shuffling. ‘Time I gave up my seat, buddy.’
‘How much you up, Jack?’
‘Enough, about three hundred.’
‘No, man, you play till you’re up five hundred, then come and sit behind me, keep an eye on these two Congo fockers.’
It was generous of him to let me take out another two hundred quid, and the right cards just kept coming. The paradox was that, for once in my life, I didn’t need particularly good hands. I could have played with quite ordinary cards and still won.
I was getting close to my cut-off point when it happened. I had four diamonds, open both ends, ten to the king. I very nearly pooped my pants. This was the perfect launching pad for a running flush, or even a royal flush. My turn came and I discarded one and asked for a card, my heart thumping.
There are moments in your life you never forget. The new card was the ace of diamonds. I’d just reached the pinnacle of the card-player’s Everest. In all my years of playing, in all my time in Las Vegas, I’d never even met anyone who could claim to have seen a royal flush. In a game where I couldn’t lose I’d achieved the impossible. I took the lead and began to bet so the others quickly dropped out, except for the two Congo guys who were obliged to stay in the game. I hoped they wouldn’t notice the tremor in my hand.
I raised them until there was nearly two hundred in the pot, a third of which I had put in. Instead of waiting for Jannie to tell them to fold, I called them. Both looked at me like they’d been shot. Technically, they were in a position to win.
Jean Dubois looked at Pierre Laurent and said in French, ‘Shit, what now? He wants to see our cards.’
‘Merci beaucoup, monsieur, s’il vous plait [Thank you very much, sir, if you please] . . .’ – I was being sarcastically over-polite.
‘Vous parlez français [You speak French]?’ Pierre Laurent exclaimed, appalled. If I translated the things they’d been saying about us all evening, the guys would have taken them behind the toilet block and beaten the shit out of them.
‘D’accord [Of course],’ I replied. Their fear and embarrassment were almost palpable.
‘Do what he says, man!’ Jannie Coetzee barked at them, not understanding what was transpiring.
Both laid down their cards. Laurent had three kings and Dubois two pair. Not bad hands. They were probably shitting themselves that they might wi
n.
I placed my cards down delicately and slowly. There was a gasp from everyone around the table.
‘Jesus! A royal flush, a focking royal flush!’ Jannie Coetzee roared as the guys watching leaned forward to see it for themselves.
I sagged in my chair. ‘Cash me out, Kurt. Cash me out.’
We all left Jannie Coetzee’s home late that night in a happy mood, the guys having more than made up for their earlier abstinence during the poker game. In the days and weeks following the game, a curious change came over Hans Meyerhof and the committee. They dropped their former domineering ways, smiled whenever we crossed paths and made no demands whatsoever. It was as if I had proved myself the better man, and they were forced to respect it. As for the diamond drillers and the union guys who had previously ignored me, now they’d acknowledge me with a smile and familiar ‘Howzit?’, the South African equivalent of Noel White’s ‘G’day’.
Another six, uneventful, months went by. Mining is routine work; dangerous routine in some respects but nevertheless predictable, as were the injuries the men sustained. I could almost anticipate what every night shift would bring, but even so, a catastrophic accident was always on the cards – the chances were a lot higher than those for a royal flush.
I spent much of my time in my rondavel, reading or talking to Diamond Jim. He was such a clever little fella and I soon came to regard him as a dear friend, in much the same way as someone might regard a beloved dog. Luswishi River was a lonely place, despite, or perhaps because of, there being people from just about every nation in Europe. Some would have us believe they were perfectly respectable, but there were others, and I guess I’d have to include myself among them, who wanted their past lives to remain secret. As a result, it was difficult to make friends; you had to be constantly mindful that you could be treading on toes, and so you walked on eggshells.
However, Diamond Jim had no past I knew about, except having his crop stuffed with diamonds, which can’t have been a pleasant experience. I saw him not only as a companion but as a work in progress. He was still young, so he had every chance of learning to talk. The Audubon Society had sent some useful material, from which I learned that this particular parrot species was mentioned in the writings of both Dr David Livingstone, the famous missionary explorer, and the man who was sent by the New York Herald to find him, Welsh-born American, Henry Morton Stanley, whose first words were, apparently, ‘Doctor Livingstone, I presume?’.
According to the Audubon Society, my African Grey Parrot, Psittacus erithacus erithacus, was considered among the most intelligent of birds and known to live to the age of fifty years or more. Wild African Grey Parrots are able to mimic many other animals. Those raised by humans can often learn to speak. The sub-species was described as ‘handsome’, which I guess is a nice way of saying they were not beautiful, the description usually accorded more colourful parrots. Fully grown, they weighed a pound or so, with a body length of fourteen or more inches, and a wingspan of up to twenty inches.
Diamond Jim wasn’t yet that tall and I’d never weighed him, but according to the Audubon Society, a mature bird has a pale yellow iris surrounding the black pupil. Diamond Jim’s iris had changed from grey to yellow and he stood just a fraction under thirteen inches, so I assumed he’d reached maturity.
The notes I’d received suggested that his species don’t start to mimic, or ‘talk’, until they are two or three years old, and certainly for the first three months he merely chirped noisily with an occasional sharp exclamatory squawk, or made that strange throaty sound I mentioned. I’d often reply with a short whistle, then I’d pick up the harmonica and play through the first verse of ‘Love Me or Leave Me’; then I’d sing the lyrics and finish by saying clearly, ‘I love you, Bridgett’. It was hopelessly sentimental, I know, and of course way beyond anything I could possibly expect a parrot to achieve. I’d tried to forget Bridgett but still thought about and missed her every day and night of my life. The lyrics were appropriate: night-time really was the worst time for me, when I remembered Bridgett most vividly, and I was afraid that the song might also prove to be prophetic: perhaps I’d never be happy with anyone else. So often did I perform the song with Diamond Jim, that, for Bridgett’s sake, I’m glad she wasn’t around to witness my ridiculously repetitive and, I guess, mawkish behaviour.
As for Diamond Jim, I convinced myself that he was developing a sense of rhythm from mimicking me as I rocked from one foot to the other, playing the harmonica. He’d do the same, nodding his head and lifting his legs in perfect time . . . well, in reasonably good time. It was, I thought, a pretty impressive beginning to his training, and he’d keep it up for the two hours I practised jazz and blues every afternoon in my rondavel. It soon became clear that he was a very social animal and disliked being in his cage, clearly preferring to be near me, usually perched on my shoulder as I played. Furthermore, he never seemed bored with the music.
I’d wondered at first why nobody ever mentioned hearing the music, and I suppose I was slightly miffed until I realised that none of my near neighbours worked the night shift, so I was surrounded by empty rondavels. Given Noel’s warning, it may well have been for the best.
Diamond Jim loved having a shower and I’d take him with me into the shower block. After I’d showered I’d run the cold water and let him have a shower of his own, watching as he danced from one leg to the other and squawked happily. I’d let him out to fly, for exercise, and he seemed to want to stay in sight. After about fifteen minutes he’d return to my arm. He loved toys and I’d bring him blocks of wood, branches, tennis balls and rattles, most of which he managed to shred with his sharp beak. I also learned that, because he was such an intensely social creature, if left alone for too long he would become self-destructive, plucking out his own feathers. During the day I seldom left him alone, and working at night, when most birds sleep, meant that he was rarely aware of my absence. Diamond Jim – or DJ, as I sometimes called him – became a familiar sight on my shoulder when I left the single quarters to go anywhere during the day or the early evening. It was a bit like having a very bright but very demanding four-year-old in your life, and he taught me a great deal, usually with the help of information from Foyles or the Audubon Society. It seemed the friendship between African Greys and humans stretched back into antiquity, with the birds being mentioned or depicted by the Egyptians, Ancient Greeks and Romans. These parrots were the playthings of royalty: Henry VIII, Marie Antoinette and one of the mistresses of Charles II all had a Diamond Jim in their lives. US President Andrew Jackson’s African Grey had to be removed from the church during his master’s funeral service because he kept uttering profanities. At the other end of the social scale were the many pirates who were said to keep African Greys.
It’s hardly surprising when you realise that an African Grey can possess an amazing vocabulary, perhaps up to a thousand words. I’m sure he understood what he was saying, rather than simply ‘parroting’ it. These birds can greet people by name and seem to understand how they relate to their family or social group.
DJ loved the radio and had strong views on several of the BBC announcers. ‘Oh, not that bloody fool again!’ he’d say whenever a particular radio personality came on air. We don’t realise how often we swear until we live with an African Grey Parrot. Often their timing is impeccable, and even if it’s not, there’s no denying who’s responsible. They love to show off, and soak up love, attention and praise. Neither do they confine themselves to replicating human speech: African Greys have been known to reproduce such sounds as running water, the telephone, the front door bell and a dog-owner’s whistle, which must have driven the particular dog crazy, not to mention the owners of the telephone and front door bell.
Perhaps their most appealing characteristics are their intense loyalty and loving natures. In the wild they mate for life, and it would seem they are equally devoted to their human companions.
I wish I could tell you that Diamond Jim started to talk or knew t
he lyrics or at least the names of the jazz and blues numbers I played while we were together at Luswishi River. I avoided playing in front of an audience – jazz and blues didn’t rank very highly in the musical tastes of a mining town in the middle of Africa – but I practised regularly, and thought I was doing okay on the harmonica. Sure, it wasn’t a piano, but the sixteen-hole chromatic Hohner was nevertheless a beautiful instrument and I wanted to do it justice.
In my imagination I saw DJ as part of an act I was preparing for some imagined future when I would no longer be pursued by the Mafia. DJ would maybe act as a compere, the world’s first parrot to introduce a jazz and blues repertoire. No doubt he’d be capable of the odd spontaneous and amusing crack during a performance. But so far I’d had no luck. Apart from dancing, which was impressive and very amusing, DJ hadn’t said a single word from a single song. I guess the diamonds he carried in his crop might have been too big a responsibility for one little bird.
I hadn’t entirely given up on him, though. He was counting pretty well and learning his colours. I’d laugh and scratch him under the beak because, in truth, all he really had to be was Diamond Jim, whom I had quickly learned to love. My lonely childhood, with no pets and few if any close friends, had not prepared me for the intense feelings I had for this small grey parrot. But I kept working with him, my one ardent hope being that after I finished ‘Love Me or Leave Me’, he’d learn to say, ‘I love you, Bridgett’. Which just shows what a sentimental idiot I was and probably still am.
As I said, after the poker game, things started to improve for me. And then one day, almost two hours before my shift began, I got a message to come on shift half an hour early, to see Mike Tilson, the night manager for number seven shaft. When I got to the shaft head, he briefed me. ‘Jack, we’ve got the risk of a bad flood underground on the eleven hundred level. The diamond drillers on the morning shift were drilling a new ventilation shaft when they tapped into an underground spring.’
Jack of Diamonds Page 74