Rage

by Wilbur Smith

  To moderate the severity of his words, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the mattress, and made love to her until she sobbed and rolled her head from side to side, delirious with the power and wonder of it, and then he told her, ‘You have as much of me as any person will ever have. Accept that without complaint, and be grateful for it, for we never know when one of us may be called to sacrifice it all. Live now, Tara, live for our love this day, for there may never be a tomorrow.’

  ‘Forgive me, Moses,’ she whispered. ‘I have been so small and petty. I will not disappoint you again.’

  So she put aside her jealousy and joined in his work, and looked upon the men and women who came to the Bayswater Road no longer as strangers and interlopers, but as comrades – part of their life and the struggle. Then she could realize what a fascinating slice of humanity they represented. Most of them were Africans, tall Kikuyus from Kenya, Jomo Kenyatta’s young men, the warriors of Mau Mau, once even the little man with a great heart and brain, Hastings Banda, spent an evening with them. There were Shonas and Shangaans from Rhodesia, Xhosas and Zulus from her own South Africa and even a few of Moses’ own tribe from Ovamboland. They had formed a fledgling freedom association which they called South West Africa People’s Organization, and they wanted Moses’ patronage, which he gave them willingly. Tara found it difficult to think of Moses as belonging to a single tribe, all of Africa was his fief, he spoke most of their separate languages and understood their specific fears and aspirations. If ever the word ‘African’ described one man, that man was Moses Gama.

  There were others who came to the flat in Bayswater Road; Hindus and Moslems and men of the north lands, from Ethiopia and Sudan and Mediterranean Africa, some of them still living under colonial tyranny, others newly liberated and eager to help their suffering fellow Africans.

  There were white men and women also, speaking in the accents of Liverpool and the north country, of the coal mines or the mills; and other white men and women whose English was halting and laboured, but whose hearts were fierce, patriots from Poland and East Germany and the Soviet bloc, some from Mother Russia herself. All had a common love of freedom and hatred of the oppressor.

  From the unlimited letter of credit that Shasa had given her to his London bank, Tara filled the flat with good food and liquor, taking a vindictive pleasure in paying out Shasa’s money for the very best fillet steak and choice lamb, for turbot and sole and lobster.

  For the first time she derived pleasure from ordering burgundies and clarets of the best vintages and noblest estates, about which she had listened to Shasa lecturing his dinner guests so pompously. She laughed delightedly when she watched the enemies of all Shasa stood for, the ones called the ‘bringers of darkness’, quaffing his wines as though they were Coca-Cola.

  She had not prepared food for a long time, the chef at Weltevreden would have been mortified if she had attempted to do so, and now she enjoyed working with some of the other women in the kitchen. The Hindu wives showed her how to make wondrous curries and the Arab women prepared lamb in a dozen exciting ways, so that every meal was a feast and an adventure. From the impecunious students to the heads of revolutionary governments and the leaders in exile of captive nations, they came to talk and plan, to eat and drink and exchange ideas even more heady than the wines that Tara poured for them.

  Always Moses Gama was at the centre of the excitement. His vast brooding presence seemed to inspire and direct their energies, and Tara realized that he was making bonds, forging loyalties and friendships to carry the struggle onwards to the next plateau. She was immensely proud of him, and humbly proud of her own small part in the grand enterprise. For the very first time in her life she felt useful and important. Until the present time she had spent her life in trivial and meaningless activity. By making her a part of his work, Moses had made her a whole person at last. Impossible as it seemed, during those enchanted months her love for him was multiplied a hundredfold.

  Sometimes they travelled together, when Moses was invited to speak to some important group, or to meet representatives of a foreign power. They went to Sheffield and Oxford to address elements from opposite ends of the political spectrum, the British Communist Party and the Association of Conservative Students. One weekend they flew to Paris to meet with officials from the French directorate of foreign affairs and a month later they even went to Moscow together. Tara travelled on her British passport and spent the days sightseeing with her Russian Intourist guide while Moses was closeted in secret talks in the offices of the fourth directorate overlooking the Gorky Prospekt.

  When they returned to London, Moses and some of his exiled fellow South Africans organized a protest rally in Trafalgar Square directly opposite the imposing edifice of South Africa House, with its frieze of animal head sculptures and colonnaded front entrance. Tara could not join the demonstration, for Moses warned her that they would be photographed with telescopic lenses from the building, and forbade her to expose herself to the racist agents. She was far too valuable to the cause. Instead she struck upon a delightfully ironic twist, and telephoned the High Commissioner. He invited her to lunch again. She watched from his own office, sitting in one of his easy chairs in the magnificent stinkwood-panelled room, while below her in the square Moses stood beneath a banner APARTHEID IS A CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY and made a speech to five hundred demonstrators. Her only regret was that the wind and the traffic prevented her hearing his words. He repeated them to her that evening as they lay together on the hard mattress on the floor of their bedroom, and she thrilled to every single word.

  One lovely English spring morning they walked arm in arm through Hyde Park, and Benjamin threw crumbs to the ducks in the Serpentine.

  They watched the riders in Rotten Row, and admired the show of spring blooms in the gardens as they passed them on their way up to Speakers’ Corner.

  On the lawns the holiday crowds were taking advantage of the unseasonable sunshine, and many of the men were shirtless while the girls had pulled their skirts high on their thighs as they lolled on the grass. The lovers were entwined shamelessly, and Moses frowned. Public displays of this kind offended his African morality.

  As they arrived at Speakers’ Corner, they passed the militant homosexuals and Irish Republicans on their upturned milk crates and went to join the group of black speakers. Moses was instantly recognized, he had become a well-known figure in these circles, and half a dozen men and women hurried to meet him; all of them were coloured South African expatriates, and all of them were eager to give him the news.

  ‘They have acquitted them—’

  ‘They have set them all free—’

  ‘Nokwe, Makgatho, Nelson Mandela – they are all free!’

  ‘Judge Rumpff found every one of them not guilty of treason—’

  Moses Gama stopped dead in his tracks and glowered at them as they surrounded him, dancing joyfully, and laughing in the pale English sunlight, these sons and daughters of Africa.

  ‘I do not believe it,’ Moses snarled angrily, and somebody shoved a crumpled copy of the Observer at him.

  ‘Here! Read it! It’s true.’

  Moses snatched the newspaper from him. He read swiftly, scanning the front-page article. His face was set and bleak, and then abruptly he thrust the paper into his pocket and shouldered his way out of the group. He strode away down the tarmac pathway, a tall brooding figure and Tara had to run with Benjamin to catch up with him.

  ‘Moses, wait for us.’

  He did not even glance at her, but his fury was evident in the set of his shoulders and the fixed snarl on his lips.

  ‘What is it, Moses, what has made you so angry? We should rejoice that our friends are free. Please speak to me, Moses.’

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ he demanded. ‘Are you so witless that you do not see what has happened?’

  ‘I don’t – I’m sorry—’

  ‘They have come out of this with enormous prestige, especially Mandela. I had thoug
ht that he would spend the rest of his life in prison, or better still, that they would have dropped him through the trap of the gallows.’

  ‘Moses!’ Tara was shocked. ‘How can you speak like that? Nelson Mandela is your comrade.’

  ‘Nelson Mandela is my rival to the death,’ he told her flatly. ‘There can only be one ruler in South Africa, either him or me.’

  ‘I did not understand.’

  ‘You understand very little, woman. It is not necessary that you should. All you must learn to do is obey me.’

  She annoyed and irritated him with her perpetual moods and jealousies. He found it more difficult each day to accept her cloying adoration. Her soft pale flesh had begun to revolt him and each time it took more of an effort to feign passion. He longed for the day that he could be rid of her – but that day was not yet.

  ‘I am sorry, Moses, if I have been stupid and made you angry.’

  They walked on in silence, but when they came back to the Serpentine, Tara asked diffidently, ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘I have to lay claim to my rightful place as the leader of the people. I cannot allow Mandela to have a clear field.’

  ‘What will you do?’ she repeated.

  ‘I must go back – back to South Africa.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ she gasped. ‘You cannot do that. It is too dangerous, Moses. They will seize you the minute you set foot on South African soil.’

  ‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘Not if I have your help. I will remain underground, but I will need you.’

  ‘Of course. Whatever you want – but, my darling, what will you hope to achieve by taking such a dreadful riskr

  With an effort he put aside his anger, and looked down at her.

  ‘Do you remember where we first met, the first time we spoke to each other?’

  ‘In the corridors of the Houses of Parliament,’ she answered promptly. ‘I will never forget.’

  He nodded. ‘You asked me what I was doing there, and I replied that I would tell you one day. This is the day.’

  He spoke for another hour, softly, persuasively, and as she listened her emotions rose and fell, alternating between a fierce joy and a pervading dread.

  ‘Will you help me?’ he asked at the end.

  ‘Oh, I am so afraid for you.’

  ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘There is nothing I can deny you,’ she whispered. ‘Nothing.’

  A week later Tara telephoned Centaine at Rhodes Hill and was surprised by the clarity of the connection. She spoke to each of the children in turn. Sean was monosyllabic and seemed relieved to surrender the telephone to Garry, who was solemn and pedantic, in his first year at business school. It was like talking to a little old man, and Garry’s single topic of original news was the fact that his father had at last allowed him to start work part-time, as an office boy at Courtney Mining and Finance. ‘Pater is paying me two pounds ten shillings a day,’ he announced proudly. ‘And soon I am to have my own office with my name on the door.’

  When his turn came to speak to her, Michael read her a poem of his own, about the sea and the gulls. It was really very good, so her enthusiasm was genuine. ‘I love you so much,’ he whispered. ‘Please come home soon.’

  Isabella was petulant. ‘What present are you going to bring me?’ she demanded. ‘Daddy bought me a gold locket with a real diamond—’ and Tara was guiltily relieved when her daughter passed the telephone back to Centaine.

  ‘Don’t worry about Bella,’ Centaine soothed her. ‘We’ve had a little confrontation and mademoiselle’s feathers are a wee bit ruffled.’

  ‘I want to buy a coming-home present for Shasa,’ Tara told her. ‘I have found the most gorgeous medieval altar that has been converted into a chest. I thought it would be just perfect for his cabinet office at the House. Won’t you measure the length of the wall on the right of his desk, under the Pierneef paintings – I want to be certain it will fit in there?’

  Centaine sounded a little puzzled. It was unusual for Tara to show any interest in antique furniture. ‘Of course I will measure it for you,’ she agreed dubiously. ‘But remember Shasa has very conservative tastes – I wouldn’t choose anything too – ah …’ She hesitated delicately, not wanting to denigrate her daughter-in-law’s taste. ‘Too obvious or flamboyant.’

  ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow evening.’ Tara did not acknowledge the advice. ‘You can read me the measurements then.’

  Two days later Moses accompanied her when she returned to the antique dealer in Kensington High Street. Together they made meticulous measurements of both the exterior and interior of the altar. It was truly a splendid piece of work. The lid was inlaid with mosaic of semi-precious stones while effigies of the apostles guarded the four corners. They were carved in ivory and rare woods and decorated with gold leaf. The panels depicted scenes of Christ’s agony, from the scourging to the crucifixion. Only after careful examination did Moses nod with satisfaction.

  ‘Yes, it will do very well.’ Tara gave the dealer a bank draft for six thousand pounds.

  ‘Price is Shasa’s yardstick of artistic value,’ she explained to Moses while they waited for his friends to come and collect the piece. ‘At six thousand pounds he won’t be able to refuse to have it in his office.’

  The dealer was reluctant to hand the chest over to the three young black men who arrived in an old van in response to Moses’ summons.

  ‘It is a very fragile piece of craftsmanship,’ he protested. ‘I would feel a lot happier if you entrusted the packing and shipping to a firm of experts. I can recommend—’

  ‘Please don’t worry,’ Tara reassured him. ‘I accept full responsibility from now on.’

  ‘It’s such a beautiful thing,’ the dealer said. ‘I would simply curl up and die if it were even scratched.’ He wrung his hands piteously as they carried it out and loaded it into the back of the van. A week later Tara flew back to Cape Town.

  The day after the crate cleared Customs in Cape Town docks, Tara held a small, but select, surprise party in Shasa’s cabinet office to present him with her gift. The Prime Minister was unable to attend, but three cabinet ministers came and with Blaine and Centaine and a dozen others crowded into Shasa’s suite to drink Bollinger champagne and admire the gift.

  Tara had removed the rosewood Georgian sofa table that had previously stood against the panelled wall, and replaced it with the chest. Shasa had some idea of what was in store. Centaine had dropped a discreet hint, and of course the charge had appeared on his latest statement from Lloyds Bank.

  ‘Six thousand pounds!’ Shasa had been appalled. ‘That’s the price of a new Rolls.’ What on earth was the damned woman thinking of? It was ridiculous buying him extravagant gifts for which he paid himself; knowing Tara’s tastes, he dreaded his first view of it.

  It was covered by a Venetian lace cloth when Shasa entered his office, and he eyed it apprehensively as Tara said a few pretty words about how much she owed him, what a fine and generous husband and what a good father he was to her children.

  Ceremoniously Tara lifted the lace cloth off the chest and there was an involuntary gasp of admiration from everyone in the room. The ivory figurines had mellowed to a soft buttery yellow and the gold leaf had the royal patina of age upon it. They crowded closer to examine it, and Shasa felt his unreasonable antipathy towards the gift cool swiftly. He would never have guessed that Tara could show such taste. Instead of the garish monstrosity he had expected, this was a truly great work of art, and if his instinct was correct, which it almost always was, it was also a first-class investment..

  ‘I do hope you like it?’ Tara asked him with unusual timidity.

  ‘It’s magnificent,’ he told her heartily.

  ‘You don’t think it should be under the window?’

  ‘I like it very well just where you put it,’ he answered her, and then dropped his voice so nobody else could overhear. ‘Sometimes you surprise me, my dear. I’m truly very touched by your thoughtfulness.’
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  ‘You too were kind and thoughtful to let me go to London,’ she replied.

  ‘I could skip the meeting this afternoon and get home early this evening,’ he suggested, glancing down at her bosom.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want you to do that,’ she answered quickly, surprised by her own physical revulsion at the idea. ‘I am certain to be exhausted by this afternoon. It’s such a strain—’

  ‘So our bargain still stands – to the letter?’ he asked.

  ‘I think that it is wiser that way,’ she told him. ‘Don’t you?’

  Moses flew from London directly to Delhi, and had a series of friendly meetings with Indira Gandhi, the President of the Indian Congress Party. She gave Moses the warmest encouragement and promises of help and recognition.

  At Bombay he went on board a Liberian-registered tramp steamer with a Polish captain. Moses signed on as a deck-hand for the voyage to Lourenço Marques in Portuguese Mozambique. The tramp called in at Victoria in the Seychelles Islands to discharge a cargo of rice and then sailed direct for Africa.

  In the harbour of Lourenço Marques Moses said goodbye to the jovial Polish skipper and slipped ashore in the company of five members of the crew who were bound for the notorious red-light area of the seaport. His contact was waiting for him in a dingy night club. The man was a senior member of the underground freedom organization which was just beginning its armed struggle against Portuguese colonial rule.

  They ate the huge juicy Mozambique prawns for which the club was famous, and drank the tart green wine of Portugal while they discussed the advancement of the struggle and promised each other the support and assistance of comrades.

  When they had eaten, the agent nodded to one of the bar girls and she came to the table and after a few minutes of arch conversation took Moses’ hand and led him through the rear door of the bar to her room at the end of the yard.