by Fred Khumalo
Thierry quickly said, ‘My dear monsieur, I am not with the police. I am a journalist. I just want to get a sense of Jean-Jacques.’
‘Forget it.’ He walked towards the stage to join his colleagues doing the sound check. Thierry followed him gingerly.
‘I’ll have you thrown out if you continue like that. Stop harassing me,’ barked Jerry.
The other band members looked up from their instruments. The owner-barman craned his neck in the direction of what was becoming a noisy exchange. He said, ‘Do you have a problem, mister?’
Thierry raised his hands in resignation. He went to the bar and explained, ‘No problem at all, monsieur. I was trying to have a friendly chat with my good friend Monsieur Moloto. Seems like I upset him somehow. That’s all.’ He ordered drinks for two. He took them back to where he’d been sitting with Jerry.
The band started playing Ellington’s ‘Mood Indigo’, Jerry’s fingers flying deftly over the piano keyboard. As the club began to fill up, the band broke into a spirited version of Cab Calloway’s ‘Minnie the Moocher’.
By the time the show was over, Thierry was thoroughly drunk. He had another go at Jerry when the band was clearing the stage. ‘Monsieur, what I’ve been trying to tell you all night is simply this: your friend Jean-Jacques has been arrested. He’s in big, big trouble.’
‘What?’
‘He murdered two men today.’
Members of the band raised their heads. Jerry shooed them away. He said to Thierry, ‘I hope you know what you’re talking about. I could hang you by your white nuts right now.’
‘The story will be in the papers tomorrow morning.’
‘What happened?’
Thierry smiled drunkenly. It was his turn to be difficult. ‘Look, I am in no state to talk right now. Too drunk.’
‘Come on, man, don’t play games with me.’
‘How about we have lunch tomorrow? Or dinner? By that time you would have read the papers, but there’s always more to the story than what you’ll see in the papers. And that’s where I need your help. I have a few questions about things that won’t be covered by tomorrow’s papers, if you get my drift.’
Jerry stood for a long time staring at the journalist. ‘Come to my place tomorrow, then. And your story has to be good, or I’ll cut your balls off and have them for breakfast, you hear?’
‘You seem to have taken a liking to white balls, monsieur,’ Thierry laughed.
CHAPTER 3
At eight o’clock the next evening, Thierry was at Jerry’s place, an apartment building right behind the club. An upmarket building all right, but Jerry, who was the janitor in charge, lived – or maybe ‘burrowed’ was the right word – like a rabbit in the dingy basement. It was a biggish room which allowed for a kitchen table with two chairs, a gas stove, a fridge and a piano. A door led to what Thierry assumed to be a bedroom. It smelled of mildew. Thierry imagined that no matter how much you cleaned the place – and it looked spotless – the musty smell would never go away.
‘So, you came,’ Jerry said in greeting, with the undertone clear: I’d hoped you wouldn’t because you were talking nonsense last night.
Jerry gestured for Thierry to sit at the table. He positioned himself on a chair on the opposite side. The journalist was hoping his subject would feel self-conscious and start talking. He was wrong. The man, booze from last night coming out of his pores, just sat there and stared at him with tired, bloodshot eyes.
Thierry was the first to look away, restless as a bumblebee on a leash. Dying to get started. Soonest. Now. But he didn’t want to betray his eagerness, his desperation. He cleared his throat and tried to sound casual. ‘Last night I said I would tell the story from my own perspective. I’ve brought you a copy of our latest edition so you can see what I wrote. It’s simple and straight to the point. I mention that he is from Algeria, and what happened in that country – the French involvement, and so on. I also mention Jean-Jacques’ art. My editor loved that bit. No one else came up with that angle.’
Jerry took the newspaper and dropped it on the floor without even looking at it. ‘I’ve read all the papers.’
Many of the stories he’d read had highlighted Jean-Jacques’ Algerian background, suggesting that he was a left-wing radical whose disaffection with the French stemmed from the Algerian War of Independence, which had left many young people angry.
Jerry repeated, ‘I’ve read all the papers. And I think you don’t know what you’re talking about. The man all of you journalists have written about bears no resemblance to the man I know. I’m truly disappointed. Maybe it’s time to set the record straight.’
‘Of course. We absolutely need to get to the bottom of this.’
‘Maybe my friend won’t approve, but I think the truth needs to come out. The truth might just save him. You may have done away with the guillotine, but your courts are still stuck in the Dark Ages. Maybe my friend can use the story I’m about to tell as … what do you call it in proper legal language? Exterminating what – you know – factors that his lawyers can use to argue for a lesser sentence?’
Thierry’s face was blank.
Jerry tried again. ‘You write crime stories, man. You should know what I’m talking about.’
Thierry’s mind was working overtime: translating from Jerry’s brand of English to French, and then trying to get colloquial French to bow to the dictates of French legalese.
‘Circonstances atténuantes? Hmm, let me see … Extenuating circumstances?’
‘That’s the mother! Extenuating circumstances.’ Jerry thought for a while, then started again, ‘You see, my friend, I think this is more than a story. It’s history, the history of a country. The full story of the Algerian War has yet to be told. I think, with your help and cooperation, we can show the effect that war has had on ordinary human beings, on young people trying to make sense of their country – hell, I’d be a fool to let such a morsel of history pass me by.’
Thierry retrieved his notebook from his knapsack and placed it on the table. ‘I hope you don’t mind if we record this.’
‘You wait.’ Jerry was silent for a long time. Then he said, half to himself, ‘Quel poisson gelé.’
Surprised, Thierry exclaimed, ‘Why are you calling me a frozen fish?’
Laughing out loud, Jerry said, ‘It’s an expression I learned from Jean-Jacques when I first met him. He thought I was too cold and boring to make it as an artist in France. But I’ve defrosted since then.’ He reached into the fridge, came out with some white wine, then he found two glasses, which he rinsed in the tiny sink, before he placed them on the table. He reached for a corkscrew.
He filled the glasses to the brim. ‘You have to forgive me, my friend. I understand why you Europeans don’t fill your glasses to the brim. I suppose it’s on account of your sharp noses which tend to sink into the drink if the glass is too full. Fortunately, being a black man from Africa, with a nice, big flat nose, I don’t have that problem.’
They laughed together and each took a sip from their glasses.
Then Jerry set his glass down and said, ‘Okay, my journalist friend, and whoever you’re going to share this story with. First things first: this is not my story, but the tale of a man I call a friend, a brother. Jean-Jacques Henri.’
Thierry saw Jerry’s shoulder shake, until he exploded in laughter. ‘Jean-Jacques Henri!’ he repeated, oblivious to the Frechman’s confusion. Still laughing, he got up from his chair, slapping his thigh as he did so. His outbursts of laughter hit Thierry like rolling waves pounding an unsuspecting ship. ‘Jean-Jacques! Ooooh-wwwweeee! Jean-fucking-Jacques! Man, don’t be fooled by that stupid name of his. He is a South African boy. Pitso Motaung is his true name.’
‘What?’ You could have knocked Thierry over with a feather at that moment.
Jerry continued, ‘You know, when we come to Europe, from Africa, we sometimes have to assume new names, new identities, you see. Jean-Jacques fucking Henri! Ooooh-weeeee! And the French h
ave fallen for it all these years.’
At last, Jerry began to regain his composure. He blew his nose on a handkerchief, and then wiped his face with the back of his hand. He reclaimed his seat, still sniggering quietly. ‘As I was saying, when we arrive here in Europe, we have to be quick on our feet, and assume new identities. Especially those of us who are light-skinned. We know the French are more tolerant of North Africans – Moroccans, Algerians, Egyptians, etc. So, those of us who are light-skinned try to pass for North African-born bastards. That’s how the world operates, my friend. So what would you like to know about our friend Pitso Motaung?’
Thierry’s mind was reeling. So Jean-Jacques Henri was really a South African named Pitso Motaung? This was what you called news. He leaned forward.
‘Man, you should be writing about me instead,’ Jerry was saying now. ‘I am a better pianist than Jean-Jacques. I sing well too. And I can outpaint him any day. Come to think of it, why haven’t I assumed an Algerian-sounding name, seeing I’m also light-complexioned and my hair’s curly enough?’ Jerry laughed at his own joke. There was a moment of hesitation as Jerry remembered that his friend had asked him numerous times to speak in vague terms when matters of identity and country of origin came under discussion, especially with strangers. But now that Jean-Jacques was in prison, the truth about his identity would surely come out. Or maybe not?
Observing Jerry Moloto closely, Thierry sensed that there were many unresolved issues here. The whole incident had stirred some discomfort in the artist. As a cub reporter, Thierry had learned that long spells of silence made interviewees nervous, uneasy. Sooner or later, they would feel obliged to say something. So he decided to put this particular trick into practice. He waited.
Jerry Moloto got up from his chair. He paced the tiny kitchen, shaking his head. ‘I knew it was bound to happen. I knew it. I told him a long time ago to walk away, leave France and its bad memories. Go to London, Amsterdam, New York, anywhere, and start all over again. I told him. I begged him, you know. He wouldn’t listen. I knew that sitting here in Paris he was bound to bump into one of them. I told him, dammit.’
Jerry reached for a pile of papers he had placed on a small table next to the stove. His hand came up with a photograph, which he handed to Thierry. The woman in the picture had the body of a dancer, tall and slender. It was a black-and-white photo, so Thierry couldn’t tell the exact colour of her hair, except that it looked dark. She was perhaps in her late forties, early fifties, hair cascading to her shoulders, a wide open face, a sharp aristocratic nose, flat forehead, penetrating eyes, thin lips turned into a provocative smile, tiny dimples in her cheeks.
Jerry tapped the picture with his index finger. ‘This is the ghost that’s been haunting my friend for a long time. He gave me this picture some months ago. Asked me to be on the lookout for this face whenever I travelled out of Paris. I do venture out into the provinces every now and then. To draw inspiration, you see. The French countryside is good for the artist. I think this woman here, this ghost of a woman – because I’m not sure she’s still alive – is the trigger of all the mayhem you’ve just told me about. Since she went away, my friend has become unpredictable. You have to be careful what you say or do in his presence. Her name Marie-Thérèse. My friend can’t leave France, thanks to this woman. She’s got a hold on him. And she’s powerful, well connected.’
‘You’re speaking in riddles, monsieur. Can you simplify that for me, please?’
Jerry was silent for a long time. He could easily have forgotten that he was standing in the middle of his own kitchen, with a journalist sitting there, watching and waiting nervously. At last, he picked up the threads. ‘My French brother, I think you are a godsend. What’s your name again?’
‘Thierry.’
‘Ah, Thierry. Jerry and Thierry. It rhymes. Should write a song about it one of these days. Jerry and Thierry, toyin’ with a story. But Thierry gettin’ teary, ’cos his story is a’changin’ …’ He laughed briefly, shaking his head, before getting serious again. ‘My good friend Pitso’s been asking me for a long time to help him write the story of his life, so he could make peace with his past. You know, I paint, I play music and I dabble in short-story writing. Sold some of my short stories to some of the American pulp magazines. One of my stories got published in the same magazine that published Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler – tell me you’ve heard of them?’
Thierry’s face was blank, but no matter, Jerry steamed ahead. ‘Anyway, Pitso wants me to write about him. We can visit him in prison, get more meat from him. And then you can start running a series of stories in your paper. But to get the ball rolling, let me tell the story the way my good friend told it to me.’
Jerry started pacing again. He seemed to have rearranged his thoughts and come to a sudden decision. He spoke with urgency now. ‘I, Jerry Mogodiri Moloto, want to get this off my chest as soon as possible: I am not about to give you a history lesson. On the contrary, I want to show you how Pitso Motaung or Roelof Jacobus de la Rey, who you know as Jean-Jacques Henri, was an accident of history. He was a complex character, Pitso was. I don’t know why I’m speaking about him in the past tense. Pitso is a complex character. Three names already: Roelof de la Rey, Pitso Motaung and, of course, Jean-Jacques Henri. Complex.’
He paused, then said, ‘Yes, my good friend Pitso. So, we will do justice to his story. As I said earlier, he is a complex man. But he is also an accident of history.’
CHAPTER 4
South Africa, 1900
Perhaps the best way to start, Jerry suggested to Thierry, was to imagine Jean-Jacques’ father: standing at six foot seven on his bare feet, arms rippling with muscles, hands as huge as frying pans, a mane of flaming red hair, with a matching beard touching his chest, piercing grey eyes, an Irish potato for a nose. Cornelius de la Rey was an army commander’s dream come true. He was big and, although he did not know much about the British, he hated them with a passion. That was why, in 1900, a year after the outbreak of the Anglo–Boer War, and just after Bloemfontein had fallen into British hands, De la Rey found himself in the bush of the Orange Free State, fighting the British, who were going about burning down farms belonging to his people, the Boers. His parents’ farm, which was on the outskirts of the fallen town, had not been attacked yet. He wondered how long it would hold out.
In mid-March, the commando – a mix of trained soldiers and private citizens like him, the burghers – trekked towards Kroonstad in anticipation of British movements up north. Having vanquished Bloemfontein, the British had their eyes on the Transvaal, a province with riches of gold that had to be protected at all costs. There was even talk among the Boers of dynamiting the mines in order to thwart the redneck who wanted to get his greedy paws on the gold.
Like most burghers, De la Rey had recently gone for training and was ready to use his gun in defence of his homeland. Boer scouts had reported on British movements from Thaba Nchu towards Bloemfontein. Armed with this intelligence, four hundred Kroonstad and Bloemfontein commandos took positions along the route the Brits were to use. At dawn on 30 March, the commandos sighted a mounted British column. Typically of the British, it was bloated with ammunition carts and provisioning wagons, hundreds of horses and pack animals. It looked formidable, but the Boers were ready. Finger trembling around his trigger, De la Rey prepared to slice the enemy down. He was angry with the British, yet he also experienced moments of self-doubt. He did not believe he was born to fight; he’d far rather be home, working on the farm. He was therefore always startled that when the instruction to fire was sounded he did so with gusto.
Taken by surprise, the British were forced into a stampede. The Krupp field guns of the Boers spoke the language of violence until the sun came up. The Brits ran, with the Boers in hot pursuit. All told, the Boers killed a hundred and fifty men and captured four hundred and eighty prisoners. The field was carpeted with overturned provisioning wagons, injured horses and bloodied corpses.
‘Bloody o
verfed rednecks,’ exclaimed General Christiaan de Wet as he went about inspecting the harvest from the bloody carnage. ‘Look at their provisioning wagons. Enough to feed the entire republic of the Free State. That’s why their men are so fat.’
‘General!’ De la Rey called out. ‘There’re some Brits who are seriously injured here. They’re not dead. They need medical attention.’
General de Wet walked over to have a look at the three British men with their faces crushed in by bullets.
‘Ah, they won’t make it, De la Rey. They won’t.’
‘So, what should we do? Do we leave them here to die?’ asked De la Rey, unaware of the protocol in such a situation.
‘No, you can’t leave them here,’ General de Wet said. ‘You must finish them off.’
De la Rey looked at him, shocked. So did the British men who had been taken prisoner.
‘Finish them off, De la Rey. After all, they are trespassing heathens. Greedy, godless creatures driving us off our land, intent on stealing our gold. Finish them off! Don’t you know who you are? You are a De la Rey. You are a fighter. You are a liberator.’
The Boer men started chanting: ‘De la Rey! De la Rey!’
De la Rey slowly took aim at one of the men.
‘What are you doing?’ cried General de Wet. ‘You can’t waste bullets. Use one of their bayonets. There’s a fresh British bayonet. Use it.’
De la Rey looked up at his commander, and so did the rest of the men. De Wet glared back at them. De la Rey picked up the bayoneted weapon and walked gingerly towards one of the men, who was now sobbing.
One of the Brits put up a brave face, and started swearing. ‘Yer fucking bastairds. Even the African savages are better ’n yer!’
De la Rey drove the bayonet in, once. The soldier shouted defiantly, ‘Long live the Queen, yer bastairds!’
De la Rey drove the bayonet in again. Blood bubbled out of the captive’s mouth. Now the two other men were trying to crawl away from him. He reached one of them, drove the bayonet through his heart. The prisoner went limp immediately. By the time he reached the third man, De la Rey himself was possessed of an anger he had never experienced before. He stabbed the man six times – the stubborn mustard-eating, cucumber-munching, tea-drinking bastard – before he finally expired.