The Devil's Horn

by David L. Robbins

  “Two answers. First, I played cricket for the company team.”

  “I assume you were quite good at that, as well.”

  “My dear, I was very good. It got me the attention of the mine’s managers. They sent me to engineering school in Cornwall.”

  “And?”

  “And when I returned, I married the boss’s daughter.”

  The woman’s smile registered that she rather liked this answer.

  Allyn addressed the three miners.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, I can see myself out.”

  The men walked off without ceremony, back to their tasks for the rich man who’d dismissed them. The woman removed her hard hat. Her hair was a gentle brown shade, streaked with gold by the light of the lone bulb. She ran a jeweled hand across her crown, an act of display, before covering it with the hard hat.

  “You’re one of my attorneys, aren’t you?”

  She nodded, the leopard on her helmet dipped at Allyn.

  “I am.”

  “Were you on the negotiating team?”

  “I was.”

  “Then you did excellent work. It feels good to be back.”

  Allyn flattened a hand to usher her before him.

  “We should celebrate.”

  He knotted his tie in the mirror and straightened his silver hair with her brush. Allyn was conscious of being quiet but not furtive. He wasn’t sneaking away, just letting her sleep.

  He left five thousand rand from his money clip on the dresser. On hotel stationery he penned a note to leave with the money: You didn’t ask for this, so please accept it. This would help define their relationship if they encountered each other again, in the office or socially in Pretoria. Allyn slipped out the door. In the lobby, the concierge arranged for a taxi.

  Yesterday’s mail included a note of condolence from the wife of Zimbabwe’s president, sent two weeks after the funeral. Allyn carried the letter onto the veranda, where Centurion Lake reflected the late day’s amber light. The president’s wife had been a great friend to Eva during Allyn’s affluent years in Zimbabwe. Her note was handwritten and short, not really heartfelt, the sort of message that said, “I have done what was proper and now good-bye.” Allyn dropped the note in a bin. The president himself had done better; he’d called Allyn personally. They spoke warmly for ten minutes with no enmity of the past, like two old pirates plying different waters.

  Allyn sat outside for the hour of sundown with nothing in his hands, not a gin or newspaper, no one to bring these to him. The maid had been in the house the days while he’d been gone to the office, then the mine. Funny about maids, how they left no evidence of themselves but the absolute lack of evidence.

  The big house would begin to feel empty soon. Eva’s clothes needed to be given away, her papers arranged and sent to her sisters, some memento photos to their boy who’d gone back to London a day after the funeral. Not much else needed doing.

  Below the veranda, fireflies blinked. The other mansions of Centurion Lake began to glow, homey and gilded. Though they were clustered around the water with him, they felt remote, houses he’d not been in, neighbors he didn’t know well. Eva had. His own home remained lightless. He did not go inside to turn on lamps or the television; he cooked nothing. Allyn did no chore Eva would have done, and the result was darkness.

  When the doorbell rang he did not at first discern it from the big chiming clock in the stairwell. The bells sounded again, and when he could not call for his wife to get the door, Allyn decided that he would find live-in help.

  He stepped inside from the veranda, clicking on a table lamp beside the expansive leather sofa Eva never liked. She said it held onto too much temperature, either cool or warm, and sitting on it was like sitting on a living thing. Allyn walked far from the lamp’s throw, without turning on more lights, into the dimness of the foyer. Without asking who was at his front door, he turned the knob and tugged. When the door was halfway open, he realized he might have inquired and stopped opening it, not sure if he could close it again and start over.

  A deep voice, familiar, curled around the open door from above Allyn’s head.

  “Kanjani wena, shamwari?” (How are you, my friend?)

  Fanagolo. The old pidgin tongue of the mines.

  Allyn pulled the door fully open. The great figure blocked most of the doorway.

  “Ndara kano wrarawo.” (I am well if you are well.)

  Juma, so large, could not spread his arms until Allyn had stepped back to let him in.

  They embraced. Juma bent his cheek to the top of Allyn’s head. He spoke in English without letting Allyn loose.

  “I am sorry I did not come to the funeral.”

  “I understand.”

  Juma backed away, keeping Allyn’s shoulders under his heavy palms.

  “She was a good woman.”

  “They don’t make them like her anymore.”

  “And if they do, I hope the men who find them treat them as well as you. Eh? Let’s drink.”

  Allyn led Juma into the vaulted den. He cut on a few lamps, Juma should not see him in a dour house. A breeze arose from the veranda as Allyn poured brandy. He said they ought to go sit outside, but Juma accepted the tumbler and folded his girth onto the leather sofa. Under him, the thing did appear to be an animal, one Juma had killed.

  Juma raised his glass. Allyn, on his feet, did the same, and they sipped.

  “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Should I go?”

  “No, of course not. Are you hungry? I don’t know what there is, but I can scare something up.”

  “I’ll only be a little while.”

  “Juma?”

  “Yes, shamwari?”

  Allyn carried the brandy decanter to the sofa. Juma offered his emptied glass.

  “Stay a bit.”

  Nine months ago, in the first week of the mine strike, Allyn had called Juma to come see him. They’d not been in each other’s company in twelve years, not since Allyn had left Zimbabwe for South Africa to buy the mine outside Pretoria. In those dozen years, they’d spoken on the phone for holiday wishes and birthdays, but few other occasions. Allyn and Juma had both become rich, Allyn very much so. When they talked, Allyn described for Juma the growing mine operation and the rising market for platinum; many times he asked Juma to come work for him, but Juma would not. Juma never spoke of how he’d made his own money. Eva, who’d known Juma as long as Allyn, suspected him, believed an old black man from the mines could not have made proper wealth; she meant legal. Privately, Allyn sensed this might be so but would not admit it to her and would not say anything to Juma. Besides, it made no difference; whatever Juma was doing—and he must have been very good at it—he did it far away in Mozambique. Eva, with the cancer in its first stages, would not have liked to know Allyn was meeting Juma after so many years. Allyn had asked Juma to come to Jo’burg, to a small restaurant downtown where few whites ate. Juma agreed and did not ask why.

  That evening they’d filled a patio table with stout beers. Allyn brought cigars. For the first hour they made no mention of business or money. Instead, they skipped backward across their current lives for the stronger clasp of their past. They reminisced about being teenagers in the mines, Allyn a fatherless boy, Juma his big Zulu mentor. How Allyn had become a full-fledged miner while Juma stayed a trammer. How Allyn, on his return from school in England, made certain that Juma was promoted.

  On the patio of the little Jo’burg restaurant, Allyn was the only white face. This and the Fanagolo helped him feel safe from prying ears. When they’d had their fill of recollections and found their bond still strong, Juma gave a long sigh. He rested his big arms on the table, clearly happy to have been called.

  He asked only, “Ja?”

  No black man on the patio or passing in the dim street was the size of Juma. Allyn stubbed out his cigar, finished the last beer, and placed his own arms on the table. He was dwarfed by his old friend, as he’d always been, and this was a comf
ort. It gave him the sense that nothing had changed and Juma would still help him.

  “Meena kona maningi endaba.” (I have a big problem.)

  Juma reached across the table. He clapped a broad, dark hand over Allyn’s forearm.

  “I am well if you are well.”

  “Come on the veranda. The fireflies are out.”

  Juma rose from the cushions to follow Allyn outdoors. Under the first stars and open air, Allyn wouldn’t feel such unfaithfulness to Eva as he might inside, talking to Juma about things that would have upset her, with Juma on the sofa she disliked. Allyn carried out the brandy decanter.

  They settled in chaise lounges overlooking the lake; the decanter stood on the table between them. They did not face each other, both watched the blinking fireflies.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Several things. First, to tell you how sorry I am.”

  “You’ve done that. I’ll be alright.”

  “This I know.”

  “What else?”

  “I need two hundred thousand rand. Cash.”

  “For what?”

  “Two of our poachers were killed a few days ago. From Tchonguene village. It’s for the families.”

  “It’s generous.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Alright. What else?”

  “I shipped off some very good horn yesterday. I have a new connection in the Kruger. Very promising.”

  “Tell me.”

  Juma reached for the decanter to refresh his brandy.

  “No, shamwari.”

  Juma poured for himself and sipped. The brandy glass in his hand seemed no larger than a thimble. Allyn pursed his lips and nodded. Many years back, in the tunnels, he’d learned that the darker and deeper the world became, the more he should trust Juma.

  “I’ll go get the money.”

  Allyn left Juma on the veranda. He moved through the house without turning on more lights, and from his office safe removed four banded packets of bills. Outside, he stood before Juma; the man’s width spread past the confines of the chaise lounge. Allyn handed over the money and remained standing.

  “All this could have been done on the phone.”

  “True.”

  “I could have couriered the money to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why did you come all this way?”

  “Sit, Allyn.”

  He did, elbows on knees, facing Juma. The big man kept his gaze fixed on the lake and the glittering bugs.

  “You have a beautiful home.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The strike is over.”

  “It is. And you know how much I appreciate your help. The mine would not have survived without it.”

  “Of course.”

  “Juma. What do you want?”

  “I came to ask if you want to continue.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Juma set the brandy glass down with a lovely delicacy, something Allyn had noted in the massive Zulu boy almost fifty years ago. A drill, a stone, a woman, a glass, all seemed to soften in his great hands. Juma gave every movement such focus, so careful of his strength that he became gentle.

  Juma pivoted on the chaise lounge to face Allyn. He mirrored Allyn’s posture, black elbows on his own knees.

  “I am saying you do not need me now. Your mine is operating again. The price for platinum is high. The crisis has passed.”

  Above the lake, something darker than the night cut through the fireflies, a bat feeding on them. Allyn was watching this when Juma asked, “Do you want to stop, shamwari?”

  Allyn didn’t need to save the mine anymore, that was done. During the strike, Ingwe had lost almost two thousand ounces a day of production. While Allyn’s miners sat idle, the world market for platinum continued to grow as the demand for cleaner automobile emissions kept rising. The mine would take a few months until it was fully ramped up again, but Ingwe was a secondary seam to the Merensky Reef, shallower and less expensive to work. Even with the increased salaries and benefits that came out of the negotiations, Ingwe would return to profitability soon. Allyn’s investors had been kept in the fold by the money Juma sent, five million rand—half a million American dollars—every month, sometimes much more.

  With Juma’s help, Allyn had set up a complex web of corporations and accounts, some offshore, one in China, two in Vietnam. He’d bought a small shipping company based in Harare where Juma could make deliveries. Juma was an officer of the firm and received his share of the horn sales as salary. Allyn knew only one name below him, Juma, above, he dealt only with a shadowy Mr. Phuong in Hanoi, who received the intact horns and paid an agreed-upon rate per US pound into a shell corporation in the Philippines. The price for one pound of rhino horn hovered just above $50,000, twice the cost of platinum, almost three times that of gold.

  “You’re right, Juma.”

  “I often am. What am I right about in this instance?”

  “What you’re not saying.”

  “That is?”

  “From this point on, it’s just about the money. Greed, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  “It is easy money.”

  “It must seem that way to you.” Juma hefted the banded packets of rand for Allyn to see. “I promise you it is not.”

  Juma stood from the chaise lounge, towering over Allyn.

  “I will be going.”

  Allyn stood as well, near enough to feel a damp warmth radiating off Juma’s chest.

  “I haven’t given you my answer.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are my friend.”

  “I know that. But I’d like us to speak as partners. Don’t go, Juma. Tell me.”

  “You will not like it, Allyn. You may, I think, like me less.”

  “That can’t happen, shamwari.”

  “You have lost your wife. You almost lost your company. I should have waited to come. This is not a good time for you to decide things.”

  “Juma, you know me.”

  “Very well.”

  “With Eva gone, I haven’t much else except business. I’ve no other interests, to tell you the truth. The last nine months frightened me. I thought I might lose everything. I did lose my wife, but because of you I kept the mine. What I’m saying is, if I had to choose between the two, I would have chosen this. I loved Eva, you know it. But I won’t let Ingwe be at risk again. Ever. So please. Sit, friend.”

  Juma considered, looking down his dark cheeks to eye Allyn. He nodded like a tree in a breeze, solemnly, slowly.

  “I started trading in horn only to help you. It was the fastest way to raise your cash.”

  “I know. Thank you.”

  “I don’t tell you this for thanks.”

  “I understand.”

  “The horn money is good. But it’s dangerous. People die, Allyn.”

  “They died in the mines, too.”

  “They did. For much less. I tell you so you will know. If you do business with me from this point forward, it’s more than horn.”

  “What is it?”

  “Weapons. Some drugs. And women.”

  Heavily, Juma sat. Allyn joined him. On the chaise lounges, they turned again to the lake, the fireflies, and the devouring, swooping bat.

  Chapter 5

  Promise stepped off the morning bus into Nyongane. The clear, early light made the many-colored garb of the women in the paved street electric. They wore sky-blue cotton wraps, orange and yellow shawls, and green sandals. They carried white baskets on their shoulders or balanced on their heads. The women were on their way to the well with laundry or bearing vegetables to sell in the township market. A few women knew Promise and greeted her: fat Blessed, Righteous, and one-eyed Bakabaka, whose name meant “pretty woman.” Stepping to them in her olive drab uniform, Promise felt bland, no more vivid than the bare dirt beside the road. But the ladies were loud in their welcome, like all the Zulu women i
n the street who never whispered in public for fear they would be seen as plotting by other women.

  “Heita, Promise. Come here, girl.”

  “Look at her.”

  “Ha, give us some sugar, isingane.”

  Promise hugged all three, leaning across their large bosoms to peck them on the cheeks. Righteous gestured at the small, white cooler Promise carried.

  “You bring your lunch to the Kruger? I thought you ate leaves, girl.”

  The women jiggled and picked up their baskets to continue on their way. Blessed, her basket hefted high onto her head, pointed a pendulous arm up the road.

  “I seen your gogo. She’s in.”

  The women walked away, off the pavement, headed on a bare path downhill into the jumble of pastel shanties, tin roofs, and teetering lean-tos that jostled for space on this poor patch of land. Promise moved on, waving to an old woman who’d helped care for her in the AIDS orphanage and two teen girls she’d cared for years later. Both girls wore jean shorts cut short to show their whole dark thighs, and the women in the street clucked while boys watched them go by.

  The morning threatened to be hot. Today’s patrol started at one o’clock, in the scorching stretch of the afternoon. The Kruger held no shouting women or squalid homes or poverty, only the wildness of the world, the breeze of the bicycles, the open air, the hiding animals, trees, monkeys, birds. Promise liked the Kruger best. She would be on the next bus out of Nyongane.

  Twenty thousand lived in the township, and not many owned cars. The few that did had jobs in Hazy View. They began to roll for the gate out to the main road. Each vehicle was packed with four in the rear seats, three in the front, some with loads roped to the roof, items to sell or barter in the city. The men in the cars touched their caps when they passed Promise, the township girl who’d become a ranger.

  She stopped first in the co-op machine shop to see her khulu. She found him behind a big diesel engine that had been pulled by chains out of a tractor. Shirtless, he gleamed with sweat in the stuffy garage, his muscles shone like wet pebbles. Khulu’s hair had only started to gray this year. He waved and called out.

  “Will you stay for lunch?”