by Ruth Hartley
“I have met Otto – Otto Dix – since. In Vienna where he received a prize for his work, I told him of my tiny collection.” Oscar smiled at Michel, “And by the way – they travelled out to Chambeshi in a Diplomatic Bag – I am also indebted to the diplomatic community for giving them safe passage so I can have them in my home.”
Michel made a small bow back at Oscar and smiled too.
“Discreetly managed, I am sure.”
Lara pursed her lips together. Her mouth had almost dropped open at the idea that Oscar could have met Otto Dix.
“So you are originally German, then Oscar?” Tim’s journalist friend Ben, asked Oscar. “I thought Mynhardt was an Afrikaans name?”
“I’m originally German, yes – my father’s name was Meineke but when we arrived in South Africa my sister and I decided to adopt a Dutch version of it. It was still not so long after the war and it made life easier. Now – time for our desserts and I have a sweet wine – a Sauternes – for those of you who wish to have it.”
Oscar deflected the conversation away from his past and Lara determined that she would find out more about that time in history. Perhaps her father would know. Tim didn’t approve of her interest in Oscar and though he could probably tell her all about it he would also subject her again to warnings about Oscar which would bore her. In any case Tim was leaving for Zimbabwe at the weekend and would be working from there for at least six months. There probably wouldn’t be enough time to have those kinds of conversations before he left.
William, the Chambeshian satirist, was amusing Tim with a story about a dinner he had been invited to at the home of a white hunter.
“Trophies on every wall and leopard skins on the settees!” he chortled, “but the best part of the evening was eating our steaks under this huge painting of a male lion devouring a kudu bull. Every bite I took I could see into the lion’s maw with all its teeth and red blood and flesh and gore. I nearly got to my feet and roared at the end of the meal! Such a nice gentle lady the wife was too!”
Amid the general laughter Helen said that she knew the hunter, the artist and the particular painting.
“Not your style, I think Lara.”
“Well I suppose it is no less or more horrible in its own way than the Otto Dix painting,” Lara replied, “but I guess it is a question of the artist’s intention and what the artist suffered – and well – also felt and wants to express – I don’t suppose the hunter felt sorry for the kudu bull! I do wonder sometimes if I paint too romantic a version of wildlife. After all, animals that are wounded or not killed outright do suffer pain.”
Abruptly and unexpectedly, Oscar’s quiet secretive guest broke his silence. Lara did not know his name but he spoke with an unusual richly-guttural, Arabic-sounding accent. Perhaps he was Lebanese or Israeli. Certainly he was from the Middle East.
“Death and suffering aren’t the same for animals and humans. For us humans our own death is total negation of the self and we view it with the utmost fear and horror and loathing and we will do anything to avoid dying.”
“Animals do not want to die either. They fight like hell to avoid it.” Bill interjected.
“True enough,” the Middle-Eastern man said, “But they do not suffer the psychological and psychic pain that humans do. We can suffer despair at the idea of death even when we are not in danger, not in captivity and not in pain.”
Maria did not agree and shook her head so hard that her hair whipped around her face.
“Animals die in captivity – they pine and die of sorrow too – quicker than humans do!”
“You are correct, but we are different.” the Middle-Eastern man said. “We live because we have hope. We suffer and despair. Animals suffer neither hope nor despair. They fight to survive. It is all they know.”
Lara found herself thinking of Liseli. She had never seen anyone suffer as Liseli had suffered on that last day. Not even Lara’s own broken heart over Jason’s betrayal had reached that height and that depth of misery.
Who was this intriguing man, she wondered, and why did he speak with such authority on pain and on death? Oscar listened, his eyes averted.
“We have to have our revenge on the bad people,” Pascal said. “Bad actions and death must be avenged to stop the bad growing stronger.”
“We are most human when we do not take revenge.” Again it was the man from the Middle East who spoke. “Justice must go together with mercy. Payment for bad acts is not and should not be revengeful. Revenge will only go in a circle of pain.”
“You are right, Natan. You are right – but it is hard not to take revenge when you’re angry.” Oscar said.
Natan shrugged and returned to his self-contained silence.
“So that’s his name,” thought Lara. “Is he Israeli? I must ask Tim about him. What is his business here, I wonder?”
“Talking of revenge – what news does anyone have of the trouble on our north-western border?” It was Junior speaking. He had been having an animated private conversation with his father. He continued, “I’ve heard in the bars of Chambeshi City that some breakaway rebels from Angola plan an attack on our mines in that area. I understand that they say the attack would be in revenge for the help President Chona gave to the legitimate government of Angola? Any opinions anyone – any useful information?”
“I don’t think it’s anything serious.” Enoch Senior contributed. “They’re an isolated bunch – not very numerous, led by a man called Njoka – Njoka means snake – quite fitting for him except that he’s fat. He was born in Chambeshi near the border and says he’s a General – General Snake! I think he may have been trained by the Cubans as a freedom fighter but he became a renegade and his group was funded by South Africa to destabilize Angola. So far they have had no success, but they have done a lot of raping and killing.”
“Honestly, Dad, I hope you’re right about this – Oscar – all this trouble is rather close to the Tin Heart Mine isn’t it? I don’t want my Dad to be taking any risks at his age! He’s done his share of fighting for Chambeshi.” Junior made his plea sound like a joke and he put out his hand and rubbed the top of his father’s head. At this playful patronising gesture, Enoch gave his son a friendly shove, a pretend smack on his cheek and a hug that ended in a brief wrestling match.
Lara saw Natan cast a swift sharp glance in Oscar’s direction.
Why was Natan bothered about the Tin Heart Mine?
She looked at Enoch and Inonge and their son with envy for their apparently close and happy family life and thought about her own parents. Everything’s changing for me. I suppose Mum and Dad were happy together? Who really knows about anyone else’s relationships even if it’s your own family? Mum and Dad retire very soon and they aren’t all that old. Dad’s not sixty yet. Jane and Brian had plans to travel and to buy a holiday home in Cyprus. Will Mum like that? She’s never seemed that pleased with things in her life. I thought that Mum was irritated by me but how would I know? Perhaps she’s menopausal?
Lara had heard her mother’s friends mention hot flushes and depression. Obviously that had nothing to do with her. Lara wasn’t really interested in her mother’s physical state but now she wondered about Inonge, Enoch’s wife and Junior’s mother. Enoch and Inonge always referred to each other in formal terms as Mr Njobvu or as Mrs Njobvu.
“Even when they’re at home in private,” Junior had said with a grin. “These old types who grew up in the village – they are so conservative!”
Lara did not find Enoch and Inonge conservative. Yes – they had traditional manners and some traditional beliefs but their approach to the modern world was – well – modern. It seemed odd that if she asked Enoch how Inonge was he would say Mrs Njobvu was fine and if she asked Inonge a question that concerned Enoch she would be told what Mr Njobvu wanted. At the same time their relationship with Enoch and his siblings se
emed both informal and respectful. Tim had said to Lara how much he admired the way Chambeshians adapted to every event and problem that their new independence threw at them. Technology doesn’t bother them. They learn to use it faster than British graduates do. Business – well – they just go and make it happen. Politics – well again – that is much more of a mess – but at the same time every Chambeshian is certain of his right to self-determination and expects to voice his opinion and be listened to. It is really interesting seeing how ready they are to grasp every opportunity that comes their way.
“Take Enoch,” Tim had once said, “He is one of the most adaptable people I have ever known and he has such a strong sense of duty, such loyalty to his friends – he is such a moral person – and he has had to work it all out for himself, learn the hard way and – well – I really like Enoch – and trust him.”
By which Lara knew that Tim meant, but did not say, that he did not trust Oscar.
They were an interesting partnership those two – Oscar and Enoch.
Chapter Two
Oscar
“Well Lara – we must arrange to have a meeting at my office very soon to talk about that commission I want you to do.”
The long luncheon was over at last and Tim and Lara were heading back into Chambeshi City before the sun set. Oscar had shaken Tim by the hand and wished him luck for his trip to Zimbabwe. Now he turned to Lara and took her hand briefly. As usual he kissed her on both cheeks in what now seemed a formal gesture.
“May I phone you tomorrow to make an arrangement?”
“Yes please do. I will be working from Tim’s flat most days and I can take incoming calls there.”
Oscar nodded. “I have Tim’s number. Tomorrow then.”
“Best before lunchtime.” Tim said. “Lara’s running me out to the airport in the afternoon.”
Lara was relieved. She needed the commission to see her through the end of the rainy season. At the moment she was working for the exhibition at the Umodzi Gallery which was to take place in April and so was not selling any of her work. Her small income from her last winter with Bill and Maria was diminishing each day and she had not yet decided to take another job with them over the next winter safari season. Her parents planned to stay until the opening of her first solo exhibition. By then they would have packed up their home and be living in the company guest house until their final departure to England en route to Cyprus and retirement. Brian would be leaving Jane’s car for Lara’s use. It was a small four-wheel drive jeep but fortunately light on fuel. Even so Lara was unashamedly bumming lifts off her friends and off Tim to save herself money. She wouldn’t be paying any rent while she was house-sitting but if Oscar gave her a commission she would not have to worry about food and fuel expenses.
As promised, Oscar’s secretary phoned the next morning and a meeting was fixed for the following day. It gave Tim another opportunity to discuss Oscar with Lara when she drove him out to the airport that afternoon.
“The thing is Lara, no one seems to know exactly where he gets his money from. His gold mine must give him very little income if it’s not producing, as he says. When he first arrived just before Chambeshian Independence he joined the colonial police force as a commissioned officer. Enoch served under him – that’s how they met and how they came to be ambushed together in the rebellion. Soon after that he took his discharge from the police but stayed on in Chambeshi. He was employed as the manager of the Herman Levy car import firm and garage but Levy was looking for a fast exit from Chambeshi. Lots of whites left around then – the rebellion had scared them shitless. I gather Levy hadn’t played by the book anyway and didn’t fancy prison under a black administration. Somehow Oscar put the money together to buy him out but against all expectations that the luxury car market was finished both Levy and Oscar did well out of the deal. Somehow Oscar brought in all the cars for the new Chambeshian administration – Mercedes dealers generally do very well out of African governments and Oscar had good connections in West Germany.”
Tim shook his head with a wry laugh. The new class of Mercedes owners in Chambeshi, known locally as the WaBenzi, were the source of both hilarious jokes and bitter complaints.
“It doesn’t add up, Lara,” Tim said. “Oscar did make a fortune from the garage before it was sold. Now he runs an enterprise office in Chambeshi City that supports odd business ventures. It is easy to be a millionaire in Chambeshi but to compete financially in international business? I don’t know. He has a beautiful house, a light plane, a tiny mine and a safari camp that’s not very well known. Enough to be very comfortable – yes – but to keep flying off to Europe? He is almost never in his office – I have never seen him actually working at his desk!”
“Well I’ll make sure he pays me before I give him any paintings.” Lara said feeling some frustration at the negative portrayal of her new patron-to-be. “What else can I do, Tim? I will watch out for him. I am not a complete idiot you know! I really wouldn’t like to be taken in by someone who is dodgy – especially here where it is no fun to be hassled by the police. I’d be mad to. In any case I don’t like cheats and crooks – but he does seem to know about art. Helen trusts him and he supports the gallery – what more can I do?”
Tim looked at Lara for a moment.
“You’re right, Lara. He may well give you the break you need – and I know that you can look after yourself – take care though – and there’s my own new fax machine at my flat – keep in touch and send me drawings by fax, won’t you – so I know you’re alive and okay!”
Lara laughed. David Hockney had been the first artist to send a drawing from the USA to Britain by fax and she and Tim had occasionally faxed each other drawings rather than letters.
“Oh you’ll hear from me, Tim! Often! Who else can I talk to about what is happening here who will also understand my peculiar and personal take on it all? You know I’m hopeless about politics and only interested in becoming a famous painter.”
“You don’t kid me.” Tim said, “You’re much more shrewd about politics that you let on. Beware of the rich though. Don’t let fame ruin you –“
“More than it has already, you mean,” Lara interrupted, smiling.
Tim shook his head and continued, “Keep your ear to the ground – or the listening post – or whatever – about this second rebellion in the north of Chambeshi. The rumour is that it isn’t going to go away and something is stirring in the heart of Chambeshi too. I’ll let you know what the journalists in Zimbabwe are saying about it.”
Chapter Three
Oscar’s Commission
In spite of Tim’s criticism, Lara did see Oscar working at his desk the following day. The phone call from Oscar’s secretary had invited Lara to Oscar’s town office at 11 o’clock on Wednesday to discuss the paintings he wanted to commission from her. Perhaps because of what Tim had said, Lara decided to go casually dressed.
“I’m not applying for a job with him.” she told herself. “I’m an artist and should dress as I please – or should I? What does an artist look like in any case? Arty – like Helen with dramatic clothes, heavy jewellery, and exuberant hair? Scruffy, like Gillian who would wear paint-stained jeans and two t-shirts with holes in overlapping places? Or like Ajay, who as a punk musician, had outrageous pink hair and hobbled his thighs together with chains?”
She plaited her hair from the crown of her head to the nape of her neck leaving a loose pony tail down her back and put on a cool cotton shirt over a bright vest and a swirly skirt. It was hot so she put sandals on her feet.
“Safari camp clothes – what I usually wear.” she thought. “But it’s what I like and when I work at my art I am in the bush. Anyway – Oscar knows me and has seen the kind of person I am. What is in my portfolio ought to be more important.”
Oscar’s office was in a long white building set back from the main road. Palm trees a
nd a large metal sculpture outside the front door distinguished the building from its neighbours. Inside it was quiet and tasteful with a selection of art that Lara recognised from the Umodzi Gallery. A young man at a reception desk stood up to greet Lara and after a phone call she was taken into the secretary’s office. Oscar’s secretary was an elegant and efficient Chambeshian woman with a pleasant smile. She invited Lara to sit down in an armchair to wait and offered her a coffee, which Lara refused.
“Mr. Mynhardt is on an overseas call and will soon be free,” the secretary said. “He apologises for keeping you waiting.”
The secretary, Lara noticed, was very busy with both phone calls and fax messages. In between she typed on an electronic typewriter at a great speed. It did indeed appear that Oscar was doing business. After studying the art on the walls, Lara amused herself with tourist magazines advertising safari holidays in Chambeshi. There was an article about Bill and Maria with a photo of Jason taking a group of tourists out in his jeep. Lara sighed. In Chambeshi City’s business world everybody knew everybody else and all about their businesses too. Big fish in a small pond was how her father Brian had described Chambeshian businessmen. Did she really want to go around the city touting for commissions, particularly from someone like Oscar?
“God! What is it I have to do to make a living from my art? Am I selling myself ‘the artist’ – or selling what I make?”
Lara felt a moment’s disgust with herself for spending so much time and thought on how to dress for her meeting. She was scowling at herself when Oscar opened the door in front of her and invited her into his room.