by Nick Wood
“Hey!” I shout, appalled. It had been my eighteenth birthday present from my father.
“Sorry, boy,” he says, out of the side of his mouth, “the boere no doubt have a lock on your calls. That phone is not only useless, but it’s dangerous.”
I am still upset and angry. We have been taught to throw nothing away.
“Ahhhh....” he puts the binoculars down and picks up the torch, standing quickly with the surety of a fit man. With one hand he shields the torch, flashing it towards the ocean.
I strain my eyes, but see nothing in the deep gloom.
Then I hear it: a slight engine sound, a flickering light in the darkness. Something is coming towards us and it’s obviously not a shark.
Numbers pulls the tarpaulin up and crumples it into his big bag, along with the binoculars. He hands me the sandwich. “Eat well, boy, we still have a very long way to go.”
I stand to eat, bag on my back, peering into the darkness. Numbers stands alongside me, flashing into the night. Then he steadies his right hand, focusing the beam on the sea in front of us. A shape emerges from the darkness, a small rowing boat with one person rowing, the boat bouncing on the surging of the sea, passing in and out of the torch’s light.
“It’s too risky bringing the main boat in close. Give me your bag.”
I do so and he gives me the torch to hold: “Try and keep it on the boat.”
This proves harder than it sounds; although the man at the oars seems skilled at stabilizing the boat, it still slides across the swell of the sea. I track it as best as I can, it’s now only several metres away and Numbers slings my bag in successfully.
“Now for the hard part,” he says, slinging his own large bag off his back.
“Brother!” he shouts to the oarsman struggling in the boat, “I need you to catch this one, it’s very valuable and we need nothing to break inside.”
The man in the boat shouts something back and Numbers laughs.
“Hold the torch steady, Sibusiso,” he barks to me and throws – just as the man releases his oars to turn towards us. The man holds out his arms and the boat swings out of view.
“Fuck!” Numbers shouts and I swing the torch to try and locate the boat; afraid it has slipped onto the rocks, although I have heard nothing.
I can’t find it, but a man’s voice calls out of the darkness. “I am here. I told you not to doubt me, Numbers, I told you I am a top slip fielder for the Mandela Eleven cricket team.”
Numbers laughs again, just as I locate the boat slipping in closer to us – the man is back at his oars, two bulging bags at the front of his boat.
Numbers turns to me: “How good is your long jump?”
“What?” I ask dumbly.
He sighs: “Can you swim?”
“What?” I repeat.
“Never mind,” he says, throwing the torch into the boat. With one fluid motion, I feel him sweep my legs from under me with his own leg and then I am sliding down the rock towards the seething sea.
I scream, but something has my shirt in its grasp. I hit the water with a shock and scrabble at it, dark bubbles in front of me and I am choking on salty wetness. The water is warm, thank God, and I gasp, but this time I take in air and not water, somehow my face is above the waves.
Something is thrusting me upwards and then I feel strong arms pulling me over a hard surface and I roll inside a flat wooden space, coughing. A shape sprays alongside the boat and hangs on, the boat lurches and dips as the shape rears up and rolls over, bumping heavily into me. I feel myself thrown against a bag at what must be the front of the boat, but it yields under me, no fragile or sharp surfaces inside.
Oars splash and I continue to cough water out of my mouth. Above me, an even larger shape looms out of the darkness, dimly lit, a chugging boat with taller sides. A light flashes and I see ropes tumbling down its side.
We sway alongside and I see in the flashes of torchlight that it is a rope ladder.
“Climb!” says Numbers next to me.
This time I say nothing, but stagger to my feet and wait until the boat lurches close enough. I lean across, grab the ladder with both hands and swing a foot up onto a ropy step. For several moments I swing against the larger boat, banging my elbow against the side of the larger boat, my feet in a tangle.
Then, slowly but steadily, I climb the ladder.
“This, I know how to do,” I shout back down into the darkness.
Numbers’ deep roll of laughter follows me up the swinging ladder.
The captain greets us as we climb aboard. He is a white man, I notice with shock, but his accent is thick, strange and definitely not South African. Still, he does not wait for us to dry and no one else offers us anything.
“Go below and stay there – Dimitri will show you the bunk you must share. You will wash up after all meals. We head now into ...ahhhh, non-territorial waters... if we are boarded, we give you up, without questions being asked, having rescued you miles out to sea.”
He turns, thick jersey partially hidden by shiny full-length overall. He clumps up a flight of steps in black gumboots, I think, although it’s hard to gauge colour in the dimmed ship’s lights. I’d only guessed he was the captain by virtue of him standing in the foreground, three other white men hanging behind him – that, and the fact that he wore a hat that looked a bit like Captain Haddock in a Tintin comic I’d read from the traveling township library.
They – and everything around us – reek of fish.
“A Russian fishing vessel,” says Numbers in my ear.
“He might as well have been South African,” I mutter.
Dimitri, I presume – a small wiry man with a blank, pockmarked face, black bushy hair and beard – gestures us towards steps leading downward into the boat. The other men are winching the rowing boat aboard and I hear the thump of someone landing on the deck behind us.
But I am being jostled ahead by Dimitri, who holds my right elbow in a tight grip, as I stumble against the sway of the ship. At least the wooden railings leading down into the murky bowels of the ship enable me to shuffle downwards without falling, given I grip tightly and walk sideways like a crab. Dimitri himself dances ahead of me, needing no grip, turning to look at me occasionally and with undisguised impatience.
I do have vague misgivings on the way down, remembering progressive teachers inserting the Atlantic slave trade illegally into their teachings on (white) South African history. But Numbers breathes reassuringly behind me, so I keep moving, albeit at a painfully slow creep.
The steps bottom out into a narrow corridor and Dimitri heads down what seems to be the smelliest side, although it’s hard to be sure, as everything stinks – and I am starting to feel decidedly queasy. He stops and opens a small door to his right, waving me in, grinning.
I’ve yet to trust a white man’s smile – even Dr. van Deventer’s smile was not always reassuring. I step inside, but only because I can feel the pressure of Numbers’ presence hovering powerfully behind me. He follows me in, as does the third man – almost inconceivably, given the tiny size of the room.
It looks like a room for lost and missing equipment: bits and pieces of rope, broken metal, tools... and a fishing net, splayed across the small floor. Behind us, the door closes. “See you for – morning meal,” comes the muffled and diminishing shout of a receding Dimitri.
I lean against the far wall, feet tangling in the net, but somehow manage to turn to look at the others. Numbers is so big, dominating the room to such an extent, that at first I don’t see the much smaller man. He’s standing a bit behind Numbers and is only armpit height to him, but his chest and arms look as thick as a tree. It is hard to see him in the dimmed light dropping from lighted vents around the room, but he seems sure of himself and the space around him.
“Xolile,” he greets me, leaning forward to handshake, thumb grip, palm, and thumb grip, “Welcome aboard, cousin.” He’s umXhosa, but I don’t hold that against him, he was so good with his oars.
Xolile laughs and reaches behind him: “And guess what’s for breakfast, lunch and supper.”
My stomach lurches with the boat but Xolile has the bucket in front of my face. I spew with shame, sagging to my haunches as my feet are trapped in the net. Xolile lowers the bucket to keep pace with my collapse.
This is going to be a long trip.
I hate fish.
It’s actually a shorter trip than I’d feared. The ship had powerful motors and once fully out at sea it went like a mad horse, bouncing across the water.
But my stomach bounced too and I was unable to keep any food down. I had one change of clothing in my bag, but everything turned quickly into a fishy smell.
My mind cheered when we finally saw shore, the sprawling smeared shape of a coastal city emerging ahead of us. Maputo, Numbers told me. Both he and Xolile had to support me off the boat, though, I was so weak and sick.
Then there was the train ride – that took longer than I’d hoped, rattling across a great distance, swaying too, but less aggressively. So my stomach grew stronger and I was able to eat bits of chicken and bread; Numbers had a small wad of foreign currency in his bag. We slept in the cabin, sitting up and propped against each other. There were three other Mozambiquans opposite us, two young men and a woman and they looked smartly dressed compared to us, looking down their noses at us and speaking a funny language.
“Portuguese.” Numbers whispers to me as it darkens yet again outside.
He sleeps with a rigid grip around his bag. Mine, I use as a pillow.
I watch Africa shift slowly around me: town, scrubland, thin forest – denuded by Renamo from the Civil War, Numbers tells me. Town, forest, grassland... and two men in uniform enter our cabin, but they are black men.
Still, my stomach tightens, but they smile as they stamp papers Numbers holds out to them.
“Welcome to Zambia,” says one in English, as he leaves the cabin.
And so it is that we arrive in a town, a fairly big one at that, rattling for quite a while past buildings before we grind to a slow halt.
Numbers stands up as do the other passengers opposite us. “And now, welcome to Lusaka.”
I am both relieved and excited.
We step off the train and people push past us, all certain of where they are going. Hawkers stride the platform, with fruit, meat and vid-phones.
I look around. I do not see a white face.
Numbers pulls a cell-phone from his pocket and switches it on.
“How have you kept yours?” I ask, angry.
He shrugs and examines a text. “Sorry, my boy, I had to be sure you didn’t use it in a moment of weakness.”
Boy. Weakness. My anger rises even more. The long miles have worn all of our relationships into a thin thread of bare tolerance.
We are jostled again and Xolile guides us to the ‘Lusaka’ metal sign, where the crowd is thinner. Our train pulls out, heading back towards Mozambique.
Numbers examines his phone again and gives a bark of surprise. “Plans have changed,” he says.
“How?” asks Xolile. Our words with each other have become short, sharp and extremely to the point. (Xolile has given up talking cricket with me, as I’m strictly a football fan, my team being the Buccaneers, although I have never been to Orlando.)
Numbers gestures up the platform.
At first all I see is a thronging mass of people, some travellers, some new hawkers with bags of cheap jewellery, and many people just standing and talking amongst each other, some smoking. Then I see a paler man walking towards us purposefully, neatly dressed in a creamy yellow shirt and slacks, white floppy sun-hat as shade against the building heat of the day.
But he is not white. Well, not quite.
“The Russians are withdrawing overt support from us while negotiating peace with the Americans,” says Numbers. “The Chinese have registered their interest in the box.”
The man is slight and of medium height with black hair peeping out from under his sun-hat. I feel dirty and smelly – and slightly ashamed of my appearance, he is so neat.
He bows.
His English is fluent, clipped and precise, perhaps better than mine.
“Welcome, gentleman, I have a car for you. The Chinese government is interested in supporting you – that is, if you have the, uh, electronic Box?”
Numbers pats the bag he wears on his chest protectively; it expands his bulk forward so that I feel small, superfluous, an inconsequential hanger on.
“Good,” says the man, “Chung Li is my name.”
He shakes hands Western style, bowing at each of us in turn as we say our names.
“Good to meet you,” he says: “Now let me take you to somewhere more comfortable. The place also has a bath.”
We follow him and I wonder briefly whether Chung Li has also mastered the white man’s art of subtle, as well as overt, hint and denigration.
But a bath sounds good. Very good. I want to scrub away the fish, which feels as if it has sunk beneath my very skin.
The house is comfortable. Much more comfortable than anything I have lived in. It even has air conditioning – we watch as the black servant tunes the system so that it cools the heat out of the day’s air. The servant speaks Bemba and is reluctant to use English; although I have no doubt he is practised at the art of seeming to understand much less than he really does.
And the bath is indeed wonderful – I lie for over an hour, soaking my bruises, cuts and, most of all, the enduring stench of fish, off my skin. Numbers bangs on the door eventually and I give the bath up reluctantly, but am delighted to find new clean clothes in a whole room designated for me. On the bed lie yellow slacks, underpants and shirt, so I wonder if it is indeed part of a uniform.
We eat well, not Chinese, but grilled chicken and the local version of samp. Along with crunchy green beans, it feels as if the meal has dropped down from heaven.
But a black man still serves the food, so I’m glad it’s just a simile and not how heaven may actually operate – at least, so I hope. I manage a smile at my own joke, having remembered my English classes. For the first time in the better part of three days we have travelled, I relax.
There is little conversation, for we are too busy enjoying the food. Our host calls us aside afterwards, though.
“Time to test the goods,” he says.
He takes us to a quiet room deep in the heart of his huge house, where there are no windows – and the walls themselves seem to have been hushed. By comparison to the lushness of the rest of the house, it is a bare room indeed, with a few chairs, a table and nothing hanging off the walls. Even the floor seems to be silenced wood.
I wonder what purpose this room normally serves, but Numbers already has Dr. Van Deventer’s Box out on the table. He leaves me to clip the caps in, as I remember the doctor doing. The Box smells a bit of fish, although perhaps that’s just my memory of our arduous journey intruding.
Our host sits opposite me.
“I read you,” he says eagerly.
I hesitate. He gestures impatiently: “I must read you to be sure it works. You will not be able to read me.”
I am not sure if he means will not, cannot, or should not.
Numbers signs at me to proceed. Xolile slumps against a wall, looking on with disinterest, as if his life revolves around rowing, cricket and illegally crossing international borders.
I place the caps – first on my head and then on Chung Li’s. His hair is soft and short, easy to manage.
He pushes a pad and pen my way. “Write down in English what you intend to imagine and then fold the sheet so I see nothing.”
I write, noticing he has closed his eyes. I fold the sheet over twice to make sure he sees nothing.
He opens his eyes: “Now focus on one specific image in your
mind. Make it as simple and clear as possible.”
I switch the machine to export from my cap and close my eyes, concentrating hard. After a minute or so, I open my eyes. Chung Li’s eyes are closed, but he is smiling.
I switch the machine off and unclip my cap.
He opens his eyes but does not bother reaching for the paper. “I too, have fished with my father,” he says.
Homemade rod, I think, tears coming to my eyes, and we caught nothing.
Tata.
Chung Li smiles again and looks across to Numbers. “We will take the Box and remunerate your organization well. We will also do as you ask about the additional supplies.”
Numbers steps forward and rubs his huge hands together: “How long?”
“Two days at most.”
I see Numbers jerk with surprise.
Chung Li unclips his cap and stands, hand outstretched for a sealing handshake. “We have been investigating this sort of technology independently ourselves and are almost there. We have most of the resources and circuits nearby and already share much with this continent; and we’re always looking for ways to simplify our uh… communications. The locals can be so – what is the word the English use – inscrutable?”
I am puzzled by his last word, although Xolile barks a short laugh. Chung Li smiles and I wonder how much is shared, how much is bought, how much is taken.
Numbers shakes hands on the deal and I look across at Xolile. This looks like we have several more days of hearing the differences between a straight versus cover drive then – with good food and a bed thrown in.
We’ve already had a hack at a borrowed football in the big back garden.
I can see why he’s so fond of cricket – Xolile’s shit at football.
But he’s an amazing wizard on a computer – a natural, he says – showing me in his room how he can programme a search and publish Internet engine, gathering rapid and weighty anti-apartheid knowledge from all sources of the world, irrespective of language or symbol.
He clicks a button and smiles. “I just sent this shit-load of stuff direct, untraceable, to the Department of Tourism in Pretoria.”