Tandia

by Bryce Courtenay

  The idea of sabotaging the toy train had already occurred to Geldenhuis but he'd quickly dismissed the idea. He couldn't be sure of blowing up the engine without killing the white children in the carriages. Now, as he read an interview with one of the cameramen hired by Simon Fitzharding, his excitement increased. In the interview the cameraman explained the opening film sequence for the BBC documentary when Solomon Levy would be alone in the train filled with toys during one complete loop of the tracks.

  Geldenhuis had all the information he needed to formulate a plan. The newspaper had presented it to him on a plate. Checking the Pretoria telephone directory he located the address of the engineering company. Geldenhuis had long since learned to trust simple ideas and he knew if he could get into the engineering works for less than twenty minutes he could go a long way to bringing the assassination of Solomon Levy to a successful conclusion.

  With most of the equipment he needed in a small canvas sports bag he left just after three in the afternoon in an unmarked car for the forty-mile drive to Pretoria. With him he took a plainclothes black detective from the Special Squad who had no idea as to the purpose of their journey and who was simply required to act on instructions when they got there.

  They arrived in the general area of the engineering works, which was in one of the older industrial suburbs of Pretoria, just before five o'clock, having stopped along the way to Pretoria at three hardware shops where Geldenhuis sent the black detective in to make several small purchases. The factories in the area closed at four and now the dirty back streets were completely deserted.

  Geldenhuis stopped the car half a block from where the engineering works was situated and, with the black detective, he went to work on a well-rehearsed routine. The police captain grabbed a tyre iron and spanner and slipped the hubcap from the rear driver's side wheel. He started to undo the nuts while the black man removed the jack and spare tyre. The detective quickly seated the jack and raised the tyre while Geldenhuis removed the tyre nuts and finally the tyre itself. Together they fitted the spare, tightened the nuts again and lowered the jack. When the weight of the car was taken by the spare tyre it was shown to be almost completely deflated, with only sufficient air in it to keep the tyre from riding directly on the wheel rim. It would drive safely enough for the half a block it needed to travel. Geldenhuis wiped his hands on a piece of cotton waste and removed a pair of blue workman's overalls from the back seat of the car which he climbed into and quickly buttoned up. Then he reached back into the car for the canvas sports bag in which he'd placed their several purchases.

  With a cursory nod to the black man, he slid the canvas bag over his arm and held up both hands, fingers wide, indicating ten minutes, whereupon he started to walk in the direction of the engineering works.

  He soon found the place he was looking for, a large iron shed or workshop, roughly the height of a three-story building with the name 'Poulos Pty, Ltd. Industrial & Heavy Engineering' in large white letters painted halfway up and across its entire windowless front. A massive set of double sliding doors, perhaps twenty feet high and almost as wide, were set into the centre of the building and opened by sliding along heavy greased steel tracks fitted above and set into the cement floor below the doors. Cut into the farthest corner of the left-hand door, like a pet's door in the kitchen, was a small door raised about a foot from the ground and only large enough for a man to enter the huge workshop if he stooped right over. It too was made of corrugated iron and was obviously only used when, as now, the large doors were closed. To his surprise the small door stood slightly ajar; it must be used by the night watchman, who was seated rather grandly in a crude imitation of a heavy old squared-off club armchair, made entirely from packing-case planks. The black man sat in the evening sunlight and appeared to be mending a pair of trousers which were draped over his knees.

  'God is on my side,' Geldenhuis thought, observing the open door, 'the fat bastard was meant to die.' He waited out of sight against the wall of an adjoining property until he heard the car approaching. The road ran some fifty feet from where the watchman was seated and, as the black detective drew to a halt, the watchman looked up from his sewing.

  The plainclothes detective got out from behind the wheel. Geldenhuis could see that he had one arm in a sling as he walked over to examine the rear tyre. 'Shit!' the detective said in a voice loud enough to carry to the watchman. The watchman rose and put down the pair of trousers he'd been repairing, walking over to the car. 'You have a puncture,' he said in Zulu, pointing to the offending tyre.

  'Haya, haya, I have a big problem!' the black detective tapped the sling on his right arm, 'My elbow, it is cracked, I can drive, but this tyre, I cannot change this tyre, my arm is not so strong.'

  The night watchman scratched his head and looked somewhat bemused. 'It is a big problem, my brother,' he said rather sheepishly. 'Also I do not know this thing for changing tyre.'

  The detective laughed. 'Give me only your strength, brother, I will show you, then next time you will know. It is good to know this thing.'

  'Ja, it is good,' the night watchman agreed, 'you will show me, I will help you.' It was still completely light and, in his mind, his duties as a night watchman only really started after dark. He liked the idea of learning how to change a tyre. You never knew when such a skill could be useful, maybe one day he would work in a garage?

  Geldenhuis watched as, using his left hand, the detective opened the boot and indicated the spare tyre. He waited until the night watchman was crouched beside the flat tyre; the detective stood directly behind him so that if he turned suddenly his view of the engineering works would be blocked by the black policeman's legs.

  Geldenhuis threw the canvas bag over the wall and vaulted it himself, dropping lightly to the other side. He covered the distance to the small door in less than ten seconds, walking quickly on rubber soles. He pushed carefully at the door which opened easily without a sound; stooping, he entered into the interior of the building.

  To his surprise, once inside he could see quite easily.

  Sixty feet above his head, beyond the steel crossbeams from which hung six set-ups of heavy block and tackle equipment, were several large skylights. Almost immediately he saw the small engine standing directly outside a small works office built at one end of the building. Geldenhuis approached the tiny locomotive and as he drew closer he noted the name, 'Poulos Pty, Ltd.' painted in fairly large letters on the door of the office directly behind the engine.

  This was the sign he'd seen in the newspaper-photographs; saving him the need to make any enquires as to the whereabouts of the engine and thus avoiding anyone remembering a telephone call at some later date.

  Geldenhuis worked quickly. From the canvas bag he removed a six-inch aluminium single cigar canister which had been packed with plastic explosive and was already fitted with a fuse which protruded about six inches from a hole cut into the rounded top of the cigar container. It was about a twelve-second fuse, its detonator buried deep within the plastic explosive.

  In Geldenhuis's hand the small cigar bomb didn't look much but it packed enough wallop to blow the engine in front of him sky high. He removed a lump of cotton waste and a small tin of lighter fluid, and soused the waste with the fluid. Then, lying on his stomach, he pushed his hands behind the left-hand front wheel of the engine until he could run his fingers along the front axle. He wiped the axle clean, the lighter fluid removing any film of grease there might be on it. He waited a few moments for it to dry before he removed from his pocket a tiny tube of a new Japanese instant glue which had just come onto the market. He spread a thin line of glue along the side of the cigar canister, pressing down hard and emptying the entire tube as he traced its point along the length of the canister. He then attached the canister to the centre of the hidden side of the front axle, holding it for a minute or so until the instant glue attached it, leaving his hands free. He wiped the silver aluminium canist
er clean, using a freshly doused wad of cotton waste. He then removed a roll of electrical tape and taped the canister firmly to the axle, making it impossible to shake loose. Finally he led the short fuse along the axle, taping it completely so that the dark electrician's tape concealed the white fuse, allowing only the last teased end of the fuse to rest no more than a quarter of an inch from the inside rim of the front wheel.

  It was awkward work and he skinned his knuckles several times, cursing quietly to himself. He wasn't unduly worried about being discovered; if for any reason the night watchman became suspicious and attempted to investigate, the black detective had instructions to kill him - simply rendering! him unconscious would mean someone would know they'd been there. Geldenhuis was a professional and he knew not to hurry a job as critical as this one. The charge would lie hidden for more than two weeks before it was to be exploded and, in the meantime, it had to be capable of withstanding dozens, perhaps hundreds of trips in the little train.

  Next Geldenhuis removed a small tin of Estapol, a clear plastic lacquer, and using a new one-inch paintbrush he painted the inside rim of the wheel with the lacquer. Reaching into the bag, he withdrew a flat tobacco tin which he opened to reveal about fifty two-inch strips of highly flammable magnesium tape, which he began to lay carefully into the wet plastic lacquer until they covered the entire inside circumference of the train wheel. By morning the plastic lacquer would be dry, fixing the strips tightly to its surface. Finally he doused a fresh wad of cotton waste in lighter fluid and wiped the surface of the electrician's tape carefully, as well as any metal areas he may, inadvertently, have touched to leave a fingerprint.

  Geldenhuis remained on his stomach and, using the torch, he inspected the outside of the wheel he'd doctored. Even from a distance of a few inches nothing showed on the outside of the train. The job was complete. He rose confident that unless someone with a probing torch lying on their stomach as he had just done knew exactly where to look, the engine would have to be flipped onto its back with its wheels in the air to see where the tiny bomb was concealed.

  He tidied up quickly, returning everything to the canvas bag. Finally he inspected the floor to see whether he'd left anything behind. Returning once more to lie on his stomach he pointed the torch to shine it under the engine. His eye caught a single magnesium strip which lay on the floor directly under the inside of the wheel. He recovered it and slipped it into the pocket of his overalls.

  Geldenhuis glanced at his watch. It was almost fifteen minutes since he'd entered the building, less time than it required to get a novice to change a tyre, but time to leave.

  He took one final glance at the shiny little green engine with The Solomon Levy Magic Carpet Express lettered in gold along its side. Christ! The fat Jew bastard could have anything in the world and he spent his time playing engine driver! To Geldenhuis there was something sinful about this. A man ten times richer than the president who dressed up in a Father Christmas outfit to play toy train driver and give kaffirs expensive presents was definitely sick. Bastards like that deserved to die.

  He moved quietly over to the door. The two black men were still hunched over the wheel with his back to him. Stooping, Geldenhuis let himself out. He moved quietly along the front and then down the side of the building and quickly crossed the back area of the works and scaled the wall. He set out to walk to the pick-up point he'd arranged, about a mile away on the main highway.

  Geldenhuis was delighted with the way things had gone. It was copybook stuff and he hadn't even had to break in to do it. Now all he needed to do was to find someone who'd been invited to attend the kaffir Christmas patty so that he could prepare the bomb's triggering method at the right moment. He grinned to himself. God was good, it was payback time. He knew just the man for the job.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Just after midnight on the day of the Solomon Levy Carpet Emporium Christmas party the braaivleis barbecue pits were lit. By dawn, with the wood reduced down to beds of glowing coals, the huge spits, each carrying a whole ox, were moved into place. By mid morning the delicious smell of roasting meat filled the air.

  The air crackled with the excitement of the carnival, the screams, whirrings, whooshing and thumping of the dodgem cars, the flying swings, the big wheels and the calliope music of the carousels. Everything was for free as many times as you liked and the very thought of it pumped the heart full of good-time juice. The children rushed around in circles and chased each other about, just to wear off a little energy so they wouldn't completely burst into tiny pieces from the happiness of things.

  Just on three thousand employees and two hundred other guests attended the Solomon Levy Carpet Emporium Christmas party. Lorries and buses began to arrive from dawn onwards on this day of days and the people in the upper-crust suburb surrounding the big house were wakened early by the singing of black people packed like gaily papered chocolates into the back of open lorries and rickety buses passing their clipped, manicured and aloof properties. To the indignant people who lived around the Levy estate the day was known as 'Kaffir Christmas' and each year they signed a petition to the council and the police to abolish it. Many families had travelled hundreds of miles overnight to get to the party 'while others had been on the road since long before dawn. Shower blocks and marquees were set up to headquarter these distance travellers and to provide a little early morning respite for already exhausted parents.

  The baby-feeding and medical clinic, staffed by a dozen nurses and two doctors, opened at six and already waiting as the day's first patient was a five-year-old from Germiston named Tiger Joe. Fat tears streamed down his little black face as a young female doctor examined him while his ma, a giant woman wearing a huge mauve picture hat, puffed out her cheeks and continued to scold the little boy for causing the neat pink gap where he'd lost three front teeth falling off a stationary carousel pony.

  Breakfast, an unofficial event which the caterers had learned over the years to provide, was served to the early arrivals. There were mugs of scalding sweet white tea, a couple of hundred loaves of white bread, a hundred yards of cold sausages, huge brown pots of soup-bone gravy and, of course, to go with it, mountains of stiff white mealie pap, steaming in giant black three-legged, round-tummied kaffir pots.

  The experienced mothers among the early arrivals dressed their children in their second-best outfits for the morning mayhem, hauling them back in by the ear around eleven for a good scrub and general repairs in the shower block where they changed into their party best, outfits which had taken months to pay for with every spare penny the family could scrape together. The children wore socks as white as driven snow, patent-leather shoes like Shirley Temple's, a flutter of petticoats and pretty organza dresses in limes and yellows, pinks and greens with huge ribbons to match. Little boys in sailor suits walked stiffly in unaccustomed shoes that creaked with newness. Older children in their school uniforms, pressed and starched, with trouser creases and gym frock pleats perfect, concealed little pieces of flannel cloth in their pockets to keep their polished shoes up to optimum presentation at all times.

  A few minutes before noon the people on the black side of the fence started to converge on the tiny train station, where a microphone had been placed on the platform. The five hundred or so children and parents on the white side were drawn to the toy station as well. It was from here that Solomon Levy would officially declare the festivities open and,. much more importantly, announce that lunch was ready to be served from a dozen great marquees and roasting pits.

  They all knew the routine; a shorter-than-short speech from Solomon who, on this one occasion every year, always seemed lost for words; then the world's most sumptuous feast; and at precisely two o'clock, to a shrill 'toot-toot!' from the little engine, the most successful Jewish Father Christmas in creation would circle the grounds bringing with him the most wonderful gifts imaginable.

  This year though, to accommodate the needs of Simon Fitzhardi
ng's endlessly rehearsed documentary, the open train carriages would be filled with Christmas gifts instead of children and Solomon would arrive at the station to the final chorus of 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing', performed by two hundred children of all the colours of Africa.

  In the matter of security Hymie had ignored his father's protests and instigated a huge security operation. Upon arrival at the gate every guest, regardless of colour, was required to show a specially produced employee or guest identification disc. Finally, to the embarrassment of many of the white employees and the good-natured laughter of the black, who were more accustomed to the indignity, every guest was searched by uniformed security men and women. The high-walled estate was ringed with a private army of security men, who also mingled freely with the crowd, watching for a would-be assassin.

  And, of course, the little engine came under the scrutiny of Hymie's team who wanted it pulled apart but Solomon, whose final week of rehearsals in the little engine had been constantly disrupted by the security men working on the track, wouldn't hear of it. He was heartily sick of his son's paranoia and agreed only to an inspection of the train.

  Mama Tequila, too fat to move more than a few yards on her own, stayed sitting in a huge old swing chair in the rose garden where she could quietly watch the children passing in the train without having. to attempt to carry her huge frame about the place. The children and lunch was all she cared about - and the fact that Solomon Levy had sent her a personal letter inviting her to come. For lunch she could rely upon Madam Flame Flo to dart into the food marquee like a cheeky sparrow and emerge, chirping excitedly, with a couple of plates piled high with the choicest tit-bits. She'd practically starved herself at breakfast: six pieces of toast and three eggs, with a pot of coffee. Flo had fussed and worried for her, but she was reserving extra room for lunch. Solomon, who referred to food as 'nosh', knew almost as much about pleasing a person's stomach as she did.