Who Killed Piet Barol?

by Richard Mason

  “Would you not like to have my comfortable bed, my dear brother?” asked Anna.

  “I would like it very much,” said Luvo. “But you having it will please me more.”

  He went down the stairs thoughtfully and let himself out of the back door. He went across the road to the school and into the fourth-form classroom where he had left Ntsina with a blanket and a candle an hour before.

  But Ntsina was not there.

  —

  NTSINA ZINI had no great experience of criminality, beyond the theft of poultry that is the pride of every Gwadanan boy. His family were Gwadanan gentry, used to having, if not the best, then quite enough of everything. Having decided to take the Strange One’s money, he had resolved to waste no time. As soon as Luvo left him, he made his way to the Victoria Hotel, trusting in the guidance of his ancestors.

  Ntsina’s grandmother Nosakhe was a Guardian of the Knowledge and the witch doctor of Gwadana. She had raised him steeped in Bantu mystery. His memories of his own mother had resolved into a sense of her smile, and the feeling of being held against her breasts. Nosakhe was an accomplished ritualist, but she did not over-value rules. She had taught him from an early age that the spirit world can be heard whenever a being takes the trouble to hear.

  Outside the hotel was the doorman to whom Piet had spoken in isiXhosa. He recognized Ntsina and they exchanged pleasantries.

  “I have a message for my master,” Ntsina told him. “Where may I find him?”

  The doorman led him on arthritic hips around the corner and up a street. He stopped at a whitewashed cottage with a veranda adorned with wrought iron curled into elegant shapes.

  “Thank you,” said Ntsina, stepping forward. “You may go back to your post, father.”

  He made a show of going up to the cottage’s door, while the doorman went back down the street. As soon as he had gone, Ntsina went round the side of the house and shinnied up a rough brick wall. On the other side was a garden. It was a magical garden, in the shade of a lemon tree. Ntsina had a keen sense of smell, that the fumes and dust of Johannesburg had blunted. As his feet connected with springy turf, his nose fell into a pool of scent.

  Ahead was an open window.

  His ancestors had opened it for him, Ntsina saw. He felt fortified, and pushed the window open further. The room beyond it was lit by moonlight. But Xhosa parents do not believe in being too soft on their young ones, and Ntsina’s ancestors had set him a challenge. Right under the window was Piet Barol’s bed, and Piet Barol was in it.

  Ntsina contemplated Piet’s sleeping form. At the mines he had slept on a concrete ledge built into a wall, with his boots for a pillow. At the Shabrills’ he had lain on the floor of the servants’ quarters. Even in Gwadana he used a grass mat. He had never before seen someone in a bed like this. It opened worlds of possibility to him. He stood in the garden, watching Piet, and thinking of his future and his grandmother’s comfort. Then he climbed onto the frame, leapt clear of the bed, landed on the floor with the lightness of a panther, and looked about him. None of Piet’s possessions were in the room. He opened the door and went into a sitting room. Hanging on a hook was a jacket. In the jacket pocket was a wallet. Ntsina felt charged with life, in tune with the Universe. He opened the wallet. Out fell a photograph, of a woman with a long face and a little boy laughing. As he contemplated it, the wallet’s owner switched on the light and said: “Don’t steal from me.”

  Piet’s words meant nothing to Ntsina, but their tone told him that something confident, but also kind, had been said. He was furiously embarrassed. He was standing in the middle of the room, holding the wallet. There was no denying his crime, and the times were not kind to thieving blacks. He stood where he was. He could not even put the wallet down.

  “I am sorry I do not speak your language better,” said Piet, in isiXhosa. And added another word he had learned: “Truly.”

  For the first time, Ntsina Zini could understand Piet Barol. It made him stop shaking.

  “I will not steal from you again,” he said.

  These words meant nothing to Piet, but he understood from the way they were spoken that something honest, but also gentle, had been said.

  Piet stepped forward and offered Ntsina his hand. Perhaps, thought Ntsina, his ancestors had brought him here in the middle of the night to make him and the Strange One better friends. He knew, from the way Piet was, that he would not call the police, or make any kind of trouble. Given the magnitude of the trouble he could make if he chose, this was merciful. Ntsina shook Piet’s hand and walked past him and out of the front door, bowing his head as he closed it. Piet went back to his bedroom and checked under his pillow, where the bundle of notes he had brought from Cape Town (which infiltrated his dreams and created rocks and obstacles as he tried to find a comfortable way to lie on top of it), was still safe.

  —

  PIET WOKE with the conviction that he had better inspire some loyalty in his guides. The news that Luvo’s parents lived in this quaint town with its replica churches and neat gardens gave him confidence. He was good with mothers, and suspected that winning over Luvo’s would guarantee the allegiance of her son.

  It was not difficult to find the home of the German missionaries. As he knocked at the door, Piet’s head was full of his white acquaintances expounding on the dangers of treating Kaffirs too kindly. “You give an inch, they take a hundred miles,” was often heard in the bar of the Mount Nelson Hotel, and the same thought, more vulgarly expressed, in cheaper dives. But this was not Piet’s way. His nature was affectionate and responded to affection. He would much rather be friends with his travelling companions.

  A maid admitted Piet to the sitting room. Frau Doktor Ranke came down, and when she found that he was Luvo’s new employer she gave him a sharp speech on the subject of racial equality and stressed that Luvo had a fine mind that should not be put to menial work. The fact that her star pupil, in a school founded on temperance principles, should have spent the last year pouring cocktails for a white man in Johannesburg still smarted.

  “I have employed him as my translator,” said Piet. “His English grammar is better than mine. You have educated him superbly.”

  “Thank God,” said Miriam Ranke, settling into a chair. “You are one of us.”

  Tea was brought, and Luvo’s parents invited to share it. Piet was very respectful to them, bowing his head as he shook hands. Luvo’s father was so grateful to Piet for giving his son a job that removed him from the temptations of Johannesburg that he could not look him in the eye. Both he and his wife understood some English—she knew more than he did.

  “You must be proud of your son,” said Piet.

  Mrs. Yako was extremely proud of her son. That morning, she had interrogated him minutely and learned, to her great satisfaction, that he had not defiled any women in Johannesburg. Nor had he permitted a drop of liquor to cross his lips. “He is a good boy,” she said.

  “Now tell us, Mr. Barol. What is your business?” asked Miriam Ranke.

  “It is hard to get decent wood at Cape Town,” said Piet. “Most of the forests have been cut down and replaced with pine, which is too soft for good furniture. And the…European situation makes importing difficult.”

  At this moment, Herr Ranke walked in. “We have invaded Luxembourg,” he said.

  “That wretched little Kaiser!” Miriam leapt to her feet. “That fat, conceited, belligerent baby. What a dishonour he does his dear grandmother Victoria.”

  “She will be rotating today in her grave,” said Herr Ranke, who had an eccentric grasp of English idiom.

  —

  THE NEXT DAY, August 3rd, 1914, while Piet bought provisions in the Cradock General Store, Germany declared war on France. The temper flare of the European powers had happened so quickly that Piet had not thought it very serious—until it was. He put a call through to Stacey from the Victoria Hotel, where a line of Germans were being put off by the manager, whose mother was French.

  “Are y
ou safe? Should I come home, my darling?”

  “You can do us no good here. And less on a troopship. Every French national in the city is enlisting. They would think it most odd if you did not, mon cher vicomte. But I love you for asking. Stay out of sight. When you have the wood I will send Mohammed and Ierephaan to start making the furniture. You could set up a workshop there—just for a few months. They say the war cannot last beyond Christmas.”

  “I will leave for the forest at once.”

  Piet completed his shopping and had it delivered to the hotel. Then he prised Luvo from his family and spoke to him seriously. “I offended you on the journey from Cape Town,” he said. “I am sorry. We are to spend a great deal of time in one another’s company. It would be much better if we were friends.”

  Forty-eight hours with his family had cured Luvo of all grudges. “I have nothing against you,” he replied, and at that moment this was quite true.

  “I caught Ntsina stealing from me. Tell him I understand the temptation. But he will be better rewarded if he serves me faithfully. I don’t like to spend my life looking over my shoulder.”

  “I will tell him.”

  “Then let’s go. I have bought us a vehicle.”

  —

  IT WAS A PICTURESQUE wagon that had caught Piet’s fancy at the farmer’s market, drawn by a pair of sturdy horses.

  “Please let me drive it!” cried Ntsina.

  “He asks to drive,” said Luvo to Piet.

  “I am always happy to be driven,” said Piet Barol. And they set off out of town, going much slower than the mechanical beasts had travelled, and yet moving with purpose. The wagon was heavily loaded, Piet having made many impulsive purchases with the idea of bartering with the natives, but the horses bore its weight without complaint. Luvo, sitting beside Ntsina on the box, said: “What possessed you to try to steal from him?”

  “It was for your fund.”

  “Do not steal anything on my behalf. Theft is the first step on the path to wickedness, and there is enough wickedness in the world today without a good fellow like you adding to it.”

  Ntsina felt ashamed. “I told him I would not steal again. I do not think he understood me.”

  “I will tell him when the moment is right. But I want you to promise that this will not happen again.” As head boy of the Mission School, Luvo had often delivered lectures on the dangers of stealing and lying.

  “Your Moses is not my Moses!” Ntsina clapped his friend on the back, eyes twinkling. Seeing the look on Luvo’s face, he added: “Very well. I promise.”

  They continued the journey in silence, while Piet lay shaded in the back. The day was radiant, with no trace of winter but the brown, brown grasses. The cold breeze cooling the hot sun, the gentle swaying of the cart, the sense that he had handled an awkward situation with aplomb, produced in Piet Barol a superb sense of well-being. He had always known his life would be full of adventure. All he had not known was what form the adventure would take.

  Now he knew.

  Just after lunch, making excellent progress as the road wound towards the ocean, they passed the Falls where the High Princess Nomikhonto emerged long ago from the Underworld, after braving many perils. Ntsina told Luvo this in reverence. Luvo did not comment. He knew he would have to tackle his friend’s superstitions before they parted ways. But he also knew that it is often better, in such undertakings, to bide one’s time.

  Piet had woken after a long nap, and made them stop while he got out and peered over the steep side of the gorge. The cliff was white beneath the dense green scrub that covered it. Then the rock turned orange, and finally black. The water snaked down it in a narrow band and poured into a muddy basin. Piet had never seen such a thing in his life. He found it wildly glamorous.

  “We will be at the forest by nightfall,” said Ntsina. “We will camp at the edge and set out tomorrow. I’m afraid the Strange One will have to leave his wagon behind.”

  “And most of his trinkets,” said Luvo.

  The white man’s idiocy was comic to them and they laughed without conscience. From miles before they saw the forest Ntsina caught its scent and began to feel uncontainably happy. He had attained his object: his own home. His ancestors had guided him, but he had heeded their guidance. He had refused the slavery of the Rand and yet found the means to acquire the hut tax and a radio. With happy visions of the future, he covered feelings of a different colour, at the centre of which stood his father.

  —

  THE FOREST OF GWADANA began abruptly in a more or less straight line at the top of a steep hill, and guarded the coastline from outside eyes. The cloudless sky above them was turning purple with approaching sunset. Ntsina knew it would be magnificent. He was proud of the sunsets Gwadana was blessed with. “We will sleep here tonight, and make the offerings tomorrow morning,” he said.

  Piet and Luvo conferred.

  “The Strange One says he wants to press on now and sleep in the forest. He doesn’t want to wait,” said Luvo to Ntsina.

  “That’s not possible. This forest is the sacred home of my ancestors, and the ancestors of every family in our village. We cannot enter it without entertaining them to a feast.”

  “I’m sure they won’t mind,” said Luvo.

  But Ntsina was adamant.

  Piet could not wait. He sprung out of the wagon and examined the hillside. He expected to find a cart track, but there was none.

  “Why is there no path?” he asked Luvo.

  “People do not visit the villagers of Gwadana.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “There was a difference of opinion, three generations ago. They are not on speaking terms.”

  Piet looked at the wagon. “What will we do with that?”

  “We will leave it with the people of Idutywa. For a small fee they will keep it and not use it too often. If you do not pay them well they will use it every day and take money for rides.”

  “I want to sleep in the forest tonight.”

  “That will not be possible.”

  “Of course it is possible. Get the bags.”

  A mist began to form over the forest. The green of the trees darkened.

  For the first time in the journey Piet showed himself prepared to engage with the basic business of life. He pulled on a pack containing a tent and cooking supplies, and two parcels of groceries. He was seized by the romance of their location. It mattered to him that he should have entered the forest on the day he first saw it. He felt it would be a promising omen. When Luvo told him of Ntsina’s reservations he was amused. “That’s all rot. Follow me. He can sleep in the wagon if he likes. You and I are men of the wild.”

  Piet strode up the hill towards the forest, heavily laden. Luvo looked at Ntsina. He knew Piet was right. It was rot. He did not wish to offend his friend, and yet he had a duty to his employer. He weighed the two and chose duty. He went to the truck and put on his pack. In his jacket pocket was a little prayer book his mother had given him as a parting gift. It was one she had owned since childhood. He packed it safely away in the satchel and followed Piet, going quickly to catch up with him.

  The mist settled into thick white cloud.

  Ntsina watched them, angry and overruled. He wondered how to stop them from transgressing in this way. His ancestors had been so generous to him. It broke his heart to enter their forest without making the ritual gifts. Only force would prevent the Strange One from climbing the hill, and the incident of the wallet made it clear to Ntsina that his ancestors did not want him to rob or harm the Strange One. At least, not yet. He watched them, and from nowhere came a declarative thought. It did not feel self-generated, but as though it had been put into his head, fully formed, by some outside presence. It was not in words, and yet its meaning was plain. In brief the message was: “Stay in the wagon, and do not worry.” It was tremendously calming. He began to see the advantages of his situation. He had the wagon wholly to himself. It was full of food and comfortable blankets. He watched t
hem on the hill, struggling with their packs. The ascent to the forest was steeper than it looked.

  There was a low growl of thunder, and a fat raindrop hit the wagon’s tarpaulin roof.

  —

  NEITHER PIET BAROL nor Luvo Yako, the products of urban educations, had great experience as outdoorsmen. Piet had been on two trips with the Officer Training Corps at his high school, both at his father’s insistence, and had gracefully avoided the onerous duty of pitching tents. He had watched a salesman in Cape Town show him how simple it was to erect the expensive tent he had bought, but once the bag was open and the poles laid out on the first flat piece of turf they could find, each pole looked much like every other one, which was unfortunate because there was a precise sequence to their usage.

  “We should go down,” said Luvo at the first drop of rain.

  But Piet would not retreat for the sake of a few raindrops. “There’s a booklet somewhere here.” He found the booklet. It had pages of drawings of identical poles, but the poles in the bag were not identical. The forest was black now. He abandoned the instructions and used his cabinetmaker’s eye. This was a much sounder guide. The thunder got louder, the sky darker.

  There was a huge flash of lightning.

  Ntsina, snug in the wagon at the bottom of the hill, began calling. Luvo heard him. “We should go down,” he said. But Piet was spurred by this challenge of the elements. He carried on threading the poles into the canvas of the tent as the lightning crackled overhead.

  It was as though a giant bathtub was upturned over them. At once the slope turned into a mudslide. Luvo was the first to go, sliding off his feet and onto his arse. His pack fell open, and the prayer book his mother had given him fell into the mud. The tent’s stakes were not driven deep enough, and soon the entire structure fell on Piet, sending him into the quagmire. At which point both his packs opened and all their contents spilled out.

  Watching them from the comfort of the wagon below, Ntsina did not stifle a chuckle. This was a much more elegant punishment than any he could have devised. He saw from the expressions on their faces that they were having a row with each other, and closed his eyes. He intended to get as much rest as he could before they returned.