Solitaire

by Graham Masterton

Joel rubbed at his eyebrow with his fingertips, as if he were trying to erase a smut of persistent guilt. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself,’ said Barney. ‘It wasn’t your fault any more than it was my fault.’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t. But you still dreamed about her blood on your hands, didn’t you? And I still dream about the way she looked that night I walked out on you.’

  Mooi Klip came into the tent and picked up the lantern to lower the wick. ‘Joel,’ she admonished him, ‘it’s time you sleep.’

  ‘Who needs a mother?’ asked Joel, with an ironic smile. ‘This girl tells me when to wake up, when to go to sleep, when to wash my teeth. She feeds me and bathes me and treats me like her own.’

  Barney stood up. ‘You’ll be better tomorrow. And by Monday you’ll be fighting fit. Fit enough to fight the Diggers’ Association, anyway.’

  ‘When are you seeing that lawyer friend of yours?’

  ‘Tomorrow, after church.’

  ‘Church? They let Jews into church?’

  ‘Mr Barney they let into church. Mr Blitz they don’t.’

  Joel raked his fingers through the stubble of his beard. ‘I hope for your sake they don’t find out. They’ll kick your backside all the way to Capetown.’

  Mooi Klip straightened Joel’s blankets, and then joined Barney outside the tent. Barney took her hand, and drew her close to him. He kissed her, and she closed her eyes and kissed him in return, softly, quickly, as if she were tasting moskonfyt on his lips.

  She said, ‘In two days, we go back to Klipdrift.’

  ‘Who’s going back to Klipdrift?’

  ‘Jan Bloem, his mother, all of us. He speaks already to the British, and the diggers. Now he goes home.’

  Barney touched her cheek with his fingertips. ‘And what will you do? Will you go back to Klipdrift along with him?’

  ‘My family is there. My mother, my father, and my brothers.’

  ‘I know. But will you go back?’

  Mooi Klip lowered her head. ‘Do you want me to?’ she asked him.

  Barney licked his lips in uncertainty. When he had taken Mooi Klip in the grass, when he had first made love to her, he had not thought for a single second about the complications of starting a liaison with a coloured girl. She was pretty, and she had a gentle way about her that fascinated him, and made him feel like holding her close and protecting her. But this was Cape Colony, and she was a half-caste.

  Mooi Klip whispered, ‘The Griquas say that anything you know in your heart in the first minute you meet – that knowing will stay good for a whole lifetime.’

  Barney looked at her, and then smiled. ‘I know. That was one of the little mottoes that Jan Bloem gave me when he realised we were lovers – that, and a few paragraphs out of the Bible.’

  ‘But something is wrong? You smile, but your eyes look hurting.’

  She was right. Barney was already feeling pain. It was close to the pain that he had felt for his mother; and to the pain he still felt whenever he renounced his Jewishness; but this time it was more stifling, like the first pangs of a heart seizure. And, in a way, that was exactly what it was.

  No matter how delicate and erotic Mooi Klip was, no matter how fine a wife she would make, she was a Griqua, and if he were to marry her, or even have her living in, then he knew that he would be sacrificing any chances he might ever have of making a name and a fortune for himself in Cape Colony business. He had already meet three or four of those unhappy men who had married or shacked up with blacks, and they were invariably disillusioned, defeated, and scraping their living from the fringes of white society. Storekeepers, grooms, or servants. White, but not socially acceptable.

  If Barney could court and marry a girl like Agnes Knight, however, and make a friend of her father, then his future would start to look far more promising. A girl like Agnes would give him immediate credentials. It did not matter what legal trickery her father had been involved in when he was practising in Capetown; here in Kimberley he was white, well-spoken, and the billiards secretary of the Kimberley Club. Barney was smitten by Mooi Klip, but he had not been blinded to the fierce reality of Cape Colony’s social stratification. Mooi Klip could only bring him poverty and humiliation; Agnes Knight could bring him wealth.

  Barney had his mother’s passion, but his father’s sanity. In him, his parents’ differences would rail against each other in perpetuity, even though both of them were dead.

  ‘I shall go, then,’ said Mooi Klip, in response to Barney’s silence.

  ‘I think I love you,’ Barney told her.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Listen – we’ve only been together for a couple of days,’ said Barney. ‘It’s too sudden for you to ask me to take you along. I don’t live a particularly easy life. And now I’ve got Joel to take care of, too – at least until we’ve sorted out his legal problems.’

  Mooi Klip touched a finger to his lips, indicating that he should not say anything more. But he held her finger in his fist, and moved it away.

  ‘Those aren’t excuses. I don’t need to make excuses for anything. What I’m trying to tell you is that I think I love you, but I have other things to do. When they’re done, I’ll come to Klipdrift and find you.’

  She searched his face for reassurance that he was telling her the truth. Her eyes were myopic with tears.

  ‘Don’t tell me you love me if you don’t,’ she said. ‘I only give myself in all my life to three men. One, a young lover. Then my husband. And now you. You look beautiful when I first see you. Now, I love you – more than you love me. Don’t play with me. Don’t tell me you love me if you don’t.’

  ‘Natalia …’

  ‘Mooi Klip.’

  Barney held her tight. He lifted his head towards the clouds. ‘Mooi Klip,’ he repeated, in his gentlest voice. ‘I love you, and one day soon I’m going to come to Klipdrift and find you.’

  His destiny was shaping itself. He felt as if great and shadowy forces were moving themselves into place, in preparation for his future. And the dreams he had dreamed when he was crossing the Great Karoo began to solidify, and take on flesh.

  Kimberley’s Anglican church was a little white-painted building of dry timber and corrugated iron at the end of the main street, conveniently located for those who liked to pray for forgiveness as soon as possible after committing their sins right next door to Aunt Olive’s Pleasure House, and opposite the Kimberley Bar.

  On Sunday mornings, the white Christian élite of the diamond-digging community would assemble in the dusty churchyard in their finest clothes, to parade themselves, and exchange dignified words of greeting to each other, and reassure themselves that God, and England, were both on their side. Although they rarely admitted it, not to themselves and especially not to the Germans and the Boers and the coloureds, it was often difficult out here amongst the flies and sicknesses of a Cape Colony summer to remember that the chapel bells were still pealing across the frost-silvered lawns of Oxford, and that crumpets were still being toasted in front of a hundred thousand British coal fires.

  Barney, nervous, arrived early. He stood by the picket fence in his best black suit and a clean dinner shirt which he had borrowed from a reluctant Harold Feinberg. The single church bell was clanking dolefully across the street, and huge cumulus clouds were already mounting the morning sky like castles of thickened cream. It was hot, and Barney felt as if his coat were too tight under the arms.

  At last, promenading along the boardwalk at the exact moment which Mr Knight had judged would be late enough to turn everybody’s heads and yet not too late to be considered vulgar, came Agnes and Faith, both in severe but well-styled Sunday dresses, followed by Mr and Mrs Knight, arm in arm, with benign and superior smiles.

  Barney took off his hat as the two girls entered the churchyard.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, with a small bow. ‘You both look charming.’

  Mr Knight imperiously turned his
head this way and that, to make sure that everybody had an opportunity to notice that he had arrived, and that he had clipped his whiskers. Mrs Knight’s smile came in and out like the sun behind the clouds, whenever she remembered where she was, and what her firm instructions were.

  ‘Not such a good turnout this morning,’ remarked Mr Knight. ‘Where are the Maymans? Bad form, you know, not turning out for communion. It’s the one thing that keeps us together, keeps us civilised.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ said Barney. ‘Listen, I’ve seen my Jewish friend again. The one whose case I want you take?’

  ‘Later, dear chap, later,’ Mr Knight told him, with a dismissive wave. ‘I’m not so sure it’s the kind of case I want to have anything to do with.’

  ‘Stafford Parker’s agreed to a re-trial, tomorrow afternoon. He’s picking a jury.’

  ‘Is he now?’ said Mr Knight, suddenly interested. ‘Well, that should be an event-and-a-half.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Barney, coaxingly. ‘And if you were to defend my friend, and win … well, then, think what a legal feather in your cap that would be. They’d report it in all the newspapers, and it would probably be heard of in London.’

  ‘Ah, London …’ mused Mr Knight, lifting his chin at the very thought of it. ‘Well, my dear fellow, we’ll see. Come back to the house after church, and we’ll talk it over. It doesn’t allow us much time, though, does it? Monday afternoon.’

  ‘It won’t be a case of evidence and fact,’ Barney told him. ‘It’ll be a case of prejudice and fear. That’s what you’re good at, though, aren’t you?’

  Mr Knight gave a tight grimace. ‘It is one of my specialties, yes, I suppose.’

  Faith, impatient to take Barney’s arm, said, ‘Shall we go in, Papa?’ Agnes, who was obviously sulking, stood a few feet away in the shade of a scraggly thornbush, her grey reticule twisted in her hands as if she were surreptitiously choking a chicken. Barney took Faith’s arm, and then drew her across to where Agnes was standing, and held out his hand for Agnes’s arm as well.

  ‘Neither of you will object if I escort you both into church, will you?’ he grinned.

  Faith stiffened. Barney could feel her arm, which at first had wrapped around his so responsively, become as rigid as a wooden Indian’s. But Agnes came forward, all smiles and little curtseys, and whispered, ‘Obliged, Mr Barney. Obliged.’

  As the last leaden clank of the church bell summoned them inside, the congregation crowded in through the door and took their places on their allotted pews. Inside the church, it was as hot and airless as a Dutch oven. There was an altar, spread with a crochet tablecloth, in front of which stood the Anglican priest, a pimply young curate from Wimbledon who had felt the call to undertake missionary work after a sad and sorry courtship. Beside him at an upright piano sat an elderly English woman with spectacles and a feathery hat.

  The pews themselves were fine – solid carved mahogany from St David’s in Capetown – dragged across the desert by ox-cart. The Knights sat close to the front, amongst the more illustrious members of the Kimberley Club, and two or three of the richer English prospectors. Between them, they gave off a powerful smell of lavenderwater and mothballs. Barney wedged himself in between Agnes and Faith and hoped that God would forgive him for worshipping Him in such surroundings, and in such unfamiliar words.

  They sang hymns – and Barney had never in his life before heard such ragged, mournful singing. Mr Knight was in strong voice, and his quavering baritone held on to the last note of every verse long after the rest of the congregation had fallen silent. Then, they took communion, and like the rest of the assembly Barney shuffled forward to kneel before the altar and partake of the body and blood of Jesus Christ.

  He closed his eyes as the communion wafer dissolved on his tongue, but there was no earthquake, nor was his brain vaporised inside his skull. He returned to his seat, and Agnes for one moment laid her small white-gloved hand on his thigh, and smiled to herself.

  After communion, the young curate stood before the lectern and gave, in an odd barking voice, like an outraged chow, a mercifully short sermon about the price of redemption. As Barney sat with his leg pressed close to the warmth of Agnes’s thigh, some of the words came through to him like an accusation.

  ‘We all know the sad history of man’s sin, and its penalty. Sin and death were somehow bound up with each other. It was said of the forbidden fruit, “In the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.” Man did eat thereof. God loved him still; and yet God was perfectly just, and therefore He must keep to His word, and exact and due penalty!’

  Agnes, in her pale grey dress, with its tiny lace collar and its grey silk sash, kept her eyes on her hymnbook. Faith bustled around in her seat as if she were sitting on nettles, and came out from time to time with small explosive sighs. Only Mr Knight’s attention was fixed exclusively on the sermon; or at least it appeared to be. Perhaps he was considering his own sins, as well as the sins of the people he had defended. Perhaps he was simply criticising the young curate’s staccato delivery.

  Back in the sunshine, and the dust, Mr Knight tugged on his gloves and said, ‘Sin? You wonder what a raw carrot of a curate can possibly know about sin,’ and that was all. He took his wife’s bewildered arm and led her out of the churchyard arid back along the street. Barney, with Faith huffing alone on one side of him, and Agnes pressing close to him on the other, followed a few yards behind.

  At home, over glasses of paralysingly dry sherry, Mr Knight invited Barney to tell him more about Joel’s offence, and what had happened out at Jan Bloem’s camp. In the end, Mr Knight tented his fingers in front of his face, so that Barney could only see one of his eyes, and regarded him very thoughtfully.

  ‘Jewish, you say, this Havemann? And not called Havemann at all, but Blitz? Well, we’d better keep that quiet. Juries don’t care much for aliases. If a man has an alias, it means he has something to hide, and that in itself is an admission of guilt. Not the guilt in question, perhaps; but you know how illogical people can be. Especially diggers. If they were logical, they wouldn’t be out here scrabbling in the dirt for diamonds.’

  Barney took a sip of his sherry and then set the glass back on the rickety wine table beside him. ‘Do you think you can get him off, that’s the question?’

  ‘He admits that he actually stole the diamonds, you say?’

  Barney nodded.

  ‘Well, of course, he mustn’t admit that before a jury,’ said Mr Knight. ‘In fact, he must be outraged that anyone could suggest such a thing. He must be bursting with righteous indignation. He must look his accusers in the eye and tell them they’re liars. But on no account must he call them Gentile liars; and on no account must he use any Yiddish expression which might remind the jury that he is a Jew. He must talk of the kaffirs as unreliable mongrels, and the whites as equals. Well – nearly equals. He must show that he knows his place in the world, too. He must conduct himself with the manner of, say, a wrongfully accused moneylender.’

  Barney looked up. Agnes was coming into the room with a tray of cutlery, ready to lay the table for Sunday lunch. There was an unpleasant smell of boiling vegetables coming from the kitchen. Agnes polished the soup spoons on her apron, and pretended to admire herself in their curved reflections. Barney found himself thinking of her pale thighs, and whether the curls beneath her petticoats were blonde or brown. She was a tease, Agnes, and she stirred him.

  ‘What do you think of that, then?’ asked Mr Knight.

  ‘I’m sorry – what do I think of what?’ Barney flustered.

  ‘What do you think of declaring a mis-trial on the grounds that nobody can produce any evidence? Nobody white, that is, or even coloured. You could find out for me, if you would, if any of Mr Havemann’s accusers are converts to Christianity. Better if they’re not. Better if they believe in Unkulunkulu, or Mdali. That’s the odd question, of course. Is it possible to save a kaffir’s soul if he doesn’t have one? Does he acq
uire a soul, once he’s been converted? Very interesting argument altogether. So what do you say, old chap?’

  ‘It sounds fine to me,’ said Barney, watching Agnes prancing out of the room.

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Knight, and stood up. ‘I think we’re going to pull this one off, by a short margin. It won’t be easy, but I think we’re going to pull it off. Oh – and one thing more. I’ve arranged for you to come round to the club on Wednesday evening, so that you can see what you think of it. See what the members think of you, too. Some of them don’t like your Yankees, I’ll admit, but you may be lucky.’

  ‘I shall look forward to it,’ said Barney.

  ‘Course you will,’ nodded Mr Knight. ‘And there’s something else, too. I can’t help noticing that you and Agnes seem to get along rather well.’

  Barney felt himself flush. ‘We … well, I believe we like each other.’

  ‘Good. I’m pleased. There’s precious little a girl of Agnes’s age can do, out in a God-deserted place like this. I’d be pleased to see her courted by a reasonable chap like yourself. Why don’t you come round after the trial tomorrow, and take some dinner? We can play some music, perhaps, and you two can get to know each other better.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Barney assured him.

  ‘Course you would. Now, I’m sorry I can’t invite you to stay right now, but the Wilberforces are coming round. You know Kenneth Wilberforce, do you? Well, he’s very dull, between you and me, but he’s membership secretary, and I have to humour the silly ass from time to time.’

  ‘Father,’ said Faith, putting her head around the kitchen door and pointedly ignoring Barney. ‘Mama asks if you’re ready to carve the meat.’

  Mr Knight clapped his hands together. ‘Meat!’ he exclaimed. ‘Something for a man to sink his teeth into! I’ll see you tomorrow morning, my dear chap, along with Mr Havemann, and we’ll make ourselves ready for the trial. Meat! That’s what it is, to a fellow like me. Meat and drink!’

  Later that Sunday, Joel and Barney and Mooi Klip went for a short walk down the slope of the Griqua encampment. Joel limped along with the help of a roughtly-carved walking-stick which a cousin of Piet Steyn’s had made for him. He had shaved, and dressed in a blue checked workshirt and canvas trousers; and although he was still in pain, and short of breath, he was plainly very much better.