"It would be so easy to dismiss them as brutish criminals," she murmured, watching their expressionless faces and guarded eyes, "until you realize how they have been deprived of all humanizing influences. Most of them were abducted from their schoolrooms in their early teens and taken into the guerrilla training-camps. They have nothing, have never had any possession of their own except an AK 47 rifle. How can we expect them to respect the persons and properties of others? Craig, please ask that one how old he is"
"14
"He does not knoW," Craig translated for her. "He does not know when he' was born, nor where his parents are."
"He does not even have a simple birthright," Sally' Anne pointed out, and suddenly Craig remembered how churlishly he could reject a wine that was not exactly to his taste, or how thoughtlessly he could order a new suit of clothing, or enter the first-class cabin of an airliner while these men wore only a ragged pair of shorts, without even a pair of shoes or a blanket to protect them.
"The abyss between the haves and the have-nots of this world will suck us all into destruction," Sally' Anne said as she recorded through her Nikon lens that dumb-animal resignation that lies beyond despair. "Ask that one how he is treated here," she insisted, and when Craig spoke to him the man stared at him without comprehension, as though the question was meaningless, and slowly Craig's sense of well-being burned off like mist in the morning.
In the open huts the lessons were political orientation, and the role of the responsible citizen in the socialist state.
On the blackboards, diagrams showed the relationship of parliament to the judiciary and the executive branches of the state. They had been copied onto the boards in a laboured, semi-literate hand by bored instructors and were recited parrot-fashion by the rows of squatting detainees.
Their obvious lack of comprehension depressed Craig even more.
As they trudged back up the hill to their quarters, a thought struck Craig and he turned to Peter Fungabera.
"All the men here are Matabele, aren't they?"
"That is true," Peter nodded. "We keep the tribes segregated it reduces friction." "Are there any Shana detainees?" Craig insisted.
oh, yes, Peter assured him. "The camps for them are up in the eastern highlands exactly the same conditions-" At sunset the generator powering the radio was started and twenty minutes later Peter Fungabera came down to the dugout where Craig was re-reading and correcting his writing of the previous night.
"There is a message for you, Craig, relayed by Morgan Oxford at the American Embassy." Craig jumped to his feet eagerly. He had arranged for Henry Pickering's reply to be passed on to him as soon as it was received. He took the sheet of notepaper on which Peter had jotted the radio transmission, and read; "For Mellow. Stop. My personal enthusiasm for your project not shared by others. Stop. Ashe Levy unwilling to advance or guarantee. Stop. Loans Committee here requires substantial additional collateral before funding. Stop. Regrets and best wishes. Henry." Craig read the message once fast and then again very slowly.
"None of my business," Peter Fungabera murmured, "but I presume this concerns your plans for the place you call Zambezi Waters?" "That's right and it puts the kibosh on those, I'm afraid," Craig told him bitterly.
"Henry?"
"A friend, a banker perhaps I relied on him too much." "Yes," Peter Fungabera said thoughtfully, "it looks that way, doesn't it?" Even though he had missed the previous night, Craig had difficulty sleeping. His mat was iron-hard and the hellish chorus of the hyena pack in the forest echoed his sombre mood.
On the long drive back to the airstrip at Tuti Mission, he sat beside the driver and took no part in the conversation of Peter and Sally' Anne in the seat behind him.
Only now did he realize how much store he had set on buying Rholands, and he was bitterly angry with Ashe Levy who had refused his qupport and with Henry Pickering who had not tried hard' enough and his damned Loans Committee who couI& not see the ends of their own noses.
Sally-Anne insisted on stopping once again at the mission schoolhouse to renew her acquaintance with Sarah, the Matabele teacher.
This time Sarah was prepared and offered her visitors tea. In no mood for pleasantries, Craig found a seat on the low veranda wall well separated from the others, and began scheming without real optimism how he might circumvent Henry Pickering's refusal.
Sarah came to him demurely with an enamel mug of tea
07 on a carved wooden tray. As she offered it, her back was turned to Peter Fungabera.
"When the man-eating crocodile knows the hunter is searching for him, he buries himself in the mud at the bottom of the deepest pool," she spoke softly in Sindebele, "and when the leopard hunts, he hunts in darkness." Startled, Craig looked into her face. Her eyes were no longer downcast, and there was a fierce and angry glow in their dark depd-is.
"Fungabera's puppies must have been noisy," she went on just as softly, "they could not feed while you were here.
They would have been hungry. Did you hear them, Kuphela?" she asked, and this time Craig started with surprise. Sarah had used the name that Comrade Lookout had given him. How had she known that? What did she mean by Fungabera's puppies?
Before Craig could reply, Peter Fungabera looked up and saw Craig's face. He rose to his feet easily but swiftly, and crossed the veranda to Sarah's side. Immediately the black girl dropped her gaze from Craig's face, bobbed a little curtsey and retired with the empty tray.
"Do not let your disappointment depress you too much, Craig. Do come and join us." Peter placed a friendly hand on Craig's shoulder.
On the short drive from the mission station to the airstrip Sally-Anne suddenly leaned forward and touched Craig's shoulder.
"I have been thinking, Craig. This place you call Zambezi Waters can only be about half an hour's flying time from here. I found the Chizarira river on the map.
We could make a small detour and fly over it on the way home."
"No point. "Craig shook his head.
"Why not?" she asked, and he passed her the sheet of notepaper with Pickering's message.
"Oh, I am so sorry." It was genuine, Craig realized, and her concern comforted him a little.
J would like to see the area," Peter Fungabera cut in suddenly, and when Craig shook his head again, his voice hardened. "We will go there," he said with finality, and Craig shrugged his indifference.
Craig and Sally-Anne pored over her map. "The pools should be here, where this stream joins the main river course And she worked swiftly with callipers and her wind-deflection computer.
"Okay," she said. "Twenty-two minutes" flying time with this wind." While they flew, and Sally-Anne studied the terrain and compared it to her map, Craig brooded over the Matabele girl's words. "Fungabera's puppies." Somehow it sounded menacing, and her use of the name "Kuphela" troubled him even more. There was only one explanation: she was in touch with, and was probably a member of, the group of dissident guerrillas. What had she meant by the leopard and crocodile. allegory and Fungabera's puppies?
And whatever it was, just how unbiased and reliable would she be if she were a guerrilla sympathizer?
"There is the river, said Sally' Anne as she eased the throttle closed and began a shallow descending turn towards the glint of waters through the forest-tops.
She flew very low alog the river-bank, and despite the thick cloak of vegetation, picked out herds of game animals, even once', with a squeal of glee, the great rocklike hulk of a black rhinoceros in the ebony d-rickets.
Then suddenly she pointed ahead. "Look at that! In a loop of the river, there was a strip of open land hedged in with tall riverine trees, where the grass had been grazed likea lawn by the zebra herds who were already raising dust as they galloped away in panic from the approaching aircraft.
on a carved wooden tray. As she offered it, her back was turned to Peter Fungabera.
"When the man-eating crocodile knows the hunter is searching for him, he buries himself in the mud at the bottom
of the deepest pool," she spoke softly in Sindebele, and when the leopard hunts, he hunts in darkness." Startled, Craig looked into her face. Her eyes were no longer downcast, and there was a fierce and angry glow in their dark depths.
"Fungabera's puppies must have been noisy," she went on just as softly, "they could not feed while you were here.
They would have been hungry. Did you hear them, Kuphela?" she asked, and this time Craig started with surprise. Sarah had used the name that Comrade Lookout had given him. How had she known that? What did she mean by Fungabera's puppies?
Before Craig could reply, Peter Fungabera looked up and saw Craig's face. He rose to his feet easily but swiftly, and crossed the veranda to Sarah's side. Immediately the black girl dropped her gaze from Craig's face, bobbed a little curtsey and retired with the empty tray.
"Do not let your disappointment depress you too much, Craig. Do come and join us." Peter placed a friendly hand on Craig's shoulder.
On the short drive from the mission station to the airstrip Sally-Anne suddenly leaned forward and touched Craig's shoulder.
41 have been thinking, Craig. This place you call Zambezi Waters can only be about half an hour's flying time from here. I found the Chizarira river on the map.
We could make a small detour and fly over it on the way home."
"No point. "Craig shook his head.
"Why not?" she asked, and he passed her the sheet of notepaper with Pickering's message.
4A
"Oh, I am so sorry." It was genuine, Craig realized, and her concern comforted him a little.
"I would like to see the area," Peter Fungabera cut in suddenly, and when Craig shook his head again, his voice hardened. "We will go there," he said with finality, and Craig shrugged his indifference.
Craig and Sally-Anne pored over her map. "The pools should be here, where this stream joins the main river course And she worked swiftly with callipers and her wind-deflection computer.
"Okay," she said. "Twenty-two minutes" flying time with this wind." While they flew, and Sally-Anne studied the terrain and compared it to her map, Craig brooded over the Matabele girl's words. Tungabera's puppies." Somehow it sounded menacing, and her use of the name "Kuphela" troubled him even more. There was only one explanation: she was in touch with, and was probably a member of, the group of dissident guerrillas. What had she meant by the leopard and crocodile Oegory, and Fungabera's puppies?
And whatever it was, just how unbiased and reliable would she be if she were a guerrilla sympathizer?
"There is the river," said Sally' Anne as she eased the throttle closed and began a shallow descending turn towards the glint of waters through the forest-tops.
She flew very low aloig the river-bank, and despite the thick cloak of vegetation, picked out herds of game animals, even once with a squeal of glee, the great rocklike hulk of a black rhinoceros in the ebony thickets.
Then suddenly she pointed ahead. "Look at thad" In a loop of the river, there was a strip of open land hedged in with tall riverine trees, where the grass had been grazed likea lawn by the zebra herds who were already raising dust as they galloped away in panic from the approaching aircraft.
"I bet I could get down there," Sally-Anne said and pulled on the flaps, slowing the Cessna and lowering the nose to give herself better forward vision. Then she let down the landing-gear.
She made a series of slow passes over the open ground, each lower than the previous one, until at the fourth pass her wheels were only two or three feet above the ground and they could see each individual hoof print of the zebra in the dusty earth.
"Firm and clear" she said, and on the next pass touched down, and immediately applied maximum safe braking that pulled the aircraft to a dead stop in less than a hundred and fifty paces.
"Bird lady," Craig grinned at her and she smiled at the compliment.
They left the aircraft and set off across the plain towards the forest wall, passed through it along a game trail and came out on a rocky bluff above the river.
The scene was a perfect African cameo. White sandbanks and water-polished rock glittering like reptiles" scales, trailing branches decked with weaver birds" nests over deep green water, tall trees with white serpentine roots crawling over the rocks and beyond that, open forest.
"It's beautiful," said Sally-Anne, and wandered off with her camera.
"This would be a good site for one of your camps," Peter Fungabera pointed at the great lumpy heaps of elephant dung on the white sandbank below them.
"Grandstand view."
"Yes, it would have been," Peter agreed. "It seems too "A good to pass up at that price. There must be millions of profit in it."
"For a good African socialist, you talk likea filthy capitalist," Craig told him morosely.
Peter chuckled and said, "They do say that socialism is the ideal philosophy just as long as you have capitalists to pay for it." Craig looked up sharply, and for the first time saw the glitter of good old western European avarice in Peter Fungabera's eyes. Both of them were silent, watching Sally Anne in the river-bed, as she made compositions of tree and rock and sky and photographed them.
"Craig." Peter had obviously reached a decision. "If I could arrange the collateral the World Bank requires, I would expect a commission in Rholands shares."
"I guess you would be entitled to it." Craig felt the embers of his dead hopes flicker, and at that moment Sally Anne called, "It's getting late and we have two and a half hours' flying to Harare." Back at New Sarum air force base Peter Fungabera shook hands with both of them.
"I hope your pictures turn out fine," he said to Sally, Anne, and to Craig, "You will be at the Monomatapa? I will contact you there within the next three days." He climbed into the army jeep that was waiting for them, nodded to his driver, and saluted them with his swagger-stick as he drove away.
"Have you got a car?" Craig asked Sally-Anne, and when she shook her head, "I can't promise to drive as well as you fly will you take a chaRce?" She had an aparpent in an old block in the avenues opposite Government House. He dropped her at the entrance.
"How about dinner?" he asked.
"I've got a lot of work to do, Craig."
"Quick dinner, promise peace offering. I'll have you home by ten." He crossed his heart theatrically, and she relented.
"Okay, seven o'clock here," she agreed, and he watched the way she climbed the steps before he started the Volkswagen. Her stride was businesslike and brisk, but her backside in the blue jeans was totally frivolous.
Sally-Anne suggested a steakhouse where she was greeted like royalty by the huge, bearded proprietor, and where the beef was simply the best Craig had ever tasted, thick and juicy and tender. They drank a Cabernet from the Cape of Good Hope and from a stilted beginning their conversation eased as Craig drew her out.
"It was fine just as long as I was a mere technical assistant at Kodak, but when I started being invited on expeditions as official photographer and then giving my own exhibitions, he just couldn't take it," she told him, "first man ever to be jealous of a Nikon."
"How long were you married?"
"Two years."
"No children?"
"Thank God, no." She ate like she walked, quickly, neatly and efficiently, yet with a sensuous streak of pleasure, and when she was finished she looked at her gold Rolex.
"You promised ten o'clock," she said, and despite his protestations, scrupulously divided the bill in half and paid her share.
When he parked outside the apartment, she looked at him seriously for a moment before she asked, "Coffee?"
"With the greatest of pleasure." He started to open the door, but she stopped him.
"Right from the start, let's get it straight," she said. "The coffee is instant Nescaf6 and that's all. No gymnastics nothing else, okay?"
"Okay," he agreed.
"Let's go." Her apartment was furnished with a portable tape recorder, canvas covered cushions and a single camp-bed on which her sleeping-bag was nea
tly rolled. Apart from the cushions, the floor was bare but polished, and the walls were papered with her photographs. He wandered around studying them while she made the coffee in the kitchenette.
"If you want the bathroom, it's through there," she called. "Just be careful." It was more darkroom than ablution, with a light-proof black nylon zip-up tent over the shower cabinet and jars of chemicals and packets of photographic paper where in any other feminine bathroom there would have been scents and soaps.
Wilbur Smith - B4 The Leopard Hunts In Darkness Page 11