the Disappearance of Jonathan Bloom

by Martin Sowery

  The young Kriegman hadn’t questioned the natural order of things. How could he have? To say that humans were not created equal was to state something so obvious it was a waste of breath. Among the white races there was inequality too. South Africans were the toughest, hardest working, most honest and brave people on Earth; but even white South Africans were not equal when you compared the soft, pampered lives of the Capetown city dwellers with real folk: farmers like his own family who were the salt of the Earth.

  That all men were not created equal had been so clear and self-evident that Kriegman didn’t question it even when he turned into an intelligent young boy who read books other than the bible without anyone telling him he had to, though only when he was sure that no-one would catch him at it. His guilty secret was that he couldn’t understand how it followed from these obvious truths that you needed to be hard on the blacks and coloureds and work hard at keeping them down.

  For instance, anyone could see that it would be a waste of time having the same kind of school for blacks as for whites, because the blacks weren’t clever enough to benefit; but every so often you might find an intelligent one; and the young boy couldn’t see why it was so important that this one in particular had to be held back.

  It was his mother encouraging him to read the bible so much that was to blame. Being a dutiful son, he’d done his best to oblige her, but some of the same passages that would have his mother nodding appreciatively over the cadence and sound of the words set him to puzzling over what they were meant to tell him. He had been assured that the words held truths that the communists and other trouble makers would never understand, so when Kriegman found their meaning problematical or hard to relate to the world as it was going on around him, he was obliged to treat that problem seriously.

  These were secrets that he kept in his own heart and so far as he could see, none of his friends or family suspected that he was not just like them. He never went out of his way to let a black man know that he was dirt, but when witnessed others doing this, he accepted that it was unavoidable and necessary. Physically he was big and courageous. He played in the front row. No one ever questioned his bravery in a ruck or maul. To be thought of as someone who was weak or lacking, in spite of these accomplishments, would have been unbearable.

  Then there was national service and after that university. Later he decided that of the two he learned more in the army. The experience of fighting made it harder to believe that what you were doing was for some high and noble cause beyond just staying alive, but at the same time the army was like an extension of the rugby field, where you discovered even more about the importance of having mates you could depend on and who could depend on you in turn.

  After that, he had a good job working outdoors, went back home and married a local girl. Seven years, one daughter and then divorce. The daughter spoke to him still but not with the affection he’d once hoped for.

  Kriegman’s life in a nutshell; except that somehow over the years, the certainty he’d felt about what was right had worn away. The image of that younger self was still faintly visible to him, but he hadn’t been that person for decades now.

  And then, when Mandela was freed and it looked for a time like everything was going to go to pieces, everyone he knew dealt with it in different ways. Almost no-one wanted to leave, because if you leave your own country, what are you? Some suffered rage or denial: others adjusted to the new realities as if they’d never known anything different. All kinds of reactions and Kriegman had his own.

  But all of this was nonsense and the whisky wouldn’t last out the trip if he kept going on in this way. The embers popped and Kriegman selected a small piece of wood to add to the fire. Then he took another sip of the whisky.

  He wasn’t one for introspection normally and he didn’t let his intelligence off the hook willingly when there was no practical use for it. Certainly he wasn’t the sort of man who was going to admit that he’d been in the wrong about anything. Once you did that the doubts came crashing in and you were finished. It was only in times like these, when he’d been drinking, that he’d even acknowledge to himself his regret that he’d not spent time with his daughter when she was younger. The wife and he were better apart; that much was clear.

  And it was even rarer for him to own up to that nagging feeling that he had about the life he’d lived; and maybe even give it a name. Guilt. He knew for a fact that it was stupid and wrong to expect white people to feel guilty about apartheid. Times change, countries change and life goes on. The people he’d known all his life hadn’t been bad people in the past and they weren’t bad people now. None of them had a reason to feel guilty.

  This guilt was his own personal legacy; and the basis for it was, those others didn’t know that how we behaved was all wrong. But I knew. I knew for years that it was wrong and I kept the knowing hidden and never let it change anything that I did or said.

  There, he’d admitted something to himself. Was he supposed to feel better now?

  Kriegman struggled to his feet and stumbled a little on the way to the latrine. It wasn’t the alcohol; just that his legs were getting stiff with age. When he returned he thought that it was time he should retire to his tent; but instead he sank back into the folding chair. He left the bottle where he’d stowed it, with the stopper in and the glass wiped and put away. No more booze for the night and no more uselessly musing about life. There was a present to be considered with its own immediate problems. He’d rather think of that than try to sleep with the thoughts had just been spinning around in his head.

  For instance, there was something about the young Englishman Bloom that Kriegman didn´t like or trust, but what it was he couldn´t put his finger on. It wasn´t that Kriegman minded having a Jew in the party. Their money was as good as anyone´s and they were mostly American and so more willing to part with it than his European clients. He may have occasionally hinted that he didn´t much care for the Jews, when he´d been drinking, but then he didn´t care much for the English, the Yanks, the Germans, French or Italians either. And don´t get him started on the Japs and Chinese. In fact, Kriegman didn´t even think much of other South Africans, despite South Africa being the greatest country on earth. Look at the mess they´d made in their own beautiful country: the blacks in charge now, spoiling things even more than the whites had done before them. No, it was people in general that Kriegman objected to these days, not any particular race.

  He was not an old man yet, but in some ways he felt ancient. He didn’t have any desire left; that was the problem. All he hoped for was to be allowed to die in the real Africa, which please God should last out whatever time he had left. That and not to end up rotted and useless or a burden on anyone. It wasn´t a lot to ask, even for a man who’d never tried to do more than survive, with a few cheap sins of omission on his conscience. The people he should have cared for more than he had weren’t waiting on any sudden confession or repentance from him; and so far as Kriegman himself was concerned, regret was a luxury that made you weaker the more you indulged it. He wasn’t a man to permit himself self-knowledge to the extent of needing to ask for forgiveness, even from himself.

  So he put such points out of mind once more and returned to the problem of Bloom. Not the Jewish thing then; and to be truthful, you wouldn´t even know that he was Jewish. He didn´t have the look, or that manner that some of them had when they seemed to feel almost obliged to demand more for their money even though they were only paying the same as everyone else; like they had standards of being difficult to live up to. Now that he thought about it, Bloom was good-natured and patient with everyone, even that fool Parker. And it wasn´t those English good manners that everybody mistook for genuine good nature until a few days without home comforts broke the pretence. Some of the Brits turned petty and spiteful at that stage, but Bloom wasn’t just being polite. He was really working at being everyone´s friend. He’d even tried to make friends with Kriegman.

  Kriegman could unders
tand wanting to get on with other people as a concept. The kudu and impala and the wild pigs were all very different creatures, but they stuck together when they were close to the long grass because then it was useful to have extra pairs of eyes. They had temporary shared interests. But still, there wasn´t one animal that was on good terms with all the others, because some wanted to eat the others or avoid being eaten by them; and animals that didn’t meet on the food chain and had no mutual interests just ignored each other. Maybe that was it about Bloom: the members of this party were very different and it wasn´t possible that he should share interests with all of them, yet he talked to all of them as if they were his mates. so he was pretending, but so what? And why? What was he selling: what did he have to gain?

  In Kriegman’s job, it was interesting to watch people and see how much they were like animals; and it was important to watch developments between them so you could see any bust ups coming before they got serious; but you had to be patient; and Kriegman had more immediate concerns than Bloom to think about. Human motivation was a puzzle that was at least as complicated as animal behaviour, but even animals constantly surprised you just when you thought you knew them well. It was better to keep your eyes open than to waste time constructing elaborate theories before you had enough information. Just don’t be taken off guard.

  By now, it was getting close to morning and he couldn’t remember sleeping at all. Soon he’d have to get that lazy good for nothing black roused and on with the breakfast time preparations, or they´d miss half the day before they were ready to move on.

  Chapter Five - Day Four

  Jill Stevens didn´t know what to make of Kriegman: she was sure that none of them did. From time to time they´d exchange glances and shake their heads over the things he said or did. But after all, they were all here because they wanted to experience something that was more genuinely African. Kriegman was as rough and unpolished as the landscape.

  With Michael, you could see that there was some part of him that was kept withdrawn and not shown to them. The driver seemed aloof at first and he didn´t use three words when none would do. Still, somehow you just knew that he could be trusted and the longer you were around Michael the more you felt like he was on your side.

  By contrast, Kriegman had a wildness in him. At times he seemed to be daring the world to contradict him. For sure he was a creature of the country of his birth. South Africa had been the first place that Jill had visited on this continent, a long time ago, and some of what she saw in Don Kriegman reminded her of what she had found both admirable and appalling in that state.

  She remembered one night back then, when they´d just come out of a restaurant. The man she was with in those days was one of those who always needs to believe that he´s getting a bargain and they´d been smiling at the high quality and low cost of their meal. The place was one of those retail parks where there was security on the gate. They were relaxed as they looked for their rented vehicle.

  Nearby was a fast food outlet. It wasn´t one of the international franchises, but another of the clones that always spring up in poorer countries. Same plate glass, plastic furniture, harsh lighting and primary colours. There were sounds of an argument and as they got closer they saw three black youths outside the café; two of them shouting at a third who was trying to placate them. One of the aggressors suddenly struck the other boy and immediately his friend joined in the attack.

  Jill´s companion hadn´t moved except to make a feeble attempt to pull her back. She didn´t have time to think. In those days she´d carried her camera everywhere and she advanced quickly on the boys taking pictures all the while. The flash drew their attention straight away. As soon as they looked at her, she held her mobile phone high in the air.

  - Police come. Police come. You go now.

  The two attackers paused for a moment then they ran off. The victim was lying on the ground where he had been kicked. He was winded and his face was bleeding, but he´d not been seriously hurt.

  Her man had been sincerely angry with Jill then. It had been none of their business. Didn´t she know anything about the violence in this country? People were shot just to rob them of their mobile phones. What if the boys had been carrying weapons?

  - They would have really hurt that boy

  - For all you know, maybe he deserved it. He could be a thief or anything.

  Jill hadn´t responded to that, but her private thought was that even a thief didn´t deserve to be beaten senseless on the pavement. She´d lost faith in her companion that night.

  For all his faults, she sensed that Don Kriegman wasn´t a man who´d stand by and pretend not to notice in a situation like that, even though she could only picture him resolving the situation in a more direct way than relying on an imaginary policeman.

  ***

  Green arrived at Victoria Falls feeling quite fresh. He´d slept his usual hours on the flight down and the north to south direction meant there was no time difference to adjust to. The hotel was very nice in an old fashioned sort of way and it seemed that the bad mood that air travel usually brought on had missed him this time out. He thought that he might even eat out later; get the feel of the place.

  When he´d showered and dressed he took a stroll through the afternoon streets. There was a tribal art sculpture park on the corner. Baboons were going through the litter bins and annoying each other while a few solitary wild pigs went about their business in the open space where the railway line cut through the centre of town. The place was both more developed and more primitive than what he´d imagined.

  Everyone he met either wanted to sell him something or guide him somewhere. No, he didn´t want to see the Falls just now, but if he did, he would follow the street sign directing him there. Thank you, but for the moment he could resist the attractions of the ethnic market, and he didn´t have room in his luggage for animal carvings, or any use for a souvenir collection of hyper-inflation era Zimbabwean paper money.

  The vendors were as insistent as those you always found in places of this kind, where dollar rich visitors were hanging around for a few days before moving on to distant attractions. At least they were friendly enough. It was just unfortunate that no-one he spoke to on the street, nor any of the taxi drivers he approached, had any idea where he might find the address that he´d been given for the tour operators who organized Bloom´s safari.

  Green wasn´t entirely surprised. The street name hadn´t come up on his internet search or in the foldout glossy map that he´d picked up from the information centre. Possibly it was a local name that only meant something to the locals if you happened to be standing within a hundred yards of the place.

  The name Wilderness Tours didn´t ring bells anywhere, which wasn’t astounding either. There were more than enough local tour operators, all with similar sounding titles. From the brochure that Green had in his pocket, it seemed that Bloom had chosen to travel with a shoestring operation; and if they secured all their business from overseas and collected the clients at the airport, maybe they weren´t broken hearted if anyone else who was looking would struggle to catch up with them.

  Green had already tried the telephone number of the supposed office. The call was connected somewhere, but although he let it ring for a long time, no-one picked up at the other end. None of these setbacks dismayed him unduly. For one thing the holiday was supposed to last for two weeks and it ended as well as started here, so he should have plenty of time to sort things out before Bloom returned.

  In the evening he set off from the hotel in the direction of the main street. Other guests were being collected in taxis, though the distance was negligible. Green walked past them and up the lane that led from the hotel to the crossroads. It felt odd to be in a town with no street lighting after dark, but after all this was meant to be the third world.

  Eventually, he settled on a restaurant that promised him the true taste of Africa. He asked for a corner seat and a beer and settled down to study how things worked. The other
customers were mostly couples or small parties. The woman who came to take his order was European. He put the menu down closed on the table.

  What´s good? he asked her.

  All very good. We have a choice of meat; kudu, impala, crocodile.

  That means nothing to me. I´ll pass on the crocodile; I hear they live on rotted meat. You have beef I suppose?

  Beef or chicken if you´d prefer.

  You decide, he told her. Whatever it is, don´t overcook it and not too many potatoes.

  She nodded and left him. The beer wasn´t so bad. The night was pleasantly cool and so far no sign of any mosquitoes, though the net over his bed at the hotel was a reminder of the malaria shots that he´d skipped. He wondered if there was any difference between mosquitoes that carried diseases and the other kind: probably they were all carriers. He put it out of his mind. Now was the time to think about potential difficulties, but tropical diseases weren´t top of the list. For example, he didn´t have a gun, since air travel and weaponry didn´t really mix.

  On reflection, he was probably better off without a weapon. The man he was after was some kind of book keeper; unlikely he´d be dangerous. Guns always meant added complications when it came to not leaving a trail behind. He supposed the Fat Man´s organization could sort out something if need arose, but then again, making any contact with his employer wouldn´t be welcomed just now. The Fat Man didn´t like any contact, even indirect, until a job like this was finished. He was always like that; keeping a distance, stressing that he was just a businessman; that he didn´t get excited or emotionally involved. Yeah, of course not. Probably he´d be surprised if he ever met any ordinary businessmen, to see what they were really like. But let’s leave things as they are: no gun required.

  The food arrived, brought by a young African girl; quite pretty. The dish was a kind of stew; dark meat in a sauce that was too thick. The plate was filled up with rice and potatoes and some local vegetable that Green didn´t recognize. He cut into a little of the meat and saw that there was no pink left inside.