The Dragon Lady

by Louisa Treger

  Silence fell, heavy as fog. When Dad started speaking again, his tone was softer. ‘Look, Di, there’s nothing going on between me and Ginie.’ He sighed. ‘I need to tell you something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, Stephen’s been put under surveillance. I’ve been asked to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘It seems he’s been entertaining some unsavoury characters.’

  ‘Like who?’ asked Mum.

  ‘I’m not supposed to talk about it. You know.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Because you don’t talk to me.’

  ‘If I tell you, it’s no longer Intelligence.’

  ‘I thought you had retired from Intelligence. I thought we’d agreed.’

  ‘Yes, but this isn’t active service. It’s just observation.’

  ‘They should find someone else to do their dirty work,’ Mum muttered. ‘The lines are too blurred with the Courtaulds. You’re emotionally involved. I’ve a good mind to write to de Quehen and tell him to take you off the job.’’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Diana. I forbid you to do anything of the sort.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I am perfectly capable of doing my duty.’

  I was getting confused by this conversation. Then my mother said something that made even less sense: ‘Beware of running with the hares and hunting with the hounds, Mark.’

  After that, they were silent. I felt perturbed and miserable. I cried for a long time, my mouth twisted. Every now and then, I would blow my nose with the handkerchief I kept scrunched up under my pillow. After I had cried myself out completely, I fell into an uneasy sleep.

  I dreamt about a hare, his rich coat gleaming in the light. The next instant, he had turned into a hound racing at the front of a baying pack of dogs, saliva dripping from rows of sharp, yellow teeth. Then, he was a hare again, his grey-blue eyes glinting with fear as he slipped and twisted through the forest until he was lost to my sight.

  35

  Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s

  From a barren field off the main Inyanga road, Kukwanisa had grown to become a two thousand acre farm run on up-to-date lines. The Courtalds took an immense interest and pride in its progress and they visited regularly. With so much else in her life that was falling apart, Ginie held on to this success.

  Ginie had felt unglued since Mary’s arrest; some inner balance she came to rely on had gone. She was frantic with worry about Mary’s safety and was still being ostracized by the whites. She knew she was condemned as an insurgent, a label that had nothing to do with what she truly thought or felt. She was standing up for basic human rights to unite people, but she felt more isolated than ever.

  Stephen had more moral courage than she did, and he cared less what other people thought. Nevertheless, he too was feeling the strain. All the while, the spectre of the anonymous letter-writer hovered over them both, his identity a mystery. They were helpless, waiting for him to strike again. They had limited their contacts to a handful of trusted friends: the Richardsons, also Wim and Linette Schekman – the Dutch couple who ran Kukwanisa. Ginie had avoided being alone with Mark and hoped he had put their kiss behind him. The memory of it was mortifying and made her burn with shame.

  On a sultry summer’s day, the Courtaulds drove to meet Mark at the farm. The Schekmans greeted them warmly; both were large, genial and fair-haired. The heat had brought clouds which were appearing over the hills, crowding each other as they built into sullen purple masses. The Courtaulds walked around the property with Mark, while Wim finished his work and Linette made tea.

  They didn’t talk much as they strolled through the small nursery of pines and conifers that had been planted around the school buildings. As they headed out towards the fishponds, the orchards and the maize fields, Ginie began to sweat. She could feel it running down her back and thighs under her dress. They passed the herd of pigs that was already producing porkers and baconers for the market, and the hen houses. Based on current laying rates, Mark said it was predicted that they would lay over a thousand eggs this year.

  They came to a group of young men hoeing a field of peanuts, sweeping steadily and rhythmically, through the weeds. All wore the Kukwanisa uniform of khaki shorts and bush shirts.

  ‘They look so dapper,’ Ginie said, smiling. ‘How do you decide who works where?’

  ‘We split the boys into teams of eight and give them different areas of the farm to run,’ Mark answered. ‘Then we have instructors, who make sure that each pupil has plenty of individual attention.’

  ‘It looks like it’s all running smoothly.’

  They began to make their way back, stopping to watch a herd of handsome cows being driven to the milking shed with slaps and whistles. The Schekmans’ son, Jon, was running towards them. He was about seven years old, sturdy and tanned with tousled blond hair.

  Ginie hugged him. ‘They’re making a funny noise, aren’t they?’ he said of the cows.

  ‘It sounds like they’re grumbling,’ said Ginie, her arm around his shoulders. ‘It’s rather funny to grumble to each other like that, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mhmm! The first calves that were born here were called Ginie and Stephen,’ Jon said, excitedly.

  ‘Yes, I know. How lovely!’

  ‘I nearly forgot. Mummy says come and have tea.’

  A table covered in a red and white cloth was laid under the shade of a cassia tree, whose yellow flowers bloomed upwards on the branches like a huge candelabra. There were piles of scones and dishes heaped with whipped cream and jam.

  ‘What a feast!’ exclaimed Ginie as they sat down. Jon had run off somewhere. The Schekmans’ dogs, a ridgeback and a bull terrier, flopped at their feet, tongues lolling.

  Linette smiled and nodded. ‘Everything you see is grown on the farm,’ she said proudly, pouring tea from an enormous red pot. ‘The quality of our milk, butter and cream is unmatched.’

  ‘No milk for me, thanks,’ said Ginie. ‘I prefer my tea with this.’ She took her small flask of brandy from her handbag and added a liberal shot, offering it to the others. Mark was the only one who accepted. He drank steadily and thirstily.

  ‘I’m sorry Diana couldn’t join us,’ Linette said.

  ‘Yes,’ Mark replied. Setting his cup carefully in its saucer, he exhaled roughly. ‘She’s sorry too. She had a bad headache.’

  Stephen broke the silence that followed by saying how pleased he was to see the farm running so well.

  ‘It wouldn’t run at all without your generosity,’ Wim said, smiling.

  ‘You’re contributing to our country in so many ways,’ Mark agreed. He leaned back in his chair and looked hard at Stephen. ‘Incidentally, I ran into my old friend Brian O’Connell.’

  ‘Brian who runs the College of Music in Salisbury?’ asked Linette.

  ‘Yes. He told me an interesting story.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Stephen coloured.

  ‘He said the other week, he received a letter from someone who had, apparently, received a windfall. He gave the College ten thousand pounds to improve its existing facilities and build a new concert hall. . . What do you think about that, Stephen?’

  ‘I think I’ve been found out,’ Stephen replied. He looked rueful, and self-deprecating. The others laughed.

  ‘Brian told me that the only two conditions you attached to the gift were, firstly, that the college should remain a multi-racial teaching institution and secondly, that you would like to be consulted about the new building because of your strong ideas about architecture.’ Mark hesitated. ‘You’re a remarkable man, Stephen.’

  ‘And a dark horse,’ added Wim.

  ‘I agree,’ said Mark. ‘One needs the skills of a detective to uncover all your good work.’ He waited for a moment before adding, casually, ‘I’m wondering what else you keep hidden.’

  The men exchanged a steady look. Ginie glanced anxiously between them.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Stephen said, bris
tling.

  ‘Oh, come off it Mark, give the man a break,’ Linette chided.

  Overhead, geese flew in a shifting V on their way to the pond. Linette turned to Ginie. ‘How are you, my dear? I can’t help noticing you’re a bit quiet today. It’s not like you.’

  Ginie retrieved some cigarettes and matches from her handbag. ‘Oh, I just keep thinking about Mary. Seeing her taken away in handcuffs. . .’

  She lit up a cigarette and blew out the match. She was watching Mark closely, trying to gauge how much he knew. ‘They won’t grant bail, I’m sure of it,’ she said. ‘I want to visit her, but even that is complicated.’ Taking a deep drag, she turned to Mark. ‘Given your connections, I thought you could help me get access?’

  A pause followed and lengthened. . . Ginie’s heart fell and fell.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Mark said at last. He kneaded his shoulder, avoiding her gaze. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but things are tense right now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She tapped her cigarette into the ashtray.

  ‘There’s trouble in Sakubva.’ He looked up and met her eyes.

  ‘Do you mean the strikes?’ asked Ginie. ‘We read about them in the paper.’ There had been a mass boycott of buses because of a proposed increase in fares.

  Mark nodded. ‘The authorities are rattled. It’s a bad time to ask for favours.’

  ‘I understand, but perhaps you could try when it calms down?’

  ‘Yes, I’m happy to do that for you.’

  There was another slight pause before Stephen exhaled and said, ‘I really can’t help sympathising with the strikers. African wages can’t support a rise in the cost of transport. At least it shows that they’re able to organize themselves and retaliate.’

  There was no sound but the monotonous, high-pitched whine of the cicadas, which seemed to accentuate the building heat. The air was still and full of dust. Ginie could feel it in her hair and on her skin. Dark clouds moved slowly, covering the whole expanse of the sky.

  ‘Personally, I like the Africans,’ Wim said. Lightning quivered over the hills; the soft growl of thunder came moments later. ‘I’m just doubtful they’re ready for political activity quite yet.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Stephen. ‘They’re getting ready sooner than you think.’

  36

  Stephen, Rhodesia, 1950s

  Stephen couldn’t sleep. His mind was racing and rain was hammering on the roof like an avalanche of small stones.

  He had just returned from a trip to Salisbury, where he’d held successful meetings about the Rhodes National Gallery. He and Frank McEwen had been writing to museums and galleries around the world asking to be loaned work for the inaugural exhibition, and they were getting a good response. Stephen was lending his own paintings, furniture and tapestries, including two pictures by Veronese. In addition, a purchase fund had been formed for building a permanent collection: they were starting to buy paintings by European Masters, based on the principle of quality rather than quantity. Frank deliberately sought out lesser known works by famous artists, rather than greater works by lesser-known individuals.

  Both men had been closely involved with the design of the building and were delighted with the result; a large, open, modern space which made use of natural light and could be divided into smaller areas through the use of temporary partitions. On entering, one looked across a grassed patio and columns, straight through to the city park with its rolling lawns and graceful, stately trees. Leonora Barta, the artist who had made the mosaic for the courtyard of La Rochelle, was working on a similarly arresting design for the Gallery’s exterior – all whirling geometric shapes and bold colours. It would be finished just in time for the opening, which promised to be a grand affair. The Queen Mother was going to perform the ceremony during a planned two-week visit to the Federation.

  Stephen had also seen the studio of the African artists, now called the Workshop School. Painting and drawing had been superseded by sculpture and the studio was operating unofficially in the Gallery’s basement. Frank had made this work by hiring one of the artists, Thomas Mukarobgwa, as a cleaner; a necessary action under the current regime.

  Stephen was shown around by another artist, Bernard Matemera, a humble, humorous and patient soul. They looked at animals, people, spirits and creatures from dreams. The works were crafted from local stone such as soapstone, serpentinite and verdite, which were full of colour and texture. Each piece had vital living truthfulness.

  Matemera explained that the untrained carvers worked in the same way as Picasso, sometimes spending many days ‘dreaming’ a sculpture complete to the last detail, then executing it at speed. He told Stephen that the Shona people believed every rock contained a spirit essence that influenced how the stone would be shaped and carved.

  ‘The spirits are everywhere in the air and in the rocks,’ he said in his deep, slow voice. ‘A rock is like a fruit – like an orange or a banana. You don’t eat them without peeling them first. It needs to be opened to be eaten. I open the rocks. The work is inside.’

  It had been a tremendous day, made even better by the long-awaited arrival of the rains. Stephen had been elated until he got home and saw the Umtali Post:

  NIGHT OF VIOLENCE

  Police vehicles and buildings were stoned, and several people were injured on Monday night in Sakubva Township, where Mr Joshua Nkomo, leader of the African National Congress, addressed a meeting in the Methodist Church Hall. Twelve arrests were made during a three-hour riot.

  A police spokesman said that Mr Nkomo arrived late on Monday afternoon and went to the Church Hall. A crowd of between 800 and 1,000 people gathered. Certain elements of the crowd, believed to be supporters of rival nationalist Ndabaningi Sithole, heckled Mr Nkomo and intimidated his followers. Later, small gangs broke away from the main crowd and some indiscriminate stoning of police vehicles was reported.

  Roving gangs of Africans spread through the township, smashing windows of shops and houses, and intimidating residents. About 50 street lamps were smashed. A number of Africans were hurt in the disturbance and 15 were taken to hospital.

  Anger scorched through him. The night was dark and almost silent. Somewhere, a wild dog howled. Max came in and nuzzled Stephen’s hand, his eyes never leaving his master’s face.

  Armed police and men of the Rhodesia Light Infantry patrolled the township until the situation quietened, and patrols remained at Sakubva throughout the night without further incident.

  Some of the buildings in Sakubva looked as though they had been systematically ransacked. Road blocks were also put up by the rioters who cut trees down and lined them across the road. There were many obstacles in the roads, including dustbins, broken glass, large stones and tree branches.

  Intimidation kept many Africans from work yesterday and armed police escorted buses through the township. No new disturbances were reported last night or this morning.

  Stephen pushed the newspaper away and rested his head in his hands. Sithole must be as upset and angry about the fighting as he was. It was vital to restore order quickly, before violence tainted the nascent party they had such high hopes for. Gathering pen and paper, he wrote a note to Sithole, asking him to come to La Rochelle at his earliest convenience.

  The garden was full of puddles and a leaden sky pressed down. Mugabe sat in front of Stephen, scholarly and diffident, his hands dangling between his legs as though he didn’t know what to do with them. Sithole had sent him in his place, pleading illness.

  ‘I’m sure that you were as disturbed as I was by what happened at the Nkomo meeting,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m assuming the newspaper was correct when it said the troublemakers were your people?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Mugabe replied quietly. ‘We did not ask them to disrupt the meeting, of course.’

  Stephen looked at him, taking in the carefully mended shirt, the trousers that were shiny with wear. He thought about Mugabe’s many university degrees and the nights he must have sat up late stu
dying for them. Here was a man of discipline, interested in the life of the mind, somewhat isolated in his shyness.

  Mugabe gave a slight shrug. ‘Sakubva is a keg of gunpowder waiting for a spark. It can explode at any minute.’

  Stephen could see the difficulty he was in. Mugabe was a thoughtful and intelligent man who knew how the modern world worked. Behind him stood a massed, angry population. Mugabe adjusted his glasses and glare hid his eyes, turning his face into a mask. Stephen began to doubt his perception of the man. Even if Mugabe and his friends were not guilty of direct incitement, why hadn’t he condemned the fighting? What if he actually supported it? What if beneath that scholarly exterior lay a bitter and implacable fanatic?

  He sat forwards, trying to read Mugabe’s face. Mugabe’s life was so different and he thought so differently; it was hard to know what went on inside his mind.

  ‘I think it would be wise to issue a general denunciation of such conduct, and hope that is has some restraining effect,’ Stephen said at last.

  Mugabe didn’t reply. Stephen felt confused, impotent. Sweat prickled his forehead as he searched for words to try to get through to him. There was a knock on the door and Dixon pushed it open before Stephen could say ‘Come in’. Dixon’s brow was furrowed with anxiety.

  ‘Nkosi Richardson has come,’ he said.

  Stephen experienced a flash of intense irritation. What did Mark want now? Lately, it seemed that he was always hanging around La Rochelle. Mugabe was already on his feet, moving towards the door.

  ‘Please don’t worry,’ said Dixon. ‘You have time. I sent Gideon out to keep him talking.’ Stephen smiled gratefully. ‘I will show Mr Mugabe out by the back door,’ he finished.

  They said a hasty goodbye. ‘When you agreed to help us, a great stone was lifted from my heart,’ said Mugabe, shaking his hand. ‘Please don’t withdraw your support.’