He sat on the bath and took his red and angry throbbing weapon in his hand; his heart thumped in unison. Damn Magdalena! What the hell was she playing at?
He ran the bath and lay in the warm water. Threads of blood drifted by, fine ribbons and spirals floated in the water. The blood was real enough. How had she known he was coming? Why had she fallen on him so savagely? Where was she now?
When darkness fell and she had still not returned he dressed and went downstairs and across the road to the fishmongers where the two men in raincoats stared up at the building, waiting for him.
CHAPTER 12
Now I saw in my dream the truth of the supposition widespread in émigré circles amongst the refugees who have fled from the Regime, though this continues to be officially denied, that there are paid agents abroad who shadow, observe, report on, harass, hinder and even silence those individuals they fear.
Across the road from Magdalena’s flat, outside the now empty, Arctic spaces of the fishmonger’s window, the two men, one tall, one tiny, stood in the shadows. As he crossed the road towards them Blanchaille knew as soon as he set eyes on their raincoats, on their stiff and unyielding moustaches and heard their flat accents, that here were countrymen.
They stepped close to him and pressing him on either side said: ‘Theodore Blanchaille, if you know what’s good for you, go back.’
‘Who are you?’ Blanchaille asked.
‘We are unwilling agents of the Regime,’ came the prompt reply. ‘Poor men who a long time ago booked on what was then known as a Pink Pussycat Tour of the Fun Capitals of Europe, and we looked forward to enjoying ourselves in Montparnasse and on the fabulous Reeperbahn. We were promised the time of our lives in the strip joints of Soho and the canalside brothels of Amsterdam. Here, look —’ and he took from his pocket an old, creased, much thumbed and garish brochure showing a naked girl straddling a large pink cat which had orange whiskers and wore a monocle: ‘Hiya fellas! Get out on the tiles! Just wear your smile…!’ The naked girl pictured wore a tight, strained smile. Blanchaille looked at the ridiculous cat, blushed at the noisy old-fashioned dated enthusiasm of the invitation. It was all tremendously sad.
The large one folded the tissue-thin brochure with reverence and returned it gently to his pocket.
‘We were ordinary blokes,’ said the little one. ‘Out for a good time. I was a butcher.’
‘And I was a school inspector,’ said the large one. ‘And we saved long and hard, I can tell you. I mean, hell, it’s no small thing, getting at our stage of life the promise of a really good time. We were in a button-popping hurry to inseminate the entire continent of Europe. Well, would you do otherwise? We planned for months, we scrimped, we bought Hawaiian shirts with orange suns and canary yellow sweaters to wear, just like Minister Kuiker who set the tone around that time, being the only person of note to venture outside the country publicly.’
‘We dreamt of Dutch vrouws and silk beds. We saved every cent and when the big day came we kissed our wives goodbye and stepped onto the Boeing with hope in our hearts.’
‘And stiffening pricks.’
The little one looked up at Blanchaille, unabashed, shrugged his shoulders and gave a bitter smile. ‘Off to sleep with coloured girls.’
‘Off to smoke dagga.’
‘To go fishing on Sundays.’
‘Get drunk on religious holidays.’
‘Watch dirty movies and gamble into the small hours.’
The big one sighed wearily. ‘But what we got was duty. We’re stuck here, in the shadows.’
‘This is hell,’ said the little one. ‘I thought a Free State Sunday was hell, but this is hell.’
‘Who are you?’ Blanchaille demanded.
‘We’re called Apple Two,’ the big one explained, looking embarrassed, ‘so-called because it stands for both of us.’ He raised two fingers.
‘But who is Apple One?’
The watchers shrugged. ‘Don’t ask us.’
‘What sort of a name is that?’
‘It’s a code name. We can’t give you our real names. Our orders were to stand out here and watch the flat until further notice.’ The little one looked apologetic.
‘Who gave the order?’
‘Apple One. We were to watch the flat until you left,’ said the big man.
‘And then we were to tell you to go to the Embassy. Don’t be hard on us, we don’t like this job. We didn’t ask for it,’ said the little one, clutching Blanchaille’s sleeve. ‘We stepped off the plane in London and the Embassy car was waiting. We thought, Christ but this is odd! Why should our Government come and meet us? Anyway we took it as a gesture. We told ourselves they were just being hospitable. Little did we know. We were driven into town, chatting happily like any group of tourists in London the first time, lightheaded with that sense of freedom that comes to all South Africans who discover that the outside world really does exist, and we pulled up in Trafalgar Square at the sign of the golden springbuck and I remember turning before we were hustled through the swing doors, I remember seeing the fountains, the pigeons, the tourists mooning about, Nelson up on his column… my last glimpse of freedom.’
‘What happened?’ Blanchaille asked.
The two watchers in the shadows sighed and drew their coats around them. ‘We were commissioned, into the security forces. It was explained to us that we should put duty above pleasure. Our air tickets would be refunded, they said. Our families had been notified that we were heroically responding to the call of our country abroad. With manpower shortages in security, as in all other industries, we were to be given the chance of serving our motherland by helping in the surveillance of suspected persons abroad.’
‘Do you know what’s happened to Magdalena?’ Blanchaille asked.
‘She left some time ago,’ the large one said.
‘Better not ask where she was going,’ said the little one.
‘Where was she going?’ Blanchaille persisted doggedly.
‘To the Embassy.’
‘Where is the Embassy? How do I get there?’
‘Go to Trafalgar Square. Look for the sign of the golden springbuck,’ said the little one.
‘Blanchaille,’ said the large one, ‘don’t be a fool. Get out. Go back to our country. There’s nothing for you here. Believe us, we know. This is hell. It’s a small, rather dingy, gloomy northern country. Everything is dead, the only signs of life are to be detected in the police, the army and the monarchy. Go back to where there are real issues to fight for.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of staying here. I’m in transit.’ Blanchaille replied. ‘I’m only here for forty-eight hours, and believe me, that’s not my idea. I’m heading for Europe. There are certain mysteries I wish to solve.’
‘That’s worse,’ said the little one. ‘That is the dark continent, Europe. It’s littered with the bones of Africans searching for the answers to certain mysteries.’
‘Then I’ll follow the bones,’ said Blanchaille. ‘See what they tell me.’
The watchers shrugged. ‘Rather you than us,’ they said. ‘Don’t say we didn’t warn you.’
And I saw in my dream how Blanchaille, having exchanged some of his money into British currency with the watchers, who gave him a good rate ‘just for a feel of home’, and having been pointed to the nearest tube, made his way down into the earth.