But a black passion had seized the ex-priest and he said stubbornly. ‘Yes, but what if there is no such place?’
‘Then,’ said Kipsel, ‘all I can do is to quote to you again the mad old Irish priest who knew a thing or two — if a last colony, home, hospice, refuge for white South Africans does not exist, then it will be necessary to start one.’
That night Trudy lay beneath Kuiker who was hissing and bubbling like a percolator and had his tongue clenched beneath his teeth in a frenzy of concentration as he entered her, trying to ensure that his erection lasted through the entry phase.
‘I think,’ said Trudy, ‘that you are going to have to get rid of our guests.’
Kuiker did not reply. He had begun moving well and did not want to break his intense effort to remain upright and operational. Instead he shook his head, not to indicate his refusal, but to show her it was not the time to talk of these things.
‘Now,’ said Trudy, cruelly tightening her exceptional vaginal muscles.
Kuiker shrank, he fell out of her, he sat back on his haunches and said, ‘Damn! That’s lost it.’
‘We can’t hold them much longer, Augustus. Something is going to have to be done. They claim they don’t care about us. They say they’re above all this. But they might just give us away.’
But he was not interested. He considered his failed member. The brandy he had drunk had befuddled him and was making him very sleepy. He reckoned he had at least one chance to make it inside Trudy that night and he was going for it. Such determination, such single-mindedness had been the mark of his political success in the days when he was tipped as the next prime minister. Desperately he seized his penis and began rubbing it firmly. It stiffened perceptibly. There was no time to lose. With a grunt he pushed her back on the pillows, thrust his hands under her buttocks and rammed himself home.
‘First thing in the morning,’ he promised. ‘Crack of dawn, I’ll finish them.’
Downstairs in the cellar Kipsel was in a bad way. Trudy’s knots cut so deeply into his wrists that the circulation had gone and try as he might to loosen the cord he only succeeded in cutting more deeply into the flesh and making his wrists bleed. He’d not been able to contain his bladder either and a pool of urine spread beneath the chair.
It was then that Blanchaille had a brainwave.
‘Ronnie,’ he said suddenly, jerking upright in his chair, ‘Jesus what an idiot I am! I’ve been sitting here for days putting up with this crap and all the time I had a way out of here.’
Kipsel licked his lips weakly. ‘Good. Only hurry, Blanchie.’
Sometime later Mevrou Fritz arrived with a pile of ironing. She grimaced at the sight of the urine and wrinkled her nose.
‘Mevrou Fritz,’ said Blanchille, ‘do you get well paid?’
‘Are you joking?’ the concierge demanded. ‘I work for the Department of Works, that’s who this house comes under, through the Embassy in Berne, that’s who I work for. I thought I told you. Do I get well paid? Bus drivers get better paid! Then there’s my accommodation here, for free, so they dock the salary accordingly. Why?’
‘What would you say if we disappeared?’
Her grey eyes stared into his unblinkingly. ‘Hooray. That’s two less to worry about, I’d say. This house isn’t meant for people, you see. Not living people. At the moment I’ve got the attic full of guests, and you men in my cellar.’
‘I think we can help you on both counts,’ said Blanchaille.
A few minutes later they were on their feet and Mevrou Fritz was stroking the necklace threaded with Krugerrands with which Blanchaille had been presented in the Airport Palace Hotel by the beautiful Babybel — a key she had said which he would know how to use when the time came.
Mevrou Fritz took them to the front door but to the old woman’s horror they would not go until they signed the visitors’ book. Trembling she took them to the book and begged them to hurry before the big boss upstairs, as she called him, woke up and shot them all.
Very carefully, Kipsel wrote this message in the book: TO THOSE WHO COME AFTER US — BEWARE! THIS IS NOT THE HOLY PLACE YOU THINK. THIS IS THE HIDE-OUT OF ESCAPED MINISTER GUS KUIKER AND TRUDY YSSEL. THEY ARE LIVING RIGHT ABOVE YOUR HEADS. TELL OUR EMBASSY IN BERNE. YOU WILL BE REWARDED.
Blanchaille wrote simply: WHERE ARE THE KRUGER MILLIONS?
And then to Mevrou Fritz’s intense relief the two fugitives slipped into the night.
CHAPTER 20
Now I saw in my dream how the travellers wandered the lakeside in the manner of those wild tribes who are said once to have populated the shores of Lake Geneva in Neolithic times. They looked, it must be said, no less savage being red-eyed from lack of sleep, tousled, dirty and smelling to high heaven.
It was fine weather all that day with the sky high and blue, full of rapidly scudding thick woollen clouds, and the shining freshness of the prospect increased the feelings of relief and freedom which Blanchaille and Kipsel enjoyed as they made their way along the lakeside towards the town of Montreux. Kipsel wanted to stop at an hotel to wash and eat a meal but Blanchaille allowed only a brief pause by the water’s edge where they splashed themselves, dunked their faces, ran their fingers through their hair and Kipsel at last got rid of the strong ammoniac smell of the dried urine that clung to him. Blanchaille removed his underpants and threw them into the rubbish bin. This was after all Switzerland and the trim sparkle of the countryside insisted on respect. Nothing could persuade Kipsel to do likewise. ‘I simply cannot walk about without underpants, it gives me the oddest, most uncomfortable sensation. Sorry, Blanchie, I know I pong a bit. Where to now?’
‘Up into the mountains, above the town. Remember the readings from Kruger’s book old Lynch gave us so often? Remember the story?’
And Blanchaille quoted exactly as he could remember, the passage from Further Memoirs of a Boer President:
‘Travellers approaching their journey’s end will find themselves as it were between heaven and heaven, one as deep as the other is high. They will think themselves close to Paradise, and they will be as close to it as faithful servants are permitted on this earth, for the country answers to the heavenly ideal in these several instances; to wit, it possesses elevation; it is a republic; it respects and honours the memory of John Calvin; and, not least, honesty prevailing over modesty requires the recognition that it has taken to its bosom this servant of his broken, scattered people, Stephanus Johannes Paulus Kruger. That it is not the divine country itself but its reflection will be apparent to those who walk in its mountains and still lose their way. But help is at hand for those who seek their true homeland. Scouts will be posted by the camp kommandant as I did always when establishing a concealed laager, or Boer strong-point…’