Oscar shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Kaiser isn’t in any condition to see you. He’s suffered a major set-back, has Kaiser. He won’t be dealing any more. From now on I’ll be dealing.’
‘And that means sitting down with these people?’
‘Like I said, Trevor, things are complex. I don’t expect you to understand because you don’t see the whole story. But on certain issues the Azanian Liberation Front and the Regime have common interests that override the struggle.’
‘Such as?’
‘The disappearance of Bubé, the strange disappearance of Gus Kuiker and Trudy Yssel, the murder of Ferreira.’
‘— the defection of security policemen,’ said Kramer from Accounts. ‘We’re going to piss on you, Trev, I promise you.’
‘The growing habit of certain people to whizz around the world like they owned the place. This threatens to destroy a delicate network of discussions, talks, negotiations, painfully achieved agreements between those who have the health of our country close to their hearts,’ said Brandt from Signals.
‘You fucked out on us, Trev,’ repeated Kramer from Accounts.
The big men in the row of seats laughed loudly.
‘The British have a great sense of humour,’ said Momzie.
‘Those people aren’t British,’ Blanchaille said. ‘They’re from my country, they’re South Africans.’
Momzie ignored him. ‘They like especially men dressed as women making jokes about foreigners. Speaking as a whole.’
‘It is true,’ said Dudley from Malta, ‘speaking as a whole, and speaking of the English now, the English love to laugh at all sorts. It is one of their greatest gifts. They laugh even at themselves.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Minto, ‘but what they don’t like is other people laughing at them.’
‘Even more hilarious do the English find than drag artists,’ said Dudley from Malta, incoherent with excitement, ‘speaking very much as a whole, are drag artists who make jokes about foreigners, Japs, frogs and whatnot.’
‘There is something the English find even funnier than that,’ said Minto defiantly.
‘No,’ said Momzie with heavy menace. ‘There is nothing they find funnier than that.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Minto persisted. ‘Yes there is and I know what it is!’
‘What is it?’ Momzie demanded. ‘And this better be good.’
Minto beamed. ‘They like even more than men dressed as women making jokes about foreigners, men dressed as women making jokes —’
‘For God’s sake get on with it!’ Dudley groaned.
‘Making jokes about foreigners… in lavatories!’ crowed Minto triumphantly.
They seemed to recognise the justice of this, but Momzie was not giving up yet. ‘Oh yes, how do you know?’
‘Saw it on TV.’
That clinched it. They all nodded. Clearly there was no further argument.
‘We watch a lot of television,’ said Momzie. ‘Ours is the best television service in the world.’
‘Have you watched any of our television?’ Minto asked.
But Blanchaille was watching Van Vuuren. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘those guys are going to hurt my friend.’
‘Balls,’ said Momzie. ‘We’re here, aren’t we. We’re here to see fair play.’
Van Vuuren had stopped struggling against the ropes. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’
‘You aren’t,’ the man called Oscar said bluntly. ‘This conversation never took place.’
Kramer came over the Momzie. ‘Do you have somewhere more private where we can continue our discussion. A cellar maybe?’
‘This is a cellar,’ said Momzie.
‘There’s the liquor store,’ said Dudley from Malta.
‘There’s not much room in there,’ said Minto.
‘Going to cost you extra,’ said Momzie.
The front row stood now, picked up the black leather chair and, in a procession which had a triumphant air about it, carried the prisoner from the stage. Blanchaille tried to intervene but Momzie produced an ugly little pistol from beneath the bar and hit him across the mouth. After that Blanchaille made no attempt to move but sat there watching the blood from his mouth dripping into his untouched whisky.
‘This place of mine is in heavy demand, being an easy walk from your Embassy,’ said Momzie proudly. He went on to tell the story of how he had recruited Minto and Dudley.
‘I met these guys when we were on a tour through the regions, or at least they were. They were walking a troop. What’s walking a troop? I hear you ask. It’s like taking a show on the road. You march a bunch of slags around the place from hotel to hotel and you nail a customer or two. He’s out there for a few days in the sun and isn’t with his wife and wishes he was, or is and wishes he wasn’t. It’s hard work and pretty thankless. You get girls who fuck around just for the hell of it. And some of them won’t keep accounts and they really begin to believe they are on holiday. They shoot off here and there and you spend half the day running after them like a fucking collie dog chasing sheep. I suppose you can’t blame them, the holiday atmosphere gets to the girls. I can tell you there’s nothing worse than a whore on holiday. These guys got so tired chasing after their pigeons they tried to lay it on me. Lay it on Momzie, shit that’s a joke! I read them like a book. I told them — look get out of the provinces, I mean regions, as we got to call them now, and come up to town. I need a bit of knuckle on the door, I said, and you want a bit of peace and quiet after years of pushing fanny around the place. So here we are, as happy as sandboys in The Bare Pit.’
‘This is the land of opportunity,’ said Dudley from Malta.
‘I’m proud to be British,’ said Minto.
One would like to draw a veil over subsequent proceedings. Alas, in dreams veils cannot be drawn.
And so I saw them carry the prisoner into the cellar, in the chair, like some mutant pope, and there they beat him, stamped on him, stabbed him. Though whether he died when they stabbed him or was dead when the knives went in, I cannot say. Also they pissed on him, as Kramer had sworn they would do, showing that he had not been speaking metaphorically. They actually, together or singly, urinated on him as he lay in his blood among the broken whisky bottles the fumes of which were suffocating in the small room and the air soon became fetid — which I agree is not really surprising when you remember that there were several strong men taking violent exercise in a small space; a crude, enthusiastic, messy, bludgeoning assault of boots, fists, bottles. It resembled nothing so much as the violence which passes for pleasure in the lower divisions of the rugby league. Even in this instance they reverted to type. They whooped, stamped, yelled. It was foul play. It was the foulest play imaginable. But it was damn good sport! Those who speak of rugby as a game believe they are making a joke. I can tell them they’ve seen neither the game or the joke — for neither is involved. What we are talking about are matters of life and death, not of who should live, or who should die, but who should decide! We are talking of sacred matters.
All this I saw through Blanchaille’s eyes. He watched the men come out of the liquor store, smelt the spirits on them and imagined in his naïvety that they had been drinking and this accounted for their strained, pale faces, their laboured breathing, the slightly giddy looks, and the stains on Oscar’s blue suit. He watched as the money was paid ‘for the hire of the hall’, as Momzie called it. A handful of small gold coins on the bar counter.
‘Who else but these guys pays in Krugerrands?’ he asked proudly, scooping up the hoard. ‘But then again, who better? Ain’t they got the market cornered?’
It was only when Dudley from Malta complained about the heat that they realised something had happened.
Minto went over and tried the handle.
The explosion blew off the door of the liquor store and carried away Minto, still attached to the handle. Momzie and Dudley from Malta screamed as they tried to beat back the flames with their jackets. The bottles of booze shattering like brilliant bombs. The body on the floor glowed like a lamp, and exploded, lighting up its own disfigurements, the smashed face, the knife wounds. A hot gust of alcohol, sweat and, yes, urine, hit them. And Blanchaille, finding himself unattended, took the dead man’s earlier advice and ran.