A Visitor Calls
An African Narrative
Vic Papp
Copyright 2011 Vic Papp
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Published by Red Willow Publishing
Book cover and design by Chris O’Byrne
ISBN 9781936539062
Contents
All Is Well on the Northern Frontier
Under Cover of Ascending Darkness
This narrative, chronicles the exploits of Chad Rennie, an American expatriate who settled in Zuid Afrika during the Apartheid regime’s ascension to the pinnacle of their plenary powers. His sojourn, just two years along, has already eclipsed those of local South Africans in terms of acquiring knowledge, valuable experience, and befriending many different types of indigenous and local peoples. Thus far, his natural abilities and the limits endowed by his humanity seem to know no bounds.
With every step, he prods forward undeterred by the myriad of obstacles set before him that tend to bar the participation of most ordinary folk. Fate, though, lends a helping hand on many occasions. Always the opportunist, he pushes the boundaries of the unknown to near breaking point. Time and again, Chad Rennie emerges from his chosen—often perilous—escapades virtually unscathed and enriched for his efforts. At times, he unwittingly manages to involve others who for reasons unknown to them do not fare as well. Some even incur misfortune for simply having made his acquaintance. Buoyed after each new successful and eclectic foray into his adopted environment, his spirit soars as his good fortune improves, seemingly without boundaries.
“It’s still very much a man’s world,” his awakened psyche often reminds him, while it subtlety nourishes his burgeoning ego. He is determined to make the most of his stay on the sub-continent, though at tender moments his mind keeps constant vigil as he tries purposefully to portend when his euphoria may end. Each new day brings with it fresh challenges; some of these are couched in entirely disparate meanings that are not immediately obvious. Often at odds with his own moral obligations, Chad toys with the temptations at hand. Then fearlessly, he willingly sets his morals aside due to the consideration of the fabulous prizes that lay before his very eyes. Content to reconcile his conscience at a later, more convenient time, he fills the breach with sometimes wild and reckless abandon. Only later, he discovers that the temporary advantage he gained is not always what he had expected. Yet, through his temerity and knack to survive the fate that befalls him, time and again, Chad manages adeptly to land on his feet. No worse for his efforts, again he discovers a fresh scent that leads to yet another adventure wrought on an unfamiliar trail.
The latest lead takes him to an area north of Zuid Afrika, which is generally known to the residents as the Border States. Newly christened as Zimbabwe by the indigenous government that came to power after a protracted civil war, this newest of African nations was formerly known though mainly by its colonial white rulers as Southern Rhodesia. Before Rhodesia declared its independence in 1965 from the British Crown on UDI Day (Unilateral Declaration of Independence), it was part of a huge tract of savanna lands, crisscrossed by majestic rivers, and referred to most affectionately by its loyalist caretakers as the Rhodesian Territory.
It is in this majestic and historically significant setting that I begin recounting Chad’s latest exploits in A Visitor Calls.
Today, the supermarket checkouts emitted despicably putrid odors, slipping past the barricade doors and wafting up to the checkout counter, despite the cool, cleansing effect taking place inside. The vile scent caused my nostrils to flare and then retract just as suddenly once my olfactory gland identified the foul source. Satisfied that I had completed my biweekly chore, I nodded to the Afrikaner girl who returned my compliment with a brief, but longing glance. Remaining cheerful, she extended her long, deeply tanned and slender arms while she deposited the two plastic bags in my care. The girl’s handiwork was evident: my haul of meager purchases appeared neatly stacked. Even the perishable items were carefully placed on top. Nothing ostentatious was anywhere to be found; the food items were mostly necessities. After so many years, I still ascribed to the theory that real men should always choose to live as true Spartans. It was a telltale sign that—by all intents—I hoped would inform real women that I was for hire or at the very least, available to hear and entertain any reasonable offer that came my way.
The blissful thought soon dissipated as I hustled several quick steps away from the counter. Being an experienced shopper, I knew full well that if I continued chatting with the attractive counter girl, the throngs queued behind me would quickly send their displeasure along the checkout assembly. I left her standing and wondering while I set my sights on bigger and better goals.
My eyes, although stinging from the recent stench, could now plainly see the crystal clear day awaiting outside and extending beyond the immediate horizon. I dearly hoped to get there soon. The sun was still high above the veld and the temperature was comfortable, even balmy. The time was more than adequate for me to make something happen out of nothing. I watched a knot of young children hunkered down in the crèche. They seemed all too happy just to be there in that particular form. The two black women were paying them only as much attention as necessary. They could well afford to relax their duties slightly with the white mothers out of sight. Those two caregivers remained ostensibly far away from trouble. Every little one was preoccupied with either the swings, the carousel, or the rope bridge. The women minders, though, looked askance while they remained enrapt in their conversations. I had experienced this poignant scene many times before. In every case, the women providing the all too necessary care were never slender; on the contrary, they always appeared plump—everywhere. Apparently their respective households were well provisioned enough to feed everyone. Finished with my observations, I refocused my attention toward the children. The little ones reveled in glee and paid little concern to the goings on around them. So much so, in fact, that I stood there unnoticed and envied them for the longest time.
Mindful that I need not waste the day here in Southgate, I stepped up my pace. My groceries needed to be picked clean and set inside. This immediate worry enhanced my speed as well. I had a good half hour drive to make it back to Roodepoort, the home, which I shared with a local lad of German descent. Heynric was proud of his cultural roots; he stated it many times. Normally, the local meats could endure midday heat for the greater part of an hour. This time however, I had purchased more fish—the hake variety— and time was not on my side. As was becoming habit, I indulged in my newly established tradition; there was always room in the bag for a couple of plump strands of freshly pressed venison that matured as Boerewors sausage. The rest of the bag’s contents could endure a stint inside or out, except for the gallon jug of thick, full cream farmer’s milk. I couldn’t sacrifice that staple, even if it meant giving up all the other cool drinks. The broccoli needed a bath in bleach before it was edible so I placed those in the sink then ran the hot water spigot. Without question, I would prescribe the same treatment for the cauliflower and gem squash arms.
To the dismay and bewilderment of some friends and foes alike, I will always take an honest stand, and I usually state my position clearly. “It isn’t easy leading the life of a single, intrepid explorer. Sparta, called me by name!” Most of them frowned and scowled once they heard my initial public discourse. Some acquaintances even described me as sexist. Even today, I am loathe to waste my precious time shopping, even for the basics. Other venues, more interesting than the banal habits of civilized, man beckoned from within and without.
The former stench, which floated in from outside, the same one that permeated my shopping space, had now been arrested. Permanently, I hoped. Now, the interior air had finally cleansed itself to the extent that I could breathe its pleasant fragrance. Stretching my lanky frame, I noticed the crèche crowd had since evacuated. Gone were the subjects of my affection, as were their minders.
Whenever I visited Southgate, I always strove to walk the aisle that exited past the mall’s community message board. Most supermarkets were pleasantly accommodating to my austere requests, which included the former must-have amenity. I regarded myself as being as personable as one could be. Therefore, with that reason in mind, I derived much satisfaction from catching up on the local events. Eventually, I even entertained the thought of attending one of the venues, but not today. Occasionally, I would search the ads for a rider wanted or for a curious item, sometimes even for a person needing my immediate attention. Today, I wasn’t searching out anything in particular. I was compelled to read everything, including the many ads posted. Out of habit, I remained aloof without having been encumbered by any sense of commitment to anyone. Each visit, the boards were always crowded with many entertaining ads from “wanted” to “must sell,” and replete with many between that sought “persons needed”. There was also a conspicuous presence from the community. These were written in the form of safety bulletins, neighborhood watch recruitment brochures, and one ominous “Warning” message from the local police entitled, “Report any Suspicious Looking Abandoned Parcels Immediately to the Police.” That intriguing missive appended to another equally dire caveat that cautioned the shopping public further: “Do Not Attempt to Handle or Open the Parcels. These may contain Explosive Devices.” That line alone was enough of a warning for me; I stepped aside immediately. Significantly aroused now, my probing eyes preyed on everyone and anyone. Suspicion ruled; I scrutinized every person I encountered tacked to the board and even those in the mall. Apparently some mall visitors were unaware of the wisdom filled placards and passed them by without so much as a glance. However, they deposited their full grocery bags, awaiting pickup and delivery, directly in my flight path, thus barring my path of egress. Common sense told me that condition was not about to change anytime soon.
Seeing my way clear, I proceeded to check out completely, but not before my peripheral vision alerted me to something small tucked away in the extreme top right-hand corner of the building’s foyer, nearest the exit. The hand printed note was neatly inscribed. The words, written with a leaking ballpoint pen, could still be read plainly. “Do You Wish to Visit Victoria Falls?” I knew the answer immediately. My mind’s eye responded with a resounding, Yes! My curiosity was piqued. I scoured the small, but friendly eye catching ad for even more important content. Tucked into a crisp, cleanly constructed white note were several precisely cut strips on which appeared that all important telephone number. Out of my profound respect for the author and the other interested persons who might pass this way in the future, I decided that I needn’t snatch one away from the note. By that time, intuition already had me searching my pocket for a Rand twenty-five cent piece. Once secured, I dropped the coin into the pay phone conveniently located adjacent to the board and just a few paces away from the egress passageway. Sensing the natural connection, I dialed the important numbers, 8-6-7-5-3-0-9. To my good fortune, I recognized the stellar digits were of local origin. I surmised further that the holder of the number hailed from Randpark Ridge. That community was virtually right around the corner from the mall. The dial tone pulsed positively once after the phone digested my coin. I waited patiently while the ring tone reached four bells. A minute elapsed. Then, a woman on the far end picked up on my overture.
“Hello,” I said, in a feeble, yet pleasant tone. I hoped not to sound too abrupt. “I’m calling in response to your posting.”
The voice sounded of that which belonged to a middle-aged woman. Her ancestry I couldn’t distinguish. Her vernacular didn’t mimic South African, nor did she have an English accent, or even colonial Australian. However, her telephone manner at first confused me. Now, I was annoyed.
“Who is calling?”
“Does it matter?” I matched her innocuous query with an equally frivolous question.
“No. I meant, what is your name?”
“It’s Chad,” I answered. I was up to the task of answering questions at will.
“Chad,” she said, followed by a hesitation that I surmised was irritation. “Well now that I know your given name, would you mind supplying your surname?”
“No, I don’t mind. It’s Rennie, actually,” I replied.
The staccato question and answer period was intriguing, so I persisted. “Now I’d like to know your given and complete name.”
I detected a slight laugh from her end of the line when she answered. “I am Candice—Candice Holmes. My husband is Percy. We’re both from Rhodesia. Just listening to you, I know that you’re not from here, either. Tell me then, where is home?”
I was enjoying the moment, but I wanted to move my agenda along quickly. “I’m American. I immigrated to this great land of South Africa sometime in my past. More immediately, I would dearly love to visit that which you advertised real soon.”
Candice demonstrated that she, too, was equally adept at expediting matters. From her reply, I gathered that she had already performed this ritual before. “Are you calling from home?” she asked. I wasted little time framing a plausible response.
“I was standing here in the supermarket lobby when I spotted a very attractive note. Now, I’m speaking with its author. I sincerely hoped we might make some sort of connection, while not necessarily engaging in a binding agreement.”
Her voice broke into more candid laughter and she spoke calmly. “We’re having a sumptuous braai just now. Why don’t you come join us?”
I had already snapped up the sole treats I bought, and two plump, tasty and exceptionally fresh croissants. I hadn’t really eaten since noon. My stomach growled at will. “I’d like that very much. As it happens, I have some fresh cut Boerewors at my immediate disposal. First, I wish to revisit the supermarket to select some finer cuts of rib-eye steaks. That way, I won’t arrive empty-handed for your braai.”
She immediately recognized my course of action. “That won’t be necessary, Chad. We have enough food to go around, even enough to accommodate honored guests from overseas. Now listen. When you exit the supermarket, take the motorway. Then, head north toward the airport. Look for Vaal Reefs Boulevard, which is only ten clicks away. Take that exit and proceed west to Randpark Ridge. We’re located on Kruger Drive, halfway down the boulevard, on the left hand side. Once you’ve turned left, continue up Kruger. Look for a small cul-de-sac on the right side. We’re in the middle at number 1785. Just keep an eye out for a white Peugeot station wagon parked in front of the circular driveway. Ours is finished in red brick, so you can’t miss it.”
That was all I needed to hear from Candice. “Consider me already on the way there. We’ll meet face to face in 20 minutes,” I said, relying completely on my superior memory and navigational skills.
“And Chad, if you do get lost, remember to use the telephone. We can always come and collect you,” she chided before hanging up.
I knew I could find my way to Candice’s residence, but her admonition still rung in my ears. Before I bolted through the exit doors, I had the presence of mind to tear one, then two of those neatly clipped reminders that dangled from her note. I was impressed with my manner for having displayed enough foresight to tear more than one copy of her contact number, but I wasn’t entirely careful or prudent. As it was, I left my stash of Rand coins atop the pay phone that was securely bolted to the drab supermarket wall. When I realized my error, I took solace knowing that the next important telephone customer would not fail to complete the call for lack of proper change.
“By gosh, they live in an upscale neighborhood; something that exceeds the paucity of Randburg,” I mused aloud. The red brick driveway was spacious and completed in a functional semi circle. Other than the Peugeot wagon, a more salacious Range Rover occupied the lead parking space. Judging by the state of the carriage, I estimated that it had logged hundreds of thousands of kilometers on the odometer, and its finish had completely lost all signs of sheen. Appropriately, this one was outfitted in a sand, even a dirt color. I had no doubt that the owner’s preference for the shade was based purely on his desire to serve as camouflage for overt—or even covert—trips into the bushveld. Out front on the parched lawn, I was arrested, but then greeted casually by a plump maid dressed in her standard issue pink frump dress. Ostensibly, her white head cover, folded neatly just behind her forehead, was her own selection and appeared as though it was a neat, prized possession. She paid me no further bother. She was all consumed in the violent act of beating the expansive, ornate carpets with her metal laden rod. With lithe steps, I moved around to the rear of the home. At last, my breathing was free of the billowing dust clouds.
It appeared they were expecting me. Indeed, the lavish braai accoutrements suggested that the hosts expected someone to arrive. Moreover, everyone in the Joburg suburbs tends to brag about their distinguished and honored guests during their weekend braais. An additional place setting had been prepared at the outdoor dining table, which had been cleverly placed under the jacaranda tree, still quite in bloom. Repeatedly, I inhaled until the flowers’ sweet aroma filled my inner being. A blonde woman rose from the table and strode forward. She was of average stature, but certainly not in her demeanor. Her bristling blue eyes fixated on mine and continued to hold me in their grasp. Instinctively, I held out my right hand, allowing her to grasp it. She did so, with warmth.
“You didn’t have much trouble finding us,” she crooned.
“Not at all. It was a breeze all the way here. I take it that you’re Candice,” I replied respectfully, while handing her the packet containing the four prime cut, manly steaks.
“Chad Rennie, is that correct? You needn’t have bothered. As you can see, there are plenty of chops and salad to go around.”
She coddled my arm and accompanied me to the outdoor table. Surprisingly, the curious maid had made her way all the way around to the back lawn. Sensing my discomfort, she extended her much larger arm, then in one swipe, snatched the parcel away. Quickly, she moved the meat offering and herself from the tight family gathering.
“This is my husband, Percy,” Candice said, while she gesticulated around the table. “My eldest, Alexander, and sitting way up high on the prop chair is my youngest, Nadine.”
I had already assigned to Percy the age of forty, with Candice in approximately the same league. For a middle-aged couple, their offspring appeared remarkably young. They did to me, anyway. The lad, a blond named Alexander, who matched his mom’s fair Anglo complexion, was not yet of kindergarten age. His sister was barely free from frolicking within her crib. Her tender age, I guessed, possibly spanned all of three years. “Yes, here are children born and bred for the Empire family,” I mused silently.
With Candice’s guidance, I took my place at the table next to Percy. Candice had already heaped a generous portion of lamb chops fresh from the bricked braai, alongside streaming salads and mounds of pressed and mashed cauliflower mingled with gem squash. It was all that this man required. Satisfied that I had enough on my plate, she sat opposite so that she could continue to hold me in full view whilst she studied my expressions, which by now had covered the human gamut. Hers was, for the moment, a bit reticent. Candice’s features reminded me of those belonging to a pampered English lady with her rotund face, full mouth, and rounded expansive, yet pensive looking eyes. She spoke neither crisp, nor pronounced English, yet with much distinction. I was immediately impressed with her manner; bright and witty. She held my attention the entire time.
“Tell me, Chad, when were you born. I should mean the month. You don’t mind responding to the personal nature of my query, do you?” she asked discreetly over the table.
I initially felt embarrassed and sensed the heat rising in my neck. Clearly, I felt I had blushed. To rescue myself from the female’s inquiry, I reached to my left and grasped a napkin that served to damp down the droplets of sweat before they began to pour over my brow, then likely cascade down onto the pristine white linen tablecloth. This deft maneuver proved successful for the moment. Reaching for the flask, I poured a liberal portion of iced tea and drank half the glass. It gave me sufficient lubricant in order that I could proceed to speak my candor.
“I don’t mind in the least answering your question,” I replied candidly. “I was born in November. My parents, both of whom emigrated to America from England, hailed originally from Central Europe.”
It was obvious that my reply assuaged her inquisitive nature and I was compelled to continue filling her in with information about my background. Percy remained aloof, clearly feigning interest in our conversation. On the one occasion that he did perk up his head from consuming a healthy portion of chops, he glanced at Candice, then nodded and bobbed his head. I thought his antics strange, but conceded that they served as an approving gesture of my presence at the family table.
“Tell us, just the truth now, Scorpio. Why are you here?” she asked, resuming her frontal offensive.
I wanted to take personal umbrage to her suggestive question right then—and almost did—but retracted upon hearing her follow on.
“Why are you here in South Africa? More specifically, I’d like to know what it is that you do.”
Her beguiling smile was doing a terribly proficient job of disarming me to the point that I felt defenseless in her midst. She continued to search me for signs. At this moment I believed that she already had passed judgment. I felt it propitious to break out from under her gaze and instead focus on Percy. In order to answer her probing questions, I called into issue his involvement in these proceedings. Facing him, I started with a rather direct question. “Your accent isn’t local or that of a national. Can I guess that you are merely guests or just temporary residents of South Africa?”
I didn’t feel compelled to question him; I simply tried to delay answering her. My sincerest desire was to provide them with the proper framework. Candice, as I half expected, was more than willing to take up the torch. I freely admit that I was not at all prepared for her acerbic response. Her words left me pondering, literally searching, for a convenient exit from the table.
“We already know who you are. We would just prefer that you tell us the truth regarding your motivation for being here.” She probed me effectively, but was civil enough to soften the blow with an admission of her own.
“Chad, we are ex Rhodesians by our own choosing. If you like, you can refer to us as Zimbabweans who prefer to live outside our own natural borders. We’ve come to South Africa to escape persecution from the government there, Mugabe, to be more specific. All else aside, I regard myself as an African above and beyond my choice of nationality.”
After that, she didn’t say another word.
I sensed now that it had gone over to me to relate my own story. At this point Percy still wasn’t speaking. Instead, he held his peace. I suspected, eventually he would resort to recanting some of his grand finale of excuses for having surrendered the evening with, of course, some solicitation for their expected guest. Despite his penchant to remain silent, Percy’s eyes remained riveted on mine. He especially tuned in to observe my reactions whenever Candice was performing her examination of my motives for being there, or even for residing here in South Africa. Yielding to my inner wisdom, I chose caution. I behaved deliberately, not daring to appear coy. Candice remained impassive. Her blue eyes took on lavender shades, projecting prominently into my view, which allowed her to probe much further into my psyche. This, in good turn, stirred my desire to deliver something very special to assuage their doubts, if they had any.
“I have arrived on these shores purely by happenstance,” I said. “Originally, I stopped over to visit friends and try my hand at a safari adventure. Over time, I tried making things work permanently by landing a job. I succeeded in achieving the latter, which I will admit could not have happened without the helping hands of both fate and a kind and considerate interlocutor—a stranger if you will. As much as I’d like to believe otherwise, I do not miss my home. Neither will I long anymore for the modern comforts of America.” I paused while they continued to dine and finish their drinks.
“And by way of more happenstance at the supermarket, I believe the bulletin board contained therein a beckoning to expand my African horizons. This was definitely and positively instrumental in that your inconspicuous message provided me with the means and opportunities that ultimately led you to provide me with the directions to your home.”
After delivering what I thought was a great soliloquy on the travels of a single guy, my stomach became aroused to the point that I had to consume two more husky chops fresh from the braai. Percy had given up listening and attended the charcoals. He returned to the table with a delicious smelling mound of lean, tenderly roasted lamb. Candice accorded me more time to satisfy my renewed hunger pangs. She refilled my tall glass with more tea mixed with crushed, miniature ice. She leaned in and scraped my arm with hers, but was careful not to appear overly close and personal by the act.
Leaning back into the plump, cushioned chair, she let her arms fall to the sides and allowed her legs to stretch out to their fullest. I interpreted her body language as being a very good signal, and I hoped to explore the depths of her intellect further. Finished with tending the braai, Percy resumed his sentry position by posting up beside me. The maid also returned and became entangled in our goings on. She discreetly emerged from her quarters to clear the cooked chops that remained onto the meat cart, promptly pushing it away and out of sight. However, Percy chose to remain further apart. Candice’s body began to stir, even as her posture appeared relaxed. I could see Candice plainly now that the dining clutter had been cleared aside. The maid returned straightway, carrying a steaming pot of freshly percolated coffee. The aroma had already permeated the warm, night air. She filled a cup that she presented to Candice, but after she turned to Percy, he waved his hand and firmly declined her offer. Next, she politely inquired if I would care for some. I obliged, but cautioned her to go light on the cream and requested that she pour an extra sugar. She asked to be excused when she finished, explaining that she would tidy up in the master’s kitchen quarters.
I stirred and sipped from the steaming cup, pondering what Candice had conjured up next as the low horizon indicated that evening would soon be entreating upon this great, enchanting land. I took some solace from this natural event. Nightfall accorded me some measure of cover, and I knew that it offered a potential reprieve from the budding heat.
“You, Scorpio, appear to be out of place here,” Candice said. “I do mean that your manner suggests you haven’t been resident down on the continent for that long a period of time. We, on the other hand, have resided in this country—our adopted home—for ten years, having left Rhodesia in 1971. Percy is now an executive with the South African Broadcasting Corporation. I no longer work outside the house; instead, I chose to remain at home to help raise our children. Thelma, our maid, whom you’ve already met, takes care of the majority of the chores, thus allowing me to do certain other things. One of those things involves travel. When I had my career, I was a journalist for the Salisbury Standard newspaper. Although I no longer write much anymore, I still enjoy traveling, especially where it involves the globe.”
I was following her conversation intently and remained focused in her eyes, every which way they shone. She seemed appreciative of my gesture and smiled accordingly. I also detected some warmth behind those pale eyes that had softened appreciably.
Sensing opportunity, I broached the reason for my visit. “That brings me up to speed on your background, but it doesn’t explain your motivation for posting the message at the supermarket. Are you now involved in the travel business? If so, Candice, why wouldn’t you advertise in the classifieds or the periodicals if such is indeed your case?”
Candice sat forward in her chair and fluffed the back of her hair while she considered my question. “You could think of it as a travel arrangement, but not necessarily one that would require forming my own business. Scorpio, we screen people for suitability, to gauge whether they will fit in our exchange plans.”
At that point, I felt compelled to interject a thought. “I gather that you are advertising a vacation or timeshare arrangement. Is that correct?”
She smiled a bit and let out some polite and inoffensive laughter. “I suppose you could look at it that way. First, we enable people, and then empower them to make their travel dreams come alive. Once enabled, they are free to choose their adventure and stay wherever they like in Zimbabwe. They can even choose their own mode of transport. We don’t get involved in that aspect.”
I was still following her, but I was miffed at what exactly it was that she was offering, if anything at all. Perhaps my propensity to frown when I was at a loss for words propelled her to deliver the punch of persuasion, right into my gaping jaws.
“Chad, we will finance your trip to Zimbabwe. We will even provide you with enough Zimbabwean dollars to make your stay there quite comfortable. For example, if you decide to travel there, you can simply write us a check for 1,000 Rand. In turn, we will write you a check for 10,000 Zimbabwean dollars drawn on a bank in Zimbabwe. All you must do is travel to Salisbury and present it in the bank for payment. It’s all very simple.”
When I heard the simplicity aspect, my good sense immediately instructed me to stand erect, thank them for the evening’s entertainment, and bade them good night. Already, Candice had prepared the gauntlet and thrown it down. I sensed that I was about to become thoroughly entangled and complicit in their attempts to circumnavigate Mugabe’s controlling regime machinery.
“Let me understand you clearly, now. You want my money today, in exchange for your promise to pay me at a later date, with foreign currency, in a country that is openly hostile to citizens from a neighboring state controlled by a white regime. Did I get that right?”
Her laughter was so contagious that it infected me soon after it began. I joined in, not readily considering that by doing so, the temerity of my protest was entirely lost.
“Oh, Scorpio, you are much too cautious. Try to remember why you came here. It’s not called the Dark Continent for any small measure. You really have to get out and explore its riches, touch the landscape, and be educated by your experiences. Don’t you consider 1,000 Rand a small cost for the chance of grasping the trip of a lifetime? I think that you can manage to do much better than that.”
She left me dangling—literally grasping—for a way out, especially when it became apparent that she now appealed to my inner man. At precisely that moment, the fight or flight syndrome was in full swing.
“You must really take me for a fool, believing that I would give a thousand rand to complete strangers based solely on my having read their supermarket rat trap bait. However, I do appreciate your kindness for having invited me here to share your delicious braai. In fact, I thoroughly enjoyed the pleasant company amidst your family. Sadly, I have no choice but to leave it all right here and bade each of you a pleasant good night.”
Now my speech ran thoroughly ahead of my thought patterns. Neither Candice nor Percy offered any resistance to my formal announcement that I was about to embark on my escape route. Feeling more secure because I had set these things in motion, I was compelled to speak some more on the matter. “I did mention that I was an accountant, didn’t I? Well, I was hoping that I could spare you that banal moment. Moreover, I adhere to certain high standards; we professionals are prudent about such things. I would not even consider such an offer with a close associate or even from my closet friend.”
Just when I thought I had made sufficient progress to cease my rebuttal, my eyes followed my right hand as it was reaching for my wallet. Certainly I felt the angst building as I produced that which they so cleverly sought over the course of just one encounter on a splendid evening in a Joburg suburb. I conveniently remembered that I had tucked inside a hidden compartment: one solitary Nedbank guaranteed personal check that I planted there for emergency purposes. “What name should I write in the payee line?” I asked Candice.
“That would be Percy. Percy Holmes.”
I turned around and faced my interlocutor. Most people would have forgiven me had I shown my astonishment at his revelation. “I will make the check payable on Monday. You needn’t be concerned. There is no danger that I will change my mind tonight or come the next day. Although, I believe I will feel rather sheepish when I arrive back at my home,” I said.
Tearing it from the stub, I extended it to Percy. Candice had already moved around the table. With two sudden, rapier like thrusts, she maneuvered between my seat and his, climbing over my lap to secure her dominant position. He didn’t object in the least, nor did I. She snapped up my offer, while her faced beamed a bright, lively smile that was more mischievous than a product of joy.
“Now that wasn’t so difficult. I don’t know why you agonize over these trite decisions, Scorpio.”
Her forthright manner continued to disarm any remaining defenses that I had planned to employ against such shenanigans. She oozed out her Empire charm with such efficacy that I found myself willing and ready to oblige her every need, her very words.
“There is another small concern that needs your attention,” I began rather tentatively. “When can I expect to receive your reciprocal check?” I had addressed my question to Percy, trying politely to follow his firmly established family protocol, but Candice had already anticipated my need for attention. She promptly handed me her check for 10,000 dollars drawn on the Standard Bank of Zimbabwe.
“How did you know that I would accept this high risk gamble? Were there any telltale signs that I revealed, or did you automatically assume that I was a good, convenient mark?”
“The moment you arrived, I instructed Thelma to make out a check for the agreed amount. Of course there still remained the small detail of learning your name. You were quite accommodating in that regard, and rather quickly at that. Now you can relax and enjoy the rest of the evening, Scorpio. You haven’t any further plans, have you?”
Thelma arrived with the silver tray laden with three cut crystal glasses, each filled just below the brim with South African sherry. I rose to greet her, took the tender offerings and extended a glass each to Candice, Percy, and Thelma. Together, we raised a toast to our renewed interest in each other.
Shortly before midnight, I bade them leave and proceeded to abandon the comforts of Randburg for the squalid excitement of cosmopolitan Hillbrow. Specifically, I stopped by for a drink at my favorite haunt, Cafe Wein. For reasons that I could not explain fully, I felt enriched by my experience with the Holmes family. Just then, I began thinking seriously in permutations about having succumbed and then written the check for as much as 10,000 or even 5,000 Rand. Altogether, I shrugged off these thoughts as soon as the cool night air raced through my hair and reality set in; I had to work the next morning.
All Is Well on the Northern Frontier
The message had already arrived and was waiting for me at my office. Monday morning in Rosebank was for sure not an ideal time for me to launch into planning a personal excursion. As usual, and by design, the PBX automated telephone system deposited all phone queries and messages squarely on Penny’s desk. I believed Penny rigged the system to do precisely such; she had ulterior, but not altruistic motives. I had the evidence. Notable others, including our African brother with the noble name of Cornelius, underscored my suspicions. However, we fell well short in our conviction and eschewed writing a formal complaint to the bureau’s manager. Not allowing her to dangle my personal info before others’ prying eyes, I snapped it clean out of Penny’s startled fingers.
“You forgot to say please,” she protested.
“Thank you very much, Penny,” I responded in kind.
“And please, I’m not taking any visitors for the next hour, maybe even the entire morning.”
The workspace was deserted; I was surprised by this blighted scene. Everyone here knew or at least should have been familiar with the order of priorities within the bureau’s laissez-faire bureaucracy. Customers always came first. Mondays usually began with an abrupt crashing domino effect, which required all customer engineers to report for duty on the customer’s premises. A failure to report would start a massive, immediate migration of the loyal customer base to our competitors. This in turn would have left the bureau gasping, perhaps even struggling mightily, to avoid bankruptcy. The worst-case business scenario was played out regularly and ostentatiously by the bureau’s manager, Dick Roget, for the benefit of new employees, so he claimed.
Finding my chair, I neglected to strip to shirtsleeve working attire just yet. I noticed Penny’s first post-it. It read, “Please call Percy Holmes at SABC, 865-7666. Urgent.” I wasn’t going to argue with her about the larger context. I lifted the telephone and pressed 9 for an outside line before I began dialing.
“Percy Holmes is speaking.” His manner was curt, yet polite.
“Yes, Chad here. I’m returning your message. We got acquainted two days ago. May I ask why you’ve flagged your message as urgent? Surely, my check didn’t bounce.” There was a definite pause on the open line.
“Hello, Chad, I can assure you that we haven’t deposited your check. I called to offer my help in planning your trip. I can put you in contact with our friends. They can even come out to the airport and collect you whenever you are ready to travel.” He allowed me to ponder before he continued. “To save you some trouble and time, Candice had just returned from Harare a week prior to our meeting this past Saturday. If you are planning on taking a flight, we recommend that you fly on a weekend. The security around Harare is, let’s say, more lax then.” This was just the kind of information that I needed to hear. Before today arrived, I considered making the road trip due north and entering the country by car at Beitbridge, on the Limpopo River. The natural boundary served as the demarcation point between the two now potentially warring states. Before that, it separated the Dutch voortrekkers from the Zulu tribes farther afield in the north.
Now, I was certain that travel by road was not in my best interest. Reluctantly, I decided to forgo taking in the lavish scenery of the bushveld along the northern route; there would be other times to do that. Moreover, the money aspect was continually on my mind. I couldn’t afford outright rejection at the Beitbridge border post. Mugabe’s security forces would have much more difficulty repatriating foreigners at the country’s International Airport than on the road. At least that was what I had reasoned out after gleaning information from the country’s sole national newspaper, the Herald. I read that Zimbabwe was in the throes of a security crackdown of sorts. P. W. Botha’s ruling regime had brazenly and publicly accused his counterpart to the north of providing safe haven for the outlawed ANC political party which the Boer leader branded an international terrorist organization. He personally held Mugabe responsible for allowing the sworn enemies of the Republic to launch murderous commando-style incursions into the country from secure bases inside Zimbabwe. I reckoned that Percy’s idea was a good one.
“I appreciate your suggestion and concerns,” I replied. “If I decide to travel, well, I’ll fly there. The weekend is free. I’ll arrange my flight with the travel agent today. Once I’ve got a confirmation, I’ll give either you or Candice a call at home.”
Percy agreed; he offered me further support, at least tacitly. “As I mentioned at our last gathering, we can easily assist you once you arrive in the country. If you would like to arrange another meeting before departure, call me here at my office. Candice will be away later at the end of this week attending to other business. She sends her best wishes.”
Percy rang off abruptly, ending my call. Heeding his warning, I scanned the Yellow Pages for South African Airways. Within minutes, I confirmed my flight on their newly announced shuttle service, departing Joburg every Friday night at 10:00 and touching down at Harare International a few minutes past the stroke of midnight. The young female SAA agent was pleasant. Unbidden, she offered the attractive introductory fare—a paltry sum of 200 Rand—for a round trip ticket, provided I stayed at my destination a minimum of one week.
“Unfortunately,” she apologized profusely, “We restrict all seats offered for the shuttle service to the economy section.”
I tried to assuage her patient manner with some banal tripe. “Flying economy every now and then could be my next fashion trend, provided I don’t make it a habit.”
She laughed sheepishly at my bristling observation, but for only a short spell. She assured me that I could pay for the fare on the day of my departure from Jan Smuts Airport. “Farewell. I wish you good holiday making.”
Even with the queue of other customer calls waiting, she apparently didn’t mind having engaged in our little chat. I even sensed she was obviously sorry to see it end. I echoed those very same sentiments before I cut the call, but not before I slowly read back to her my confirmed SAA reservation number.
After a few polite giggles, she exclaimed excitedly that I was now officially “good to go” and that I was “well on my way to visiting Zimbabwe for the very first time.”
Now that the flight stage was resolved, I concerned myself with making sure that I visited the moneyed people at the Standard Bank of Zimbabwe. Before I attempted to plan this leg, I felt it wise to consult a woman’s intuition first. I depressed the nine key again for an outside line. Almost immediately, I heard the connection to Randburg. A few seconds later, I was speaking with Candice.
“Good morning to you, Candice. I spoke to your husband just ten minutes earlier. Good news—I have a confirmed flight to Harare this coming Friday night on their shuttle service. Percy suggested that we arrange to meet once more.”
Despite her not revealing any surprise about my call, I sensed that Candice was quite expecting to hear from me.
“Well, I extend the same good morning to you, too, sir. I’m glad that you were able to connect so soon. If you can spare some time later—let’s say Wednesday—drop by for dinner. We’ll be expecting you. We can discuss your trip over a succulent leg of lamb and a quality wine of your choosing.”