I saw how, as the climb grew steeper, the road winds back on itself to lessen the upward slog and gives a clear view behind and below. It was then that they saw another traveller straggling behind them in a queer sideways crab-like shuffle. Imagine their astonishment as he drew closer and they recognised Looksmart Dladla, last heard of in exile in Philadelphia.
Their old friend was smartly turned out in a dark blue suit and shining black shoes, quite unsuitable for the rough road he followed and he stopped every so often and knocked his forehead with his fist as if it were a door and he wished to be let in, or at least attract the attention of whoever was inside. He gave no sign of surprise, or of recognition, but Kipsel, all his old fears and guilt returning, had become terrified and had quite unashamedly hidden behind Blanchaille.
‘Looksmart! What, you here? Hello, it’s me, Blanchie!’
The black man peered. There was no surprise, no anger, not even a quickening of interest, merely a blank cursory inspection. ‘I do not remember.’
‘You must remember the old days.’
‘Why?’ Looksmart asked.
Kipsel, now bolder, stepped forward: ‘Well, you remember me.’
Looksmart stared at him. Perhaps his eyes narrowed fractionally. But then his head was continually cocked to one side and he appeared to suffer from a facial tic.
Blanchaille seized his hand. ‘For God’s sake, Looksmart — it’s Blanchie. How are you? I thought you were in Philadelphia.’
There was a slow nod of the head. ‘Yes. I was in Philadelphia.’ He spoke very slowly, as if searching for the words, rounding them up like wild ponies from the canyons inside his head. He spoke thickly, clumsily, with little whistles and splutters. It seemed there was something vaguely familiar about the two men who had stopped him, especially the one with the fish face, the thick lips and the agitated manner. He hadn’t time now. He took a red handkerchief from his breast pocket, bent and polished his black shoes. Then he straightened. ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘People are waiting for my news.’
What happened to Looksmart before and after his flight to America has been the stuff of wild rumour, legend and conflicting stories. But it was given to me in my dream to see the truth.
Looksmart escaped to New York on a ticket acquired by his brother Gabriel (as was his passport, US visa, and a pocket full of money), a step ahead of the police and unbeknown to himself, in the company of the famous Piatikus Lenski, the defence lawyer. This flight was ever afterwards regarded as having been planned. People marvelled at its audacity and gave credit for its brilliant execution to Gabriel Dladla. Gabriel Dladla, everyone agreed, was an absolute marvel. On the one hand he was a priest and so forbidden to take part in politics. On the other hand he was known to be openly sympathetic to the Azanian Liberation Front. Yet he continued a free man. In fact his political sympathies and connections, far from endangering Gabriel, increasingly won him admiration and respect. It was whispered in some quarters that if ever, and it was a big if, the Government were to attempt some form of dialogue with its sworn enemies in the Azanian Liberation Front, then Dladla might be the man to talk to, and through; there was widespread agreement that Dladla was the sort of man with whom one could ‘deal’. Of course the official view was that there was absolutely no question of dialogue, or of dealing with the ALF and its murderous terrorist wing, the Azanian Strike Kommando No. 3. Even so, people felt obscurely comforted by the knowledge that if, and it was an enormous if (everybody always stressed this), the need should ever arise and the Regime should wish to talk to the Front, Gabriel was the man. The Regime were careful to discourage any such speculation. Bubé himself had given the official response, when, in the course of a particularly strident political meeting, he had responded to the repeated jibe of ‘Yes — but what if?’, with the remark that people could believe what they liked and the Regime could not stop people believing in fairy stories — but, speaking for himself, IF was a dangerous country which he did not visit. Everyone knew what he meant.
The famous defence lawyer, Piatikus Lenski, was equally unaware of Looksmart’s presence — but the two were forever afterwards associated in the public mind. Thus do haphazard conjunctions become established as historical facts in the story of our country. Lenski had made his reputation in the trials of such notables as the saintly pacifist leader, Oscar Amandla and the martyr, Joyce Naidoo. Lenski’s reputation stretched from the great show trials of the anti-pass laws demonstrators of the early years to the increasingly frequent hanging trials of black guerrillas which more and more occupied the courts as time went on. Piatikus Lenski defended his clients with passion and brilliance. He invariably lost the case but this never affected his reputation as a formidable opponent of the Regime. He was, as he himself said, if one was to judge by results, a complete failure. He never accused the judiciary of any bias. The judges, Lenski had said, were quite objective in their interpretation of the law but since the Regime was thoroughly perverted, corrupt lawgivers and objective judges made an unbeatable combination. He was a short, curly haired, vain little man with dark eyes and a high querulous voice which drove court officials to distraction and struck fear into the witnesses for the State. Nothing scared Lenski. When the prosecution scored a point he would turn to his junior and in his high, carrying tones exclaim: ‘Now that was well done. But do we care?’ He’d been terrorised by the usual methods applied to public opponents of the Regime. His house had been shot at, his children threatened, his wife abused — and he had yielded to none of it. Instead he gave an interview to the papers explaining how these efforts ensured that he would never falter in his appreciation of the lengths the Regime was prepared to go in order to get its way. Finally, Piatikus was placed under house arrest for ‘associating with known terrorists and violent opponents of the State’. The Government thus found in his connection with his clients an unanswerable logical reason for banning him. And in so doing they had at last done really well, and even Lenski had to admit it, and did, by showing that yes, finally, they had made him care, for when the police arrived with the signed order of his banning at his gracious residence in the northern suburbs, Piatikus had fled.
On board the Pan Am flight to New York, Looksmart knew nothing of his illustrious travelling companion. He’d never flown before, he had got into conversation with the passengers, he was rather drunk, and the recent beating he had received had left him in a disturbed and agitated frame of mind. Besides, Lenski travelled first class, behind a beard and dark glasses, and his presence on the plane only came to light when they arrived at Kennedy Airport and the press thronged the concourse. Lenski left the airport immediately after the press conference for a secret destination in Colorado where he went to work on his memoir of the most celebrated of his deceased clients. Called The Last Days of Oscar Amandla, it was to become a minor classic. The American press, and through them the wider world, concluded that this eminent lawyer and the black activist must have escaped together. That was the impression Piatikus never chose to correct and Looksmart was never asked to do so. Not that it mattered for he was so incoherent with his rasping voice and the terrible roaring in his right ear since the cell beatings that he would have been unable to convince them otherwise.
Looksmart had left the country abruptly. His brother had collected him and taken him to the airport in a great big black Chrysler. Looksmart had tried to get some information: ‘How —’ he began.