‘Then he goes back to his books and finds he isn’t looking at figures, he’s reading a horror novel,’ Kipsel broke in. ‘He finds not one financial nightmare but three or four. There are the funds creamed off the various Government departments and sent abroad secretly for Kuiker and Yssel’s Department of Communications to fight its propaganda war. There is the money Bubé has been collecting in his secret accounts against a rainy day.’
‘And there are the funds entering the country which presumably baffle the hell out of him until he interviews the brokers Kranz, Lundquist and Skellum. And his last and most cherished belief collapses. He finds out about the Manus Virginis with their strategic charity, how the Ring collaborates with them in tactical investments in the future of the Regime.’
Kipsel sighed. ‘Poor Tony. Finding that the Church was in it too will have hurt more than anything.’
‘Yes, but not for the reasons you think. What crucified Ferriera when he discovered the links between the Regime, the Ring and the Hand, with the Nuncio Agnelli acting as flyhalf, was that the Church really was powerful after all. Tony had never accepted Lynch’s theories about the structure of power. He rejected the Church as played-out, ineffectual, unimportant. And he was wrong. Everywhere he looked he found a policy of outright deception. There was the Church going around the country issuing statements about embracing its black brethren in Christ. There was Bishop Blashford publicly deploring the shipment of human populations to the transit camps and relegation of entire tribes to desolate “homelands”, and defying the Regime to arrest him. There were the charitable bodies shipping in dried milk and penicillin and designing new churches in the beehive style and attacking the Regime for being in league with the devil and preaching that the programme of separate freedom for ethnic groups was a crime against humanity, an economic nonsense and a sin against the Holy Spirit. While this was going on, here was the Regime whose followers took an oath of loyalty to Calvin before they slept and believed the Pope feasted on baby meat and sucked the marrow from the bones of orphans, meeting with certain Italian Societies, and here were its loyal followers in that most secret of societies, the Ring, those ultra-Calvinists, sitting round a table with a bunch of genuine opera-loving flesh and blood holy Romans, fresh from the Vatican, representing the Manus Virginis and discussing share portfolios. One by one, every belief he held had been destroyed. Lynch had been right. And if Lynch had been right about the deceptions, he was right about all the other things too — including the missing Kruger millions, right about the house on the hill. It was in this despairing state that he phoned me.’
Kipsel was very pale. ‘I didn’t know he phoned you.’
‘Just before he died. I was one of the last people to speak to him.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That I should get out. That he had found the City of God, or Gold. The line was bad. He was slightly hysterical, said he was planning a trip himself. He sent me money. Next thing I knew he was dead.’
‘And here you are?’
‘And here we are.’
Kipsel swore bitterly, then scrambled to his feet and picked up his stick and rucksack. ‘Let’s get on. I don’t want to know any more. Tony “the Pug” Sidelsky! The whole thing’s a horrid cheap little pantomime. Do you think it’s much further?’
‘I hope not, I hope not,’ said Blanchaille fervently. ‘I’ve had about as much as I can take. All my prayers are that God preserve me from any more of my itinerant, wandering, bemused, addle-brained countrymen, from policemen, rugby players, patriots, accountants, priests and presidents.’
‘Amen,’ said Kipsel.
CHAPTER 23
And so I saw in my dream how they hurried on their way, anxious to arrive somewhere, anywhere, elsewhere, the pear and the fish, strange partners.
Fearful imaginings crowded in on Blanchaille and left him weak and uncertain of his true direction, characteristic phobias, indigenous phantoms, familiar demons arose from the catalogues every South African recites before sleep and loves to recall with horror. Black men hunted with huge home-made knives beaten out of oil drums or made from railway steel ripped from the sleepers, flattened by a maniac, hammered, honed to a scalpel’s edge, metal machetes called pangas, slicing the air; he remembered white boys, so huge, so long and lanky they reminded him of giraffes, against whom he had played rugby, boys with strangely dark complexions and moustaches, surely men, and not that white! They raced down the rugby fields towards you with that stiff-legged giraffe gait, their hooves wrenching the turf. These monsters were surely never the babies which loyal white mothers had had for Bubé? No, these boy giants were born with full moustaches — wearing rugby boots. Their call-up papers were delivered to the maternity wing, they leapt from their cradles, kissed their new mothers goodbye and went off to defend their country’s borders against the Total Onslaught. Thus the dreams of misplaced, wandering white Africans, each with his own compendium of horrors, stories of tokoloshes, green and black mambas, murdered nuns. Each has his favourite, but most fearful for Blanchaille was the memory of a crop of graves he had watched growing in the camps. Growing and growing. If there was a symbol that scared him, it was not the gun nor the knife nor the snake — but the spade. In the camps he had learnt to dig. He had stood in the big trench grave and thrown red sand up onto the parapet, mounting higher and higher. He had felt he was digging in for a great war. What he now feared most as he slogged along an obscure Swiss track towards an improbable destination was not ambush or betrayal, but arrival. In the old story, the Regime was regarded by its opponents as utterly evil, by its supporters as divinely good. Everyone dwelt among absolutes and was happy. Now it seemed that the Regime was no better or worse than two dozen other shabby little dictatorships north of the border. He stole a glance at Kipsel, a tousle of curls falling over the shallow brow, the fish lips making their silent, pouting little o’s. Had it occurred to him that if the hell he had left behind wasn’t as bad as they had believed or hoped — then might not the place to which they travelled be no better than anyone might imagine?
What do you do when you find that the world you imagined to be bad, decently evil and have judged this so by observation and report and legend, fact and figure, is none of these, but is instead flat, dull, ordinary and very much like anywhere else? You have believed in its evil, trusted in it, you have been convinced by friend and enemy alike of its horror, have had it whispered to you in the cradle, written on the bodies of men in the cells, the message is one which has reassured the condemned as they are led to the gallows and made for an enemy worth fighting against — but, what if everything turns around suddenly, turns upside down and becomes in truth, banal? When it reveals to you that thing which you can least bear? That it is, in reality, very ordinary? Well, what you do is to keep climbing, and to dream, and to come in your dream, as Kipsel and Blanchaille did now, to the crossroads.
And into my dream there now steps a strange figure, his perfect teeth flashing like a sword. The teeth are noticeable for they are all that can be seen behind the African mask he wears, a wooden mask with black lines incised on the cheek bones and a fuzz of hair made from sacking falling down almost to the eyes and where the ears should be.
The travellers stared at this strange figure. Their road was little more than a track. The tree-line was ending. The pines that had been climbing steadily beside them had grown thin and feeble and were now tottering to a halt. It was from behind one of these ailing trees that there stepped the figure in the mask and unsheathed its smile. The lake below was lost in a distant blue haze and might have been the sky. It might have been that the whole world turned suddenly on its head.