The creature before them was dressed in tribal finery of an African chief, though of which tribe neither of them could say, but certainly he looked very regal, war-like and confident, and most bizarre on that green mountainside. He was planted squarely on the spot where the roads divided. There was, it occurred to Blanchaille, something vaguely familiar about his costume though he couldn’t put his finger on it.

‘We’re looking for the road to Uncle Paul’s place,’ said Kipsel politely. ‘Perhaps you can direct us?’

Blanchaille examined this strange tribal creature. He wore a kind of cap of fur with the arms and tail dangling round his head, a monkey pelt across his shoulders, he carried a short stabbing spear and a cowhide shield. Beneath it all he wore a black morning suit and highly polished shoes.

‘How would you describe the place you’re looking for?’ the stranger asked.

‘A place of rest,’ said Blanchaille.

‘A holiday home,’ said Kipsel.

‘Retirement village, old-age home, hospice,’ said Blanchaille.

‘A home-from-home, hide-out, colony, camp,’ said Kipsel.

The figure nodded. ‘Follow me.’

And he led them along the road which turned to the right and passed along the shoulder of the mountain. The sun was setting and a small chill wind was blowing. They followed him in silence and so compelling was his presence that they covered considerable ground before they realised the road had levelled out and was beginning to descend.

‘Wait,’ said Blanchaille. ‘This can’t be right.’

‘I’m doing you a favour,’ said their guide. ‘Don’t argue. Keep moving. Don’t look back.’

‘But we’re going down,’ said Blanchaille. ‘We’re not supposed to be going down.’

‘Where does this road lead?’ Blanchaille asked.

The stranger stopped. He turned and confronted them and very slowly removed his tribal mask.

‘Gabriel!’ Kispel said.

‘I tried to help. It’s the least I can do for old friends. I want to help you.’

‘Where does this road lead?’ Blanchaille asked again.

‘To Geneva, the airport and home.’

‘But that’s the way we’ve come,’ Kipsel said.

‘Of course it is. I asked what you wanted and you said home, hotel, hospice, guest house, retirement village. That’s what you’re wanting and this is the road that leads to it. This is the only road that leads to it.’

‘That wasn’t the home we had in mind.’ Blanchaille objected.

‘It’s the only home you have. There is nothing where you are going. Believe me, trust me.’

Despite himself Blanchaille laughed.

Gabriel became angry. ‘Yes, laugh! Maybe you won’t get another chance. The joke’s over. Come home with me. Face up to reality — or go on and fall off the edge of the world.’

‘If you want to help someone, what about your brother? He’s still wandering about here. He’s got a piece of paper in his hand that he believes will give him the title to some fabulous strip of land where he’ll be king and everyone will be equal and live happily ever after. Why not take him home?’ Blanchaille asked.

‘My brother is in a real sense quite unreachable,’ said Gabriel. ‘My brother’s on another plane. He imagines himself as a great explorer. He thinks he can reverse history. He believes he can set out with his piece of paper and imagines he will discover the New World. Like he’s Columbus in reverse. Or Van Riebeeck going the other way to rediscover the Cape of Good Hope. He plans to reopen the Garden of Eden, which he thinks has just been closed for repairs.’

‘We saw the guarantor of his dream of Eden being led down the mountain in chains,’ said Blanchaille.

Gabriel shrugged. ‘Correction. You’ve seen Bubé in chains. What Looksmart sees is another matter.’

‘You sent Looksmart to Philadelphia.’

‘Another correction. I didn’t send him to Philadelphia. He took up with some girl and landed there. All I did was to get him on the plane to America, one step ahead of the police.’

‘So you warned him the police were coming?’

‘Of course.’

‘And who warned you?’

Gabriel shrugged.

‘You don’t deny it then?’

‘Why should I?’

Kipsel who had been listening to this exchange in bewilderment now broke in. ‘What are you saying, Gabriel? That it was you who talked to the police?’

‘How else do you think I got him out? Sometimes, it’s necessary to talk, to deal.’

‘But the police hurt your brother,’ said Kipsel. ‘They nearly killed him.’

For the first time Gabriel showed signs of impatience. ‘Jesus you guys are so tiresome. I’ve tried to help you before, Blanchie. I got you into Pennyheaven. To do that I talked to Blashford. But then I’ve talked to the Afrika Straf Kaffir Brigade and to the Liberation Front, in my time. But you guys won’t have it, will you? I’m the only one who understood it wasn’t enough to hear what Lynch taught us. We have to act on it! I am brave enough, desperate enough to do what’s necessary, because we plan to win.’

‘So do the other side.’

‘Naturally this gives us something in common. So we talk to each other. It’s a complex balance.’

‘Gabriel. What are you saying?’ Kipsel was aghast. ‘People are dead. Mickey, Ferreira, Van Vuuren — friends!’

‘Van Vuuren was no friend. Besides he brought it on himself. If you want to blame somebody, blame the Regime. You can’t send policemen snooping around the Azanian Front. If the Regime wants to talk they know the way of getting through to us.’

‘But he wasn’t with the Regime. He was one of you!’ Blanchaille cried. ‘Kaiser Zulu sent for him. Van Vuuren came because the ALF called him in.’

‘That’s his story,’ said Gabriel. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if you guys have understood a damn thing.’

He left them then, striding away rapidly into the gathering dark.

Then Blanchaille remembered where he’d seen the tribal dress before. ‘In Balthazar Buildings there was a portrait of Bubé hanging on the wall. He wore ceremonial tribal finery, the skins, the spear, the shield. He wore it to visit the tribes of which he was honorary chief. Gabriel was wearing the same get-up.’

‘As a kind of disguise,’ Kipsel suggested, ever naïve.

‘No. Not a disguise. It shows Gabriel is presidential material.’

Kipsel said he wished he could identify the tribe from which it came.

Blanchaille said it didn’t matter. ‘They probably have a big box of fancy dress tribal finery, or a props cupboard and drag out some vaguely appropriate costume when a ceremonial visit crops up. Something that makes you look vaguely chieftain-like and impressive.’

‘The only thing that worries me is that Bubé, of course, wore it when he made these visits to some wretched tribe who were about to be dumped in the middle of nowhere.’

‘God, how he must have terrified them!’ said Kipsel. ‘Imagine Bubé stepping out of the presidential limousine in that get-up. Imagine what the God-forsaken tribe felt when they saw him. It must have been like getting a sign, the arrival of the messenger of doom,’ said Kipsel.

‘Remember the shepherds warned us about Gabriel,’ Blanchaille pointed out. ‘They said he was no angel.’

‘I still say they weren’t shepherds,’ Kipsel insisted.

‘Please Ronnie, is this the time to argue about shepherds?’

Kipsel agreed it was not perhaps the time.

And I saw in my dream how the two friends began the long haul, retracing their steps back to the crossroads as darkness fell.

CHAPTER 24

Blanchaille and Kipsel heard, rather than saw, Looksmart, for it was quite dark by the time they had regained their position at the crossroads, deeply regretting the distance travelled and the time lost in the vain detour into which Gabriel had tricked them.

They heard the scrape and scrabble of his dragging walk while he was still some distance behind them and they heard him muttering to himself. They heard the name ‘Isobel’. They heard how he addressed himself in a language composed of grunts and clicks, in a dialogue between the foreigner and the lunatic.