And Brothers Once

By Richard Henry Thiel

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 26, 2006
• ISBN: 9781465325792

Richard Henry Thiel

Richard Thiel lived in Southern California for the most part since 1957. He taught at the graduate school level at both USC in the sixties and at CSUN following a two-year stint as a research associate with a social and educational center funded by the federal government. He retired from university teaching and spent his time reading, writing, tutoring handicapped youth and trying to improve his tennis game. Travel was his passion. He lived in Paris in 1956. The recent Parisian chronicle of historian, Stanley Karnow, though he dwelt among the famous there, did remind Richard of his own deep time he too spent on the Left Bank in early manhood and contrasted the “Paris est gris” with his revisit since the sandblasted whiteness of notable facades now intrude. The Paris of Brassai, Doisneau, Izis lived in his autumn memories. He was married to Annie. They enjoyed a blessed life together, connecting in a deep and loving relationship. Annie had four daughters and Richard had a son and a daughter. Annie and he traveled extensively, yet knew the differences quite well of that and touring. Travel brought adventure and deadly risk, especially once in Yugoslavia. Safaris in Africa had required some controlling interplay of others, but gave to both of them many glimpses of beauty and deadly cycles in that very land where we all began. Writing of people from their varied cultures and classes and the strained but deep ties stretching across American generations, their secrets and their bonds of love and sometimes forgiveness defined the crucible of his stories.

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Copyright © 2006 by Richard Henry Thiel.

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Contents

DEDICATION

A SYNOPSIS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

DEDICATION

To my wife, Annie; my children, Elizabeth and Geoffrey; my stepdaughters,

Nancy, Amy, Julie and Maria; and my grandchildren, Brian, Mary, Matthew,

Seth, Owen, Clara and Malaika-Phoenix

And to Randy Grossman and Francis Hawkings for their tireless, devoted editing of Richard’s book.

A SYNOPSIS

C by Richard H. Thiel, Ph.D.

The sudden, dramatic end to the Cold War so shakes our minds, we often forget about changes that are also surprising and earth-shattering beyond our usual beliefs. When Reagan was president, apartheid still completely sheathed South Africa. Mark Greenwood, an American recently fired from a college teaching position, finds his skills are needed by ASAMCO, a multi-national mining company, at their Johannesburg branch. He is given a couple of paid weeks vacation there before having to come in. In that time he manages to stumble upon events and meet with types of people he has not had to deal with before. Three journalists, Lady Fordyce-Hastings and especially an Afrikaner woman, Kathleen, groove their lives indelibly into his being. After coming to the company, he finds himself about to be used in ways he had never expected. As the adventure develops, he discovers the gruesome face of apartheid, not as it happens out there, but rather, how it hits him personally and deeply. At some point he decides to strike a blow for the anti-apartheid forces. The outcome is as frightening and deadly as it can be. Have you ever imagined yourself in a strange foreign mess? What you know about your life and the world around you is terrifyingly shallow. Trouble comes to you in doses much too great to solve.

CHAPTER ONE

The northwest coast of Costa Rica offered cool, almost dry winds. Tropics? Tony’s wife, Lucille, wanted so bad to come here, just like she did on their trip to South Africa ten years back. Christ, she’s here. So why do I think of this one guy now? Tony mused. Where could he be now?

What’s with you, Tony, yellow fever? You’re mumbling to yourself, interrupted Lucille.

Just rehearsing some questions for those two oddball folks we met on the beach today, Lucy.

Don’t you want to see them again? Do they bore you already, Mr. Nibsy?

Tony Burns bowed his head. Palm fronds printed on his vacation shirt looked like they could hide him. Okay, Tony. I’m supposed to guess, huh?

Well, Lucy, it ain’t yellow fever. Not Costa Rican eco-touring either. It’s these memories beating on me, and it’s mostly about Greenwood.

Lucille Burns laid down her tired compact purse on a sun-blasted glass table. She stepped in to massage Tony’s shoulders, to stop a protective shell from forming. Despite the painful memories, Tony melted at his wife’s touch.

Wonder if it was Marc’s bizarre influence, my man. After all, finally you can’t compare the pablum preaching of a social scientist with the hard nuggets dug up by the real scientists.

Tony, you are real, claimed Lucille. Marc Greenwood dealt in cards and shadows. Oh yes! He threw fancy names, but all that was mirrors and smoke puffs. I should talk. What did I study most? Lucille saw clearly that the strain and anger creasing Tony’s face melted away as her fingers probed his tight neck and back. She kept rubbing. Now he was becoming a puppy, her little puppy boy. That was not enough though. Something in her savored his little spasms and even his major screaming at times. Did rubbing him work? She knew what ‘work’ meant in sixties black-hip argot. Did the shouts and arguments churn their sex? I don’t think we ever needed a catalyst, big or small.

Tony slumped back now, completely entranced with the warm hands on him. The tremors easily subsided in his back. What this really meant to Tony was that his wife’s hands, molding and manipulating, were perhaps as sedating to her as to him. Then, back she slid into their breeze-blown suite.

* * *

Tony at last sat alone on the balcony. The sea stretched far, and hovering clouds forced sparkling blue swells to become veiled in silver gray. The beach was mostly empty now. A lone surfer dashed out less vigorously than he would have way up northwest in California. No audience here. Blankets and towels were gathered up under the graying skies. Dated Cinzano beach umbrellas collapsed and they too were hauled away to a cottage or hotel. Tony got a very good buy for their three days at this hotel. From his lounge chair he could hear only the gentle waves, smell the fresh yet pungent air. All the beach was silent sand, and gentle wings of mist were coming ashore. Lucille was inside. Now those thoughts would rush back. He stood as many of us sometimes do, full tall, chest braced with fresh air, arms and shoulders stretched back, still a bit sore from holiday exertions.

* * *

Today, Lucy and he had met this strange couple quite by accident. They were all swimming in the same area, just about chin high. Then the woman yelped with a cramp. Lucille took hold around her waist, and guided her, half swimming and half tiptoeing, a dance with her to the shore. The woman’s calf muscle had badly knotted up. She still couldn’t straighten it out when she reached land. Lucille convinced her to lie down. She even provided her own beach towel. Then Tony’s redheaded woman propped the other’s leg over her shoulder while she kneeled and rubbed the muscle spasm vigorously. Definitely suggestive, he thought. Tony, filling with oncoming embarrassment, trotted out of the water to Lucy’s side. He hated incidents like this among perfect strangers. His MO was usually to study or observe people first from afar, make his sketch, then prepare for the possible gathering. If there was a social brew, Lucille initiated it or cooperated fully with any lazy cues for informally meeting people. Aside from his glaring moments of brash display, though seldom revealed in public places, Tony was intensely shy and quite unlikely to bridge new social hurdles. Though he was bright, very inventive, especially in things people would love to buy eagerly in a year or two, Tony showed no similar heroics in unexpected social moments. Lucille, of course, shined forever as a major player.

* * *

When Tony came up from the surf panting, salt studding his darker skin, it looked like by then Lucille had done her good deed. The supine stranger groaned. She spread her toes, stretched calves too athletically curved to have suffered such cramps readily.

She was quite attractive, though early gray wisps countered the shiny dark of her hair. And she was sort of black, not African, but sort of dark. You’re so dear, so absolutely kind, she muttered to Lucille, suddenly rising quickly, as she spotted her own man dashing toward them out of the surf. It seemed almost that should he catch her in some awkward or helpless position, both their lives could be endangered. Dripping, he glanced at Tony apprehensively, then turned his eyes quickly to his woman now standing, waiting her words.

I’m Grace, she said, extending her hand to Lucille.

Lucille. Lucille Burns. Those spasms are terrible. Got one back in Carolina once. Hurt like crazy. Could not unlock my leg.

Most assuredly, Lucille?

Burns. Lucy Burns and my husband, Tony.

Grace turned as her own husband rushed out of the surf. And this marine creature is Clarence. He smiled at Lucy and thanked her for the first aid rendered. And I’m sure that’s an authentic, Swedish touch with your massage.

Well, sorry, we’re not from Land-O-Lakes. We’re Americans. Clarence glanced at Tony reluctantly. Was it the race thing? Was there something else, a half hidden gambit, Tony wondered? They shook fingertip hands with distance and hesitation.

Lucy was quick at unloading the bad moment. And you two. You sound rather British. Maybe a Brit in Canadian arms?

Actually, Lucille, pretty close. Clarence is Canadian and I am a native South African, colonial accent and all.

Wow, Grace, we’ve been there, Africa. Have you ever heard of ASAMCO—American South African Mining Company? We both worked there briefly once.

Well, Lucille, I’ve heard of it, but that’s all. Don’t know much about the world of scrape and dig. What did you think of our country? The brief silence was a glare of contrast to the pleasant motion of their other remarks. Lucille, true freckled redhead, began to turn pink, from cheeks down to her shoulders.

I don’t want to offend you, Grace, but we did not carry happy memories from there. It was during apartheid, you know. Few years ago. Grace looked at her quizzically. And how could that terrible system have affected you? You’re Americans, right? Lucille moved toward Tony. She slid her hand up his wiry arm, brushed caked sand off his dark chest. That was her statement.

Grace understood, even nodded as if she had just heard a physical anthropologist. Tony supposed he saw the man, Clarence, stab Grace with a shiv of a glare, while nervously kicking sand mounds just above the sea’s reach. What about the country, the land? tried Grace more casually.

We frankly never saw that much of it, replied Lucille.

Hey, wait a minute, Lucy. I saw some of it. More than she did, protested Tony.

I was near Kruger once, at a private game reserve. Shades of the real Africa, it seemed.

Grace looked full at him. Their mutual sights assured them both they may never have seen each other. Was it lovely?

I’m sorry, interrupted Lucille. My husband—on that trip, he was almost killed. Not l-o-v-e-l-y.

It was almost my last vacation, grunted Tony.

"Ewww-ww, lions, tigers or bears?" cried Grace followed by an uncomfortable silence.

That crack almost set Tony off. No, wuz white motherfucks—and black ones too. Instead he growled, In the forests there were these two-legged snakes. They almost did me in. Grace caught herself. She had been quite rude and realized it immediately. Apologies came fast.

Sweetening, she then offered, I’d love to hear all about it, Mr. Burns.

Unfortunately, we have a dinner engagement very soon. Need to get dressed, Clarence had insisted. He had stepped in very quickly. His timing was that of a veteran boxing referee. Tony sensed this man’s eager strain for a fast close-out. By now, though, his own rising curiosity and sense of strange familiarity about this ‘Clarence’ conquered his shy habits. I think it would be very nice to get together, Tony said. Tomorrow?

Quicker than her spouse’s riposte, Grace agreed. She had heard of a nice outdoor cafe in Palomar Norte. Even the taxi fee up there is cheap, if you should need transportation. We’d have to meet you up there. The place is called Tierra del Sueno. Know Spanish?

Lucille’s drawl was deliberately slow. Disneyland to Dreamland in a lifetime.

Grace looked puzzled. Clarence looked down. Tony was smugly happy. He would plan the dinner campaign with his quick Lucy tonight.

* * *

Later, the tropical night came on so suddenly. Timid storm clouds grumbled feebly on the horizon. Traces of red sky streaks still glowed. Lucille, let’s get room service for dinner. She was already twisting the shower faucets waiting for possible Latin hot or cold surprises. What, no voyeurisms tonight, love? Too much snorkeling? Okay, call ‘em. You can order. Want barbecued fish on sticks, black as can be. Ceviche first. Tony phoned room service. The Right away, sir fascinated him. How long would they take? Not knowing stirred him. Would it stir Lucille? In steam and welcomed, heavy shower spray the sweet curve, the gentle white of her buttocks shone through behind her. Tony told her about the mystery of the time taken up before room service. They’d have time before that wouldn’t they? It caught her. Men seldom understand the ocean of touch and charm women need. The hot shower spray was his unknown ally. Thank God! He couldn’t wait. She didn’t dally in the wild damp. It could go. It could work while dinner sizzled. Would the uncertain ally fail them before it ended? Latin plumbing—hot showers—maybe. Cold was for the drinks only—maybe.

* * *

Lucy was dressed in cool cotton. Tony was sliding his last shirttail under wide belt. The door was knocked upon gently. Doorbells next year, who knows? Fiestas in Mexico had cured them both of raw salads. They took no chances here either, in spite of what doctor Andrew V. of Walnut Creek told them before they came. Lucy squeezed the lime generously over her ceviche. Yum. Local sea stuff. The real article, moaned Lucille.

Okay, Tony, you should be all relaxed now. If you’re not, we might have to do our calisthenics again.

Shit, honey. Super relaxed, and I want to talk. Talk about our beach friends. And talk about Marc Greenwood.

Quite an agenda, lover. So it was your Marcus obsession just before, huh?

Serious and slippery, Lucy, those two at the beach. Strange. I could swear I saw him once before. Even knew him a little once before.

The ceviche hung on her forchette. States, Tony?

No, dammit. Africa. Africa—but where, when? Was the trauma there so bad, amnesia blows our recall away?

You don’t think he was one of those security guys?

Not sure. His movements across the eyes and his voice tone? The rest, I draw zero. But think it was at ASAMCO. A guy at ASAMCO.

Know something, Tony? You’re on to someone. Relax—it’ll come. We’re talking ten years maybe. Still you’ll get it. Just deflate. Let it saute. It’s yours, Lucille assured him. Ten years. Lot’s happened since then. Yeah, this has really been our ten years since then. ‘Specially yours, Tony.

Ours. It’s been ours, Lucy. Things got goin’ our way big time, right?

Right, Big Timer. Finished school, did grad work. Then became a mother. You, pushing a million bucks from those little things you spin off.

Tony assured her, C’mon, Lucy. Both of us are doing fine. The spin offs aren’t so tough to come up with after all. The talkin’ them in is.

Tony, you’re getting better at that. Can I finish your ceviche?

What made you so hungry? You need some more of that jack hammerin’?

Their quick laugh was a prelude to tomorrow and the past. They didn’t say a thing, but both knew it. These people, Lucy. Think they’re bad guys. Just sense it. Where do I know him from?

Tony, you’re the scientist. Maybe you should observe better and hold back the theory. I noticed something about him right away. Did you see it? Anthony Burns was sliding a crispy fish off a stick. They each downed well-cooked vegetables. See what, Lucille?

The man had razor thin face scars in just the right places, forehead, chin line and nose. He’s been overhauled—cosmetically, of course. Lucille continued to nip at his food as well as her own.

Okay, Tony. What’s our game plan tomorrow?

Can’t decide, Lucy. Either it will dawn on me who they are, ‘specially the dude, or we will draw them out in talk.

Easier said, Tony. Do we snooker them or ask more pointed questions?

I think first the crafty stuff, then if and when they stumble, we hit ‘em with broadsides. Dig, Lucille?

Agreed. Now for the grand finale. What other barb keeps jabbing at your brain on vacation time?

Tony got up, studied the stars hung over the Pacific, hesitated, then turned to his wife. I have this thought. We’ve both been thinking about him.

Who?

Greenwood, Lucy. Marcus Greenwood. Silliest goddam name for a man. Cat that leaned so heavy on our lives. Sounds like a Renaissance madrigal tenor.

You’re right, dear. I’ve been bothered by him too.

A ghost, Lucy?

Could be an angel. They’re back in, you know.

Is it something about this place, this land, Lucille?

Tony, I can’t see it. It’s not like Africa here.

But maybe it is, baby. Some way we don’t see. She fiddled with her modest wedding ring. The salt water must have caused some irritation. Pink skin reddening. Are you saying, Lucille, my ghost? Your angel?

No, Tony. My patience. Your paranoia.

Lucille braced her head in her hands, dramatically to make her point. This was painful, repetitively painful. Tony broke in, You got it wrong, baby. I liked him. Fact he was the only fuckin’ Whitey I ever got close to in those times, even now ‘cept you. Once there was a friendship. You know, buddies? I don’t know how it came about. Some ways he was one dumb mother. Had flashes though. Okay, something about him caused me to drop my hands. Only trouble is, what?

That ain’t all, champ. Something else weighs on you. Wanna tell me about it? she said sarcastically, partly because she knew her husband’s darkest suspicion. Partly because he so often came near to this sharp corner before. Actually years had passed since Tony’s tireless obsession spread its tendrils. Did something recently trigger it? Why am I complicating our life? We don’t have to build recent events or happenings into a cause. Human brains probably just whirl on their own at times. Random runs! Maybe they are like voices bleedin’ over an old telephone circuit from another line. The old-time phone system—you know.

Maybe that’s why Tony retreads Marc in his mind, decided Lucille, ripe with exasperation.

Oh, Tony. Please mix some more Cuba Libres. It’s so charming here with two more of them just for us guys.

Only if you promise to help me with this. So, maybe it is a little nutty. The partners, as they nowadays say, had bought enough booze locally to make about three or four basic kinds of drink. Neither of them drank very much usually.

Tony, I was very upset when Eddie was born. You sat at my bed hardly looking at me. You studied him like you were in forensic medicine. Gave me the chills.

Well, baby. It could have been the first birth. It might do strange things to women.

Not their mates?

Okay, I was a bit hung up. White, black, what would the kid show?

Were you worried about if he had a black dick?

Lucille. Christ!

Forget game planning me, lover. We’ve been at it too long. You sat there and studied him. Right?

I did. Jesus, I did.

It wasn’t the black dick, was it?

White, yes, white. I never got over it. You the sweetest white package. Me the Nigger. Okay, safe Nigger. Oh yeah, even smart Nigger. The man said so. Oh my, even almost white Nigger. Me.

Look at me, Tony. Look at me straight up.

And?

I never fucked Marc Greenwood! Repeat after me—I never fucked Marc Greenwood! Burn it into your black-assed brain. I never did. Tony Burns swung his hands around. It was no gesture. It only meant confusion by default. Know something, vanilla pud? I remember one thing very clearly from the sixties. Read ‘Soul On Ice’. Before his jail time. Before religious dunking, before it got dead-ass quiet again, before affirmative action masked the usual shit in spades. Shit, I don’t mean in spades. Mean into spades. Then broke it off.

Yeah, Eldridge Cleaver. Is dat da man, Mr. Anthony?

Lucille, he said it all in a nutshell. He’d rather fuck a white broad, even an ugly old hag bag, than any gorgeous black beauty.

So what are you saying? You stretched things a bit hag-wise by taking me on?

No, honey. Don’t mean that. It’s more than sex. Always is, I reckon. Always has been. I mean simply to have a white woman, to drag yourself out of the race slime and mud. It would be the supreme statement. An act for even God to ponder—if he is or if he’d care. Know what I’m saying? Tony looked at his lovely wife as tears wetted his eyes ever so slightly.

What are you telling me, baby? It was always you. Only you since first we met. And the ghost of Marc Greenwood. He was your friend. I loved him too. But it was friend and brother and sister. It was strong. Mean for all three of us. It was too deep for us over there. We were all like one then. You couldn’t see it. He was a brother, not that phony rhetoric brother-sister shit you Blacks shout on or brag about. Racism should have made you all one family, but stats don’t lie. You should know. You’re the scientist.

Yeah, and Eddie is my son. Looked really hard at him, his parts that day. You saw it all, right?

Right!

And you wanted to name our kid after Marc, Lucille?

Right. That’s why you got nervous.

Christ, Lucille. That name. Marcus. He couldn’t ever go near a boy’s locker room after he turned twelve.

Lucy scowled. We don’t live in the ‘hood, genius. Remember?

The drink was twirled round Lucy’s tongue. Speaking of locker rooms. You don’t need that macho shit. You got all it takes to be a man in Amereekay. Remember baby, don’t need to fight it. Marc even brought up your tennis play, remember that? But you never needed those extra trappings. You’re okay, Tony. And perfect for me.

What is it, Lucille? What was there about that guy, Marc? Those times? Why am I thinking of him now?

You’ll always think about him. So will I. But you more, most likely. Because he was your true brother. Can’t be that way for Grays and Blacks, right? But it was. That kills you. He helped make it possible for you to live in de man’s world. And almost like it. And win in it.Anthony Burns sat down next to Lucille. She was getting a little heavier. Motherhood, affluence, deskwork. All that white and spreading fast, he chuckled to himself silently. Lucille was now content to have the hug and that sweet tropical night tranquility. Words could wait.

Tony’s memory back peddled to the time he sat with old buddy, Marc Greenwood, next to that outrageous water pumping wheel they had Rube Goldberged. It was that night Marc told him of his own first flight from London to Johannesburg. He had the cabin attendant dazzled. She was from the English Midlands. Tried to act cool and Cosmo. Marc laughed about the British canapes cowering in the silly serving tray. Monuments to centuries of indifferent cuisine. Marc had explained why the abominable food was no accident among the British. Ms. Midlands told Marc Greenwood she’d meet him in Capetown. Great place to visit in that country. She said so anyway. Marc was to meet her there. He’d case the town first.

That was just the beginning. He’d tell me everything. Did have a way of getting in over his head, even in bed. But why did Lucy think we were such buddies? I don’t think so. And a minute ago, I thought Costa Rica and Africa were alike. They’re not alike at all. Now I get it. They are alike for only one good reason. We are there. And it’s we who are different. Even us Blacks are different now. The new Blackie comes over to Africa. We are new to them. We’re really new to ourselves. What really gets me is that guy we just met. Somehow he figures into all this, but how?

If one grapples to capture memory and its accomplices, murky shadows and faded negatives slide in. Some images are so vivid and bright; they deceive time and invert the natural order of events.

And now Lucille dozed. More relaxed than Tony would expect. Kids, grad work, my tantrums. She was busting for some time off, thought Burns, laboring to recall all he could of Marcus Greenwood.

"Most strange, yet emphatic, is what he told me was the great and weird metamorphosis he felt in his flight to South Africa. He kept hitting on Kafka; how the furies ran the ever-bureaucratized society we all unwittingly created. It was around 1984. Funny. He took that year like some terrible curse. He was to be the piaculum. Away to Africa. New life, new times. His past was a pile of coal cinders—that’s a Pennsylvanian metaphor no doubt. Divorce, loss of real fatherhood. He believed firmly that parenthood, fathering was a process, not a status. He hated the lie of ‘quality time’, that female delusion to support working girl and motherhood as the two lives collided.

He thought he had to completely clear away contacts with his baby son. That way he could prevent partial bonds, wounded parenting. And the women he hustled. He was both insatiable and seeking new flesh constantly. Later, when he had fallen a bit at ASAMCO, he got clinical with his own philandering. He pleaded that we tend to follow our own worn trails blindly. We had to be good at it or hopeful we would soon become good at it. Maybe there’s a type. Athlete, slow to feel any real pressure—unless it was very intense, very physical. Sex, sports—one intertwined network? I’m not innocent. What made men like him get the bad reviews? Some of us, by no means innocent, are never blamed or even discovered. It’s how it fits with what we do. And if not that, it’s how it fits with what we are supposed to do. Ass-pinching and politics or bedding med patients or lawyers’ clients. All pass, now. Is this a circle or cycle and we don’t know where we are?

Anyway, Marc saw the move to Africa as the chance to put his life back in order. Trouble was, he didn’t seem to know what he wanted. He up and runs from it all. Married too far up. Lost it, but not by flunking the typical rules of class and status. He needed time and helping friends. Did he get them? Could we help him? Lucy and me. We were bottled up with our own assault from reality. Did we have enough time, or care? Lucy was better at it than me. Is that the real reason for my jealousy? When Greenwood stepped off the British Airways flight, having gotten false promises from Eunice, the flight attendant, he didn’t think he could fail with her of all women. He took a local to Capetown.

How white-ass silly his story began. Got there only a couple of weeks before us. Strange. Vacation first. That Claibourne was experimenting with him through and through. What would Marc do with those leisure days before work? Well. Guess he did too much. Boss Claibourne had him by the short hairs from then on. I was able to toy with Boss Claibourne cuz I wuz de good Nigger! Marc though, Marc just got started off wrong. He told me that when he was landing in far off Africa, he felt like some character out of that Bohemian’s story. He was crawling out of a dead shell, alive, awake, and ready to start all over. I won’t say you can’t ever jump over your past. Maybe I did though. But Greenwood carried more baggage to South Africa then he knew. That’s what came too much into play. His instincts about that place were right then. He should have trusted them. Salvation. That’s it. We all work on that. All of us hope we can reinvent ourselves. That’s the problem, maybe. While we focus on that, life around us is telling us another tale. Can we listen to it? Did Marc Greenwood?"

Pain did come upon Tony as memory fought sleep.

The real question is in the course of our own lives now. Could we brothers love a Whitey? Did I?

Tony began to doze, still thinking. He mused, Marc must be somewhere, but where? Maybe I can put it all together. If I could only remember, what was the beginning? What did he tell me about when he first got to the Dark Continent? They used to call it the Darky Continent. And that beach couple. I did know them of old in Africa, but where and when? They fit in very loose. Think they’re connected to Marc. But how? Why? Christ, if I only remembered now everything he tried to tell me.

CHAPTER TWO

Greenwood had trouble with authority figures ever since he was a kid being rousted at public parks for playing baseball illegally, and not staying off the grass. Blatant authority in uniform fired surly reactions from him at a wink. The Customs officer for his part didn’t know whether to regard the red-haired stranger as a suspicious type or just another rare but rude Yank. The uniformed man studied Greenwood’s little blue passport book intently.

Colombian drug smugglers seldom came to South Africa. The Blacks couldn’t afford their wares, and the Afrikaners always stayed much too alert. If those heathens around us ever got some drugs, what a time we would have, was the litany. Security procedures, later to be dubbed ‘Israelized’, had their guardians in place. Botha’s regime sat on a volcano that had begun to tremble. Greenwood was oblivious to the knowledge that his imitation Samsonite luggage closely resembled what was often a conveyance for coke, the South American wonder drug and export of note. What was interesting about South African Customs, coordinating with the Security Police, was that even if they had virtually no contraband trafficking, they still knew what to look for and absurdly how and where to look.

BA did not continue to Capetown. Marc had to transfer to one of South Africa’s smaller, German-built turbo props. Goings-on in and out of the republic were strictly regulated. Customs and controls centered at Smuts. Americans were usually deaf and blind to elaborate security measures that modified buildings, transportation or even stonewall for that matter, since the delays and inconveniences that the Botha folks imposed upon those entering the country were most formidable. Nevertheless, they had decided in favor of a kind of buckboard practicality to cope with outside omens, and it was seldom necessary to repeat the performance at another entry point. This wasn’t England with IRA fears and Lockerbie memories.

Finally, after the last Greenwood handkerchief was unfolded and carefully refolded, after the lining of his suitcase was kneaded and proctologized with alert fingertips, and after his passport was returned to him, he bought a round trip ticket to Capetown. Blessedly, the last leg would be brief. There was more crowding on this flight than on the jumbo jet. The all-white passengers did not look as though they were headed for any holidays. They were generally quiet. When they conversed, it was in hushed tones, but not suspicious. People seemed to respect the privacy and sound tolerances of their fellow passengers. Marc wondered if they belonged to some big family, sensing the nuances of each other’s obligations.

As the plane hovered over the Cape city, he could see the purple darkening of the mountain rims, almost encircling his destination. The smooth expanse of the bay and the sea farther out turned an unfathomable blue without the sun’s guidance any longer. In a few hours the same old sun would uncover Manhattan, but it wouldn’t be until past noon when the old European Jews would unlimber their chess sets in Washington Square. For some of them, the major pieces were almost too large for their now withered hands. Marc remembered that from warm days in the brief expanse of Washington Square, he had learned more about chess, as well as another culture.

When he left the airport terminal, he hailed a cab. Coastal Paradise, he shouted casually to the driver, as if he had been there frequently. The cab moved at a medium pace, but with an unswerving sense of where it was being directed.

Are you a Yank? The driver bravely broke the ice.

How could you tell? Marc queried, fighting off drowsiness.

Accent. I hear a lot of accents. Don’t see much of your kind these days.

Marc thought the last remark a bit edged. Transplanted Cockney cabbies aren’t particularly famous for their savoir-faire, he mused. Cuz we’re all dying of AIDS. No one travels anymore. Hear it started in Africa. Greenwood emphasized this remark by leaning forward, dropping the most deprecating slight in the straight world, albeit only with a facemask. Not from South Africa. No, Sir. Up north where they’re still livin’ in jungles.

Good thing you guys are here. Show ‘em the way, right?

The driver fell to simmering silence. Marc soon semi-dozed, not evaluating the exchange. The cabby was just as quick-tempered as him, so for now the silence was an armistice. When they arrived at the glistening front of the towering hotel, the driver fell back upon formal cabby talk to help smooth the tide of the business transaction. He dutifully gathered Greenwood’s two pieces of luggage and transferred them to the bellhop. Marc potlatched a very generous tip for the driver who quickly ciphered and thanked him warmly. Marc forgot he lacked a reservation. They weren’t necessary.

The decor of the lobby convinced him that the International Hilton aesthetic had garnered a kind of artistic hegemony over other hotels catering to intercontinental trade. The mode of the reservation desk was suitably bland, yet righteously cosmopolitan. With no reservations, there were still no problems getting a room, although view rooms were half again as expensive. Marc chose on the side of prudence. He was by no means established at ASAMCO. His past hung over him like the shadow of a dead tree limb. No argument, the cheaper rates would do for now.

He fought the desire to carry up his own two luggage pieces and even tipped the bellhop rather generously, silently chiding himself for the niggardly thoughts he parried.

By now Greenwood was so tired that the nerves in his body gave him the kind of gentle shakes that ironically a stimulant, caffeine, from strong, black, early morning coffee could trigger. He knew himself to be a somewhat high-strung type, pacing most uncomfortably by now. He felt irritable and his capacity to sustain attention was dropping rapidly. The solution was to shave, shower, down a few Irish whiskeys, and zonk out for at least two days. Then, well rested, start on Eunice, the BA cabin attendant, if she ever showed up.

Greenwood noticed three things while he was in the shower. The fixtures were heavy in their design, possibly German. They like heavy and solid gadgets surrounding their living spaces. Space was to be anchored. The shower could get dangerously hot. Most American hotels put a thermostatic cap on hot water so you couldn’t scald yourself by accident. Marc wondered what came first: scald protection or the 55 mph speed limit. The shower fixture was tubular and mobile, much as in the French and English baths, not fixed as they were back home. He made sure he shaved before his shower so as not to have to contend with a steamy mirror. Thus, he could more easily wash away the lather. He was always much too profligate with the foam.

Down the elevator, into the expansive bar and lounge strolled Marc Greenwood in white, his favorite warm weather attire. It was like Bogart in Casablanca when Marc was a kid. The bartender was meticulously polite. Irish whiskey sales were not all that common. The bottle of Bushmills was not opened yet when he pointed to it. White alcohol drinks had caught up in this country with a passion born of isolation. This particularly impressed Marc with his fantasies of hard, whiskey drinking Scots and Afrikaners lounging about.

Sitting adroitly on his bar stool, Marc downed three Bushmills with a quick rhythm. He used one water chaser to wash all of them. He knew that now his nerves, toned by lack of sleep, would soon calm down. He knew also that he would become just tight enough to say anything imaginable to anyone, yet his speech wouldn’t slur nor would he have trouble with balance or gross coordination. Being brash without boozer excuses was more penetrating. After downing the third shot, Marc stuck his tongue in amid the small shards of melted ice-cubes and water in his chaser. At that moment, he was lightly slapped on his shoulder and a voice hailed him with, Cheers. Turning slightly to his right, he could see a smile looming on a man taller than himself.

No sense drinkin’ alone, mate. C’mon over to our table. We’ll buy you one.

The name’s ‘iggins, George ‘iggins. And yours, mate?

Greenwood.

The two shook hands vigorously. Marc could tell the Aussie didn’t spend all his time drinking. He owned quite a good grip.

So you’re really a Yank are you? Sounds positively like you’re travelin’ incognito. The Aussie smiled broadly.

Yeah, well I am here, but don’t know it yet. Excuse my fumbling. Take you up on that offer though.

The two men shuffled slowly toward a table edging a spacious dance floor. Neither of the two fellows slumping at the table looked fit to walk. Dancing was out. Marc quickly scanned the room. He saw no young women alone, in pairs or in small groups. Looks like boys night out, he thought to himself. Few people were dancing, and they drifted, as if in a trance. Only one couple moved and slid as if someone were watching them. They did dips and spins with a semi-professional flare.

No one watched. Like on the airline flight from Smuts, people seemed encrusted in very small, private worlds. The two at the table to which Higgins and Greenwood were heading looked up at them somewhat blankly.

I’d guess you’re a Yank, Greenwood? asked the seated Aussie in a genuinely friendly and inquisitive tone.

Sure, I’m the original Ugly American, didn’t you know?

Higgins laughed, but revealed no little puzzlement. He had read Greene’s book. Nevertheless, he wasn’t sure how much Americans ever read, even of the better works about them. At least, that was part of the collected beliefs he shared about his distant neighbors in the big land to the northeast of his home, Brisbane.

We’re a pretty bad bunch ourselves. One’s another mate and the other’s an Englishman sittin’ over here, thinkin’ probably like they always do.

When they reached the table, Higgins dragged over another chair from an empty table. Greenwood, this here’s Jack Crane and Basil Dundas.

The men shook hands and Marc marveled at the contrast between the sodden little Aussie’s vigor and the gentlemanly mild pressure applied to the ritual by Basil. It looked like the man was trying to slide a shilling or folded message at him.

Hi, Jack. Did I pronounce it right? Tell me, Basil, what do they call you for short? Marc apparently had recovered somewhat from his addled condition fed by fatigue, but baleful sarcasm was its legacy. Fortunately, all three laughed at his remarks. Crane flagged down a waiter, while simultaneously asking Marc, What’s yer poison, mate? This time Marc ordered his whiskey with water. He meant to nurse it because he suspected he was now caught up in a gab for which he was not prepared.

Exhaustion still crowded the corners of his mind. He was dying of curiosity to know what these three were up to in the town.

Basil had a certain way of looking at you indirectly, yet almost reading your mind or appearing to do so. Ah, yes, we’re all journalists, Mr. Greenwood. Enjoying a few to keep up our spirits here, old boy.

Call me Marc, fellows.

They had already decided to do that, believing nicknames de rigueur in the USA.

All with the same paper? Marc fought fatigue to find something to say. Heavy exhaustion was reasserting itself.

Actually no. Higgins works for a laborite paper in Brisbane. Crane here works for that terrible rag in London, The Sun, and I manage to hold on with The Times there, offered Dundas.

I guess your namesake did even more exciting work in this region once upon a time, Marc commented as his tongue flicked the ice in his drink, recalling his sparse knowledge of South Africa gleaned from reading an abridged history. This kind of preparation bordered on outrage when he taught, back at Midwest U.

Most assuredly, offered Dundas without a blink of weary eyes. Nevertheless, we eventually botched things up here quite badly, and more than once. Now look what they’ve got. Basil held his drink with thumb and flat of index finger, turning it back and forth slowly.

Crane tried to focus his eyes on Greenwood. Are you in it too, Greenwood?

Not even close, pal. Though, it’s a little hard to explain just what I do.

Well, ‘ave a go at her, Marc, said Higgins. Like yer ‘Twenty Questions’ on the telly.

Marc paused as if in benediction. I’m what you call an industrial psychologist, you know, personnel work for a big corporation. Marc took a deep breath as he finished his comment. Then he went on. People sometimes get the wrong impression; they get a little guarded, if you use that word, ‘psychologist’. Conjures up images of someone who’s going to look inside your head. I do nothing of the sort. I play around with tests and take some measures to fit people better into respective job slots. That’s it in a nutshell. Marc sat back, thinking what a long speech he made. Bet if I were a lawyer, doctor, or business exec., I wouldn’t have to elaborate.

Greenwood ended the seminar, so he thought. It’s one of those things that is so specialized, you can’t really talk much about it.

You forgot, mate. We’re journalists. We could dig it out of you by guile, chuckled Higgins. Marc tried to turn it around. What stories are you following here, guys?

C’mon now, Yank. There’s only one story here, apartheid, chimed in Crane.

That’s got something to do with my work, guys. Marc drew them closer with these words. He elaborated almost conspiratorially. We’re running a kind of social experiment. We’re recruiting African Blacks and Coloreds, as they call ‘em over here. And we’re going to integrate them into our work force. The catch is they won’t be doing just scut work. I’m talkin’ about executives, middle-level management, supervisors, the works.

Sounds like fun, Greenbaum. Do the Afrikaners know about your game? Higgins looked a little grayer now.

Marc displayed an open, imploring gesture, his palms up and his arms out wide, a mocking plea. Give me a break, guys. Of course they do. They’re even in on it, as far as I know. Painted themselves into a corner by now, I’d guess.

Better things for better living in darkest Africa, kidded Crane, belching and burping over his uneven string of words.

So, what’s the catch, Marc? Higgins eyes narrowed.

No catch, far as I know. Greenwood now felt as if he were being put on the defensive. Should he tell them he didn’t really give a flyin’ fuck about ASAMCO’s grandiose plans. He only wanted a job, one away from his past troubles and he wanted to do a good job for once. This one was made to order for him.

Dundas spoke slowly, almost therapeutically. What Higgins is alluding to, old boy, is that it’s hard to imagine them allowing that sort of thing. There must be a hidden agenda, as you Yanks are fond of saying.

Marc Greenwood felt some mild pangs of anxiety. He hadn’t had such feelings since he had left the cab. That somebody really might know something about his job, or the outfit he himself was ignorant about, began to cause spasms in his guts.

No strings, far as I know. I’ll grant you there could be something I don’t know about yet. Give me a break, guys. First day in town, Marc pleaded.

Easy, Yank. We’re just pokin’ about. Gets dull here y’ know, waitin’ for the next outrage.

Again Dundas spoke, perhaps more quietly, That sort of thing would be so verboten here, that if exceptions were made, there would have to be some compelling reason for the change. Reciprocity? What?

I get your drift. I really don’t know, but I could guess that the Afrikaners need the company for their own reasons. In turn, ASAMCO might need to relieve a little back home political pressure by shining it on with Congressional Committees. Unlike Ronnie Reagan, many Democrats in Congress are not too happy to see American companies doing business over here. We’re pragmatists though. Even if this scheme is an end run, maybe still some good will come of it.

So now we know how you justify your involvement, eh, old boy? Dundas smiled, a bit like a tree lizard that had just caught an insect with its long, sticky tongue.

Marc Greenwood, feeling more like old times, spiking the chalk line, leaned back in his chair. He downed a bigger mouthful than he intended. Look, Basil, ol’ boy, I’m not trying to justify anything.

Before he could stop himself, the drinks, exhaustion and all, Marc blurted out, It’s a new ball game for me. Gonna turn things around for myself. A fresh start you might say.

Dundas smirked, Are you one of those born-again Christians I’ve heard so much about?

Hardly, ol’ boy. Although if I were, I might make a hit around here, shot back Marc. Dundas was keeping him awake.

Actually you might. Born-agains and the Chosen Volk of South Africa may have some common ground, offered Dundas with more levity in his tone.

You could be right. I hear that some of our own TV circuit riders have been preachin’ the Word over here with great success. Relieved, Marc smiled too. Higgins joined in with, Probably more excitement then their bleedin’ TV shows, except for the ruddy ones they buy from you, of course.

Marc droned on. It all kind of fits.

How’s that? asked Dundas.

Well, you’ve got a chosen people here. Years of pioneer struggle, displacing the native population, enslaving some of them, and world opinion getting increasingly disapproving. Fundamentalism has its appeal when modern realities don’t gibe with your own world outlook. Marc said all of that, surprising himself not the least among them.

Chris’ sakes, Marc, you made a bloody speech. Higgins guffawed loudly. Chosen Nation meets Chosen People. Cozy. Better drink up.

You know, Greenbrier, it occurred to me that there was an ever so slight tone of disdain when you mentioned your president. Does this also apply to an evaluation of your true country’s involvement over here? Again, Dundas looked serious.

Greenwood untangled the briars, and felt he was in a verbal chess match now. This rendered him more alert. Look, it’s really a new start for me. Things haven’t gone at all smoothly for the past few years.

Dundas was relentless. So it’s the green hills of Africa, eh Mister Macomber?

Dun—dun hills, Dundas. I don’t want to sound like a hypocrite. Here I might be able to do something worthwhile. With my job, I just might. Suddenly Marc was almost pleading.

Ease up, mates. I’ll get us another, said Crane in a rescuing voice.

It doesn’t matter what kind of game plan ASAMCO has. I think, from what they told me, I could make decisions that could be beneficial, Marc insisted.

How’s that? Dundas inquired.

Well, my version is that when all the colonial powers finally left the Africans to themselves, after carving out artificial borders, certainly not along tribal lines, the British in many ways had the saner record, left the more stable new governments.

Why?

Marc had their attention now, but mostly because they weren’t used to members of his tribe waxing so eloquently when not selling soap.

You trained middle-level administrators. Some native sons actually knew what they were doing. Some grew quickly into able leaders, even though they had no experience at top jobs. Marc sat back again.

You are much too generous in you analysis, Greenwood. But, as an Englishman, I’m inclined to believe the general veracity of your remarks, Dundas chortled.

All of the newsmen laughed loudly. The four then rang their respective glasses, one to another, on high. It was time for another round. Greenwood began to realize the incongruence of his monologues in contrast to his image to the others. Perhaps if they knew he had once taught at a college, they wouldn’t be quite so surprised, he thought, even if it wasn’t Oxbridge.

Crane hailed a waiter and ordered another of the same. The sweet juniper smell warned Marc of what Crane would have the waiter duplicate. It was curious to him that all the waiters were white men. Perhaps this was one difference between apartheid an’ ol’ Dixie. Over there they had to do some nimble rationalizing or instead grow schizoid mental compartments. Not only did they have black cooks and waiters ever present, but sugar titty mamas, and high yeller mistresses. Greenwood tried to be careful not to generalize, just because black waiters were not at this international hotel.

Wait, he thought to himself, Blacks could get ideas around a place like this. It’s fairly cosmopolitan in the international settlement here. Who knows?

Higgins bought this round, but tipped less generously than Greenwood might have. Feeling like the caboose, Marc swallowed his drink whole, in preparation for the round being served. He could now feel his head had that low-voltage buzz that signals too much booze, while he swallowed hard from the drink Crane had ordered. He knew from perhaps too many experiences in the recent past that there would come a bad leading of the tongue. His gait would be compromised and there would be more abandon in his pronouncements. He minded the last problem least. This trio could easily handle any bizarre utterance he may exhale and they were peculiarly supportive of his opinionated whims. The glow of Marc’s red hair began to show more contrast with the ever-increasing sallowness of his skin. Droplets of sweat were windshield smeared across his brow with either forearm. The sleeves of his impeccably white sport coat were now streaked gray from these maneuvers. Nevertheless, he never lost stride with the conversational roundelay.

Do the folks here let you send back any stories you like? Marc Greenwood asked.

Not quite, we’re censored regularly. The security police here are rather good at their jobs. Keeping the system going is most imperative, you know. Dundas smiled wryly as he massaged his gin-tonic with one thumb.

So, what happens? Marc responded with the puzzlement that alcohol abets.

We have our ways, Mr. Greenwood. You can be well assured.

Dundas, watery-eyed, had that way of looking past you, yet being most directed to your remarks.

Ah, sounds like Smiley’s People or Deighton or worse, Ken Follett, Marc said, smiling.

You forgot Helen MacInnes. She’s really more clever, more labyrinthine, so to speak. Dundas tried to scratch his back on the chrome support of his chair. It was quite unsatisfactory.

Higgins blurted out something he began regretting as the words came forth. The slow-down of his cadence was the easy clue to his change of heart. Basil ‘ere, helps us all—that is when we need it. We agreed on it beforehand in London. We buy ‘is drinks.

Sounds pretty mumbo-jumbo, Marc added.

Dundas looked unhappy with Higgins. It can all be owed to your Navajo Indians in World War Two and the tragic British hero, Alan Turing. Now, we use some rare and ancient Gaelic dialect a few Welshmen speak, coupled with an updated Turing machine. An IBM 700 series, a prearranged system, and system sequence, indicators buried in the message. Almost foolproof, said Dundas modestly. And we so trust our judgment, we’re willing to risk exposure.

Who’s your Welsh anchorman in this little game? queried Greenwood.

Why, I actually compose poetry in that ancient tongue, the skills of which I owe to my Welsh mother. Little did she know, Dundas replied, this time looking right into Marc.

So, forgive a potentially stupid question, but if the bad guys are so thorough, yet hot news is getting out, you must be suspect. Why don’t they cut you off completely or bounce you out? Greenwood said