Jack of Diamonds

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Jack Reed,’ I said, shaking it.

  ‘You a Yank, Jack?’ he asked. ‘Don’t get too many Yanks here.’

  ‘No, Canadian.’

  ‘That right? Well, yer welcome anyway. I’m Australian. Come to join the United Nations, eh?’

  He unlocked the other door and said, ‘Stow yer gear, then hop in the front. I’ve got one or two calls to make, then we’ll be off.’ I threw my kit in the rear and hopped in the front.

  ‘Never been in one of these,’ I remarked as he climbed in behind the wheel.

  ‘Yeah, German, not bad; useful but no fuckin’ good in the rainy season. Starts next month. Wheels get buried in red shit and won’t budge.’

  We set off and I soon got used to the road rushing towards me. After one or two quick stops to collect parcels, we headed out along a dirt road for the Luswishi River.

  ‘You said you work in communications, Noel?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, you could say I’m the guy who has to tell everyone when the shit hits the fan.’ He laughed. ‘You know, make sure everyone knows what’s going on underground and above, sort of liaison with all the various working groups, surface workers, hoist drivers, office, maintenance; then underground, diamond drillers, grizzly-bar workers, pipe fitters, train drivers, main haulage guys, you name it.’

  ‘Medics? They’re included?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, of course, bloody important.’

  ‘So you’d know Mr Coetzee?’ I pronounced it ‘Koot-see’ as Mr Leslie in New York had suggested, then added, ‘I have a letter of introduction to him from New York.’

  ‘To Jannie Coetzee? South African? Nice bloke. So, a letter from New York, eh? You must be someone important then, Jack. Why wasn’t I told to meet the train?’

  I grinned. ‘On the contrary, I’m simply hoping to get a job, possibly as a medic.’

  He seemed relieved. ‘No problem, they’ll welcome you with open arms. Speaking of arms, I noticed . . .’

  ‘My left hand? Yeah, injured in an accident. I was formerly a professional piano player. I got my experience as a medic in the Canadian army during the war. It isn’t much of a qualification but the guy in the New York office seemed to think it was okay.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s right; it will be, mate. Lemme offer you some advice.’

  ‘Sure, of course.’

  ‘I didn’t hear any of that. You’re a qualified medic, that’s all. Get that into your skull. There are men from over forty-five different countries in the single quarters and they’re run by a bunch of thugs who call themselves Polish resistance fighters or Jews that survived the concentration camps. Poles, Jews, my fucking arse; they’re all ex-SS officers and think we’re stupid enough not to know the difference between Polish and German. Jack, don’t tell anyone a bloody thing. Yeah, okay, you’re a Canadian and a medic, highly fuckin’ qualified, and that’s it. Mate, in the mines it’s bullshit bullshit über alles. I take it your crook hand works okay.’

  ‘Crook?’

  ‘Bad hand . . . it’s okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fine, but not for playing piano.’

  Noel White glanced sideways at me. ‘Jack, fer cryin’ out loud, no fuckin’ details. Accident, it was an accident; you’re a medic, there’s no need for more. And lock your hut door when you’re in it and when you leave, even to go to the cimbush. It’s steel reinforced and that’s not for nothing.’

  ‘Chimboose . . .?’

  ‘Shit house, lavatory, single quarters’ shower block.’

  The road was dusty and rough, and the flat country we were passing through was largely covered in open woodland, the leaves in various shades of yellow, maroon, deep purple, rust, red and occasionally green. It looked more like the Canadian fall than how I’d imagined Africa. Every once in a while, a red anthill six to eight feet tall rose up among the trees.

  ‘Thanks for the advice, Noel, I’ll keep quiet.’

  ‘Play poker, Jack?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I said, taking his recent advice.

  ‘Good. Every month the Krauts organise a game with a couple of blokes, French or Belgian, not always the same guys, but they all come across the border. I’m sure it’s a scam. Some of our guys win a bit but the visitors seem to clean up most of the time. Been caught once or twice myself. A man feels a bloody fool, but that’s poker, I guess. You’re lucky the bug hasn’t bitten you, Jack. We all know there’s something going on. These blokes from across the border are professional con artists, and the Nazis bring them in and then set up the game in the single quarters’ recreation hut to suck us in. Several of the married blokes, myself included, have been stupid enough to think we’ll win. Best I’ve ever done is win fifty quid, but it was enough to bring me back. Not every time but once in a while when the urge gets to me. I guess I’m a weak shit.’

  ‘Can’t you – I mean, the mine – do anything about these ex-SS guys?’

  ‘Mate, like I said, there’s blokes from over forty-five different nations and all – or most, anyway – are single. The Krauts know how to keep the peace; they’re experts, trained in the war to be bullies. Jannie Coetzee, the personnel manager, isn’t gunna interfere if some bloke gets his head kicked in. As long as it doesn’t go beyond the gates of the single quarters.’ He shrugged, then gave a sardonic grin. ‘Three monkeys, mate, that’s mine management. Just stay clear of the Krauts. They ask you something about yourself, tell them bugger all. By the way, Jannie Coetzee is also a bit of a poker player, and so are some of the diamond drillers.’

  ‘I got the impression in New York from Mr Leslie that the diamond drillers are the top dogs.’

  ‘Dead right! But that’s underground. They’re mostly married and live in town, in houses owned by the mine. They’re not all South African but most are, they’re the professional miners. If you interfere with them on their patch – underground, I mean – they can be real cranky bastards. The miners union committee is made up almost entirely of diamond drillers – they fuckin’ rule the roost, mate.’

  Noel White was being pretty open with me and so I thought I’d ask him about the opposite sex. ‘Noel, what does a guy do about, you know . . . sex?’

  He threw back his head and laughed uproariously and in the process nearly drove off the road. ‘Mate, your donger’s a goner! No naughties for free unless you want ya balls danglin’ from the nearest tree.’

  ‘So, the outlook isn’t good, then?’ I laughed.

  ‘Well, there’s several known turd burglars run by the Germans in the shower block. I’m told it’ll cost you a tenner, six to the guy bending over and the other four to the Kraut running the hole in one session.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Then there are the birds from the Congo.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . . ?’

  ‘Well, sort of temporary prostitutes.’

  ‘Are they black?’

  ‘Jesus, Jack, don’t go there, mate. Black velvet, that’s the ultimate no-no. Get caught fucking a nigger woman, you’ll be very lucky to get out of town alive!’

  ‘So, “temporary prostitutes”? I gather there’s not a brothel in town . . .’

  ‘Jack, Jack, Jack, this is a British protectorate! Luswishi River has an Anglican church that practically nobody attends, but a brothel that could stay open twenty-four hours a day? Jesus, no, mate!’ He paused. ‘But the Brits, the police, local civil service, all turn a blind eye to the birds flying in across the border for a twenty-four-hour shift at each of the six mines.’

  ‘Six mines?’

  ‘Yeah. You probably know the Copperbelt extends into the Katanga province, where you would have got off at Elisabethville to get the train here. They have the same problem, lots of single white miners. But, unlike the Brits, they understand the needs of young blokes, or single men. But here? You lay a finger on a married woman and you’re dead meat. She can be a married sheila who gets pissed at the club and takes a fancy to some young bloke and wants a knee-trembler out the back, a schoolgirl or a miner’s daughter; even i
f she’s eighteen and past the age of consent, you’re still dead meat. So, every month they fly a DC-4 packed with ten young sheilas, birds, women, whatever you like to call them, who arrive from Brussels. Two or three are your genuine whores – lots of the older miners like it that way – but most are young Belgian girls looking for a dowry; not virgins because they don’t tolerate that, but just young girls, not professional whores. Pretty good sorts, actually, none of your rubbish. They’re picked for their looks. Because of the war there’s a shortage of eligible blokes everywhere in Europe, and these girls, if they want to get hitched, they’re gunna need a dowry to get a good bloke back home. Well, a coupla tours to the Congo and they’re set for life, got enough dosh to buy a house and nobody back home knows a damned thing. Far as the bloke they marry is concerned, they’re pure as the driven!’

  ‘Sounds reasonable.’

  ‘Yeah, I agree, it is. If we can’t have a brothel, it’s very sensible. But I object to the fact that we have to get the leftovers. By the time the sheilas arrive in the DC-4, they’ve been banged senseless by the miners in Katanga, too buggered to even pretend for our young blokes. They’ve already made a fortune over the border and we’re the bonus, the raisins in the Christmas cake. When the DC-4 arrives, I drive out to “fetch the mail”. The sheilas spend twenty-four hours here every month by special arrangement with —’

  ‘The Nazis in the single quarters?’ I suggested.

  ‘Bang on, Jack! Got it in one. The sheilas are cleaning up big time. They fly off with a suitcase full of money, having left behind one or two blokes with a nasty reminder, if you know what I mean, and taken home a bit of a souvenir themselves, some of them.’

  ‘But you said they were all amateurs? The er . . . reminder, that from the whores?’

  ‘No way. Whores – well, the ones they send – are pros. They don’t carry venereal disease. Nah, it’s the amateurs. You see the miners in Katanga, some don’t like to use frangers. Same here with some of our own young idiots. It costs double to ride bareback, but some blokes – young grizzly men usually – well, they’ve got more money than sense and they like to boast about it afterwards.’

  ‘Until they wake up one morning with a nasty itch?’

  ‘Yeah, Jack, right on. Someone here or over the border may have the pox and the girl they’ve banged transmits it to the next cowboy who wants to ride without a saddle.’

  ‘But what about the girls? What if they get pregnant?’

  ‘Nah, their contract allows them full medical treatment, even an abortion if they’re up the duff.’ Noel laughed, then glanced across at me. ‘Jack, if you get desperate, always use a franger – a rubber – won’t you?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said laughing.

  ‘So, welcome to the Northern Rhodesian Copperbelt, and don’t forget to keep your rondavel door locked at all times.’

  ‘Rondavel?’

  ‘Yeah, it means round hut, you’ll be allocated one. Check the window bars as well. Never know what to expect from those reffos.’

  We’d entered the one-street town, and passed a few Indian shops, a petrol station, a small stone church, a school, and then we were travelling through a residential area, several hundred identical-looking houses in streets laid out in alphabetical order, so that an address might be 12 Z Avenue, or 15 N Avenue. I noticed a social club, tennis courts, a squash court, swimming pool and football field – not too bad, really.

  ‘The single quarters, where are they?’ I asked Noel.

  He jerked his head towards the driver’s window. ‘Way the other side near the mess where you single blokes eat. It’s as far from the married section as possible, which is fenced off with only one gate.’

  ‘You mean you’re locked in?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. It’s sort of like a symbol; the Krauts like it.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘They’re good at running concentration camps.’

  We’d come to a halt outside a large white building with a red corrugated iron roof. ‘We’re here, mate. Mine administration offices. I’ll take you in to see Jannie Coetzee. Decent sort’a cove, but remember, tell him only what you have to. He isn’t gunna ask too many probing questions anyway. Maybe about your hand, but tell him it’s fine and you’re a qualified medic and prepared to work underground. He may want you to go to the School of Mines and train to be a grizzly man. Take my advice, don’t. It’s bloody dangerous and they like to recruit young blokes like you whose reactions are fast.’ He paused, then added, ‘Hey, tell him your hand’s good, but not good enough; perfect for a medic, though.’

  ‘Noel, thanks for the lift, buddy – especially the talk. I owe you.’

  ‘Pleasure, mate. Shout me a beer at the club next time you see me. Come on, Jack, I’ll introduce you to the personnel manager.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  NOEL WHITE ESCORTED ME through the building to the personnel department, where he introduced me to a Mrs Dulledge, Jannie Coetzee’s secretary.

  ‘Afternoon, Marie. This is Jack Reed. He’s here to see Jannie Coetzee.’

  She neither returned his greeting nor looked at me. ‘Has he got an appointment?’

  ‘Well, no.’ Noel looked around. ‘But, hey, there’s nobody else waiting.’

  ‘He’s busy,’ she replied, her lips pulled tight. ‘We’re not here for just anybody’s convenience, you know!’ Explaining no further she went back to her typing, then stopped momentarily and pointed to a row of chairs against the wall. ‘Sit, please.’

  Noel glanced at me, one eyebrow slightly raised. ‘Personnel manager not here for everyone’s convenience? That’s a flamin’ new one.’ Then, turning to me, he said, ‘Jack, afraid I can’t stay. Sorry about the welcome. Have to go, mate.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Noel. Thanks, buddy. I won’t forget your kindness, and thanks for the lift.’

  Noel White looked down at Mrs Dulledge. ‘Jack’s one out of the box, Marie. Look after him, please.’

  Mr Coetzee’s secretary didn’t even blink, much less smile or nod her head. ‘Ja, I already heard you,’ she replied, then glancing down at her spiral shorthand notebook, she continued to type. I guess she must have seen a few nasty surprises coming out of the box in her time.

  ‘See ya, Jack. Pleasure meeting you,’ Noel called from the doorway. ‘We’ll get together for that beer, mate.’

  ‘Sit, please!’ Mrs Dulledge commanded. ‘You are not expected, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, I apologise, I’ve only just arrived. It’s Jack . . . Jack Reed.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said and wrote it down. ‘You’ll have to wait. I don’t know how long, Mr Reed.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, smiling. ‘I have a letter from Mr Leslie, from the New York office, for Mr Coetzee,’ I pronounced his surname carefully. A sudden look of surprise crossed her face, and she reached for the letter I held out. She smelled vaguely of rose-scented talcum powder, like my mom used. ‘Do you have anything else? References?’ Her expression suggested she’d be very surprised if I produced anything of the kind.

  I handed her the manila envelope containing Nick Reed’s impressive army letterheads that lent authority to my far-from-impressive credentials. ‘I have these, ma’am. At my previous job, they didn’t hand out references; it was all hands-on stuff, direct demonstration.’ I smiled. ‘You either could or you couldn’t,’ which, I guess, wasn’t a lie.

  ‘Just a moment.’ She marched towards the door behind her desk, opened it without knocking, and walked in. Before she closed it, I caught a glimpse of a very large blond guy with a crew cut, leaning back in an office chair and talking on the telephone with his feet on his desk. He wore polished brown boots that had recently been re-soled, the leather only slightly scuffed.

  Mrs Dulledge returned a few minutes later. ‘Mr Coetzee will see you now . . . er, ’ she glanced down at the pad on her desk, ‘Mr Reed.’

  Jannie Coetzee, his feet no longer resting on his desk, rose as I entered. He was at least four inches taller than me and a lot bigger around
the girth. ‘Hey, man, all the way from New York. What brings you here, Mr Reed?’

  ‘It’s Jack, sir.’ It was a curious question, since he must have read Mr Leslie’s letter of introduction and the contents of the envelope. Then, remembering Noel White’s advice, I held up my left hand. ‘I injured my hand in an accident.’

  ‘Ja, I understand.’ He tapped the letter from Mr Leslie. ‘It says here you’re a medic, highly qualified in combat conditions. That’s good, man. Your hand – it doesn’t interfere?’

  ‘No, sir, almost good as new; it’s just that my previous work required absolute precision.’

  ‘Combat, hey? You’ve come to the right place, man. That’s for sure. Are you willing to work underground?’

  ‘Yes, I guess that’s where most of the emergencies occur, sir.’

  ‘Definitely. Will you go permanent night shift?’

  I almost laughed. After the years at the GAWP Bar, I still hadn’t quite adjusted to waking up early. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, then, you’ve got the job. When can you start?’

  I shrugged, hoping I looked unconcerned. ‘Whenever it suits, sir.’

  ‘Now, you a senior medic, you can call me Jannie,’ he offered.

  ‘Senior?’ I asked, surprised. ‘But I’ve only just got here.’

  He looked momentarily embarrassed, then cleared his throat. ‘Our last medic left unexpectedly last week. You him now, man. You’ve got his position. You see, we have three white medics, one on each shift.’ He counted them off on his fingers: ‘There’s morning shift, that’s eight o’clock till four o’clock; then afternoon shift, from four till twelve; after that, it’s you on night shift, eleven till seven o’clock in the morning. It’s the grizzly workers’ shift and it must go to a senior medic because that’s when most of the accidents occur.’

  He didn’t offer an explanation for what was obviously the unexpected departure of my predecessor. Heeding Noel White’s advice, I didn’t ask. ‘Shouldn’t I be given some sort of test? Senior medic sounds pretty serious.’ I’d bluffed my way to this point but now my conscience overcame me.