by Wilbur Smith
At last the coloured band-master descended from the stand and approached Sean diffidently. ‘Master, it’s after two o’clock already.’ Sean glared at him over the head of the girl he was dancing with, and the man quailed. ‘Please, Master, we’ve been playing since lunchtime, nearly fourteen hours.’
Sean’s thunderous expression changed dramatically into that radiant boyish smile of his. ‘Off you go, then! You have been just great – and this is for you and your boys.’ He tucked a crumpled wad of banknotes into the bandleader’s top pocket, and called to the other couple.
‘Come on, gang. We are off to Navvies.’
Isabella had her face pressed to Lothar’s shirt front, but she looked up brightly.
‘Oh, goody! she cried. ‘I’ve never been there. Nana says it’s sordid and disreputable. Let’s go!’
Sean had borrowed Garry’s MG and Isabella raced him in her new Alfa Romeo, and managed to keep up with him through the curves of the mountain drive. They were neck and neck as they tore down Buitenkant Street to the notorious Navigator’s Den in the Bo-kaap area near the docks.
Sean had purloined two bottles of whisky from the bar in the marquee, and his partner was draped around his neck.
‘Let’s carouse,’ he suggested, and pushed his way through the cluster of seamen and prostitutes who crowded the entrance to the nightclub.
The interior was so dark that they could only barely make out the band, and the music was so loud that they had to sit close and yell at each other.
‘You are a marvellous brother,’ Isabella shouted and leaned across to kiss Sean. ‘You don’t preach to me.’
‘It’s your life, Bella baby, you enjoy it – and call me if anybody tries to stop you.’
She perched on Lothar’s knee and nuzzled his neck. Sean’s partner had collapsed, and he laid her out full length on the padded bench, with her head in his lap, while he and Lothar sat with their shoulders touching and talked seriously. The music blanketed their voices, so that from further than a few feet nobody could overhear them.
‘Do you know that you still have a rather prominent billing in the police files?’ Lothar asked.
‘It does not come as any great surprise,’ Sean admitted.
‘You don’t mind taking a chance, do you?’ Lothar smiled. ‘I like your nerve.’
‘From what I know and see, I’d say that you are a fairly nerveless customer yourself,’ Sean grinned back at him.
‘I could make sure that your file disappeared,’ Lothar offered.
‘In exchange for a little something or other, no doubt?’
‘Naturally,’ Lothar agreed. ‘You get nothing for nothing.’
‘And all you get for a pinch of dung is a cloud of flies,’ Sean laughed, and refilled the whisky glasses. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘If you were to act as an intelligence agent for the Bureau of State Security – our man in Rhodesia – we might forget about your little indiscretions.’
‘Why not?’ Sean agreed instantly. ‘Anything for a laugh and living dangerously is half the fun.’
‘Do stop being so boring, you two,’ Isabella cried, stroking Lothar’s cheek. ‘Come and dance with me.’
Sean’s partner sat up groggily and blurted, ‘I’m going to be sick.’
‘Emergency,’ said Sean. He hauled her to her feet and hustled her through to the tiny women’s room.
There were two other females fussing over the single wash hand basin, and they squealed demurely.
‘Don’t worry about us, ladies.’ Sean pushed his partner into the cubicle and aimed her at the toilet bowl. Noisily she got shot of what was troubling her and then straightened up and grinned at him shakily. Tenderly he wiped her mouth with a wad of toilet paper.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I feel better now.’
‘Good, let’s go somewhere and ball.’
‘OK,’ she said, perking up miraculously. ‘That’s what I’ve been waiting for the whole evening.’
Sean stopped beside Lothar and Isabella on the crowded floor.
‘We are cutting out of here – something just came up, if you will pardon the expression.’
‘I’ll call you at Weltevreden some time tomorrow,’ Lothar said. ‘Just to arrange the details.’
‘Don’t make it too early,’ Sean advised and grinned at his sister. ‘See you later, Bella Bunny.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t say “Be good!”’ Isabella pleaded.
‘Perish the thought.’ Sean picked up his partner and carried her down the stairs.
Isabella made one more circuit of the floor, just to let Sean get clear, then she murmured, ‘That’s enough dancing for one night – let’s go.’
Lother had never seen a woman drive with Isabella’s skill and flair. He relaxed in the passenger seat and watched her. Despite the long day and its excesses, she was still dewy fresh as a rose petal and her eyes were clear and sparkling.
She was the first English girl he had ever been with, and her free and forthright manner at once appalled and intrigued him. With their strict Calvinist upbringing Afrikaner girls would never make themselves so available or behave with such abandon. Yet although she shocked him more than a little, she was without any doubt the most strikingly lovely girl he had ever met.
Isabella drove straight through the intersection of Paradise Road and Rhodes Drive.
‘You’ve missed the turn to Weltevreden,’ he pointed out, and she gave him a brief impish grin.
‘That’s not where we are going. From here you are in my hands, Lothar De La Rey.’
They followed the coastal road from Muizenberg around the bay, through the deserted streets of Simonstown, the British naval base, and then on towards the tip of the continent.
Where the road skirted a high cliff above the sea, Isabella pulled the Alfa off the road and cut the engine.
‘Come on,’ she ordered, took his hand and led him to the edge of the cliff. The dawn was turning the eastern sky to lemon and orange, and far beneath them the cliffs were folded upon themselves to form a sheltered bay. ‘It’s so beautiful here,’ Isabella whispered. ‘One of my favourite places.’
‘Where are we?’ Lothar asked.
‘It’s called Smitswinkel Bay,’ she told him, and led him by the hand to the start of the steep pathway that descended the cliff.
At the bottom a narrow horse-shoe of silver sand surrounded the bay, and above the beach a few locked and shuttered shacks were crammed against the foot of the cliff. The dawn light filtered down, soft and pearly, and the waters of the bay glowed with the misty sheen of moonstones.
Isabella kicked off her shoes and walked down to the water’s edge, and then without looking round at him she slipped her dress off her shoulders and let it drop to the sand. Beneath it she wore only a pair of silk and lace panties. For a long moment she stood staring out across the bay and her back was long and shaped like the neck of lovely vase, the beads of her spine just showed beneath skin that was pale and lustrous as mother-of-pearl. Then she stooped to pull the panties down to her ankles, and stepped out of them.
She was naked and Lothar’s breathing caught in his throat as he watched her walk slowly down to the water’s edge, her hips rolling in time to the lazy pulse of the ocean. She walked out until she was waist-deep and she lowered herself until only her head was above the surface. Then she turned and looked back at him. The challenge and the invitation were as clear as if she had called them aloud.
Lothar undressed as unhurriedly as she had done. Naked, he walked into the bay and she rose to meet him, the waters streaming from her bare shoulders down her breasts, and she lifted her arms and placed them around his neck.
She teased him with her tongue, letting him explore the warmth and softness of her mouth, and she gave a little purring chuckle as she felt how much he wanted her.
The sound goaded him and he lifted her in his arms and carried her out beyond her depth. She was forced to cling to him, and her b
ody was weightless. He handled her like a doll and she offered no resistance. His strength seemed limitless – it made her feel helpless and vulnerable, but she was grateful for his patience. To hurry now would spoil it all. She wanted this to be something far beyond the frenzied groping and often painful thrusting that was all she had been offered by the three or four college lads she had allowed this far.
She learned quickly that he could tease as well as she could, and he let her float around him, light as the buoyant kelp in the gentle swell of the ocean while he stood foursquare and refused to make the final assault. In the end it was she who succumbed to impatience.
In contrast to the cool water that eddied around her, he was like a flaming brand buried deep in her body. She could not believe the hardness and the heat, and she cried aloud with incredible delight. None of the others had been anything like this. From now on this was all that counted, this was what she had been searching for all along.
Still clinging together they waded ashore, and by now it was full morning. They bundled up their clothes and still naked she led him to the last shack in the row. While she searched for the key in her purse, he asked, ‘Who does this belong to?’
‘It’s one of Daddy’s hiding places. I only discovered it quite by chance and he doesn’t know that I have a key.’
She got the door open and led him into the single room.
‘Towels,’ she said, and opened one of the cupboards. They made a game out of drying each other, but the lighthearted mood changed quickly to serious intent, and she dragged him to the bunk against the wall.
‘Where I come from the man does the asking,’ he chuckled.
‘You are an old-fashioned chauvinist prude,’ she told him.
As she clambered up onto the bunk he saw that her bottom was still bright pink from the cold waters of the bay; he found that peculiarly endearing and he was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of tenderness towards her.
‘You are so gentle,’ she whispered. ‘So strong and yet so gentle.’
It was mid-morning before they felt hungry, and dressed only in one of her father’s old fishing jerseys, Isabella raided the larder for their breakfast.
‘How do you fancy smoked oysters and asparagus with your baked beans?’
‘Won’t your father miss you?’ he asked as he opened the cans.
‘Oh, Daddy is a push-over. He will believe anything I tell him. It’s my grandmother we have to watch out for, but I’ve arranged with one of my girlfriends to cover for us.’
‘Ah, so you knew where we were going to end up?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’ She rolled her eyes at him. ‘Didn’t you?’ They sat cross-legged on the bunk with the plates on their laps and Isabella tasted the mixture. ‘It’s ghastly,’ she gave her opinion, ‘if I wasn’t starving I wouldn’t touch it.’
‘Of course, you will see your mother while you are in London?’ he asked, and the loaded spoon stopped halfway to Isabella’s mouth.
‘How did you know I was going to London – and how did you know my mother was there?’
‘I probably know more about your mother than you do,’ Lothar told her, and she replaced the spoon on her plate and stared at him.
‘For instance?’ she challenged.
‘Well, for instance, your mother is a rabid enemy of this country. She is a member of the banned ANC and of the anti-apartheid group. She associates regularly with members of the South African Communist Party. In London she runs a safe house for political refugees and escaped terrorists.’
‘My mother?’ Isabella shook her head.
‘Your mother was deeply implicated in the plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament and assassinate most of the members of the House, including the Prime Minister – and your father and my father.’
Isabella was still shaking her head, but he went on expressionlessly, watching her with those golden leopard eyes.
‘She was directly responsible for the death of her own father, your grandfather, Colonel Blaine Malcomess. She was an accomplice of Moses Gama who is now serving a life sentence for terrorism and murder, and if she had not escaped she would probably be in jail with him.’
‘No,’ said Isabella softly. ‘I don’t believe it.’
She was amazed and distressed by the change in him. Minutes before he had been so gentle, now he was hard and cruel, wounding her with words as he went on, ‘For instance, did you know that your mother was Moses Gama’s lover, and that she bore him a son? Your half-brother is an attractive coffee colour.’
‘No!’ Isabella recoiled, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘From the signed confession of Moses Gama, the man himself. I can arrange for you to see a copy, but that is not really necessary. You will almost certainly meet your bastard half-brother in London. He is living there with your mother. His name is Benjamin Afrika.’
Isabella jumped up and carried her plate to the kitchenette. She dumped the food into the garbage bin and without looking around, she asked, ‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘So that you will know your duty.’
‘I don’t understand.’ She still would not look at him.
‘We believe your mother and her associates are planning some sort of violent action against this country. We are not sure what it is. Any information on their activities would be invaluable.’
Isabella turned slowly and stared at him. Her face was pale and stricken.
‘You want me to spy on my own mother?’
‘We simply would like to know the names of the people you meet in her company while you are in London.’
She was not listening. She cut in on what he was saying.
‘You planned this. You picked me out, not because you thought I was attractive or sweet or desirable. You deliberately set out to seduce me, just for this.’
‘You are beautiful, not attractive. You are magnificent, not sweet,’ he said.
‘And you are a bastard, a ruthless heartless bastard.’
He stood up and went to where his clothes hung behind the door.
‘What are you going to do?’ she demanded.
‘Get dressed and go,’ he told her.
‘Why?’
‘You called me a bastard.’
‘You are.’ Her eyes were glutted with tears. ‘An irresistible bastard. Don’t go, Lothar, please don’t go.’
Isabella was relieved when her father told her that he was unable to fly to London with her and Michael. Meeting her mother again after all these years, and after what Lothar had told her, would be difficult enough, without her father there to complicate matters and confuse her feelings. She had, indeed, tried to beg off going to London herself. She wanted to be close to Lothar, but he had been the one who insisted she make the trip.
‘I will be back in Johannesburg and we wouldn’t see much of each other anyway,’ he told her. ‘And besides that you have your duty and you have given me your word.’
‘I know Daddy would give me a PR job with the company in Jo’burg. I could get a flat and we could see lots of each other, I mean lots and lots!’
‘When you come back from London,’ he promised.
There were representatives from South Africa House and the London office of Courtney Mining to meet Isabella and Michael at Heathrow and a company limousine to take them to the Dorchester.
‘Pater always overdoes it by a mile,’ Michael remarked, embarrassed by the reception. ‘We could have taken a taxi.’
‘No point in being a Courtney, unless you get to enjoy it,’ Isabella disagreed.
When Isabella was shown up to her suite, which looked out over Hyde Park, there was an enormous bouquet of flowers waiting for her with a note:
Sorry I can’t be with you, darling. Next time we will paint the town bright scarlet together.
Your old Dad.
Even before the porter had brought her bags up, Isabella dialled the number that Tara had given her and she was answered on the third ring.
>
‘This is the Lord Kitchener Hotel, may I help you?’
It was strangely nostalgic to be greeted by an African accent in a strange city.
‘May I speak to Mrs Malcomess, please?’
In her letter Tara had warned her that she had reverted to her maiden name after the divorce.
‘Hello, Mater.’ Isabella tried to sound natural when Tara came on the line, but Tara’s delight was unrestrained.
‘Oh, Bella darling, where are you? Is Mickey with you? How soon can you get here? You have got the address, haven’t you? It’s so easy to find.’
Isabella tried to match Michael’s enthusiasm and excitement as they drove through the streets of London and the taxi-driver pointed out the landmarks they passed, but she was in a funk at the prospect of seeing her mother again.
It was one of those rather seedy little tourist hotels in a side street off the Cromwell Road. Only part of the neon sign was lit. THE ORD KITCH, it flashed in electric blue, and on the glass of the front door were plastered the emblems of the AA and Routiers and a blaze of credit card stickers.
Tara rushed out through the glass doors while they were still paying off the taxi. She embraced Michael first, which gave Isabella a few moments to study her mother.
She had put on weight, her backside in the faded blue jeans was huge, and her bosom hung shapelessly in the baggy man’s sweater.
‘She’s an old bag.’ Isabella was appalled. Even though Tara had never gone to any pains with her appearance, she had always had an air of freshness and neatness. But now her hair had turned grey, and she had obviously made a half-hearted attempt to henna it back to its original colour, and then given up. The grey was streaked brassy ginger and violent mulberry red, and it was twisted up into a careless bun at the nape of her neck from which particoloured wisps had escaped.
Her features had sagged almost to obscure the bone structure which had been one of her most striking assets, and though her eyes were still large and bright the skin around them had creased and bagged.
At last she released Michael, and turned to Isabella.
‘My darling little girl, I would hardly have recognized you. What a lovely young woman you have become.’
