Swimming with Horses

by Oakland Ross

  “Well, now.” Jack gave the man a wink. “Would you fancy a snort?”

  Ndlovu seemed to hesitate but for only a moment. Then he nodded. A dram of the good stuff? Well, it just so happened that he might. So Jack put Tempest away, and the two of them repaired to the tack room, where they had one drink, then another, and soon enough they were well along on their third, both of them as snug as you like, chairs pulled up to the electric space heater, coils glowing bright red in the gloom. It wasn’t long before Jack knew everything he needed to know. Qacha’s Nek, the place was called, the place where they would cross. Funny-sounding name, but then again they all were. He knew the date, too. Give or take. It was all laid out for him, clear as glass.

  “Well, well.” He swallowed what was left in his mug of Glenmorangie. He had a taste for refinement, Jack did, no two ways about it. He tilted his head, gave Mr. Elephant his fiercest look. Make him buckle. The poor man would be stuttering before long — out of fear, plain and simple. “And you know all this for a fact?”

  Mr. Elephant nodded. He fidgeted with his tie, cleared his throat, picked up his hat, and fanned himself. He was obviously not at ease. Nor would he be, considering what he was doing, betraying his own kind, not to mention what all of this might mean for the girl. Hilly.

  “Another drink?” Jack said.

  No reply.

  “Eh …? I offered you another drink.”

  “Yes, b-baas.”

  Hah. He loved it when they said that word. Baas. He topped up Everest Ndlovu’s glass. Everest … what the bejesus kind of a name was that? It was a custom with them, he knew. Strangest names you ever heard of. Everest. Blessing. Roller skate. Well, he’d made that last one up. He watched Ndlovu empty his glass of single malt. He’d take another, old Everest would. If you offer them something, they’ll take it. Whatever it is. The reason is simple. They have no idea when they’ll enjoy such goodness again. They’re like dogs in that respect — either they accept your benevolence or they go without. No other way.

  On this occasion, the question of money had also to be considered. Jack didn’t begrudge the payment. Cash for information — nothing could be fairer than that. Besides, Walt van Niekerk would reimburse him for the cost, as he always did. He handed the envelope over, lickety-split. He watched as Ndlovu pushed the wad of legal tender deep into the side pocket of his forlorn suit coat, where it would be nice and warm. The poor man frowned and looked down at the floor. He said, “I feel ashamed for taking this.”

  “Oh, don’t trouble yourself over that.” Jack stood up. “Everyone’s got to do what they can to get by. Besides, there’s dependents to consider. Am I right about that …?” He let his voice trail off, gradual. He was thinking of the girl, Blessing. Wouldn’t want anything untoward to happen in that department, would we? That was what he might have said, if he had deemed it necessary to spell the matter out. Instead, he let the sentiment rest for a time, like a chill in the air, unspecified but difficult to ignore.

  “Well,” he said. He clapped his hands to ward off the cold. “It’s getting late in the day, and you’ve a long walk ahead of you. Miserable weather, ain’t it?”

  There’d been a time when he’d have offered old Everest Ndlovu a lift in the Land Rover. It wasn’t far to Bruntville, or the outskirts thereof. It wouldn’t take long. But that was when he’d still been working the man, gaining his trust, keeping him sweet. No need for that now. Now, thanks to good old Everest, he knew the name of the place — Qacha’s Nek — and he had a good sense of the timing. That was all that he needed to know, that and the whereabouts of little Miss Blessing Ndlovu, of course. That was a given. He’d had his eye on her for a time now. He knew her particulars full well.

  Ndlovu replaced his hat, tugged at his tie, to make it hang straight. With a nod of the head, he set out on his way. Jack accompanied him as far as the stable’s big wooden door. From there, he watched him go — poor man shuffling down the macadam lane past the windbreak of poplars, a thin light threading in from the west. Pretty soon it began to rain.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Sam

  Ontario, Summer 1963

  “COME ON.” HILARY CLIMBED to her feet. “Time to get a move on.”

  We quickly got ourselves organized, pulled jeans and shirts over still-damp bathing suits, saddled and bridled the horses. Soon we were riding west along Number Four Sideroad. Before long we jogged past the Quinton Vasco lands, where serious work of some kind was now underway. Construction machines of various configurations cluttered the ridge overlooking Number Four Sideroad. Stacks of concrete blocks stood nearby. For what purpose, I had no idea.

  Just then, I heard a harsh grinding sound, a steel bucket dragging against a hard rock face. Something like that. Whatever was going on, I was against it. “I hated Quinton Vasco,” I said. “Now I hate him even more.”

  “Why? Because now you’ve met him?”

  “I guess.”

  I was thinking of Quinton Vasco as we’d seen him in Letham that weekend, dressed all in black, standing with his hands thrust in his pockets, watching as we drove away. I was also thinking about those two cannons we’d seen. They made no sense at all. What kind of real estate development includes pieces of heavy artillery stored under canvas awnings deep in the woods?

  I had an idea that Hilary knew more than she was letting on. After all, she had made at least two questionable statements that afternoon, one about her father and the other about that gun of hers. And she obviously knew more about Quinton Vasco than she was saying. But what? What did she know? I wondered again why she spoke so rarely about her past and with so little detail. Still, I saw no benefit in pushing her to tell me more. If she wanted to, she would. If not, then nothing I said was likely to change her mind; I felt pretty sure of that. Either way, I was bound to go along if it meant being close to Hilary. I knew it, and I was pretty certain that she knew it, too.

  When we reached Second Line, we both slowed to a halt. Hilary was heading south, toward the Barkers’, while I would bear west and then north toward home. Only ten days remained before the provincial championships in Cardenden, and she said we should keep to our schedule — the schooling, the conditioning, the long afternoons at the quarry pond. I said that was fine with me, and it was. It was more than fine. I would have kept on like this forever if I could have, riding bareback at the Barkers’, swimming with Hilary and our two horses down at the quarry, winning ribbons and silver plates at weekend competitions. I wanted the summer to last forever, and I felt a pang of dread that the present was already spilling into the past. There was nothing that I or anyone could do to stop it. But I didn’t say anything about that, either.

  Instead, we parted ways, and Hilary rode off, cantering south along Second Line through an archway of maple boughs. I watched her recede into the distance until she disappeared beyond a crest in the road, and the cicada whined again, that fierce, brittle sound.

  I reined Della around and coaxed her into a trot. Soon, the gravel road jogged to the left beneath an assembly of maples, and I let Della break into a canter. She seemed to float, her stride less laboured than it sometimes was. The late-afternoon sunlight shot through the branches, alternating strokes of brassy warmth with patches of cooler shade. I hadn’t ridden far when I heard an engine growl just a few horse lengths behind me. With no more warning than that, a pickup truck roared past, its horn blaring. The damned vehicle nearly forced us off the road before it fishtailed away, churning up waves of gravel in a sea of dust. The truck bore an inscription in black on its side: SRC. Those were the same letters we’d seen embossed on the crates of cannon shells in Quinton Vasco’s sugar bush. The truck’s driver must have been an employee of some kind.

  “Idiot!” I yelled. “You stupid idiot!”

  I hated everything about Quinton Vasco. He was ruining everything, cutting Kelso in half for some unknown but selfish purpose. What did he mean to do with those huge guns? As for Hilary, I wasn’t to hear from her again for seven long days
.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Muletsi

  South Africa, Winter 1962

  THE THIRD DAY WAS a good day.

  In fact, it was better than good. It was one of those glorious winter days you often get on the high veldt of South Africa. Overhead, the clouds scudded across the sky, soaring over the Drakensberg. Rows of leafless poplars arched in the gusting wind. Muletsi thought there could be no land more beautiful than this, and he felt himself breathing freely at last, at least a little more freely. He shifted around, steadying himself in the saddle, and he waved at Hilary. She smiled, raised an arm, waved back. He straightened out, gave his horse a friendly swat. He was thinking he didn’t feel so bad, after all.

  From the very beginning he had been of two minds about this project. Simply put, he did not want to run away. On the other hand, what choice was there? It was either run or spend most of his life in prison. He’d had the good luck to escape — although, granted, it hadn’t seemed like luck. It had seemed pre-arranged. The guards had been so incompetent you’d have thought their incompetence was deliberate.

  At the time of the escape, the two wardens had been transporting Muletsi and two other inmates from the jail in Pietermaritzburg to another facility in Ladysmith. Who knew why? No one ever explained anything. Probably, it was just a tactic they had to keep inmates from forming alliances. Or maybe they wanted to move Muletsi even farther from his home, to impose an even greater hardship on his mother. Who knew why they did what they did? They simply did it.

  Still, in some ways, the episode had seemed almost deliberately nonsensical. The vehicle that was used for the operation was a wobbly old bakkie, and Muletsi was put in the open bed along with the other two. No doubt the guards thought the shackles would be sufficient to constrain the prisoners. But then, in a town called Roosboom, when they stopped for coffee and a piss, Muletsi and his companions watched, slack-jawed, as the guards removed the chains, the lot, without a word of explanation. It was like an invitation for an escape. Here you go, boys. Off with you, then.

  And what do you think happened next? Of course, as soon as the two guards disappeared into the little koffiehuis, the three prisoners — he did not know the others’ names, and they did not enlighten him — heaved themselves out of the truck bed. They did some stretches right there, on the pavement, to get the blood flowing again and also to gauge the reactions of passersby, of whom there were few to none. They started to wander along the side of the road beneath a row of jacaranda trees. There was nothing to it. You’d have thought this sequence of events had been plotted out in advance. But why? And by whom?

  Quick as they could, the three men got themselves off the main road. Reduce visibility — that was their watchword now. It wasn’t long before they’d exchanged their prison coveralls for civvies — clothes they found in a second-hand bin. It was agreed at once that they had best split up. That way, at least one of them might escape undetected. There was no use in all of them being captured at once. So off they went, no one saying in what direction he was bound, that being the way they had, the way they’d learned in jail. Never trust anyone.

  Muletsi put out his thumb and prepared to hitchhike down to Bruntville. After a time, a bakkie picked him up and a little later dropped him off. Before long, an ancient Morris Minor pulled onto the shoulder just ahead of him.

  “Hop in,” said the driver.

  He was an elderly white man, hirsute and rotund, missing several teeth. He clung to the wheel of his sputtering, oil-burning contraption as though the vehicle were propelled by the sheer force of his will. The back seats were loaded with sacks of cornmeal. The driver didn’t say much, and Muletsi said next to nothing at all. As they drove past Mooi River, he thought of Hilary. Of course, he did. But she was away at school in Johannesburg from what he understood. They proceeded to Bruntville in a continuation of the silence that seemed to suit them both.

  Muletsi had few plans. He meant to re-establish contact with the ANC and go from there. None of this was personal. He had no scores to settle, not even with Jack Tanner. He meant to let those old dogs lie. He didn’t think he would see Hilary again. That didn’t make him happy, far from it — the exact opposite of happy. Still, a man has to face facts. White folks’ business — that was what it had been. All of it. He would leave it behind and get on with his life. That was what he’d thought. But then Hilary showed up, that day by the soccer pitch in Bruntville. He hadn’t meant to be drawn back into her orbit, but she had a way about her. She surely did. And then had come this madcap plan of hers. He had dismissed it at first, but Hilary was nothing if not persistent, and now here they were.

  He was riding on horseback to Basutoland, to what was supposed to be freedom, with Hilary at his side in a dark-green parka, her eyes shining blue. He hadn’t invited her back. She had worked her way there. At times, he wondered whether he wasn’t guilty of the starkest betrayal. Not only was he running away, he was running away with a white woman. But what choice was there? And, besides, Hilary wasn’t a white woman — or not only a white woman. She was Hilary.

  Now the woman in question drew her horse alongside his and slowed to a walk. She gestured toward the distant heights of the Drakensberg, floating to the north like islands in the sky. “God, they’re beautiful, hey.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I was just thinking that.”

  She laughed. “You were not. You were thinking, What am I doing here — I, Muletsi Dadla? What in God’s name am I doing here? And with her, of all people, the crazy white girl? I know you.”

  And he laughed along with her because it was true, because it was exactly true.

  “Come on,” she said. “There’ll be plenty of time to worry once you’re safe.”

  She eased her horse closer and gave him a kiss flat on the lips, and he felt himself melting, as he always did.

  “Come on,” she said again.

  They both broke into a loping stride that carried them across the high, slanting plain. Now he did smile, did breathe deep, because it was beautiful. You’d have thought you were riding across the roof of the world, except that the mountain peaks to the north were higher yet. She’d told him he’d be free. In Basutoland, he’d be free. But he knew better. Exile might bring safety, but it does not bring freedom.

  And what about Hilary? Where would she go? Wherever he went? That was what she said, and he could almost imagine it might be so. Tanganyika. Or Sweden. Or Canada. They would go somewhere that would have him, somewhere that would let him carry on with his work, albeit from a distance. From exile. He bridled at the thought.

  Still, this was a good day, and it is a sin to let good days go to waste. They cantered ahead, with Hilary a stride or two in front. The wind churned around them both, the clouds tilted against the high blue sky, and you’d have thought that this was the finest country in the whole wide world.

  Only it wasn’t.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Sam

  Ontario, Summer 1963

  “DAD …” I SAID.

  “Yes, Sam.”

  “Some people were talking at the riding club. They said you’re working for Mr. Vasco. That’s a lie, right?”

  “Is it?” My father tilted his head and frowned. “That’s pretty unequivocal, Sammy. I hope you didn’t call your friends liars. That would be going a bit too far.”

  “No. I just implied it. They were wrong, right?”

  “Well, that’s a question of semantics.” He got up to pour himself another Scotch. He paused at my mother’s chair. Supposedly, she was working out another bridge problem, with the playing cards spread out on the table. “Mary …? A refill?”

  “What’s that, dear? Oh? Oh, yes, please.”

  I could tell she was only pretending to be absorbed in her bridge. She was a terrible actress. My father clattered about in the kitchen, pouring Scotch, cracking ice from a tray.

  “Dad,” I said. “Are you working for Quinton Vasco?”

  He returned from the kitchen with two glasses
of Scotch with ice. One of them he placed on the dining table in front of my mother. He pulled another chair away from the table, turned it around, and settled on it backward, his legs straddling the stiles. He took a gulp from his Scotch and began to speak.

  No, he wasn’t “working for” Mr. Vasco, not in the sense of being an actual employee. But, yes, he was on retainer. Mr. Vasco had been a client for some weeks now and remained a client. This was not exactly the same thing as “working for.” There was a semantic distinction. I barely listened to the words, something about the property-tax base, more money for the county, the inevitability of development, things being more complicated than they seemed. I didn’t want to hear any of it. I stood up. I’d heard enough.

  “Where are you going?” My mother looked up from her cards. “You haven’t finished your dinner. Look, there’s half a plate left and —”